roadside, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried in that church; and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass; and daily the shadow of the church spire, with its long, tapering finger, counts the tombs, representing a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours and minutes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages.

Nor must I forget the suddenly-changing seasons of the northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom, one by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter, from the folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail.

The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises

above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells.

And now the northern lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The colors come and go; and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. The snow is

stained with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword; and a broad band passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sunset.

Soft, purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory folds the winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the peasant girls throw straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding.

And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come! Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of heathen Balder; and in every village. there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with wreaths, and roses, and ribbons, streaming in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top, to tell the village whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth.

The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night; and the children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a candle. O, how beautiful is the summer night which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites to-day with yesterday! How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

From the church tower in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime; and the watchman, whose watchtower is the belfry, blows a blast in his horn for each stroke of the hammer; and four times to the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice, he chants,

"Ho! watchman, ho!

Twelve is the clock!

God keep our town

From fire and brand

And hostile hand!

Twelve is the clock!"

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass. LONGFELLOW.

PRIMEVAL; such as was at first, original. HEIRLOOM; any furniture, or movable, that by law descends to the heir with the house or freehold. UNCOUTH; odd, strange, unusual. BROADCAST; among farmers, seed scattered or thrown at large from the hand, instead of being planted in rows or hills.

SPEAK GENTLY.

BETTER FAR; sound the r. HARSH, hârsh; sound rsh.

WORDS;

sound rdz. HEARTS, harts; sound rts. ACCENTS; sound nts. SANDS; sound ndz.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear;

Pass through this life as best they may,
'Tis full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one;
Grieve not the care-worn heart;
The sands of life are nearly run;
Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring; know
They must have toiled in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
O, win them back again.

Speak gently; He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife,
Said to them, "Peace, be still.”

Speak gently; 'tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart's deep well;
The good, the joy, which it may bring
Eternity shall tell.

HARSH; severe, rough to the ear. MAR; injure, hurt, deface. ERRING; wandering, liable to err, going astray. TOILED; labored, worked. STUBBORN; headstrong, unyielding, ELEMENTS; first or constituent principles of any thing. Earth, air, water, and fire, are called the four elements

THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS.

SINCE; do not give i the sound of e. PERMIT; er as in her, not pummit. PRESENCE; short e, not. u. MINDS; sound ndz. RULES; u, preceded by r in the same syllable, has the sound of oo as in boot.

THE politeness of the savages in conversation is, indeed, carried to excess, since it does not permit them to contradict or deny any thing which is asserted in their presence. By this means they indeed avoid disputes; but then it becomes difficult to know their minds, or what impression you make upon them.

The missionaries who have attempted to convert them to Christianity all complain of this as one of the greatest diffi culties of their mission. The Indians hear with patience the truths of the gospel explained to them, and give their usual tokens of assent or approbation; you would think they were convinced. No such matter - it is mere civility.

When any of them come into our towns, our people are apt to crowd round them, gaze upon them, and incommode them where they desire to be private: this they esteem great rudeness, and the effect of want of instruction in the rules

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of civility and good manners. "We have," say they, much curiosity as you; and when you come into our towns, we wish for opportunities of looking at you; but for this purpose, we hide ourselves behind bushes where you are to pass, and never intrude ourselves into your company."

Their manner of entering one another's villages has likewise its rules. It is reckoned uncivil, in travelling, for strangers to enter a village abruptly, without giving notice of their approach. Therefore, as soon as they arrive within. hearing, they stop and halloo, remaining there till invited Two old men usually come out to them, and lead

to enter.

them in.

There is, in every village, a vacant dwelling, called the