Through the chalk-built hill, by the busy mill,
By the stream where the waters splash,

Through the Kentish hops, through the Sussex copse,
Or the breezy heath we dash;

Where the small birds sing, where the sweet bells ring:
Where the earliest flowers are plucked,
We thunder away, the livelong day,

O'er embankment and viaduct.

There's a hill before, yet we give not o'er,
But with double speed we fly,

And we make no pause, at the tunnels jaws

Though we enter with doleful cry:

Both the darkness and rocks our engine mocks,
And mountains are tamed by skill;

Though they fought right hard for their own at Box,
And harder at Clayton Hill.

The hour will be past, if we pause at last,

So faster, if faster may be;

The clouds that fly through the summer sky

Are not so swift as we;

There's a whir in the trees when we pass like the breeze,

As if all we had done were too slow,

And for breath we must gasp, and the tender-rails we clasp, As a mile a minute we go.

'We may hear the bell of our coming tell

A long long league away;

And the pleasant field to the town must yield,

Ere we end our toil to-day;

For life and for limb one thought to Him

Of thankfulness we give,

Who guides us aright, in our whirlwind flight,
When we could not go wrong, and live!

"SWEET Bee! amid the summer's golden hour,
Full oft I trace thy little busy flight;

With pleasure see thee perch from flower to flower
On violets, woodbines, roses, lilies, bright!

Not long the hive of treasure will be thine,
Rapacity will force thy little door;

Those treasures with thy life must thou resign,
A breathless victim on thy fragrant store!"

SUMMER is come! the gay and beautiful summer; and was there ever a summer more beautiful, one that told its tale of gladness with a more laughing joyous voice? Those hedge-rows, were they ever wreathed with fairer flowers; and those meadows, did they ever wave with richer herbage? The breeze comes laden with the rich scent of the hawthorn and the honeysuckle, and there is a rejoicing, and a whispering sound of revelry down among those "old ancestral trees," which falls bewitchingly on the ears.

Come, my young friend, if you love to commune with your Maker among his works, let us join hands and wander down this quiet path; it is one of the "green lanes of England:" a sabbath stillness reigns around, which seems to invite to a holy meditation: we will talk as

we go along of things good and pure, and strive to gather wisdom from surrounding objects. But just let us stop for one moment to admire the graceful bend of those early hare-bells which lie hard by our way. What elegance and beauty is there about that simple flower! I love the hare-bell; to my mind it seems to tell much about humility, and something of that innocence and purity which dwelt in that garden where God was worshipped first by man. And now, come here, and admire with me this glorious cluster of hedge-row roses. Other lands may have their flowers, about which there is more of show, and the curious, and the wonderful, but I have yet to see the flower which has more of true poetry about it than our own wild English rose. Just observe the delicate tinting of those blushing leaves, and the grace and order of those golden petals. Oh! it is altogether a lovely flower, the look of which always calls up from my heart a warm gush of feeling.

What a beautiful world is this in which we live! How richly has our God endowed it with things which "minister delight to man." Wherever we turn our eyes we behold manifestations of his power, beneficence, and love, "from flowers that bloom to stars that glow;" all speak forth his goodness, as well as witness to his being; and how sweet and hallowed those feelings are which lead us to look out upon the fields of creation as they teem with life and beauty, and say, "My Father made them all"-that he who "rolls the stars along," and gives to earth her garlands, "spake all the promises;" the promises of pardon and salvation to guilty man! Ah! my young friend, this is the great use we should make of all our communings with nature to rise to the contemplation of God as manifested in the redemption of the world, for it is through Christ-through the infinite atonement he offered, that we enjoy the mercies of this life as well as the hopes of that which is to come.

Summer is now in all the glow and pride of beauty, but let us not forget that upon none of the leaves of her delicately pencilled flowers or foliage can we find inscribed-"To last for ever;" nay, rather may we not with ease and accuracy spell out the words "But for a season, passing away?" Yes, the lovely scene will quickly vanish, and be succeeded by appearances more sombre and more stern. Autumn will come with her ripeness and her yellowness, and then winter will come with its barrenness and deathliness. How like to human life are the revolving seasons; and yet the scriptures often send us to the flower and the grass to learn that life is but a frail and fickle thing, and that we may not calculate upon mature years. The flower does not always live out its days, but is often "Nipt by the wind's unkindly blast," or, "Parch'd by the sun's directer ray;" and the grass,-why, in the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth. So are we taught not to boast ourselves of to-morrow, but having one hope all will be well whatever betide us. What is that hope? A good hope through grace. Oh! my young friend, see that you have this hope. Go to the footstool of mercy-the throne of grace, and pray the publican's prayer: ask of God, for Christ's sake, to give you the Holy Spirit-to sprinkle the atoning blood upon your conscience, and you shall have this hope; and having it, it will fit you to live well, to live usefully, to live to some good purpose, and it will fit you to die well-to die peacefully, yea, triumphantly; and then, when your eyes close on the scenes of earth, brighter visions and holier joys will await you in another world; and, oh! a vernal glory reigns in the paradise of God-there is no dying out of the splendours of heaven. The song sung there is always new, and shall never be hushed; and the adorations poured forth there shall be but deepened as eternity rolls on. Darlington.

Q. Q.

OR, THE LITTLE BOY'S FAITH.

Ir is very important that every little boy and girl should understand what faith or trust in God means. It is important, because they may be called to die at any time, and then they ought to hear the voice of Jesus the blessed Saviour calling to them, though they cannot see him. The following story will help each one to understand what it is to trust in God and believe in Jesus.

"It was a dark night: a high wind was blowing without, while all the family of Mr. H. were lying quietly in their beds, breathing calmly in the soundest slumbers.

All at once Mr. H. was aroused by the terrible cry of fire. He was not sufficiently waked at first, to understand the cause; but the sound grew nearer and nearer, and soon many were gathering under his window. 'Fire! fire! your house is on fire!' they shouted, as they pounded heavily upon the doors. Throwing a few clothes around him, Mr. H. rushed to the door; and what was his surprise and fear to discover that his own dwelling was in flames! He hastily returned, called up his terrified wife, and taking the babe and the next older child, they quickly sought a shelter in an adjoining house. His oldest son, about ten years of age, slept in a chamber in another part of the house, near the room of the servant maid who lived in the family.

Immediately the father hastened to rescue him, feeling but little anxiety for his property, if his family only might all be saved. On his way he met the maid: Where is Charles?' said Mr. H., surprised to see her alone.

'Crying in his room,' answered the frightened girl. 'I but just escaped, and the stairs are now all in flames.'