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pitch-er A housewife had every kind of unlucky accident in her household, and every year her fortune grew less and less. At last she went into the forest to an old hermit, told him her sad condition, and said, “There is not one single thing in my house, which goes right. Do you know no way to remedy this misfortune?” The hermit, a hearty old man, asked her to wait a little while, and then brought her a little sealed box, and said, “For a whole year you must carry this little box three times every day, and three times every night round the kitchen, the cellar, the stables, and into every corner of the house. Then, I think you will have better success, but in a year's time bring me the little box back again." The good housewife had great faith in the little box, and bore it most faithfully all round the house and everywhere else. Next day, when she went into the cellar, she found her man servant just drawing a pitcher full of beer to carry away secretly for himself, and late at night, when she went into the kitchen, the maid had made herself a beautiful cake with eggs. When she

went into the stable she found the cow with nothing to eat, and the horses instead of oats had only hay, and were not bedded up. So every day she discovered some faults, which she was obliged to see amended.

When the year was over, she went to the hermit with the little box, and said in a contented voice, “Everything goes on better now. Let me have the little box for one year longer, it really does contain a most excellent remedy." Then the hermit laughed and said, “I cannot let you have the little box, but you shall have the charm which is concealed within it." He opened it, and behold there was nothing at all in it but a little white sheet of paper, on which was written

“If you desire all to go right in your house, you must look closely after everything yourself.”

C. Schmid.


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Four children at their little play
Across the iron-furrowed way;

Joyous in all the joy of May. *“A noble instance of self-sacrifice was witnessed at Newcastle on Sunday (May 31). While four children were playing on the

Three, babies ; and one, Margaret,
In charge upon the others set,
To lift and soothe them if they fret.

The sky is blue ; the sun is bright;
The little voices, pure and light,
Make music as they laugh outright.

The noiseless weight of giant wheels
Amongst them in a moment steals,
And death is rolling at their heels.

She ran with one to reach the side,
And reached it,—and looked back, and spied,
Where the dark wheels right towards them slide,

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The other two, that were forgot,
Playing by Death, and knowing not, -
And drew them to the narrow spot

Between the rails and platform-side,
Safe nestling down :--but as they glide
The wheel-rods struck her, and she died.

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railway near the station, an engine and tender came up. One little fellow ran for the platform, and his example was followed by his elder sister. Looking back, however, she saw that the other two children were in imminent danger. She returned to them, and drew them to her side between the rails and the platform. As the engine passed, the connecting-rod struck her down, and she died in a few moments. The children she had so nobly protected escaped almost unhurt. The name of this heroic little maiden was Margaret Wilson, daughter of a miner.”Daily Newe, June 3, 1868.

By those she died for, there she lay,
Nor any word could Margaret say,
But closed her eyes, and passed away.
-My little heroine ! though I ne'er
Can look upon thy features fair,
Nor kiss the lips that mangled were ;
Too small a thing from Fame to have
A portion with the great and brave,
And unknown in thy lowly grave;
Yet thy true heart, and fearless faith,
And agony of love in death,
God saw, and He remembereth.

F. T. Palgrave.

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growl-ed Three children were on their way to school, but they put their heads together, and said, “What is the

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use of learning ? let us go into the wood ! all the little animals are playing there, and we will play with them.” As soon as the children were in the wood, first they asked the beetles to play with them. But the beetles buzzed and hummed about the heads of the children, and one of them said, "I have no time to play with you, I must saw some wood.” Another said, “I must dig a hole first,” and others said, “ We must build ourselves some little houses of grass, for our old ones are destroyed."

Then the children came to an ant-hill. A great number of ants were running in and out of it. Every one of these little creatures had something to carry into its dwelling, and when it was too heavy for one to carry, it cried out to another—"Come and help me.”

The children stole past, and found some little bees on the flowers. The bees were so very busy, they hardly liked to spare time to look up at the children. They collected honey, and the dust of the flowers, and flew nimbly off with it.

The children were quite distressed when they met with no little creature which would play with them, but they soon looked happy again when they heard a gay-looking bird singing. It was a finch. The children ran up to it, and said, “You can sing so beautifully, we are quite sure you would like to come and play with us."

Pink, pink, pink, I must catch flies for my young ones, and then sing them off to sleep. Besides, I have to practise my singing over with the other birds, so

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