beautiful, and the mother loved her, better perhaps than she loved her God; but a wicked, deceitful man enticed her away from her pretty home, and when the poor mother next heard of her darling, she was dead! Then the mother had nothing to love but her boy; for about this time some unfeeling creditors drove them from the beautiful cottage, and they were obliged to live in a gloomy hut, where they had no roses, and no fruit, save a very few poor apples. The mother thought that people despised them because they were poor, and as she knew nothing about "Him who was rich, yet for our sakes became poor," she was unhappy; but while the little boy lived, her heart's fountain could not entirely dry up. God took him away also. He was killed by lightning, and the mother was left alone! She thought that God, and all his creatures, were against her; and so her heart became bitter. Nobody ever sees her weep in the day-time; but she has been seen in the dark, chill night, wringing her hands, and crying bitterly over a low, sunken grave, close to her hut.

"Poor old lady," said Willie, while the tears which had been gathering in his bright eyes now rolled in large, crystal drops over his rosy cheek.

"Yes," replied his mother; "poor, and greatly to be pitied; for she has now no kind boy to take care of the little she has; and I am told that there are wicked children going to school in our own town, who knock the apples from her trees, and worry her cat." Then, passing her arm around Willie, who had dropped his head upon the table, Aunt Debby said in a low, serious voice, "I should like, when father prays tonight, that he would ask God to judge between the poor widow and these cruel boys."

"O no," sobbed Willie; "please do n't, father."

"Why not?" asked his father. "God, in his holy habitation, is the judge of the widow and the fatherless. It cannot be that my Willie is one of those hard-hearted boys."

"O, but I am," replied the little boy. "Fred Flint and I are at the bottom of the whole of it."

"Well," replied his father, "you would have me say nothing to the great God about it. He knows all about it, my son."

"Then," said Willie, "please tell Him that I am sorry, and shan't do it again." Uncle Saul complied with this request, and the next morning Willie begged of his mother a bag of early "sweetings," as a peace-offering to Madam Brastow; and I am happy to say, that this same offering became a scape-goat for the misdoings of my flock, and for my own. mal-administration.

At some future day, I may tell you farther of the Two FAMILIES UPON THE TWO HILLS.

THE SWEETNESS OF HOME.

He who has no home has not the sweet pleasure of life; he feels not the thousand endearments that cluster around that hallowed spot to fill the void of his aching heart, and while away his leisure moments in the sweetest of life's joys. Is misfortune your lot, you will find a friendly welcome from hearts beating true to your own. The chosen partner of your toil has a smile of approbation when others have deserted, a hand to help when all others refuse, and a heart to feel your sorrows as her own. Perhaps a smiling cherub, with prattling glee and joyous laugh, will drive all sorrow from your careworn brow, and enclose it in the wreaths of domestic bliss. No matter how humble the home may be, how destitute its stores, or how poorly its inmates are clad; if true hearts dwell there, it is yet a home a cheerful, prudent wife, obedient and affectionate children, will give their possessor more real joy than bags of gold and windy honor. The home of a temperate, industrious, honest man will be his greatest joy. He comes to it "weary and worn," but the sound of the merry laugh and happy voice of childhood cheers him; a plain but healthy meal awaits him. Envy, ambition, and strife have no place there; and, with a clear conscience, he lays his weary limbs down to rest in the bosom of his family, and under the protecting care of the poor man's Friend and Help.

THE LIFE OF CHRIST.

BY MISS ADALIZA CUTTER.

INVOCATION.

FATHER IN HEAVEN! with Faith, and Hope, and Love, 1 would bow down in voiceless prayer to Thee; Instinctively my spirit seeks above

The source of beauty, and of poesy.

Give to the heart a thought, the lip a word,
Bid the deep fountain of the soul be stirred,

Till its sweet waters gush up pure and free;

With truer worship, aid me to adore

Thine own most holy name, and love Thee more and more!

And Thou, dear Saviour! lowly at thy feet

I sit, and sing, and tune my humble lyre ; The wide, wide world affords no place so meet, To kindle in the soul poetic fire.

To Thee, to Thee my fainting heart would turn,

To seek for "thoughts that breathe, for words that burn,"

For sweetest sounds to tremble on each wire.

Take me beneath the shadow of thy wing,

And fold me to thy heart, while of thy love I sing!

And come, thou Holy Spirit! come and dwell
Richly within my heart's most secret shrine;
Powerless I yield to thy resistless spell,

To dreams and visions that are so divine!
The earth recedes, and Heaven itself seems near,
Triumphant music floats upon my ear,

And lights celestial round my pathway shine!

Enough, enough of inspiration given,

'Twere woe to turn to earth from sweeter dreams of Heaven!

'Twas night in Palestine. O'er all the land

Deep silence reigned, save when the winds' low sigh
The waving fields, the rich green foliage fanned,
Or brushed the dew-tears from the violet's eye;
Save when some bird from its soft dream awoke,
And that sweet dream in sweeter music spoke,
Till stream and forest echoed a reply.
The golden stars in all their beauty shone,
And tireless vigils kept around the midnight throne.

But hark! what low, faint, trembling sound was heard?
Was it the whispering of the midnight breeze,
Or the sweet warbling of a little bird,

That woke to sing among the olive trees?
Was it the murmuring of the silvery stream,
Whose waters sparkled in the pale moon-beam,
Or the low moaning of the distant seas?
No; the faint sound heard on that holy morn,
Told waiting seraph bands the Son of God was born!

The Prince of Heaven! where rests the infant now?

In pomp, in glory did He come to earth?
What jewelled crown awaits His regal brow,
What place renowned for the Redeemer's birth?
No royal faces o'er Him bent and smiled, –
Not in a palace lay the new-born child,—

Not where the red wine poured, mid songs of mirth;

No! in a stable where the ox was fed,

The Saviour found repose, a manger for a bed!

The flocks reposed upon the dewy plain,—

The shepherds watched them from the breezy hill, Listening to hear the birds' enchanting strain,

Or the low music of the dancing rill.
Hush! hark! what sudden fear upon them fell!
Why stand they there entranced as by a spell,
So statue-like, so breathless, and so still?
There in their midst, upon the soft green ground,
A white-robed angel stood, and glory shone around!
Fear not, the angel said- tidings I bring

Of joy and gladness; there is born to-day
The Prince of Peace, your Saviour and your King!
Up! leave your flocks - to Bethlehem away!
Thus Gabriel spake, and lo! a heavenly throng
Stood on the plain, and with one thrilling song,

With which all Heaven resounded, thus they say
Peace, peace on earth, and good will unto men;
Angel and seraph joined, and breathed a deep amen
Trembling, the shepherds rose, and followed where
A strange, resplendent star in glory seemed;
Now it hung quivering in the pure, light air,
Then near the ground in dazzling lustre gleamed.
They followed on - it led o'er dale and hill,
Until at length the wondrous light stood still,

As o'er the Saviour's resting-place it beamed ;.
They offered gifts of gold, and incense sweet,
And then adoring fell at their Redeemer's feet!

THE WIDOW AND ORPHAN.

EDITORIAL.

"WHAT strange contrasts this world of ours presents! The hut of the starving stands in the shadow of the palace, and the carriage of Dives every day throws the dust of its glittering wheels over the tattered garments of Lazarus. Health and sickness lie down in the same apartment; joy and sorrow look out of the same window; hope and despair dwell under the same roof. The funeral procession treads close on the heels of the bridal party, and the tones of the lute have scarcely died away before the requiem for the dead comes swelling after."

No persons experience more largely the vicissitudes pertaining to this ever-changeful state, than do widows and orphans. The above glowing language, though generally true, is emphatically descriptive of their lot. The bride of Mahlon, the exile of Moab, the forlorn gleaner of the barley field, the ancestor of him who constitutes the hope of a sinking world, form a wonderful diversity, all meeting in the person of Ruth. Esther rises into notice on the sacred page, first, an orphan child, and then shines forth a more resplendent object than the jewelled diadem of Ahasuerus.

Thousands are now dwelling along our extended sea-coast, whose departed husbands and fathers sleep in the caverns of the deep; and every storm which sweeps the ocean augments their number. In the retired hamlet, the factory village and the thronged city, these mourners go about the streets. Among the pioneers of the western prairie, the log cabin is witness to their bitter lamentations. Could California gold restore those who have perished in its search, many a desolate heart and home would be filled with gladness. The halo of glory which encircles the battle-fields of Mexico, stands off in painful contrast with the sable weeds of widows and orphans at home.

These are the persons we now propose to address. Wher