at work, who should come along but Jack! He lived with Mr. S-——, the blacksmith, and Mr. S. was burning coal at a pit, up on a high hill, about a mile and a half from the village. Jack said to your uncle John, "How many stones have you got to pick up?"

So uncle John showed him where the line was.

"Well," said Jack, "I will help you pick them up, if you will go with me up the hill where the coalpit is."

Your uncle was glad to get help, and was anxious to see them make coke, and he told Jack he would go. He knew that your grandpa had told him he must not go with Jack, but Jack assured him he would never know it; so they made haste and picked up the stones; and then uncle John, for fear his father would know that he had gone with Jack, went a great distance round, and Jack waited for him at a place out of the village. Jack had a bottle of whiskey with him, for in those days almost everybody used to drink intoxicating liquors. And when he saw that your uncle seemed to feel bad, he told him to drink a little whiskey, and this would make him feel better. So he drank some, and went on, up for the coalpit. But instead of feeling better, he felt worse and he drank a little more; and he felt more wretched still. He had no dinner to eat-and as he kept drinking whiskey every little while, before night he got so that he could not walk without staggering. It began to grow dark, and by that time he could not walk straight. He wished he was at home, but he was afraid to go alone; and he could not walk home, even if he tried. So he finally crawled in among some straw, and laid down and was soon sound asleep. This was on Saturday night, and your grandpa asked every one he saw where your uncle was; but he could find no one that had seen him, till, after dark, a man came into the store, who said he had seen him with Jack R--, and said he guessed that he was up where Mr. S. was burning coal.

So your grandpa hired a couple of men to go after him. When they got to the coalpit, they found your uncle in among the straw, sound asleep. They awoke him up; and after a great while made him understand where he was, and who they were, and what they wanted. They lifted him up,

and made him stand on his feet; and finally started for the village, one on each side of him to support him.

I can well remember how bad your uncle felt when he came home. Pretty soon, your grandpa came into the house, and he said, "John, where have you been to-day ?" John. "I have been up to the coalpit."

Grandpa. "But, have I not told you that you must not go away without my leave ?"

John. "Yes, sir; but I did not think."

Grandpa. 'Well, I will teach you to think. Who went with you ?"

John. "Jack R-—.

He came and teased me to go." Grandpa. "And have I not told you that you must not

associate with him ?"

John. "Yes, sir, but I forgot what you said."

Grandpa. 'Well, sir, we shall see if you can't be made to remember. One thing more. Have you been drinking to-day?"

John. "I have drank nothing but water, sir."

Grandpa. "Are you sure, John?"

John. "Yes, sir, I am sure I have not."

:

Grandpa. "Oh, John, how can you tell such a lie as this? Your very countenance shows that you have been drinking and when you go to meeting to-morrow, everybody will look at you, for all the people in the village know that you have been drunk. Now, John, here are several things, for which I am going to punish you. First, for running away without leave; second, for going with Jack R—; third, for getting drunk; and, fourth, for telling several lies. I am very sorry; it seems to me that the lying is the worst of all, for I should not have punished you so severely, if you had confessed all. I am afraid I can never put any confidence in anything you say.”

After having said this, your grandpa told John to take off his coat and jacket; and then he whipped him very bad, and told him to go to bed, adding, "I shall whip you in the morning for telling lies."

The next morning, after breakfast. he took John into a room by himself, and punished him very severely. Your

uncle then went to meeting, but he felt so ashamed that he did not dare look up.

And now, my children, this history of your uncle John teaches you several things. One is, that your parents know better than you do, whom you ought to associate with. How much your uncle suffered, by keeping company with a bad boy! He got him to drink, and urged him to tell a lie about it.

Another thing which this teaches you is, that you should always ask your parents when you want to go and play.

Another is, that when you do wrong, it is better at once to confess it, than to deny it. Lying is a very great sin. To be a noted liar, is one of the worst characters any individual can have.

And now, what do you think about this story?

Fanny. "I think, father, that uncle John was very naughty, and that grandpa did right to punish him. I hope I shall not do anything as naughty as that."

Thomas. "I hope, father, I shall remember this story." Father. "I hope you will both of you remember it, and that when naughty children ask you to associate with them, you will not consent. It is far easier to avoid going into bad company, than it is to leave off the sins which we learn to commit, by associating with those who are wicked. Before you go to play in the yard, I want you to take the Bible, and read to me what Solomon says in the first chapter of Proverbs, and tenth verse."

Thomas reads,

"My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."

LITTLE MARY SLEEPETH.

ONE year ago I stood a stranger in a little village, pleasantly situated in a beautiful valley. It was the Sabbath. The church going bell had chimed merrily away, and the cheerful yeomanry bent their footsteps towards the house of God. The morning was lovely. The sun had risen with splendour in the heavens, and seemed rejoicing like a strong

man to run his race; his soft beams had lingered awhile on the mountain top, and now threw a radiance, rarely equalled, over the smiling valley. All nature seemed vocal in praises to God on this beautiful morning in summer; the lark had borne her song toward the gate of heaven, the rose and the flower had opened their soft petals, and were emitting their sweetest perfumes on the worshippers, as they moved along thoughtfully to the house of prayer. I saw an aged servante of the Most High ascend the pulpit, and as my eye rested upon that attentive audience, I felt that it was good to be there. After preaching, the sacrament was administered, This, to me, is always a solemn scene, but on this occasion it was rendered more so by the relation I sustained to those with whom I kneeled around that altar. I was a stranger there! Yet I felt at home in my heavenly Father's house My health was quite feeble by close confinement. I knew well how to sympathize with those from whose cheek the rose had departed.

I saw a little girl of fourteen summers, and all her summers were numbered, enter that church. She had re quested her mother on that bright Sabbath morning to knee down by her side and partake of the Lord's Supper. I s her feeble step and marked her pale countenance, as she was led by that mother down the aisle, and knelt, with a tearfi eye, to participate, for the last time on earth, with he friends, in commemorating the death and passion of h Lord. Methought, as I looked upon that touching scene, almost heard her whisper to them in the language of the Saviour, "Verily I say unto you, I will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until that day that I drink it new in the kingdom of God."

The next day I was
After dinner I had

She soon returned to her chamber. invited to dine with her father's family. an interview with little Mary. I may live to be old, I may forget many things "among the dream of things that were, but never will I forget the hour I spent in the company that little girl. Her father was a physician of some eminence he was a kind and affectionate parent, he doated on his only child; but her health had fled, he saw he

rapidly fading away before his eyes-he had tried to give her up, but he could not yet think of parting with the object of his affection, she was so amiable, so pious, so pure. Some two years before she had made her peace with God, and was not afraid to die. She felt that death would be to her the beginning of eternal life. She knew that she could not live long, and spoke of death composedly. She felt that the last summer breeze fanned her pale cheek, and would soon sweep over her tomb. During our conversation I noticed a bright tear fill her eye; it did not speak of sorrow, but, like a pearly dew-drop, brightened more sweetly ere it fell. She had an angelic smile: never before had I seen so much sweetness, so much innocence, so much affection, expressed in a smile. And when I remarked that in all probability I should see her no more on earth, but anticipated meeting her again above, that perhaps twelve months hence I should return, and if then I found her not, I would go to her grave, and there remember that hour sanctified to her memory,she smiled through her tears, and said, “Long ere I should come back she would be in heaven." My heart was touched, and when I bade her farewell, I felt it would be to meet her no more on earth. Time passed on. I returned to my native place. She awaited in that village "till her change should come." She lingered there but a little while *

A few weeks ago I again stood in that chamber; I looked around the room, but little Mary was not there. I did not inquire for her I was shown her grave. Death had robbed that sweet girl of her youthful beauties, and borne her away to the silent tomb! And while her fond parents wept tears of sorrow at her departure, she pointed them above where tears are never shed, and there she bade them meet her. Many of her young friends visited her during her illness, to all of whom she dropped a memento of her love, and told them of her home above. It was only left for me to visit her grave, and when I stood there alone, I thought of that afternoon in which we had met on earth aud parted! And as I beheld the grass growing over the spot that marks her resting place, I promised to meet her in the skies.

Christian Advocate and Journal,