ep, sore needing
The safety of Christ's own fold?
And do we not often wander
Far from his loving hold,

Heedless of where we are straying
Till the light of day has fled,
And perchance a storm is gathering
With the shadow of night o'erhead?
My little one came beside me,
And climbed to my waiting knee,
And lifted her gaze to the picture,
Which told its story to me.

"Tell me about it, mamma;
Why does the sheep wait there?"--
So I told my own wee lammie
(So tender, and sweet, and fair),
How the poor white sheep had wandered
Far from its fold away,
And was tired, and sad, and lonely,
And afraid, at the close of day.

"But the _lamb_ couldn't help it, mamma,
'Cause its _mother_ led it, you see."--
Oh! there was another lesson
Brought silently home to me:
We mothers, who love our babies,
Guarding them day and night,--
Are we always careful to lead them
In ways that are best and right?

I gathered my darling closer,
With an earnest unspoken prayer,
That the tender Shepherd above us
Would help me with special care
To lead my little lamb onward
Thro' pastures prepared by him,
That naught could harm or afflict us
When the light of our day grew dim.

And I know he will graciously answer,
And, though come storms and cold,
He will gather his own in safety
Within one blessed fold.
And my baby still talks of the picture,
And pities the lamb so white,
Which was led by its careless mother
Out into the dark, cold night.

NEW BEDFORD.

BY HERBERT L. ALDRICH.

No visitor to the shore of Buzzard's Bay has really done his duty, or
shown due respect to the inhabitants, who has not learned to say in one
breath, and without a break or hesitation,--

Nashawena, Pesquinese,
Cuttyhunk and Penekese,
Naushon, Nonamesset,
Onkatonka and Wepecket.

[Illustration: OLD WHALERS AND BARRELS OF OIL.]

These are the names of the islands along the south entrance to the bay
which Bartholomew Gosnold, the English navigator, named for his queen
the Elizabeth Islands when he entered the bay in 1602. Fortunately his
attempt to substitute his own English names for these of the Indians was
futile. When Gosnold landed at Cuttyhunk in the early summer of that
year he found it densely wooded and abounding in game. To-day there is
hardly a tree there. In the west part of this island is a pond