e weight of his well earned morsel--and how she made a bridge
of stones over a little streamlet to pluck some crimson lobelias,
growing on the other side, and some delicate, bell-shaped flowers, fit
only for a fairy's bridal wreath,--and how she wandered till sunset
came on, and the Lake's pure breast was all a-glow, and then, how she
lay under that old tree, listening to the plashing waves, and watching
the little birds, dipping their golden wings into the rippling waters,
then soaring aloft to the rosy tinted clouds? Shall I tell you how the
grand old hills, forest crowned, stretched off into the dim
distance--and how sweet the music of childhood's ringing laugh, heard
from the far-off shore--or how Aunty thought 'twas such a _pity_ that
sin, and tears, and sorrow, should ever blight so fair a world?

But Aunty mustn't make you sad; here come the children leaping from the
boat; they've "caught few fish," but a great deal of sunshine, (judging
from their happy faces.) God bless the little voyagers, all; the
laughing Agnes, the pensive Emma, the dove-eyed, tender-hearted Mary,
the rosy Bell, the fearless Harry. In the green pastures by the still
waters, may the dear Shepherd fold them.

"MILK FOR BABES."

Once in a while I have a way of thinking!--and to-day it struck me that
children should have a minister of their own. Yes, a child's minister!
For amid the "strong meat" for older disciples, the "milk for babes"
spoken of by the infant, loving Saviour, seems to be, strangely enough,
forgotten.

Yes, I remember the "Sabbath Schools;" and God bless and prosper
them--as far as they go. But--there's your little Charles--he says to
you on Saturday night,--"Mother, what day is it to-morrow?" "Sunday, my
pet." "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so _tired_ Sundays."

Poor Charley! he goes to church because he is bid--and often when he
gets there, has the most uncomfortable seat in the pew--used as a sort
of human wedge, to fill up some triangular corner. From one year's end
to another, he hears nothing from that pulpit he can understand. It is
all Greek and Latin to him, those big words, and rhetorical flourishes,
and theological nuts, thrown out for "wisdom-teeth" to crack. So he
counts the buttons on his jacket, and the bows on his mother's bonnet,
and he wonders how the feathers in that lady's hat before him can be
higher than the pulpit or the minister; (for he can't see either.) And
then he wonders, if the chandelier sho