EYES AND NO EYES

Everything which helps a boy's powers of observation helps his power of learning; and I know from experience that nothing helps one's power of observation so much as the study of the world about us, and especially the study of natural history. To be accustomed to watch for curious objects, to know in a moment when you have come upon anything new, and to be quick at seeing when things are like and when unlike, this makes one a skillful observer. And this must, and I well know does, help to make a boy observant, shrewd, and accurate in the common affairs of life.

When we were little and good, a long time ago, we used to have a jolly old book, called Evenings at Home, in which was a great story called "Eyes and No Eyes,' and that story was of more use to me than any dozen other stories I ever read.

A regular old-fashioned story it is, but a right good one, and thus it begins: "Well, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon?" said Mr. Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.

Oh, Robert had been to Broom Heath, and round to Campmount, and home through the meadows. But it was very dull; he saw hardly a single person. He had rather have gone by the turnpike road.

"But where is William ?"

Oh, William started with him, but he was so tedious -always stopping to look at this thing and that—that Robert would rather walk alone, and so went on.

Presently, in comes Master William, dressed, no doubt, as we wretched boys used to be forty years ago,— with frill collar, and a tight, skeleton monkey jacket, and tight trousers buttoned over it, and a pair of low shoes which always came off if you stepped into heavy ground. Terribly dirty and wet he is; but he never had such a pleasant walk in his life, and he has brought home a handkerchief full of curiosities.

He has got a piece of mistletoe and wants to know what it is; he has seen a woodpecker and a wheatear, and gathered strange flowers off the heath; and hunted a pewit, because he thought its wing was broken, till, of course, it led him into a bog; but he did not mind, for in the bog he fell in with an old man cutting turf, who told him all about turf cutting. Then he went up a hill and saw a grand prospect; and because the place was called Campmount, he looked for a Roman camp, and found the ruins of one. Then he went on, and saw twenty more things; and so on, till he had brought home curiosities and thoughts enough to last him a week.

Mr. Andrews, who seems a sensible old gentleman, tells him all about his curiosities; and then it turns out that Master William has been over exactly the same ground as Master Robert, who saw nothing at all.

Whereon, says Mr. Andrews, wisely enough, in his oldfashioned way: "So it is. One man walks through the world with his eyes open, and another with them shut; and upon this depends all the superiority of knowledge which one acquires over the other. I have known sailors who have been in all quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing but the signs of the tippling houses and the price and quality of the liquor. On the other hand, Franklin could not cross the Channel without making observations useful to mankind.

"While many a thoughtless person is whirled through Europe without gaining a single idea worth crossing the street for, the observing eye and inquiring mind find matter of improvement and delight in every ramble. Do you then, William, continue to make use of your eyes, and you, Robert, learn that eyes were given you to use."

And when I read that story as a little boy, I said to myself, "I will be Mr. Eyes, I will not be Mr. No Eyes"; and Mr. Eyes I have tried to be ever since, and Mr. Eyes I advise you to be if you wish to be happy and successful.

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

CHARLES CARROLL OF CARROLLTON, THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS

Come to the window, old man. Come, and look your last upon this beautiful earth. The day is dying, the year is dying, you are dying; so light, and leaf, and life mingle in one common death, as they shall mingle in one resurrection.

Clad in a dark morning gown that reveals the outline of his tall form, now bent with age, once so beautiful in its erect manhood, rises a man from his chair, which is covered with pillows, and totters to the window, spreading forth his thin white hands. Did you ever see an old man's face that combines all the sweetness of childhood with the vigor of mature intellect? Snow-white hair, in waving flakes, around a high and open brow; eyes that gleam with clear light; a mouth molded in an expression of benignity, almost divine!

It is the 14th of November, 1832; the hour is sunset, and the man, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the last of the signers. Ninety-five years of age, a weak and trembling old man, he has summoned all his strength, and gone along the carpeted chamber, to the window, his dark gown contrasted with the purple curtains. He is the last! Of the noble fifty-six who, in the Revolution, stood forth, undismayed by the ax or the gibbet, their mission. the freedom of an age, the salvation of a country, he alone remains. One by one the pillars have crumbled from the