the graves after his resurrection, and went into the Holy City, and appeared unto many.'

That chapter of Ezekiel wherein we read, 'And He said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? and I answered, O Lord God thou knowest' (Ezekiel xxxvii. 3), recurred to my mind. Nor could I help recalling these striking words; 'I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and I will plead with them for my people, and for my heritage Israel, whom they have scattered among the nations, and parted my land' (Joel iii. 2).

To our right was a tomb where Absalom is said to have been interred.* I observed, as I passed, a great quantity of stones heaped up against it. On inquiry, I heard it was usual for all who passed the tomb to throw a stone at it. The valley here is wild and pretty; there are many olive-trees. The tombs of St James and Zachariah are not far distant from that of Absalom.

The next interesting object is the Fountain of the Virgin. We then arrive at the Pool of Siloam: this is a very picturesque spot. The walls on each side are nearly Eidden by plants, creepers, and trailing leaves and flowers. The village of Siloam is situated on a height opposite the pool, overlooking the Valley of Jehoshaphat. In Nehemiah iii. 15, and in John ix. 7, this pool is mentioned.

We next saw the Fountain of En-rogel, where, it will be remembered, Adonijah, after he had proclaimed himself king, 'slew sheep, and oxen, and fat cattle' (1 Kings i. 9).

The Field of Blood is on a hill above the Valley of Hinnom. It was formerly usual to throw the bodies of pilgrims who died at Jerusalem into a pit, which is still seen on the Field of Blood.

Continuing our excursions through the Valley of Hinnom, we passed the lower Pool of Gihon, the Jaffa Gate on the west, then the Damascus Gate on the north side of the walls. To our left was the way to the Grotto of Jeremiah; further en we passed Herod's Gate (now walled up), and turning round to the eastern wall, found ourselves again at the spot from whence we had started, having made a complete tour of the city.

*He was, we are told, buried in a large pit in the Wood of Ephraim, and stones heaped upon him.

THE GLOVE: A TALE. Before his lion-court,

To see the grisly sport,

Sat the king;

Beside him group'd his princely peers,
And dames aloft, in circling tiers

Wreath'd round their blooming ring.
King Francis, where he sat,
Raised a finger; yawn'd the gato,
And slow, from his repose,

A LION gocs!
Dumbly he gazed around
The foe-cncircled ground;
And, with a lazy gapc,

He stretch'd his lordly shape,
And shook his careless mano,
And-laid him down again.
A finger raised the king,
And nimbly have the guard
A second gate unbarr'd;
Forth, with a rushing spring,
A TIGER Sprung!
Wildly the wild one yell'd,
When the lion he beheld;

And, bristling at the look,
With his tail his sides he strook,
And roll'd his rabid tongue,

In many a wary ring
He swept round the forest-king,
With a fell and rattling sound,

And laid him on the ground,

Grommelling.

The king raised his finger then
Leapt two LEOPARDS from the den
With a bound;

And boldly bounded they
Where the crouching tiger lay,

Terrible!

And he griped the beasts in his deadly hold,
In the grim embrace they grappled and roll'd;
Rose the lion with a roar,

And stood the strife before;
And the wild-cats on the spot,

From the blood-thirst, wroth and hot,
Halted still.

Now from the balcony above
A snowy hand let fall a glove:
Midway between the beasts of prey,
Lion and tiger-there it lay,

The winsome lady's glove!

Fair Cunigonde said, with a lip of scorn,
To the knight Delorges, 'If the love you have

SPRING HARBINGERS. When the first soft days of spring come on in all their gentle sweetness, and woo us with their warmth, and soothe us with their smile, then come the birds. With us do they rejoice that winter's reign (and snow) is ended. No one of the seasons, that come 'to rule the varied year,' abdicates his throne more to his subjects' joy than winter. While he rules, we lose all respect for the mercury in our thermometer. When we remember how high it stood in our estimation only a few short months ago, we did not think that it could get so low. We resolve to have nothing more to do with it; for 'there is a point beyond which forbearance ceases to be a virtue,' and we conceive that point to be thirty-two degrees above zero, at the very least.

And yet, perhaps, we look upon this season of the year too coldly. It has its joys. The cold without drives us to seek within the pleasant fireside. And then the snow, so beautiful!-falling down so soft, and with soft down covering the face of earth. Then, too, the perfect luxury in winter of lying late in bed. To be sure, Thomson indignantly exclaims (and it is said he wrote this very line in bed),

'Falsely luxurious, will not man awake!' Why, of course he will! But if he is a sensible man, he will lie awake awhile, and think the matter over, ere he rises. It is pleasant to lie and imagine how cold you will be when you do get up, and know how warm you are just now. There is much of pleasure also in lying looking at the wondrous pictures painted on the windows. There are clouds and castles, trees and towers, forms and features, most fanciful and beautiful. Formed from our breath, they seem our sleeping thoughts and dreams, breathed cut and photographed. Certainly Jack Frost is a most painstaking painter.

But surely enough, when spring and summer, with their greater joys, are come, then it will pay to rise right early. It will even do to take a long walk before breakfast. The air is pregnant with the perfect perfume of a thousand flowers, and leaves, and buds. And then, beside the pleasure of seeing jocund day go through that difficult gymnastic feat described by Shakspere, of standing 'tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,' we have a glorious morning concert, to which we have a season-ticket: for

'Innumerous songsters in the freshening shade

Of new-sprung leaves their modulations mix Mellifluous.'

Such music! It seems the pure outpourings of the greatest gratitude to Him who made the morn so beautiful, so full of joy and light. It is the expression of Yes, indeed, we love birds! most perfect praise, in ecstasy of song.

There is a deal of pleasure, as well as

profit and advantage with amusement, to the character of birds. Nor is the study be derived from studying the habits and burdensome. Of all the lower orders of creation, as they frequent most freely the haunts and homes of men, so they approach us nearest in intelligence. They have their labours and amusements, their conjugal relations, and, like us, they build have society, moreover, and the opera. with taste and skill their houses: they and in some superiors: and what in other In very many things they are our equals, animals at best is only instinct, in birds

is almost reason.

those pleasant little people, the marten Among the first spring visiters are and the wren. They appear to have particular confidence in man. Nor is their confidence misplaced; for everybody hails with joy these harbingers of spring. Their company is peculiarly agreeable, and they seem to know it; for every year they come again to occupy their old abodes, where they live rent-free; yet not exactly so, for they pay us with their notes. Sometimes the martens have a deal of difficulty among themselves about these habitations. The young members of last year's families now open house on their own account, and disliking newly-plastered walls, a vigorous scramble is made for old tenements. After much scolding, wheming, and twitting upon facts, the senior members of the district assemble in solemn conclave, and the juniors are initiated in the mysteries of meum and tuum. The wrens content themselves with some snug corner, where they forthwith proceed to build their houses, with all the architectural skill derived from their great namesake, the builder of St Paul's. There is a spice of waggery about the wren, somewhat amusing. Often when a neighbour has left his house, and gone to market, or down town, the wren peeps in, and finding no one there, proceeds to amuse himself by pulling out the

straws and feathers in the nest; but should perchance the said neighbour come in sight, the wren remembers there is something very interesting going on around the corner, that demands his instant and immediate attention.

The marten and the wren, together with the swallows (barn and chimney) and 'the honest robin,' who, as quaint old Walton has it, 'loves mankind, both alive and dead,' are half-domesticated. They love to live near man. The robin is the only one among them who appears to have paid much attention to the cultivation of his vocal powers. He salutes the morning with sweet songs. The wren and other small birds are in the garden, breakfasting on worms, or, as we sometimes express it, 'getting their grub.' The marten, meanwhile, listens as a critic; for he sits up in his private box, now and then uttering an approving note, as if of applause. Indeed the marten is not very musical. Sometimes, in the bosom of his family, when he feels very social, he takes up his pipe, and then essays a song. But he never gets beyond the first few notes of 'Hi Betty Martin,' and then goes off on tiptoe.

But here we have a jolly little fellow, who makes up in sociability for what he lacks in song. The house-sparrow comes to our very doors. He hops along the street, gathering 'crumbs of comfort' and of bread. He keeps a careful eye, however, on the cat; for he is perfectly aware that she would consider him only a swallow, and he does not like to lose his identity. There is in history a single instance where this bird seems to have forgotten his character, and been a destroyer. Every juvenile of five years, who is at all read in the literature of his age, knows the tragic story of the death and burial of cock-robin. That interesting individual was found one morning lying on the ground, with a murderous weapon through his heart, as dead as Julius Cæsar. The horrorstricken birds assembled. A coroner's inquest was holden. The first inquiry was, of course, 'who killed cockrobin?' There was a momentary silence, and then the sparrow, the last one in the crowd, perhaps, to be suspected, confessed the deed! He then proceeds to state how it was done, and owns he 'did it with his bow and arrow.' This tragic event must have happened previous to Master Sparrow's civilisation.

But let us go and take a stroll. This

is indeed a golden day, in which mere living is a perfect luxury. From the eagle perched upon the topmost cliff, nearest the sky, down to the smallest insect that floats upon the air, all the created world to-day rejoices in the sun. Oh! it is such days as these-so balmy, bright, and beautiful-that bring upon their wings strength to our weak and weary bodies, and to our souls sweet hope!'

Caw! caw! caw!' The watchword and the signal of alarm or caution among crows; or else it is the 'dreadful note of preparation,' summoning the lawless legions from the depths of the woods, from yonder hill, from the 'crowner's' inquest, sitting on the body of a defunct steed, down by the river side, from far-off forests, to come and help pull up a field of corn, just beginning to put forth its tender blades. All these and more come flocking,' for there is no one around: the scarecrow was blown down last night; the gun is lent; the boys have gone to school; the farmer tumbled off the hay-mow yesterday and broke his leg: and so the crows proceed with the destruction,

'Unmoved

With dread of death to flight or foul retreat.'

The crow and blackbird both are arrant scoundrels. The last, indeed, renders somewhat of service in the early part of spring; for, following the furrows of the field, devouring countless worms and grubs, which would be most destructive to the coming crop of corn, all day long he gleans behind the plough, a perfect little Ruth. But when the corn comes, he fills his own crop with the farmer's in less than no time. Perchance, should any one appear upon the premises, he gets upon the fence and whistles very unconcernedly, just as if he hadn't been doing anything. As for that bean pole, standing in the centre of the field, dressed in old clothes, and bearing some faint resemblance to a returned Californian, ha! ha! ha! What fools men are to think that they can cheat the blackbird.

Every farmer hates the crow, and, we must acknowledge, he is not a very lovely bird. He has neither beauty nor song; for his eternal caw! caw! is a note renewed so often as to be at a decided discount. Nor has he civility of manners; and his ideas concerning private property are extremely vague. Yet, of all the bird tribe, he is by far the most intelli

gent. Nor is he a hypocrite. He robs our fields and he 'acknowledges the corn.' Ah! he is a cunning rascal! There he sits, on that old tree by the roadside, clothed in a sable suit, and as you go by, looks as demure, as interesting, and melancholy, as a minister with the bronchitis, about to sail for Egypt. But should there be a gun in the bottom of the cart, though it is covered carefully with a bundle of straw, a blanket over that, and a large fat boy sitting on top of all, he knows it is there, and, trusty sentinel, alarms the whole community of crows in the region round about, and away they wing, over the hills and far away.' Caw! caw! caw! You didn't catch him that time. He is very well aware that you intend to kill him-if you can. He just wants to see you do it, that's all! Having been completely foiled in every effort to induce the inhabitants of a rookery to accept a hint that I wished to be relieved of their board and lodgingat all events of the former-as a last resource I adopted an old expedient. A quantity of corn was soaked in spirit, and scattered in the field. By and by, a dozen vagrant crows came down, and stationing a 'look-out,' they began to feed. By the time their crops were full, their heads were also, and they were literally 'corned.' Such a spree! They reeled about, ran into and fell over one another, and exhibited a series of ground and lofty tumblings beautiful to behold. In vain did one old crow, the patriarch of the flock, a hundred years of age at least, attempt t reason with the rest. He was the worst one of them all: and afterward the old reprobate tried to sing a bacchanalian song. At last, by some mysterious evolutions, they made out to get up in a tree, and there they sat, cawing and abusing the corn. There was an after-piece; for the Shanghais happened to go down that way, and what corn the crows had left, they speedily appropriated. There was a time then! The boys rushed down to drive away the Shanghais, but they were bound not to go home till morning, anyhow. Altogether, what with the incoherent cawing overhead, the inebriated crowing on the ground, occasionally a tumble-down from off the tree, the crows trying to roost above, and the roosters trying to crow below, there was 'confusion worse confounded.' The next day, our best Shanghai-cock of the walk-died of delirium tremens; and his successor,

'Full of rumination sad, Laments the weakness of these latter times.' Early rising is a good thing. It is easy enough to rise with the sun, but we must get up very early indeed if we would rise with the birds. For long before the sun sees fit to show his face, when the first faint glimmerings of dawn make repetition of response to that Almighty fiat that first called light into the world, while 'incense-breathing morn' is putting on her clothes, while we are still sleeping such sleep as the truly virtuous only know, the birds have left their nests, have dipped their wings in the refreshing dew, have breakfasted, and now are waiting for the day. Their matin music ended, then begin the labours and amusements of the day. They have enough to do. Perchance they have their house to build, and fields, both far and near, are searched for straws and sticks, and they pick up, here a hair, and there a thread, to weave into the nest. Or else they have a family to cater for; or, if the young are fledged, they must be taught to fly, and learned to find their food: the vagrant boys, who rob birds' nests, are pointed out, and the old birds devote themselves to teach the young idea how to avoid being shot. Then there are calls to make, gossip to interchange, rehearsals to attend, excursions to adjacent counties: and so time flies with birds.

And when the evening comes, they all return from their discursive flights, and seek their homes. Yes, homes! For they all have their 'local habitation,' and there are no beings more domestic or home-loving than the birds. The croaker crow, stuffed to repletion, flies to the forest, and, we prophesy, will before morning be obliged to call in the corn-doctor, or die of indigestion. The swallows come in countless crowds, a complete cloud, and after describing sundry circles, dive down the chimney, a residence that seems to them most suitable. And here are more of them, who, if they neither sow nor reap, most certainly do 'gather into barns,' and in the most astounding quantities. The remainder of this tribe, for there are more of them, improbable as it may seem, live, an innumerable throng, up in that old church-tower that appears above the trees. There they dwell in safe security, shielded from the storm, and free from fear of man, or boy, or cat. Who ever saw a cat about a church? We have indeed heard of a church-mouse,

and his extraordinary poverty; but a church-cat is unknown. The bell alone, at times, disturbs the birds; the bell, now ringing solemnly on Sabbath days, summoning the people to the place of prayer, now tolling sadly and sorrowfully for the dead, now making merry marriage music, anon at midnight sounding out the terrible alarm of conflagration; and then the young alone tremble with fear, and nestle closer beneath the mother's brooding wings. The old tower is a pleasant dwelling-place for birds. It is cool with shading trees, and all about the church is quiet, calm, and still. Truly there 'the sparrow hath found a house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young;' for thus, ages ago, the poet-prophet painted a perfect picture of the peace, the rest, the sacred stillness, and the sweet serenity of the house of God.

FIFTY-SIX OF THE WANTS OF

THE CHILDREN OF ZION.
I want to feed on Jesus' Word,
I want communion with my Lord;
I want salvation full and free,
I want my Father's face to see;

I want to prove each promise sweet,
I want to lie at Jesu's feet;
I want his mercy every day,
I want upholding all the way;
I want to live as Jesu's bride,

I want in his dear wounds to hide;
I want to prove his fulness more,
I want his person to adore;
I want to hear his heavenly voice,
I want in Jesus to rejoice;
I want to joy in him by faith,
I want to credit all he saith;

I want to trust him with my all,
I want on his dear name to call;
I want to die to all things here,
I want on him to cast my care;
I want to see his gospel spread,
I want on Satan's power to tread;
I want to see the proud made sad,
I want to see poor mourners glad;
I want to see the hungry fed,
I want by Jesus to be led;
I want him as my guide and friend,
I want him to my journey's end;
I want him as my priest and king,
I want his precious love to sing;
I want him as my rock and tower,
I want him in each trying hour;
I want him as my brother dear,
I want my Jesus always near;

I want his hand, his eyes, his heart,
I want with all besides to part;
I want him as my husband kind,
I want in him my all to find;
I want him as my daily bread,
I want him as my living head;
I want him as my hiding-place,
I want him as the God of grace;
I want him as my life and peace,
I want him as my righteousness;
I want his great atoning blood,
I want to bathe in that rich flood
I want his Spirit's voice to hear,
I want the love that casts out fear;
I want him now in Asher's Vale,
I want him when all hell assail;
I want him when my flesh gives way,
I want him as my only stay;
I want his smiles, his looks of grace,
I want to see him face to face;
I want his wisdom, strength, and love,
I want to dwell with him above.

AN EASTERN STORY* Carazan, the merchant of Bagdad, was eminent throughout all the East for his avarice and wealth. His origin was obscure as that of the spark, which, by the collision of steel and adamant is struck out of darkness; and the patient labour of persevering diligence alone had made him rich. It was remarked, that when he was indigent he was thought to be generous; and he was still acknowledged to be inexorably just. But whether, in his dealings with men, he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or whether, in proportion as he accumulated wealth, he discovered his own importance to increase, Carazan prized it more as he used it less: he gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power, and as the hand of time scattered the snow upon his head, the freezing influence extended to his bosom.

But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer: he performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid his vows at the temple of the Prophet. That devotion which arises from the love of God,

* Of this story Dr N. Drake remarks, that the misery of utter solitude was never before painted in colours so vivid and terrific.