the air,' as they have most unpoetically been called. Like them, however, they appear in astounding numbers, nobody knows whence, and are found alike all over this continent, from Hudson's Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific. About broodtime, they unite in millions to seek a comfortable home. Their numbers are far beyond all computation: they darken the heavens with their vast armies, and break down the forests on which they settle. Not less strange is the inexplicable faculty which other pigeons possess to find the way to their home. Birds have been taken, that had never been further from the place of their birth than a few miles; they were carried by rail to the distance of more than a thousand miles, and then let loose. They were seen to fly around a few times in large circles, and then in a straight line, with marvellous swiftness, directly to their home! They cannot see it, for the roundness of the globe would prevent that; no other sense can possibly come to their aid, and yet they never fail to reach the place from which they were taken!

Thus birds travel from land to land all over the carth, some sailing high in the air, passing without astonishment over populous cities, disdaining fertile valleys and plains covered with rich grain, bent with fixed purpose upon the way to their last year's home; others, like the swallow, gladdening both Europe and Africa, and, at the appointed time, leaving her nest to seek a warmer climate, as the soul is anxious to leave this earthly home to seek a better world above. The tender nightingale travels, both sexes together, from north to south; but in early spring the females leave several weeks earlier, and wing their way from Egypt and Syria, alone, to northern regions. Of finches, the females only migrate, the males remain behind, and being thus widowers during the long winter, have, from the French, received the name of célibataires. Not inaptly has, therefore, the question been asked, whether the females of birds are not, perhaps, more sensitive to the magnetic current that whirls around our globe than the males?

The lightsome countenance of a friend giveth such an inward decking to the house where it lodgeth, as proudest palaces have cause to envy the gilding.

ADVICE TO SERVANTS. To the faithful, honest, and industri

ous.

1. A good character is valuable to every one, but especially to servants; for it is their bread, and without it they cannot be admitted into a creditable family; and happy it is, that the best of characters it is in every one's power to deserve.

2. Engage yourself cautiously, but stay long in your place; for long service shows worth, as quitting a good place through passion is folly, which is always repented of too late.

3. Never undertake any place you are not qualified for; for pretending to do what you do not understand exposes yourself, and, what is still worse, deceives those whom you serve.

4. Preserve your fidelity; for a faithful servant is a jewel, for whom no encouragement can be too great.

5. Adhere to truth; for falsehood is detestable, and he that tells one lie must tell twenty more to conceal it.

6. Be strictly honest; for it is shameful to be thought unworthy of trust.

7. Be modest in your behaviour: it becomes your station, and is pleasing to your superiors.

8. Avoid pert answers; for civil language is cheap, and impertinence is provoking.

9. Be clean in your business; for slovens and sluts are disrespectful servants.

10. Never tell the affairs of the family you belong to; for that is a sort of treachery, and often makes mischief; but keep their secrets, and have none of your

own.

11. Live friendly with your fellow-servant; for the contrary destroys the peace of the house.

12. Above all things, avoid drunkenness; for it is an inlet to vice, the ruin of your character, and the destruction of your constitution.

13. Prefer a peaceable life, with moderate gains, to great advantages, with irregularity.

14. Save your money; for that will be a friend to you in old age; be not expensive in dress, nor marry too soon.

15. Be careful of your masters' property; for wastefulness is a sin.

16. Never swear; for that is a sin without excuse, for there is no pleasure in it.

17. Be always ready to assist a fellow

servant; for good-nature gains the love of every one.

18. Never stay when sent on a message; for waiting long is painful to a master, and quick return shows diligence.

19. Rise early; for it is difficult to recover lost time.

20. The servant that often changes his place works only to be poor; for the rolling stone gathers no moss.

21. Be not fond of increasing your acquaintance; for visiting leads you out of your business, robs your master of your time, and puts you to an expense you cannot afford; and above all things take care with whom you are acquainted; for persons are generally the better or the worse for the company they keep.

22. When out of place, be cautious where you lodge; for living in a disreputable house puts you upon a footing with those who keep it, however innocent you are yourself.

23. Never go out on your own business without the knowledge of the family, lest in your absence you should be wanted; for leave is light, and returning punctually at the hour you promise shows obedience, and is a proof of sobriety.

24. If you are dissatisfied in your place, mention your objections modestly to your master or mistress, and give a fair warning, and do not neglect your business, or behave ill, in order to provoke them to turn you away; for this will be a blemish in your character, which you must always have from the place you served.-Anon., Christian Magazine, 1762.

THE PIONEERS.

In the remote West, many miles from any settlement, rose a small log-cabin, surrounded by a few acres covered with piles of logs and massive trees, recently felled. Many a blow had been given with the axe before the sturdy arm of the woodsman had accomplished so much. The logs and trees, with piles of brush and leaves gathered around them, were on fire, crackling and sparkling; the brilliant flames ascended in wreaths to the mild autumnal sky, its glare driving the wood-birds from their evening rest in the adjacent forest, while columns of smoke, arising in various shades, and in many a | fanciful form, created a picture to which the pencil of Weir could alone do justice. A patch of corn grew thriftily near the

rude dwelling, and showed that no idle hands were there. Unyoked oxen browsed in the bushes hard by, and the faint tinkling of a cow-bell was heard at intervals, its patient wearer, meanwhile, watching the spreading flames, as if lost in wonder at the sight of so much fire and smoke. Within and around the house were strewed a few necessary articles of furniture; a shining rifle with powder-flask and bulletpouch were suspended from wooden hooks; a long hunting-knife, more formidable still, a ponderous axe, worn bright with use, were visible; and two modest beds, covered with whitened linen, invited the weary to repose. A huge mastiff, the guardian of the night, with protuberant lip and threatening eye, lay at full length by the door-sill, snapping at the large blue-winged flies which disturbed his slumber. Three little children, their hands blackened with coal and smoke, were building mimic houses of brake and brush, and seemed the very impersonation of health and enjoyment. The father was a stout, stalwart man in the prime of life; and was evidently well fitted to 'dare the wolf, and grapple with the bear.' looked out from the open door, enjoying the scene, and gazing complacently upon the result of his day's labour; while his wife, a fair-haired, delicate woman, in cleanly dress, busied herself with careful skill in preparing the evening meal.

He

This was their first year in the woods. Over a long and weary way they had travelled the preceding winter, and here they had pitched their tent, to build a goodly heritage for their children. His axe had since made the old forest ring with the sound of falling trees: and her gentle song, learned in her father's home, made glad the heart of one whom she had sworn to love and obey through life. It was not without many tears that she left friends and companions for a home in the new world of the West. She parted with them as if for ever; and her woman's heart was almost broken as the word farewell lingered on her tongue. That she should no more see her father's face nor hear her mother's, voice, was a sad thought; but this was not the sum of her grief. There was the trysting-place of her youthful love; the hills and vales which first greeted her infant eye; the venerable church, in which were gathered weekly the good and beautiful for prayer and praise; and there also were the buried dead-friends whose graves her tears had

ear,

watered. These were forsaken; and with fortitude, though not without sorrow, she had left them all. But when, after weeks of journeying through scattered settlements, she passed what seemed the bounds of the civilised word, and entered still farther into the wilderness, she remembered the frightful tales of savage life which had been poured into her childish and her heart shrunk within her; and she peered into the gloom around their way, as if expecting frightful forms to arise from every side. Still she fainted not, nor faltered, nor complained. Her course was taken, and she felt that her destiny was fixed. She trusted much to the strong arm of her companion, but more to the stronger arm of Him who protects alike the dweller of the forest and of the crowded city.

As evening came on, their frugal repast finished, the husband sat gazing from the doorway, half dreaming, half watching the crackling fires; the wife came and seated herself by his side, and laid her hand with a woman's gentleness in his outstretched palm, and looked into his face with such a look as only deep feeling and affection can bestow. At the twilight hour a sense of loneliness is most burdensome; and she felt then how far, how very far off they were from that busy world of which they had once formed a part. She spoke of home, and friends, and bygone days, and old-remembered scenes, which they should see no more, until even his rugged nature was moved, and he felt it not unmanly to weep. Blinded with falling tears, not of grief, nor of penitence, nor of awakened guilt, but of sweet and melancholy remembrances, she reclined her head upon his shoulder, and her thoughts flitted alternately between the past, the present, and the future, until the present and the future were lost in the visions of her home and her youth.

When the stars were up, and the night had closed in upon them; from that humble abode arose a manly, deep-toned voice of praise and supplication; for the pioneer was a prayerful man. A descendant of the Pilgrims, he had in him that 'faith which was once delivered to the saints. It is needless to speak of the eloquence of that forest devotion; it was a prayer for pardon of trangressions, a thanksgiving for life, and health, and many blessings; a supplication for peace and protection, and for strength and firm

ness to endure whatsoever of suffering or of evil remained in store for them. And most assuredly far-off friends were not then forgotten. Over the whole wide earth, and in all its temples 'made with hands,' no devotion more heartfelt, simple, or affecting, was ever offered. Quietly they slept that night; and if no sweet dreams visited them in their slumbers, it was because the weary labour of the day had overpowered them, and banished from the brain all the 'thickcoming fancies' of an ideal world.

And thus the time wore on. The winter day saw the pioneer amid the snow, felling the great trees around him, or pursuing herds of deer, or some grizzly bear prowling among the thickets. Meanwhile, her household labours over, the mother was treasuring up in the infant minds of her children such lessons of instruction as her store of knowledge allowed. At evening, how anxiously did mother and children watch the first approach of husband and father! They were to each other friends, companions, the world; and when the huge logs blazed up from the hearth through the open-mouthed chimney, lighting up every corner of the snug cottage, the winds howling and roaring among the trees, and the drifting snow, were all unheeded. There, around that fireside, old legends were rehearsed, old friends were talked of, and all the events of their former days were brought up anew. Evening after evening, too, their few books were brought out, and read over and over again, as if their contents were never heard before. A file of old newspapers, which had somehow been packed up with their little stock of goods, were re-perused, with as much avidity as if the sheets were damp from the press; the marriages and deaths recorded years before were to them as events of yesterday; old advertisements were faithfully pored over from time to time; and it must be confessed some of them rekindled in the goodwife a halfforgotten idea of caps, ribands, and laces; of shops, and their long shelves filled and surrounded with many an article of female finery.

Spring came again, and with it also the scourge of a new country-racking agues and burning fevers. The strong man was bowed low; his frame drooped, his eye rolled delirious, and his tongue spake strange things; the tender child, too, was confined to its couch of pain. Then came

or if, being rich, you fear that in the future your possessions may 'take to themselves wings and fly away,' contrast your situation with that of the hardy pioneer; weigh your troubles in the balance with the dangers which he braves, with the labour and suffering which he endures, and for the honour of man repine no more!

FORMATION OF CHARACTER. Here a person of your age might pause, and look back with great interest on the world of circumstances through which life has been drawn. Consider what thousands of situations, appearances, incidents, persons, you have been present with, each in its time. The review would carry you over something like a chaos, with all the moral, and all other elements, confounded together; and you may reflect, till you begin almost to wonder how an individual retains the same essence through all the diversities, vicissitudes, and counteractions of influence, that operate on it during its progress through the confusion. While the essential being might, however, defy the universe to extinguish, absorb, or transmute it, you will find it has come out with dispositions and habits which will show where it has been, and what it has undergone. You may descry on it the marks and colours of many of the things by which it has, in passing, been touched or arrested.

Consider the number of meetings with acquaintances, friends, or strangers; the number of conversations you have held or heard; the number of exhibitions of good or evil, virtue or vice; the number of occasions on which you have been disgusted or pleased, moved to admiration or to abhorrence; the number of times that you have contemplated the town, the rural cottage, or verdant fields; the number of volumes you have read; the times that you have looked over the present state of the world, or gone, by means of history, into past ages; the number of comparisons of yourself with other persons, alive or dead, and comparisons of them with one another; the number of solitary musings, of solemn contemplations of night, of the successive subjects of thought, and of animated sentiments, that have been kindled and extinguished. Add all the hours and causes of sorrow which you have known. Through this lengthened, and, if the number could be told, stupendous multiplicity of things, you have advanced, while all their hetero

geneous myriads have darted influences upon you, each one of them having some definable tendency. A traveller round the globe would not meet a greater variety of seasons, prospects, and winds, than you might have recorded of the circumstances capable of affecting your character during your journey of life. You could not wish to have drawn to yourself the agency of a vaster diversity of causes; you could not wish, on the supposition that you had gained advantage from all these, to wear the spoils of a greater number of regions. The formation of the character from so many materials reminds one of that mighty appropriating attraction, which, on the fanciful hypothesis that the resurrection should re-assemble the same particles which composed the body before, must draw them from dust and trees, from_animals, and ocean, and winds.-John Foster.

THE TWO WIVES.

The tea-things were removed, the children had gone to bed, and Charles Lighte, throwing down his newspaper, seated himself on the sofa beside his wife.

A hand slid into his own, thinner and less delicate than when, long ago, it had first met his; but the same confiding, loving hand.

And out of the fulness of her heart the goodwife spoke: 'I have been thinking, Charles, as I watched this bright firelight flickering over our comfortable room, how happily we live; how much we ought to do for others, in return for the blessings that are daily heaped upon our heads.'

'Yes, Carrie, but these blessings are earned by daily work; you women sit at home by your comfortable fires, and little think how your husbands and fathers are toiling, meantime, to procure the shelter, and fuel, and food, for which you are so grateful to Providence.'

An arch smile lighted the still pretty face, as the wife answered, 'Ah, and you husbands and fathers enter the orderly house, and eat the well-cooked, punctual meals, and play with the neat, well-dressed, and well-disciplined children, and enjoy the evening comfort and repose, without realising how your wife, with head, and hand, and heart, must have toiled to bring about all these quiet results. I might easily give you practical proofs of what I have asserted; but I delight in having you think of home as a place for enjoyment