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to wait till after dinner. She hurried over her dinner, and went at once to see them, without thinking anything about poor Cherry. The following day was also spent in amusements, and the canary was forgotten again. It was the same the third day: Jessie was altogether taken up with playing with her friends. The

fourth day, Mr. and Mrs. Brown returned from the country. When her father had kissed her, and inquired after her health, he asked her how Cherry was? "Very well," cried Jessie, a little confused, and she ran to his cage to carry him some water. Alas! the poor little creature was dead. He lay upon his back, with his wings spread out, and his bill open. Jessie screamed out, and wrung her hands. Every one in the house rən to see what was the matter. "Ah! poor bird,” cried Mr. Brown; “how painful has thy death been. If I had wrung thy head off the day I went into the country, thou wouldst have had but the fain of a moment, whereas thou hast now endured for several days the pangs of hunger and thirst, and hast died in a long and cruel agony."

Jessie was so sorry for the death of her poor bird, that she would have given all her playthings, and all her pocket money to purchase the life of Cherry; but it was then too late. Mr. Brown had the skin of the bird stuffed, and hung from che ceiling. Jessie shrank from looking at it, and if by chance she saw it, her eyes were instantly filled with tears. Every day she entreated her father to remove it out of her sight. At last he

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consented to do so, but whenever Jessie showed any signs of giddiness or inattention, the bird was hung up again in its place, and her friends would say, “Poor Cherry! what a cruel death you suffered!”

LUCY GRAY.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew,

She dwelt on a wide moor,-
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a cottage door.
You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night-

You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light

Your mother through the snow."
“That, father, will I gladly do!

'Tis scarcely afternoon
The minster clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon !"

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At this the father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work ;-and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door. They wept; and, turning homeward, cried,

“ In heaven we all shall meet!” When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall, C

And then an open field they crossed

The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,

And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank

Those foot-marks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!
Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

W. Wordsworth.

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APPLES.

Every boy and girl is fond of apples; and so it may be taken for granted that they are anxious to know as much about them as possible. Apple trees were derived many hundreds of years ago from the crab-tree, which is still to be met with in the country hedges. It is wonderful to think that a fruit so sweet as the apple should have been derived from a tree which produces sour crabs; but so it is. Sometimes we find a boy or girl of eight or nine years old, idle, untidy, and careless, making their parents and teachers sad. After a few years they are very much changed, and become neat, careful, and industrious. This arises from the careful training of their parents and teachers, aided by their own endeavours; and it was through the careful training of husbandmen, more than a thousand years ago, that from the sour crab came the sweet apple.

The crab-tree is a native of Britain, though it is nothing we have any need to be proud of. It is thought the Romans introduced the apple-tree into this country; it was a favourite fruit with them, they having twenty-two different varieties.

The crab-tree is not altogether useless, although its fruit is not good to eat, as every boy knows. The sour juice of the crab, which makes the stomach ache, is yet useful for many things. It is used in medicine, in cookery, and for purifying

wax.

There are different kinds of apples, known by different names, as pippins, russets, rennets, blenheims. New varieties are produced by grafting. Crabtrees and hawthorn branches are employed for this purpose. So, very often, when the old trees die, the variety or kind is lost, and never recovered. The costard used to be a favourite kind of apple, and those who carried apples about for sale were called costard-mongers, or, as we call them now, costermongers. But now there are no more trees growing the costard-apple left; and so çostermongers may sell all kinds of apples but

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