becoming so jubilant as to wind up with a hearty laugh; not a mere titter, but a good round peal, and so excellent an imitation was it, very often, that the listener could not help joining in the laugh too, right heartily.

Now, my young friends need not think the narrator was only dreaming; for in truth this bird-talk cost many an hour of morning sleep, before daylight, which could ill be spared; and notwithstanding the amusement of listening, he has many a time wished he could stop the vociferous talk going on. As the spring advanced there was a decided change in the style of talk, and some very tender tones were heard'Come then, come then,' 'Pretty dear, pretty dear,' the last so well articulated that it was perfectly ridiculous, joined to the coaxing tone in which it was uttered. A cold morning, or a touch of easterly wind, however, made all quiet, and I suppose the vigorous choir-master thought it wise to allow his fellows to keep their beds later. At any rate the listener was well pleased when this was the case, and his sleep remained undisturbed to a reasonable hour.

But when the cold weather finally departed and the time for the young ones arrived, then the bustle and excitement of the grove reached its height, and the listener was made acquainted with a variety of domestic matters going on in the nests. Evidently the young ones required no small amount of legislation at times. Perhaps one wanted the worm, when it was another one's turn to have it; or perhaps as they grew bigger they crowded and elbowed each other in the nest.

I can't say exactly what the fault might be, but surely enough I heard the reproofs, 'Naughty boy, naughty boy! and presently, 'Oh, naughty, naughty, naughty!' And the bird-mother's voice went up and down in such an exactly suitable tone of reproof, that only very dull ears could have helped noticing it most plainly.

A few weeks later came the teaching to fly, and after various little gentle coaxing tones and exhortations, was heard quite plainly, Try again, try again.' (Ah!

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which of us has not to do this, our young friends especially!)

"Try again, try again,' said the birdmother, still more energetically as she sought to make the young fledglings try their wings. Now and then it would seem as if some clumsy attempt had been made, or some young one had nearly tumbled, and then the drollest imitation of a long merry laugh was sure to be heard; but, 'Try again, try again,' always followed.

I always noticed that the warm sunny afternoons were chosen for the lessons in flying, after which all hushed down for a snug siesta after the fatigue, until feedingtime came.

After this was over, during the warm evening sunshine, the tones again changed, and it was evident the young birdies were all quiet in the nest, and listening (as all young ones should), to what the mother had to say. So gentle and conversational were her tones, that one might quite imagine tales were being told; for who can say that young birds do not love tales in their own speech, as well as little children do in theirs?

Now and then it seemed as if the mother broke out into a song, like a merry jig, to amuse her little ones; or perhaps the fatherbird did this part of the business, until at last all the drowsy little ones seemed hushed to sleep for the night.

Now, if our young friends doubt the correctness of what we have told, they must really begin to listen for themselves. If they live in the neighbourhood of trees, I think they will soon make it all out quite plainly, if they begin to listen in the spring-time.

For ourselves, we never hear this birdtalk without thinking of the Great Creator, who has made all for the happiness of His creatures, and filled our groves and trees with voices to echo forth His praises, and the wonders of His works.

Our God doth teach them,' is the explanation of whatever excites our wonder or admiration in the creatures of His hands; and for the young it is a charming and wholesome recreation to learn to listen to the many voices in God's universe.

LILY OF THE VALLEY.

M. E. W.

FLOWER of the vale, with fairy bell,

And scented breath from secret cell, Children of nature love thee well.

Thou dwellest in a bed of green,
Content, beneath the leafy screen,
To shed thy fragrance all unseen.

Thou imagest the spirit-power
That sendest sweetness hour by hour,
And seems more fragrant for the shower

All things are symbols, more or less;
Nature, in glowing loveliness,
Mirrors the soul in outward dress.

Flower of the vale, that lowly lies,-
Whose figure, frail, in beauty vies
The monarch, clad in richest dyes,—
Thou'rt shrined upon the sacred page,
A symbol meet, from age to age,

Of Him whom highest thoughts engage.

Yes! lovely flower, thy pearly face, With genial power and gentle grace, Make yonder bower a holy place

Where humble spirits rev'rent stand To mark the movement of His hand When sunshine flushes o'er the land;

And, foremost still amid the throng, He views the outline borne along, Who swells the universal song.

Flower of the vale, fair symbol dear, Thy form we hail from year to year, Pure, fragrant, pale, without compeer.

INNOCENCE AND GUILT.

J. K. MUIR.

A PAINTER wished to draw a portrait

of Innocence. He found it at length in a bright eyed boy, full of light and life and love. In a very little time the cherubboy reappeared in the painter's canvas, the almost breathing type of innocence. Years afterwards the painter wished to paint a companion portrait, that would bring out the contrast of guilt. He sought for it among the inmates of a prison. At length he found it in a face hardened by sin, clouded with the darkness of crime. In a short time this face looked forth from his canvas the very picture of guilt, and was hung up beside the picture of innocence. But how great was the artist's astonishment on discovering that the boy who sat for the one, was the man who sat for the other also. It was sin that marred the fair face of that young boy; it was sin that took all its beauty away, and left nothing but repulsiveness in its place.

How then can we become truly beautiful? It is by getting the child's heart back again, in other words, a new heart. The beginning of all true beauty lies there, a heart renewed by the Spirit of God, a heart made beautiful by the love of God. This is the true beauty, for it is from within outwards. It shines in the heart, in good thoughts, in pure affections, in gracious desires. It shines next in the countenance, in sweetness and light. And it shines on the life in all that is beautiful and good.

A. G. F.

MANY beautiful sacred poems have been written by James Montgomery.

'Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered, or unexpressed,

The motion of the hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear,

The upward glancing of an eye
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try,

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air,

His watchword at the gates of death;
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways,

While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, 'behold, he prays.'

The saints in prayer appear as one
In word and deed and mind,
Then with the Father and the Son
Their fellowship they find.

O Thou by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod!
Lord, teach us how to pray.'

Here are a few verses of another of his less known hymns. It is full of peace, and strangely contrasts with the toilful life of its author.

'Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed.

Night is the time to weep,
To wet, with unseen tears,
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years-

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young like things on earth.
Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains, far away;

So will his followers do

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,,
And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease:
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends-such death be mine.'

The early life of Montgomery was full of hardship and difficulty. His father was a Moravian missionary in the island of Tobago; but the little boy was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, in a humble little house on November 4th, 1771. He was sent to school near Leeds, and afterwards to a grocer's shop to be a little errand boy. But he did not like his duties; and one day, with only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, he ran away from Mirfield where his master's shop was. But he could not get into any wider life, and, tried hardly by sorrow and disappointment, he came back to the old ways. He was once more a shopkeeper's boy-this time in a village in Yorkshire, the little village of Wath.

The boy's spirit was restless still-he felt that a future was before him, different, surely, from that which was opened by the grocer's shop. He had written many poems; good or bad, he at least would try what was in them. So with only his poetry and his hopes, he travelled from Wath to London. No publisher would buy his poems-disappointment was again his lot..

But he was still only twenty; and about this time he succeeded in getting a situation in a newspaper office in Sheffield. Shortly afterwards, he himself established a weekly journal in Sheffield. It was called the Sheffield Iris, and the talent of Montgomery soon made it much read. Its editor gathered round him many true friends; the struggles

of boyhood were passed, and the bright future he had dreamed of seemed to lie straight before him.

But in less than four years the poet was again in trouble. He was charged with having printed a ballad which contained defiance to the Government. The ballad was not written by himself, but by an Irish clergyman. But Montgomery having printed it, was held responsible for what it contained. He was tried and found guilty, and sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the Castle of York and to pay a fine of twenty pounds.

So the amiable poet, full of kindness and good-will to all the world, lived for three months like any common culprit, in the grim old castle-prison.

In 1806 his first volume of poetry appeared. It was entitled "The Wanderer of Switzerland and other Poems." Afterwards he published many volumes, which were much read and admired. In 1825 he gave up his connection with the Sheffield Newspapers, and retired into quieter life, rich in friends and fame.

For all the ills and sorrows of his youth he was abundantly repaid. A pension of two hundred pounds a year was granted him by the Government; and, happy and honoured, he lived far on into a serene old age. He died in 1854, eighty-three years old. With one last little poem, let us leave the life of James Montgomery.

'Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thine hand,
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broad cast it o'er the land.