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IT

TOO LATE FOR SCHOOL.

T was a dreary morning for Marjory, when she arrived at school at ten minutes after ten o'clock; these ten minutes made all the difference between joy and sorrow for the little girl. For the morning was bright and lovely; it was in 'the leafy month of June,' the sky was blue, and light fleecy clouds sailed slowly along. The birds were singing, and if you had stood still a moment to listen, you would have heard through the deep silence all round, the murmur of a brook not far off, and the hum of bees and ever so many small insects that were sporting in the sun's bright beams.

But what were all those sights and sounds to poor Marjory, as she stood at the closed door and heard other sounds than the bees humming,-the voices of her companions inside in the hush of the school-room, showing that the lessons of the day had begun. The door looked as firmly closed as if it would never open again; how was she to turn the handle and meet the master's frown? If her little dog-who indeed had a good deal to do with her present misfortune-could have given any advice he would willingly have done so. But although he was quite able -by insisting upon accompanying her to school-to get her into a scrape, he could not so easily get her out of it.

Rover (and he was well named) had refused to go home' when his young mistress had ordered him, but would go to school too; and then, to tell the truth, Marjory had got interested watching him as he got across the little stream on their way, and time had passed by unconsciously. Of course Rover did not take the trouble of stepping from stone to stone as Marjory did, but swam across and back again when she threw in a stick, and sent him to fetch and carry; an amusement quite allowable on a Saturday, but not when she should have been making all haste to be in time.

'What am I to do?' thought Marjory, as tears sprang into her eyes, and Rover looked up sympathisingly into her face. Stay away altogether this forenoon,' some

thing seemed to whisper to her, 'What's the use of going in at all? you'll be turned to the foot of the class, no doubt, and that means losing the prize.' It was near the examination time, and Marjory knew that her fair chance of being at the top would be utterly lost by the morning's misfortune. 'As well make a complete half holiday, now you have lost so much,' the little girl seemed to hear again, 'Say you were kept away against your will; and indeed that is true, isn't it? for it was all Rover's fault.'

Marjory for one moment turned away from the closed door and thought of yielding to the temptation. She was a timid child, and the idea of what was before her was hard to bear. But just as the pleasure of getting quit of all the trouble, for the time at least, was leading her to set off instantly, the petition of her morning prayer came into her mind, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." 'No,' said Marjory, as if in answer to the tempting voice within, that would be going willingly into evil; I have asked to be kept away from it: that would never do. If we have done one wrong thing this morning, Rover, we must not do another, so here';-and without hesitating longer, Marjory boldly opened the door, her companion pushing in before her.

There were titters all round, and silent invitations from the scholars to Rover, who went from one to the other as if saying 'Good morning;' while poor Marjory tremblingly told the master how she came to be late. He was not quite so angry as she had expected; The foot of the class for the forenoon, must,' he said, 'be her lot.' But her courage in having done what was right helped her wonderfully through the lessons, and things looked brighter for her before one o'clock came.

Rover was speedily expelled and allowed to take his holiday where and as he chose.

Was Marjory happier when she lay down at night having done the right thing and faced the master's displeasure, than if she had been roaming in the leafy woods the whole summer day? I leave you to settle that.

K.

HOW

WOLFGANG MOZART OW full of music the world is! The bright summer mornings dawn with the songs of the blackbird and mavis. The lark soars on high pouring forth sweet notes. Or again, when the sky becomes dark and cloudy, the deep bass of the thunder makes us start. The wind too has its music. The gentle breeze hums in our ear; while the fierce storm has a wild melody of its own. We too should be like the rest of nature. We should learn to love music. Above all, we should use our musical powers to praise God, who gave us them as well as every other gift. And by and by our song here will be changed to the new song' which the angels sing in the paradise of God.

It is about a boy who was a great lover of music that I am going to tell you this month. His name you will likely know; it is Wolfgang Mozart. He was born in the year 1756, at a place called Saltzbourg. His father began to give him musical lessons when only three years of age, and his progress was wonderful. At the age of six, he composed a piece of music for the harpsichord. In his haste to write down

THE MUSICAL BOY.

his composition, he dipped his pen every time to the very head, making sad blots on the page. His father, however, found the piece quite correct, though somewhat difficult to play.

A new period in Mozart's life soon opened. His father was rather fond of money, so he resolved to make the talent of his son pay. He therefore took him to many of the most important cities of Europe, where kings and queens patronised him. The fame of the young musician soon spread far and near. The wonder of the people at Naples was so great that they thought his power must be due to witchcraft.

During his travels he visited Rome in 1770. The time happened to be Holy Week. In the Sistine Chapel the pope himself conducted the service. Young Mozart was present. The dresses of the cardinals and priests were brilliant, the church was splendidly lit, the painting was by the master-hand of Angelo. Nothing in this striking scene attracted the boy: he sat enchanted with the music. The piece performed was a famous one called the

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Miserere, by a musician named Allegri. More than a hundred years before, the piece was composed, yet nowhere except in the Sistine Chapel was it ever heard. The popes regarded it as the property of the church, and neither king nor emperor could get a copy of it. On returning home, Mozart went at once to his room, and wrote something which only he himself could understand. The next day he was again at the church. This time instead of sitting with head erect, he sat as if reading something in the crown of his hat. That night there was a grand concert at a palace in Rome. Brilliant illuminations, fine music, songs-everything seemed to be provided that could be a source of pleasure. Suddenly music of a different sort was heard some one playing the Miserere. The visitors rushed to see who it could be: Mozart was found to be the musician. The wonder excited by the child's skill was increased to amazement when the people learned he had written the music from memory. He wrote it from memory the first day, and had it with him in the crown of his hat the second time he was present. The next day he was taken before the pope to have the question decided whether he should be allowed to play the music. Like a wise man, the pope did not forbid him. 'Go in peace, my child,' he said, adding costly gifts. When we remember that Mozart was just fourteen when this event happened, we see what wonderful genius for music he possessed.

In 1775 his unsettled life of travel ended, and he devoted himself more earnestly than ever to music. His compositions are still famous, and will remain so as long as music is studied. The rest of his life is beyond the period of his boyhood; but we will just take a peep at the close of his life. A short but brilliant career was to be his lot. At the early age of thirty five, his life was cut short. I die,' he said, 'just as I was about to enjoy my labours; I am forced to renounce my art when I could have given myself up to it entirely; when, after having triumphed over all obstacles, I was going to write according to the

dictates of my heart.' Such events seem sad; but Mozart's life was not in vain. He left works which have helped to train one of man's noblest powers. Let us try to live in such a way that when we die we may leave behind us an influence for good.

J. M'M.

CHRIST THE SAVIOUR OF CHILDREN.

IT is a great thing for children to have a

Saviour. A mother was knitting under the porch of her house one autumn afternoon. Her boy was playing with other children on the village green. Beyond the green was the river, and on the opposite bank of it was a wood full of nuts and berries, and sweet-smelling leaves, and flowers, and many other things which children delight to gather. 'Let us cross to the wood,' said some of the bigger children. 'I shall cross too,' said the little boy, whose mother was knitting at the door. The ford was a little to the right, and just out of his mother's view. There were stepping stones all the way across. And the little nutting and berrying party got quite safely to the other side. But the clouds had been darkening over the sky since the morning. And now it began to rain. First it came in heavy drops, then there was a peal of thunder, then came down torrents of rain. The bigger children hurried back to the ford, and one by one got over safely. The little boy whose mother was knitting under the porch was last. The river had by this time risen. The stepping stones were beginning to be covered. The little man took one step, then a second, then he came to a stone over which the river was flowing swiftly, and his heart failed. He wrung his hands with fear, and cried with a piercing cry. The mother heard his cry and flew to the ford. She was too late. She could not reach her child. A broad black flood of water came thundering down between her boy and her. My child! my child!' she cried. Mother! mother! come for me," cried the boy. All the village came down to the river-side-men and women, young and old; but no one would venture to cross.