MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.

'MOTHER,' said Lucy Graham, 'I am perfectly tired of this weary sum; do what I like, the figures will not come right; let me turn the other side of my slate, and draw your portrait. Drawing is far better than counting; and, mother,' she added coaxingly, 'you look so nice in the easy chair, with that pretty shawl: you are much better to-day, are you not?' But even as she spoke, the little girl slightly hesitated, for she noticed her mother's pale cheek, and the weary expression of her dark, lustrous eyes, filled, as they were, with warm affection for her darling child.

'Yes, Lucy, rather better, I dare say; but I am not a very good subject, as it is called, for a young artist: it is a pity you have not some brighter face than mine for a copy; but do your best, and see if I will be recognised when your father comes home.'

'Of course he will know who it is,' said Lucy; but, just in case, I shall print "Mother" below it, and then he can make no mistake.'

The smile that lighted up Mrs Graham's face, at this artless proposal, was a lucky chance for a good beginning; and if it is true that patience and pains can do any thing, I can answer for it, the picture would have been a success. Lucy began again and again; rubbed out the left eye to make it the same shape as the right, then rubbed out the right to make it like the left; for just as the two rows of her sum of which she was so tired would not agree, so the two sides of the face would not correspond, and the nose would come out so broad, not the least,' as Lucy said, 'like the original.' She knew this was the proper word to use, for her uncle was an artist, and she had sometimes listened to his talk about pictures.

'Now, who is this?' said Lucy, as she ran to meet her father, and held up her slate; can you tell whose picture it is?' for her mother had persuaded her to leave out the proposed title.

'Oh! your mother of course,' was his reply; 'who else could it be? The pattern of the shawl is exact, and there's no mistaking the cushions at the back of the easy chair.'

Lucy did not quite see that this was a compliment to the drawing of the shawl and chair, rather than to that of the face; she was quite satisfied that she had made a first-rate likeness of her mother, and only wished it had been enclosed in a gilt frame instead of on her school slate. In that case, she felt quite sure it would have been admitted to the exhibition of paintings, where hung several of her uncle's pictures waiting for purchasers.

Lucy was ten years old when she drew the portrait; she is grown up now, and many a likeness of her mother has she drawn, though neither on slates nor in gilt frames. No, Lucy's time has been too precious for that; years of delicate health, Mrs Graham's earthly portion, have brought work and care to her daughter, leaving but little leisure for the scribbling and sketching in which she used sometimes to indulge.

"That girl is the very picture of her mother,' some of the neighbours would say, when Lucy, a few years after the beginning of our story, would be seen with her two younger brothers, and her little sister, 'Baby,' as they called her, though she was about five years old. 'How she looks after these rough boys, and that little sister they are all so proud of! She is her father's treasure, I'll wager, and a blessing in the house; I cant think how they would get on without her.'

Run and meet father, baby,' Lucy would say on a Saturday afternoon, when she had put on the child's coral necklace and pretty sash, to make her look her very best. 'Tell him what a grand time you and Willie and Robert have had at uncle George's, and what a good girl you have been.'

And were you not there, too, Lucy?' asked her father.

'Oh no!' she said, and just half a sigh escaped her; I've been better employed.

Look at that heap of stockings I have been mending, and they are almost done now.'

'Just your dear mother over again,' her father would say. You are her very image'; and Lucy, in his smile of approbation, had reward enough for all her trouble.

Many a time does she think of the day long gone by, when she turned her slate and drew her first portrait. She did not then know in what a different sort of way her mother was to be her model; but the joy of doing what is right, although it brings denial of self along with it; the effort made to follow Him, who came not to be ministered unto, but to minister; the thought of, at last, receiving His commendation, 'She hath done what she could';-all this makes her happy; and she blesses God for a mother whose quiet, patient, thankful, though suffering, life it her privilege to imitate.

SELF-DENIAL.

K.

'These things I command you, that ye love one another.'-John xv. 17.

COME, children, all who love to read

Of noble, kind, and generous acts,
Unto my simple tale give heed:

It is a narrative of facts;
All of a sweet, kind-hearted boy,
Whose actions filled a home with joy.
By gentleness and kindness he,

To brothers and sisters, tried to prove
How bright and pleasant home may be
When bless'd by daily acts of love:
Love opes the hearts of every one,
Like flower-blooms opening to the sun.
Oh! how the parents joyed to see

The bent of little Edward's mind,
And thanked and praised the Lord, who had
To virtue's ways his heart inclined.
They daily prayed the man might still
The promise of the boy fulfil.
Helpful and kind to old and young,

He loved all creatures great and small; But oh! this good and duteous son

Loved his dear mother best of all: Blest with such love, she bless'd her lot, Though in a peasant's lowly cot.

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When work was scarce, and meals but scant,
It was most touching, yet most sweet,
To see him leave his little share

That mother might have more to eat:
How beautiful in time of trial
Such brave and generous self-denial!
While pure, unselfish love like this

Made the fond mother's bosom glow,
It filled with joy the father's heart,

Making their home a heaven below; And pleasing God, who from above Bids little children walk in love.' From infancy this generous boy

The pleasure knew of doing good; His God-given strength he would employ In helping others all he could: And now he is both stout and tall, A favourite with one and all. Edward, when but eleven years old, To see a poor old widow went,— 'Twas winter time and piercing cold,

Yet o'er a fireless grate she bent. 'Poor thing,' he cried, 'how cold you look,' While all the blood his cheeks forsook To see her, weak and shivering, sit

So helpless, yet so patient too. 'Where do you keep your coals?' he asked, 'Do let me make a fire for you.' She answered with a heavy sigh,

Alas, my dear! no coals have I.'
No pitying words could Edward say;
His little heart was filled with grief,
As home he slowly bent his way,

Revolving means for her relief;
And as he walked, deep sunk in thought,
The help of God in prayer he sought.
He called to mind a private hoard-

His very own, his face grew bright;
True it was for a purpose stored,

Yet home he ran with all his might,
Saying, 'I'm glad I thought of that,
I'll
go without my Sunday hat.'
He took the pence, his heart a-glow
With pleasure at the very thought
Of doing good, he said, 'I know

Where coals in bagfuls may be bought.'
And thus it was the loving boy
The widow's heart made sing for joy.

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That widow oft, with streaming tears,
The touching story will repeat;
With grateful pride the mother hears
The praises of her son so sweet;
For all who know him prophesy
That he a noble man will be.

Yet lovely as these actions be,

What pleases God and man the most, Is Edward's sweet humility

He never once was heard to boast;
Unconscious he, as floweret fair
That with sweet fragrance fills the air.
A loving, meek, and lowly child

Our blessed Lord will not despise;
Those who obey his precepts mild

Are truly noble in his eyes. Though poor on earth, to such are given A crown of glory up in heaven.

If we our neighbour's sorrows share,

And soothe his woes with all our skill, Then we each other's burdens bear,

And thus the law of Christ fulfil; That holy law, that blest command, A little child may understand.

OLD

ARNOLD'S WATCH.

A. M.

LD Arnold sat in the porch. A group of children stood round him, gazing at his experiments with a watch he held in his hand. Arnold prized the watch very highly. It was the gift of a dear friend; and he was grieved to think that, do what he would, he could not get it to tell the right time-it was always losing or gaining. Until he suddenly bethought him that the balance-wheel had, by some means, been subject to electricity. He took a magnet, and found that his suspicions were correct -the wheel was immediately attracted by the magnet, showing that this was the cause of its failure to keep the other parts of the watch in proper working order. You know that in a watch all depends on the balance. If this gets out of order, the whole watch will be wrong.

Arnold explained this to the wondering boys and girls at his knee; showed them the uselessness of his trying to mend his

watch while the balance-wheel was out of order or off its balance. Then he applied the lesson to themselves.

Boys and girls,' said he, 'you see this balance-wheel? The position it takes in my watch is the position taken by conscience in us. Should conscience be wrong, all else will be wrong. You may read your Bibles, you may pray, you may go to church and Sabbath school, but if your conscience be not at rest-if it be disturbed by the knowledge that all is not right within that you have little sins and little follies which should no longer exist if you are a child of God-then I say you can not keep the human watch going steadily as it should: the balance-wheel wants looking to. No use in trying to set the other wheels to do the principal duty-they wont. Perhaps some of you may have told a lie to-day; you feel uncomfortable about it at least, if you do not, you ought to-nothing goes right: the balance-wheel is wrong; conscience is not at rest. Do you know who can set this right for you, dear young friends? Jesus Christ. He will take away all the old faults in your watch; He will regulate the balancewheel; He will set it to keep right time for ever. Only you must put your watch into His hand, and tell Him where it is wrong; you must say, "Create in me a clean heart, O God": and then, with a clean conscience, there need be no fearthe balance wheel will be correct.'

THE

0

FAMOUS BOYS.

M. B. G.

THE AMIABLE BOY-LOUIS XVII. HE life of Louis XVII. was a short one, extending only to ten years; but it was long enough for him to show qualities which older people often lack.

Children and princes,' says the author who writes his life, are generally full of themselves; but this prince had the selfishness neither of princes nor of children, who are kings in their own way. He always thought, not of himself, but of others; he was tender towards those who loved him,