course; and Revelation the pole star by which we correct its
variations.

Experience, like the stern-light of a ship, only shows us the path which
has been passed over.

Happiness, like the violet, is only a way-side flower.

* * * * *

Original.

"WHY ARE WE NOT CHRISTIANS?"

A SKETCH FOR DAUGHTERS.

It was the day for the meeting of the Monthly Missionary Society, in the
village of C.; a day of pure unclouded loveliness in early summer, when
the sweetest flowers were blossoming, and the soft delicious air was
laden with their perfume, and that of the newly-mown hay. All nature
seemed rejoicing in the manifestations of the goodness and love of its
Creator, while the low mingled murmurings of insects, breezes and
rivulets, with the songs of birds, formed a sweet chorus of praise to
God. The society was to meet at deacon Mills's, who lived about four
miles out of the village, and whose house was the place where, of all
others, all loved to go. Very early in the afternoon all the spare
wagons, carriages, carryalls, chaises and other vehicles were in demand.
A hay-rack was filled with young people, as a farmer kindly offered to
carry them nearly to the place, and toward evening, they considered, it
would be pleasant to walk home. So deacon Mills's house was filled with
old, middle-aged and young, who were all soon occupied with the
different kinds of work, requisite for filling a box to be sent to a
missionary family among the distant heathen. Seaming, stitching,
piecing, quilting and knitting, kept every hand busy, while their
owners' tongues were equally so, yet the conversation was not the
common, idle talk of the day, but useful and elevating, for religion was
loved, and lived, by most of those dear and pleasant people, and it
could not but be spoken of. Still there was interest in each other's
welfare, as their social and domestic pursuits and plans were related
and discussed.

There was a piazza in front of the house, the pillars of which were
covered with vines, running from one to another, gracefully interlacing,
and forming a pleasant screen from the sun's rays. At one end of this
piazza, a group of five young girls were seated at their work. They were
chosen and intimate friends, who shared with each other all that was
interesting to themselves. They had been talking pleasantly together for
some time, and had arrived at a moment's pause, when Clara Glenfield
said, "Gi