he was to leave school that term, and
commence work with Mr. Vickers, conveyed to Howard the loving sympathy
of true hearts, which clung to him through evil report and good report.

(_To be continued._)

THE NEWS-CARRIER.

BY CATHARINE S. BOYD.

[Illustration: "OH NO! IT IS NOT I!"]

"How do you know?" "Who told you so?"
These words you often hear;
And then it often happens, too,
This answer meets your ear:
"A little bird has told the tale,
And far it spreads o'er hill and dale."

Now let us see if this can be.
How can the birds find out so well,
And give the news to all?
Or, if they know, why need they tell?
And which among the feathered tribe
Must we to keep our secrets bribe?

The busy crow? As all well know,
He sometimes breaks the laws;
We shall regret it, when he does,
For he will give us cause.
Though slyest of the feathered tribe,
The crow would scorn to need a bribe;--

Not robin red; he holds his head
With such an honest air,
And whistles bravely at his work,
But has no time to spare.
"I mind my own concerns," says he;
"They're most important, all may see;"--

Nor birdie blue, so leal and true;
He never heeds the weather,
But in the latest winter-days
His fellows flock together;
And then, indeed, glad news they bring
Of early buds and blossoming.

Might not each one beneath the sun
Of all the race reply,
If questioned who should wear the cap,
"Oh no! it is not I?"
For there are none who, every day,
Are busier at work than they.

They chatter too, as others do;
But what it is about,
The wisest sage in all the earth
Might puzzle to make out.
But I'm as sure as I can be,
They never talk of you or me,

We hear "They say,"--oh, every day!
Are _they_ the birds, I wonder,
That have such power with words to part
The dearest friends asunder?
Or must we search the wide world through
To bring the culprits full in view?

The birds, we see, though wild and free,
Have something else to do;
And, reader, don't you think the same
Might well be said of you?
It really seems to be a shame
That _they_ should always bear the blame.

LIVING SILVER.

BY MARY H. SEYMOUR.

The ground was covered with snow, and now it had begun raining. There
was no prospect of a change in the weather, which made Fred's face
rather gloomy as he looked