quickly away. Why then this love of gain, this thirst
for fame and distinction? Let us approach yonder church-yard and there
seek for distinction. There we may behold marble tablets cold as the
clay which rests beneath them: their varied inscriptions of youth,
beauty, age, ambition, pride and vanity, are all here brought to one
common level, like the leaves which in autumn fall to the earth, not one
pre-eminent over another. The inspired writers exhibit the frailty of
man by comparing him to the grass and the flowers withering and dying
under the progress and vicissitudes of the year; and with the return of
autumn we may behold in the external appearance of nature the changes to
which the sacred penman refers, when he says, "So is man. His days are
as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind
passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no
more." Autumn too, is the season of storms. Let this remind us of the
storms of life. Scattered around us, are the wrecks of the tempests
which have beaten upon others, and we cannot expect always ourselves to
be exempt. Autumn is also the season of preparation for winter. Let us
remember that the winter of death is at hand, and let us be impressed
with the importance of making preparation for its approach. Let us then,
as we look upon the changed face of nature, take home the lesson which
it teaches; and, while we consider the perishable nature of all things
pertaining to this life, may we learn to prepare for another and a
happier state of being.

WANDERING DAVY.

It was while I was spending a few days in the dwelling of Mr. C., a
Scottish immigrant, that he received a long letter from his friends in
Scotland. After perusing the letter he addressed his wife, saying: "So
auld Davy's gone at last." "Puir man," replied Mrs. C. "If he's dead let
us hope that he has found that rest and peace which has been so long
denied him in this life." "And who was old Davy; may I enquire," said I,
addressing Mr. C. "Ay, man," he replied, "'tis a sad story; but when my
work is by for the night, I'll tell ye a' that I ken o' the life o' Davy
Stuart." I was then young and very imaginative; and a story of any kind
possessed much interest for me; and the thought that the story of Old
Davy was to be a true one, rendered it doubly interesting; so I almost
counted the hours of the remaining portion of the day; and when evening
came I was not slow to remi