The bookseller folded up the book, and said no more; and she was just about to leave the shop, when Patty Lawson passed the door, speaking loudly to one of her companions.

"The half-crown has been stolen, I am sure, and I shall get Miss Benson to make inquiries." This was all that Lucy heard, but it was sufficient. She tremblingly stole out of the shop, unobserved by Patty and her friend, who were walking quickly on; and instead of going to school, which she did not dare to do, she ran swiftly in the opposite direction, and got over a stile into the fields.

There was a small grove close at hand, and to this Lucy made her way. She seated herself in a green hollow, and tried to arrange her scattered thoughts. But in vain; a confused train of fearful conjectures passed through her mind, and she could not form a single plan of escape from the dreaded detection. She pictured to herself the wonder of her class, as the time went on and she did not appear; a wonder the more likely because she was a most regular attendant, nothing being allowed by her mother to detain her little girl at home, save real illness. She heard her governess ask one and another of her companions if they knew the reason of her absence. Then came Patty's tale of her loss, and the consequent examination of the whole school. Lucy's terrified imagination could easily represent the scene: Miss Benson's rigid countenance; the girls all ranged in regular order on the forms; their glances and whisperings amongst themselves. She nearly fainted when she thought how some might remember her being left alone in the school-room for a whole hour the day before; and how her absence would strengthen their suspicions. And now occurred the question, how should she ever dare to go home again? Miss Benson would, most likely, call upon her mother that very noon, to inquire after her missing pupil; her truancy would be discovered, and search made after her. Where should she hide? when return?

There was positive agony in these thoughts to poor Lucy. How ardently did she wish that she never beheld that beautiful fairy-tale, or that she had waited to see if she could not buy it honestly and properly, with her own savings aud her mother's approbation. That dear mother! Lucy felt that she did not love nor confide in her as she ought; and this she began to see was her own fault, for Mrs. Graham was ever indulgent to Lucy's reasonable wishes.

Lucy had unconsciously held the book all this time in her hand, and she now took it from the paper that enveloped it. It was truly a tempting object; the back was curiously illuminated with crimson and purple, and gold, and smooth as satin to the touch, and the contents appeared worthy of the outside. Yet, Lucy put it away from her with a sigh; it was too dearly purchased to afford her any pleasure.

The sun was now high over head; the grove was wrapped in sultry stillness, and she knew that it must be noon. A short time after she had arrived at this conclusion, she heard merry voices laughing and talking at a little distance; and peeping cautiously above the bank, she saw three of her school-fellows passing along the pathway that wound through the grove. Their mirth was soon checked, and Lucy could not at first discern the cause, but listening intently to their conversation, she distinguished her own name and Patty Lawson's several times repeated. She shrank back into the hollow, and remained still as a mouse until they had passed out of hearing.

As the hours dragged slowly on, Lucy, in spite of her grief, began to feel very hungry. She opened the basket containing her dinner, and ate a slice of bread, and some preserves and she had now got the idea firmly fixed in her mind that she should run away, as she had read only

a few days before of a little boy doing. She half forgot her misery in the prospect of seeking adventures, and began to gather the wild roses and anemones around her.

Lucy at last heard her name loudly called. It sounded like her mother's voice, and Lucy fled from it with her utmost speed. She dared not face her good, kind parent, who would be so hurt and shocked by what her child had done. The voice seemed to come from all sides, and Lucy fancied that several people must be in search of her. Panting and exhausted, not knowing which way to turn, she threw herself down on a daisied hillock, and covered her face with her hands. As she was thus prostrate, and weeping bitterly, some one touched her shoulder.

"Lucy! my own Lucy! what is the matter? Why are you lying here?"

The little girl started up, and throwing her arms round her mother's neck, hid her swollen eyes and disordered face upon her kind bosom.

"Oh, mamma! mamma! take me home, and do not be very angry with me!"

66

Angry with you, my child! I have certainly reason to be displeased with you for playing truant, and hiding yourself all day in the plantation, but you need not tremble so excessively. Come home with me, and tell me all about it, for I cannot imagine what motive you can have had for your conduct."

"Then you do not know; you have not heard." "No, dear, Miss Benson called this morning to say that you had not been at school, and since then I have heard nothing, except that you had been noticed in the grove by those people who live in that house, which you can see through the trees; and also by a man who passed near you as you were eating your dinner, and wondered what you could be doing all alone."

Mrs. Graham said no more to her sorrowing child for the present, but taking her little hand in hers, led her home. After tea, the mother and daughter had a long conversation; and Lucy made a full confession of her temptation and her crime. Not, however, without much questioning from her mother, and many tears on both sides, for Mrs. Graham was deeply grieved. When Lucy had finished her recital, there was a deep silence, only interrupted by her sobs. Mrs. Graham was the first to speak.

"I forgive you, Lucy, the pain you have caused me. Do not sob so, my child, but listen to me. You must prepare to bear the disgrace that will inevitably result from your fault, for I shall have to tell Patty of the injury you have done her, and pay her back the money; and unless she be extremely considerate and merciful, she will have it in her power to wound you bitterly. The book shall remain in your possession, to remind you of your error, and to warn you against ever again committing a fault that entails so bitter an after-repentance. Lucy lived to be an amiable and excellent woman, for she never forgot the severe lesson she received in the temptation and remorse attending the fairy tale and the half-crown.

LOVE BETTER THAN FEAR.

THE great duty of life is not to give pain; and the most acute reasoner cannot find an excuse for one who voluntarily wounds the heart of a fellow-creature. Even for their own sakes, people should show kindness and regard to their dependents. They are often better served in trifles, in proportion as they are rather feared than loved; but how small is this gain compared with the loss sustained in all the weightier affairs of life! Then the faithful servant shows himself at once as a friend, while one who serves from fear shows himself as an enem".— Frederika Premer.

Rhymes for Young Readers.

ELECAMPANE.

SONNETS and Odes have been echoed in praise
Of many grand doings on many grand days;
Days when a victory-scroll was unfurled---
Days when proud princes were born to the world;
But I've just tuned my harp to the lightest of notes,
And so smile as ye may while its melody floats:
For I must and I will play a merry refrain
On the red-letter days of sweet "elecampane."

Famed honey of Hybla, oh! where's thy renown

To the almond-stuffed hardbake's, so lusciously brown?
Olympian ambrosia, oh! what wert thou worth,
Compared with the "Everton toffy" of earth?
And the ox eyes of Juno! did ever they flash

Like the "bull's eyes" we bought with our Saturday's cash?
Oh, tell us, Anacreon, was not thy strain
First awakened to rapture by "elecampane?"

Who forgets the quaint shop, or the street-corner stall,
Where he purchased his "brandy" condensed in a "ball ?”
Where his tongue ran on politics freely and glib,
In the earnest destruction of “Bonaparte's rib;"
Where the "peppermint twist" its fair rivalry tried
With the quite as fair "lemon twist" close by its side.
Tell me, men " upon 'Change," have your glory and gain
Yet extinguished the halo of "elecampane?"

How we crammed and devoured the treasures we got,
"Rock," "candy," and "comfits," and heaven knows what,
That were no Dead Sea apples with ashes beneath,
For the innermost morsel stuck most to the teeth.
What bites of ecstatic enjoyment we had,

With a "something to suck" we could never be sad;
The school and the lesson, the book and the cane,
Were endured by the tonic of "elecampane."

Say, who of us paused with the terrible question
Of, how such indulgence would suit the digestion?
Whoever asked whether such doses were good

For the "tone of the system" or "state of the blood?"
Whoever at that time turned nervously faint
O'er the drop of molasses and streaks of red paint?
Whoever discovered the weight of a brain,
When its trouble was balanced by "elecampane."

You may set us down now at the feast of a night,
Where "temples of sugar" gleam out in the light;
Where the "bon-bons" of France in profusion appear,
And the saccharine "crackers" come thick on our ear;
But whoever dreams there of beginning to eat,
Whoe'er thinks the mysterious things are as sweet
As the "stuff" that we craved, in King Lollipop's reign,
In the vulgar formation of " elecampane."

The Bard that's immortal has plainly averred,

That the man whom the breath of soft music ne'er stirred,
Who hears nothing divine in Eolian reeds,
Is fit for nought else but the blackest of deeds.

I as truly and firmly believe that the child
Will grow into a monster, all dark and defiled,
A Lucretia or Nero, where Hope is in vain,
If its heart is untouched by sweet "elecampane

ELIZA COOK.

DIAMOND DUST.

A GENEROUS man will, in his treatment to an enemy, resemble the sun, which pours light all around it,—even upon the clouds that strive to dim its lustre.

A MAN may be great by chance; but never wise nor good, without taking pains for it.

Ir is not difficult to content one's self with solitude, when it is known that society may be had, if wished for. POETS view nature as a book in which they read a language unknown to common minds, as astronomers regard the heavens and therein discover objects that escape the vulgar ken.

THE power of awakening and keeping alive a general interest is one talent among many which may be envied. Every richly-gifted person has received with his rare gifts the obligation to make them effective in the widest possible circle. If he does not do so he is hoarding up his treasure, whether it be gold or talents.

CONSCIENCE is the best friend we have; with it we may bid defiance to man; without it all the friends in the world can be of no use to us.

RICHES should be admitted into our houses, but not into our hearts.

To do good for evil is the perfection of conduct.

NOT until he is at the verge of the grave, when he is about to enter into the realm of unknown beings, does man fully feel how much he loves such as are already known to him, who suffer like himself, who die as he does.

THEY declaim most against the world who have most sinned against it; as people generally abuse those whom they have injured.

NEVER reproach a man with the faults of his relatives.

No one can ever become learned, except by his own application. Modes and opportunities of education may facilitate our progress; but on the whole, our attainments must be resolved into our own diligence.

To abound in all things, and not to know the right use of them, is positive penury.

WHEN people think justly, they will generally think the same on all subjects not under the influence of the passions.

SELF-DELUSION is ever averse from inquiry, though by inquiry alone can the charm be dissolved.

He who beholds the faults of others through his own virtue, is always disposed to forgive them; indulgence is the child of purity of heart.

THE only passion which age does not blunt is avarice; which, the longer we live, only becomes the keener.

How near are two hearts, when there is no deceit between them.

THE mind, no more than a child, should be trusted out of leading strings; with judgment to guide, and discretion to guard, if it does not attain happiness and distinction, it will at least avoid misery and disgrace, to which an unrestricted imagination and uncontrolled sensibility will too often lead.

EXAMINE not the pedigree nor patrimony of a good

man.

A CLEVER servant is almost invariably quick-tempered. The reason is obvious; superior talent is generally accompanied by pride, which must meet with many petty annoyances in the menial state

Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by JoHN OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 9, Hemingford Terrace, East, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London. Saturday, October 20, 1849.

THE FAR WEST.

THE extensive district of the United States known as "the Far West," is yearly exciting an increased amount of interest amongst all of the industrious classes who are meditating a change of country, and it is constantly absorbing an immense proportion of emigrants from the old countries of Europe, as well as from the New England States of America themselves.

The boundless extent of fertile land still lying unoccupied throughout the vast valley of the Mississippi, and its tributaries, presents strong temptations even to the New England farmer, who, seeing a large family growing up around him, hesitates not at once to dispose of his old home farm, pack up his household utensils, and other "plunder," in his large covered freight waggon, drawn by four horses, seated in which are his wife, girls, and small children; and thus, himself and the bigger boys on foot, driving along the cows and the hogs, he sets out for a long journey to some new location in the Far West.

In this way he travels on day after day, and week after week, sometimes month after month, stopping by the side of a brook at night, cooking his food with the wood lying about, making his supper with a spice superior to that of the Indies-a good appetite-and sleeping at night on the bank of the stream where he had before spread his table; his board and couch alike supplied by benignant nature. If the weather be inclement, all bundle into the waggon, and sleep there. And thus does the pioneer of the wilderness journey westward.

He reaches the dense forest, and plants himself by the edge of a running stream, having an eye to future waterpower. The woods soon ring with the sharp sound of his axe, and the ground is strewn with prostrate trunks of trees, the growth of ages. He boldly works on, with vigorous arm, now burning and clearing, until a little patch of ground is secured, into which he chips his first crop of Indian corn. He lodges meanwhile in the waggon, or by its side, cooking his repast from the faggots lying in the grove, till in course of time he has erected a rough cabin of logs for his accommodation. He is not particular at first: a split log-hut, ventilated by a chimney of sticks and mud, with one door and one half-window, serves well enough for the accommodation of a dozen.

[PRICE 1d.

Give him time, and he will erect for himself a better dwelling. But his first care is for the clearance of the soil, and the getting in of his first crop.

Or, he steers his way still further westward. Leaving the dense forest behind him, he journeys across the almost boundless prairies, the unplucked gardens of the desert. He has ample verge and room enough. He has thousands of square miles of land amidst which to pick and choose. Stretching away in undulating waves far as the eye can reach, the rolling prairie invites him on, and the settler's waggon silently proceeds on its way, through the long grass glittering with bright flowers, over the sunny ridges, and across the sparkling streamlets; the only sounds that break the silence being the hum of the wild bee, the shrill cry of the prairie-hawk, or the hollow beating of the horses' hoofs as they drag their way wearily onward. At last the pioneer reaches some inviting spot on the verge of a strip of forest, offering a plentiful supply of future fuel; a stream of clear water runs close by; and abundance of rich grass offers pasturage for flocks and herds. He calls a halt-the waggon is unhorsed, and the settler is at home.

Here he lives for a time in content; he breaks up some two score acres of prairie, and fences it, drops his seed, and the ensuing harvest yields him an abundant crop. His bread and potatoes come almost at his bidding. He lives literally among flowers, for in summer and autumn the prairie around him is covered with them. He goes forth cheerfully to his labour, the dew bathing his feet as the lark springs singing up to the clouds in the early morning. He is far from the excitement and bustle of towns. He is lord of all he surveys. He hunts and shoots in the intervals of his work, or while the sun is mellowing his ripening wheat. He is not without his privations and hardships either. It is true he gets bread for himself and children easily, but many of the comforts of civilized and town life are quite beyond his reach. But he accustoms himself to do without these, and his children grow up in ignorance of what they are. He even grows to love solitude, and the lonely prairie; and no sooner do new settlers push into the district, in which he has located himself (for his waggon-wheel has pointed the way to those coming after him) than he begins to feel uncomfortable; the covered waggon is again horsed; and away goes the pioneer, pushing his course still further westward, to the furthest outskirts of the Far West.