leaving the poor prostrate man in his misery; that he and his horse were groaning as if Death were by them, with his scythe in his hand, whetted to mow them down. Old Ben rose from his seat when he heard this, and bade the boy follow him. They were soon on the spot-Harry Hare was lifted up, and put to sit upon the grass, with his back to a tree; and then the belly-band was unloosed, the collar unbuckled, the chains unhitched, and in a few minutes the liberated horse was on his legs again. The glad little pony shook himself, glanced round at his preservers, and thanked them with a neigh. He was not much injured, neither was the cart; so in a little while he was again in the shafts, harnessed, trim and tight, and Harry Hare was lifted up, and conveyed in his own vehicle to the home of old Ben, the basket-maker, whom we may truly call the good Samaritan.

For several weeks Harry was confined to the house. There were no bones broken, but he was shaken considerably. The doctor came at the expense of old Ben; and Harry found food and shelter in his home. His few household effects had been sold many months before, and he lodged wherever he could find a hole, sometimes here, and sometimes there, doing odd jobs with his horse and cart, where he happened to find employment. Sometimes he was days together with little to do; and then he and his nag might be found in the lanes, where patches of coarse grass grew by the rut sides, or on zigzag slips of waste land, where the fences did not reach—the pony feeding, and Harry reading or ruminating on the varied lots of the human race, or the strange distribution of worldly wealth. He was unmarried, unhoused, uncousined, and uncared for. His parents had died in his infancy, and he had to rough it ever since, with more cuffs and kicks from old Time than there are Saturdays in the year. Sometimes he had a good dinner, sometimes he had none; yet he sang and whistled as he jogged along, eating his crust with an appetite unknown to those who grumble and growl over daily dainties, more thankful than a monarch. But now he was laid low, a pensioner on the kindness of old Ben, the basket-maker.

Old Ben had lived in that cottage for more than forty years, pursuing his avocation of basket-making. His wife had only died a few months before the accident to Harry Hare, and then he had taken the little boy into his service.

He

performed the errands the old man required, fed the bird, attended to the pig, and when the baskets were finished, carried them into the town to be sold. In fact, he was very useful, and quite willing to turn his hand to any kind of work. So after Harry Hare got better, the old man's thoughts were busy as to what his future employment should be. Now, the land around the basket-maker's dwelling was very dreary, not having been known to have been cultivated from the time of the Norman conquest. High mounds, dangerous flats, stony cairns, savage glens, and wild wildernesses, where strange shapes flitted in the mist, and rode upon the wings of the hurricane, were all that was visible. This great waste was the unappreciated property of Squire Stratt, who laughed at the very idea of its being cultivated. "Cultivate that!" said he, “I would as soon think of cultivating the Gull Rock."

Old Ben, however, talked about it in the evenings, after his basket-work, and thought it would be nice for Harry to attempt to cultivate a plot or two, if the squire would let it on reasonable terms. Ben would provide Harry with food and lodging while he was about it, and then they would share the after-gains. Various were the plans proposed to convey the request to the squire; but at last it was decided that it should be done by writing a letter. And a letter was written by Harry in the name of old Ben, asking for a lease of the land. Off went the epistle by post; and in a few days they received a satisfactory reply. The squire had heard of the kindness of the basket-maker to the injured man, whom he had left by the wayside unaided on the day of the hunt; and he was glad to make some apparent restitution. He said that this unkind affair had troubled him much-in his pew at church, at his wine and venison, in his walks and in his rest, in the sunshine and in the shadow, lying down and rising up, by day, and more especially by night. O, then, in the silence of the darkness, grim visages came creeping to him along the wainscot of the room, down the panels, up the bed furniture, in over the ornamental ceiling, with great leering eyes, and long livid fingers, like shreds of moonlight, pointing to a poor prostrate man, discoloured and helpless, groaning in the mud! Seeing all this, the squire would start and shriek so as to frighten all the sleepers of the house. Yes, the squire was delighted to have the shadow of a semblance to atone for his cruelty and

shame ; and so he let old Ben a great many acres of the common at the lowest possible figure.

So Harry began to work with no other capital than his own strong arms and hands, toiling early and late with a cheerfulness which ever lessens the lug of labour, commencing with the lark that carolled in gushing melody over the moor, and retreating with the sinking sun, carrying his working tools upon his shoulder. And be it understood that he never drank ale or porter; but his constant beverage was clear water from the well hard by. When the wind blew, or the breeze warbled; when the sun shone, or the clouds gathered in black battalions in the zenith, he ever adhered to water.

Old Ben's boy, too, helped Harry at intervals, so that the hedging, ditching, and grubbing of roots and stones went on pretty vigorously, until a plot was ready for planting. Some artificial manure was procured, and the newly-enclosed meadow set with rows of potatoes. The squire heard of it, and made light of the attempt. But this did not prevent Harry and the old man from commencing another enclosure, and by the time the potatoes were ripe it was finished. The season was a favourable one, and the crop of roots was abundant. Though the disease had visited many localities, it quite passed over Harry's field; and the estimated profits of the first year met a considerable item of the expenditure. Still Harry worked away; hollow after hollow was drained and redeemed, hill-side after hill-side came under cultivation, until the basket-maker's residence was the centre of a large estate.

Let the reader remember that all this was accomplished by earnest-hearted men who never possessed much capital. They depended not upon the finding of bags of gold, or on the return of some long-absent relative, whose hoardings would stimulate them to exertion, but putting their own hands to the pickaxe and the spade, the rake and the plough, with steady, persevering toil their sinewy arms clove through difficulties and surmounted obstacles, which at first appeared so formidable, achieving thereby a nobler victory than he who thrusts a bayonet or wields a flaming sword, leaving ruin in his track. Stone by stone and turf by turf the fences were finished, inch by inch and foot by foot the land was cleared, until by and bye the rough region became the praise of surrounding parishes. The squire stopped in his drives to admire it, and confessed

that his judgment was at fault. It is even said that he had an advertisement on a square board nailed to an ash tree at the corner, offering to let the great run of waste land at a very moderate rental. He sent word to Harry Hare that he had long felt sorry for not assisting him on the day of the accident, and that after the death of the basket-maker he would grant him the freehold of the land he had enclosed.

Old

Time passed, the pastures became greener and more productive; corn grew there, and roots of various kinds, and from the long untrodden wold came food and fruit to supply whole villages. The labour of industrious hands had brought honey from the hoary rock, and goodwill to the sons of men. Ben had long since passed away; and the last basket he made was purchased by the squire, which is now hanging as an ornament in his hall. The basket-maker's boy emigrated to New Zealand; and a letter from him a short time ago states that he is now the proprietor of several hundred acres. A new house is standing not far from old Ben's, fronting what was so long a wilderness. Children are playing there, whose merry voices ring like the April gushes of the skylark. pleasant, gentlemanly person is giving orders to the servant to plough Basket Meadow, so named after old Ben. He stoops to kiss the little ones, who come running to him with beaming eyes and upturned faces, and sweetest prattle on their tongues, waves his hand to his wife, who is sitting in a bright parlour window, and, with stick in hand, hastens down the lane on to the next village, where he is to be chairman at a Missionary Meeting. This is Harry Hare. Long may he live to enjoy the fruits of his industry and stimulate the worthy toilers of England.

A

EZRA ELM AND HIS GUINEA.

LD Ezra Elm sat on his only chair by a small fire, endeavouring to warm himself on a wild November day. But it was almost in vain to attempt to do so, the house was so hollow, the roof so torn, the walls and woodwork so full of chinks, the one window so shattered, and the blinking fire so very,

very little. He puffed

away, however, both with his bellows, the leather of which was stuffed with small bits of rag, and also with his mouth, bobbing

forwards and backwards to keep time with the puffs, until there was really a little blaze, which danced upon the walls and rafters of his room, ran up and down his cupboard-door, glittered upon his two-panes-and-half of glass, shone on the head of the holly stick, raced over his tobacco-box and pipe, and then rushed back with a flash of warmth on his wrinkled face, just as if it said, "Cheer up, old man! now I am master here."

Ezra hung the bellows on its peg, knocked the ashes from his pipe, re-lighted it, lay back in his chair with his feet upon the low fender, puffing away at will; and then fixing his eyes upon the flickering fire, his thoughts slowly went back over the journey of his life. In the stillness of his apartment he was a little boy again, led by the hand of his mother to the village church. Now he sees the parson in his snowy surplice, and the hollow-voiced clerk under the pulpit; and the cadence of the old psalm seems coming in at the door. Now he roams a-nutting in the wood, tearing through brambled brakes, and swinging from tree-branches, until his pockets are full to overflowing, and he creeps home in the twilight to receive a gentle