have work given her to do, and help to cultivate the flowers that grew by the edge of the path. Only he advised her not to look back upon that garden, for those who did so, most frequently were tempted to return again, never to quit it.

In the meanwhile the boy continued his pastime; now chasing the gay butterflies that flitted past him, or piling up the fruit in heaps that grew within his reach. His great object seemed to be, to pile up as much of it as he could; and to gain it, there was scarcely any trouble he thought too great to take, now standing contentedly on wet and miry ground, or through a pelting shower to gather it; now climbing high trees, or watching anxiously till some tempting cluster should be ripe, fearful lest anybody should seize it before him. It might have been observed during this time, that the boy appeared wholly insensible to the beautiful things around him. The sun shone as bright as when he first entered the garden, but he no longer cared to bask in its warm rays. The sky was as blue and pure, but he was indifferent to it in all its changes. The first brightness of morning, or the paler hue of noontide heat; even the glorious sunset, when the clouds in the fulness of their beauty get more and more splendid as they gather round the sun, seeming like the spirits of just men, who having borne the heat of the day, rest at length from their labours in the bosom of their GoD;-all were alike to him; he saw nothing, cared for nothing but the fruit he was bent upon obtaining. At length he seemed to be satisfied, and pausing from his labours, began to think only of enjoying the treasure that he had collected. He had made himself a bower among the trees, and there he lay; thinking sometimes indeed of the more beautiful garden, and the way to it, but much too heavy with the fruit he had eaten to make any attempt to get there. To passers by he seemed surrounded by comforts, but, in reality, the fruit they envied, made him sick and uncomfortable. The sun shone, and the birds chirped and flew about him, and the child kept dreaming till at last sleep overtook him, and he fell back upon the grass in a deep slumber. How long he slept he knew not, but he was awakened by something cold falling upon his forehead. He opened his eyes, and found while he had been sleeping, the aspect of things had changed. There was an unusual stillness around him, not a bird moved, not a breath was stirring, the sky was overcast with thunder, and a hailcloud had gathered immediately over the bower where he lay. He rose up quickly to leave it, for he thought the hail must crush him; but he was uncertain what to do, or where to go. He looked up anxiously at the cloud, and then at the fruit which still remained to him, and when he thought he might probably lose it, and that he should have laboured for nothing, he bitterly regretted he had not gone with his sister to the more beautiful garden; perhaps though it was late, he might have time yet, and with faltering steps he turned in the direction of the paths;

but he had not gone far before the lightning flashed before his eyes, and the thunder rolled heavily along the sky. The child was dreadfully frightened and tried to quicken his steps; but another clap followed, and then another, till he was stupified with terror and unable to go on; and then, last of all, came the hail, which seemed in its violence as if it would tear up all the flowers in the garden. It set full in his face, and drove him back every step he took once or twice he persevered in spite of everything, but finding it grew worse, he thought there would be no harm in waiting till the storm was over; there would be time for him then to reach the garden, and so thinking, he crept under a large tree, whose branches feathered down to the ground. Here he was pretty well sheltered from the rain, and began to recover from the fright he had had; and before he had waited very long the rain ceased, the clouds rolled away, and the blue sky and sunshine appeared once more. Then the boy thought to himself, "What a fool I was to be in such a fright, and to go away without my fruit: I will go back now and get it ready to take with me, and then I'll set off for the other garden in the cool of the evening." So saying, he came from under the tree, and went towards his bower. There it was, undamaged by the rain; but when he looked at his fruit, what was his despair to find it all soaked through and spoilt! The only thing he could do was to spread it all out in the sun; perhaps, he thought, it may dry again, so he set to work, and heap after heap of the fruit did he unpile, to lay it in the sun before his bower. It was hard work, and before he had done, the sun was getting low in the sky. He would have thought then of the more beautiful garden, but he was so tired that he could not resist the temptation of resting a little before he began his journey. Others he had seen who had set off as late, had succeeded in reaching the entrance in time, so he laid himself down in a part of his bower where the rain had not penetrated, and his head had hardly touched the moss before he was asleep again. Oh sleep dangerously sweet! for he would only be awakened by the chilling evening breeze, and the call of the master who would rouse him but to tell him to leave the bower, and then the gates would be shut, and all chance of his reaching the more beautiful garden would be gone for ever.

While he was sleeping and dreaming of bright things, his sister was occupied in a very different, and as it seemed, less pleasant manner. The path she had to tread was often rough, and the ground was very difficult to disencumber of weeds and rubbish, Once when it seemed the hardest, she turned her head to look at the garden she had left. The sun was shining more brilliantly than ever, and she caught sight of the people walking about and gathering the glittering flowers; but then she remembered that if she did but persevere, she should be able to enter one much more beautiful, and she turned her head and walked on. Nor was it all

dark and cheerless; if the sun shone less there than elsewhere, she was at least protected from its glare; and as the day advanced, and she got further on, the path became smoother, and the ground softer; and many a flower not visible at first did she discover sheltered by the trees and hedge row, the sweet violet, and delicate wood sorrel, and others, which could only be found by those who sought after them. Her former companions, indeed, would not have admired them, for they only cared for the more gaudy flowers; but she learnt to value the sweet smell of the violet, and the wood sorrel with its clear white cup and small purple veins, distinct though soft, and giving it a character of its own, she saw was far more pure and delicate than the flowers she had left behind; and so, after a time she ceased to regret them, and with fresh heart and courage continued her journey, but her path was lonely, and sometimes she longed for her brother or some one to be with her, to guide and support her: others she knew travelling in the same direction, went hand in hand up to the beautiful garden; but she was alone, and the child wrung her hands, and could only be comforted by remembering that it could not last, and that she should find where she was going, others who had gone before and were ready to receive her. At last as she stood on a little eminence, she could see the end of the path, and knew that the distance which separated her from the garden was but small; then she forgot that the way had been long, and that her feet were weary: she stretched out her arms towards it, and made one vigorous effort to reach it; but her limbs failed her, and she sunk down at the entrance. Then the gate opened, and the master came out and bore her in his arms into the garden, where she could never more feel faint and lonely, but would dwell in the fulness of delight for ever.

Notices of Books.

that should be in the hands of every schoolmaster. An experience of some years in matters of education, and a daily catechising of six hundred children for two years, have convinced us that this is a work of the true and proper character, and that the various illustrations which enrich the volume are just such as bring home to the mind of a child the truths which you wish to enforce upon it. Nothing can be more mischievous than "dry" catechetical instruction; though nothing is more valuable, nothing likely to produce such blessed results, as catechising carefully and judiciously done. In fact the office itself is so important, and demands such a varied and accurate knowledge of the powers of children, that we much desire an order of men devoted by the Church

The Cabinet.

THE

Churchman's Companion.

PART XXIV., VOL. IV.]

[DECEMBER, 1848.

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS.

(From a Latin Sermon.)

"UNTO us a Child is born:" a Child, Who was also the Ancient of Days. A Child in bodily form and in age: the Ancient of Days, in the incomprehensible eternity of the Word. And yet even in that very eternity in which He was the Ancient of Days, He is, although not a child, yet always young and new; or rather not so much ever new, as newness itself, ever remaining new Himself, and ever making all things new for as far as anything departs from Him, so far it decays and waxes old: so far as it draws nigh unto Him again, so far is it again made new. Yes, in an unheard of and wonderful manner, He is ever new in that same eternity in which He is ancient; for His eternal existence is without beginning of birth, without decay of age, and in it He is both new yet ever old, and old yet ever new.

But there is another sense in which He is new, that of this His nativity in time. He is now a Child, born in order that we may be made new, Who was GOD begotten from everlasting that the angels might be made blessed. Far greater the glory of that His eternal generation; far more lavish the mercy of this His human incarnation. It was for my sake! great need had I of mercy, surrounded as I was by misery, which I had no power to free myself from or atone for. "Show us Thy mercy, LORD," for we are not yet fit to behold Thy glory: let the lovingkindness and graciousness of GOD our SAVIOUR appear, that it may make us worthy and fitting to be shown the majesty and divinity of GOD our Creator. "Show us Thy mercy, LORD," that hath clothed itself with our miserable nature, and thus by a way new even to mercy, works the cure of the miserable by means of the misery itself. This was the reason for which mercy so wisely joined together, in the one Person of the Mediator, the blessed nature of GOD with the miserable nature of man, in order that by the operation of the Sacrament of His Unity, the blessedness might absorb the misery, by the power of His Resurrection, and that life might swallow up death, and so the whole man be glorified, and pass on to the participation of the Divine nature.