may, he takes care of himself.

H, it's all

very talking so. Good to the poor indeed! They say the old Squire's so good to the poor. Be that how it Why, look at them

grapes! What a sight of money they cost! There's the glass-house they grow in, and there's the coals for the fire, and there's the men's time for thinning 'em out; why isn't all that money given to the poor? That's what it ought to be by rights."

This first view of the bunch of grapes was got by Joe Grumbler, as he came from his work. That was not his real name, but his workmates had given it to him, and he was seldom called by any other. Joe worked for the Squire, and that evening he had to pass through the garden, and by the grape-house, on his way home. The grapes were splendid, certainly : the gardener was very proud of them; and of one bunch in particular, that hung near the door. Joe had not seen them before.

THE SECOND VIEW.

"Oh, papa, where are you taking that beautiful bunch of grapes to? We've been watching them ever so long, and they've been getting bigger and bigger, and Jones said he should send them in for dessert as soon as ever they were ripe; and I think he meant to gather them to-day, because, when I asked him yesterday when we should have the first grapes, he said, 'Perhaps you'll see a bunch on the table, Miss Grace, before you've had time to grow much taller than you are now; and I don't think it'll be a very little bunch either.' Where are you taking them to, papa? I know it's the big bunch! I can see it through the basket. Are you taking them up to the house for after dinner?"

This was the second view of the bunch; not so good a view, however, as the first; this was but a

peep, for the Squire thought he had shut down the lid of the basket quite close; but little eyes are sharp.

"No, Gracie, I'm not taking the grapes to the house; I want them for something else; but there's another bunch that will be fit to gather in a day or two. I promise you you shall have a taste of them." And so the Squire walked off with his basket.

A sick girl lay on her bed. She was very pale and thin, for she was but just recovering from a bad fever. fever. They thought it would have gone hard with her; but she had now taken a turn for the better, only she was as weak as water, and had a very poor appetite.

There was a sound of voices downstairs, and then somebody went away, and then her mother came upstairs in a great hurry, and the girl's eyes sparkled when she saw in her hands a beautiful bunch of grapes.

"Oh, mother, mother, what beautiful grapes! Are they for me? Oh, give me one, please, I am so thirsty. Oh, that is good."

"They're all for you, Jane. The Squire's just brought 'em with his own hands. He says they're the first he's had ripe, and he hopes they'll do you good. He is a kind gentleman, if ever there was one."

This was the third and last view of our bunch of grapes.

What do you think was the sick girl's name? Jane Grumbler, I was going to say. But it was not. She was Joe Grumbler's daughter, however.

Ah, Joe Grumbler, what will you say when you come home and see the grapes? Don't you be so hasty in your judgment another time; and the sooner you lose that ugly name the better.

F. B.

GOD KNOWS.

OTHER, I am off to Southampton on
Monday morning," said stalwart young
John de Farge, one day.

Both mother and son were Jerseyborn and bred, and spoke in the barbarous French patois peculiar to the island. "And what are you going to Southampton for, John?" asked Mrs. De Farge.

"To make my fortune, mother, and to make you rich as well as myself. Here, no one wants onions, or if they do, they won't buy of me; but in England it will be quite different; that's the country to make money in, and so I am off. Mr. Le Feuare is sending some heifers over on Monday, and wants a man to look after them, so I offered to go, and he will pay my passage. It is a splendid chance; aren't you glad?"

"I shall be glad when you come back safe and sound, John, whether you are rich or not," said his mother, with a sigh.

ton.

The next Monday evening saw John De Farge settled in an attic in a poor street, near the docks, in SouthampThere was little in the room besides a bed, a rickety table, and a chair without a back; but John, who was by no means a good sailor, thought this little room a paradise after the suffering he had endured on board the steamer. One half of the little room was filled with onions, some, the produce of John's own garden, some he had bought cheap in Jersey. The onions out of De Farge's garden were all sound enough, but those he had bought were for the most part rotten. I am sorry to say that John was quite aware of this, and was in the habit of stringing together the good and bad onions, and selling them as all sound. In Jersey In Jersey people had found out his onions were not to be depended on, but here, in a large town, amongst strangers, he felt pretty sure of success. So on Tuesday morning he set off in high glee with a large proportion of rotten onions mixed with the sound, and, as he expected, sold them all easily.

རྣ་ .

The next day John got. bolder, and, encouraged by his success, he increased the number of bad onions on each rope, but took good care to go in a different direction. This time he got on as well as on the previous day; and by the end of the week he had sold all his bad onions, and only the sound ones remained; so on Saturday night he bought another lot of cheap onions to eke out his own good ones... {lu**

The next day being Sunday, John spent the greater part of the morning in bed. In the afternoon he went for a walk, and in the evening, finding the day very long, he thought he would go to church, to " pass the time," as he expressed it. At home he used to go to church to please his mother; now he was going to please himself.

It was a cold evening, dull and damp, but the church was warm and well lighted; and John soon

began to think he might have done worse than turn in here; there was plenty of music, too, and when a neighbour lent John a book he joined heartily in the singing.

After the prayers were over, the sermon began, and John, who did not care for sermons much, thought of going home to bed; however, it required a little courage to walk out of church alone, so he remained. The sermon was on sin; but John, after listening to the text, began to think of his onions, and the money he had gained, and to wonder how much he would be able to take back to his mother. He was in the midst of a profound calculation as to how little he could live on for the next week, when suddenly a change in the tone and manner of the preacher arrested his attention.

"And how about secret sins, my brethren ?" he was saying. "You say they don't matter; no one knows of them. Listen to me-God knows!"

He paused after these words; there was a dead silence in the church, and then he repeated the words-" God knows." John de Farge was greatly startled; there he sat, a conscience-stricken man, all the sins of his life seeming to rise up against him--his love of money, his cheating ways, his dishonest actions, his lying words; and as each separate sin stared him in the face, the words, "God knows," rang in his ears.

He heard no more of the sermon, and all the way home he seemed to hear nothing but "God knows.” In his attic it was the same; try as he would, he could not get away from the thought which seemed to pursue him everywhere. He went to bed, but he could not sleep, he was restless and miserable; at last, after tossing about for an hour or two, he sprang out of bed, struck a light, opened the window, and flung all the cheap onions which he had bought the night before into the yard at the back of the house.

Then he went back to bed, and slept a troubled sleep till morning; he got up with a weight on his conscience still; he could not even yet get away from the words "God knows." For the next few days he went about very unhappy. He sold his good onions without much trouble, and, his stock being nearly at an end, he went to the docks to see if he could work his passage back to Jersey; he fell in with a good offer; and yet, in spite of this, he was restless and miserable. At last the day came for him to return to Jersey; the boat left at midnight, and about six o'clock, John thought he would tie up his meagre wardrobe in the bag his mother had lent him. In doing so he discovered his Bible at the bottom of the bag, which his mother had packed up. He opened it, and having plenty of time to spare, turned over the pages, till as he got near the end of the Bible, his eyes fell on the words, "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

"That's what I want," said John; "that's for me. I want to be forgiven, and I didn't know how ;" and

being a very practical person, he knelt down there and then, and poured out his sins into His ears who "despiseth not the sighing of a contrite heart, northe desire of such as be sorrowful."

The next day John told his mother all that had happened to him in Southampton. He feared she would be disappointed to hear he had not made his fortune; but he was more than comforted to hear her say, "God has granted my dearest wish, John; you have found the true riches; never mind about the rest."

THE LOVE OF CHRIST.

ESUS gave His life, to save us

From the foe who else would have us :
Such the proof of love He gave us,
Proof indeed!

Love exceeding that of brothers;
Love beyond the love of mothers;
Love surpassing far all others;

Love itself!

Praise we then His name for ever; His is love that changes never; And from Him no force can sever

Those He loves!

BURNING OF THE BOOKS.

READ ACTS xix. 17-19.

PHESUS was specially celebrated for that magnificent temple of Diana which was reckoned among the wonders of the world. On the statue of the goddess, which popular superstition declared had fallen down from heaven, were engraven certain mystic words and signs; and it is probable that the books mentioned in the text contained the copies of these figures. It was in consequence of the display of supernatural power put forth by St. Paul that the burning of the magical books took place; and it is an incident recorded for our learning. The magicians of Ephesus were no sooner convinced of the iniquity of the arts in which they had engaged, than "many of them that believed came, and confessed, and showed their deeds." Shame did not deter them from openly declaring, even in Ephesus, their hatred of those dark practices by which they and their associates had won wealth and applause; yea more, they will render those practices for the future impossible either to themselves or others, and so they bring their books together, and burn them before all men; and in so doing they make no inconsiderable sacrifice; for "they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver."

The folly of the sons and daughters of ungodliness most nearly resembles the supposed charms of the

sorcerer.

"Who hath bewitched you?" is the question we may put to every one who is living without God The in the world, and is not striving to save his soul. sin of sorcery is a strange and fantastic thing; and that sin, both in the eye of reason and of Scripture, would seem to be virtually--though not literally— committed by those who allow the charms of the god of this world so to beguile them, that they fail to take heed of the things that belong to their everlasting welfare.

When the Ephesian magicians were convinced by the preaching and miracles of St. Paul of the guilt and danger of the arts they professed, they did not simply express their regret for the past, and their intentions of amendment for the future,-they did not first of all dispose of their magical charms and instruments to the greatest possible advantage, and then declare their determination to abandon a pursuit which must call down the wrath and curse of Almighty God; but they took a step as decisive as it was disinterested, when they "brought their books together, and burned. them before all men."

"Burned them before all men:" this they did in order to guard against the possibility of their ever being tempted to dabble again in those arts which they now thus solemnly abjured. There was no printing-press then to multiply indefinitely the copies of a work. The books in question must have been manuscripts, produced with great care, and procured at large cost, and therefore to destroy them was to deprive the world, once and for all, of whatever useful information they contained.

The Ephesian magicians did this, we believe, to guard themselves against future assaults of temptation. Had they kept the books by them, Satan would ever have been whispering it to them to apply to their directions, whether to avert what was dangerous or secure what was beneficial. The Ephesians foresaw all this, and they acted wisely as well as nobly, when they "brought their books together, and burned them before all men."

My readers, have you too burned your books of magic? It may be that at one time you found certain places, or persons, or occupations to be the occasions of sin; what has been your course in regard to these, since you determined in good earnest to serve God? Do you make a point now of shunning what you know was detrimental to your religion? Have you burned the books, and so put yourself out of harm's way? or do they still lie on your shelves, in the assurance that nothing will ever induce you to open them again? Have you given up the associates who encouraged you in sin while careless of the soul? or do you act on the supposition that there is no further fear of your being carried away by the force of companionship? You found that worldly amusements warred against the soul,-have you striven, to the best of your power, to place an impassable barrier between yourselves and these amusements? or are you still partaking of them, only in less measure and with diminished ardour? Or