to each other with a frozen breath, as if they dreaded that the black north wind should overhear their husky rustling, or with his cutting shears lay them prostrate, blanched, withered, and dead. In another picture, we see a rustic stile. The snow, that rests upon the barked bars, is imprinted with the robin's feet; while his scarlet breath, harmonising beautifully with the cluster of crimson hips that droop from the leafless spray of the wild rose, form a cheerful foreground to the desolate moorland that lies behind; and as we look upon the open beak of the bird, and his black-beaded and fearless eye, we can fancy that we hear him singing as sweetly as if summer still stood on tiptoe with her hair unbound, and held between her rosy fingers her streaming garland of long green leaves. Further on, we behold the blue titmouse, hanging by its hooked claws, back downward-yet never fearful of falling; peeping with curious eye beneath the level-clipped, broad-thatched leaves in search of insects; while the white cat, motionless, as if cut out of marble, sits watching upon the smooth-bricked win dow-sill, sometimes feigning sleep, yet ready to spring up, if only a straw falls from the beak of the busy bird. Past the church porch, whose steep roof is covered with unruffled flakes, an old beggar-man in his thread-bare coat moves slowly along, his head bow-bent. The cutting wind that comes sweeping round the low square tower blows back his long silver hair, on which the unmelted snow rests, and he pulls his weatherbeaten hat lower over his forehead, and grasps his long staff firmer with his cold blue hands, as he faces the eddying gust. Whichever way the observant eye turns, this great hall that opens upon the year is hung with pleasing pictures, and filled with interesting objects. On the dark beams that span above the bat folds up his leathern wings, and, with his head drooping, soundly sleeps; the little dormouse, coiled up like a ball, rests in its burrow, beneath the roots of the antique oak; and should it chance to awaken before the warm days come, feeds upon the hoard it has secured, then folds itself up again in its dark chamber, and waits until it sees the sunshine streaming from the chinks of the inner door of spring. Higher overhead, though still below the heavy snow-filled clouds, is heard the shrill scream of the wild geese; their arrowy-pointed ranks cleave the chilly air, as they sail at night far over the silent town to where the reedy marsh and the sedgy morass stretch out, intercepted by melancholy streams, on the surface of which, excepting themselves only, the shadow of the solitary fowler in his boat is seen to move. There, when the wind stirs the ridgy ripples in the calm moonlight, the wild swan sleeps majestically upon the rocking eddies, the underdown of his silver plumage bared by the fitful gusts that come by sudden starts and then are still, although the rocky motion uncoils not his arched neck, nor unfolds the black beak which is thrust for warmth under his wing. Without, on the frosted branches, the fieldfares sit huddled together in their feathery coats, looking with hungry eyes upon the withered berries, black and hard, which the wintry wind has left; while, in the distance, the poor sheep pause every now and then to give a plaintive bleat, as they cease for a moment their cold labour of burrowing for food amid the knee-deep snow; for every-way the country is covered with it, the fields are all but silent, the high roads are no longer alive with busy figures, and where the heavily-laden waggon moves slowly along, it comes with a dead and muffled sound, unlike the cheerful tramp and gritty creak which grinds down the wayside pebbles into summer dust. Few, excepting they are true lovers of nature, would be tempted to climb the summit of a steep hill to witness the strange and beautiful appearance the landscape below presents if covered deeply with snow. Ascend, and you seem as if looking over a country that is silent and uninhabited. The hedges rise, like white walls, built up as boundary-lines through a vast expanse, and one way presents no other landmarks, excepting a few trees, and the black line of a winding river; all beside is one wide outstretched territory of snow. Objects which at other times are familiar to the eye have assumed new shapes; the thatched roof of the cottage and the hayrick, the shed in the field and the high pile of winter-faggots, have all put on a strange disguise; and, but for the smoke which is distinguishable above the low chimney, there is no stir of life to proclaim the existence of man. To the left, the village-spire rises like a lonely monument above a buried country, which seems to tell that all below are dead; for the roads are no longer visible, and what motion there is in the little hamlet is unperceived. It seems as if it had drifted away, and was fast sinking in the centre of a great and silent sea of Snow, the church-spire alone visible above the floating and far-off wreck. Although January is one of the coldest months of the year, it is accompanied with the consolation of knowing that the shortest day is passed, and that every sunset brings us nearer to the flowery land of spring, for on each morrow we hear the chirrup of the sparrow sooner under the eaves, and we find the grey dawning peeping in earlier and earlier at the lattice, and looking upon the earth as if to see if any bud has yet broken through its brown sheath, or whether the snowdrop has ventured and forth into the cold waste, to shiver alone wait companionless for its warmer attendant the yellow crocus of spring. At this season of the year a bitter black frost sometimes sets suddenly in, which makes itself felt everywhere; the few green things that remain, curdle and wrinkle up as if they had been scorched, nothing seems to grow, the little hardy bud makes no progress, the earth looks as if it had changed to stone, and beneath it, nature lies dead and buried. The poor birds, as if for condolence, come nearer to the habitation of man-upon the palings, upon the garden-hedge, and about the farmyard, we see many whose plumage is new to us, and whom hunger alone has driven from the deep seclusion of the woods. Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o'ertops The level dreary waste; and coppice-woods, Diminished of their height, like bushes seem. What a picture of the wild and fearful winters of ancient times is presented in the name our Saxon ancestors gave to January, which they called Wolf-month: on account of the ravages made by that animal at this dreary and desolate season of the year! Then our island abounded with huge morasses, swampy wastes, lonely moors, and vast tracts of dreary forest-land, and over these snowy solitudes, in the dark midnights of winter, the howl of the wolf was heard, as ravenous for In one bleak biting night the pond is prey, he ventured nearer the Saxon huts, frozen over, and, deluded by the dazzling and prowled about the doorway of the surface of ice, the cattle, more thirsty habitation of man. Dismal and dangerous through the dry, hard, moistureless food were the paths then traversed by the which forms their winter diet, hang down lonely wayfarer, for towns and villages their heads to drink, when, instead of lay long and wide apart, and there were the cold yielding water, their hot breath but few roads, excepting the long, straight, comes in contact with the chilly marblebut monotonous highways made by the like ice, and after several vain attempts Romans, or the broken and uncertain to penetrate it, they raise their heads and bridle paths, which wound along the low piteously, nor cease until the farmerdangerous and precipitous banks of the boy either comes with a mallet or a long rivers, or at best, in later times the pole, breaks through the hard mass, and narrow ways traversed by the ancient leaves them to drink their fill. Numbers merchants, with their trains of pack of fish perish at this time of the year in horses, who went carefully picking their the ponds and reservoirs, through want of way through the storms and snow, and air and food, both of which it is easy to darkness of winter. Even now in the supply them with, by breaking holes in vast wolds of Yorkshire, and over the the ice, and throwing in bread, grain, or wild broad marshes of Lincolnshire, there the offal of animals, for unless this is exists many a miry and dangerous cross-done they will soon begin to devour each road, where even a traveller well ac quainted with the country, is, in winter, in momentary danger of foundering. other. It is a well-known fact that fish will come at the call of those who are accustomed to feed them, take food from Yet, under this vast winding-sheet, that seems to cover the dead, nature is still at work; the seed that remains invisible is silently swelling and bursting below, and in a few more weeks pale lines of green will show where the spring-corn has broken through the furrow. The little brown rounded bud is forming, coil within coil, and will ere long thrust its emerald point from out its confined cell, as if timidly peeping forth, and waiting until the rain and the sunshine called it, to bare its broad green beauty to the breeze; for then the woods will no longer be alone filled with one the hand of their keeper, and allow them- or two well-stored larders in readiness, selves to be touched without attempting which he very often finds robbed, when to escape, or displaying any symptom of he comes to visit them. But no fear. Eels will bury themselves in the seems to lay up such provision for winter mud as a protection from cold, and the as the long-tailed field-mouse, which concarp, it is also believed, seeks the same re- sists of acorns, nuts, corn, and seeds of treat in severe weather. various descriptions, the accumulation of many a journey, which, when garnered, and nicely arranged, is often rooted up by some hog, as he comes grunting and smelling about the ground where this little boarder has concealed his treasure. How he manages to pass the winter when his house is thus broken open and robbed, we are at a loss to divine, for we can readily imagine that one who has made such bountiful provision in his chamber, would not be able to rest long together when it is empty. The bats also hibenate, huddling together for warmth, and not only holding on the roofs, and beams, and caverns, and in the hollows of trees, by their claws, but crowding one over another, until it is really wonderful what numbers are congregated in so small a space, as they are often found to occupy. On the habits of some of these animals we may dwell more lengthily as we pass through the different changes of the year, for now they may be compared to the seed, which, though not dead, is hidden in the earth, to appear again in due Those boughs, which shake against the cold sung. The winter-sleep of many animals is a wonderful provision of nature-although we are perhaps wrong in giving the name of sleep to such a state of torpor, for it is neither produced by over-exertion, nor caused by a want of repose. Some pre-season. pare for this uncertain state of slumber by storing up food against they awake, or revive for either hunger, or a sudden change from cold to heat, or causes which are to us unknown, and against which several of our hibernating quadrupeds appear to guard, often rouse them at midwinter, and there is no doubt that they would perish were it not for this fresh supply of food. Some, like the dormouse and harvest-mouse, coil themselves up like a ball, and may be rolled about without evincing any sign of life while in this state-so may the hedgehog-although the latter ever assumes such a form when in danger, and presents the same lifeless appearance at pleasure, while, unlike the former, it lays up no store against winter. The squirrel also passes a great part of the cold season in a torpid state, taking care, however, in case he should feel "the hungry edge of appetite," to have a dozen There is something beautiful in the varied forms which the frost-work assumes, and although we must venture out of doors to witness' the most wonderful productions formed by this strange and silent hand, still those who are too fearful of the cold, or too indolent to venture forth, may discover within doors, traces of the finger of this hoary worker-shrub, and flower, and leaf, as of net-work and cunning embroidery, all wrought in one night by this silent and unseen enchanter. What wild landscapes does he put together! mountains, and deep gorges, and steep precipices, with overhanging pines that seem ready to drop into the dark gulf below-for such are among the many wonders which this artist produces. Strange effects are also wrought by a sudden freezing shower, when the rain encloses all it falls upon, as if with a glass covering, or clings to larger objects, and hings them about with gems of the a temperance lecture. In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorn show, These showers also produce a startling effect upon birds, causing them to flutter and shake out their wings to get rid of the cumbersome jewels, that only impede their free and natural motions. Yet this very power slowly produces the mighty ghcier that, in its thunderous fall, shakes the whole valley into which it descends. January is considered a dead month, and in a severe winter, is one of the dullest in the whole circle of the year; still the cut-of-door naturalist will find many objects to instruct and interest him, and may become acquainted with the habits of many living things which the fullleaved summer enshrouds. Birds, which at other times seldom venture near the abode of man; insects, which a fine day of sunshine has aroused from a torpid state; and animals which the floods of hunger have forced from their hiding places; for even the little harvest mouse, either driven from the barn by the removal of the corn, or disturbed from its winter slumber in the earth, may sometimes be seen hurrying off through the shelter of a leafless hedge to its retreat, for Nature in her sleep is never still. HENRY LAMMIE'S FALL. "YES! Mrs. Dean, I perfectly agree with you in all you say against drunkenness, but I shall never be anything but a moderate drinker. You know I first took it my health, and now I only do it so as to be social, not because I care for it; sometimes I go for a whole day without tasting a drop of intoxicating liquor." for "Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed, lest he fall. Oh! Mr. Clifton, how strongly you remind me of a young man who used to come very often to our house, when we were first married. We were then, as now, great upholders of the temperance cause, and used to have most of the lecturers who came to the town at our house. It is fourteen years ago, now, my husband's mother was staying with us, when, one evening, Henry Lammie came in to supper. We had just returned from In the course of conversation, I said: Why don't you join us. Mr. Lammie, and help in saving our fellow-men from this worst of sins? I remember his words so well." "Mrs. Dean," he said, "do you think I would demean myself by taking the pledge? No! if I cannot keep myself from be coming worse than a brute beast, without being a total abstainer. I should be ashamed of myself. Do you think I would muddle the brain God has given me to use to His honour, just to satisfy a fleshly lust? How could a man, who acknowledges his Creator, so lose all self-respect as to fling aside ali control over himself? No! Mrs. Dean, I will never take the pledge; I remember too well that part of my duty taught to me, when a child, in my catechism-To keep my body in temperance, soberness, and chastity'. -ever to become a drunkard. It is all very well for those who cannot master their passions to pledge themselves never to touch that drink they cannot take in moderation, but not for such as I." "I shall never forget my mother-in-law, as she stood, with her hand raised in warning, while she said: 'Henry Lammie, may your words never rise in judgment against you! Be warned by me; give up drink entirely; if not, mark my word, you will repent! I have seen enough of moderate drinking. My husband was only a moderate drinker for years after we were married; and, Henry Lammie, he died from drink. Yes! my noble, loving husband, whom I believed in and trusted so firmly, actually died a drunkard!' My husband buried his face in his hands, for he remembered his father before he took to the debasing habit of drinking-when he was a loving father, a good Christian, and a respected man by all who knew him-until one of his beloved sons disappointed him by going to sea; his trade failed, he took to drink to drown his grief; his other sons left home, his wife became soured by sorrow, and happiness disappeared. Henry Lammie seemed to be much touched by the old woman's warning, but his fit of repentance did not last very long, for, as I found out afterwards, when he reached his home, he had a glass of brandy and water before going to bed. Shortly after that we left H and came to live here. We did not hear of Henry again until about six months ago, when I received a letter from an old friend living at H. Part was: You remember Henry Lammie, who used to be at your house so much when you lived here. About four years ago, he married silly little Annie Dee; they were not suited to one another, and after the first week or two he found no comfort at home, and so took to low company, and about a fortnight ago died of delirium tremens.' Poor fellow! What a pity for one so loving and lovable to die such a death! May God have mercy upon his soul!" "It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak." BELLA. NEW YEAR'S-EVE IN SWITZERLAND AMONG THE MORAVIANS. THINKING of the coming New Year's eve brings vividly before my mind the one I spent, not many years ago, in Switzerland. What a happy one it was, to be sure! If it had not been for the absence of dear, familiar home-faces, I should pronounce it the happiest I ever spent. I could tell no end of things about Montmirail-for that is the name of my old school of how it is situated near the pretty lake of Neufchatel, of the many lovely walks there are in its environs; but I will not wander from my subject, and so ex haust your patience at the very onset. We always looked forward with great pleasure to New Year's-eve; it is one of those impressive Moravian fetes never to be forgotten. At eight o'clock we attended a meeting in our chapel a long, narrow building, built originally for a covered promenade, and afterwards used as a place of worship, the salle formerly used for that purpose being, on account of the increased number of pupils, found too small. On entering the chapel, one's eyes were perfectly dazzled with the excess of light that flooded in from the many sconces that projected from the walls; behind each of these sconces were hung mirrors to reflect the light; the candles were beautifully decorated with different shades of green tissuepaper, which gave to the whole a fairy-like appearance; and, to complete my description, a large chandelier, covered all over, and ornamented with gilt paper, was suspended from the ceiling, just facing the pulpit. These decorations may seem strange to many of my readers-it is the peculiar work of the Moravian sisters, who cling to the customs of their primitive church. It did not take us long to reach our respective places; the organ ceased, and service commenced with a hymn. Our minister then made an appropriate discourse, in which he mentioned all the important events that had taken place in Montmirail during the past year. The births and deaths were first read-only one of my school companions was called to her last account during the three years I was there. We were told the number of young ladies that had left during the year, their names and places of abode, also a list of those who had succeeded them, and, lastly, the names of those who had been confirmed at Easter and Christmas; the account wound up with various other incidents, too numerous to detail. For all those just mentioned a blessing was sung, and the meeting ended, as it had begun, with a hymn. Then we had a second goûter, after which we drew luxes for one another, and for our absent friends, and amused ourselves in various ways, till the bell rung to summon us to midnight service. The hymn over, a short, but eloquent sermon was delivered. Except the voice of the preacher, nothing was to be heard in the chapel; all was silent as the night. Suddenly a thrill passes through our whole frames, as, amid the solemn silence, the first stroke of the hour of midnight tolls upon our ear. Ere the clock from the neighbouring tower has hushed its warning voice the old year has passed away, and a new one has begun. organ peals forth, and we all join in an anthem of praise and thanksgiving, as a grateful acknowledgment to a merciful God for another year added to our erring lives. The anthem over, we all unite in fervent prayer. After the blessing is pronounced, a curious scene takes place; one by one, as we leave the chapel we shake hands with minister, sisters, and friends, wishing them, at the same time, "La bonne année.” In the schoolrooms the scene is still more amusing; such a hugging, and kissing, and squeezing almost to death-foreigners are so very demonstrative in showing their affection. I have even seen men embrace each other in the above-mentioned style. I have ever found the Moravians kind and good; they indeed fulfil the command of our Saviour, "Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you." The sacrifice of self seems to them an easy taskthey are always ready to give aid and consolation where it may be required. The six happiest years of my life were spent under their tuition: they try to impress upon the minds of their pupils the solemn duties of life, and endeavour to set them on the road which leads to true and lasting happiness. MARIA The |