fledged, fell out, and lighting upon the stones, was killed. The old birds, perceiving this accident, went and got short bits of strong straw, and stuck them with mud, like palisades, all round the hole of the nest, in order to keep the other little ones from tumbling after their poor brother.

How cunning that was! cried William.

Yes, said his father; and I can tell you another story of their sagacity, and also of their disposition to help one another. A saucy cock-sparrow (you know what impudent rogues they are!) had got into a Martin's nest while the owner was abroad; and when he returned, the sparrow put his head out of the hole, and pecked at the Martin, with open bill, as he attempted to enter his own house. The poor Martin was sadly provoked at this injustice, but was unable by his own strength to right himself. So he flew away, and gathered a number of his companions, who all came with a bit of clay in their bills, with which they plastered up the hole of the nest, and kept the sparrow in prison, who died miserably for want of food and air.

He was rightly served, said William.

So he was, rejoined papa. Well; I have more to say about the sagacity of these birds. In autumn, when it begins to be cold weather, the Martins and other swallows assemble in great numbers upon the roofs of high buildings, and prepare for their departure to a warmer country; for as all the insects here die in the winter, they would have nothing to live on, if they were to stay. They take several short flights in flocks round and round, in order to try their strength, and then, on some fine calm day, they set out together for a long journey southwards, over sca and land, to a very distant country. But how do they find the way? said William.

We say, answered his father, that they are taught by in

stinct; that is. God has implanted in their minds a desire of travelling at the season which he knows to be proper, and has also given them an impulse to take the right road. They steer their course through the wide air, directly to the proper spot. Sometimes, however, storms and contrary winds meet them, and drive the poor birds about till they are quite spent, and fall into the sea, unless they happen to meet with a ship, on which they can alight and rest themselves. The swallows from this country, are supposed to go as far as the middle of Africa, to spend the winter, where the weather is always warm, and insects are to be met with all the year. In the spring, they take another long journey back again to these northern countries. Sometimes, when we have fine weather very early, a few of them come too soon; for when it changes to frost and snow again, the poor creatures are starved for want of food, or perish with the cold. Hence arises the proverb,

"One swallow does not make a summer.'

But when a great many of them are come, we may be sure winter is over, so that we are always glad to see them again. The Martins find their way back over such a vast length of sea and land, to the very same villages and houses where they were bred. This has been discovered by catching some of them, and marking them.-They repair their old nests, or build new ones, and then set about laying eggs, and hatching their young. Pretty things! I hope you will never knock down their nests, or take their young ones; for, as they come such a long way to visit us, and lodge in our houses without fear, we ought to use them kindly.

Evenings at Home.

Tre-men'dous, terrible; ex-tra-or'di-nar-y, uncommon; pro-vi'ded, furnished; as-sis'tance, help; a-ma'zing, astonishing; ne-ces'si-ty, need; dread'ful, frightful; ar-til'ler-y,

cannon.

THE Whale is beyond dispute the largest animal in the creation, of which we have any certain account. The great Greenland whale, indeed, is of so enormous a size, that it usually measures from sixty to seventy feet in length. The cleft of the mouth is about twenty feet long, which, in general, is about a third part of the animal's length. The tail is about twenty-four feet broad, and its stroke is sometimes tremendous. The catching of whales in the Greenland seas, among masses of ice, frequently more than a mile long, and above a hundred feet in thickness, affords one of the most extraordinary spectacles that can be imagined. Every ship employed in this business is provided with six boats, to each of which six men are appointed for rowing, and a harpooner for striking the whale. Two of the boats are constantly kept on the watch, at some distance from the ship. As soon as the whale is discovered, both the boats set out in pursuit of it; and, if either of them can come up before the fish descends, which is known

by his throwing up his tail, the harpooner darts his harpoon at him. As soon as he is struck, the men make a signal to the ship, and the watchman alarms all the rest with the cry of “Fall, fall!” when all the boats are immediately sent out to the assistance of the first. The whale, as soon as he finds himself wounded, runs off with amazing rapidity and violence. Sometimes he descends straight downwards, and sometimes goes off at a small depth below the surface. The rope, that is fastened to the harpoon, is about two hundred fathoms long. If the whole line belonging to one boat be run out, that of another is immediately fastened to it. This is repeated as necessity requires; and instances have been met with, where all the rope belonging to the six boats has been necessary. When the whale descends, and has run some hundred fathoms deep, he is obliged to come up for air, and then makes so dreadful a noise with his spouting, that some have compared it to the firing of artillery. As soon as he appears on the surface of the water, some of the harpooners fix another harpoon in him, upon which he plunges again into the deep; and, on his coming up a second time, they pierce him with spears, till he spouts out streams of blood instead of water, beating the waves with his fins and his tail, till the sea is all in a foam.-When dying, he turns himself on his back, and is drawn on shore, or to the ship, if at a distance from land.

33. The Widow.

His hour is come! he breathes his last,
His darkning glance on heaven is cast,
The sign of death is on his brow,
His heart has done with earthly wo;
The father, husband, friend, is gone,
His spirit stands before the throne!

And thou who, bending o'er his head,
Those drops of misery dost shed,
Who looking round thy silent room,
Feel'st in thy heart a tenfold gloom,-
Thou thing of love and agony,

What hope has earth for thine and thee!

And she has seen him borne away,
And seen the clay returned to clay,
Dust given to dust!—and heard the sound
Strike through her bosom like a wound,
And felt, beside his burial stone,
What 'tis to be on earth-alone.

Yet still the world has bitter ties,
Her babe upon her bosom lies;
And shall we leave it to its fate!

Come, comfort ye the desolate;

Know, triflers, know, your slightest toy
Might make her tears-the tears of joy.

The meanest gem in beauty's hair
Might raise her spirit from despair;
The crumbs, that from your tables fall,
Might, to her heart, be all in all;
But know, ye rich, ye proud, ye gay,
The God, who gives, can take away!

Oh! Thou, who sit'st the stars above,
Whose nature, and whose name is love—
Thou, who for man did'st not disdain
The life of toil, the death of pain,—
Teach us to live, and love, like thee,
King, Saviour, God of CHARITY.

Winter's Wreath,