voice was heard at the window. "Stop, stop dear mother, stop!" cried he, as loud as ever he could call, "Trusty did not do it; I and Robert did it; but don't beat Robert ?"

"Let us in, let us in," cried another voice, which Robert knew to be his father's; for his father always whipped him when he told a lie. His mother went to the door and unlocked it.

"What's all this ?" cried his father as he came in; so his mother told him all that had happened. "Where is the switch with which you were going to beat Trusty?" said their father. Then Robert, who saw by his father's looks that he was going to beat him, fell upon his knees, and cried for mercy, saying, "Forgive me this time, and I will never tell a lie again." But his father caught hold of him by the arm. "I will whip you now," said he, “and then I hope you will not." So Robert was whipped, till he cried so loud that the whole neighbourhood could hear him.

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There," said his father, when he had done, now go without supper; you are to have no milk to-night, and you have been whipped; you see how liars are served." Then turning to Frank, "Come here and shake hands with me, Frank; you will have no milk for supper, but that does not signify, you have told the truth, and have not been whipped, and everybody is pleased with you. And now I'll tell you what I will do for you; I will give you the little dog Trusty to be your own dog; you have saved him a beating, and I'll answer for it you'll be a good master to him. To-morrow I'll go to the brazier's and get a new collar made for him. From this day forward he shall be called after you, Frank. And, wife, whenever any of the neighbours' children ask you why the dog Trusty is to be called Frank, tell them this story of our two boys, and let them know the difference between a liar and a boy of truth."

MISS EDGEWORTH.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL

(ONE HUNDRED Years ago).

BESIDE yon straggling fence, that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew ;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew,
'T was certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could guage.
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame; the very spot

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.

GOLDSMITH.

VISIT TO A VILLAGE SCHOOL.

SOME years ago I happened to spend a short time in a pleasant village in the south of Scotland. I arrived late in the evening, and my engagements required me to leave shortly after noon; but I resolved. to avail myself of the few hours I had to spare, and see as much as I could of the beauties of the place. The village I found consisted mainly of two streets running at right angles to each other. In front lay the village green, bounded on two sides by the streets, and on the third by the turnpike road, which swept obliquely across. The

houses, varying in size, were overgrown with roses, and were separated from the street by a little plot of garden-ground filled with flowers, and evidently cultivated with care. As I passed one of the neatest of the houses

a tidy little girl came out, tying up a beautiful nosegay, which she had apparently just culled from her garden. She had a bag on her arm, which I supposed to contain her