disgusted. He learns to be idle, and is sure to be backward in his lessons. But the boy who has learnt to use his eyes has never time to be idle. He never tires noticing what is doing around him; in town he watches the progress of all the new buildings, and is continually finding out something strange to interest his curiosity. In the country, every spare minute is occupied he observes when the trees are coming into leaf, and when the nuts and brambles are ripe; he is on the watch to see the first swallow, and to hear the cuckoo on its first arrival; he is ever on the look-out for unknown flowers that are not yet in his collection. You may be sure that he has gathered specimens of everything peculiar within his reach, that no strange stone escapes him, and that he has an egg of every bird that visits the neighbourhood. He is never at a loss for amusement; and if he is the busiest boy in the village, he is as certainly the happiest.

F

I have sometimes seen schools where the teachers encouraged their scholars to make a proper use of their eyes; and I once met with a girl who knew well how to do so, but this must be reserved for another lesson.

Ir was while on a short tour in the Highlands, that I met this girl, to whom I referred in the last lesson. I had taken my seat on the top of the coach at Dunkeld, on a lovely afternoon in July, and found among my fellow travellers, sitting right opposite me, a girl apparently about thirteen years of age,

whose intelligent looks made it evident at the first glance that she was one of those who had learned to use their eyes. She was travelling alone, for a girl who can use her eyes can be safely trusted to travel by herself; and I learned from her that she had been spending some holidays with her friends in Dunkeld, and was returning to her home in the village which I intended to visit. I am sure," I said to her, "you must know everything on the road, so I shall just shut up my guide-book, which, besides, I cannot very well read for the jolting of the coach, and trust to you." She seemed quite pleased with my proposal, and I had no reason to regret my choice.

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As we drove on through

the beautiful scenery which is the admiration of all tourists, my young companion pointed out to me what she considered the finest views of the Tay, and the romantic hills which surround Dunkeld, and called my attention to various objects of interest on the road.

"That is the river Bran," she said, as we crossed an awkward, old-fashioned bridge. "There are beautiful falls on it, but not so fine, gentlemen say, as those near the village where I live. And that," pointing to a pretty little cottage, "was the house of Neil Gow, the great fiddler; and the road to Inverness. lies through that immense forest on the other side of the river."

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"The forest," said I, seems to be all of one kind of tree, does it not?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, "it's all larch, and they look so beautiful in spring with their young green leaves like tassels, and their pretty pink tops; and they are almost as pretty in autumn, for the leaves all turn a bright yellow just before they fall off."

"You are quite a little forester," I re

marked;

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you seem to know all about trees."

"Oh! sir, I am never tired looking at them. Often in the wet afternoons in autumn, when I am sitting at my window, I look out