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النشر الإلكتروني

it is unavoidably drawn in, and shattered to pieces among the rocks.

LAPLAND, the most northerly part of Europe, is a wild and thinly inhabited country, covered with snow to a considerable depth, the greater part of the year.

The Laplanders are dirty in their habits, and anything but prepossessing in their appearance; owing to the excessive coldness of the climate, they are stunted in their growth, seldom exceeding four feet and a half in height.

On the western coast, they live chiefly by fishing, but in the interior of the country, they, for the most part, depend on their herds of rein-deer; the flesh of these useful animals supplies them with food, and their milk with cheese, and their skins serve for clothing; and, in sledges drawn by them, they pass over the snow with great rapidity.

During a few weeks in summer, the sun never sets in Lapland, and, for the same period, in winter, it never rises; yet at this gloomy season, from the clear light of the moon, and the continual brightness of the Au-ro'-ra Bo-re-a'-lis, it is sufficiently light for the inhabitants to pursue their usual employments.

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About the middle of last century, there resided, near the village of Blackburn, in Lancashire, a farmer of small means, but of good natural capacity, of a studious

Blackburn is now a large town.

turn of mind, and endowed with a spirit of perseverance rarely found in his walk of life.

He cultivated a few acres of land, the produce of which sufficed to support his family, whom he accustomed to fare humbly, and labour hard; as for himself, he did not care how hard he worked, nor to what employment he turned his hand, so that it promised a remuneration for his industry.

If it prospered in his hands, and he obtained a suitable return, it was well; if it failed, and he got nothing for his labour, still he extracted experience out of it, and was in a condition to enter on a new experiment with a better chance of success.

This patient, and good humoured selfpossession was inherent in him, and it proved, in the end, a most valuable quality, as we shall see.

He was naturally fond of experiment, and in the long evenings of winter, when farming operations were unavoidably suspended, he was accustomed to exercise his ingenuity, of which he possessed more than an average share, in mechanical contrivances, either for diminishing labour, or for rendering its operations more satisfactory and complete.

At this period, all Lancashire, and the manufacturing districts of the north, were, more or less, excited on the subject of the cotton manufactures; it is no wonder, therefore, that the farmer turned his attention to this branch.

Being struck with the clumsy and tedious process, by which the cotton wool was brought into a state suitable for spinning, he set about contriving a more speedy and satisfactory method of doing the work.

Before long, he was led to the adoption of a cylinder, instead of the common hand-cards then in use; and, in the end, he produced machines of simple constructions,

by which the work of carding was better done, and in much less time.

His success, in this direction, was so decided, that he considered it prudent to give up his farm, and entirely devote himself to the new employment which he had thus created for himself.

The cotton fabrics, then produced, were very different from those with which we are now familiar; they were, in fact, only cotton cloths, either indifferently white, or dyed in such homely colours, as the dyers of that day could impart to them.

Though useful for a variety of domestic purposes, the idea of making them into elegant attire never suggested itself to any one; but now the Blackburn farmer conceived that idea, and resolved to carry it out with all the energy at his command.

To talking, he was not much given, and still less to boasting, and, on this occasion, especially, he shrewdly kept his plans to himself.

Procuring a stout block of wood, ten inches long, by five inches wide, and some two inches thick, he drew on the smooth side the exact representation of a parsley leaf.

He then cut away all the parts of the wood not covered with the drawing, leaving the spray of parsley standing in relief, or, in other words, he made a wood engraving of the leaf, differing in no respect from the wood engravings of the present day, but in the coarseness of the work.

By a number of ingenious processes, he succeeded in covering the surface of a whole piece of cloth with parsley leaves, and thus produced the first piece of printed cotton the world had probably ever seen.

The parsley leaf succeeded so well, that he soon found himself called on for others of various designs, which he

also made with his own hands, thus keeping the secret to himself, and shutting out rivals in the trade, which his own ingenuity had created.

To be continued.

LESSON LXXIX.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.-LESSONS FROM

BIRDS.

Friendship, in truth, is but a name,
Unless to few we stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A hare, who, in a civil way,

Complied with ev'ry thing, like GAY,
Was known by all the bestial train,
Which haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was, never to offend;
And ev'ry creature was her friend,
As forth she went, at early dawn,
To taste the dew besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep mouth'd thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round,
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half-dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew, When first the horse appear'd in view! "Let me," she said, "your back ascend, And own my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship ev'ry burden's light."

The horse replied, "poor honest puss!
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately bull implor'd;
And thus replied the mighty lord;
"Since ev'ry beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend,-
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the goat is just behind."

The goat remark'd her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
"My back," says she, "may do you harm,
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The sheep was feeble, and complain'd
His sides a load of wool sustain'd;
Said he was slow, confess'd his fears;
For hounds eat sheep, as well as hares.
She now the trotting calf address'd,
To save from death a friend distress'd.
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler pass'd you by:

How strong are those! how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine might take offence. Excuse me then; you know my heart,

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