know it, love?"-" Oh yes, and that comforts me. And perhaps, as I went to the Sunday school, papa will say something to the children." Is there any passage in particular you would like him to address them from?"-"All flesh is grass,' Isa. xl. 6, mamma, I think, might be explained to them." "Yes, love; how, do you think?" Why, they might be told from it, how uncertain they are of a moment; how necessary to prepare for death."

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A few days before his death, he said to his mother, " Oh, how thankful I shall be to go to heaven, where I cannot sin: it seems to me as if I was constantly sinning now."

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The last day and night were very trying; he could not lie down, or recline in any way; he suffered very much. My dear boy," said his mother to him, “you seem greatly distressed; is it only from pain of body, or are you uneasy about the future?"

“Oh no, no, he replied;" it is only pain." Through the last night, he occasionally rambled; yet it was evident his mind was quickly brought back to religious truth. One time, he slowly said, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” His mother said, "That, dear, you know was our blessed Saviour's cry on the cross. God has not, he does not forsake you now.""-"No," he faintly said; no, I know he does not."

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At another time, he repeated, "There's no repentance in the grave, nor pardon offered to the dead."" No, dear ; but you have not now to seek pardon." He nodded, and said, " No, no." The last hour, he lay peaceful and calm. His mother said, "My child, lie now on me till you go to your last happy home." The only words distinguished after were, "comfortable"-" quite"—" mamma.” And the much loved child was taken to the bosom of Jesus-of that blessed Shepherd who gathers the lambs with his arms, and carries them in his bosom, Isa. xl. 11. His age was only eight years and a half.

E. G.

SOMETHING ABOUT WOLVES.

LITTLE Rose Lee was sitting one day very attentively looking at a book she held in her hand, which was filled with pictures of different animals, when her sister asked her what animal it was that had so fixed her attention. "Oh! Maria," said the little girl, looking up, “I was thinking how frightened I should be to live where wolves are. Are there ever any found in England?"

No, my dear," replied her sister, "there are no wolves in England now; but many hundred years ago, not only England,

but Ireland and Scotland, were infested by these blood-thirsty creatures."

"Do tell me, Maria, what became of them all; will you, sister?" inquired Rose. "I will, my dear," answered Maria. "Edgar, king of England, was the means of ridding his country of them, by changing the punishment of certain crimes into the acceptance of a certain number of wolves' tongues from each criminal. They are said, however, to have been found in Ireland long after all those in England had been destroyed the last of these was killed in the woods of Shillela, about the year 1700."

"And in what countries are they to be found now?"

"A great many infest the southern parts of France, the Alps, Spain, and Italy. They live also in colder climates, as Lapland and Russia, although many ways are resorted to, in order to destroy them : they are taken in traps, caught in pit-falls, and poisoned by carcases purposely placed in their way."

"What are pit-falls, Maria?"

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turf.

They are holes dug in the ground with pieces of sharpened wood at the bottom, and then carefully covered with When the wolf falls into one, he is almost always directly killed by the wounds inflicted by the sharpened wood. Wolves are likewise hunted by men and large dogs."

"Thank you, dear sister," said little Rose Lee, as her sister stopped; "I am very fond of hearing about wild animals. Can you tell me any more?"

"I have no more time now, Rose," replied Maria," as I am going out; but if I have time to-morrow, I will tell you about some other animal.

"

BESSIE.

THE INFANT'S GRAVE.

ARE you fond of wandering in the churchyard? and, if so, have you ever stood by

an infant's grave?

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Yes," perhaps you answer, "and sometimes have bounded over the little mounds, or sat on them to arrange our wild flowers. We have not thought of those who laid beneath, because they were unknown to us; we knew them not when living." But, perhaps, some little thoughtful child will reply, "I have a baby brother, or sister, sleeping in the silent grave; and I cannot think thus lightly on those I loved so much when living: I gaze sorrowfully on their turf, and wish they were yet beside me." You doubtless love infants, and particularly those you have nursed and fondled: you would tell me they are so lovely, so amusing; and more especially when they begin to love you, and lisp your names, or shout with childish glee when you approach to play with them. Perhaps you sometimes think it strange that these little creatures, so lovely and so beloved, should be smitten with early death; while the old and the feeble, and those who would almost wish to die, are still left. But now I will proceed to tell you how we have reason to join rejoicing with our grief, as we look upon an "infant's grave.'

One lovely evening, in the bright early spring, a young mourner stood by an open grave, while the clergyman read the beautiful burial service over the corpse of her firstborn. Oh, how bitterly did she gaze