ing fever, his little hand lay motionless outside the scarcely whiter coverlet of his tiny bed; his pulse was feeble and fluttering; his head pressed languidly upon the pillow; his face was pale as the lily; and his eyelids drooped heavily, as if a weight hung from their fringed curtains. 3. It was a strange sickness for one so young-the struggle of fever with a baby frame; but life and youth seemed, for a time, to have obtained the victory: the pulses rallied; the cheeks grew round and rosy; and the little wasted limbs filled up again. Health was seemingly restored-health, but not strength; for, after days, and even weeks, had passed by, we found that the sickness had left its bitter sting. Little Frankie could not walk a step, nor even stand. 4. It was in autumn this illness seized him, and through a weary winter he slowly regained a little portion of his strength. First he feebly crept on his hands and knees; then he made a careful journey round the room, holding on by chairs and tables, or clinging to some loving hand; until, at last, standing quite erect, alone, he could move slowly on. And all the time his word of hope was this, "When the summer comes!" 5. Through a long winter, and a cold bleak spring, this hope never failed him. A fairy little carriage was ob tained for him, in which, well wrapped up from the cold, and resting on soft cushions, he was from time to time drawn out in the garden when the sun shone brightly; but if any one praised his little carriage, and told him what a fine ride he was taking', he would quickly exclaim, "Wait till the summer comes-then Frankie will walk again !" 6. The summer came, with its glad birds and flowers, and its balmy air; and Frankie rode out every day. One day, when taken into the garden, he so longed to walk, "just to the holly bower," that he was allowed to make the effort. And on he did walk; quick at first, then slower, slower. He would not rest in any of the arms stretch ed out to receive him, though the fitfuls color on his cheek went and came, and the pauses in his steps grew more and more frequent. At length he reached the bower; but, with a heavy sigh, he said, ""Tis a very, very long walk now; but Frankie must not be tired, for, sure, the summer is come." 7. But the summer passed away, and again came changing autumn with its chill, damp airs, nearly throwing him back again. One day, when his mother took him into the garden, he made a greater effort even than before to walk to the holly bower. Reaching it, he sat down to rest; but as he looked up at the red leaves and berries, a memory of the former year, and of all the time that had passed since then, seemed, for the first time, to steal mournfully over his heart. Nestling closer to his mother's side, and still looking up, but with more thoughtful eyes, he said, "Marma, is the summer quite gone'?" 8. "Yes, my darling. Don't you see the scarlet berries, the food of winter for the little birds?" "Quite gone, mamma, and Frankie not quite well'?” 9. His mother looked away. She could not bear to have him see the tears his mournful little words called forth. There was a moment's silence; and then she felt a soft little kiss upon her hand, and, looking down, she saw her darling's face—yes, surely now it was as an angel's-gazing upward to her, brightly beaming, brighter than ever; and his rosy lips just parted with their own sweet smile again, as he exclaimed in joyous tones, "Mamma, the summer will come again!" 10. Precious were these words of childish faith to the care-worn mother, to cheer her then, and still to sustain her through long and anxious watchings by the bedside of that dear one, even when all hope of recovery had passed away; for, ere the spring flowers had decked the earth again, to the spirit of the little sufferer had come a summer of eternal rest. 11. And precious to more than her such words may be; for, to the trusting, pious heart, there comes a time-it may be soon, or it may be late-it may be beyond the bounds which mortal vision can reach-when every grief and every sorrow will have passed away: and so 'twill all seem as nothing-when the summer comes! a CHER'-UB, a child of surpassing loveliness. Adapted.-CHAMBERS. • BÄLM'-Y, Sweet; fragrant; soft. FIT-FUL, Suddenly changing; varying. h VI'-SION, eyes; eyesight. [Why is this lesson both descriptive and narrative? (The sick child, etc., is described, and the events are narrated.) What is narrative writing? Descriptive writing? (See p. ix) What figure of speech is contained in the first period of the 2d verse? In the first line of the 4th verse? What is personification? Why is this piece pathetic? Which are the most pathetic portions of it? How should the closing question in the 8th verse be read, as to force? As to time?] LESSON LII. OVER THE RIVER. 1. OVER the river they beckon to me Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. My brother stands waiting to welcome me! 2. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another—the household pet;b She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me! 3. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, And, lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts; That hides from our vision the gates of day; May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; The angel of death shall carry me! GLEAM, a beam or ray of light. PET, a loved one that is fondled and indulged. PHAN-TOM, fancied; unearthly. "Phantom bark," the bark of death. d RAN'-SOMED, redeemed. NANCY A. W. PRIEST. e Mys'-TIC, mysterious and obscure. AYE, ever; always. i FLUSH'-ING, lighting up. J STRAND, shore. [1. What river is meant here? (The River of Death-the river which separates Time from Eternity.) Who are those who "beckon to me?" Why are they described as wearing "snowy robes ?" (Because they are then angels; and angels are said to wear white robes.) Describe the one first mentioned. What is meant by his crossing "in the twilight, gray and cold?" What "city" is referred to in the 10th line of the first verse? (The Heavenly City-the New Jerusalem.-Rev., ch. xxi.) 2. What is meant by "the boatman pale?" What figure of speech is this? What is meant by "the phantom bark?" The "silver sands ?"` "Our sunshine grew strangely dark?" Why is the River of Death called "the mystic river ?" 3. What is meant by "the gates of day?" 4. What is meant by "the spirit-land?" Why is the River of Death called "the peaceful river?"] LESSON LIII. LIFE WITHIN A FLOWER. a 1. THE principal blossom in the flower-border was a beautiful carnation. As its fragrance was delightful, I was led to notice it more carefully than the rest. Stooping down for a nearer view, from within its brilliant diskb there came to my ear a soft but agreeable murmur. It seemed that some little creature within the coverts was the musician, and I gently parted the petals for a closer inspection. 2. On placing the flower in a full light, and applying to my eye a little microscope that I always carry in my pocket, I could discover troops of little insects frisking, with wild jollity, among the narrow pedestalsf that supported the flower-leaves, and the little threads that occupied their centre. What a fragrant world for the habitation of these little fairies! What perfect security from all annoyance was provided in the dusky husks whose ample walls inclosed them! 3. Pleased with my discovery, I made a little frame to support my microscope, which I adjusted to take in, at one view, the whole base of the flower; and thus I was enabled, for many days together, to watch the motions of the little creatures, without giving them the least disturbance. Thus I could discover all their little domestic arrangements, their passions, and their enjoyments. 4. The microscope, on this occasion, acted like the wand of a magician, to reveal wonders which nature had concealed from my unaided vision. The base of the flower extended itself, under its magnifying influence, to a vast plain; the threads in the middle seemed columns of massy structure, supporting capitals of gold; and the narrow spaces between were enlarged into walks, parterres,1 and terraces. 5. Amid the scenery thus revealed, walked in pairs, |