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he feels that the question is settled, and he has but little disposition to resume hostilities with one who has proved herself superior. I have known many such contests, severe and protracted, which were exceedingly painful to a parent's feelings. But when once entered upon, they must be continued till the child is subdued. It is not safe, on any account, for the parent to give up, and retire vanquished.

The following instance of such a contest occurred a few years since. A gentleman sitting by his fireside one evening, with his family around him, took the spellingbook, and called upon one of his little sons to come and read. John was about four years old: he knew all the letters of the alphabet perfectly, but happened at that moment to be in rather a sullen humour, and was not at all disposed to gratify his father. Very reluctantly he came as he was bid, but when his father pointed to the first letter of the alphabet, and said, "What letter is that, John?" he could get no answer. John looked upon the book sulky and silent.

"My son," said the father pleasantly, "you know the letter A."

"I cannot say A," said John.

"You must," said the father in a serious and decided tone. "What letter is that?" John refused to answer. The contest was now fairly commenced. John was wilful, and determined that he would not read. His father knew that it would be ruinous to his son to allow him to conquer. He felt that he must at all hazards subdue him. He took him into another room, and punished him. He then returned, and again showed John the letter. But John still refused to name it. The father again returned with his son, and punished him more severely. But it was unavailing. The stubborn child still refused to name the letter, and when told that it was A, declared that he could not say A. Again the father inflicted punishment as severely as he dared to do it, and still the child, with his whole frame in agitation refused to yield. The father was suffering from the most intense solicitude. He regretted exceedingly that he had been drawn into the contest. He had already punished his child with a severity

which he feared to exceed. And yet the wilful sufferer stood before him, sobbing and trembling, but apparently as unyielding as a rock. I have often heard that parent mention the acuteness of his feelings at that moment. His heart was bleeding at the pain which he had been compelled to inflict upon his son. He knew that the question was now to be settled, who should be master. And after his son had withstood so long and so much, he greatly feared the result. The mother sat by, suffering of course, most acutely, but perfectly satisfied that it was their duty to subdue the child, and that in such a trying hour a mother's feeling must not interfere. With a heaving heart, the father again took the hand of his son, to lead him out of the room for further punishment. But to his inconceivable joy, the child shrunk from enduring any more suffering, and cried, "Father, I'll tell the letter." The father, with feelings not easily conceived, took the book and pointed to the letter.

"A," said John.

"And what is that ?" said the father, pointing to the next letter.

"B," said John.

"And what is that?"

"C," he continued.

“And what is that?" pointing again to the first letter "A," said the now humbled child.

"Now carry the book to your mother, and tell her what the letter is."

"What letter is that, my son ?" said the mother.

"A," said John. He was evidently perfectly subdued. The rest of the children were sitting by, and they saw the contest, and they saw where was the victory; and John learned a lesson which he never forgot; he learned never again to wage such an unequal warfare; he learned that it was the safest and happiest course for him to obey.

But, perhaps, some one says it was cruel to punish the child so severely. Cruel! it was mercy and love. It would indeed have been cruel had the father in that hour been unfaithful, and shrunk from his painful duty. The passions he was then, with so much self-sacrifice, striving to subdue, if left unchecked, would in all probability,

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have been a curse to their possessor, and have made him a curse to his friends. It is far from improbable, that had he then conquered, all future efforts to subdue him would have been in vain, and that he would have broken away from all restraint. Cruelty! O may our children be preserved from the tender mercies of those who so regard such real and self-denying kindness.

It is always best, if possible, to avoid such collisions. Many children are taught implicit obedience, without ever entering into such a contest with their parents. And it is certainly preferable to govern a child by the mild procedure of ordinary discipline, than to enter into such a formidable conflict, where great severity is required. Wisdom, therefore, teaches us to guard against giving a child an opportunity of summoning all its energies to disobey. A little foresight will often enable us, without any surrender of authority, to calm the rising feeling, instead of exciting it to its utmost strength.—Abbott.

A MOTHER'S GRIEF.

To mark the sufferings of the babe
That cannot speak its woe;
To see the infant tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek uplifted eye,
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony ;-
This is a mother's grief.

Through dreary days and darker nights,
To trace the mark of death;
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
The quick and shorten'd breath;
To watch the last dread strife draw near,
And pray that struggle brief,
Though all is ended at its close ;-
This is a mother's grief.

To see in one short hour decayed
The hope of future years;

To feel how vain a father's prayers,
How vain a mother's tears;

To think the cold grave now must close
O'er what was once the chief
Of all the treasured joys of earth;—
This is a mother's grief.

Yet when the first wild throb is past,
Of anguish and despair,

To lift the eye of faith to heaven,
And think my child is there ;
This best can dry the gushing tears,
This yields the heart relief,
Until the Christian's pious hope
O'ercomes a mother's grief. Dale.

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped. Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm, the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue their course, the wheels remained motionless with surprise, the weights hung speechless, each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry into the cause of the stop; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke:

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of striking. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate. "As to that," replied the pendulum; "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,-it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness-you, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do."-"Why," said the

dial, ❝is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through ?" "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This morning, I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick, in the course only of the next four and twenty hours,-perhaps some of you above there can give me the exact sum." The minute-hand, being quick at figures, instantly replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times."—"Exactly so," replied the pendulum; "well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one:-and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect: so after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself I'll stop!"

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue: but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:

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"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; and though this may fatigue us to think of, the question is, will it fatigue us to do? Would you now do me the favour to give about half-a-dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?" The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, was that exertion fatiguing to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum: "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions." "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that although you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," added the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty, for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus."

Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him