MAMMA. What distinguishes an animal from a plant? CHARLES. The one can move itself where it pleases, and the other cannot. MAMMA. Yes; life is distinguished into animal and vegetable life. How will you define the difference between them? FANNY. Vegetable life is shown by plants growing gradually larger, and producing seeds, from which other plants spring; and animal life is shown, as Charles said, by those who possess it being able to go from one place to another. MAMMA. Yes, and by what is called volition, that is, the exercise of will. We will now go on. Explain the word 'inhabiting.' FANNY. Dwelling, or living, or existing. LUCY. Countries full of mountains. MAMMA. What would be the opposite to a mountain ous country? FANNY. A flat country. MAMMA. Give me another word, Charles. CHARLES. A level, or even country. MAMMA. What do you mean by 'a country?' LUCY. Land, mamma. MAMMA. Your papa has land, has he, therefore, a country? LUCY. No, he has not; his is only an estate. MAMMA. You must then give me a clearer explana tion of the word country. FANNY. A large tract of land joined together, and generally containing rivers and hills. MAMMA. That is better, but how do you distinguish this from a county? CHARLES. Oh, a county is much smaller, mamma, it is a subdivision of a country. MAMMA. These antelopes 'bound;' what does that mean? FANNY. Jump, spring, leap. MAMMA. Among?' CHARLES. There it means, about and between, and upon. I do not know one word that will express it. MAMMA. I think I know one beginning with A which is better than yours, Charles. FANNY. Amidst, mamma: am I right? MAMMA. Yes, Fanny. What am I to understand by 'a rock?' LUCY. A very high, large place. MAMMA. Then our house is a rock, Lucy, it is both high and large? Lucy. Oh no, mamma; a rock is a natural thing, and our house is an artificial thing. MAMMA. Right, my dear; I am glad you have remembered the meaning of those words; but if you allow yourself time to think, you can give me a clearer idea of a rock, than you have done. LUCY. It is high, like a hill, only stony, instead of earthy. MAMMA. That is much better, Lucy; what are its qualities? Lucy. Hard and cold, and craggy, and sharp. LUCY. I suppose it means that it does not jump heavily and awkwardly. MAMMA. Just so; now for 'elasticity?' FANNY. It means, does it not, that it springs easily? MAMMA. It does; an elastic thing, when bent, returns easily to the same place again. some things that are elastic? LUCY. A bow, mamma. MAMMA. Now another instance. CHARLES. Indian rubber. Tell me the names of MAMMA. That is a very good illustration; think again. FANNY. A watch spring. MAMMA. Now another. CHARLES. A branch of a tree; for if you bend it down, it recovers itself instantly. MAMMA. Very true. Is 'to strike' a noun, Lucy? MAMMA. Why so? Lucy. Because it expresses action. To strike is an active verb. MAMMA. And its meaning, is to give a blow? FANNY. Sometimes, mamma; but in this instance it means to make a person feel any thing suddenly. That is a blow to the mind, is it not? MAMMA. You are right; and CHARLES. Surprise, wonder. astonishment' means MAMMA. And a spectator' means,-what Fanny? FANNY. A beholder; an observer. MAMMA. We have now got at the meaning of all these words; tell me what you have understood by the sentence. Of what is it speaking? Lucy. Of antelopes. MAMMA. What description is given of them? FANNY. That they are elegant and active. MAMMA. What feeling do they give to a spectator? LUCY. They fill him with wonder. MAMMA. Why do they do so? CHARLES. Because they bound about the rocks with so much agility.—Aids to Development. NATURE. I LOVE to set me on some steep I love to see the big waves fly, I love, when seated on its brow, I love far downward to behold Of little bell and mellow flute, I love to range the valleys too, When nought beside, around, is seen I love to see at close of day, Spread o'er the hills, the sun's broad ray, I love, when evening veils the sky, And see ten thousand worlds of light I love to let wild fancy stray, Where thousand thousand burning rays And charm the ravished sight. I love from thence to take my flight, Just as the flaming orb of day Drives night, and mists, and shades away, TEMPER AND DISPOSITION. A GOOD temper is one of the principal ingredients of happiness. This, it will be said, is the work of nature, and must be born with us: and so, in a great measure, it is; yet it may be acquired by art, and improved by culture. Almost every object that attracts our notice has a bright Sand a dark side. He that habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and consequently impair his happiness; while he who beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, by this means, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him. Jane and Mary are two friends. They are alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management are grown the reverse of each other. Jane has accustomed herself to look only on the dark side of every object. If a new literary work makes its appearance, with a thousand beauties and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you show her an excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery that has been neglected, or a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegance; but if you take a walk with her into it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves.. If you sit down in one of her arbours, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy; that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate. When you return with her to the company in the hopes of a little cheerful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her; and at last discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave. Mary is the reverse of all this. By habituating herself to look on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual cheerfulness in herself, which by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she considers that it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she communicates the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man's virtues to his failings, and can find out something to |