a very small affair', not worth the master's trouble to mention. But let us think of this', too.

We all know, very well, that no boy can sit motionless in school', for whole hours together. But there is a great difference between moving the feet gently`, by taking them up', and putting them in another place', and drawing' them along to the spot', over a handful of gravel which had adhered to the soles', and which ought to have been scraped off at the door. The mere thought of this grating sound of the feet almost sets my teeth on edge.

Suppose that every pupil, in a school of sixty, should drag his feet along in this way', only once in ten minutes. Some boys would think it a mighty confinement to be obliged to sit even so still. But this would amount to 2160 movements in a day. Is this a trifle' not worth the master's notice'?

Now I can tell you, my young friends',-and if you ever come to teach a school yourselves, you will find that I speak the truth'-that this is a very serious evil', and greatly hinders the teacher', and thus injures the school. I can also tell you that the boy, or the girl, who forms a resolution'—and keeps it'not to whisper, nor shuffle the feet, could hardly take a better course to assist the teacher in keeping a good school.

LESSON XLIX.

BEHAVIOR IN SICKNESS.

I HAVE known a great many children who were very unwilling to take medicine when they were sick', and they never seemed to know how wrong this was. Susan Williams always made a great deal of difficulty

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when she was obliged to take medicine. When she was well, she was generally a very good girl. She was always careful not to give her mother any more trouble than she could help. She would have thought it very wrong indeed not to obey her mother directly', when she told her to do any thing'! but yet, when she was sick', and her mother brought her medicine to také, she would hold it in her hand, and look at it, and say', "Oh! mother', I don't want to take this`; mūst I'?" And when her mother told her she must, she would taste it', and then put it down again'; and so she would sometimes spend half an hour in thinking and talking about it', when it might all have been over in three minutes.

I will tell you how Mary Ross acted one day when she had medicine to take. Her mother brought it to her and said'," Here, Mary', is some medicine which you must take. It tastes very badly', and I advise you to take it as quick as you can', and then', perhaps', you will not taste it." Mary took it out of her mother's hand, and drank it in a moment.

Now, Mary's medicine was just as bitter as Susan's', but Ma showed herself much wiser than Susan in taking it immediately. You all know that when you have medicine given to you', you must take it. Now is it not much wiser to take it as soon as you can', and so spare yourselves the pain of thinking of it, and your parents the pain of forcing you to take it'?

It is evidently much better for you not to resist but this is not all. It is very wicked and ungrateful to add to the trouble you must necessarily cause your parents when you are sick. You know and feel how anxious they are about you', and how kind they are to you', and will you add to this anxiety, and repay this kindness', by refusing to take what they offer you for your good'?

Samuel Clark was one of the worst boys I ever knew' He was about six years old', and

when he was sick.

was taken very ill. I went to see him one day, and while there, I found out the following facts.

His sickness was of such a character that it affected his breathing, and his mother thought it would hurt him to cry. He was very thirsty, too, in the night', from the effect of his fever'; so that his mother had to get up very often to get him some drink', and on this account her sleep was very much broken.

When I came into the room she was rocking him in a chair', and sometimes carrying him about the room. She looked almost worn out and exhausted by her watching and fatigue. I asked her why she did not lay him down on the bed', and rest a little herself. She said he would cry. "Will he cry♪ ?” said I'. "Yes," she answered'; "he cries and makes me carry him', and rock him, all the time. I am afraid to have him cry because his disease affects his lungs', and I am afraid crying will make him worse. He knows this', and yet he cries when he wants me to do any thing', and I am almost worn out with tending him.

I thought that this was one of the worst cases of ingratitude I ever knew. I suppose almost every body will think so', and yet children are very often ungrateful in sickness. The way in which they generally cause the most trouble', is refusing to take medicine, and therefore I have said a great deal about that.

I wish that every child who reads this piece would consider, the next time he is sick', how wicked and ungrateful it is for him, by obstinacy or impatience', to cause his kind parents any unnecessary trouble or anxiety. And if he has ever been in the habit of taking medicine very unwillingly', let him try the

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experiment the next time he is sick', of taking it cheerfully, and willingly', and see how much easier it is to himself, and pleasanter to his parents.

LESSON L.

GRATITUDE. A HYMN.

WE come, great God, with gladness',
Our humble thanks to bring`;
With hearts yet free from sadness',
Our hymns of praise we sing`;
Fruits, flowers, for us are glowing
In plenty round the land";
Like streams of bounty flowing',
Come mercies from thy hand.

Health, peace and joy attend us',
Kind friends are ever near`;
And thou, oh God, dost send us
These gifts, these friends, so dear;
And still, we in our blindness
Enjoy, but disobey`;

And yet, thou in thy kindness',
Turn'st not these gifts away'.

And now in childhood's morning,
Our hymns to thee we raise';
Thy love our lives adorning',
Shall fill our hearts with praise.
Thy will henceforth for ever
Shall be our constant guide`;
From that straight path may never
Our footsteps turn aside.

LESSON LI.

JEMMY STRING.

I KNEW a little heedless boy',
A child that seldom cared',
If he could get his cake and toy',
How other matters fared.

He always bore upon his feet'
A signal of the thing',
For which on him his playmates put'
The name of Jemmy String.

No malice in his heart was there';
He had no fault besidé,
So great as that of wanting caré
To keep his shoe-strings tied.

You'd often see him on the run',
To chase the geese about';
While both his shoe-ties were undone',
With one end slipping out.

He'd tread on one', then down he'd go',
And all around would ring'

With bitter cries and sounds of woe',
That came from Jemmy String.

And oft, by such a sad mishap',
Would Jemmy catch a hurt`;
The muddy pool would catch his cap',
His clothes would catch the dirt!

Then home he'd hasten through the street',
To tell about his fall':

While on his little sloven feet',

The cause was plain to all.