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he died—and I am now an Orphan Boy! Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I when news of Nelson's victory came, along the crowded streets to fly, and see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought; she could not bear to see my joy, for with my father's life 'twas bought—and made me a poor Orphan Boy! The people's shouts were long and loud; my mother shuddering closed her ears; "REJOICE! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd; my mother answered with her tears. Why are you crying thus," said I, "while others laugh and shout with joy?" She kissed me, and, with such a sigh, she called me her poor Orphan Boy! "What is an orphan boy?" I said; when, suddenly, she gasped for breath, and her eyes closed-I shrieked for aid, but, ah! her eyes were closed in-DEATH! And now they've tolled my mother's knell, and I'm no more a parent's joy ;-oh Lady! I have learned too well what 'tis to be an Orphan Boy! Oh were I by your bounty fed-nay, gentle lady, do not chide—trust me, I mean to earn my bread; the sailor's orphan boy has pride! Lady, you weep!-Ha!-this to me? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look and see your happy, happy, Orphan Boy !-Mrs. Opie.

FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE!

WHEN a child, I was scolded for being too late at school; when a boy, I was cuffed and kicked for being too late at my work; and when a man, I was turned away for being behind my time on a particular occasion when my services were wanted.

My Uncle Jonathan was well to do in the world, and as his nephews were his nearest relations, we had reason to expect that his property would come among us. He had, however, one peculiarity, which effectually shut his door against me-he never was five minutes too late in an appointment in his life, and thought most contemptuously of those who were. I really believe that I was somewhat a favourite with him until my unfortunate failing justly offended him.

He had occasion to go a journey, and I was directed to be with him at seven in the morning, to carry his portmanteau to the coach, Alas! I was "five minutes too late," and he had left the house.

Knowing his particularity, I hurried after him, and, running till I could scarcely stand, arrived at one end of the

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street just in time to see the coach go off with my uncle at the other! Dearly did I pay for being FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE."

My uncle did not return for a month, and certainly shewed more forbearance toward me than he had ever been known to do on a similar occasion; for in a letter he stated, that if I could be punctual, he should wish me to meet him on his return, to take charge of his portmanteau, and thereby make some amends for my misconduct. Off I set, but knowing that coaches frequently arrive a quarter of an hour after their set time, I thought a minute or two could be of no consequence. The coach, unfortunately, was "horridly exact," and once more I was after my time-just FIVE MINUTES TOO

LATE!"

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My Uncle Jonathan never forgave me, fully believing that I had done it on purpose to get rid of the trouble of carrying his portmanteau. Years rolled away, and I was not so much as permitted to enter his door.

Time, however, heals many a sore, and while it ruffles many a smooth brow, smooths many a ruffled temper. My Uncle Jonathan so far relented, that, when about to make his will, he sent me to call upon him exactly at ten o'clock. Deter mined to be in time, I set off, allowing myself some minutes to spare; and, pulling out my watch at the door, found that for once in my life I had kept my appointment to the second. The servant, to my surprise, told me that my Uncle Jonathan had ordered the door to be shut in my face, for being behind my time! It was then I found out that my watch was too slow, and that I was exactly FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE!"

Had I been earlier on that occasion, I might have been provided for; but now I am a poor man, and a poor man I am likely to remain. However good may arise from my giving this short account of my foolish habit, as it may possibly convince some of the value of punctuality, and dispose them to avoid the manifold evils of being "FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE."

Few young persons are sensible of the importance of punctuality, because they are not aware of the value of time. The habit of punctuality must be acquired early. Be punctual in the family and school, and you will be a punctual man.

CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead;

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud,-" Say, father, say,
If yet my task be done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

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Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,—

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My father! must I stay!"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendours wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy-Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,-

But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young, faithful heart.—Mrs. Hemans.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And, if you find it wondrous short,
It can not hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,-
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets,

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To

every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shewed the rogues they lied;

The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died.-Goldsmith.

CHRISTMAS.

ON Christmas-eve grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children during the day in stoning

the plums, and all that, insists, regularly every year, on Uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half-an-hour or so, which Uncle George good-humouredly does to the vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blindman's-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an opportunity of displaying his dexterity.

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state: leaving Aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling castors, and Uncle George carrying bottles into the diningparlour, and calling for cork-screws, and getting into everybody's way.

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig of misletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it—a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages grandmamma's ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandmamma under a misletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do Aunt George and Uncle George; and grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily than any of them.

Suddenly a hackney-coach is heard to stop, and Uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims "Here's Jane!" on which the children rush to the door, and helter-skelter down stairs; and Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of "Oh, my!" from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse.

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of "Who's that?" and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it's "poor Aunt Margaret." Upon which, Aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new comer; and grandmamma draws herself up, rather stiff and stately; for Margaret married a poor man without her consent. The air of con

s rectitude, and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has d, sits ill upon her; and when the poor girl is led in