really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.

The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages.

Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story.

What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.

If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture.

THE CHAMELEON.-JAMES MERRICK.

A FABLE FROM M. DE LA MOTTE.

Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes, that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post, Yet round the world the blade has been To see whatever could be seen, Returning from his finished tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chance to drop, The traveled fool your mouth will stop; "Sir, if my judgment you'll allow, I've seen-and sure I ought to know," So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travelers of such a cast,

As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed And on their way in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that, Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the chameleon's form and nature. "A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never lived beneath the sun. A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoined: And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace; and then its hueWho ever saw so fine a blue?"

Hold, there," the other quick replies,
""Tis green," I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray:
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed
And saw it eat the air for food.”
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."

"Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!" "Green!" cries the other in a fury

Why, sir!-d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"

""Twere no great loss," the friend replies,

“For, if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third-
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

"Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother! The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candlelight: I marked it well-'twas black as jetYou stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it." Pray, sir, do: I'll lay my life the thing is blue." "And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said: then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white.

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-
"My children," the chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue,)
You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you:
Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."

LITTLE MARGERY.

Kneeling, white-robed, sleepy eyes,
Peeping through the tangled hair,
"Now I lay me-
-I'm so tired-
Aunty, God knows all my prayer;
He'll keep little Margery."

Watching by the little bed,

Dreaming of the coming years,
Much I wonder what they'll bring,
Most of smiles or most of tears,
To my little Margery.

Will the simple, trusting faith
Shining in the childish breast
Always be so clear and bright?
Will God always know the rest,
Loving little Margery?

As the weary years go on,
And you are a child no more,
But a woman, trouble-worn,
Will it come-this faith of yours―
Blessing you, dear Margery?

If your sweetest love shall fail,
And your idol turn to dust,
Will you bow to meet the blow,
Owning all God's ways are just?
Can you, sorrowing Margery?

Should your life-path grow so dark
You can see no step ahead,
Will you lay your hand in His,
Trusting by him to be led

To the light, my Margery?

Will the woman, folding down
Peaceful hands across her breast,
Whisper, with her old belief,

66

God, my Father, knows the rest,
He'll take tired Margery?”

True, my darling, life is long,

And its ways are dark and dim; But God knows the path you tread; I can leave you safe with Him, Always, little Margery.

He will keep your childish faith,
Through your weary woman years,
Shining ever strong and bright,
Never dimmed by saddest tears,
Trusting little Margery.

You have taught a lesson sweet
To a yearning, restless soul;
We pray in snatches, ask a part,
But God above us knows the whole,
And answers, baby Margery.

THE MIGHT OF LOVE.-ALICE CARY.

"There is work, good man, for you to-day!" So the wife of Jamie cried,

"For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway,
Is beached, and her coal's to be got away
At the ebbing time of tide."

"And, lassie, would you have me start,
And make for Solway sands?
You know that I, for my poor part,
To help me, have nor horse nor cart-
I have only just my hands!"

"But, Jamie, be not, till ye try,
Of honest chances baulked;
For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy
That while the old ship's high and dry
Her master'll have her caulked."

And far and near the men were pressed,
As the wife saw in her dreams.
"Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the best,"
As he went under with the rest
To caulk the open seams.

And while the outward-flowing tide
Moaned like a dirge of woe,

The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried : "Her hull is heeling toward the side Where the men are at work below!"

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed,
Made for the Solway sands—
Men heaving men like coals aside,
For now it was the master cried:
"Run for your lives, all hands!"

Like dead leaves in the sudden swell
Of the storm, upon that shout,
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell,
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell-mell
The men came hurtling out!

Thank God, thank God, the peril's past!
"No! no!" with blanching lip,
The master cries. "One man, the last,
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast
Betwixt the sands and the ship!"