"A secret?" cried Harry; "tell us about it."

"I must be careful, my boy, or you will get another story out of me, but it shall be very short. A great many years ago, a wise old man gave notice that he had found out a secret, by means of which all persons could have just what they liked; and he appointed a certain day when he would make it known to all who wished to profit by it. At the appointed time there came to him a great many of those who were not satisfied with their lot, and he thus addressed them:-My friends, you can all have just what you like, simply by liking what you have."

The children were a little disappointed at this story, but after thinking of it awhile, they agreed to try to learn the old man's lesson, and to enjoy whatever they might have without wishing in vain for fairy favors.

The Little Girl and the Shell.

WHEN I went to visit a friend, the other day, I saw a little girl, who sat on a low seat by the fire-side, and held in her hand a pretty white sea-shell, tinged with pink, which she placed against her ear; and all the while a settled calm rested upon her face, and she seemed as if she was listening to the tones of some loved voice; then taking the shell away from her ear, she would gaze upon it with a look of deep fondness and pensive delight. At last I said, "What are you doing, my dear?" "I am listening to the whisper," she replied. "What whisper ?" I asked. "The whisper of the sea," she said. Then, after a moment's pause, she added, "My uncle sent me this shell, and with it a letter, in which he said, that if I placed it against my ear, I should hear the whisper of the sea; and he also said, he would soon come to us, and bring me a great many pretty things; and mamma said, when she heard the whisper of the shell, that we should call it uncle Henry's promise. And so it became very precious to me, and I love its sound better than sweet music." "And where is uncle Henry now?" I asked. "He is in heaven now," she replied; "he never came to us, as we hoped he would, for he died far away, and his grave is in the sea; and so now, when I listen to the shell, I fancy that the sea whispers, in the same soft manner,

above my uncle Henry's grave. And sometimes, when I listen, I think he whispers to me from heaven, and tells me to be a good child!" I now saw a tear stealing down her cheek, but, wiping it away, she added, "It was not the pretty things, he said he would bring, that I wished for, but to see my dear uncle Henry. He never came, nor ever will come, but I shall see him some day, if I listen to his whisper, which seems to tell me of heaven, and to bid me to be ready to go there."

The Story of a Little Lamb.

Ir was on a soft morning in May, when a certain little lamb was called from sleep by the tinkling of the sheep-bell. Slowly he raised his head, still keeping his fore feet bent under his bosom, and looked with a sleepy eye after his mother, who had just trotted away from his side. Again the bell sounded, and the pretty little lamb rose

Now,

upon his feet, and was soon leaping by his mother's side. the field in which these sheep dwelt was a place of great beauty; the verdant hill, the sparkling streamlet, the shady tree, the green pasture, were all there; it seemed a quiet fold apart from the rest of the world-a pleasant place on purpose for that happy little flock. Now, the little lamb of which I have been speaking was the darling of the flock; no other had so white a fleece, so mild an eye, so gentle a nature. One day, as this little lamb was playing by himself, at a short distance from the fold, he was espied by an eagle, who no sooner beheld him than he darted down, and, seizing him in his talons, bore him far away from the little flock. O! it was sad to see the sheep look after their darling lamb; and the poor little lamb once caught the distant tinkling of the sweet bell it had so loved to follow. Now, as the eagle was flying over a valley, an archer shot an arrow which went into its heart, and it fell with the lamb at the archer's feet. Then, the archer took the lamb home to his child, and bade him take care of the poor little creature. Now, the child had a tender heart, and he took the lamb, and bathed its wounds, and washed the blood from its snowy fleece, and wept. But the lamb began to revive, and the child was glad; and he took a silken cord, and placed it about his neck, and led the lamb about with him wherever he went; and in the joy of his heart he thought the lamb must be as happy as himself. But it pined for the loss of its mother's love, and the peace it had known amid the happy little flock in the far-off fold. One summer day, the child, being weary with long rambling, fell asleep on a bank of flowers, still holding the silken cord tightly in his hand; but looser and looser it became, till it slipped away from his grasp, and the little lamb fled away from his side forever.

Onward and onward went the lamb, not knowing whither. After a time it began to rain, and the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. The poor little lamb trembled; but when the thunder was not heard for a moment he forgot his sorrows, and stopped to nibble a daisy; then, startled by a sudden flash, he looked up in terror, and was again driven onward by the loud pealing thunder. On he went, over a wide common, till he came to the foot of a steep hill, which, with weary feet, he climbed; but when he had gained the summit,

weak and trembling, he laid down to die; his eyes became dim and his heart beat faintly in his bosom: but the thought of his mother and the peaceful fold, the sweet flowers, and all things he had loved in the first happy moments of his little life, were present to his eye and the poor lamb closed his eyes in sorrow.

But as his heart grew more faint, he was startled by the tinkling of a distant bell; and slowly raising his head, he beheld his own little flock in their own happy fold; and new life awoke in his heart, and new light shone from his eye, and new strength came to his feet, and in a moment more the lost lamb was by his mother's side, telling how he had been called back to life by the tinkling of that sweet sheep-bell.

Napoleon Bonaparte.

My little readers know that Napoleon was, not many years ago, the emperor of France. Their parents remember when he was a great conqueror, and the terror of the world. Like us all, he was once a child. He was a poor boy. His remarkable genius and energy raised him to the highest eminence; but his ambition finally overthrew him. He died in the strength of manhood, upon a desolate island, almost alone, and a prisoner. I have a few anecdotes to tell you of him when a youth. In them you may discover a portrait of delicacy, energy and perseverance, which you may emulate. But that violent temper was bad; be unlike him in that respect. I give you these facts about him as related by Madame Junot, one of his particular friends. Signora Lætitia was the mother of Napoleon; Saveria was his nurse. Now for the stories :

He was one day accused by one of his sisters of having eaten a basket full of grapes, figs, and citrons, which had come from the garden of his uncle the canon. None but those who were acquainted with the Bonaparte family can form any idea of the enormity of this offence. To eat fruit belonging to the uncle the canon was infinitely more criminal than to eat grapes and figs which might be claimed by anybody else. An inquiry took place. Napoleon denied the fact, and was whipped. He was told that if he would beg pardon he should be forgiven. He protested that he was innocent, but he

was not believed. If I recollect rightly, his mother was at the time on a visit to M. de Marbeuf, or some other friend. The result of Napoleon's obstinacy was, that he was kept three whole days upon bread and cheese. However, he would not cry: he was dull, but not sulky. At length, on the fourth day of his punishment, a little friend of Marianne Bonaparte returned from the country, and, on hearing of Napoleon's disgrace, she confessed that she and Marianne had eaten the fruit. It was now Marianne's turn to be punished. When Napoleon was asked why he had not accused his sister, he replied, that though he suspected that she was guilty, yet, out of consideration to her little friend, who had no share in the falsehood, he had said nothing. He was then only seven years of age.

This fact, which would have been nothing extraordinary in any other child, appeared to me worthy of a place among recollections which are connected with the whole life of Napoleon. It is somewhat characteristic of the man. I ought to add that the affair was never forgotten by Napoleon. Of this I observed a proof in 1801, at a fête given by Madame Bacciochi (formerly Marianne Bonaparte) at Neuilly, where she resided with Lucien.

His

Saveria told me that Napoleon was never a pretty boy, as Joseph had been; his head always appeared too large for his body—a defect common to the Bonaparte family. When Napoleon grew up, the peculiar charm of his countenance lay in his eye, especially in the mild expression it assumed in his moments of kindness. anger, to be sure, was frightful, and though I am no coward, I never could look at him in his fits of rage without shuddering. Though his smile was captivating, yet the expression of his mouth when disdainful or angry could scarcely be seen without terror. But that forehead, which seemed formed to bear the crowns of a whole world; those hands, of which the most coquettish women might have been vain, and whose white skin covered muscles of iron; in short, of all that personal beauty which distinguished Napoleon as a young man, no traces were discernible in the boy. Saveria spoke truly when she said, that of all the children of Signora Lætitia, the emperor was the one from whom future greatness was least to be prognosti cated