the river, and, after swimming a little way, dived beneath the surface.

Meanwhile, the greatest confusion prevailed in the boat. The poor mother continued to call upon her lost child, scarcely knowing what she said; for the shock of seeing little Ellen fall overboard had bewildered her. Mr. Wilkins dared not leave his wife, but continued holding her hands, while, with his head turned over his shoulder, he anxiously gazed on the part to which his friends were trying to bring round the boat. The current was then very powerful, and bore them forward, in spite of their endeavors to get back, or even to remain stationary. Small hope, indeed, remained of ever seeing the poor child again; since she had not risen to the surface, and the water flowed on in its rapid, unbroken course.

Suddenly a strange noise was heard on the side of the boat opposite to the one whence the party were eagerly looking, and something large seemed to be splashing through the water.

"See, see, the dog, the child!" joyfully exclaimed one of the gentlemen, who, on turning round when he heard the noise, suddenly observed the faithful dog. It was so indeed. The brave, the faithful Nero had dived to the bottom of that deep river, and, through the mercy and compassion of God, was enabled to find the very spot where the innocent child had settled down into her cold, strange

cradle of weeds and slime. Seizing her clothes, and holding them fast in his teeth, he brought her up to the surface of the water, a very little distance from the boat, over which his master eagerly leant, and, with looks that told the joy of his honest heart, he gave the little Ellen into the hands of her astonished father. Then, swimming back to the shore, he shook the water from his long, shaggy coat, and laid himself down, panting, to recover from the fatigue of his perilous undertaking.

The delight of the agitated parents, when receiving their child again, was mingled with great alarm; for Ellen showed no signs of life. Her little face looked deadly pale; it hung on her shoulder; her pretty flaxen curls were straight and stiff, and streaming with water, which ran from every part of her clothes. The white frock, and little tippet, and in short every part of her disordered dress, showed that she had sunk into the depth of the dark mud which formed the bed of the river. Wonderful it seemed that the dog could so instantly have found his master's child, and so readily have brought her up within their reach.

But though Ellen seemed to be dead, signs of life soon became apparent. She opened her blue eyes, and breathed, though with difficulty, and very speedily did the boat move towards the landingplace, whence the company had started, in order to obtain immediate assistance; but even before they reached it, the tender care of the parents had so revived the little girl, that she could both smile and faintly speak. Joyful, indeed, it was, when her voice, even in a low whisper, pronounced words so dear to them; and they had no language with which to express the abounding gladness of their hearts, while, holding little Ellen, wrapped in a warm dry cloak, they watched every sign of returning life. Those who accompanied them in their voyage down the river, shared in the parents' gladness; those especially who had children of their own; and little Ellen's escape from a dreadful death was told that evening to many of her playfellows, as a subject both of caution and abundant thankfulness.

Praising what is lost, makes the remembrance dear.

The Little Errand Runner.
I NEVER saw a bairnie yet

An errand rin mair fleet than Mary,
And O she's proud the praise to get,
When hame she trips as light's a fairy.
In ae wee hand the change she grips,
And what she's sent for in the ither,
Then like a lintie in she skips,
Sae happy aye to please her mither.

She never stops wi' bairns to play,
But a' the road as she gaes trottin',
Croons to hersel what she's to say,
For fear a word should be forgotten;
And then as clear as A B C

The message tells, without a blunder,
And like a little eident bee,

She's hame again-a perfect wonder.

WINTER, cold, blustering, yet cheerful, social winter, has come at last. December and January, which are the two principal, and often the coldest winter months, have appeared this season like early spring or late autumn, rather than like old stern, hoary winter; and with, perhaps, the exception of a few cold days, there has been nothing to remind us to the contrary. The girls had no sleigh-rides, the boys no coasting or skating. Violets and some

other plants actually blossomed during the reign of old Janus; in short, the season has been figuratively a "wolf in sheep's clothing." But there is an old saying that " Winter never rots in the sky," and the month of February has proved it to be a true one, for it enveloped us suddenly with a train of "vapors, and clouds, and storms," which seemed to remind us that we must not expect spring birds at present.

There is no season subject to more variation in its temperature, its storms, its duties, or its pleasures, than winter. It is almost emphatically a season of recreation and rest; a time for closing up the business of the old year and making preparations for the new; a time for instruction, reading and reflection. In the spring every kind of out-door employment seems to revive. The farmer casts the seeds, which are to produce the means of his sustenance, into the ground with hope. In summer they are carefully and patiently cultivated, and in the autumn the fruits of his labors are gathered home and safely housed. The plough is then laid away, hill-sides are forsaken, the flocks of grazing cattle are driven home, and everything betokens the approach of blustering winds and drifting snows. Well, no matter! We have warm, comfortable homes, and will let Jack Frost do his worst, and if he does occasionally give us a pretty smart pull at our noses, it will do us no harm. It is only the drones and idlers who are afraid of his tricks, for Jack has a perfect hatred of all lazy people. If you want to cut his acquaintance, fly round lively, and the old fellow will not trouble you with his importunities.

Hardly anything can be more exciting than a right snapping cold morning after a heavy fall of snow. You can feel it when you get up, and, if you scrape the frost from your chamber window, you can almost see it too. The smoke from the neighboring chimneys rises up a great distance, like a huge column perfectly straight, and, as the sun comes peeping over the horizon, the air is filled with minute particles of frost, like small snow-flakes, falling to the ground, and glittering like dew-drops upon a summer's morning. But you will hardly have time to make many observations, if you sleep in a cold room, which you always should do if you are well, until you are dressed, and have taken your morning exercise, and eaten your