tears of regret will intrusively swell,
As mem'ry reverts to our former vocation,
And longs for the schoolroom we all loved so well.
   That old Sabbath schoolroom, that dearly-loved schoolroom,
   That blessed old schoolroom we all love so well.

THE HUNTER, AND HIS DOG JOWLER.

A famous hunter in the woodland country had a dog which was particularly fond of certain kinds of game, but exceedingly averse to other kinds of much better flavor. Now it happened that, whenever the hunter wished to give chase to moose or deer, Jowler was sure to scare up a woodchuck, or some still filthier game, leaving the deer to make good his escape.

Day after day thus passed away, leaving the hunter's labors no suitable reward. It was in vain that the hunter expostulated with his dog. Neither threats nor blows were of any avail. When the master would hunt one thing, the dog was sure to be hunting something else.

At length, both master and dog seemed to tire of their constant conflict, and to desire some adjustment, whereby each might accommodate his own taste to some extent, and yet live in harmony with the other. With this view, a friendly conference was held, in which Jowler appeared so tenacious, that the hunter well-nigh despaired of any adjustment whatever.

It was, however, finally agreed, that Jowler should hunt game to his own taste five days in the week, and devote the remaining hunting day to such game as his master preferred. Jowler, however, was careful to stipulate that, if he chanced to find himself ill, or not in hunting trim, on the sixth day, he should be considerately dealt by, and not forced to go beyond his strength.

The arrangements being fully made, a paper was drawn up containing the articles of agreement, and both Jowler and the hunter affixed their names thereto. Jowler, no doubt, congratulated himself on having it all to his liking five days out of six; while the hunter, perhaps, flattered himself that the taste of venison one day in the week, would so improve the standard of Jowler's tastes, as to bend him, at length, altogether to his own wishes.

For a while, things seemed to promise well, under the new arrangement. By and by, when the day for hunting venison came round, Jowler was sick, and told his master he couldn't hunt that day. So his master very considerately excused him, according to the terms of their agreement.

It was not long, however, before Jowler refused to hunt for another reason. He said, he had followed his own game with such constancy and alacrity for the five days, that he was too much exhausted to hunt venison on the sixth day. He must rest from any farther fatigue; and claimed the continued indulgence of his master, by virtue of their contract.

The hunter urged in vain that Jowler had virtually violated the contract; for although it was stipulated that he should not be compelled to the chase to his personal detriment, yet it was implied, of course, that he should use the same precaution to be in hunting trim on the sixth day, as he did to be so on the other five. While the fact was, he purposely deprived himself of rest during the five days, that he might be compelled to employ the sixth as a day of rest, thus virtually appropriating the whole time to his own service.

Jowler, however, pretended not to be convinced of his wrong. Nor did his dishonesty stop here. His master soon discovered that, while he was pretending to be unable from his excessive fatigue to hunt venison, he was really continuing to hunt his own game, as on the other five days.

Thus did he go on, his old loves gaining strength day by day, and impelling him to a total disregard of his contract in order to indulge them, until his master would bear with him no longer, but drove him from his door.

Having deprived himself of the care of so good a master, he soon fell into still greater irregularities; and a neighboring shepherd, suspecting him of committing depredations upon his flock, killed him, thus terminating his vicious career.

Moral.—Excessive engagedness in worldly labors six days in the week, is no sufficient excuse for the neglect of public worship on the seventh; and a vicious love, continually indulged, is quite sure to root out even our good resolutions.

TAKE CARE OF YOUR BOOKS.

Suppose you loan a book to a friend, would you not consider it his imperative duty to take the best of care of it, as though it were his own, and return it in as good condition as it was when taken? Certainly you would. Then the same duty devolves upon you, as a member of the Sunday school. The school lends you books, and expects you to take good care of them, and return them early. This is no trifling duty. If you have a right to be negligent, every other scholar must have the same right, and the Library would be speedily ruined. Thus your negligence greatly wrongs others. Therefore, children, take care of your books.

MY NIECE.

I know a darling little girl,
   With silky, chestnut hair,
Which falls in many a dancing curl,
   Around her shoulders fair.

Her eyes are very dark and soft,
   And round their curtained bed,
I've seen the fairy smiles full oft
   Their radiant beauty shed.

Her very tears are like the rain
   Which falls in summer's hour;
Quick turned to glittering gems again,
   As sun succeeds to shower.

This witching child is very small;
   Her feeble, tiny hands,
Can scarcely tend the mammoth doll,
   Which so much care demands.

Then, though her voice is very sweet,
   She does but little more
Than simple childish songs repeat,
   And prattle baby lore.

She cannot skip, for ah! she's lame;
   One soft, white foot denies
Its aid, her body to sustain,
   And weak and powerless lies.

Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears,
   Which claims our homage mute;
And in her hand a sceptre bears,
   Whose sway we ne'er dispute.

From whence doth come the wondrous power
   She never fails to wield—
Making strong hearts and wills, each hour,
   To her light wishes yield?

If but a touch of grief appear
   To veil that bright, pure face;
If sickness cast its shadows there,
   Or pain its dark lines trace;

How anxious every means we take,
   The ill to drive away!
And cheerfully, for her dear sake,
   Would watch both night and day.

And when the light of coming health
   Brightens that clear, dark eye,
What joy is ours! priceless wealth,
   Earth's gold can never buy.

She makes us cast aside our book,
   Though filled with learning rare;
To work is vain, when fun's arch look
   Those beaming features wear.

Whence is this spell? I can but think
   That, in sweet childhood's hour,
E'er yet the soul has learned to drink
   From knowledge' fount of power;

Or felt what virtue is, or known
   Life's sins, not yet begun;
Or seen how thick life's path is strown
   With dangers it must shun;

A spirit pure doth come, to dwell
   In these fresh-bursting minds,
Who weaves round them the powerful spell
   Our hearts so firmly binds;

Our holier thoughts through them to wake;
   Our earth-dimmed vision clear;
And through their purity, to make
   All holy things more dear.

If so, where speeds that spirit,