A cloth was taken off the cage, and three birds were inside it. "Oh, papa!" cried the children, "what odd-looking things! and they sit blinking with their eyes, as if the lamp dazzled them. What are they?" "Only three owls," said Mr. Grey. "I daresay you did not know that, but they are common birds in this country and many others. For each of you there is one. This we will call Flapwing, and this is for Mary; and for John there is another, called Dick; and this one is to be called Peck, and is for little Jane. You must all see them cleaned and fed every day, and Robert will give you food for them. They are quite young now, and therefore we may tame them, if they are taken pains with. When they are tame and full-grown we will let them fly about, and they will destroy the vermin in the garden." The children were enchanted with their new favourites; and the first thing in the morning was to feed them, and put them in a nice dark place. Time wore on, and the children grew older and bigger, and so did the three owls. They never forgot to feed them and clean them; but once Mr. Grey found the three owls placed on a bench in the heat of the dazzling sunshine, and the poor things were winking and shutting their great eyes like sleepy cats. Jane, and John, and Mary were laughing at the odd faces of their favourites; but Mr. Grey told them they ought only to put the owls out at evening time, for the sun gave the same pain to them as a bright light does to the eyes of a person coming in from the dark. Accordingly the owls were put every day into a hollow tree, where they caught insects or reptiles to eat. As the three owls were so young, their wings were not cut. If owls are not taken very young, they cannot be tamed; but these owls grew so tame that they were allowed to fly about as they pleased. In a neighbouring park there were wild owls, and at night their hissing and hooting usually attracted Flapwing, and Dick, and Peck, and made them fly over to the trees where the others were; but they returned at daybreak to their perches in the greenhouse. In the course of the summer, Mr. Grey took his three children to the sea-side; and while they were away, Dick, the gardener's son, had the charge of them. Dick had strict injunctions to look after them, and feed and clean them, and supply them with dead mice, and all the nasty things on which owls live. One day Dick took a holyday, and did not return till late; indeed, we are sorry to say, he quite forgot to feed the owls. When he did come home he could only find Dicky and Peck in the hollow tree; as for Flapwing, being very hungry, she had been hunting for mice, and at last took it into her head to fly into the lodge, where, to rest herself, she got under the arm-chair; there she remained very snug the rest of the day. At night, when every body was in bed, she came out to try and get home, and in so doing, flew about the room, and made such a noise, that the gardener and his wife came running down stairs to find out what was the matter. Flapwing hid herself under the chair, as before; but when Mrs. Hodge began to move the things about, the leg of the arm-chair was accidentally pushed upon the poor owl, and her back was broken, so that she died instantly. The gardener's wife was very sorry to find that she had killed Miss Mary's owl; but as she could not bring it to life, she buried poor Flapwing in the garden under the hollow tree. When Jane, and John, and Mary came home, they grieved very much at the fate of their beloved owl: they carried their show of grief so far as to put black crape upon the claws of the survivors; and truly Dick and Peck looked like mourners. Some time after, when the children were playing in the garden, they heard a strange screaming noise, but could not tell whence it came. At last, looking into the field, they observed all the cows running, and poking at some black thing lying on the ground. This black thing proved to be poor Dick, whose leg was broken, and who was helplessly screaming. John got over the fence to rescue the unhappy owl, and shortly returned with it to Jane and Mary. The children then began to think of the best way to cure poor Dick's leg. Mary thought she could set the bone as surgeons do, and Jane ran to get some lint and some bandages. Then Dick was laid softly on his back, and Mary bound up his leg and carried him home. Some days after, they thought he must be cured, so they undid the bandage; but the broken leg was not adhering at all. Then the case was left to nature, and the result was, that the wound healed, but the leg became shorter than the other, and Dick was lame for the rest of his life. One day he was missing. Every corner of the garden and greenhouse was searched, but in vain,—no traces of Dick were found. At length the stove in the greenhouse was to be mended, and in moving the bricks the skeleton of a bird was discovered. As one leg was shorter than the other, it was certain that this skeleton was that of poor Dick; but how he came there is unknown to this day. Now we have only to tell what became of Peck :-Peck was very lonely when she had lost both her companions; she used to hop about by herself, and catch insects in the dark parts of the garden. In the evening she used to fly off to the wild owls, and return as formerly; but by degrees Peck returned very seldom, and in time forsook her haunts to be entirely with the wild owls. Jane wished her to come home, but she made up her mind that, as Peck was alone, she would only pine to death; therefore, when she heard the hooting of the owls in the old trees, she became contented; and by the time that Peck had made up her mind to remain always with the wild owls, Jane began to think it a lucky circumstance. Thus ends the history of these three birds; and we assure all our young readers that it is quite true, and happened to the owls of one of our friends. The Good Blacksmith. I AM going to tell you the story of a poor man, a blacksmith, who died about ten years ago. He did not live in England, but in France,-a country you have perhaps heard of,-it is very near England, though we have to cross the sea to get at it. This good man was called Peter Ricard; and he was an example to the village where he lived, by his piety, his industry, and his great charity. Perhaps you will wonder how a poor man could shew great charity; and it is for that very reason that I mean to give you his history. He worked very hard, though his work never kept him from fulfilling all his reli 238 gious duties; and while he laboured with his hands, his thoughts were with God. His food was of the commonest description; he drank nothing but water, and lay upon the bare boards; but he prepared good food for his sick neighbours; gave them wine, which he made himself from the produce of his little vineyard, and his bed was occupied by a poor beggar covered with sores. Ricard kept this beggar in his house for many years, and treated him with the tenderest care, dressing his sores with his own hand. At length the beggar got tired of his kind host, and left him-not, however, for long; he soon felt what he had lost, and returned to Peter's cottage to ask once more for hospitality: Ricard gladly received him, again gave up his bed to him, and before long nursed him in his last illness, and saw him depart with a good hope that he died the death of the righteous. Peter Ricard lived in a time of dreadful disturbances, when all good people were in danger of their lives; especially all the clergy, who were persecuted, and forced to leave their flocks, and fly to save their lives. While the persecution lasted, Ricard had the happiness to be able to conceal the clergyman of his parish in his cottage. He used to take the good priest by night to visit the sick, and by night, too, divine service was performed in his humble cottage. Thus, while in other villages the people were left as sheep without their shepherd, Ricard and his neighbours had the blessing of their priest's guidance and assistance. Peter Ricard devoted to the repairs and adornment of his parish-church a portion of his earnings; he could not bear to see the House of God in a slovenly or neglected condition. The church and the poor shared all that he had to give. I need hardly tell you that so good a man carefully obeyed our Lord's command of concealing our good deeds and almsgiving. But when he fell ill of his last illness the grief of his neighbours was unbounded. He himself waited thankfully for God's call to take him hence. He died calmly and peacefully, having devoutly received the holy sacrament of the body and blood of Christ. And now this poor, humble man, unknown while he lived here, has received a crown which cannot be taken from him. To him may be applied the words of a holy man of old: "The lowliest life, the highest throne." Poetry. HEAVEN IN PROSPECT. THEY all are gone into a world of light, Or those faint beams in which the hill is drest I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days,— O holy hope and high humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me, To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just, Shining no where but in the dark, What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, |