the scattered contents of the jar. A portion of the jar remained in its place; and on looking into this he saw a venomous serpent in it, coiled round, and dead. In horror at what he had done, he exclaimed, "I implore forgiveness. What have I done? This man is a Welee, and has prevented my selling what would have poisoned my customers." He looked at every passenger all that day, in the hope of seeing again the man he had so much injured, that he might implore his forgiveness; but he saw him not, for he was too much bruised to be able to walk. On the following day, however, with his limbs still swollen from the blows he had received, the Welee limped through his district, and broke a great jar of milk at a shop not far from that of the bean-seller; and its owner treated him as the beanseller had done the day before. But while he was beating him, some persons ran up, and stopped his hand, informing him that the person whom he was thus punishing was a Welee, and relating to him the affair of the serpent that was found in the jar of beans. "Go and look," said they, "in your jar of milk, and you will find at the bottom of it something either poisonous or unclean." He looked, and found in the remains of the jar a dead dog. On the third day the Welee, with the help of a staff, hobbled painfully up the street, and saw a servant carrying upon his head a supper-tray covered with dishes of meat, vegetables, and fruit, for a party who were going to take a repast in the country. He put his staff between the servant's legs, and overthrew him; and the contents of the dishes were scattered in the street. With a mouth full of curses, the servant immediately began to give the Welee as severe a thrashing as he himself expected to receive from his disappointed master for this accident. But several persons soon collected around him; and one of these bystanders observed a dog eat part of the contents of one of the dishes, and a moment after fall down

dead.

He instantly seized the hand of the servant,

and informed him of this circumstance, which proved that the man whom he had been beating was a Welee. Every apology was made to the injured man; but he was so disgusted with his new office, that he petitioned his release from it; and in answer to his solicitations, his supernatural powers were with drawn, and he returned to his shop more contented than before.

"TO-MORROW."

"FRED," said old Mark Jones to Fred Dewar, who was standing near the porch in which he was sitting, in eager talk with one of Mark's grandsons-"Fred, how many hours are there in a day?"

Twelve," said the boy, looking up with a good deal of surprise.

"How many hours will there be to-morrow from morning till evening?" continued Mark.

"Why, twelve, to be sure; why do you ask?" "Because, Fred, I'm thinking that to-morrow won't be long enough for half of what you've settled to do in it. Since I have been sitting here, I have heard you say half a dozen times, 'Oh, I'll do that to-morrow.' Better do it to-day, lad, and not put it off till to-morrow."

"Oh, there's no hurry, Mark: to-morrow will be soon enough for all that Ben has been advising me to do."

"Nay," said the old man, "don't give such a thoughtless answer. You have a sad trick of putting things off till to-morrow, Fred; and if you don't cure yourself of it, you'll never come to good; but you'll be useless to your parents, and to every one else. I speak for your good, Fred; now do, pray, hearken to me.

"I know you wish me well, Mark," answered Fred, more gravely than he had spoken before; "and I'll try to do better: I'll begin to-morrow, that I will."

66

Ay, you'll begin to-morrow! why not begin to-day? why not at once? Do you remember what Mr. Carnegie said last Sunday- The present moment only is our own; let us therefore make use of that, and not wait for one which may never come'?" Well, but, Mark, I really do mean to try to be more steady and industrious.”

66

"Then take heed, my lad, that you are not contented with meaning to improve. But I must not stay here talking to you: it begins to get cold, and I shall bring on the rheumatiz in my lame arm." And the old man rose from his seat, and went into his cottage.

Fred Dewar was said by his parents, and the village in general, to be "a good boy in the main ;" but he had the sad fault of putting off duties to another day, instead of doing them when they ought to have been done. "Well, but that is only a little fault,' you say; "and if that was all he did wrong, he might fairly be said to deserve the village character."

66

Stop till you have heard all I have to say about Fred, before you call it "a little fault." It is a great mistake to call any fault that is committed again and again a little fault:" every time it is repeated, it grows greater and greater, and becomes more and more difficult to conquer. But I must go back to Fred, and shew you into how much trouble this one bad habit brought him.

"Fred," said his father one fine evening in June, " your mother and I are going to walk to Birch Meadows to see your uncle. Run out and mind the pigs, and see that they do not get into Farmer Hobson's garden."

66 Very well, father," said Fred, who was very busy at the moment cutting some elder into a whistle. He really meant to obey his father; but he went on cutting, and thinking that it would do just as well by and by; and then he ran to fetch his new ball, to try how high it would bound. As

he crossed the green in front of the house, he heard a great squeaking and squalling. “Oh," thought he, "there are those tiresome pigs; I must go and look after them presently:" but he went from one amusement to another, till all remembrance of the pigs went out of his mind. By and by in came his father.

"Fred my boy, why arn't you minding those pigs? and what's all that squealing about? Go and see."

This time Fred went at once. He was absent some time, and came back looking very sad. "Well, what's the matter?" said his father quickly; out with it: bad news won't get better

66

by keeping."

So Fred told the news; and very bad they were. The pigs had strayed into Farmer Hobson's garden; and after doing a great deal of mischief there, -trampling on roses and pinks, treading down plants, and rooting up seeds,—the farmer had let loose his fierce mastiff, who had worried one of John Dewar's best pigs, and the others were driven off to the village pound. He was very angry with his son, and sent him to bed without his supper; but it was a greater punishment still to Fred to know what expense and trouble his negligence would bring upon his father. Still it did not cure him; nor did another punishment which this bad habit brought upon him.

The uncle whom his father had been to visit was not long returned from abroad; and he brought home two beautiful doves for his nephew Fred. These he was very fond of; and his joy was great when he found that the hen was building a nest. In due time two eggs were laid and hatched. Fred was very proud of his young doves, and very anxious to rear them, in order to give them to the squire's lady at the great house near, who was fond of birds, and who had been very kind to Fred, and had taught him to read and write. He therefore

tended them very carefully, and longed for the time when they might be separated from the old birds, and old enough to be given away. In the course of a few weeks they were able to feed themselves; and Fred moved them into a separate cage one night, intending to carry them up to the great house as soon as the squire and his family, who were expected in a few days, should come from London. There was a stick broken out in the wicker cage; and his father advised him to mend it, lest the birds should get out. "Yes, father," said Fred, “I mean to mend it the first thing tomorrow." To-morrow came and went: there was a grand cricket-match to be seen in the next village, and "it cannot matter much for a day," said Fred to himself; "the doves did not get out last night, and why should they to-night?" So off he went to the cricket-field, and thought no more of the cage or the doves.

Alas! the next morning, when Fred went to feed the birds, the cage was empty. The outhouse in which it hung was searched. Fred hunted all

through the garden and the wood near the house, but in vain. A few days after, some of the birds' feathers, and their beaks and claws, were found, shewing too well what had been their fate. I need hardly tell you how unhappy Fred was. You may fancy how often he wished that he had mended his cage at once, and how sorry and ashamed he felt when the squire's lady came down from town, and inquired after his doves. His father hoped that this lesson would lead him to cure himself of his fault; but it only had an effect for a time, and he soon returned to his careless ways. He needed a more severe lesson still; and, before long, it was given him.

A few months after the loss of his birds, two of his cousins, sons of a linen-draper in London, came to spend a week with him. Having never been in the country before, they were delighted with every