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leaves, he soon made way with; and every time a zephyr came that way, the Lily poured out sweet fragrance, which the beetle eagerly drank in.

"But how still you are!" he said, gazing up into her lovely face. "Are you not tired of standing so always? "

"O no," she answered, "how could that be? This is my home; I never wander, and so never weary; but I wave to and fro in the cool breezes, and my leaves dance for joy in the air and the sunbeams."

"But I," said the beetle, "I work in the earth; I go to and fro, silent among my brothers; I grow weary; still I make passages in the ground, and dig it away with my claws, to shape a grave for some dead mouse, into which he falls. But what do you do, standing still and looking into the brook?"

"O," replied the Lily, with a gentle dignity, "I do not need to make roads in the earth, as thou dost, but I gladden the brook when I look in it, and the sky comes down and kisses us both; the little flies and tired insects sleep under my leaves, and I sweeten the air with my breath. Many tiny eggs are hatched along my stems, and the little creatures would die, were it not for the nourishment of my tender leaves."

But the beetle could scarcely understand her mission.

"Where do you sleep when night comes?" he asked; "do you not crawl somewhere into the ground?"

"When night comes, I close my leaves together and rest thus."

"But do you not work for something to eat?" he persisted, poor stupid beetle.

"The warm air and the sunlight nourish me," she patiently answered. "But you look so beautiful!" said the poor beetle, at last, dazzled by the brightness of her white petals; "how do you paint yourself so?"

“I take no care of myself, it is all given to me."

"I see how it is," said the beetle, sadly; "I am a poor earth-worm, and cover myself with its dust; but you are above the earth."

"No indeed," interrupted the Lily, "that is not so. I grew slowly out of the ground. I draw much nourishment from the air, but yet, without the ground in which my roots are planted, I could not live one day: from the earth I derive the strength of my color, and from it freshness and vigor shoot up through my branches."

"I did not think the black earth could have anything to do with such beauty," he said, struck with astonishment; and, creeping close to the stalk of the Lily, out of sight, he whispered to himself, humiliated, "O, if I could only work for the fair Lily, and help her beauty, and not be so ugly in her sight!"

"But see," said the Lily, for a little breeze had brushed the green leaves over the brown beetle, and a stray sunbeam made him shine like a rainbow, "you have a beauty of your own in your shelly back, which I can admire, and the green of my leaves is reflected mingled with gold upon it. When in the dark ground, you eat up the worms about my roots, you give me life, and when the flies lay their eggs too thickly under my leaves,

You have found your

you, by devouring them, save me from destruction.
wings; go now, and chase that crowd of flies over the brook."

And so indeed he could, to his delight, skim the surface of the water, and snap up many an unwary insect that was becoming troublesome; but, in his love, he still returned to the Lily, to watch over her fair leaves, and to dig with his strong claws down into the earth about her roots, to eat away the grubs, and loosen the ground for the rootlets to creep about in. He was very happy in doing it for her sake. And was it not beautiful, that what he loved to do, and could do, was just the very thing he was made to do, and that in such a natural way he could minister to the beautiful Lily?

So use and beauty are combined in this world, children; you will see it more plainly as you grow older and older.

Author of Angel Children."

HALF-HOURS WITH FATHER BRIGHTHOPES

FATH

VI.

ATHER BRIGHTHOPES had been a long time absent from the Vale ; and on his return to Mr. Reverdy's house, the young folks of the neighborhood, who, I believe, had not quite forgotten him, went one evening to pay him their respects.

It was a joyous occasion; but the old clergyman's pleasure at the reunion was marred by a sad report which had reached him concerning the conduct of two of his young acquaintances. They had been seen to steal into a neighbor's orchard on Sunday afternoon, when they supposed everybody was at church, and help themselves to some choice early pears. The owner of the fruit was very indignant, and he had stopped Father Brighthopes in the street, to relate to him the circumstance, and to request him to "have up the little villains and give them a sound lecturing." The "little villains,” I am sorry to say, were our friends Jason Jones and Burton Thorley.

Father Brighthopes did not like to cloud the happiness of that evening by "lecturing" anybody. Besides, the guilt of the two boys being generally known, he observed that they were already suffering no light punishment from the taunts and significant looks of their companions. There were frequent allusions to pears; and once Cary Wilson, having called Burt's attention, pretended to be eating some very delicious fruit, and filling his pockets with it, at which pantomime nearly everybody laughed except Burt, who looked very black and fierce.

Father Brighthopes, considering what he should do about this unpleasant affair, excused himself for his long absence by telling the children the occasion of it. "A near relative of mine," he said, "did something very rash and

wrong, which plunged not only himself, but his whole family, into deep trouble, and I was sent for to assist them."

"He could n't have been much like you, if he he did anything so wrong!" said Emma Reverdy.

"Why not, my child?"

Emma thought a moment, then said, "Did you ever do anything wrong, Father Brighthopes?"-regarding the beautiful, kind face of her old friend with a look which implied plainly, "I don't believe you ever could do wrong!"

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My dear child," said the old clergyman, “if I had never done wrong, I should not know how to pity and forgive others who do wrong. I have done many, many wrong things in my life," he added, with sincere humility.

"Tell us one,—just one real bad thing, you know!" said Emma. "I should so like to hear it!"

Father Brighthopes looked around his little audience, and saw that all were eagerly watching for his reply. His eye fell on Burton and Jason, and he thought, "Instead of a lecture, it shall be a story." And he began in this way:

“Well, Emma, since you wish it, I will tell you something I did when I was a small boy, - so many years ago! It was a very wrong thing, but it proved to be one of the most useful lessons of my life."

"If it was such a useful lesson, how could it be wrong?" said Grant East

man.

"My son, everything that happens in this world is, I believe, designed for our good. Suffering and even wrong have their use, or they would not be permitted. And what can teach us so much as one of our own errors? If you commit a fault, and know that it is a fault, and are sorry for it, don't you see how useful and important the lesson may be?—exerting an influence, perhaps, over your whole life. But this is to be a story," said Father Brighthopes, pleasantly, checking himself, "and not a lecture."

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"O yes! a story!" said Emma. "Some real naughty thing now, remember!”—and, folding her hands, she looked up in his face with a beaming expression, confident that she was to hear something very interesting and delightful.

"Well, it happened when I was once visiting my cousins Edward and Jane. We were all children then : Jane was about my own age, but Edward was older. He was a strong, self-reliant boy, and Jane and I looked up to him with great respect and admiration. So, when he said one day, ‘Hurrah, let's have some fun !' we were of course very eager to join him, and asked what he would do.

"Get a bag and a basket,' said he, and I'll show you.'

"Jane ran to the house for a basket, and I ran to the barn for a bag, and off we started, following Edward's lead, and wondering what fun he would show us. He always took the lead at such times, and always made us carry the bag and basket, or whatever the burden might be. He was a rather proud young gentleman, as I remember him; and I see him again now, walking

on before, important, mysterious, refusing to tell us his plans, and frequently ordering us to keep a little behind him, and talk low.

"'O, I know,' said Jane at last, 'it's but'nuts!' for that's what we children called them. But, Eddie,' said she, those are Mr. Talbot's trees, and he won't let us; for you know he is very particular about his but'nuts.'

""Come along!' said Edward, in his authoritative way, ‘and don't make so much noise! Talbot ain't at home, and he never 'll know; he won't miss 'em, for he has got so many they're rotting on the ground.'

"But there's the brook to cross,' I remonstrated; and very glad I was of any obstacle in our way. I had a feeling that we ought not to touch Mr. Talbot's butternuts. Notwithstanding Edward's authority and influence, and my own love of adventure, and my love of butternuts too, something within me kept whispering, 'Do not go, do not!' It was the voice, my children, which we always hear at such times, if we only listen, and which would never let us do wrong, if we would obey it.

"Who cares for the brook?' said Edward. 'You are a brave fellow, to be scared by a little water!'

"We might have crossed the bridge and come up the other side,' said Jane.

"With everybody staring at us!' said Edward, contemptuously. I came this way on purpose. Think I'm a goose?'

"I should think you thought I was, if you expect me to swim,' said Jane. "That made me laugh; and very glad I was to laugh and forget what that uncomfortable little voice within me kept saying.

""We can wade,' said Edward; and he began to roll up his trousers. "I did the same, afraid he would think me a coward if I did n't. Then we all sat down and pulled off our shoes and stockings. Then we forded the stream, taking care not to slip on the stones, or step in the deep places. I carried over both the bag and the basket, for Jane had to hold up her dress. "There!' said Edward, triumphantly. You see it's easy to do a thing if you've got somebody to show you how, and ain't afraid. Now for the

but'nuts!'

"If Mr. Talbot would n't like to have us get them, I don't think we ought to,' I again remonstrated, — rather feebly, I suppose, for I was n't strong enough to resist both the temptation and Edward's influence. It is not because we are strong, my children, that we ever do a mean action, but because we are weak, because that part of us which should always govern is too weak for the selfish part, which should be governed. Remember this, my dear boys, and never flatter yourselves that it is brave or manly to do wrong. Remember it, my dear girls, and do not indulge your faults because it is said women are weaker than men. In coarse, animal qualities, women are certainly weaker; but in true strength, in the finer qualities of the heart and conscience, I have often found them as superior to men as my little cousin Jane was to my big cousin Edward.

"Edward called me a coward. I was afraid of appearing a coward in his eyes, and that was the real cowardice I showed. If I had been truly

courageous, I should have had the power to say, 'No,' and turn back, notwithstanding his taunts.

"Come,' said he to me, 'don't stand moping, there's no use in that; but pick 'em up, and you shall have half you get.'

"That decided me. The prospect of having some butternuts to carry home to my brother and sister made me forget my scruples; and Jane and I, getting down on our hands and knees, under the trees, gathered the nuts, while Edward walked around and kept watch.

"There!' said he, when we had filled both the bag and the basket, 'you 've done it, and nobody is hurt. Now don't you see I was right about it?' "I tried hard to feel that he was right. Although we had taken as many as we could carry, we had left a great many more on the ground, and it was not likely that Mr. Talbot would suspect the robbery. Still I experienced a strangely uneasy and guilty sensation, as we recrossed to the other side of the brook, and placed our plunder on the bank. We were all anxious to get away, fearing to be seen; but our feet were wet, and I tore my stockings putting them on. At last we started off; I with one shoe in my hand, and the bag on my shoulder, and Jane with her shoes in the basket. Ed

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ward walked leisurely behind, to guard our rear, whispering now and then to frighten us, ' Hurry! hurry! Old Talbot will be after you !'

"Poor little Jane was more frightened than I was. She lost one of her shoes out of the basket as she ran, and Edward had made us think Mr. Talbot was so surely coming that we were afraid to go back and find it. "Never mind it,' said she, 'I will go home without it.'

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