ammo.

-- '-'I'uIi.i...|... -..

resume” eciiisnat. one conausncisi. accessions.

Charlottetown, Prince Edward island, Saturday, December» 24, 1853.

New Series, so. 97.

-use srn.i.' sssami. voics.

r, tlrtd‘ littlc"l'rsnk! He’ had gazed at that'sterco- ' street ‘psnoramrtili his eyelids were drooping with wearinss: - owini ,‘ cabs, eelbarrowa. men, the same old story. There is . - Franky never drives hoop —-n , be that. Once in a while he takesthe aigz but John the serving-man, or Mary the nurse, holds his hand'_ver tightly, lest he should soil his embroider- ed ‘flock. ' ‘Now i ttie Frank changes‘from one loot to the othsr‘.'and‘Ihea'he creeps up to his youn inainma, who lies half bur'Iad"lu'those satin cushions, rec ing the last new novel; and lays his hand on her soft curls: but she shakes him (I with an impatient “ Don’t Franky!" and he creeps back again to the window. There winds a funeral slowly past How sad the mourn- ers look clad in sable, with their andkerchiefs to their e es ! It as child's funeral, too; for there is no hearse, an the blaokpall floats from the first carriage~window like a signal of sudden thou ht stri es Franky ; the tears spring to his eyes, and, cree ng again to his mother's side, he says, “ Mamma, must is, too!” The young mother sa s abstractedly, without raising her ll>rlus gypsy from the nave she is reading, “ What did you say, no .

“ Mamma, must I die, too!" '

“Ycs—no! What an od uestion ! Pull the bell, Charley. Here, John, take Fran u stairs to the nursery, and coax Bruno alon to play tricks for him ;” and Frank’s mamma settles horse f down again upon her luxurious cush- ions

The room is ver quiet now that Franky is banished; nobody is in it but erself and the canary. Her position is quite easy ; her favorite book between her fingers ; why not yield herselfa sin to the author's witcliing spell! Why do the words.“ ust Idie, too!" stare at her from over age! They were buta child’s words. She is childish to bee t em ; and she rises, lays aside the book, and sweeps her white han across her harp-strings, while her rich voice floats musically u u the air. One stanza only she sin s, then her hands Ell by her side; for still that little, p aintive voice keeps ringing in her ear, “ Must die, too, miiiniiia !"

Death .—why, it is ii. thing she has never thought of; and she walks up to the long mirror. Death for her, with that beaming eye,'and scarlet lip. and rosy cheek and sunny trons, andronnded limb. and s ringing step! Death for her, with broad lands, and full co ers, and the world of fashion at her feet! ‘Death for her, with the love of that rincely husband, who covets even the kiss of the breeze as t fans her white brow! Darkness, decay-—oblivion! (No, not oblivion ! There is a future, but she has never looked into it.)

" Well, which is it, my pet, the opera, the concert, or

me‘B's soiree? I am ours to common ."

“ Neither, I believe Walter. I am out of tune to-night ; or, as Madame B. would say, ‘ Vapourish ;’ so I shall inflict myselfon nobody; but—"

“ Oh, 1 bag ur pardon, Mrs. Rose; I am fond of a mer- ry face, too. mile, now, or I‘m olfto the club, or the bil- liard-room ; or, as husbands say when they are ' hard up’ for an excuse, I have ‘a business engagement.’ What! a tear! What grief can you have, little Rose!"

" You know‘, Walter, what a stran o child our Frank is. Well. he‘ asked me such an odd, old- ashioned question to- da , ‘ Must I die, too, mamma !’ in that little flute-like voice of is, and it set me thinking,tbat’s all. I can't rid myself of it ; and, dear Walter,” said she, laying her tearful cheek upon his shoulder. “ I don't know that I ought to try."

"Oh nonsense, Rose !” said the gay husband, “ don't turn

Metbodist,if u love me. Aunt Charity has religion onou h for the whoe nation. You can't ask her which wa t a wind is, but you have a description of cannan. Religion

is wellenou h for priests—it is their stock in trade; well enough firr cIiildrch's.nd old people ; well enough for ancient virgins, who like vsstry mcetin ss away a long eve- ning; but for you, Ross, the very queen of love and beauty, in t e first ilus of youth and health—pshaw ! Call Camille to arrange your hair, and let's to the opera. Time enough my_ p'e.t to think of religion, when you see your first grey

Say you so, man of the sinewy limb and flashing eye! See ! up Oalvary’s rugged steep a slender form bends weari- l beneath its heavy cross! '1‘ at sinless side, those hands, t ose feet are ierced for on. Tortured, athirst, faint, agonised-—the rk cload idin the Father's face—that mournful wail rings out on the sti lair, " My God ! my God ! whly heat than forsaken me i"

he drags £2, our cflbring for all this priceless love 0 sinless Son 0 d! The palsicd hand, and clouded brain, and stammerlu tongue, and lcaden foot of age, thy trophies ! God forbid! ‘ nd yet, alas! amid dance, and song, and revel, Int “still, small voice” was hushed. Tho winged hours,.mis-peatwnd wasted. flew quickly past. No tear of repenbnce ell;-no sappliant knee was bent; no household altar flame sent up its grateful incense.

“Must I die, too !”

Sweet child! but as the sun dies; but as the star fades out: but as‘ the flowers die, for a resurrection morn ! Close the sehrohing eye beneath the prisonln lid; cross the busy hands over the pulselsss heart. Li o-—life eternal! for

thee, yous immortal! Jo to t , young mother! From that little ve, so tear-hedswed, theflower of repentance sprin at ast. No

tares shall choke it; no blight or mildew h set it! God’s smile shall be its sunshine, and heaven thy reward. Dear readek, so the good Shepherd hides the little lamb in

his arms,‘ that she who gave it life may hear its voice and follow. '

LOOK ON THIS PICTURE, AND THEN ON

‘I'll A1‘. “ Father is coming!" and little round faces grow long.

and merry voices are hushed, and toys are hustled into the ‘

closet; and liamrna glances nervously at the door ; lhfl-I baby is bribed with a lulu of sugar to keep the peace ; and fa- ther's bnsiuess face reraxes not a muscle ; and the little grou huddle like timid sheep in a corner, and tea is despatched as silehtl as if spcaking were prohibited by the statute- book ; ah the children cree like culprits to bed, marvellln that baby dare crow so lou now that " Father has come:’ " Father is coming !" and bright eyes sparkle for joy, and tiny feet fines with glee, and eager faces press agaihst window-pass; and a bevy of rosy lips claim kissos at the door ; endpisture-books lie unrebuked on the table; "Id “gilt! bell]. and dolls, and kites, are discussed : and little usy a s her soft check against the aternal wliiskers with the osI fearless

“a ndon ;“ and C arlcy gets a love- .“ an "hlIUlI0l;" ‘and i:smnm‘s face , ows radicnt; ‘eves 3 pa s res .not i vanish

silently, ut aloud; and jsblleeheasrlved, add “ Ibtker has com

with ccual celerity, for c!" '.“ ._ jrna winows 'rai.u.s. ‘Ont. and Janie Gre came back to her

s Th. ‘ p . :.r::ii“*e’3.Ii’~i'i..'-=;.~:-.i~:::.:;-.;:h:..~:::.:*:::

« sufferer. Wherever her eye fell, there was some sod reminis-

cence to torture her. '1‘ ieywhoselife had been all sunshine came in from cheerful homes, whose threshold death's shadow had never darkened, to oflsr consolation. All the usual phrases of stereotyped condolence had fallen u on her ear ; and now the had a I gene. and the world wou d move on just the same t at there was one more broken heart in it. She must bear her wear weight of was alone. She knew that her star had set. rth, sea, and sky had no beauty now, since the eye thatworshipped them with her was closed an ra css.

“ cm the Lord loveth, he ehasteneth” said Uncle John, joining the tips of the fingers of either hand, and settling himse fin is vestry attitude, to say his lesson. “ Aflictions come notout of the ouud. Man is cutdcwn like a flower, God is the God of the widow and the fatherlees. I suppose you find it so 1" said be, looking into the widow's face.

“ Ican scarcely tell,” said Janie. “ This was a lightning- flash from a summer-cloud. My eyes are blinded ; cannot see the bow of romise.”

-‘ Wrong--al wrong,” said Uncle John. " The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. You ought to be resign- ed. I‘m afraid you don't enjoy religion. Afllicticns are mercies in disguise. I'll lend you this volume of ‘ Dewdrops’ to read. You must t submissive, somehow, or you will have some other tron le sent upon you. Good morning.”

Uncle John was a rigid sectarian, of the bluest school of divinity; enjoyed an immense reputation for sanctity, than which nothing was dearer to him save the contents of his pocket-book. It was his glory to be the Alp Omega of parish gatherin and committees ; to be cc on the expediency of sen ing tracts to Kan roo I ; to be present at the laying of cornerstones or embryo churches ; to shine conspicuously at ordinations, donation visits. Sab- bath-school celebrations, colporteur meetings—in short. any- thin that smacked of a church-steeple, or added one inch to the engtli and breadth of his pharisaical skirt. He pitied the poor, as every od Christian should ; but he never allowed them to put their hand in his pocket: that wasa territory over which the church ‘had no conti-ol—it belonged entirelv to the other side of the fence.

Uncle John sat in his countinig-room, looking very satis- factorily nt the roof-sheets of lie Mornin Star, of which he was editor. e had just lanced over is long list of subscribers, and congratulate himself that matters were in we ros rous condition. Then he took out a large roll of bank-bills, and ‘tin red them most afliactionately; then he frowned ominous y at a r be r-child. who

d in at the door ; smoothed his chin, and settled him- sel comfortably in his rockingchair.

A ra at the door of the counting-room. “Mayl come in, unc e!" and Janie’s long black veil was thrown back from her and face.

“ Y—e-s," said Uncle John rather frigidly. “ Pretty busy; s‘pose you won't stay long!” and he pushed his porte- mommie further down in his pocket.

“ I came to ask,” said Janie timidly, “ if you would em- ploy me to write for your per. [utters are more des- perate with me than I thong t, and there is is necessity for my doing something immediately. I believe I have tnieuts thatl mi ht turn to acccuntas a writer I have literally nothing, ncle John, to depend upon.”

“ Your husband was an exfravagant man ; lived too fast- that's the trouble—lived too fast. Ought to have been economical as I was, whenl wasa young man. Can't have your cake and eat it too. Can't expect me to make up for other people's deficiencies. You must take care of yourscl .”

“ Certainly; that's just whatI wish to do," said anie, stru liu to restrain her tears. "I—l—" but she only flnis ed t in sentence with sobs : the contrast between the sunny past and the gloomy present was too strong for her troubled heart.

Now, if there was anything Uncle John mortally hated, it was to see a woman cry. In all such cases he irritated the victim till she took a speedy and frenzied leave. So he remarked again that " Mr. May was extravagant, else there would have been something left. He was sorry he was dead ; but that wasa thing In wsn't to blsnie lor, and he didn’t kn y reason why he should be bothered about it. The world was full of widows: the all went to work, he sup- posed, and took care of themes ves.”

“ If you will tell me whether you can em loy me to write for you," said the widow, “ I will not trouble on longer.“

“ I have plenty who will write for nothing,’ said the old man. " Market is overstocked with that sort of thing. Can't aflird to pay contributors, ‘ specially new beginners. Don't think you have any talent that way, either. Better take in sewing, or somethiu ," said he, tskingout his watch, by way ofa reminder that s e had better be going.

‘ oun widow could scarcely see her way out throu h her fast-‘falling tours. It was her first bitter lesson in tie world’s selfishness. She, whose tender feet had been so love- guided, to walk life's thorny path alone; she, for whom no gift was rich, or rare, or costly enough—she, who had leaned so trustingly on the dear arm now so powerless to shield her —she, to whom love was life, breath, being, to meet only careless glances; nay. more. harsh and taunting words! Oh, where should that stricken heart find rest this side heaven!

Yet she mi ht not yield to des ir; there was a little, innocent, help ess one for whom a a must live on. and toil, and struggle. as the world all darkness! Bent every knee at Mummon’s shrine! Beat every human heart only fbr its own joys and sorrows!

Days and months rolled on. Uncle John said his firayers, and went to church, and counted over his dear be -bills; and the widow sat up till the stars grew ‘pole, and bent wcarily over long ages of manuscript; an little Rudolph is. with his rosy c cek nestled to the pillow. ohrusbing his bright ringlets, all nnconcious of the weary vigil the oung young mother was keeping. And now it was New car's night; and, as she lai aside her pen, memory called her back to rich, sunny days—-to a luxurious home. in she was leaning on that broad, true breast. Troo 0 friends were about them. Oh, where were they now! '1‘ on she look- cd upon her small, plainly-furnished room, so unattractive to the eye of taste and refinement; then it fell u n her child, too oung to remember that father, whose ast act was to kiss his baby brow.

Still the child slumbered on, his red li parted with a smile; and. for the first time, she noted t e ittle stocking, yet warm from the dimpl foot, hung close by the pillow, with childhood‘s beautiful trust in ange hands to fill it; and, covering her face with her hands, she wept aloud, that this simple luxury must be denied a mother's heart. on, ex- tinguishing her small lamp, sho laid her tearful check against the rosy little slcupor, with that instinctive yearning for sym-

thy which only the wretched know. In slumber there is, at least, forgetfulness. Kind angels whisper hope in dreams.

The golden light of New Year’s morning streamed throng the partially-opened shutters u n the curl head that al- ready nestled uneasily on its pi low. The us eyeso ned

Y

, like violets kissed by the sun, and the little ban was out-stretched to grasp the empty stocking. His li qnivered and tears of disappointment forced themselves rough his tiny lingers ; while his mother rose sad and uurefreshed, to most another day of toil. And Uncle John, oblivious of everythin that might collapse his purse, sat comfortabl

in his in hair, " too busy" to call on his aeice; - in. not in lihclardh footsteps. where screw, and misery,

and want made footrtracks, but where the well-warmed, well-clad.’ and well-tilled sat at Dives‘ table. _,

’ ,w on. A brighter day dawned for Janie. She had triumphed over disappointments and disccuragenients before which stouter hearts than hers had quuiled. Comfort and independence were again hers, earned her own unti- ring hand. Uncle John was not afraid 0 her new. He turned no more short corners to avoid her. She needed no assistance. Uncle John liked to notice that sort of pie. [Io grew amiable. even faoetious; and one day, in liizupe rouriousness, actuall son a three-cent piece to his no how, whom he had not inquired for, for three long years.

anie's praises reached him from ever quarter; and he took a great deal of pains to let peo le now that this new liternr light washis niece. Had he nown she would have turns out such a star, he would have emplo ed her. Now she was swelling other editors‘ subsoription- ists instead of his. That was a feature of the case he was fully prepared to understand.

“ No talent that wa !" said Janie to herself, as she saw him, at last ve coo y transfer, with his editorial hand, her articles to he Morning Star, without credit, without remuneration to herself. Sanctimonious, avaricious Uncle John ! did you count the weary vigils they cost the writer! Did you count the tears which blistered their pages! Did you dream of tho torturing process by which the bird was

linded, ere it could be learned to sing so sweetly! Knew ypu that those gushing notes reached on through prison- rs, from a weary captivc‘s throat! o, no, Uncle John! how should you! For where your heart should have been, there was a decidedvacunm. '

MY LITTLE SUNBEAM.

Nrvrn saw my little sunbeam! Well, she was a little creature who window each day, on her way school, and who made my acquaintance, child fashion, with a smile. Perhaps none but in self would have called her pretty; but her eyes were ful of love, and her voice of music. Every day she laid a little bunch of violets on my window. You mi ht have thought ita trifling ift, but it was much to me; fin, after my little sunbeam ha vanished, [closed my eyes, and the fragrance of those tiny flowers carried me back, oh, whither!

They told of a fragrant, shadowy wood: of a ripling brook; of a bird's song: of whispered leaf-music; of a moss seat; of dark, soul-lit eyes; of a voice sweet, and low, and thrillin ; of a vow that was never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. God shield my little Sunbeam! May she find more roses than thorns in her earthly pathway !

SELF-CONQUEST.

“ Wsi.i.. Bridget, what do you think of the bride!"

“ Oh, she’s a prett young thing; but if she had known as much as you an do of her husband’s mother, she never would have come to live with her. She's a re ular old hyena ; and if she dont bring the tears into those his eyes before the honeymoon is over. my name isn't Bridget. \ h she’s the most audacious old thing! She overhauled al her wardrobe yesterday, before she could get_ here ; and, as I passed through the entry, I heard her mutteriu to herself, “Silk stockings, liuinph! ruflled under-cloties! Wonder if she thinks I'll have them ironed here! Embroi- dered night-caps, silk dresses ! Destruction and ruin .”

“ l‘ll tell you what, Brid t. there never was a house built yet, that was big cnoug for two families to live in ; and you'll find out that this wont be, I reckon.”

“ What ! tears, Emma! tears!” said theyoung husband, as he returned from his counting-room one , a out a month after their marriage; and, with a look ofanxiety, he drew her closer to his breast. “ Tell me ; on do not so soon repent our choice!” The little rosy mouth was held up temptingy for a kiss; and in those blue eyes he read the answer his heart was seeking.

“ What, then. is your ct canary sick! Can't you dress your hair to suit you! (Ir are you in despair because you can‘tdccide in which of all your dresses you look prettiest!”

“ Don't be ridiculous. Harry !” said mma, laughing and crying together. “I feel nervous, that's all. I'm so glad you've come home."

Harry felt sure that was not all ; but be forbore to question her, for he felt very sure she would tell him all in good time. _

The truth was, Harry's mother had been lecturing hcr daughter-in-law all the mornin upon the degeneracy of the timcs—hnped she would not think of putting on all the fine things her friends had been so foolish to ri her out in— timcs were not as the used to be—that if I arry gave her

ocket-inoney, she ha better give it to her to keep, and not

spending it for nonsense—that a young wife's lace was

in her husband‘s house—and she hoped she woul leave oil‘

that babyish trick of running home every day to see her mother and sisters.

Emma listened in silent amazement. She wasa warm- hearted, affectionate irl, but she was very hi h-s iritcd. The colour came an went rapidly in her chce ; ut she forced back the tears that were starting to her eyes, for she had too much pride to allow her to see them fall.

After old Mrs. Hall retired, she sat for a moment or two, recalling her words. “ ‘ Bab ish,’ to love my own dear home, where I was as merry as a cricket from mornin till night; where we all sang, and ‘played. and read in mot cr’s dear old room, and father an mother the happiest of us all-—‘ hnbyish !' I won't be dictated to!" sai the young wife. “ l’m married, if I am only nineteen, and my own mistress ;” and the rebellious tones would come in spite of her determination. But then she thou ht of Harry, dear I-Iarr , whom she had already learned to ove so well. Her first impulse was to tell him. But she had a great deal_of good sense, if she was young; and she said to herself, “ ho, that won't do ; then he'll have to take sides with one or the other, and either way it will make trouble. It may wean his love from me, too. No, no,I'll try to et along without; but I wish I had known more about her fore I came here to live."