THE LESSON OF THE BROOK.

“WHAT are you babbling to yourself about?" said an idle boy to a brook, as he lay on its banks gazing up into the willow.

"I am talking of all I have done to-day, and all I have yet to do,” replied the brook.

"Done! You do nothing but run and play: what do you do?"

"I haven't time to talk with you here: the miller is waiting for me. But if you will meet me below your grandfather's mill at the stepping-stones, I shall be able to tell you there; for then I am not in a hurry."

Saying which the brook sped singing by, and the boy rose and walked lazily across the fields to the stepping-stones. Here there was an old beech tree, and more willows, with a great swing under one of them. It was a charming spot; no wonder the brook liked to loiter there. The boy waited only a few minutes for the stream, which came racing down from the mill in considerable excitement, but soon composed itself.

"Here I am," said the boy; "6 now for your story." "You think I am an idle do-nothing like yourself, do you?" began the stream. "I wonder if you cannot see that I do more work in a day than any man in the village. But idle people are never ready to acknowledge that any one else is industrious."

"You turn the mill, I know, but that's quite as much fun as work; what more you do I can't tell." "Yes, I turn the mill; and that gives you your bread and pudding. As to the rest-listen. In the first place, I run for more than a mile in the valleys of Hickory Hills—”

"Why, do you come from away off there!"

"Yes. My course, in all, is six or seven miles; and though back in the hills I am narrow and small, I water the roots of hundreds of trees, and give drink to flocks of birds and animals that would perish without me. All those green elms along those valleys send down their long roots to me to get nourishment, and I have never failed them since they were saplings, which is at least a hundred years ago."

"A hundred years! are you so old?" interrupted the boy.

"Yes, and twice that, and I do not know how much older; and I have been making my life useful ever since I was a little rill. But do not interrupt me so often; I shall have to leave you soon. After I leave the hills I flow into Farmer Goff's meadow, and there I am useful to men and cattle all day long. The cows stand in my channel for hours in the shade, while I wash their feet and limbs; and I like very well to see their great quiet, brown eyes looking down at me. Once a year I am obliged to wash the sheep, which is not so pleasant a task; for they care very little for me. I supply the farmer's table with trout, and every week do all his wife's washing. Meanwhile, you know, I keep the meadow green; and in the spring I am able to spread out into a broad, fertilizing sheet, really imposing and beautiful. In old times the children and I used to have great sport in that meadow, but that has passed long since; there have been no children there for forty years. For though I am always at work, I enjoy every moment of my life. When am I not singing, or when do I refuse to smile on the children?

"But I hasten from the meadow to do my duty at the cross-roads. There I afford refreshment to travellers and their weary horses at all times of the day and night. We streams do not hush ourselves into

useless sleep eight hours out of every day, as you mortals do; night or day is equally time for our work. After crossing the ford, I answer similar purposes to the next five or six farmers; and, without me, I wonder what would become of them? Then I wind round the Meeting-house Hill, and by the schoolhouse; whether I do any good there no one knows better than yourself. Let me assure you, my young friend, though you think me only a gay prattler, I am of that degree of importance that, should I have stayed at my ease up in my fountain at Hickory Hills (which would be by far the pleasantest place to stay), this whole village would never have existed here."

"Indeed!" said the boy, who by this time had become convinced that the brook was worthy of great respect, and had ceased to interrupt it.

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Next, I enter the village, and cross it in three different places: first at the Old Bridge, where many a traveller has been cheered by my voice, and many a schoolboy taken an accidental bath; at the country road; and at Dibble's Bridge, where you love to go fishing when you play truant. Ah! I could make many a boy wince, if I chose to tell tales. At length I enter your grandfather's farm, where Noisy Brook joins me to help me in my great work-the turning of the mill. I have first to fill my pond, and that is a work of time. I could tell you stories about that pond all day, if I had time. I remember when your grandfather, and his father before him, used to skate on my frozen surface, winter nights, with half the men and boys in the village; for while they counted me frozen to death, far beneath I was always wide awake and stirring, and through the clear ice could plainly see the gleaming of their faces, and hear their shouts and merriment. The boys used to slide round after each other holding fast their coat, though they

knew they were sure to be overthrown on the middle of the pond. Of all merry scenes, this was the merriest. Now-a-days the boys have no such fun.

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There, too, one dark autumn night, when the wind and rain sobbed dolefully in the trees, your old great-grandmother came wandering along the bank, her grey hair streaming in the wind, crying and complaining of her ungrateful children. A heavy plunge soon told what a crazy deed the poor woman had done; I wetted her all over, and hastened away, troubled and frightened.'

"I never heard of that."

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No; I suppose it is not spoken of. It is not the only secret I hold. A hundred years I have turned this mill," continued the stream, resuming its cheerful tone, "fed three generations of men and women; and I love its old red walls. Once well past the mill, I have a little leisure to enjoy myself here, and to join the children in their sport. Rare times they have always had here. I remember when there were two great sweeping elms, and red men built their wigwams and held councils on this very spot, and naked Indian children swam and frolicked about these banks. Everything changes around me, grows old, and passes away.

"But you do not grow old and die; isn't this strange?"

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No, not strange; there is my fountain back in the hills; that is a living fountain, fed by an everliving God, whose will I gladly do. But I have lingered too long; the tide is waiting for me. Try and profit by me-you are idle, or work and complain: I work, and am happy!" With which the brook ran by, and paid no further heed to the boy, who called for it to stay and answer his questions, for he thought of many now; but the only answer was

the constant, cheerful murmur, "Work, workmake your banks green; make your place flourish about you; be industrious, and never complain."— American Paper

THE FORGIVING SCHOOLBOY.

In a school in Ireland, one boy struck another; and when he was about to be punished, the injured boy earnestly begged for his pardon. The master inquired why he wished to prevent so deserved a punishment; to which he replied, that he "had read in the New Testament that Jesus Christ said we should forgive our enemies; and I forgive him, and beg he may not be punished for my sake."-The Boy makes the Man.

TRUE COURAGE.

A COMPANY of boys, in Street, Boston, one day, after school, were engaged in snowballing. William had made a good, hard snowball. In throwing it he "put in too much powder," as the boys say

-he threw it too hard-and it went farther than he intended, right through a parlour window. All the boys shouted, "There, you'll catch it now. Run, Bill, run!" They then took to their heels. But the brave William straightened up and looked sober, as he said, "I shall not run." He then started directly for the house where the window had been broken. He rang at the door, acknowledged what he had done, and expressed his regret. He then gave his name, and the name of his father, and his father's place of business, and said the injury should be repaired.

Was not that noble? That was true courage.