whole parish, and, greatly to Mr. Swayne's comfort, he was consulted as to the improvement of other graves, which heretofore had been an eyesore.

The Moor Thornton villagers loved flowers, and soon the churchyard was a garden too, with its strip of sweet blossoms bordering the walk to the west door, and its separate grave-gardens.

Thinking of little Mary did Roger good; it always led him to wish and pray that he might be fitted some day to hold her in his arms again. She could not grow up, Roger felt sure of that, without him or her mother by.

And then he thought of all the things that hindered him from goodness, and he felt ashamed of his jealousy of Johnny: if the boy did mock and tease him, he was but a child, and meant nothing by it. If he was as clever as Johnny, he might be tempted in the same way. Of course, too, it must provoke his mother that her elder son was not as sharp as he ought to be.

He would try and try, God helping him, he resolved, to keep from being angry when Johnny vexed him, and then in time Johnny might learn better, and they would all be happy together again.

When Roger turned to the churchyard gate he had done good battle with the lion which beset his path.

If only Johnny, poor boy! could have known how much greater and nobler stupid Roger was in his quiet submission to any pert remarks his little brother made on him than he with all his book-learning and cleverness could be, he, too, might have turned and fought the lions who roared for him.

Mrs. Weir was never less wise, less knowing, than when she fostered her youngest child's self-conceit. She was in most matters keen-sighted enough, but in

this one instance she was certainly very blind. And yet she loved Roger, her big boy, well and truly, and would have been shocked had she guessed how deeply he took to heart any harsh or mocking word of hers. The father, a quiet, even-tempered man, had never heeded them from her, and why should Roger?

Roger, happily, had a friend in Mr. Prince, and after work-hours the latter would now and then drop in at the Weirs' for a bit of talk; for Mr. Prince was a widower without children, and might have found the evenings long, but that he generally had something going on in his front-room at the Widow Gale's.

Either it was Bill Sneyd who wanted to better his reading, and had no time in the day, or it was little Susan Mavor with a pinafore full of broken toys for Mr. Prince to mend, or else Miss Violet was looking in, for she, too, called him her great friend, and often asked his counsel about naughty schoolboys.

When none of these were forthcoming, however, Mr. Prince would step out to see a neighbour, some one sick or sorry chiefly, and Mrs. Weir had been much on the former list of late.

This evening he had had Miss Violet with him, and their talk had been of Roger, who was in her class. Miss Violet had thought him looking down of late. Was he ill, or too hard-worked?' she asked Mr. Prince he never answered her when she questioned him.

Mr. Prince declared that Roger was in perfectly good health, but a bit bothered in his mind. And then Miss Violet must know the why and the wherefore, and at last by degrees she came to have a pretty good notion of the state of affairs at the Weirs', and to be indignant thereat.

'Little wretch!' said Miss Violet (this

remark applied to Johnny). 'I never did like him, Mr. Prince, with his set-up look, in spite of his pretty face. And that silly Mrs. Weir to flatter him so! I shall go and give her a sound talking to.'

But Mr. Prince calmed down the indignant young lady, making excuses for Johnny, who was but a child; and then he came out with a suggestion, a startling thing for him to do, for Mr. Prince was generally one who listened to others.

'Suppose we could get Roger out to see the world a bit, Miss Violet; it's what the lad would like, and it would do him good, I think.'

"The very thing!' said Miss Violet, who had no glimmering of what Mr. Prince meant, and thought it might be sending him to some farmer beyond Shockley; ' and then he could come home just on Sundays to have a peep at them all, and escape that silly child's worrying!'

It's more

Mr. Prince cleared his throat. than that I meant, Miss Violet; it's foreign parts I was thinking of, beyond seas.'

'Foreign parts!' said Violet, and stopped, puzzled.

But Mr. Prince had thought his plan over. 'You and I have both friends out there,' he said, pointing vaguely towards the east; we've talked of them afore now, and I thought we might make out something between us. It's a long way, San Francisco, but it's better a lad should go to those as know him.'

And my uncle wants hands,' said Violet, musing.

Mr. Matthew Darell, Dr. Darell's brother, a man of wealth and good position in California, was in truth at this moment in England, for the double purpose of visiting his family and securing a few men of trust to assist him in an undertaking he had on hand. There might be some post which

could be filled by an honest lad like Roger. Miss Violet promised to make all needful inquiries; and, meantime, Mr. Prince was to sound Roger and his father as to their feelings on the subject.

Roger, loitering near the church later that very evening, met Mr. Prince, and was soon made aware of the scheme; the colour in his brown cheeks, and the light in his gray eyes, showed what he thought of it. I've wished to see foreign parts so 1 much,' he said; "thank you, Mr. Prince, and Miss Violet. But what could I do that Mr. Matthew Darell should want me? He'll never think of it. And mother, could I leave her?'

'Well, she's got your father,' said Mr. Prince, cheerfully; and Johnny, you know.' 'Yes; she's got Johnny,' said Roger, thoughtfully.

Every one at Moor was taken by sur- 1 prise when the news got about that Weirs' Roger was going out to San Francisco directly for two years with Mr. Matthew Darell, to work on his great farm out there-every one, at least, except Mr. Prince and Miss Violet, who had had many a talk over it.

'I shall write a special letter to Aunt Carola about him,' said Miss Violet; she is very kind, and will notice him. She and the children are coming to England nest year, too, so we shall hear how he likes his new life. And now, Mr. Prince, how do you get on with the box of presents for your little nephews?' For Mr. Prince had a brother settled at San Francisco, too, and he and Miss Violet often talked of thei relations in the far-off country.

(To be continued.)

A CEDAR FROM LEBANON IN

WH

PARIS.

(Translated from the Swedish.)

WHO has not heard of the majestic cedars, which have always been the glory of Lebanon; from the time when the wise king Solomon sent to Hiram, king of Tyre, and asked him for permission to hew down some of these mighty trees for the building of the Lord's temple, and Hiram caused them to be taken down to the sea, and sent them in ships to the king, the son of his friend?

Of these mighty trees, which withstood the flight of centuries, few are now remaining to bear witness to the bygone greatness of the cedar forest.

It happened that in the year A.D. 1737 a distinguished botanist, Bernard de Jussieu, was in Palestine. There he travelled about, and visited, among other places, Lebanon's far-famed mountain. As he wandered about among the noble trees which spread their shade over its slopes, he noticed a very small plant which had come up from seed.

'I must have that!' he exclaimed.

In the Royal Botanic Garden in Paris, of which Jussieu was superintendent, there was not one cedar-tree. This had long distressed him, but now he could supply the want. He dug up the little plant with the greatest care; he held it in his hand and looked at it with delight; but now arose a more difficult question,-What should he do with it?

He had no basket to put it in, no hamper could be procured: if he packed it up it would soon die. There was but one way: he took off his hat, filled it with earth from the mountain-side, and planted the tender plant in it.

It was no slight risk to expose his head to the sun of Palestine, but a true naturalist forgets himself altogether when some rare.

curiosity is to be preserved. He carried his treasure about with him, notwithstanding all the difficulties which there are in a journey in the East, until he got on board the ship which was to take him back to his native land.

During all this time Jussieu had taken care of his little charge as a tender mother guards her child, but now fresh difficulties arose of which he had not dreamed. A violent storm came on, the ship rocked from side to side, and was driven by incessant contrary winds far out of her course. At that time there were no steamboats; a voyage might then last many weeks, which now takes only a couple of days; everything depended on the winds. It happened so with the ship which had Bernard de Jussieu and his little cedartree on board. There seemed no prospect of getting to land, and at last the water began to fail. It had to be dealt out in small quantities to all on board; the crew, who had to work, had each a glass daily, but the passengers had to content themselves with half a glass. The air was hot and dry, and so the thirst was much the harder to bear.

Jussieu stood and looked at his little plant; it also was plainly suffering from thirst, and looking yellow and withered. He had just received his half glass of water-what bliss it would be to drink it! But then he cast another glance on the little cedar. What should he do? He looked at the water with thirsty glances: but no he took the little portion and poured it quickly over his beloved tree. I It soon revived, and this so rejoiced | Jussieu that he forgot his own sufferings. No one but a real naturalist could have made such a sacrifice for a plant; but during that whole long voyage, exposed as they were to the glowing sun of the

Mediterranean, he continued to share his half glass with the little cedar.

Jussieu began to suffer in health from this long scarcity of water, but he still persevered, and he reached Marseilles with his own health broken, but with his tiny cedar-tree in vigorous life.

contents.

It is said that at the very end he nearly lost the fruit of his long self-denial, for the Custom-house officers could not understand the interest which he showed for his plant, and believed that some smuggled goods must certainly be hidden among its roots, and they wished to empty the strange flowerpot that they might examine its But at last their hearts were moved by the earnest prayers of the pale naturalist, and by his descriptions of all that he had suffered on account of his plant, and he was allowed to carry, uninjured, into his native land, this young descendant of the proud cedars of Lebanon. He brought it joyfully to Paris, and planted it in the Jardin des Plantes. There it grew quickly, and throve well.

Linnæus, the great Swedish botanist, who came to Paris to see Jussieu, no doubt saw the beautiful plant when he wandered about the garden with his friend.

Its green

The cedar-tree became a great favourite with the Parisians. The story of its remarkable journey was well known, and gave it a peculiar interest. Year by year it grew, until it became a stately cedar. When the garden was open the people went in crowds to see the tree. top was visible from the upper cells of the prison of Ste. Pélagie, which then stood at one end of the garden, and those among the prisoners who could procure a little money were glad to pay for the privilege of occupying the cells from which there was a view of the upper branches of the cedar.

The noble tree grew and flourished, until

TH

In letters slow, in mischief quick;
A hater of the Sunday-school,
Undutiful, and hard to rule.

On Sunday morns this naughty lad
Will sometimes cry, 'My head is bad!'
Or the whole house will hear a roar,
'I've got a cold, my throat is sore!'
When he comes down, half washed and drest,
His selfish hand must have the best;
He sulks if others get the most;
He quarrels o'er the buttered toast.
The hour of Sunday-school draws nigh,
And Dick desires a rainy sky;
But if the sun provoking shines,
His wit some other plan divines.
'The Teacher's ill,' he heard them say;
Or, He goes out this first of May;'

Or, There's a fever broken out ;'

There'll be no school he has no doubt.

But when his mother stops her ears,
Or lightly jests at Dicky's fears,
And won't believe he's ill or hoarse,
He's driven to his last resource.
To the kind coaxings of his aunt
The rebel mutters, No, I shan't!

6

I'll stop at home, I tell you, now!' And darker falls the stubborn brow.