Then she tosses over the heaps of miscellaneous articles, in the drawer, naming each thing she comes to, with some exclamation of surprise or horror. "See here, that nice handkerchief thrown in so, without being folded, and those gloves which you have had only a week that skein of silk is so tangled that it is good for nothing. I wonder what state your clothes would be in, if I should leave them for a month."

This lasts all the time that the drawer is being arranged, and Mary is irritated, without being amended. The drawer is kept in order for a few days, and then returns to its original state of confusion.

"Boys! do you suppose I am going to have such a noise as this, when I have company? Be still, directly." The talking, laughing and disputing ceases for a few moments, the mother resumes her conversation with her guests; presently one boy touches the other with the point of a pin, and bursts into a laugh- a squabble ensues. "Boys, what does this mean? I have spoken to you once already, I see I shall have to send you out."

The boys pay little attention to this threat: she may, to be sure, send them out, but she may not - and the noise continues. Now in these two cases, it is evident, that the mother has gained nothing; no habit of neatness or of quiet has been formed. But this is not all—she has lost. Her children, in time, become so much accustomed to her reproofs, that they produce no effect, even for the moment, and their ineffectual repetition excites only contempt.

"What has mother been scolding at you for ?" says a boy to his brother.

"O, something about bringing mud into the house: she is always finding something to fret about. I should not have minded, only she kept such a talking I could not read that story."

It may be set down as a certain rule, that words lose their value, just in proportion as they are multiplied. I have seen many instances, in which, when the mind of a child has been so diluted and weakened by the stream of words which followed that all the good effect was lost. Not only so, but the child is exasperated, and unfitted to receive future instruction, with docility. As a slight pain, of long continuance is more difficult to bear with fortitude than severe, but short suffering, so these long harangues irritate more than punishment. For my own part, I should prefer a whipping to a scolding, any day.

But, it may be asked, what shall we do, then? If we are not to talk to our children, how are we to govern them? reply, Say less, and take measures to make what you do say, effectual. In other words, endeavor to form correct habits. Let us suppose the case of the careless girl, mentioned above. It should be observed, however, that such an instance could not have occurred, in a family regulated on the principles here explained; for a habit of neatness would have been formed from childhood. However, let us suppose the case to have occurred. The mother, perhaps, takes no notice of the circumstance at the time, or merely requests Mary, in a pleasant tone, to put up her things. The reason why it is best to say nothing at the time is, that it is less regarded in the hurry of occupation, and the child will be very apt to attribute all that the mother says, to vexation at the personal inconvenience occasioned her. In the evening, when Mary, and her mother are seated quietly together, the latter asks,

"Mary, which of your friends do you like best to visit, Caroline or Lucy?"

"I like them both, mamma; Lucy is a good-natured girl, but I don't like much to go and see her."

"Why, my dear?"

"Because every thing is in such confusion. Her doll, and books, and playthings are all scattered about the floor; and if we want to make dresses for the doll, her needle-book and thimble and scissors must be looked for, and perhaps not found after all. The very last time I was there, we were going to take a walk, but it was so long before Lucy could find her gloves, that it was too late."

"You think, then, that Lucy would be happier, and make her friends happier, if she were more attentive to neatness." "Yes, mamma, I am sure of it: but why do you ask?" "Would you be very much surprised if I should tell you, that I think another little girl of my acquaintance, in danger of acquiring the same habits?"

"You do not mean me, mamma?"

"Yes, dear, I do."

"Why, mamma, I did not know that I was at all like Lucy."

"I do not think your offences against good order, are so flagrant as her's, but I think they will become so, unless you guard against them. For instance, do you recollect what you did with your hat and gloves this morning?"

"Yes, mamma." (blushing.)

"You know the natural progress of such habits is, from bad

to worse, and therefore, I think it important you should begin now to correct them. Are you willing to try?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Well, then, I will endeavor to assist you; and as the first step towards your good habits, I advise you to have a particular nail for your bonnet, where it shall be hung."

It is not pretended that the mother would have no occasion to allude to the subject again: habits are not so easily formed. The child would need occasionally to be reminded of her resolutions, and encouraged in her efforts by the approving smile of her mother, and these means would probably be effectual. The same principles will apply in the other cases supposed: the application of them must of course be varied.

IOTA.

WHY ARE YOU SAD?

EMMA.

For the Religious Magazine.

Dear Mary, what makes you so sober and sad,
When I am so happy, and merry and glad?
When I tell you a story, or sing you a song,
You have such a sigh, and your face is so long,
I can't bear to look at you. - Come, sister, say,
What makes you so gloomy, when I am so gay?
When you stand by my bedside, dear sister, at night,
And kiss Emma's cheek, which you say is so bright,
Or when round your finger you're curling my hair,
If I look at your eye
a tear trembles there.
Come sister, dear sister, why will you not say,
What makes you so gloomy when I am so gay?

MARY.

When I look on thy young and beautiful brow,
Where those fair sunny locks are clustering now;
When I meet the fond glance of thy melting blue eye,
And gaze on thy cheek of that rich crimson dye;
When thy voice, tuned to music, floats gently along,
In the rich mellow cadence of ballad or song,-

Then my heart breathes a sigh, my sweet sister for thee,
That sorrow will darken thy destiny;

That thy beauty and freshness so quickly will fade,
And on thy fair brow gather darkness and shade;
That thine eye will grow dim-thy roses decay,
And the smile round thy lip, no longer will play;
That thy heart will not always be happy and free,
'Tis this brings the tear, my sweet sister, for thee.
CZARINA TREMONTINE.

THE FIRESIDE.

THE FAMILY GAZETTE.

"Well children, I have a fine plan for you," said Ellen to her younger sisters, as they were sitting round a bright fire, one cold winter morning.

"What is it?"

"How should you like to have a family paper, once a week or fortnight?"

"A family paper! What, a printed one?" inquired the youngest.

66

No, not a printed one, but a written one, and one you must all help make. When anything happens during the week, which particularly interests you, just go and write a full description of it. If anything new takes place at school, instead of telling us the whole story as soon as you get home, write it down, and keep it for the paper. If you hear any anecdotes, or read anything, or think of anything which you feel pretty sure we should all like to know, it will