her paw in a hole there is in the wall, near the top of the door, and pulls up the latch, by catching hold of the string which is fastened to it. John. What I like best is to see her wander about in the dark. Last night, after the heat of the day, Charlotte and I were in the garden quite late, after you were in bed, Mary, and as we were wandering about, we saw something sparkling come out of a great black bush, and it was the puss's eyes. What a curious light of their own they seem to have. I could see her eyes, when I could not see any other part of her; we were quite startled, for first we saw something dark was running up a branch, making a rustling among the leaves, and then down Tabby tumbled at our feet. Mary. I think she must find her mice more easily by night, when there is nobody to disturb her, than by day, for I have sometimes looked out of the window the last thing before I got into bed, and there I have seen that dear black creature walking about on the terrace, all alone, and then sporting and running all over the garden. I think black cats like being out of doors better than others; I fancy they are wilder. Cousin Louisa's grey cat is always sitting on the arm-chair, but our blackey seldom visits us. I complained to my uncle, and how do you think he answered me? He sat down and scribbled a few minutes, and then said, There, child, go away, and there is a poem for you on your black cat and her bright eyes. The shades of summer's midnight lie, And while we slumber calmly on, And beed not the fair scene, Nor breathings of the balmy air, In these night hours serene. Thou, darksome creature, comest forth, Thou com'st to sport with leaf and flower, While winds are still, and earth is sad, Forth from the darkest woodland shade, Thou glidest softly by, And nought is light amidst the gloom, Save thy strange radiant eye. When leaning forth from lattice high, I see nought moving on the earth, Save thee, dark playful spright. And then I long to rove like thee, John. Read that poem, George, and tell us if you know anything about cats' eyes, and why that black hole in the middle of the eye is always changing its shape and size. George. That hole is called the pupil of the eye; it is in your eye, and in everybody's eyes, and it expands or contracts, that is, it becomes larger or smaller, according to the quantity of rays of light it admits; and the pupil in your eye and in mine, expands and contracts also; but the cat's eye is differently constructed from ours; there is something like a hollow mirror at the back of the eye, which reflects the light and enables the cat to see in the dark. In the twilight, the pupil openз, to let in more light, and then this mirror is exposed, and the eye of the cat glares, because of the light which falls on this sort of reflecting mirror. John. But at night there is no light to collect. George. There are few nights so dark, but that some light glimmers; and often, you know, when you go out in an evening, which you think quite dark, or when you go into a dark room, by degrees you begin to distinguish objects which you did not see at first. Now look at the pupil of my eye; while I stand opposite to the light it is quite small, is it not? And now when I stand in this dark corner, it expands again. The pupil of the cat's contracts and expands in the same manner, but it opens in a sort of long slit, instead of a round hole, and therefore we see more of the reflecting mirror behind. - Child's Weekly Visiter. SUNDAY DINNER. Mr. A. and Mr. B., with their families, were passing up the street one Sunday, on their return from church. "Well," says Mr. A., "what did you think of our minister's performance this morning? A pretty plain explanation of the way to keep the Sabbath; don't you say so, Mr. B.?" Mr. B. Pretty plain. I was thinking neighbor X. must have taken a good share of it to himself. I am told he always has a regular dinner cooked on the Sabbath; at least, he must have a warm dinner as much as upon any day in the week. Mr. A. Abominable! Such a practice is bad enough in anybody who lives in a Christian land; but in a church member it is intolerable. For my part, I never have any more on the Sabbath, in my family, than is barely necessary. I must have a cup of coffee in the morning, and tea at night; but as for any parade about dinner, that is entirely unnecessary. Mr. B. Coffee and tea! do you say? Do you call these necessary, Mr. A.? Really, I can't go as far as that with you. I take a tumbler of water, both for breakfast and supper. 1 manage to get through one day in the week without tea or coffee. I should be very sorry to have as much cooking as that done in my house. You don't mean to say you think making tea and coffee a work of necessity? Mr. A. Why-yes; so far a work of necessity as this, that I should n't feel fit for anything all day, after taking only cold drink. I should expect, at least, to be very uncomfortable. Mr. B. But still, I think anybody might get through one day without any very serious consequences. And even if it should occasion a little inconvenience, why, we are to obey the express commands of God, though they may require of us some trouble or self-denial. We are commanded to attend only to necessary business on his holy day. And, in my opinion, any sort of cooking cannot, strictly speaking, be necessary. I like to have my table as neatly arranged upon the Sabbath as upon other days, for I think neatness and good order should be at all times observed; but I will ask for nothing but good wholesome bread and water, or at any rate, only for something prepared before the Sabbath, to be placed before me. Mr. A. thought Mr. B. very rigid upon this point; but so thought not Mr. W., who had overheard some part of the conversation, and who just now placed himself at the side of the two disputants. "Did I hear you say, Mr. B., that you always have your table spread upon the Sabbath the same as on other days?" asked Mr. W., after the salutations were over. "I believe it is a custom with many people, perhaps with most people," continued Mr. W.; "but it has always seemed to me quite unnecessary. We must have food upon the Sabbath, but there is no need of any kind of parade for the purpose. It only makes additional work in the family. The arrangements can easily be such that each person can help himself to the refreshments he may need, without a parade of dishes. This is the plan in our family. I never have the table spread upon the Sabbath." Hereupon there was a moment's pause in the conversation between the three gentlemen. "I do n't see that brother W. has helped either of us along very much," Mr. A. at length remarked, with a smile. It is true, he had n't helped along very much, except that he wound up the discussion very speedily. Both Mr. A. and Mr. B. were set to thinking, and they pursued their reflections instead of their arguments, until they reached their respective homes. Each bethought himself that a conscientious desire to obey God, is on the whole a better guide to duty in respect to the Sabbath, than any attempt to specify by cold rules its precise boundaries and limits in respect to form. A SHORT ARTICLE FOR THE MONTHLY CONCERT. Nearly all American Christians have read the story of the little Osage captive. As Dr. Cornelius was riding through the wilderness of the west, he met a party of Indian warriors, just returning from one of their excursions of fire and blood. Öne of these warriors of fierce and fiend-like aspect, led a child of five years of age, whom they had taken captive. "Where are the parents of this child?" said Dr. Cornelius. "Here they are," replied the savage warrior, as with one hand he exhibited the bloody scalps of a man and a woman, and with the other brandished his tomahawk in all the exultation of gratified revenge. That same warrior is now a disciple of Jesus Christ, a humble man of piety and of prayer. His tomahawk is laid aside, and it never again will be crimsoned with the blood of his fellow men. His wife is a member of the same church with himself, and their united prayer ascends, morning and evening from the family altar. Their daughters are the amiable and humble and devoted followers of the blessed Redeemer, training up under the influence of a father's and a mother's prayers, for the society of angels and archangels, cherubim and seraphim. "Do you remember," said an Indian convert to a missionary, "that a few years ago, a party of warriors came to the vicinity of the tribe to whom you preach, and, pretending friendship, invited the chief of the tribe to hold a talk with them?” "Yes," replied the missionary, "I remember it very well." "Do you remember," continued the Indian, "that the chief, fearing treachery, instead of going himself, sent one of his warriors to hold the talk?" "Yes," was the reply. "And do you remember," proceeded the Indian, "that that warrior never returned, but that he was murdered by those who, with promises of friendship, had led him into their snare ?" "I remember it all very well," replied the missionary. "Well," the Indian continued, weeping with emotion, "I was one of that band of warriors. As soon as our victim was in the midst of us, we fell upon him with our tomahawks and cut him to pieces." This man is now one of the most influential members of the Christian church, and reflects with horror upon those scenes in which he formerly exulted. He is now giving his influence and his prayers that there may be glory to God in the highest, peace on earth and good will among men. 'BE YE THEREFORE PERFECT.' No person who is wont to study the nature and tendency of the religion of our Lord Jesus Christ, can fail to be delighted with its admirable adaptation to every conceivable situation and exigency in life. No remark is more common than, "If religion were permitted to have full sway, heaven would soon have begun upon earth." But it is most manifest, that few persons dwell sufficiently upon this truth to make it a practical principle. Our world (Christendom) is a hospital of spiritual cripples. Look where we will, among the 'lights of the world' and the 'salt of the earth,' for a perfect man, and we are shocked with deformity. And to a most unhappy extent, we are content that it should remain so. "Of course, we ought to be charitable," says one, we are such miserable creatures ourselves." So, indeed, we ought; but here is a charity that covers vastly too many sins. We dare not exhort our neighbor to be perfect, lest he turn upon us with the proverb, "Physician, heal thyself;" and we are fain to excuse our neighbor's sins, that we may have a hiding-place for our own. Nay, though our neighbor's sins are troublesome, where they prevent the exercise of the golden rule towards ourselves, I dare not affirm that we should be willing, were it possible, that all our fellow Christians should be transformed at once from their present sinful state to one of sinless purity. As the case now stands, the conscientious Christian scarcely dares commend the development of some godly trait in a Christian brother, lest he should be shocked with a- "Yes, but he does thus and so." For the elucidation of our subject, let us consider some illustrations. A. B. is a minister of the gospel. He loves the cause of his Master, and counts it a privilege to be abundant in labors for the salvation of his fellow men. He has consecrated himself to |