could not help crying bitterly, but there seemed nobody to care for me, no kind mother, sister, or father to speak one comforting word to me, only my poor dog, and he shared my pitiful lot. I got into the right road to Buxton, and after going on for some time, came to an inn. Here I asked a girl, who came to the door, if the coach was gone to Buxton, but, without asking me into the house, she said the only way to get to Buxton, was to walk there. Again I went forward on my lonely way; it was now nearly midnight; my comfortable home and bed were far away at Manchester; my father and mother at Buxton, and I alone on a dreary road on the bleak hills of Derbyshire, on one of the coldest nights of winter. I wandered along sobbing and crying, with these thoughts in my mind. I passed the toll-gate house, and saw a light in the window, but thought no one there knew me, so I did not stop; then I passed a lodge, but could see no one, and soon after I began to feel so weary, cold, and hungry, that I thought I could go no farther, and lay down by the road side, with my dog in my bosom, and cried myself to sleep. When I awoke it was daylight. I tried to get up, but legs and arms were so stiff with cold that I could scarcely move: one arm was quite useless. At last I got on my feet, and after trying very hard many times, I moved forward a little, crying with hunger and cold as I went. In this pitiable state, scarcely able to walk or speak, I reached Buxton, about nine o'clock on Sunday morning. As I had been there once before, I knew where to go, and at length came the joyful moment, when I fixed my eyes or my mother and father. They saw my condition, and had me put into a warm bath, got me some breakfast, and put me to bed. With kind attention and careful nursing, I got quite well again in a few days, and so I am glad to say did my poor little dog.” 66 Now, I think we should learn some useful lessons from this narrow escape." And first let us always take care to be in time: whether father is to be met at the railway station, mother at home, or the teacher in his class, let us never be late. This is punctuality. Let it be one of our guides all through life. The want of punctuality brought all the sorrows and sufferings of that bitter Saturday night. Secondly, let us be kind to animals. Cruelty is a sin; a proof of an unfeeling heart. Animals were meant to be serviceable to us; and have often been the means of saving life. Here is another instance. What could this little boy have done without his dog? He would have been more lonely and desolate on his journey, and when he slept, he would very likely have never waked again. It was the warmth of the dog in his bosom which kept him from being frozen to death. Thirdly, should not the thought of this poor boy, on that cold winter's night, make us feel thankful for our comfortable homes and dear friends? Our fathers and mothers provide for us homes and food, fire and clothes, and all our comforts: let us make the best returns we can for all their kindness. Lastly, who gave us our dear parents? He that watched the poor lonely wanderer on his dreary way, and brought him again to his mother's arms, and his father's home. Should not this boy and all of us remember Him, and give thanks and praise to Him as long as we live? 0. SOMETHING ABOUT LUTHER. "PAPA," said Robert, as he and Emma were again seated beside their father's chair in the dusk of a winter's evening, "I do so long to hear some more about Luther, and you have been so busy lately that I have not been able to ask you to go on with his history." "Well, I'm at leisure now, at any rate, so we will begin at once. Let's see, we left Luther shut up in the castle, I think; he stayed there about four years, and then, longing for a more active life, he returned again to the world. He went back to his favourite town of Wittenburg, and there went about teaching the people out of the Bible, and telling them that it was of no use to inflict penances on themselves (such, you know, as living on bread and water, or walking barefoot to a particular shrine) in order to gain pardon for their sins, but that they ought rather to repent, and strive to improve their lives." "What a great deal of good Luther must have done," cried Emma, "but was he kind and good at home, papa?—to those about him, I mean, for you often say you don't think much of a man who isn't first kind at home; I was reading, the other day, that Roman Catholic priests were not allowed to marry, did Luther ever marry?" "He did, my dear; as he no longer belonged to the Church of Rome, he did not feel himself bound by the rule which forbade all monks and priests to marry; and when he was about forty, he married a young woman, who had herself once been a nun, but whom he had converted by his writings. He seems to have been very fond of his wife and children, for when he was absent from them, he used to write to them most affectionate letters." Used he? oh, how I should have liked to have seen some of his letters to his children ?" "Would you? then get me that thick book, Bob, here, that one, not the one bound in green; that's right, now Iwill show you a letter written by Luther to his little son John." The children's eyes sparkled; "Oh, papa, can you really?" they exclaimed. Mr. Morton smiled, and opening the book, read as follows:-"Grace and peace be with you, my little boy! I rejoice to hear that you are attentive to your lessons and to your prayers! Persevere my child, and when I come home I will bring you home some pretty fairing. I know of a beautiful garden, full of children in golden dresses, who run about under the trees eating apples, pears, cherries, nuts, and plums. They jump and sing, and are full of glee, and they have pretty little horses with golden bridles and silver saddles. As I went by this garden I asked the owner of it who these little children were, and he told me that they were the good children who loved to say their prayers, and to learn their lessons, and who fear God. Then I said to him, 'Dear sir, I have a boy, little John Luther; may not he come, too, to this garden, to eat these beautiful apples and pears, to ride these pretty little horses, and to play with the other children?' And the man said, 'If he is very good, if he says his prayers, and does his lessons cheerfully, he may, and he may bring with him little Philip and James. Here they will find fifes and drums, and other instruments to play upon, and they shall dance, and shoot with little cross-bows.' Then the man showed me, in the midst of the garden, a beautiful meadow to dance in. But all this happened in the morning, before the children had dined, so I could not stay till the beginning of the dance, but I said to the man, 'I will write to my dear little John, and teach him to be good, and to say his prayers, and learn his lessons, that he may come to this garden. But he has an aunt Magdalene, whom he loves very much, may he bring her with him?' The man said, 'Yes, tell him they may come together.' 'Be good, therefore, dear child, and tell Philip and James the same, that you may come and play in this beautiful garden. I commit you to the care of God. Give my love to your aunt Magdalene, and kiss her from me. From your papa, who loves you-Martin Luther." "What a nice letter, papa," cried Robert, "how pleased little Johnnie must have been with it!" That is a curious fable about 66 the garden," said Emma thoughtfully. "Yes, my dear it is, Luther is said to have been much in the habit of teaching the people by fables or allegories, which he no doubt found a good way of gaining their attention." "Oh dear," cried Robert, "I had a hundred things to ask you, and here is mama coming to tell us tea is ready." "Mournful fact!" said his father, smiling, "come, my dears, we must not keep mama waiting." MALACHI. MALACHI, "my angel," or "my messenger," called by the Jewish Rabbis, "the seal of the prophets," is the last of the ancient inspired writers, and his book appropriately concludes the Old Testament, not only because no seer after him arose in Judea before the advent of the Saviour, but because he especially foretells the event which we see fulfilled at the opening of the New Testament. The " Elijah," the "messenger" who was to prepare the way for the Lord, prefigured by Isaiah the greater, and Malachi the lesser prophet, was realized in the person of the manly but humble preacher who, while he denounced unsparingly the powerful sinners of his time, acknowledged that he was unworthy to unloose the latchet of the shoe of the carpenter's son. The clear prediction of the coming of John the Baptist would alone raise Malachi to the rank of a prophet. He not only spoke of that important event, however, but foretold that the "Sun of righteousness should arise with healing on his wings," and declared that from the rising to the setting of the sun the name of God should be great among the Gentiles. He reproved the impure worship of the people, and pointed out to them the uselessness, as well as sinfulness, of approaching God with sacrifices which were the offerings of corrupt hearts. He lashed their false views of God's nature, and their faithless scepticism, with keen irony. "Ye have wearied the Lord with your words, yet ye say, Wherein have we wearied him? When ye say, Every one that doeth evil is good in the sight of the Lord, and he delighteth in them; or, Where is the God of judg ment?" Malachi has not left any trace of his own history. It appears that he lived after Zechariah, and he is supposed to have prophesied about one hundred and twenty years after the captivity, and four hundred and twenty before the birth of Christ. During the four succeeding centuries no prophet arose to rebuke, or warn, or encourage the Israelites in the vicissitudes of their lot. After the overthrow of the Persian monarchy they became subject to Egypt, then to Syria, and finally, after a short interval of independence, to Rome. They were permitted to enjoy their own civil government and their peculiar forms of religion, with the exception of three years and a half, when they were deprived of all their liberties; their temple was profaned, and many noble martyrs fell as witnesses to their faith. After their return from the captivity they never again lapsed into idolatry. The prophecy of their dispersion soon began its accomplishment Large numbers of them were carried away, or voluntarily emigrated, into Egypt, Asia Minor, to Corinth, and even to Rome. To these places they carried their Mosaic law and their prophecies, which were translated into Greek, and they built synagogues for the performance of public worship. They unconsciously prepared the Gentile nations for the superior law of the New Covenant. The firm maintenance of their religious views amidst worldly temptations and open persecutions, drew on them the attention and respect of thoughtful heathens, who were disgusted with the base corruptions of their own idolatry. But the consciousness of the superiority of their religion encouraged spiritual pride in some, and an assumption of sophistical views in others, which they mistook for true philosophy, until the self-righteousness and unthinking scepticism reproved by Malachi, became the besetting sins of the leaders of the people both at home and abroad. The poor and humble-minded were oppressed, and "had none to help them" until "in the fulness of time" appeared the "Desire of all nations," the mighty deliverer from the bondage of sin, at whose death the harp of prophecy finally ceased to vibrate. S. L. HINTS ON HOMES. IN one of the papers in the opening number for this year, an allusion was made to the many homes into which the Magazine entered, like an electric light, with no burning glare, diffusing its gentle rays of goodness, purity, love, and charity,-incentives all to the formation of homes as they should be. But alas! how many of them are the temples of mercy, truth, and justice, which they ought to be? But how little do we really know of any homes except our own, in the full sense of the word; though many, too, must feel great interest in far more than merely their own little orbit, and be fervently desirous that each should be as a shining light before men. History, interesting as it is, tells us but little of individual abodes and character, offers few comparisons whence to draw inferences adapted to the regulation of our own circumscribed sphere of action in our small world of home. To borrow a comparison I once heard,- history is like the early morning sunlight, darting forth its rays over a varied and extensive landscape. It gilds the mountain tops-the pinnacles and turrets of lordly castle and baronial hall- the cities on their embattled heights,-but leaves the plain and valley generally, the sheltered village and |