plainly dressed in a dark green suit, and armed with many sharp prickles at his fingers' ends. Sooth to say, he had altogether rather a forbidding look; though, after becoming better acquainted with him, you soon perceived that his upper boughs were smooth and even. How he came there at all I cannot tell; for he was quite unlike the others, and seemed rather out of place: but doubtless he had a use, and perhaps my story will explain it.

There they stood, those beauteous trees, through the sweet, calm, sunny day. And now the sun went down, and now the night-wind stole along; and as they bowed at his approach, they seemed to speak unto each other. And they told long tales of former years, and spoke of people dead and gone; for they were old, those trees, although they looked so young, and had seen childhood's yellow locks grow white. The lime, the youngest of them all, remembered nothing of the kind. She thought only of the golden flowered vest that she was going to wear, when the Summer-Queen appeared; and as she had no one near to tell of this, she began to talk to the holly-bush.

"Do you know, little shrub, what a grand neighbour you have in me?" she said; "I was born a princess, and by and by, when I am old enough, I shall hold a court of my own. fair I shall be, and everybody else will look dingy besides me."

How

The holly, who was himself of dark complexion, felt a little hurt at this allusion; but being of a kindly spirit, and not at all vain, forgave it.

"How tiresome it is," she cried, " to wait so long for summer! that is the time when all my happiness and state is to begin. And how vexatious, too, to see that huge horse-chesnut holding in his large ugly fingers such fair waxen torches! and every one comes and admires him, and no one looks at me."

And no one looked at the poor holly, but he felt happy still; for the dews, and the winds, and the birds, and the sunshine visited him, and he thought that was much better. But he said nothing, like a sensible little holly; for he saw that their tastes differed, and he did not wish to provoke the lime. Besides, she really seemed a person of much greater consequence than he, and perhaps-but he did not exactly know why-she had a right to take upon herself. Moreover, he was growing rather sleepy; the birds had long since gone to rest, the dew was shining in the grass, and the day was over; but the lime talked on still, so occupied with the pleasure of speaking of herself, that she would not take the slightest hint about reposing. At last the eyes and ears of the holly-bush were completely closed; and the lime, finding she was not attended to, resigned herself to sleep.

Summer came at length, and the Spring-the beloved, and so

welcomed Spring-vanished. Where did she go to? None could say; none ever saw her departing footsteps, or looked for the last time on the fair beauties of her face. She went, leaving gifts behind her for the young and old; to the children she gave sweet memories, to the aged people bright promises of future things.

And now in her room is Summer come,—a brilliant, stately queen; and roses are strewn beneath her feet, and dewdrops form a diadem for her hair, and gentle unseen harmonies usher in her coming.

The trees now put on richer dresses; their proud forms dilate with joy; they invite bands of choristers to sing within their leafy bowers; they rejoice equally in the noonday heat, and in the long, cool evening tide.

Now the bright sun has melted all the waxen torches of the horsechesnut, and he holds in his large green hands only the empty sockets of the tapers. The lime regards him with a scornful look, and begins with new ardour to admire herself. But truly the fine old tree is not to be so despised; for he invites many wanderers to his shady home, and is even now preparing something that little children love to play with.

Now the lime is in her glory, and she talks no more to the poor holly, whose very existence seems forgotten. From every little branch hang the most beautiful and delicate cups of gold, full of a delicious drink, and myriads of humming bees attend her all day long, "from morn till dewy eve," and banquet in her halls. A fragrance of surpassing sweetness breathes all around her; a murmur of delight is heard as the winged guests range through her golden chambers. Every one draws near to the beauteous lime. Underneath her pleasant shade, whole summer hours and days together, sit little children, weaving, with such sweet flowers as they can reach, crowns for each other; light crowns, that fade as soon as worn, but cause no aching head.

These children love the lime, her golden canopy is all the world to them, and heaven is the blue sky above. But she cares nothing for their mirth, loving herself too well, and if a child jumps up in glee and tries to seize some of the treasures she so temptingly displays, she feels displeased, not knowing how delightful it is to bless another when we have the power, and so does all she can to evade his grasp, and disappoint his little hopes.

The holly grieves as he stands near, but cannot help the merry children; if they wished a bough from him, how gladly would he give it; but no one cares to look at him, and who would like besides to prick their fingers with his sharp thorny leaves, even if he had golden flowers among them? Poor holly, his heart is good and kind, and he would like to love

others better than himself, but no one guesses this, and all eyes turn towards the fragrant lime. So the summer days glide by, and she revels in her pride and state, but at last by impercepti ble degrees, the murmur and the sweetness die away, the golden cups are drained, and the guests depart as soon as there is no more feasting and enjoyment; still the lime is proud, for her stately form remains, and she tries by loftier airs to compensate for her diminished splendour. But in vain. No one comes near her now. The bees are regaling at other feasts, little children no longer play beneath her shade, and the lime finds herself neglected and alone.

But who advances now to claim dominion over nature? The autumn king with a golden crown upon his head, made of the bright oak leaves-one hand holds ears of ripened corn, and from the other hang rich clusters of the purple grape. All the flowers that welcomed in the summer queen weep at his approach, and wither as he passes; he brings some others in his train, but not so beautiful as those, with no sweet smell to make you love them. Still he scatters many precious gifts; he feeds the hungry with his ears of corn; he refreshes the thirsty with his purple grapes, and throws into the laps of merry children apples as rosy as their cheeks.

The poor lime is now quite old and sallow, and while the other trees once more change their vests, and put on rich garments of purple, gold, and scarlet, she alone drooping sheds her melancholy leaves like tears upon the earth.

Does she weep for her foolish pride? Oh no. It is for her neglected state, for envy of her more fortunate companions.

And now while only a few shrivelled leaves remain upon her lowest boughs, she turns to the holly-bush, and wonders that he is still unchanged and cheerful. "Ah! friend,” she said, for she was civil now, 66 my lot is very hard. To be so courted and admired, to feast so many inconstant friends, and see them all desert me, breaks my very heart within me."

The good-natured holly pitied her distress, and strove to comfort her, begging her still to think what pleasure she had given and received, what store for winter hours her feasts, though eaten, had provided. But all this did not please the lime; she would rather he had predicted a return of her former splendour, or advised some mode of regaining her lost beauty. The holly could only offer comfort in his own true and homely way, and at last the lime, impatient of listening to him any more, turned away.

Short is the reign of the noble autumn king. On one calm, sunny day, he divides all his remaining treasure among his loving subjects. He bids them a long farewell; he tells them of

VOL. XII.

P

a stern ruler who is coming; he warns them of decay and death. Then, as he speaks, his smile, so bright and sunny, becomes more faint; his voice, so rich and powerful, dies away; his form vanishes by degrees, till as the setting sun shines on the distant hills it is lost among them. The oaks cast their golden crowns upon the ground for grief, the woods sigh and moan in unavailing sorrow, nature puts on a misty veil to hide her tears, and night closes over all.

Next day a howling wind ushered in an old and wasted man, bent and hoary; icy keys were in his hand, with which he locked up one by one all the treasures of the earth. Streams ceased to flow at his approach, birds all went to other climes, children ran away for fear of him; all that he looked upon became spell-bound and perished; even the glorious sun hid himself, and only peeped out now and then.

Slowly advancing, the old stern man sat down at last underneath the lime, whose trouble and dismay were now complete. Stiff and frozen she could not now even turn her head to see how it fared with the holly-bush. How surprised she would have been to perceive bright scarlet jewels in his homely coat. Who put them there I cannot say; had winter, the old, stern, withered man, hid a few within his garments, and given them to the humble tree? Perhaps he had. But there they were, and he was no-way proud, and just the same as ever; only he hoped to see the little children running by, that he might give them each a few of his bright gems. No, it was too cold for them, but men did come and asked the holly for some boughs, which he gave willingly; and his good, generous spirit went with the severed branches, and saw that they were taken to deck warm houses at the blessed Christmas time; and then beneath their shade dear children danced. and played, and leapt up every now and then to pluck a scarlet berry.

Oh, happy Christmas-time, and happy, humble tree that had his own reward at last.

SELFISHNESS; OR, SEED TIME AND HARVEST. CHAPTER VIII.

"MADEMOISELLE Sydenham speaks French very well, does she not?" said Mrs. Sydenham to the French master.

He appeared not to hear, for he only tapped the table with his fingers. "No doubt you find she has a very good pronunciation ?" Still he made no answer.

"I am sure Miss Lindsey has taken great pains with her; Miss

Lindsey has so much perseverance. I am sure she would not neglect her."

"Est ce que madame parle Francais?"

"Yes, but I don't pretend to know much about this subject. But Miss Lindsey, I know, always takes great pains."

"It is vera different thing. You must have a French person with mademoiselle, because she has vera good talents. Miss Lindsey is altogether quite English."

Mrs. Sydenham was very much vexed. Here was evidently a failure. Time had advanced; she must endeavour to repair it. "Can you recommend me a French lady?"

"Vera difficult thing to recommend."

"Then I don't know what I shall do !"

"In general dey have de love of the country, and do not like to expatriate themselves if possibly they can get on at home. I recommended one lady, I fancied she would be just de thing, but no; she cried all day long, and made them all miserable, and they could not bear it, it was quite impossible."

"I think then I must try to get a superior servant."

"Yes, vera well, dat you can try," and so M. Simon seemed glad to leave the matter.

After some fruitless search Mrs. Sydenham heard of a French maid; she was a Roman Catholic, but very ingenious with her needle, and dressed hair admirably. Mrs. Sydenham's own maid seldom satisfied "her on these points, and as she generally aspired to superiority in every thing connected with appearance, she considered these qualifications very useful to herself. She admonished Clemence to be silent on religious differences; she could tolerate "no discussions," and of course she was never to attempt to interfere with the conscience of her young mistress. Clemence assured her she was 66 no bigot," and was sure she could live in harmony with those around her, because she had lived with a family who had 66 no religion," she meant to say, for this was quite a slip of the tongue," who were not altogether like" herself, before.

Maude liked Clemence, she was so good natured; and when they were alone she related such strange anecdotes, for though she looked so very quiet sometimes, she was yet a great talker; and Clemence grew fond of Maude, but was perfectly indifferent about every other member of the family and household. Sometimes she showed her prints and books, and told her of "good sisters," and great deeds of charity. She also asked questions, to which Maude found it difficult to give an answer, but in an odd manner, as if she did not really want one. During infancy Maude was a very spiritually-minded child. All her mother had taught her quickly kindled the pure flame of faith and love. But the lessons had ceased, and the light flickered faintly.

Miss Lindsey had taken care, as she had been directed, to take