SPEAK GENTLY.

BY MARY GRACE HALPING.

SPEAK gently, mother, to the child clinging to thy knee. Damp not that joyous spirit with sharp rebuke; cloud not that fair brow, dim not that sunny eye with undue severity. Sow not the seeds of strife so early in that little heart by angry and bitter words. Though it is ofttimes wayward and perverse, speak gently. Bethink thee, mother, there has been given to thee a bud, destined not to blossom a few fleeting years on earth and then to fade away, but to bloom in the garden of our God forever. Let not kindness, the poisonous breath of strife, blight it. the fostering dew of gentleness, the kindly rays of affection; that, when God shall require it of thy hands, thou mayest render up thy account joyfully and without fear. There has been given to thee a gem, not to be trodden under foot, but to sparkle a resplendent jewel in our Saviour's "crown of rejoicing." Let no breath of thine, therefore, mar its purity, that, when God hath need of it, he may receive it from thy hands without blemish.

the frost of unNurture it with

Speak gently, brother,— speak gently, sister, to the playmates of thy childhood, the companions of thy youth. Though they may be ungenerous and unreasonable, remember thy own many imperfections, and O! whatever may have happened, "let not the sun go down upon thy wrath." Ye have sat at the same table, played around the same hearth, knelt at the same mother's knee,-O! speak gently, that when death, change, or distance shall separate ye, as it surely will, there shall be mingled with the agony of separation no element of bitterness; but all look forward to a joyful reunion in 66 your Father's house of many mansions."

Speak gently, husband, to the wife of thy bosom, the partner of thy joys and sorrows. Though the cares of a household, the everrecurring, never-ending importunities of the little ones around her, may cast a gloom over her spirit, and make her for a time irritable and exacting, withdraw not the light of thy countenance from her, or thy arm from around her. Speak gently! and the cloud will pass away; her soul will grow stronger and her burden lighter. Let her ever feel, that though parent, brother, and sister may stand afar off,

there is one to whom she can ever turn for sympathy, protection and guidance. Ever let thy broad breast be to her a shelter from the storms of life; bear her up with thy strong arm, that she faint not. Speak gently! that when the hour of parting shall come, when the chill dew of death shall gather on the pale brow, and the gentle heart that loved thee so fondly, shall be stilled forever, ye may not shed the tear, or heave the bitter sigh of compunction; "bitter, because unavailing."

Speak gently, wife, to the lover of thy youth, the husband of thy affections. Though the perplexities of business, the storms and strife which he so willingly encounters for thy sake, may make his brow moody and his words stern and bitter; gentle words will be like oil upon the troubled waters. However wild the storm may rage without, let him never miss the love-light of home. Though he may forget the vow to "love and cherish," forget not thou thine; though he may wander from the path of duty, lure him back with gentle words. The soothing tones of affection will soften the most obdurate heart. Speak gently! that when death shall palsy that manly arm, dim that eager eye, and lay that proud form in the dust, ye may not sorrow in bitterness of heart over unkind deeds and angry words, which can never be recalled.

A bud of moral beauty. Let the dews

Of knowledge and the light of virtue wake it

In richest fragrance and in purest hues.

When passion's gust and sorrow's tempest shake it,
The shelter of affection ne'er refuse;

For soon the gathering hand of death will break it
From its weak stem of life, and it shall lose

All power to charm; but if the lovely flower
Hath swelled one pleasure, or subdued one pain,
O, who shall say that it hath lived in vain,

However fugitive its breathing hour?

For virtue leaves its sweets wherever tasted,
And scattered truth is never, never, wasted.

THERE is a small island in the harbor of Bombay, called Elephanta, from the fact, that a figure of an elephant, carved out of a large black rock, is seen almost immediately upon going ashore at the usual landing-place.

On this island there is a famous cave. It is an oblong square, eighty or ninety feet long by forty wide, and cut into the solid rock. Of the origin of this grand, subterraneous temple, nothing is known. It was once a place of heathen worship. At the further end there are three gigantic figures, joined together, and called the Triad; the face of one of them is at least five feet in length, and of corresponding breadth.

The above cut is a representation of this cave, as seen from without. The entrance is by a spacious front, having the support of massive pillars, and two pilasters, forming three openings, under a thick and steep rock, overhung by brushwood. The long ranges of

columns, that appear closing in perspective on every side; the flat roof of solid rock, that seems to be prevented from falling only by the massy pillars, whose capitals are apparently pressed down and flattened, as if by the superincumbent weight; the darkness that obscures the interior of the temple, which is dimly lighted only by the entrances; and the gloomy appearance of the gigantic stone figures ranged along the wall, and hewn, like the whole temple, out of the living rock; joined to the strange uncertainty that hangs over the history of the place, carry the mind back to distant periods, and impress it with that kind of religious awe, with which the grander works of ages of darkness are generally contemplated.

The whole excavation consists of three principal parts; the great temple itself, which is in the centre, and two smaller chapels, one on each side of the large excavation. These two chapels do not come forward into a straight line with the front of the chief cave, but are considerably in recess, being approached by two narrow passages in the hill, one on each side of the grand entrance, but at some distance from it. After advancing some way up either of these confined passes, they are found to conduct to another front of the great temple, exactly like the principal entrance that is first seen, all the three fronts being hollowed out of the solid rock, and each consisting of two huge pillars and two pilasters. The two side fronts are precisely opposite to each other, on the east and west, while the grand entrance faces the north.

MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

How cheering the thought, that the spirits of bliss
Will bend their bright wings to a world such as this;
Will leave the sweet joys of the mansion above,
To breathe o'er our bosoms some message of love!

They come, on the wings of the morning they come,
Impatient to lead some wanderer home;
Some pilgrim to snatch from his stormy abode,

And lay him to rest in the arms of his God.

SPRING.

A HISTORICAL FABLE FOR CHILDREN.

EDITORIAL.

IN giving an account of the events which took place in New England and the Middle States, under the rule of Spring, I shall follow the general example of historians, and furnish a slight sketch of the preceding reign.

Winter had come in as an usurper. Before the munificent and generous queen, Autumn, had laid down her sceptre, before her rich and abundant gifts had been gathered and secured by her thankful and happy subjects, he, one day, suddenly appeared, and overran the whole country like a whirlwind, pinching the ears of all the little boys and girls, freezing the late apples on the trees, and burying whole fields of yellow pumpkins and golden corn under a heavy covering of snow. The country people stood aghast, and there was an universal grumbling at this interference with the regular course of things. Old farmer Goodplow made it a rule never to complain of the weather, "Because," as he said, "God knows what is best for us better than I do;" but when he saw his cheerful and patient wife bent double with rheumatism, and his little Fanny's feet blistered with chilblains, and when he knew that two hundred bushels of his best Indian corn lay buried in the snow, even he shook his head and said, that "it was strange, very strange," and that he could not understand it.

With a good deal of labor and suffering, this calamity was overcome, and many city children never knew, while eating their smoking Johnny-cakes and their nicely-browned buckwheats, how many fingers had been pinched with cold for their sakes.

However, when the old king's power was fairly established, he did not seem unmindful of popularity. He laid his snows evenly over the earth, and there was a merry jingle of sleigh-bells, day and night, all through the country. He polished the rivers and ponds till they glittered like steel; and groups of shouting lads whirled and curved and shot hither and thither, while companies of girls and very little boys stood laughing and clapping their hands on the banks. Some slid down the long hills, leaping over the check-rails with a bound.