And now came the moment of triumph. The tough limb that had been held retent by Basil's weight, becoming so suddenly released, flew up-ing ward with a jerk.

The unexpected violence of that jerk was too much for the bear. Her hold gave way; she was shot into the air several feet upwards, and falling with a dull heavy sound to the earth, lay for a moment motionless. She was only stunned, however, and would soon have struggled up again to renew the attack; but, before she could regain her feet, Basil had laid hold, of François's halfloaded gun, and, hurriedly pouring down a handful of bullets, ran forward and fired them into her bead, killing her upon the spot.

The cubs by this time had arrived upon the ground, and Marengo, who had now partially recovered, by way of revenging himself for the cas-lave tigation he had received from their mother, attacked them with fury. The little creatures fought fiercely, and, together, would have been more than a match for Marengo; but the rifles of his masters came to his assistance, and put an end to the contest.-Hogg's Instructor.

DEATH AND THE MOTHER.

A MOTHER sat beside her dying infant's couch, weeping bitterly. The poor baby was very pale; and lay quietly-with its little eyelids closed, and its breathing growing fainter and fainter every moment-until the mother's alarm amounted to agony.

"I could tell you with the greatest ease in the world," replied the woman in the sable garments; but before I enlighten your ignorance, you must sing me all the songs you sang to your child. I am the Night, and your songs have often beguiled me."

"I will sing them all, all," replied the poor mother, "but do not hinder me now. Let me overtake him-let me find my child while yet I may !"

Night remained silent and immoveable. The mother wrung her hands and sang. Such songs! flooded, drowned in tears!

At length Night relented, and she said, “Go into yonder dusky pine-forest, for thither I saw Death take his way with the child."

The mother hastened to the forest, but many paths wound through it, and she doubted which she should take. Near her stood thorn bush, which bore neither leaves nor flowers, but instead thereof, icicles hung on the boughs.

A knock at the door was heard; and an old man slowly entered, wrapped in a large rug to shield him from the cold. He had need of it, for the season was the depth of winter. Every thing was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew sharply enough to cut one's china off. The old man stood shivering with cold, while the mother, taking advantage of a moment when her child appeared easier, placed a can of ale near the fire to warm for her aged visitor. She then resumed her place beside her infant; while the old man, sitting down, rocked himself silently to and fro.

The baby's breathing became more laboured, and the poor mother, taking its tiny wan hand between her own, turned for comfort to the aged beggar-for so he seemed.

"Do you think he will live?" she said. "God will surely not take him from me!"

The old man for reply made a singular gesture, that might be taken for either yes or

no.

The mother sighed, and tears flowed over her pale cheeks. She had not closed her eyes for three days and nights; fatigue overpowered her, and she slept. It was but for a moment in the next moment she started up, trembling from head to foot.

"What is that?" she asked, looking wildly round.

An ancient clock droned and ticked in the corner. The noise that startled the mother

was caused by the fall of its heavy leaden pendulum, which fell with a crash upon the floor, and then was silent. The mother looked round for the old man, but he was gone; then at her baby, which had appeared to sleep, so still had it lain beside her-alas! it was gone also.

The poor mother rushed frantically out of the house, raving, shrieking for her child. In

"Have you scen Death pass by with my little one?" said the mother to the thorn-bush. tell you which way he took, unless you will "Yes," replied the Bush; "but I shall not warm me in your bosom. I freeze to death."

The devoted mother embraced the cruel bush, and pressed it so closely to her bosom that the thorns pierced her delicate flesh and blood began to flow in large drops. these drops fell, the ground thawed, and Wherever flowers and fresh green leaves sprang forth; so warm is the heart of a mother!

Then the Thornbush showed her the way she should go, which led to a wide river. What was the poor mother's despair at finding no means of crossing it! The water was not sufficiently frozen to bear her weight, and it was too deep to be forded. Yet she must pass over to find her child. The insane idea seized her of endeavoring to drink the river dry, and she stooped for the purpose of doing so; for in her distraction she believed that a miracle might happen.

let us rather try what we can do together. İ
"Nay," said the River, "that cannot be;
have a fondness for jewels, and your eyes are
the clearest diamonds I ever saw.
to me, and I will guide you to the great hot-
Give them
house where Death rears his human flowers."

"Oh! what would I not give to find my wept, her eyes fell to the bottom of the river; child!" said the weeping mother; and as she where they lay, and glistened like jewels of

"Here it is!" she exclaimed, stretching forth her hand towards a little crocus, which feebly drooped its head.

the finest water. Then the river embraced the hearts within. Out of a million, she her with its watery arms, and in a moment recognised the heart of her child. wafted her to the opposite shore, where stood a large and wonderful edifice, so singularly constructed that one knew not whether it were formed by nature or art. But the poor mother could not see it, having wept herself blind. "Where shall I find Death, who has taken away my child?" she asked of any that would

answer.

An old grey woman replied, who guarded the entrance of the wonderful hothouse-"He has not yet arrived. How have you found your way thither? Who has assisted you?" "God has aided me. He is merciful. Show thou mercy also, and tell me where I shall find my child."

"I do not know it from another," said the old woman, "and you cannot see. Many flowers have withered to-night, and Death will soon be here to transplant them to other regions. In every tree and flower that this hothouse contains beats a human heart identified with the life of a human being living upon the earth. Enter; you will perhaps be able to recognize the beating of your child's heart. But stay a moment; what will you give me in return for my good offices?"

"I have nothing to give," said the poor mother; "but I would go to the end of the world for you."

"There is nothing I particularly care for there," said the old woman; "but you can give me your long black hair. It is beautiful, and pleases me. I will give you mine in exchange."

"Is that all you wish for? I give it you willingly."

So the young mother parted with her beautiful tresses, and received in exchange the old woman's snow-white locks.

And now enter with her the hothouse of

"Touch not the flower," said the old woman, "but stand aside; and when Death comesI expect him every moment-listen to his movements. If he approach the crocus, do not let him root it up, but threaten to do the same with all the rest. He will then be afraid; for none of these plants may be uprooted until God gives him leave.”

An icy wind rushed through the apartment, and the blind mother felt that Death approached. He soon espied her.

"How hast thou found thy way hither?" he inquired.

"I am a mother."

Death stretched forth his hand to the little crocus, but the mother protected it with both hers, so as not to disturb a single leaf. Her adversary breathed upon the shield thus interposed, and the hands fell powerless.

66

Against me thou canst do nothing," he said, with hollow voice. "I only fulfil the will of the Almighty. I am his gardener. When the appointed time arrives, I take up his trees and flowers, and transplant them into the garden of Paradise, in the unknown land. How they prosper there, it is not for mortals to know."

"Give me back my child," said the mother, and she wept and groaned. Suddenly, in her agony, she seized two delicate flowers, and exclaimed, "I will destroy all thy plants, for I am in despair."

"Touch them not," said Death, gently. "Wouldst thou make other mothers as wretched as thyself?"

The poor mother released the flowers, conscience-stricken.

than before. Replace them in their sockets, and gaze into this fountain. I will show you the future human life of the two flowers you would have uprooted."

The mother did as she was desired.

She

looked down into the depths of the pure fountain, and beheld how one life became a blessing to the world, spreading joy and happiness around. The other, on the contrary, was full of sin and sorrow.

"I give thee back thine eyes," said Death. Death, where plants and trees of every variety "As I passed the wide river, I saw them bloomed side by side. Here stood splendid shining brightly, and took them out, though hyacinths,under glass shades; there blossomed I knew not they were thine. They are clearer immense water-lilies, some fresh and handsome, others half dying with water-snakes coiled round their stems, and black crabs clinging tightly to their leaves; glorious oaks, palms, and plantains, reared their lofty heads in the mist, while primroses and sweet-scented herbs nestled close to their roots. Every tree and flower had its name. There was one peculiarity observable. Many large trees were confined in little pots, which had become too narrow, and were almost bursting with the bulk of the root within. Little weak flowers, on the contrary, were often placed in immense pots, and appeared almost lost to perception in the midst of the rich, black soil covered That I may not exactly tell,” replied with moss. Death. "This much I am permitted to reveal. The miserable mother, her bosom slowly In thy distraction, thou didst seize upon the heaving with a sigh of hope, bent over the little crocus, and one of the fates which thou smallest plants, and listened to the beating of hast before thee is the future of thine child."

"These lots are equally ordained by God," said Death.

"Whose lives are they?" asked the mother trembling.

The mother shrieked with terror. "Which I addressed pointed out his house, which was is my child? Tell me that. Oh! deliver my pleasantly situated at the angle of two canals, and child. Preserve him from such misery. in the middle of one of those gardens peculiar to Rather than that, take him away to his Father's the country. Unfortunately, the season was kingdom. Forgive my tears, my prayers, all autumn, which is almost winter in Holland, so I had not the pleasure of seeing the place looking its best. The outer door opened immediately upon a grand hall, or rather saloon, which was almost filled with plants, and formed the centre pavillion to two galleries, stretching right and left. In this saloon I found a stout, good-looking elderly gentleman, who was giving orders to two or three servants as to the degree of heat he wished to be kept up in the galleries, which were of great extent, and lighted up by windows imbedded in beautiful creepers, loaded with white and rose-colored blossoms, while the floors were crowded with palms and bananas, cocoa-nut trees from the Maldives, mangusteen and cassiatrees, and the most splendid Polynesian shrubs.

that I have done to recall him."

"I understand thee not," said Death. "Wilt thou have thy child back, or must I take him to the unknown land?"

The mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed. "O God! deny my petitions when they are contrary to thy will, for thou alone knowest what is best for thy children!"

Her head sank back upon her breast; and Death conveyed her little one to that unknown "bourne whence no traveller returns."

A WORD IN KIND NESS SPOKEN.
How sweet in the spring, do the green woods ring
With notes of joy and gladness;—

In the sunshine of May, how happy are they,
Who cherish no thought of sadness!
But though we may hear each wood-note clear,
Our pleasure may soon be broken;-
But dearer we find, to a sensitive mind,
Is a word in kindness spoken!

An ungrateful part may wound the heart,
And cloud the spirit with sorrow;
But never repine while the prospect is thine
Of a brighter sky on the morrow!
And look upon this as an earnest of bliss,
As a cheering, promising token,

When falls on the ear, from a heart sincere,
A word in kindness spoken!

WM. SMITH.

MY UNCLE'S STORY.

I AM about to relate a marvellous tale. I know it. Those who have never, in the course of their uneventful lives, had reason to acknowledge the soundness of the axiom, I know not whence derived, that "truth is stranger than fiction," would, on glancing at the following pages, shake their wise heads, and turn away in disgust, with some such exclamation as "Pshaw! French romance and sentimentalism." Nevertheless, I am not a Frenchman, nor is my worthy uncle-whose adventures I am about to relate in his own language, as nearly as possible as he related them to me-of foreign extraction. We are both-I being his nephew and godson-plain Thomas Jones.

This is how I came to hear his tale; for he had resided at Rotterdam for many years, and I had not seen him since my christening, if I could be said to have seen him even then. Upon finishing my education, my father, Edward Jones, Esq., of Armitage, Yorkshire, wished me to see something of the world before settling down to a profession; so he provided me with a good supply of the needful, and sent me to the Continent, with special injunctions not to return without seeing Uncle Jones.

After traversing almost the whole of Europe, I at length found myself at Rotterdam. My uncle was very easily discovered, for the first individual

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the owner of all these vegetable treasures, in whose honest phiz, so like that of the worthy governor at home, I believe I should have recognized my uncle anywhere "I beg your pardon, sir, did you want me?"

"Uncle," said I quietly, "don't you know me!" My uncle took me by the shoulders; but no, these recognitions have been often enough described; so I will merely say, that having satisfactorily established my identity, I received a hearty invitation to remain with my worthy godfather as long as I could make myself comfortable. I was then introduced to my aunt; and, having sipped a glass of liquor, and smoked a huge black cigar with which my uncle presented me, we sat down to breakfast in a snug room opening out of the saloon.

It was some evenings afterwards, that my godfather related to me the following episode of an eventful life. I well remember the scene. The hour was twilight. My aunt sat apart, in the em brasure of a deep window, against which were defined her handsome profile and the flowing lines of her well-proportioned figure. "In her youth," thought I, "she must have been a splendid

woman.

"She was, my dear boy," said my unele, for in my absence of mind I had unwittingly spoken my thought aloud. My aunt looked up in amazement. Laughing heartily at my confusion, my uncle proceeded. "I should like you to have seen her some thirty years ago, that's all. But I will tell you a story thereanent."

We were seated at a table curiously woven of twisted and varnished bulrushes, bamboos, and cocoa filaments - -a kind of vegetable mosaic transported from New Holland. Having sipped from a long-ribbed glass a few drops of his favorite liquor, and laid aside his huge black cigar of exquisite flavor, my uncle proceeded.

In the year 18-, I was on my way to Batavia, on behalf of my employers, Messrs Clarkson and Co., the eminent Liverpool merchants. It is impossible to describe the charm of sailing in those seas. Our evenings especially were delightful, for most of the passengers were young men like myself. We agreed on almost every point-B tastes, sentiments, and opinions. To this amie able state of things there was but one exception