young lady, whose parents had recently arrived in town, and ours by myself, a ragged little boy of ten summers, who had set up night after night, while my mother, with no other light than that produced by pine knots, pronounced my lessons to me. The interest of the spectators was excited to the highest pitch, as word after word was spelled by each. At length the young lady missed, and I stood alone. Her teacher said she did not understand the word. She declared she did; that the honor was mine, and that I richly deserved it. That was a proud moment for me. I had spelled down both schools, and was declared victor. My cheeks burned, and my brain was dizzy with excitement.

Soon as the school was dismissed, my competitress came and sat down by my side, and congratulated me on my success, inquired my name and age, and flatteringly predicted my future success in life.

Unaccustomed to such attentions, I doubtless acted, as most little boys would under such circumstances, injudiciously. At this juncture, Master G., the son of the rich man of our neighborhood, tauntingly said to me, in the presence of my fair friend and a number of boys from the other school, "O, you needn't feel so big-your folks are poor, and your father is a drunkard."

I was happy no more -I was a drunkard's son and how could I look my new friends in the face? My heart seemed to rise up in my throat, and almost suffocated me. The hot tears scalded my eyes, but I kept them back, and soon as possible quietly slipped away from my companions, procured my dinner basket, and, unobserved, left the scene of my triumph and disgrace, with a heavy heart, for my home. But such a home! "my folks were poor, and my father was a drunkard." But why should I be reproached for that? I could not prevent my father's drinking, and, assisted and encouraged by my mother, I had done all I could to keep my place in my class at school, and to assist her in her worse than widowhood.

Boy as I was, I inwardly resolved never to taste of liquor, and that I would show Master G., if I was a drunkard's son, I would yet stand as high as he did. But all my resolves could not allay the gnawing grief and vexation produced by his taunting words and haughty manner.

In this frame of mind—my head and heart aching, my eyes red and swollen-I reached home. My mother saw at once that I was in trouble, and inquired the cause. I buried my face in her lap, and burst into tears. Mother, seeing my grief, waited

until I was more composed, when I told her what had happened, and added, passionately, "I wish father wouldn't be a drunkard, so we could be respected as other folks." At first mother seemed almost overwhelmed, but quickly rallying, said,

"My son, I feel very sorry for you, and regret that your feelings have been so injured. G. has twitted you about things you cannot help. But never mind, my son. Be always honest; never taste a drop of intoxicating liquor; study and improve your mind. Depend on your own energies, trusting in God, and you will, if your life is spared, make a useful and respected man. I wish your father, when sober, could have witnessed this scene, and realized the sorrow his course brings on us all. But keep a brave heart, my son. Remember you

are responsible only for your own faults. Pray God to keep you, and do not grieve for the thoughtless and unkind reproaches that may be cast on you on your father's account."

This lesson of my blessed mother, I trust, was not lost upon me. Nearly forty years have passed since that day, and I have passed many trying scenes; but none ever made so strong an impression on my feelings as that heartless remark of G's. It was so unjust and so uncalled for! Now, boys, remember

always to treat your mates with kindness. Never indulge in taunting remarks towards any one, and remember that the son of a poor man, and even of a drunkard, may have sensibilities as keen as your own.

But there is another part to this story. The other day, a gentleman called at my place of business, and asked if I did not recognize him. I told him I did not. "Do you remember," said he, "of being at a spelling school at a certain time, and a rude, thoughtless boy twitting you of poverty, and being a drunkard's son?" "I do most distinctly," said I. "Well," continued the gentleman, "I am that boy. There has not, probably, a month of my life passed since then but I have thought of that remark with regret and shame; and as I am about leaving for California, perhaps to end my days there, I could not go without first calling on you, and asking your forgiveness for that act." Boys, I gave him my hand as a pledge of forgiveness. Did I do right? You all say, yes. Well, then, let me close as I began. Boys, never twit another for what he cannot help.

CREATION'S WORK IS DONE.

WHEN half Creation's works were done,
Just formed the stars, the glowing sun,
And softly blushing skies;
And wide across earth's dewy lawn
Gleamed the first glances of the morn,
And flowers began to rise;

Clad in her robe of tender green,
Nature delighted viewed the scene,
Pleased with each novel form;
And from each sweetly-blooming flower,
From hill, and vale, and shady bower,
She culled some lovely charm.

She took the balmy violets blue,
The sweet carnation's mellow hue,

Rich with the tears of night, Though the young beam of rising day Had melted half that tear away,

In the first stream of light ;

And now in majesty arrayed,

Her last, her fairest work she made,