at the scenes of our childhood, it is not because they give us pleasure: we have a melancholy impression that a change has taken place within us, and we smile at the simplicity of that childhood which was ignorant enough to be happy. The crooked old tree, hollow and knotted, and covered with moss, is as much like the young oakling in all the freshness and greenness of its seven years' growth, as the feelings of a man are like those of a child.

I have not forgotten the feelings of my childhood, and, though I can no longer enjoy them, I love to see them enjoyed by others. If I could talk ten times as fast as I do, but that is a thing utterly impossible to be done,—I would urge you gratefully to enter into boyish pursuits. Be happy while you may! I would say to the youngest boy that ever stained his cheeks with

blackberries, make yourself a cap with the rushes by the brook-side; ramble in the flowery meadow; tumble about among the new-mown hay; gather the white mushroom in the morn, and the brown hazel-nut at mid-day; stick the hawthorn blossom in your bosom, and the gilded oak-ball in your hat; throw your ball, beat your drum, bowl your hoop, spin your peg-top, and fly your kite! Why should you not? days are coming when you will have other things to attend to. Therefore, while you are young, enjoy the pastimes of youth. Happiness is too costly a thing to be despised; while you have few pains and many pleasures be innocently happy. I can never see a band of boys at play without stopping to gaze at them, and to mark in the brightness of their eyes the happiness of their hearts.

There is so little of the future care, and so

much of the present gratification, in a boy's coun-
tenance, when engaged in his pastimes, that it is
a pleasant contrast to the thoughtful and pru-
dential restraint of maturer years. There is a
freshness of feeling, an eagerness of delight ex-
cited by trivial pursuits in the youthful breast.
A warm, an unsuspicious glow,

Which youthful bosoms only know;
And if amid the sighs and tears
Of life's lone, dull, amassing years,
A gleam of light around us plays,
'Tis but the glance of earlier days,

That memory gives, 'mid grief and pain,

To make us happy once again.

Think not that I wish to paint the future in shadows, or to repine at the cares of manhood and old age. No! They are mingled with multiplied mercies, but there is nothing in them like the buoyant emotions of the heart in the seasons of childhood and youth, and therefore it is

that I say be happy, my boys! be happy! I love to see a boy at his book, but I love, also, to see him at play, with a light heart and a ruddy cheek; for, as I said at first, though the spring may return, the flowers bloom, and the birds sing, yet the season of youth will return

no more.

DELAY.

Procrastination is the thief of time.

YOUNG.

It would be very odd indeed, if one who talks so fast as I do, did not, now and then, say a foolish thing, notwithstanding his best intention to talk wisely at all times. But what then ! Where will you find roses without thorns; diamonds without dross; or wisdom without folly? not in this world, I am sure, unless you are satisfied with a very moderate supply of roses to stick in your bosom, sunshine to enliven your path, diamonds to adorn your person, and wisdom to make you useful and happy. Should you