when the bright moon was glittering through the branches of the shadowy oak-trees which overhung the pathway, when a voice struck upon my ear which arrested my attention; "We have no home now!" said the speaker, in a desponding tone I was spell-bound to the spot. The speaker was a young female, who appeared by the light of the moon to be possessed of more than common beauty. She was recounting to a friend the death of her father and mother, and the dispersion of her family which had since taken place.

While she recounted her tale of sorrow, she lingered on the delights of home. She described the gatherings around the hearth, the happy groups that, year after year, had there assembled. She was evidently weeping at the dreary contrast which presented itself before her, yet

still she painted the dear delights of by-gone days, and at last closed the moving recital with the melancholy ejaculation, "We have no home now!"

The words were plaintively spoken, and went, where such words do go, directly to the heart. I passed on as one that carries an arrow in his bosom, for the words lingered in my ear and oppressed my spirit.

And art thou desponding, and lonely, and lorn?
And art thou a wanderer, and weary, and worn?
And dost thou look forward the wide world to roam
In sorrow and sadness? and hast thou no home?

Has the wild ass a refuge when worn and opprest?
Can the stork of the desert repose on her nest?
Has the night-bird her bower, and the lion his lair?
And hast thou no home in this wide world of care?

My young friends, if you have a home, be grateful, for there are beings enough in the

world who once possessed a home as dear and as delightful as yours can be, who mournfully ejaculate in the bitterness of present deprivation, contrasted with past enjoyments, "We have no home now!"

TIME.

"For time will rust the brightest blade,
And years will break the strongest bow;
Was ever wight so starkly made

But time and years would overthrow ?"

I COULD talk about time long enough, but if I were to talk for a twelvemonth I could throw no light on so mysterious a subject. Time! a fragment of eternity measured by the changes of the heavenly bodies, and again meted out into minutes and moments by human ingenuity. When it began is a mystery: when it will end is another. The poet says

"'Tis a drop of that fathomless sea,

Which for ever, and ever, and ever has been ;
Which for ever, and ever will be."

Some have entitled time a parenthesis of eternity; what it is, however, is of little moment compared with the importance of our making a good use of it. The allotment of it made to human beings is short; there is, therefore, the greater necessity to use it well. If the Roman considered that he had lost a day, because therein he had not performed a good action, let me ask how many days have been lost by you?

We have all gazed on time, represented by the figure of an old man

Of tall gigantic stature; near him lies

A scythe and hour-glass, and his huge-spread wings
Seem to betoken swift and sudden flight.

We have all thought of that " for ever, and for ever, and for ever," which has puzzled the wisest head, and made the conscientious mind glad to occupy itself in some kind act, or deed of gentle charity, to

Mark the winged moments as they fly.