That day was spent in letter-writing, and the same post that brought to Digby the intelligence that he was to leave school that term, and commence work with Mr. Vickers, conveyed to Howard the loving sympathy of true hearts, which clung to him through evil report and good report.

(To be continued.)

THE NEWS-CARRIER.

BY CATHARINE S. BOYD.

[Illustration:  “OH NO!  IT IS NOT I!”]

  “How do you know?” “Who told you so?”
    These words you often hear;
  And then it often happens, too,
    This answer meets your ear: 
  “A little bird has told the tale,
  And far it spreads o’er hill and dale.”

  Now let us see if this can be. 
    How can the birds find out so well,
  And give the news to all? 
    Or, if they know, why need they tell? 
  And which among the feathered tribe
  Must we to keep our secrets bribe?

  The busy crow?  As all well know,
    He sometimes breaks the laws;
  We shall regret it, when he does,
    For he will give us cause. 
  Though slyest of the feathered tribe,
  The crow would scorn to need a bribe;—­

  Not robin red; he holds his head
    With such an honest air,
  And whistles bravely at his work,
    But has no time to spare. 
  “I mind my own concerns,” says he;
  “They’re most important, all may see;”—­

  Nor birdie blue, so leal and true;
    He never heeds the weather,
  But in the latest winter-days
    His fellows flock together;
  And then, indeed, glad news they bring
  Of early buds and blossoming.

  Might not each one beneath the sun
    Of all the race reply,
  If questioned who should wear the cap,
    “Oh no! it is not I?”
  For there are none who, every day,
  Are busier at work than they.

  They chatter too, as others do;
    But what it is about,
  The wisest sage in all the earth
    Might puzzle to make out. 
  But I’m as sure as I can be,
  They never talk of you or me,

  We hear “They say,”—­oh, every day! 
    Are they the birds, I wonder,
  That have such power with words to part
    The dearest friends asunder? 
  Or must we search the wide world through
  To bring the culprits full in view?

  The birds, we see, though wild and free,
    Have something else to do;
  And, reader, don’t you think the same
    Might well be said of you? 
  It really seems to be a shame
  That they should always bear the blame.

LIVING SILVER.

BY MARY H. SEYMOUR.

The ground was covered with snow, and now it had begun raining.  There was no prospect of a change in the weather, which made Fred’s face rather gloomy as he looked out of the window.  Harry was turning over the leaves of a story-book.  You could see they were both disappointed that the morning was stormy; for when they came to grandpapa’s in the winter, they expected bright days and plenty of fun.