And here is one more tale of the same kind :

:

"Some years ago a fowler, mounted on his mud-pattens (flat pieces of board tied under his feet), was traversing the sea shore in quest of ducks; and, being intent only on his game, he suddenly found that the waters, which had been brought forward with uncommon rapidity, by some peculiar circumstance of tide and current, had made an alarming progress around him. Encumbered as his feet were, he could not exert much expedition; but, to whatever part he ran, he found himself completely invested by the tide. In this uncomfortable situation a thought struck him, as the only hope of safety. He retired to that part of the plain of sand which seemed the highest, from its being yet uncovered by water; and, striking the barrel of his gun (which, for the purpose of shooting wild fowl, was very long) deep into the mud, he resolved to hold fast by it, as a support and a security against the waves, and to wait the ebbing of the tide. A common tide, he had reason to believe, would not in that place have reached above his middle; but as this was a spring tide, and brought forward with a strong westerly wind, he dare hardly expect so favourable a conclusion. In the midst of his reasoning on the subject, the water, making a rapid advance, had now reached him. It covered the ground on which he stood, it rippled over his feet, it gained his knees, his waist; button after button was swallowed up, till at length it advanced over his very shoulders. With a palpitating heart he gave himself up for lost. Still, however, he held fast by his anchor. His eye was eagerly in search of some boat, which might accidentally take its

course that way: but none appeared. A solitary head just peeping above the water, and that sometimes covered by a wave, was no object to be descried from the shore, at a distance of half a league; nor could he exert any sounds of distress that could be heard so far. While he was thus making up his mind to the terrors of a certain destruction, his attention was called to a new object. He thought he saw the uppermost button of his coat appear. No mariner floating on a wreck could behold a cape at sea with greater transport than he did this uppermost button of his coat. But the fluctuation of the water was such, and the turn of the tide so slow, that it was yet some time before he durst venture to assure himself that the button was fairly above the level of the flood. At length, however, a second button appearing at intervals, his sensations may rather be conceived than described; and his joy gave him spirit and resolution to support his uneasy situation four or five hours longer, till the waters fully retired."

I wonder if these two men, who were in such great danger, ever saw the hand of God in their deliverance, or whether they only talked of it afterwards as a lucky escape. Let us hope that they did not fail to thank God, who holdeth the waters in the hollow of his hand; for had he only permitted them to flow a little higher they must have perished. It is always right when we have been in any danger to thank God with all our heart for our deliverance. This was what King

David always did. Many of his Psalms were written on this very subject. Just turn to the 103rd and the 107th, and you will see how he praises God for his mercy and great goodness.

HARVEST SONGS.

FOUNTAIN of mercy, God of love,
How rich thy bounties are;
The rolling seasons, as they move,
Proclaim thy constant care.

When, in the bosom of the earth,
The sower hid the grain,

Thy goodness marked its secret birth,

And sent the early rain.

The spring's sweet influence, Lord, was thine,

The plants in beauty grew;

Thou gav'st refulgent suns to shine,
And the refreshing dew.

These various mercies from above
Matured the swelling grain;
A kindly harvest crowns thy love,
And plenty fills the plain.

We own and bless thy gracious sway,
Thy hand all nature hails:
Seed-time nor harvest, night nor day,
Summer nor winter, fails.

THE God of harvest praise;
In loud thanksgiving raise
Hand, heart, and voice;
The valleys smile and sing,
Forests and mountains ring,
The plains their tribute bring,
The streams rejoice.

Yea, bless his holy name,
And
purest thanks proclaim
Through all the earth;

To glory in your lot
Is duty-but be not
God's benefits forgot,
Amidst your mirth.

The God of harvest praise;
Hands, hearts, and voices, raise,

With sweet accord;
From field to garner throng,
Bearing your sheaves along,
And in your harvest song
Bless ye the Lord!

JACQUOT, THE ITALIAN BOY.

BY COUSIN JAMES.

Concluding Notice.

It was a dark, wet, stormy night, when cousin James again set out for the cottage to finish his tale about "Jacquot."

As he passed the window, he saw there was a blazing fire, around which sat his little listeners, in the midst of whom he was soon seated, and then began:—

I dare say, Willie, you have often heard people say that 66 misfortunes seldom come singly," and it often seems so. Jacquot now found it the case; for the very next night after his little marmot died his young friend, Pierre, was taken very ill. He had got wet through a few days before, and caught a bad cold, which brought on a fever. In the night Jacquot was awoke by hearing him making a moaning noise. He got up, and with several others went to his bedside to see what was the matter, and found Pierre raving and tossing about, and trying to get up. They were obliged to hold him down, while he cried out, "Let me go; I want to go home. Why do you hold me? Loose me, and let me go to my mother. How my head burns! Give me some water." They gave him some, and he drank long and eagerly, and seemed a little calmer, but he soon raved as bad as ever. Jacquot took hold of his hand and said, "Pierre, dont you know me?" "No, I dont. Who are you? Let me go. I

want to go home to my mother. me!" Then he struggled hard

O, mother, come and help to get up again, but they