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Stories of Insect Life.

My indignation at such a deliberate act of cruelty and murder was immediately roused, and I at once took summary revenge and tore down Ben's stronghold; but he had dragged his victim to a hole, and was there enjoying his meal.

The next day he set about spinning a fresh snare, which in due time was accomplished, and many a pretty insect was sacrificed in like manner. I observed that, when a larger fly, or great fussy blue-bottle, became entangled, and was likely to escape, Ben used to hurry out with agility, and weave a few threads about her wings, thus binding his captive.

If a bee or wasp happened to fall on the web, Ben was at once alarmed, broke away his meshes, and allowed so formidable an enemy quietly to escape. He made several webs when I was there; for many victims caused many rents, and he did not care to repair his fabric too often.

The spider, however, is furnished with only a certain quantity of the glutinous substance with which he weaves so delicately, and when this is exhausted, Nature does not appear to renew it. Then, it is said, the old spider attacks the palace of a younger or weaker brother, and often succeeds in his invasion; but, should this fail, and it must do so sooner or later, he leads a sort of vagabond, homeless life, subsisting on such chance prey as he can pick up, at length dying miserably of starvation.

I was not, however, witness of Ben's dissolution: he was fat and thriving when I left him. Many a fight he had with others of his kind, but he always came off victorious; the loss of a limb did not seem to discompose him. I suppose he knew it would rapidly grow again. Many an hour I spent in watching him; and it was with deep regret, when summer days were ended, I bade goodbye to my happy country home, the dear old arbour, and my friend Ben. LEIGH PAGE.

FERNS.

FERNS, beautiful ferns,

By the side of the running waters, Lovely, and sweet, and fresh,

As the fairest of earth-born daughters; Under the dreamy shade,

Of the forest's mighty branches,

Curving their graceful shapes

To the playful wind's advances !

Ferns, delicate ferns,

Neighbours of emerald mosses;

Having no thought or care

For worldly attainments or losses!

Children of shadow serene,

Fresh at the heart through the summer;

Over the cool springs they lean,

Where the sunbeam is rarely a comer.

Ferns, feathery ferns,

Delicate, slender, and frail;

Nursed by the streamlet, whose song

Is music for hillside and vale.

Purity, modesty, grace,

Emblems of these to the mind;

Loving the quietest place,

That ever a sunbeam will find.

Ferns, beautiful ferns,

Footstool of God sweetly dressing,

Catching His sunbeam and shower,

Receiving no curse with His blessing;
Sheltered from scorching and blast,
Lulled by the rivulet's song,

What blessings, contentment, and peace,

Are with them the whole summer long!

ANNIE E. CLARK.

SAYING 'NO' EASY.

OW is it you never go with bad boys, or get into bad scrapes?' asked one little fellow of his playmate.

'Oh,' said the other, 'that's 'cause I don't say "no" easy.'

We thank that boy for his secret.

It is worth

a great deal more than a bag of money. We have no doubt saying 'no' easy has ruined many a child and man, and woman too-saying 'no' as if you did not quite mean it.

When a bad boy or girl tries to coax you to do a doubtful thing, say 'no' as if you meant 'no,' and nothing but 'no.'

When sin whispers an excuse for doing wrong, say 'no,' and no mistake. When Satan asks you to serve him, and makes as great promises as he did to the Lord Jesus in the wilderness, do not say 'no' easy, but answer him as Jesus did, 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' That is a 'no' he can understand.-Christian Intelligencer.

THE TRUE MEMOIRS OF OUR DEAR PETS.

*

BY ANNA J. BUCKLAND,

AUTHOR OF NOBLE RIVERS AND THEIR STORIES,' ETC.

T

HE other day we had our spring house-cleaning, and all the books were taken down out of the book-case to be dusted. As I was helping mamma to put them up again, I saw that several of them were called the memoirs of but I can't re

Mr. somebody, or a life of Miss

member the names.

And I asked mamma what these books were about; so she told me that they were the true stories of persons who had been very good or great while they were alive, and then, after they were dead, some one who knew them well wrote an account of what they had done or said, and it was printed in a book.

I wondered then whether any one would ever write a history of all of us eleven children after we were dead; for I am sure we do and say a great deal. But mamma laughed, and said she didn't think it at all likely that any of us would ever be remarkable enough to have our lives written.

'But shouldn't you like it, mamma ?' said I.

'No,' said mamma. 'I should like best to see you all quietly doing your duty, and serving God in your daily lives; and such persons do not often have their memoirs written.'

But I think I should like to write somebody's life,' said I. It would be so odd and nice to see it in print. But then, no one we know has ever died.'

'God has been very good to us in preserving us all alive,' said mamma. 'You know we thank Him for that every morning, when we all meet together for family worship.'

Then I thought what a dreadful thing it must be for those children who had lost their father or mother, or brothers and sisters; and while I was thinking of this, the tears would come into my eyes! And then I remembered how we had all cried, when Fluffy, and poor Jack, and little Dor had died, although they were only animals; and all of a sudden it popped into my head, that there was no reason why such good, dear creatures shouldn't have their memoirs written, as well as men and women; so I said to mamma, 'Do animals ever have their memoirs published after they are dead, mamma ?'

'I have read many accounts of remarkable animals, certainly,' mamma replied. There are "Whittington's