itude, to inform us we have lost a friend. But 1 will own, my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future, for they tell me you are a very good, kind old gentleman.

Sir Rob. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell you that?

Fred. Old rusty there.

Sir Rob. Why, Humphrey, you didn't?
Dob. Yes, but I did, though.

Fred. Yes, he did; and, on that score, 1 shall be anxious to show you obedience; for it is as meritorious to attempt sharing in a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its assiduities at the pocket.

Sir Rob. Jump out of every window I have in the house! Hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow! Ay, this is spunk and plain speaking. Give me the man, who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrine smack in my teeth.

Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.

Dob. So do I. But come, come, let us go to the business of the morning.

Sir Rob. Don't talk to me about the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion? I hate the business of the morning! Dob. No, you don't.

Sir Rob. And why not?

Dob. Because it is charity.

Sir Rob. Well, we must not neglect such business. See if there is any distress in the parish. Read your memorandum, Humphrey.

Dob. The first thing in the list this morning is, Jonathan Higgins is put into prison by old Gripe,

the Jew.

Sir Rob. Why it was but last week he recovered two cottages by law, worth sixty pounds.

Dob. Very true, he did so; but it was afterwards found that old Scrouge, the usurer, had a lien upon them for fifty pounds, and he has taken pos

session.

Sir Rob. What! has that old harpy got his fangs upon him? Well, I will see to that. I must relieve the poor fellow's distress. Read on. What

next?

Dob. The curate's horse is dead.

Sir Rob. Pshaw! there is no distress in that. Dob. Yes there is to a man who must go thirty miles, every Sunday, to preach three sermons for thirty pounds a year.

Sir Rob. What is the name of that black pad that I purchased last Tuesday, at Tunbridge? Dob. Ethiope.

Sir Rob. Send Ethiope to the curate, and tell him to work the nag as long as he lives. Send a good saddle and bridle too. Read on. What else?

Dob. Somewhat out of the common. There is one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village. He is poor, it seems, but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.

Fred. That sounds like a noble character.

Sir Rob. And so he sends to me for assistance? Dob. He would see you hanged first! Harrowby says, the lieutenant would sooner die than ask any man for a shilling. There are his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal. He keeps them all on half pay.*

Sir Rob. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey.

Fred. Good morning, uncle.

Sir Rob. Where are you running to now?
Fred. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington.

Sir Rob. And what may you be going to say to

Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have by the hand one who is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to support his motherless child, and a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments.

Sir Rob. Stop, you rogue. I must be before you

in this business.

Fred. That depends upon who can fastest. So, start fair, uncle. Here goes!

run the

Sir Rob. Stop! Why, Frederic! A jackanapes, to take my department out of my hands! I'll disinherit the dog for his assurance.

Dob. No, you won't.

Sir Rob. Won't I? But I we will argue that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey.

JEALOUSY.

ONCE a white rosebud reared her head,
And peevishly to Flora said,

"Look at my sister's blushing hue;
Pray, mother, let me have it too."
"Nay, child," was Flora's mild reply,
"Be thankful for such gifts as I
Have deemed befitting to dispense-
Thy dower, the hue of innocence."
The rose still grumbled and complained;
Her mother's bounties still disdained.
"Well, then," said angered Flora, "take"
She breathed upon her as she spake
"Henceforth, no more in simple vest
Of innocence shalt thou be drest;

Take that which better suits thy mind,
The hue for jealousy designed!"
The yellow rose has, from that hour,
Borne evidence of envy's power.

THE CRICKET A MUSICIAN.

1. WITH the cricket, I suppose all my young readers are well acquainted. He is a citizen of almost every place, and is well spoken of and respected by almost every body. Indeed, he is a general favorite, both in summer and winter, among the old and the young.

2. In summer, he takes to the fields, and amuses himself with a country life. Then beneath hedges, in stone walls, and under stumps, he is as happy as the day is long. In winter, he betakes himself to more secure and warmer quarters.

in

3. In this inclement season, he loves to creep about fireplaces and under hearth stones; and in the long winter evenings, when the storm is raging without, or the cold is so severe as almost to nip your nose and fingers off, he will keep up his music by the hour together. He then "takes no note of time," and sometimes sits up all night "as merry as a cricket."

4. But though my young readers have seen the cricket, and listened to his music so often, I very much doubt whether half of them can tell how he makes it. People generally speak of the cricket's singing; though I should prefer to use the word chirping.

5. It is not commonly known whether his music is vocal or instrumental; and though the måtter is not very important, it is still pleasant and interest

ing to be acquainted with the facts in the case. So if there be no objection, I will give you a little narrative, which will illustrate the subject.

6. Many years ago, when I was not larger than some of the little boys now reading this article, my attention was one day attracted, in crossing a field, by the loud, shrill music of a cricket, at no great distance from me. There were many others as merry as he, around me; but the music of the one of which I speak, surpassed all the rest.

7. He obviously stood preeminent in his art, and I thought him a professor. I was delighted to hear him, but was at the same time seized with an unaccountable desire to see him perform. I was curious to know how a little cricket could make so much noise, and make it so constantly.

8. I resolved, therefore, if the thing were possible, to have a sight of him, and get at his secret. In carrying this resolution into effect, I took two or three steps towards the place, where I judged him to be, in the immediate vicinity of a half-rotted stump. But my musician was not fond of human auditors, and ceased at once.

9. This showed me that, with all his skill and excellence, he was also modest. He was not a public professor, but only an amateur, who played or sung (for this matter was not yet decided) for the gratification of private circles, and did not wish to appear in public.

10. I waited patiently for several minutes, without stirring a foot, or even breathing aloud. At last my musician commenced again. This time I was more cautious, and succeeded in getting two or three yards nearer to him, when suddenly he stopped again. But I was not to be overcome by difficulties, or worn out by delays.

11. I had the whole afternoon before me, and determined to gratify my curiosity. I therefore