ter, while it is yet very far distant; and the bee cannot reason, as you can, on the value of time, nor understand, that, if life continues, days of helplessness and sadness must come days when the flowers shall have withered, the ground shall be covered with snow, and no possible way shall exist of getting a supply, if it be neglected while spring and summer last. Yet this instinct bids it work, and it works with all its little might. You can well understand what you are told, both by your teachers, and by your own reason and conscience, that the spring and summer of your life will soon be gone, and that age (should you live to be old), like a dreary winter, will soon arrive; and that death, in the end, will shut you up in the dark tomb. Beyond the tomb, must exist for ever upon you what you have provided in this world—whether, with the blessed, you have "laid up for yourselves treasures in heaven," or, with the wicked, "Treasured up unto yourselves wrath against the day of wrath, and revelation of the righteous judgment of God." Knowing this, not pretending to doubt it, only compare your sad and wicked carelessness, with the diligence and activity

of the little bee! Do you think, my dears, that God will require less from you, to whom he has given so much, than from this poor

insect?

The bee, having examined its habitation, goes out in search of proper materials to fill it with. It finds in the pleasant garden a thousand lovely flowers, and sweet blossoms, expanding under the warm sun; and upon one it alights: dips its trunk into the cup at the bottom of the flower, takes up a proper quantity of the nourishment which it wants, puts it into a little bag, and goes on to another flower. And so it proceeds, until it is loaded with a rich treasure, when it flies away to its hive, and then carefully lays it up, working busily upon it, until it is time to go out for a fresh supply.

Such a garden is the Scripture, such flowers blossom in every page, offering you a rich banquet, if you will pause to gather it. Oh! that, like the bee, you would often alight there; and, having read, or heard, as much as you can well bear in mind, take it with you into retirement, meditate upon it, and pray over it, until it has nourished your soul, and remains laid up in

your memory as a most precious store, to be applied on every needful occasion.

Surely the busy bee must enjoy very much the warm beams of the sun, and the fragrance of the flowers, and the freshness of the soft air; and it is sweet to hear its pretty humming noise. I am convinced that, if you look attentively at both, that a bee is a more you will say useful and active insect than a butterfly, though they may be roving among the same flowers at the same time. There is something restless and unmeaning in the motions of a butterfly. I could almost fancy it is only reposing on the flowers for me to admire its beautiful wings. reminds me of those who do, indeed, study the Bible and other books, but merely to get credit among men, and to show their cleverness; not to derive any real benefit from them; and you see the consequence-the butterfly builds no house, lays up no store for the winter, and therefore as soon as the warm days end, it falls down and dies under the cold breeze.

It

But how different it is with our little friend, the bee! how wise and discerning is this insect! you may put an artificial flower, made of paper

in the garden, and the butterfly will rest upon it, and spread its gay colours in the sun quite contentedly—but not a moment will the bee consent to stay, for there is no honey in that flower. Profit, lasting profit, is the end that this creature has in view; what yields no honhas no charm for it-off it flies to the blossom of the thyme, or the nettle, or of any lowly-looking shrub, whence it can extract its sweet food.

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How foolish are they who suppose that an idle life, passed among gay sights and trifling amusements, is happier than that which is devoted to piety and useful knowledge! will you say that the BEE is a melancholy creature?-oh! look, and attend but a moment, as she nestles in a sweet blossom, and springs away with her treasure, to alight on the leaves of another flower, and bury her little head in it, and away again, with her bright wings glittering in the sunshine. Poor children, you who think religion gloomy, and pity others for being kept so strict, as you fancy it, I wish you knew how much happier they are than yourselves! What are all your expensive toys, your showy dresses, and your

you

well-gilt books of fairy tales, and foolish stories, but so many paper roses, that may be pretty enough to look at, but can never yield any nourishment to your minds, nor give you materials for an eternal store? I do not say that should do nothing but work and study; but I do say that you cannot be happy here, nor blessed hereafter, if you make no better use of your valuable time and opportunities, than to gratify your own inclinations, and to obtain the admiration of your fellow creatures, for things that a butterfly, perhaps, may excel you in-or in which, at least, if you be clever and well read a wise heathen may put you quite to shame by his superior knowledge.

You are Christian children in name, and, if you be so in reality, you must do "such good works as God hath afore prepared that we should walk in them," both old and young.

But we have not yet done with the bee.-You will hardly believe that these little insects have a monarch in every hive, a queen, to whom they pay the most devoted obedience: they work for her, feed her, take the tenderest care of her young, will fight and die in her defence. If you