country. Every one of you will have to take care of yourselves. Only keep as near as you can to me; or if you are separated from me, then keep close to the band of swallows with whom we shall go: else you will miss your way, and never reach the beautiful country that I have so often told you of. In the mean time you must keep close to the nest, that whenever the notice is given, we may all be ready to obey it."

Two evenings after this, about an hour before sun-setting, an old and very swift swallow went flying round to all the eaves of the farms, and old houses near, and appointed them to meet on a certain hill (one of that range of hills that we see when looking to the south), and by the spire of the church there at sunset. So they took their last meal, and by the time appointed were on the wing; but with very different feelings. The eldest bird, who had never exercised himself, began to doubt whether he could ever bear the fatigue: the second would rather have stayed in his old familiar woods, and skimmed round the old well-known buildings: Tiny, a weak little bird after all, was terribly afraid of the distance, but resolved to do her best.

As the sun set, they met by hundreds and hundreds round the spire. Presently the signal was given, and all the birds set off for the south. And as they passed many and many a little village, they were joined by fresh hosts of birds; so that when

they first came in sight of the sea, instead of hundreds they might have been reckoned by tens of thousands.

When they first came in sight of the sea! Ah, then it was that the courage of the eldest bird utterly failed. When he saw nothing before him but the broad, broad water, and found that the army of his companions were still winging their way towards it, he resolved to take his chance and remain behind.

There was no time for a long consultation then. The season of preparation and advice was over. Those that were ready must make the effort at once; those that were not ready had now no hope. It was in vain that his mother, and the rest of his little family, tried to urge him on; stay he would, and stay he did. There were a few sunny days, in which he could still enjoy himself in his old haunts. But then came clouds thicker, and rain heavier than ever. Three or four weeks of misery: the recollection of his companions now safely at home in that sunny and beautiful country; and then one night of sharp frost, put an end for ever to the sufferings and sorrows of the poor bird.

But as for the rest. As they passed over France, still fresh and fresh hundreds joined themselves to the huge army. And when they were fairly over the Atlantic Ocean, swiftly as they flew, and wide as they stretched out, it took half an hour for the whole body to pass any one spot. All that night,

and all the next day, they went southward, southward still; but towards the evening, just as the sun was about to sink into the purple ocean (oh, how purple it is out there, at such a distance from land!), Tiny, who had all this while kept close to her mother, said that her strength was failing. The poor mother tried to comfort and support her as well as she could; but they flew slower and slower; and the great multitude of birds were passing before them. At last, just as Tiny's strength was about to fail, far below them they beheld a ship.

"I will keep with you, my child," said the mother: "it is not the first time I have rested on the houses which men build upon the seas."

And in another minute they were resting on its mast. The sailors, as they always do, strewed bread-crumbs on the deck, left a wide space for the weary birds, and did everything they could to make them welcome. So they ate and were refreshed : while all that night the ship was bearing them towards the land whither they were going.

And a stormy night it was: and among the hundreds that perished in the tempest was that one of our little birds, who had most trusted in his strength, and had feared nothing at first setting forth.

The rest of a night and a fine morning sent forth our two birds, Tiny and her mother, on their way, and brought them to their home.

And now you have seen the lesson that they teach us. We, like them, belong to a better country than this: we, like them, but for our own fault, shall return thither: we know not the exact time, but we know that there is a certain time beyond which we cannot linger. The ocean, across which none, save GOD Himself, can help us, is death. And so, my children, the next time you see those swallows preparing, as you may see them now, for their autumn journey, think whether you are preparing for yours. You have every help now which can assist you in your preparation. GOD grant you so to use them, that when the time shall come, however terrible that passage must be to every one, it may, nevertheless, be safe to you, and blessed, beyond the power of words to speak, in its ending!

READING XXX.1

"Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required." S. LUKE Xii. 48.

THE other day, two travellers were crossing one of the passes in the Alps, where the snow lay deep and thick, and where all round there were wild crags and precipices-a bitterly cold and lonely path. And they asked their guide whether there was any danger on the pass. You are to understand that such a pass is a narrow, steep descent between two precipices, the snow which covers it hard frozen on the top; you sit down, and allow yourself to slide forward, and you go with the speed of a railway to the bottom of the hill. But often this snow only hides what are called crevasses -deep, fearful gulfs; and it is the guide's business to know where these crevasses are, and whether the snow is strong enough to make a firm bridge. So, as I said, these two travellers said to the guide, "Is there danger ?" and he answered, "No." Then they began to slide forward; when all at once one of them, who was a clergyman, cried out, "GOD have mercy on my soul!" and they saw him disappear through the snow. Very carefully the others came round where he had fallen; they

1 Read to the Orphans of S. Margaret's Orphanage, the Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity, 1860.