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replied Moreno; on those of dishonor ? No; were it possible I could be so base, you would cease to respect me- -I should cease to respect myself. Farewell, Nina! Leave me now, my wife, and teach my sons to remember the example I am about to give them, and to serve their country, as I have done, honorably and faithfully to the last. Farewell, my children! remember the last words of your father-War against the tyrant! Freedom for our CO our religion, and our king, Ferdinand !!

“There was lustre on his forehead,

There was lustre in his eye;
And he never walked to battle

More proudly than to die.' “And Vincente Moreno, the guerrilla chief, perished on the scaffold.”

Stories from European History.

THE LOST LAMBKIN.

THERE never was a sweeter creature than dear little goldenhaired Flora Campbell, with her light, fairy footsteps, rosy cheeks, and bright blue eyes. How lovely she looked, as she bounded over the green hills in the morning, or sat by the lako side at the quiet twilight !

Her heart was all sunshine, and her thoughts pure and fresh as the flowers ske twired in her shining tresses. She prattled with the flowers, the streamlets, and the birds; and her clear, ringing voice was heard at daybreak amid the heaths and lawns, when the shepherds led forth their flocks. All loved the gentle child; for she was kind and tender-hearted.

But where is Flora Campbell. The twilight is falling over the mountains, and shutting in the vales, like a grey curtain. One by one the bright stars appear in the summer sky, and twinkle amid the evening clouds. Flora was not wont to linger so long from her grandfather's dwelling; for now the evening meal was being spread, and the cottage lamps lighted.

The aged man clasped his hands and said a short prayer, while his daughter, the mother of Flora, looked anxiously out of the window for her child's return.

But all was hushed when Gaffer Campbell came from his cottage, inquiring of the villagers if they had seen his grandchild. One said he had seen her far up in the mountains, plucking wild flowers and weaving them into a garland ; another had seen her in the path to the Moss Glen, sitting by the way-side, plaiting a willow basket for her grandfather; and a third bad seen her seated with a basket of flowers, near the head of the lake.

“But we must seek Flora immediately,” exclaimed several youths. “Ah me, Gaffer Campbell !” said a white-haired old shepherd, “I feared something; for the youngest lambkin of my flock was lost to-day, and it is a bad omen, they say."

“ Heaven grant that my poor lambkin be safe!” said Gaffer Campbell, solemnly.

The villagers now dispersed in the various paths leading to the mountains, the forest, and the lake; and soon torches gleamed upon the heights, and among the trees, and flashed brightly over the water. Up and down, along the stream, and through the woods, went the young men, calling,

ra! Flora !” But no one answered.

Gaffer Campbell leaned upon his staff, and spoke not a word. He could not weep; for his heart was too full. But the mother of Flora wept, repeating aloud the name of her child.

The village pastor now approached. He had heard that Flora was missing, for every house had been searched within the hour, and he came to console the bereaved friends.

“Fear not, daughter,” said he, “Flora will return."

“Ah, she is lostm-she is lost to me!” exclaimed the mother. “ He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will protect your sweet child,” answered the aged pastor. Fear not."

And as the good man spoke, the loud barking of a dog was heard from the depths of Moss Glen, and lights appeared passing quickly down the valley.

With trembling yet hurried step, the pastor and Gaffer Campbell took their way to the deep glen. But the mother of Flora passed them, and ran wildly down the narrow path. Louder and louder was heard the barking of the dog from the thick gloom in which the vale was shrouded.

They reached the brink of the wide ravine or chasm, called the “Deer's Mouth,” and paused near a group of villagers, who,

with torches in their hands, were listening eagerly to catch the baying of the hound.

Again it came, low and deep, seemingly from the gulf beneath them. They bent with their torches over the edge of the precipice, and strove to look down; but all was dark and silent, except the barking of the dog, now quick and sharp.

“We must go down,” cried a young man, pressing forward. * That's Louth's bark, and he knows Flora as well as we do. Run, Donald, for ropes !”

A half a dozen lads started together at this bidding, and soon long ropes were brought and held by strong men, while the youth prepared to descend.

“Take heed, Christie,” said the white-haired old shepherd. “Remember the omen, my lad—the youngest lambkin of my flock was lost to-day, and I fear more evil.”

“ Fear nothing for me, father," cried the young man, swinging himself into the dark gulf from the edge of the rock.

Down, down the youth was lowered, starting the birds from their nests under the cliffs, and brushing the twining ivy from the sides of the rock. At last he reached the bottom, and the noble dog sprang toward him, barking loud and joyfully.

The glare of the torch which the young man held flashed around and lighted up every object. There, upon a thick bed of moss, lay Flora Campbell, holding in her white arms, and close to her bosom, a young lamb.

Christie stooped and gazed at her. She breathed calmly, and he knew she was sleeping. He glanced at the little lamb, and saw that one of its legs was bandaged with a ribbon from the child's hat. Then he looked up, and shouted aloud, “Flora's safe!”

The shout was echoed so loudly and gladly that it awoke the young girl from her slumber. She looked around, and knew the youth.

“Dear Christie,” she said, “I am so glad you have come! Now we will save your lamb.”

The villagers soon learned all. Flora had seen the young lamb where it had fallen at the bottom of the Deer's Mouth, and saw that one of its legs was broken. She had gone down from ledge to ledge of the chasm, clinging to the ivy, not thinking of danger; she had bound up the lambkin's broken leg with her bonnet ribbon, and held the little sufferer in her arms; and, being weary, had fallen asleep upon the bed of moss.

Joyful and happy were her mother and grandfather when they were told of Flora's safety. Christie's father blessed the fair child, and gave her the lambkin which she had rescued. And often afterward might Flora be seen bounding over the green hills with her pet frisking by her side; and whenever she appeared, the villagers would smile and say, “Heaven bless the darling child !"

THE LITTLE DUTCH HERO.

At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Haarlem. His father was a sluicer—that is, one whose work it was to open and shut the sluices, or large oak gates, which, placed at certain regular distances, close the entrance of the canals, and secure Holland from the danger to which it seems exposed-of finding itself under water rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the sluices more or less, as required, as a cook turns the cock of a fountain, and closes them again carefully at night. Were this forgotten, the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and flood the whole country: so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties.

The boy was about eight years old when one day he asked leave to take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the dyke. His father let him, but charged him not to stay too late. The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes, and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old man's stories; but as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home.

As he went along by the canals, then quite full-for it was in October, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters—the road gradually became more lonely, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager, returning to his cottage-home, nor the rough voice of the carter, grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer

E

to be heard. The night was falling ; not, however, a dull, murky, night, but one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights in which every object is seen, though not as plainly as by day. The child thought of his father's order, and was preparing to quit the ravine, in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles, attracted his attention. Being near one of the large sluices, he carefully examined it, and soon discovered a hole in the wood, through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which every child in Holland would have, the boy saw the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was then only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would follow from the flood. To see-to throw away the flowers—to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment; and to his delight he found that he had stopped the flow of the water.

This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came. He shouted—he called loudly: no one answered. He resolved to stay there all night; but, alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the bole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm. The pain became still greater, still harder to bear; but still the boy moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not; for he knew that if he removed the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brothers, his neighbours—nay, the whole village.

We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of courage, there might have been during that long and terrible night; but certain it is, that at daybreak he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from a death-bed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans, and, bending over the dyke, discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale face and tearsul eyes.

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