How many things you have collected!  Your well-filled basket attests your industry and zeal, and suggests the fruitful question of the novelist, “What will you do with it?” Will you throw its contents on the sand, and go away satisfied with these imperfect glimpses of sea-life?  Will you take them home indeed, but consign them to a crowded bowl, to die like the prisoners in the Black Hole of Calcutta?  Or will you give to each a roomy basin with water, and plants to keep it pure?

This were well; and you could thus study their structure at leisure, but not their habits.  To know the character of an individual, you must watch him among his fellows; you must observe his bearing to the small; you must see how he demeans himself in presence of the great.  To do this, the surroundings must be such that none shall be conscious of restraint, but that every one, with homely ease, may act out his own peculiar nature.  In short, you must make ready for them another Atlantic, in all things but breadth like its grand prototype.

Nor is this a difficult undertaking.  By following the advice of some experienced person, you may avoid all those failures which are apt to attend the experiments of a tyro.  I will direct you to our pioneer in aquarian science, Mr. Charles E. Hammett.  He can furnish you with all you want, give you most efficient aid, and add thereto a great amount of practical information.

You need have no fears for the population of your colony; for in our future walks we shall meet new objects of beauty and interest, and in such variety and abundance that your only embarrassment will be which to choose.

And now the ramble of to-day is ended.  The “punctual sea” has risen, and, waking his dreaming waves, he gives to them their several tasks.  Some, with gentle touch, lave the heated rock; these, swift of foot, bring drink to the thirsty sand; those carry refreshing coolness to the tepid pool.  Charged with blessings come they all, and, singing ’mid their joyous labor, they join in a chorus of praise to their God and our God; while from each of our hearts goes up the ready response, “Thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works, and I will rejoice in giving praise for the operations of thy hands!”

ANN POTTER’S LESSON.

My sister Mary Jane is older than I,—­as much as four years.  Father died when we were both small, and didn’t leave us much means beside the farm.  Mother was rather a weakly woman; she didn’t feel as though she could farm it for a living.  It’s hard work enough for a man to get clothes and victuals off a farm in West Connecticut; it’s up-hill work always; and then a man can turn to, himself, to ploughin’ and mowin’;—­but a woman a’n’t of no use, except to tell folks what to do; and everybody knows it’s no way to have a thing done, to send.