BERTIE’S BOX.

A very little boy by the name of “Bertie,” kept a box in which he deposited his little treasures.  After he died his mother took the key and opened it.  It was full of all sorts of things.  There were specimens of stones, and shells, and moss, and grass, and dried flowers.  There were, also, curious flies, found dead; but they were not destroyed by him, as he would never sacrifice a short sunny existence for self gratification.  There were a number of books and small ornamental toys which had been given him—­a drawing slate with pencils, colored chalks, a small box of colors, some little plates which he had colored in his own untaught style—­a commenced copy of the hymn, “I know that my Redeemer liveth”—­an unfinished letter to his grandpapa, and some torn leaves which he had found with passages of scripture upon them—­a copy of the “lines on the death of an only son.”  Also a number of sketches of missionary stations, chapels and schools, which he had cut out and colored.  His mother once asked him why he cut them out, saying, that there might be some reading on the back of the pieces worth saving.  “Oh no, mamma,” he replied, “I looked carefully at the backs first.”  In the box was a purse containing three shillings.

Such were the treasures which this little lamb had left when he died.  And as you will be pleased to know what was done with the box of treasures, I will tell you.  “The thought struck me,” says his mother, “that after he was gone, I should not know what to do with Bertie’s Box of treasures; I therefore asked him what I should do with them.”  He replied, “Oh, give half to God and half to the children, and be sure to divide them fairly.”  The money in the box was devoted to the purchase of the Bible—­and a collecting box made in the form of a Bible; for, said he, “when my friends come and give money to the children, then hold Bertie’s box for Bertie’s share.”  This is a good example for all children.  Your little treasures may serve a good purpose when you die.

THE CHILD AND FLOWER.

    The Atheist in his garden stood,
      At twilight’s pensive hour,
    His little daughter by his side,
      Was gazing on a flower.

    “Oh, pick that little blossom, Pa,”
      The little prattler said,
    “It is the fairest one that blooms
      Within that lowly bed.”

    The father plucked the chosen flower,
      And gave it to his child;
    With parted lips and sparkling eye,
      She seized the gift and smiled.

    “O Pa—­who made this pretty flower,
      This little violet blue;
    Who gave it such a fragrant smell,
      And such a lovely hue?”

    A change came o’er the father’s brow,
      His eye grew strangely wild,
    New thoughts within him had been stirred
      By that sweet artless child.