distance the star we have just named is from Jupiter, another star will be seen, thus making four of these bodies attendant upon the planet. These four bodies are moons, or satellites, which move around Jupiter, and exhibit new and full moons to him, just as our moon shows these changes to us.

The following diagram will enable us to discover which are the moons of Jupiter, as they will appear as there shown at about eight o'clock on the evening of the 1st of April.

O

The circle represents the planet Jupiter, the black dots show the position of his satellites.

At the same hour on the evening of the 6th of April, the moons of Jupiter will be seen as below.

On the evening of the 12th, two of Jupiter's moons will be quite close to him, at eight o'clock, and will appear as shown below.

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If we watch the two moons close to Jupiter on the left, we shall find, that, at exactly twenty-nine minutes past eight, on the night of the 12th, the lower of the two will touch the planet Jupiter, and will consequently be lost sight of. At fifty-one minutes past eight, the upper of the two will also disappear in the same manner. If this planet be examined each night, his moons will be found to occupy different positions as regards each other. Sometimes only three moons will be visible, the fourth being either eclipsed by the planet or its shadow, or invisible because apparently upon the surface of Jupiter.

These moons enable us, therefore, to set our clocks and watches within a minute of Greenwich time, although we may be hundreds of miles from that locality, and although the planet is distant a thousand years in time from us.

Thus the researches and records of ancient astronomers, undertaken, probably, merely from an innate love for the sublime in nature, have served as the foundation-stones upon which each successive race of savans has added a tier, until now there is a vast superstructure, which, analogous to the more material lighthouse, with its revolving and illuminating beacon, serves as a sure guide to the navigator who ventures upon the pathless ocean. Surely the Chaldean star-gazers never even dreamed of the uses to which their loved science would be applied. Hence, knowledge should be sought for its own sake, and for the truth which may be realized therefrom, and transmitted by us, as a most precious inherit

ance to coming generations, who will be the heirs of the present, just as we are the heirs of the accumulated wisdom of the past.

With even the small knowledge we already possess, let us yet turn our thoughts upwards, and endeavour to reflect upon and realize the vastness of the page there submitted to our view. There are seasons and times when, beneath our feet, are gorgeous flowers and glittering insects, whose beauties, from their minuteness, are even as far from us as the rolling worlds above. In the present month, however, these wonders do not exist, and the darkness at night would prevent us from examining them, even if they did. With eyes and soul elevated, let us then pass an hour in calmly contemplating the heavens, in allowing our minds to freely roam amidst those quiet and starlight realms above.

It is then that the imagination becomes active, and the perception quickened, and we fancy-can it be all fancy?—that a once familiar form is attracted to us—and,

"Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the Spirit's voiceless prayer,"

which still assures us, that amidst those peaceful regions at which we are gazing, we shall once more meet, if we will but continue true to the highest and most noble promptings of our spirit, and endeavour to daily carry out the teachings, and imitate the deeds of Him who formed the Universe around us.

PUIR GRIZE L.

A TALE O' SCOTLAND.

MITHER, Mither," cried a yellow-haired laddie, rushing into a tidy cottage in the outskirts of the Scottish town of Dundee ; Faither's no' comin' hame the nicht, the English gentleman is wantin' him for the fishin' at sunrise the morn, sae he maun bide at the inn. He's no comin' hame; an' me an' Katie, what will we do for our story? Faither's a grand mon for stories; I loe dearly to hear to him tellin' o' them. I'd suner be wantin' my parritch, I would, than be losin' faither's stories o' nichts."

'Whisht, Willie lad, I misdoubt ye there; ye'd no be sae daft as to let your supper gae by for the sake o' a whiff o' a tale--not siccan parritch as yon," said the good mother, as she smilingly pointed to the tempting bowl, all ready set for her son, with a jug of fresh milk beside it; "What say you Katie, eh ?"

"I think its just Willie's daffin, mither, an' we'll no need to be wantin' our story either, for grannie's a fine hand at stories too, an' she'll gie us one the nicht, will ye no, grandmither?" said little Kate, with a coaxing voice, looking towards an aged woman, who sat in an oaken chair by the ingle nook.

In the light of the fire her busy bright needles glittered and glanced, as with surprising quickness her long bony fingers guided them through the ins and outs of the fabric of a substantial stocking she was knitting.

“Surely, my bairns, when supper's dune, an' ye hae thankit God for yer food, ye'll hae as gude a story as yer auld grannie can gie."

Quickly was the porridge despatched, the dishes washed and set aside. Then pretty Kate, seated on a low stool, cosily nestled herself by her grandmother's knee, while Willie drew from his pocket a knife, and a piece of wood which had already assumed something the appearance of a ship.

The mother took her sewing to the table, where the candle gave a

steadier light, and the grandmother began.

'A story, bairns! an' what will it be about ?"

"A true story," eagerly exclaimed Katie.

"A story about sailors and ships," cried Willie.

The click of the needles was stayed, and the busy fingers were folded on the old dame's lap, while for a minute or two she looked straight into the red peat-fire before her.

A true story, an' a story about sailors an' ships? Weel, bairns— an' sae in a measure it shall be. But I maun forewarn ye it's an' unco' sorrowfu' tale-and its few could hear to it, an' no greet. I mind, that when first it was tellt to me, the tears rained o'er my face.

Willie, lad, and Katie, baith! beware o' angrie tempers and headstrang wills! It was just thae twa evil things an' the no' looking

abune for grace to control them, that brocht about sic an awfu' doom, that the haill country side once rang wi' the fearfu' tale.

But I maun let it speak for itsell.

Jeanie, woman, ye'll mind, gin the bairns dinna, that I'm fourscore years an' twa come Hallowe'en, an' it may hae been thretty years before that, he that tellt me saw wi' his ain ee'n, an' heard wi' his ain ears, the mickle part o' what I'm gaun to say-an' what he didna see or hear hissell, he learned frae those wha'd kent a' frae the beginnin'.

A bonnier young couple than Griselda Jeffrey an' her gudemon was never seen in Dundee. Ye'll ken frae the name they were no' o' this countrie, an' I'm no sayin' but what the folks here micht hae taken kindlier to them, had their name been Drummond or McNab. But there was nae denyin' that the ane an' the ither were bonnie-looking an' weel conductit.

Griselda, indeed, wi' her stately step, an' queenly way o' carryin' her gracefu' heid, was mair like a real leddy to look at, than the wife o' a warkin' mon.

No' that she warkit mickle hersell,—mair's the pity! for the needle's a safe companion for women folk. It keeps the fingers nimble an' blythe, an' it gies the mind a halesome turn in fittin', an' piecin', an makin' do. There's no' a mair comely task, nor an' honester cause for pride, than the womanly skill to gar auld claes look amaist as gude as new.

But, alack! puir Grizel had no' the gift, an' she cared na to seek for it. An' while her gudemon was spared to her it was a' weel enoo, for he warkit cheerily the lee lang day, an' had nae ither thocht but just to pour the siller he earned into his wife's lap. He was a builder-mon; an' his wage was gude.

Livin' the ane for the ither as they did, Griselda cared naught for the neebors' word that "she was owre fine for them!"—" settin' hersell up for a leddy, indeed!"-an' sic like clishmaclavers.

But they that were hardest against her were fain to greet, when ane terrible day they saw the puir handsome lad carried by a lifeless corse!

He'd fa'en frae a ladder o' great height. He maun hae dee'd, the dochtors said, before he reached the grund, sae his body didna suffer pain. An' the minister said-that he trusted his saul was safe i' the fauld wi' the Good Shepherd he'd aye lo'ed an' sought to follow.

Wad that his misfortunate wife had been won by him to thochts o' anither world. But she lookit never abune! Her Heaven an' her Earth war ever by her side! Her Jamie was her idol. She lo'ed him, puir

lassie, wi' a' the strength o' her heart an' saul.

Sae when the licht o' her eyes was ta'en frae her wi' so sharp an' sudden a stroke, she was like ane distraught; she wadna hear to a word frae neebor, or frae minister, but day an' nicht she sat by the bed whar he was laid out, rockin' hersell to an' fro, w wi ever the same moanin' cry, "No' a word for puir Grizel, Jamie !-no ane last word for yer puir wife, Jamie!" Eh, but 'twas a pitifu' sicht to see! and mony a heart gaed out to her

Aye, she sat wi'

in her deep distress; but she took nae heed o' ony. dry e'en fastened on the face o' the dead, wi' her sair cry ower an' ower, "No' a word for puir Grizel, Jamie !-no' ane last word for yer puir wife, Jamie!"

The neebors had gotten prepared the puir lad's narrow bed i' the Kirkyard, but nane daur lay a finger on the corse, for Grizel watched it wi' sleepless eyes.

Sae the dochtor (to my thinkin' he was ill-advised) in persuadin' her to swallow some food gied a sleepin' draught to her, an' when the widow awoke the body was gane!

'Twas a misjudged thing to do; frae that hour she mistrusted an' hated a' her kind; she felt that a grievous wrang had been dune to her, an' a' hope o' her richt mind returning noo, was for ever gane.

She lookit like an uncanny thing, wi' her great black e'en shining out frae amidst her lang grey locks-for her hair had turned in ae nicht.

An' sae she lived on; wi' never a word to pass her lips, save the needfu' anes to be gettin' her bit o' food an' claes.

There were some that hoped she'd be roused frae her grief when God sent her a bonnie lad-bairn-but it was na sae. The look o' fierce joy that flashed frae her een, as she clutched the wee babe to her breist, wad hae frighted ony to see, I was tauld,—for 'twas no' like the tender luve o' a Christian mither for her bairn.

She suffered the babe to be baptized, but she wadna gie ony name, sae the minister ca'ed him Robert, for they daurna say the faither's name.

Robbie grew into a weel favoured lad, wi' black een bricht as diamonds, curlin' hair, an' lips as red as cherries. 'Deed, 'twas a marvel to a' he was sic a gay, high-spirited lad; frae that gloomy cot the sound o' his ringin' laugh wad startle the passers by, but nae echo it ever had! There was but the sound o' the ane laugh an' the ane voice!

Robbie was the idol o' his mither's heart, an' she wad hae poured out her life-blude ony day to do him service; but she'd no' the pleasant smile nor the cheerie word that wins young folk to luve their ain fireside.

'Twas a waefu' thing to see that the widow's ae son had mair o' fear than luve for the puir joyless mither, whose only thocht an' hope he was.

The ane delicht o' the boy was to rin awa' frae his hame, an' get amang the sailors on the shore; an' aften had he, unkenned by his mither, gaed out in a boat to visit the ships that lay in the offing far out.

As the lad grew, this ae pleasure, his passion for the sea, grew mair an' mair strang; till ane nicht (his heart maun hae throbbit the while) he tauld his mither o' his darlin' wish to be a sailor, an' gang to sea.

It was as if a lightning-stroke had fa'en between them, an' in her fierce an' sudden anger, the puir demented woman threatened the lad wi' a mither's curse gin ever he daured to say the word again.

Robbie's eyes flashed, an' his cheeks grew scarlet; but he pressed his white teeth thegither an' never a word passed between.