MY SISTER,
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M SIS ! L. N.

 One morning in my early life, remem- Der to have beeH playing with younger sister, not then three years old. It Was one of those bright mornings in spring, that bring joy and life to the heart, and dliiuse gladness and animation tlro' all tEe tribes of living creatures. Our feelings were in perfect harmony with the universal slad- ness of nature. Even nov seem to hear the merry laugh of my little sister, as she followed me through the winding alleys ot the garden, her cheek sut1used with the glow of health and animation, and her wa- wing hair floating in the wind.

 ! She was an only sister, the sole compan- ion of all my childish sports. We were constantly together; and my young heart went out to hers, with all the affection, at1 the fondness of which childhood is capable. Nothing afforded me enjoyment in which she did not participate; no amusement was sought which we could not share together. That morning we had prolonged our play till near the hour of breakfast, with undl- unfinished ardor, when at some slight pro- vocation my impetuous nature broke forth, and in my anger / struck my little sister d blow with my hand. She turned to me with an appealing look, and the large tears came into her eyes. Her heart was too full to allow her to speak, and shame made me s- l lent. At tha, moment the breakfast bell summoned us away, and we returned to the house without exchanging word. The excitement of play was over, and as she sat beside my mother at breakfast, perceived by occasional stolen glances at her, that 1 Shn v,olr and cad A t.,.ir seemed a. dy to start in her eye, which Ter little self possession could scarcely reprcss. It was only when my mother inquired if she was i'll, that she drank her coffee, and cndea- vored to eat. l was ashamed and grieved {; and inwardly resolved tc embrace inc first opportunity when we were alone, to throw my arms around her neck, and entreat her forgiveness.

 When breakfast was ended, my mother retired with her into her own room, direct ing me ln the means imG to sit down to my lesson. seated myself at the window, and ran over my lesson, but did not learn it, Ny thoughts were perpetually recurring to the scene in the garden, and at table. It was long before my mother returned, and when she did, it was with an agitatcd look. and hurried step, 10 tell me that my poor Ellen was very ill. l asked eagerly if might go to her, and was not permitted lest l should disturb her. A physician was cal- led, and every means used for her lecove- ", but to no purpose. The disease, which was in her head, constantly increased in violence, and she became delirious. ltwas not until evening that was permitted to see her. She was little recovered from the severity of her pain, and lay with her eyes closed, and her little hand resting On the pillow, beneath her head. How long ed to tell her the sorrow 1 felt for my un- kindness to her in the morning, and how much had suffered for it during the day But was forbidden to speak to her, ano was soon taken out of the room. During that night, and the day following, she con tinued to grow worse. l saw her several times, but she was always insensible of my presence. Once, indeed, she showed some signs of consciousness, and asked for me, but immediately relapsed into her former state.

 On the morning of the third day, rose at an early hour, and repaired to the sick room. My mother was sitting by the bed. As l entered, she drew me to her. and for psome lime was silent, while the tears flow ed fast down her face. first learned that my sweet sister was dead, as her mother drew aside the curtain that concealed her from me. | felt as though my heart would break. The remembrance of her affection for rae, and my last unkind deed. revived in my mind i; and burying my face in the folds 0: the curtain, I wept long and bitterly. saw her laid in the coffin, and lowered into the grave. almost wish- ed to lie down with her, if so might see once more her smile, and hear my forgive ness pronounced in her Sweet voice.

 Years have passed away, and l am now a nan-Sut never does inc recollection ol this incident of my early life fail 10 awaken bitter feelings of grief and remorse.a And never do see my young friends exchang- ing looks or words of anger, without think ing of my last pas,ime with my own loved Ellen.-ReHgious Mug.

 INDUSTRY AND ENERGY.

 There are few difficulties that hold out against real attacks; they fly like the visi- bIe horizon before those who advance. A passionate desire and an nnw wearied will can perform impossibiliiies, or what seem to be such to the cold and the feeble. If we do