MACDONALD tells of a young marquis who lived for a number of years as a poor fisherman in his own Scotch village, enduring the hardship of the men who win their living from the sea, his rank being meanwhile unknown. Finally he declared his position and assumed the rights of his place, and now the men whenever they were in trouble brought to him their grievances, with a feeling of certainty that he knew their sufferings and would sympathize with them. So Jesus, having once lived in the flesh, and for our sakes became poor, and having suffered weariness, hunger, thirst, bitter temptations, and finally death itself, knows all our human estate, our sorrows, cares, and anxieties, and ever sympathizes with us with infinite tenderness and love. We have not a Saviour who cannot understand all that comes to us. He was a baby, a child, a man. He was despised and honored; loved and hated; tenderly cared for and finally killed by envious hearts. So, you see, he will understand anything we want to tell him about. ------------------------------------ “EXCUSE ME, PRINCE.” ------------------ THE following pretty story is told of a brown-eyed maiden just four years old, with the sweetest voice and the tenderest heart in the world. She was pulling her little rocking-chair across the room the other day, when somehow in her progress she trod upon the tail of dog Prince, and drew forth a low growl of reproach from that much-valued member of the family. A look of dismay crossed the baby’s face, and she turned hastily. “Excuse me, Prince,” she pleaded, as she laid her snowflake of a hand caressingly on the dog’s head. Prince thumped his tail heavily as if to say, “It’s all right, dear little mistress. I know it was all an accident, and you won’t do it again, I am sure.” And the little maiden went on with her play feeling very happy. ------------------------------------ LITTLE GIRLS. ------------------ WHERE have they gone to—the little girls, With natural manners and natural curls? Who love their dollies and like their toys, And talk of something besides the boys? Little old women in plenty I find, Mature in manners and old in mind; Little old flirts, who talk of their “beaus,” And with each other in stylish clothes. Little old belles, who, at nine and ten, Are sick of pleasure and tired of men, Weary of travel, of balls, of fun— And find no new thing under the sun. Once, in the beautiful long ago, Some dear little children I used to know; Girls who were merry as lambs at play, And laughed and rollicked the livelong day.