"Yes, my darling. Don't you see the scarlet berries, the food of winter for the little birds?" "Quite gone, mamma, and Francie not quite well?" His mother looked away; she could not bear her child to see the tell-tale tears his mournful little words called up, or know the sad echo returned by her own desponding thoughts. There was a moment's silence, only broken by the blackbird's song; and then she felt a soft, a little kiss, upon her hand, and looking down, she saw her darling's face--yes, surely now it was as an angel's--gazing upward to her, brightly beaming, brighter than ever; and his rosy lips just parted with their own sweet smile again, as he exclaimed in joyous tones, "Mamma, the summer will come again!" Precious was that heaven-born word of childish faith to the careworn mother, to cheer her then, and, with its memory of hope, still to sustain her through many an after-experiment and anxious watch, until, at last, she reaped her rich reward in the complete realization of her bright one's hope. Precious to more than her such words may be, if bravely stemming our present trouble, whatsoe'er it be--bravely enduring, persevering, encouraging others and ourselves, even as that little child--we hold the thought, that as the revolving year brings round its different seasons, as day succeeds to night--and even as surely as we look for this, and know it--so to the trusting heart there comes a time--it may be soon or late, it may be now, or it may be _then_--when this grief or grievance will have passed away; and so 'twill all seem nothing--when the summer comes! [From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.] VILLAINY OUTWITTED--FROM THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A POLICE OFFICER.