wild revelry of human beings, like madmen, recklessly sporting their fantastic tricks around the unhallowed altar of Bacchus. Nay, term it not happiness, call it rather by the name of insanity. In conclusion, if any of my readers are addicted to intemperance, or take only an occasional glass, with a friend, let me entreat of you to consider this momentous subject: to crush the bottle-serpent ere its fangs have pierced you fatally to the heart; and at once and forever, to dash the accursed bowl to the earth. Once more, I earnestly entreat of you to pause and reflect. Think of the countless millions of human beings who have been utterly ruined soul and body forever by intemperance; think of the immeasurable mass of wretchedness and crime arising therefrom. Think of your present condition and your eternal future; and remember also that _every man_, even in his greatest strength is but a fallable creature; and finally my dear readers I ask of you to consider seriously the life, career and death of poor unfortunate Frederick Charlston. Finis. * * * * * The foregoing story is the first of a series entitled--"Tales for Canadian Homes;" the others will appear in serial form in the columns of the _Canadian Garland_, a Weekly Newspaper, which the author intends to establish shortly, in the Village of Durham, Ormstown, County of Chateauguay, P. Q. ANDREW L. SPEDON, St. Jean Chrysostom, Chateauguay Co., P.Q. * * * * * The Poetic Wreath. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. LIFE'S STRUGGLE. Our life is but a struggle here, 'Mid good and ill, 'twixt hope and fear, Thro' dang'rous channels oft we steer, With reckless force; But self-made ills make life's career A rougher course. The world is but a human hive; To keep the varied swarm alive, Its working bees must toil and strive, While others feast. The lazy drones appear to thrive, Yet work the least. The world appears a battle-field, The stronger rule, the weaker yield, The golden nerves too often wield The power which leads, While justice' scales are oft conceal'd By selfish deeds. Yet still we strive midst hopes and fears, With pleasure's smiles and sorrow's tears, And tho' our bustling life appears A transient breath, It seems possess'd of endless years 'Twixt us and death. The poor man toils for daily bread; By him the rich are clothed and fed, Yet life's to them a greater dread, Or idle pest, Their downy couch too oft a bed Of sleepless rest. How many a life's an idle waste, Its destined glory seems disgraced, Its vile possessor has defaced The man divine, That not a single mark is traced Of God's design.