BONFIRE PICTURES.

I SUPPOSE that most boys who read this will help to make a bonfire on the fifth of November, and to burn Guy Fawkes! Very well, then, let us all join in the fun, and pile up wood till the flames roar again, and redden the fields around; till Guy is burnt up, and the fire dies away. Now, if you will stay with me, and watch the smouldering embers and white ashes, we shall see some pretty pictures-pictures in the wood-fire. Let us get behind the old wall, away from the wind, and pull great-coats and shawls well round us, and then look at the red heap where the flames are sleeping. What do we see

A dark cavernous vault, with open door, and a passage before it, where stands a man, carrying a lantern. Now he goes in; now comes out; now disappears. All is black. See, there come many men; they enter the vault and vanish. There is the one who entered first. They all pour out together, fiercely fighting! Now the man with the lantern tries to throw it into the vault; but another catches it. How they fight and struggle! Now he is secured. They are all going, and the wind scatters the ashes. Do you know what you have seen? That cavern was the vault under the Parliament-house, and that man was Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow it up. He died for his crime, and boys burn a figure of him every year, more for fun than any other reason, but he was faithful to his friends, and was very hardly treated before his death.

Now, look again. A clear bay, whose waters ripple up on the beach, veiled by hovering haze, that sweeps wreathing round great headlands. Ships, many ships, at anchor, riding proudly, their black hulls gently lifting with the water, and parting the vapour with tall masts and drooping streamers. Boats passing to and fro. Horses plunging overboard and landing dripping on the beach. Troops disembarking. A flag flying from a little house on shore. We hear no sound, though the "winds are asleep and the waters at rest." No splash, no heavy tramp-not even the footfall of that horse going down the beach. Do you see his rider?

and the other soldier beside him? That is Prince William of Orange, "the Deliverer," as many call him; and the second is Count Schomberg, next in command. The Dutch army is landing, and those shores are English-those of Torbay, in Devonshire. See how the fishermen and peasant lads follow, and troop round the horsemen. The wind has been blowing hard, but now is still, and the Dutch troops are landing with all expedition. They will go marching up to London, and William will sit on the English throne. The day is the 5th November, 1688, and a happy and glorious one it is in English history.

Ah! the wind! Never mind, when the brands settle, look again. Wrap your coats well around you, boys, for it is very cold. Now look, groups of men—tens, twenties, fifties, troops, regiments, an army! Soldiers lying round crackling bivouac fires, whose light glimmers red upon their weapons. Hundreds of horses, saddled and bridled, stretched on the ground beside their masters, who seem sleeping with the reins over their arms; hundreds more lying down in their harness, beside the artillery, which now flashes in the firelight, now looms grim and terrible in the fog; baggage waggons drawn up in rows, looking like heavy shadows; and red clouds floating overhead. High up, far in front, other rows of light glimmering and shining, and dark masses that shadow below them. It is the 5th November, 1792, and you see the French republican army bivouacking before the slopes and village of Jemmapes. Those distant lights are the fires of the Austrian forces, and the heavy masses are the slopes and woods which the troops occupy. The next day will be fought the first great battle of the republic, and the soldiers are now resting-many for the last time— before the fight. It will be a fierce one, and many thousand men "lie there who will follow the drum no more." Ah! away goes our picture, while the wind howls round the corner.

Look again. A thick fog, and men moving in it. Grey coats, and caps, and glancing bayonets. How they start, and hurry to and fro. See how men come running from all parts! What is that dark mass

coming forward? It bristles with steel and brass. It is a long, dark line of soldiers, advancing, advancing! Now the two lines cross bayonets. See, through the smoke, how steel flashes out, and men fall! Look at the fire-flash from musket and rifle; a deadly combat is raging. How the smoke wreathes over-head! how the long line wavers, retires, breaks, re-forms, retiresslowly quits the field. The fog clears off, and the ground is strewn with dead and dying men. This fight is the fight of Inkerman-the soldiers' battlefought on the 5th of November, 1854; and many of you doubtless have friends who fell, or relations who crossed bayonets with the Russians on that desperate day. Come, we will go home. Protestant and Catholic fought well there, side by side;-burn no more Guy Fawkes, boys! The Gunpowder Plot is lost in Inkerman. Pray God that such battles may cease from amongst us-that He may "make wars to cease in all the world." That the nations may beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks, and that He will " give peace in our time." The fire is dying out the wind scatters the ashes-let us go.

M. W. B.

THE PRIZE DAY.

(Concluded from page 194.)

TIMES went hard with the Lamores. Harry's father overworked himself, and caught rheumatic fever, and that made a terrible difference to the little family. Harry worked morning, noon, and night, and so did his brother Dick, but they were driven to their wits' end to support themselves. His sister Nelly did all she could, and Mrs. Lamore worked at the glove-seaming whenever she had time; but the patient engrossed her almost entirely. Then the harvest had been a bad one, and bread was very dear; in fact, so were all provisions ;everything seemed against them.

Harry sighed over the work when he came home at night, too tired to stand, and sighed again on seeing how worn his mother looked, and how little so much