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iosity; but we make little account of them because of the fascination which draws our eyes to the principal group. The face of Joseph, as Alford says, is "well-nigh faultless." It is full of thankful joy over the discovery of the boy; and though to our thinking Joseph was an older man than he is here depicted, yet everything about him is natural and manly. The Mary is hardly so successful. The narrative does not represent her as speaking softly into the ear of her son, but rather as breaking in abruptly on the assembly with her irrepressible outcry, "Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us?" and there might well have been less of the soft persuasiveness and more of the surprised look of what one might call wounded affection in her face. But the portrayal of the boy Christ is admirable. We have never, indeed, seen any representation of the face of Christ that has thoroughly satisfied us, and we do not expect ever to see one. But this one is most excellent. The "far-away" look in the eyes, and the expression of absorption on the countenance, betoken that his thoughts are intent upon that divine "business" which he came to earth to transact. Exquisite, too, as so thoroughly human, is the playing of the right hand with the strap of his girdle in his moment of abstraction. In the far future the great business of his life is beckoning him on; but close at hand his duty to his mother is asserting its immediate claim. In his eager response to the first, he cries, "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" and his thoughts are after that meanwhile; but ere long the demand of the present will prevail, and he will go down with his parents, and be subject to them. This "righteousness" also he has to "fulfill," even as a part of that "business."

Take the picture, boys; frame it, and hang it where you can often see it. You will be reminded by it wholesomely of one who was once as really a boy as you; and when the future seems to be calling you on, and begging you to leap at once into its work, a look at the Christ-face will help you to seek the glory of the future in submission to the claims of the duties of the present, and will say to you, "He that believeth shall not make haste." Through the performance of the duties of a son to his mother Jesus passed to the business of saving men; and in the same way, through faithful diligence where you are, the door will open for you into the future which seems to you so attractive. It is right to have a business before you. It is right, also, for you to feel that the work you want to do in the world is "your Father's business." We would not have you fix your heart on anything which you could not so describe. But whatever that may be, rely upon it you will never reach it by neglecting present duty. On the contrary, the more diligent and faithful you are now as boys in the home and in the school, the more surely will the door into eminence open for you as men. Let the picture, therefore, stimulate you to holy ambition, and yet encourage you to wait patiently in the discharge of present duty until the time comes for your elevation. The way to come at your true business in life is to do well the present business of your boyhood.

THE CAPTAIN'S BOY ON THE PENNY BOAT.

BY H. F. REDDALL.

Imagine a side-wheel steamboat a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet long, her hull painted black, red, or red and white, with only one deck, entirely open from stem to stern; a hot, stuffy cabin below the water-line, her engines, of the cylinder pattern, entirely below the deck, and you have some idea of a London "penny boat"--a very different affair from our jaunty American river craft.

As most of my young readers are aware, the river Thames divides the great city of London into nearly equal parts. For nearly twelve miles the metropolis stretches along either bank, and, as might be expected, the river forms a convenient-highway for traffic--a sort of marine Broadway, in fact. There are a number of bridges, each possessing from six to ten arches, and through these the swift tide pours with tremendous energy. From early dawn to dark the river's bosom is crowded with every description of vessel. Below London Bridge, the first we meet in going up stream, may be seen the murky collier moored close to the neat and trim East Indiaman, the heavy Dutch galiot scraping sides with the swift mail-packet, or the fishing-boat nodding responsive to the Custom-house revenue-cutter.

Above and between the bridges the scene changes, but is none the less animated. Here comes a heavy, lumbering barge, its brown sail loosely furled, depending for its momentum upon the tide, and guided by a long sweep. Barges, lighters, tugs, fishing-smacks, passenger steamboats, and a variety of smaller craft so crowd the river that were we to stand on Blackfriars Bridge a boat of some description would pass under the arches every thirty or forty seconds.

But by far the most important feature is the passenger-boats. These are apparently countless. They make landings every few blocks, now on one side the river, now on the other, darting here and there, up and down, and adding largely to the bustle. For a penny, the equivalent of two cents American currency, one may enjoy a water ride of five or six miles--say from London Bridge to Lambeth Palace. When we reflect that all this immense traffic is crowded between the banks of a stream at no point as wide as the East River opposite Fulton Ferry, New York, and impeded by bridges at that, the difficulties of navigation will be in some measure understood; and I have purposely dwelt on this that my readers may fully appreciate what follows.

So far as I could see he had not as much interest in the boat as I had; apparently he observed the constantly changing panorama of river scenery--not an interesting sight on board escaped him, and yet as we neared or departed from each landing-stage the same mysterious sounds, only varied slightly, issued from his lips, and the boat stopped or went ahead as the case might be. I asked myself if this wonderful boy might not be the captain, but a glance at the weather-beaten figure on the bridge showed me the absurdity of the idea. So I watched the latter individual, from whom I was now sure the boy received his orders. But how? That was the question. The captain and his boy were too far apart to speak intelligibly to one another without all the passengers hearing them: how, then, did the one on the bridge communicate his wishes to the other at the skylight if not by speech?

The gesture by the captain's hand was oftentimes so faint that I failed to see it, though I was on the look-out; much less could I interpret its meaning, yet the lad never once failed to give the correct order.

Only think of it! The safety of these boats, their crews, and thousands of passengers absolutely depends upon these youngsters, who in wind and rain, sunshine or storm, are compelled to be at their posts for many hours daily. If through inattention or inadvertence the wrong command should be given to the engineer, a terrible calamity might occur. That such is never or rarely the case speaks volumes for the fidelity and attention to duty of these boys, who have very little opportunity for training or education of any sort.

PACKAGE NO. 107.

BY JAMES B. MARSHALL.

The express agent in San Francisco smiled very pleasantly when the package was brought to him with a directed express tag properly tied on it. But it was not so strange for him to smile, since he knew all about that package, and had foretold the exact time required for a package to reach New York. But the clerk who pasted a green label on the tag, and marked on one end in blue ink "No. 107, Paid" so and so much, why should he be amused? And why should the two express-wagon drivers who were in the office at the time declare that that package would be something like a surprise?

Then an errand-boy came into the office to express a valise, having left seven other boys standing on the nearest street corner before a hand-organ that was playing the newest airs, which those seven boys were learning to whistle. But why should that errand-boy, who was usually a very quiet boy, immediately run to the office street door, and call, and beckon, and wave his hat furiously for those seven boys to come and look at package No. 107? Then those seven boys, in spite of the attraction of the hand-organ, came on a run, and stood eagerly around the express office door. And why wouldn't those boys go away until that package was taken with other packages to the railroad station in one of the express wagons? And what, also, greatly interested five other passing boys, a Chinese laundry-man, two apple-women, and a policeman?

Well, it was the same cause, which will soon appear, that made curious and smiling the express people of Omaha, Chicago, and other places where the package was seen on its way East to New York.

About a month previous to this, Mr. Benson had written to his wife from California that owing to the slow settlement of the business that had taken him there, he was beginning to fear he and Guy would not be able to reach home even by the holidays. "But Guy says," wrote Mr. Benson, "that if we only had mother here we would get along splendidly."

A week later the unwelcome news came to Mrs. Benson in New York explaining that Mr. Benson's business would further detain him in California until the middle of March--three months to come. You may be certain that Mrs. Benson was very sorry to think of passing Christmas and New-Year's with three thousand miles separating her from her husband and boy. But she was forced to smile as she read Guy's letter--mailed with his father's--explaining how they might dine together on Christmas-day, notwithstanding the three thousand miles.

"I have found out," wrote Guy in his best handwriting, "that the difference in time between New York and San Francisco is about three hours and a quarter. So if you sit down to your dinner at a quarter past four o'clock, your time, and we sit down to our dinner at one o'clock, our time, we can in that way be dining together. We are going to have for dinner exactly what we had at home on last Christmas. But you will have the best time, for grandfather and grandmother will be with you, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, and Ben, Tom, Bertha, Sadie, Uncle Seth, and all the rest of them."

A few days after this letter was sent Mr. Benson mailed another one, in which he told his wife that Guy had made a discovery on the previous day, and they were going to send her a pleasant surprise--in fact, a Christmas present. "The package will be sent by express, directed to your address in New York," wrote Mr. Benson, "and we have so timed its journey East that it will reach you some time on the day before Christmas."

This was package No. 107.

But didn't Mrs. Benson wonder and wonder what was coming to her for a surprise present? And didn't she imagine that it might be a nest of Chinese tables, or a package of fine Russian tea, or an ivory castle, or a bunch of California grapes weighing fifteen or twenty pounds, or five-and-twenty other possible things? Then Guy's New York cousins, when they heard of that expected package, didn't they all fall to guessing? And they guessed and guessed until, as we say in "Hot Butter and Blue Beans, please come to Supper," they were "cold," "very cold," and "freezing."

Cousin Ben finally decided, after changing his mind a dozen times a day, that the package would prove to contain either the skin of the grizzly bear that Guy, before leaving home, had thought he might find, or a big piece of gold that Guy had been kindly allowed to dig out of some gold mine.

"Heigho! this is the day the package is to come," said Cousin Bertha, the moment she awoke on that morning. But at noon-time Bertha, Ben, Jim, Sadie, and even little Tom, knew that as yet the package had not arrived. It had not arrived as late as four o'clock in the afternoon, when the first three just mentioned, together with some of their elders, went to Guy's mother's to supper. There Bertha, Ben, and Jim took turns vainly watching at the windows for the express wagon, until they were called to supper.

Jingle! jingle! jingle! went the door-bell during the course of the supper. And so much had that package been talked about and guessed about that all paused in their eating and drinking, and listened in expectation.

"Please, ma'am," said Katie, coming from answering the ring, "the expressman is at the door. He says he's got a most valuable package for you, and would you please come and receipt for it?"

Mrs. Benson found the expressman standing by the little table in the hallway where Katie had left him, though in the mean time he had gone back to his wagon and brought the package into the house. "Please sign there," he said, pointing to his receipt-book.

"It must be a very small package," thought Mrs. Benson, not seeing any package, but imagining it might still be in the expressman's overcoat pocket.

"I was to say, Mrs. Benson," said the man, "that you must be prepared for a very great, pleasant surprise."

"Oh! I'm prepared to be surprised," answered Mrs. Benson.

"Then please turn and look at the package standing there by the parlor door."

"Mother!"

"Oh, Guy! my dear boy!" joyfully called Mrs. Benson, as Guy, with an express tag tied around his arm, rushed into her arms, and clasped her around the neck.

"It's Guy himself," said Bertha, gleefully.

"Hurrah! it's Guy!" called Ben and Jim; and they all instantly left the supper table and hurried to greet him.

But the adventures of package No. 107 could not be quickly told. Of how it was discovered that it might be sent, how it had been directed like a bundle of goods, how it had been receipted for over and over again, how it had travelled all the way in the Pullman cars, how it was given as much care and attention as if it had been a huge nugget of gold, and very, very many more hows and whys.

MILDRED'S BARGAIN.

A Story for Girls.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

"Six o'clock! Thank fortune!" exclaimed one of a group of girls in Mr. Hardman's store.

Mildred Lee glanced up with a sigh of relief, moving with quicker fingers at the thought of being so near the end of her day's work. She was a pale pretty girl about sixteen, with soft brown hair, dark eyes, and a something more refined in her air and manner than her associates. Perhaps it was that in her dress there were none of the flimsy attempts at finery which the other girls affected so strongly, or perhaps it was only her quiet, lady-like self-possession which had in it nothing of vulgar reticence or pride; but, in any case, there was a touch of something superior to all lowering influences, and the most flippant sales-woman in "Hardman's" lowered her tone of coarse good-humor, stopped short in any gay recital, when Mildred's pretty face and quiet little figure came in view.

"Six o'clock," said Jenny Martin, a tall, "striking-looking" young person, who was helping Milly to put away some ribbons. "Oh dear, now we'll be kept! There comes that lady from Lane Street. She'll stay half an hour."

"Young ladies, what are you about?" exclaimed the voice of Mr. Hardman's son and heir, a short, stout young man, very much overdressed, and who bustled up to the counter, dispersing the little group with various half-audible exclamations. Then he turned, bowing and smiling, to the late customer.

"Miss Lee!" called out Mr. Tom.

Mildred moved forward quickly, looking at the new customer with an air of polite attention, but none of her employer's obsequiousness.

Miss Jenner met the young girl's glance with a swift critical stare.

"Here," she said, rather shortly, "I want some gloves, and I'd prefer your serving me."

Miss Jenner's wishes could not be slighted, and so Mr. Hardman hovered about deferentially, rather altering his tone of insolent command when he spoke to the young sales-women, and finally dispersing them while he walked up and down the cloak and mantle department, out of Miss Jenner's hearing, yet sufficiently within sight to be recalled by a look from his wealthy patroness.

As soon as she found herself alone with the shop-girl, Miss Jenner said, with a searching glance at the young face bending over the glove-box:

"So you are Mildred! Child, it seems strange enough to see your father's daughter here. How did it happen?"

"Oh!" Mildred exclaimed. She drew a quick breath, while the color flashed into her cheeks. "Did you know papa?"

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