medical visits, and fewer comforts, while here all things are provided. I call this a cheerful and happy subject. I can hear the sound of children's laughter at this moment, as we come to the foot of the broad black-oak staircase. It is in the convalescent room-let us peep in! What a doll's house!—and there's a rocking-horse-and-and--well, and all sorts of toys. But the laughter did not come from this room after all. It has just been scrubbed, and, until it gets dry, the children have been removed to another nice large airy apartment, where we find them mightily enjoying their dinner;-all the more, perhaps, because they are having it, picnic fashion, on the floor, on account of their removal from their regular room. Some of them look well and hearty enough. Some have not yet got over the pallor and weakness of illness. As we leave the room, their voices ring out with a pleasant music as they chant their grace after meat.

Upstairs now, if you please, to the drawing-room floor, where we will join the little ladies. This is the Girls' ward-only one does not like to associate the word "ward" with a cheerful, sweet apartment like a nursery. There are little cribs all round, and in almost every crib a tiny occupant with a red Garibaldi. Before each is a tray, whereon food and toys-the two principal delights of child-life-can be easily arranged for the little invalid.

Here is a little lady whose acquaintance we must make. She smiles at our overtures from behind her spoon, as a fashionable damsel would smile behind her fan. She looks quite as bewitching, with her silky hair and her bright eyes. She is suffering from disease of the knee-but it is improving under the care and attention she gets here. That weight at the foot of the bed, with a chain running over a pulley, is attached to the bandaged leg, and keeping it in one position preserves it from injury and from the pain which almost unconscious movement would cause.

This little lady has been deprived of her locks, apparently. She has those big, patient eyes that tell of long acquaintance with suffering. She has had pleurisy, but her constitution is altogether a very delicate one. "Strumous," says the surgeon; and he has the same story to tell of too many-the old story, old as the Jewish nation, of enfeebled health inherited. As we stand by this little girl's bedside there comes up to us, nursing a lovely doll, a child who seems so hale that we ask what is the matter with her. She has little fits of vertigo-lasting but a second or so-but they foreshadow epilepsy. Is it curable ? we ask. The doctor shakes his head, but says it may be alleviated, being thus taken in time.

Another little girl. Very pale and thin, and with a pained expression-she is the victim of several ailments. She lacks appetite; but one of the gentle nurses, who flit so quietly about the room, but whose presence, silent though it is, is always recognised by a smile from the little invalids, takes infinite pains to coax her to eat. She finds more comfort in the woolly dog than in dinner. A propos of the woolly dog, the mantelpiece and every available shelf and table are crowded with toys of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions, from the costly presents of a Gracious Lady, who is the mother of a people, down to the humble penny doll of daily life.

But we must mount to the second floor, and see the Boys. More cribs more toys-more kind-faced nurses here, as in the girls' ward. I think the boys show their illness more than the girls, perhaps because by nature they are less patient, and cannot endure pain passively so well.

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This boy does not look much like an invalid. He is a cripple, who could only go about on his knees, and an attempt is being made to straighten his limbs. "Will it be successful?" The doctor points to a pleasant lad who is limping about on crutches. That lad was similarly afflicted, and is nearly cured-the limb will always be stiff, but he will be able to walk, which he could not do at all before.

There is less hope for that handsome boy with the large, soft, melancholy eyes. He has disease of the heart, and cannot lie down. What a blessed thing for him is this Lodging in Liliput, with plenty of pillows, and such rest and quiet!

"Now you must see Peter," says the doctor, and he calls the child by name, whereupon comes waddling out of another room a cheerful, happy-looking boy of about five. His arms, from the elbow downward, are in splints, padded and strapped. The unlucky child had put his hands and arms into scalding water, and his hands have become deformed and useless. His thumbs will never recover, but constant treatment and attention will do much for his hands. He takes a book that is offered to him, and turns over the pages with his imprisoned limbs very skilfully, and seems rather proud of the achievement. With all his cheerfulness and sturdiness he is about the most melancholy sight we have seen. The boy with disease of the heart is "going home"-to a home where sickness can weary him no longer. But Peter will grow up and go into the world and have to make his own living-with those poor maimed hands. If you or I were rich we would provide for poor Peter-as we are not, we can only hope that he will be fed like the young ravens.

But, on the whole, the impression produced by this Liliput Lodging is pleasant. It is pleasant to think of the sick little ones brought from all sorts of unhealthy nooks and corners to this wholesome big house, with its experienced doctors and its tender nurses, its good fare and plenteous toys. And it is pleasant to see that, except when actually suffering pain, the children look so happy and contented.

It was stated at the beginning of this paper that the little lodgers are taken in rent-free. Yes, because the English people, always ready to support a good institution, and always fond of the little folk, subscribe handsomely to keep the lodging open for them. Charity can aid in many ways: there is one little bed in the girls' ward which is kept up by a fond mother in memory of a little Alice, whose name inscribed on the head of the bed seems to watch over the tiny invalid in it-as the little angel Alice-so a poet would tell us, perhaps-does watch. But, my good reader, you can, if you like, help the good work too. Even though you cannot have a Liliput Lodger all of your own, you can have a share in a Liliput Lodger with other speculative Christians; and in these days of Joint Stock undertakings I don't think you could invest in a venture so certain to bring you a return. Such a company would not be a limited one, for the interest on your investment will be one of the riches you will take out of the world. TOM HOOD.

SUMMER.

THEY may boast of the Spring time, when flowers are the fairest,
And birds sing by thousands on every green tree;

They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest ;
But the Summer's the season that's dearest to me.
For the brightness of sunshine, the depth of the shadows,
The crystal of waters, the fulness of green,

And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows,
In the glory of Summer can only be seen.

Oh, the joy of the greenwood! I love to be in it,
And list to the hum of the never-still bees;

And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet,

Unto her young calling 'mong the leaves of the trees;

To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither,
And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth,

And the thousand small lives, that the warm summer weather
Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth.

Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven
Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light,
While adown their deep chasm, all splinter'd and riven,
Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white.

And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing
In the gardens and fields of the young merry Spring,
Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow brown blowing,
And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling?
Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly,

But warm with the sunshine, and bright with the sheen
Of rich flowers, the moss-rose and the bright tiger-lily,
Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop queen.

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining,
The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignonette,
And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining,
As if grains of gold in its petals were set.

Yes, the Summer, the radiant Summer's the fairest,
For greenwoods and mountains, for meadows and bowers,
For waters and fruits, and for blossoms the rarest,
And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers.
MARY HOWITT.

HEALTH OF HOUSES.

THERE are five essential points in securing the health of houses −(1) pure air: (2) pure water; (3) efficient drainage; (4) cleanliness; (5) light. Without these no house can be healthy. And it will be unhealthy just in proportion as they are not.

AIR.

(1). To have pure air, your house must be so built as that the outer air shall find its way with ease to every corner of it. House builders hardly ever consider this. The object in building a house is to obtain the largest interest for the money, not to save doctors' bills to the tenants. But, if tenants should ever become

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so wise as to refuse to occupy unhealthily-built houses, builders would speedily be brought to their senses. As it is, they build what pays best. And there are always people foolish enough to take the houses they build. And if in the course of time the families die off, as is so often the case, nobody ever thinks of blaming any but Providence for the result. Ill-informed people help to keep up the delusion, by laying the blame on "current contagions." Bad houses do for the healthy what bad hospitals do for the sick. Once insure that the air in a house is stagnant, and sickness is certain to follow.

No one thinks how much disease might be prevented, even in the country, by simply attending to providing the cottages with fresh air.

I know whole districts in the South of England where, even when the windows are sashed, the sashes are never made to open at the top.

I know whole districts in the North of England where, even in quite new cottages, the bedroom windows are not made to open at all, excepting a single pane, generally placed low down in the window. Now if this open pane were in the upper row of the upper sash, it would be all very well. Very tolerable ventilation is procured by this means. But if it is in the lower row, it is all very bad. It does nothing but produce a draught setting inwards, actually driving the foul air upon the inmates, and not letting it out at all.

Only satisfy yourself of all these things by experiment for yourself.

What happens in a cottage? The rooms are always small, and generally crowded. One or two rooms have to serve for all household purposes. And the air in them, especially at night, is stagnant and foul. Almost always there are closets or corners without either light or air, which make the whole house musty. And the house has itself hardly ever sufficient light.

Now, it is quite impossible to lay down a general rule without knowing the particular case.

It is for the father of the family to decide.

Sometimes an additional pane of glass, made to open and shut, and put into the wall where it is wanted, will make a cottage sweet which always was musty.

Sometimes a skylight, made to open, will make an attic wholesome which never was habitable before.

Every careful woman will spread out the bedding daily to the light and air.