We heard a story told the other day that inade our eyes moisten. We havo deterniined to teil it, just as we heard it, to our little ones : A compauy of poor children, who had been gathered out of the alleys and garrets of the city, were preparing for their departure to new and distant homes in the West. Just before the time for the starting of the cars, one of the boys was noticed aside from the others, and apparently very busy with a cast off garment. The superintendent stepped up to him, and found that he was cutting a small piece out of the patched lining. It proved to be his old jacket, which, having been replaced by a new one, had been thrown away. There was no time to be lost. " Come, John, come," said the superintendent, "what are you going to do with that old piee of calicó r " Pleaso, sir," said John, " I am cutting it to take with me. My dear dead mother put the lining into this old jacket for mo. This was a piece of her dress, and it is all 1 xkall have to remember her by." And as that poor boy thought of that dear mother's love, and of the sad deathbed scène in the old garret where she died, he covered his face with his hands and sobbed as if his heart would break. But the train was about leaving, and John thrust his little piece of calicó into his bosom " to remember his mother by," hurried into a car, and was soon far away from the place where he had seen so much sorrow. We know many an eye will moisten as this story is told and retold throughout the country, and many a prayer will go up to God for the fatherless and mother less in all great cities and in all places. Little readers, are your mothers still spared to you 'i Will you not show your love by cheerful obedience 'i That little boy who so well, we are sure, obeyed. Bear this in mind, that if you should oiie day have to look upon the face of a " dear dead mother," no thought would be so bitter as to remember that you had given her pain by your willfulness or disobedience.