For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in trying to get along. And so we worked together: and life was hard but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've

done;

Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,

But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old

and gray,

I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other

way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seem'd to be, The Lord of hosts he come one day an' took him away from

me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or
frown,

Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile;
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too

fur;

An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her

sick),

That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage one family will do,

But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;

But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn
three,

'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the child'rn was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best;
And one of'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house-my child'rn dear, good-by!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

Beside her mother sat a darling child,
Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom
Had passed away; her large blue eyes-
-as mild
And soft, as lovely as the sky in June-
Were fixed upon the morning star, so soon,
Like her own life, to melt in glorious day;

And as its pale beams trembled in the room,
Her heart throbbed wildly, for they seemed to say
In whispers, to her spirit, “Come with us away!"

"Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head,

And lay it gently on your own dear breast;
Now kiss me, mother, let your smiles be shed
Upon my heart; for soon your child will rest,
Far from your care, with saints and angels blest;

For I have had a dream of that bright land
Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west
At sunset was the glory of the band I saw,
And soon shall with them near the Saviour stand.
"See, mother, that bright star is almost gone!
It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain
My aching heart would have it live-it shone
So sweetly on me that it stilled the pain.
Come, lift me up, and let me see again
Its mellow light before it dies, and sing-

I feel so well-the little hymn, the same
You taught me, months ago, that e'er would bring
Our souls so near to heaven as on an unseen wing.”
The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer,

As rose the infant voice upon her ear;
The note hung quivering on the balmy air,
Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear;
While round the child, dispelling every fear,
Came floating visions from the land her dream
Had pictured to her happy soul so near;

Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme
But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene.
She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain
Was broken where the gushing melody

Was softly lingering on the hallowed name
Whose praises angels sound eternally.
Quickly the mother sunk upon her knee,
And from her snowy forehead threw the long,
Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly;

The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue!
But she was dead,—her heart had broken with her song!

TRIUMPH OF FAITH.-J. S. BUCKMINSTER.

friends, and follow me to Would you see in what Watch the last gleams of

Come, now, my incredulous the bed of the dying believer. peace a Christian can die? thought which stream from his dying eyes. Do you see anything like apprehension? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist thickens and rests upon the objects which have hitherto engaged his observation. The

countenances of his friends become more and more indistinct. The sweet expressions of love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His ear wakes no more at the well-known voices of his children; and the soothing accents of tender affection die away, unheard, upon his decaying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is drawing to its close; and the curtain is descending which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no longer interested in all that is done under the sun.

Oh! that I could now open to you the recesses of his soul; that I could reveal to you the light which darts into the chambers of his understanding! He approaches the world which he has so long seen in faith. The imagination now collects its diminished strength, and the eye of faith opens wide.

Friends, do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, around this bed of death. Why are you so still and silent? Fear not to move; you cannot disturb the last visions which entrance this holy spirit. Your lamentations break not in upon the songs of seraphs which enwrap his hearing in ecstasy. Crowd, if you choose, around his couch; he heeds you not, already he sees the spirits of the just advancing together to receive a kindred soul. Press him not with importunities; urge him not with alleviations. Think you he wants now these tones of mortal voices,— these material, these gross consolations? No! He is going to add another to the myriads of the just that are every moment crowding into the portals of heaven! He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you, he leaves you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about a little longer among the miseries and sensualities of a worldly life. Already he cries to you from the regions of bliss. Will you not join him there? Will you not taste the sublime joys of faith? There are your predecessors in virtue; there, too, are places left for your contemporaries. There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where is Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant, and God, the Judge of all.

AN APPEAL TO THE "SEXTANT" FOR AIR.

O sextant of the meetin house, wich sweeps
And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fires,
And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose
in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile;
And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dies,
to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths;
And for the servusses gets $100 per annum,
Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it;
Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and
Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold

As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin;
i wouldn't be hired to do it for no sum,—

But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity

Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin
Worth more than anything except the sole of man!
i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are!
O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no
What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about
Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts!
In short, its jest as "free as are" out dores,
But O Sextant, in our church, its scarce as buty,
Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for mischuns,
Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me,
wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but, O Sextant,
U shet 500 men, wimmin and children,
Speshally the latter, up in a tite place,
Some has bad breths, none aint 2 sweet,

Some is fevery, some is scrofilous, some has bad teeth
And some haint none, and some aint over clean;

But every 1 on 'em brethes in and out, and out and in,

Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate,

I ask you-say 15 minits-and then wats to be did?

Why then they must brethe it all over agin,

And then agin, and so on till each has took it down
At least 10 times, and let it up agin; and wats more
The same individoal don't have the priviledge

of brethin his own are, and no one's else,
Each one must take whatever comes to him.
O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses,

To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out;
and how can bellusses blo without wind,
And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens.