£i)e #anuU( Circle. OUR CHILD’S -WEDDING, The wedding guests have left us now, The house is silent grown, The bridal flowers are dying fast, And we are sad and lone. We think of her so far away, We miss our darling’s voice, The gentle step, th“ silvery laugh That made our hearts rejoice. I seek her room —last time I went Her arms were round me twined — The bridal veil-, the wither’d wreath Of orange flowers 1 find; These tell me that our only one Hath left our home and hearth To travel by her husband’s side 'Life’s steeo and narrow path. There lie the books she left behind, In each her maiden name: ’Tis strange to think my child will now Another title claim. T sit and muse upon the past: It seems but yesterday That she—a tiny, helpless babe — Upon my bosom lay. And now my darling leans her head Upon another’s breast, • In other ears her inmost thoughts Are lovingly confest. Her sponse hath won the nobler right To shelter her from ill; While matron dutieß, hopes, and cares, Her tender soul shall fill. / ’Tis harder far to part with her Than human tongue can tell, Yet I’m content to give her up To him who loves her well; For he is worthy of our child; And, though she loves him best, I, know her parents still will keep A place within her breast. 0, Lord, we pray, protect and guide Our son and daughter both; Help them in sorrow and in joy To keep their marriage troth, Bless them with faith in Christ Thy Son, That, when this life is o’er, Their happy, ransom’d souls may dwell With Thee for evermore. Dora. MARY WENTWORTH’S TIMIDITY. It was a dull evening in December when Maggie Ray came running in to Mrs. Wentworth’s, to say that her lit tle brother was taken with croup, and her mother wished that Mrs. Went worth would come over to see him. Mrs. W. was quite used to such re quests, for she was almost as good as a docttor, and was very glad to be of ser vice tb* her neighbors. As she put on her hooid and shawl, her daughter Ma ry started for hers, saying, with a de termined Hone, “I'am going too, moth er !” \ no, Mary l” answered her \Your father is out, and I jive this blazing open-fire g to watch it. You need ; all the house is locked, ' can harm you. I shall Y soon.” “Why, mother. ‘ dare not lei with no on' not be afraii and nothing be home ver “0, mothfe l- ” cried Mary, “I Qan't stay alone! yDon’t make me ; I shall he frightened V 0 death.” Mrs. Wentworth looked annoyed. “0, Mary,” Jsaid she, "at fourteen years old, yotl ought not to be such a coward. Magpgie,” continued she, turn ing to her fis she stood anxiously waiting, " Ca in you stay with Mary ?” " Y-yes niJi’am, if you can’t go with out,” replied! Maggie, though it was a sore trial, f</>r she wanted to be with dear little wdllie. " Then Ic’d .leave you here,” said Mr,s. Wen/t worth, hastily quitting the room ; and*- soon the sound of her quick footsteps/ 011 the frozen ground died away in l the distance. The pleasant fireligpt still flickered on the wall, and the yoom looked cheery as before, ■whpon the two girls sat down together; byit Maggie’s face was anxious, and >Mary looked uneasy. She was asham ed of keeping Maggie, yet afraid to let her go. " I can’t help it,” said Mary at last, as.if somebody had been blaming her; “ I’m so timid.” " What are you afraid of, when you are alone ?” asked Maggie. “0, everything! . I’m afraid there’s a man in the closet, or else up-stairs under the bed. I keep thinking I hear a sound, and I don’t dare to look over my shoulder. All the dreadful stories I have read come to me. 'O,l shouldn’t dare tell you—all about ghosts and robbers. I should go into a fit, if I was all alone in the house after dark.” “Why, the dark can’Vhurt you,” said Maggie. “ And what makes you read dreadful stories ?” “0, I like them!” answered Mary, with a shudder. “I will read them, if they do scare me,” “But that is wrong,” said Maggie. “ I don’t think it pleases God.” “ Why, ghost stories are not wick ed,” said Mary. . " Well, I’m sure it’s wicked for you to read them, if they hurt you so,” answered good little Maggie. “And Mary,” added she, lowering her voice, "you know God is close by Always; and isn’t He strong enough and kind enough to take care of us ? Why, I was afraid, too, till I trusted myself to God; but now, if there’s any danger, I just whisper some little prayer, and I feel as safe,” " Why, do yon pray to be kept safe from ghost and robbers, Maggie?" “ Well, no; but if I was afraid of them, I should. I don’t believe in. ghosts, and I never think about rob bers* No robber ever was in our house, or yours either. As for ghosts, it's a great deal more likely that there are good angels watching over us. ‘ The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him,’ you know; and the lullaby Hymn says, ‘ Hush my dear, lie etill and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed.’ ” Mary sat silent looking into the fire.' At last she said, “I never thought of trusting such little things to God. I know my fears are silly.” “ Mother says nothing that troubles us is too small to pray about;” replied Maggie. “ She says we ought to carry our religion in to our dress and our eating- and our reading and our plays, and that they’ll all be pleasanter if we do. We ought to try to please God, and trust Him about every little thing.” " Hush!” said Mary, starting up and turning pale, “what’s that?” There was indeed a heavy sound of something falling on the floor of the room above. Even Maggie looked startled. They listened; there was a shuffling noise, and then silence again. “ The house is all locked up, your mother told you,” said Maggie, “so nobody can have got in. I’m going to see what it is.” She took a lamp from the mantel as she spoke. “No, indeed, Maggie Ray,” gasped Mary, seizing the lamp. “ I won’t go a step.” “But you need not go, I will go alone. It is only something fallen on the floor.” Still Mary would neither go herself nor let Maggie leave her. They sat down again and waited for Mrs. Went worth, who did not come for an hour. “ Willie is better!” she called in cheerful tones, as she came near the house, and the girls rushed out to meet her. "O, mother!” said Mary, hardly waiting to hear about Willie, “there’s been an awful noise up-stairs.” "Well, what was it ?” asked Mrs. W. “0, we don’t knowr Just think Maggie wanted to go up and see; but I would not let her.” Mrs. Wentworth did not speak. She took the lamp from the table and went up-stairs, followed close by Mag giel and Mary. All was quiet as they entered the chamber; but in the mid dle of the floor lay Mary’s great bird cage, the door open; and the bird gone! “ 0, my darling Brownie, where are you?” cried Mary in distress. They searched the room, but found no Brownie. Holding the lamp down close to the door, Mrs. Wentworth saw just outside, a little yellow feather. “ Ah! the cat has been here,” said she. She ran up the attic stairs, and there, indeed, crouched the cat in a corner. Close by, lay little Brownie’s wings and the poor little beak with which he used to take sugar from Ma ry’s lips and seeds from her hand, and out of which rippled such merry songs. Mary burst into tears, and her mother could have cried, too, she had loved the sunny little creature so much. With heavy hearts,. they went back into the chamber. “ I never knew the cat to come up here before,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “We never allow her up-stairs. She must have stood on the back of that easy-chair, and pushed against the cage till she got it off the nail. The door would fly open when it fell, and then I suppose she chased him till he was tired out. O, Mary, if you had only let Maggie come up, as she want ed to, she,could have saved him. It is your cowardice that has been the means of Brownie’s death.”' That night, as poor Mary cried her self to sleep, she prayed the Lord that she might " trust Him and fear no evil.” For she saw that she could never be a sensible and useful woman till she overcame her foolish fears. Congregationalist. HOW MUCH MAKES A MAN RICH. “To be rich,” said Mr. Marcy, for merly Secretary of State, “requires only a satisfactory condition of the mind. One man may be rich with a hundred dollars, while another, in the possession of millions, may think him self poor; and as the necessities of life are enjoyed by each, it is evident that the man who is best satisfied with his possessions is the richer.” To illustrate this idea, Mr. Marcy related the following anecdote: “ While I was Governor of the State of New York,” said he, “I was called upon one morning at my office by a rough specimen of a backwoodsman, who stalked in, and commenced conversa tion by inquiring 'if this was Mr. Marcy?’ “I replied that that was my name. “'Bill Marcy ?’ said he. I nodded* assent. "'Used to live in Southport, didn’t ye?’ “I answered in the affirmative, and began to feel a little curious to know who my visitor was, and what he was driving at. "' That’s what I told ’em,’ cried the backwoodsman, bringing bis hand down on his thigh with tremendous force; ' I told ’em you was the same Bill Marcy who used to live in South port, but they wouldn’t believe it, and I promised the next time I came to Albany to come and see you, and find out for sartin. Why, you know me, don’t you, Bill?’ "I didn’t exactly like to ignore his acquaintance altogether, but for the life of me I couldn’t recollect ever having seen him before; and so I re plied that he had a familiar counten ance, but that I was not able to call him by name. “ ■ My name is Jack Smith,’ answer ed the backwoodsman, ‘and we used to go to school together, thirty years ago, in the little red school-house in old Southport Well, times have changed since then, and you have be come a great man, and got rich, I suppose?’ THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY. MARCH 8, 1866. “ I shook my head, and was going to contradict that impression, when he broke in “‘ 0! yes you are; I know you are rich; no use denying it. You was Comptroller for—for a long time; and the next time we heard of you, you were Governor. You must have a heap of money, and I am glad of it— glad to see you getting along so smart. You was always a smart lad at school, and I knew that you would come to something.’ “ I thanked him for his good wishes and opinion, but told him that politi cal life did not pay so well as .hi im agined. 'I suppose,’ said I 'fortune has smiled upon you since you left Southport ?’ I “‘0! yes,’ said he; ‘I hain’fc got nothing to complain of. I must! say I’ve got along right smart. You see, shortly after you left Southport, our whole family moved up into Verm and put right into the woods a: reckon our family cut down i trees and cleared- more land than other in the whole State.’ ‘"And so you have made a good thing of it. How much do you Con sider yourself worth?’ I asked,‘feeling a little curious to know what he Con sidered a fortune, as he seemed to be so well satisfied with his. 1 “‘Well,’ he replied, 'I don’t inow exactly how much lam worth; W I think, (straightening himself up,)lf all my debts were paid, I should be forth three hundred dollars clean cash /’ And he was rich, for he was satisfied.” . FUNDING FAULT WITH CHILDREN. •R is at times necessary to censure and punish. But much more may be done by encouraging children when they do well. Be, therefore, more care ful to express your approbation of obe dience. Nothing can more discourage a child than a spirit of incessant [fault finding on the part of its parent, and hardly anything can exert a mote in jurious influence upon the disposition both of parent and child. Ther/s are two great motives influencing human actions—hope and fear. Both of these are at times necessary. But who would not prefer to .have her child influbnced to good conduct by a desire of pleasing, rather than the fear of offending ? If a mother never expresses her gratifi cation when her children do well, and is always censuring them when she sees anything amiss, they are discour aged and unhappy. They feel/ that it is useless to try to please. dis positions become hardened an/1 soured by this ceaseless frettihg, ancLat last, finding that whether they do [well or ill, they are equally found Jauit with, they relinquish all efforts to l please, and become heedless of reproaches. But let a mother approve of h a child’s conduct whenever she can. /Let her reward him for his efforts to mease, by smiles and affection. In this way she will cherish in her child’s Irnrrt some of the noblest and most desirable feel ings of our nature. She will cultivate in him an amiable disposition and a cheerful spirit. Your chiM has been through the day very pleasant and obedient. Just before putting him to sleep for the night, you tike his hand and say “My son, yon. have been very good to-day. It mikes me very happy to see you so kindnnd obedient. God loves children who are dutiful to their parents, and he promises to make therq happy.” This approbation from lis mother is, to him a gfeat reward. And when, with a more'than. affection ate tone, you say, “ Good-night, my ‘dear son,” he leaves the little room with his heart full of j feeling. And when he closes his eyes for deep, he will resolve always to< try to do his duty. —The Mother at Home. Over the beauty of the plum and apricot there grows a bloom and beauty more exquisite than the fruit itself—a soft delicate flush that over spreads its blushing cheek. Now if you strike your hand over that, and it is once gone, it is gone forever, for it never grows but once. The flower that hangs in the. morning, impearled with dew—arrayed as no queenly woman ever was arrayed with jewels— onoe shake it, so that the beads roll off, and you may sprinkle water over it as. you please, yet it can never be made again what it was when the dew fell silently upon it from heaven! On a frosty morning you may see the panes of glass covered with landscapes— mountains, lakes, and trees, blended in a beautiful, fantastic picture. How lay your hand upon thp glass, and by the scratch of your finger, or by the warmth of the palm, all the delicate tracery will be obliterated. |, So there is in youth a beauty and purity of character, which, when once touched and defiled, can never be restored; a fringe more delicate than frostwork, and which, when tom broken, will never be re-embroidered. A man who has spotted and soiled his garments in youth, though he may seek to make them white again, can never wholly do it, even were he to wash them with his tears. When a young man leaves his father’s house, with the blessing of mother’s tears still wet upon his fore head, if he once loses that early purity of character, it is a loss that he . can never make whole again. Such is the consequence of crime. It effects can not be eradicated; it can only be for given.—Henry Ward Beecher. PURITY OP CHARACTER, MY NELLIE. Yon never heard her slam the door, Nor cups and saucers clash, Nor throw up, with an angry jerk, The sliding window sash. You never saw her fling abook With force upon the ground ; And rush, with bonnet by the string, And ringlets all unbound. You never heard impetuous words Of anger from her lips, Nor felt the sting of furious blows Dropped from her finger tips, And would you know the reason why? She is a Christian child, And knows, if she; would please her Lord, She must be meek and mild. Sweet, pleasant words she always speaks, And gentle are her ways ; 0, beautiful my Nellie is, And happy all her days. WHAT HAYE I LOST? An old man, a few days since, was speaking of his conversation with a sceptic, who was bringing up various arguments tq proVe that religion was all a delusion. The old man was un learned, and could not confute him by reasoning, but he used the simple logic of a true Christian’s heart, and there was no gainsaying it. "I have tried,” he said, “to serve my God for more than fifty years, anc have found sweet enjoyment in His service. It has been a sure support and comfort in every trouble and sor row. How, if it is all a delusion, what have I lost ?” The man had no answer for him Well he knew that his boasted reason ing would never afford a solace to the heart when the storm beat and the floods rose round it. ciore any “But if religion is true,” contiuuec. the old man, “what have you lost?” And w,ell might he ask that ques tion, and well would it be for that scoffer, if he would ponder it deeply. He had lost his immortal soul if he persisted in his unbelief. “My religion has made me happy in this life,” said the old man, “and when I come to the end of it, I expect to be happier still. What have I lost by being a Christian ?” There was never yet an infidel death bed made happy by its boasted philo sophy. In that solemn hour, when the soul stands face to face with its Creator, it knows how vain are all cloaks it may seelc to throw over it, to hide itself from His all-seeing eye. Sometimes the proud heart mails itself in a calm exterior, that the world may not witness its agony; but oftener the anguish of despair masters every other feeling, and the hearts that are nearest and n dearest are wrung with ten-fold grifef, as they must stand by helplessly, while the poor lost soul Rapes round the walls of her clay tepement, Runs to each avenue and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain. 0, it were worth a lifetime of cross bearing here, to gain the victory over death alone. But after death we know there comes the judgment. 0, what eternal# gain, to have Christ for our advocate then ! —Sunday School Times. CHRISTI IN CONTENTMENT. “Be content with such things as ye have; for he hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” — Hebrews xiii. 5. This promise was addressed in the first instance to Joshua; not because he was Joshua, but because he was a believer; and it is valid for every be liever. The believer is to be content with such tilings as he has. “Behold Lazarus at the gate, of the riqh man, his bbdy full of sores, without food, shelter, friends. Is he to be content with such things as he has ? He has nothing.” Yes, he has something. Let us try to take an inventory. He has a Father in heaven, upon the throne of thrones, possessing all wealth and exercising all power; forgetting him never, and making all the vicissi tudes and severities of life conduce to his ultimate unspeakable good. He has a Saviour in heaven; One that died for him and washed him from his sins in his own blood; his righteous Advo cate ever interceding for him. He has a Holy Spirit who has taken up his abode in that polluted heart to make it angelic, spotless and perfect. The angels of heaven are his friends; they celebrated the day of his conversion with songs of transport; they hold his crippled limbs, so that he does not fall; and they are waiting to convey him to paradise. ' All the saints in the light of heaven wait for him,-that they may know him and love him. He has pro mises more in number than it is possi ble to count, and each.so precious that all the money in the world could not buy it. He has an inheritance ten thousand times more magnificent than the boasted patrimonies of earth. Everlasting life is his. His diseased body shall be fashioned like unto Christ’s glorious body. To all his other treasures, he may well add this treasure — contentment. Why art thou cast down ? Perhaps thine earthly wealth has taken to itself wings and flown. Perhaps some great man has looked disdainfully upon thee. Perhaps some cherished scheme has been frustrated. Thou has met with ingratitude. Some dear friend has fallen from thee. Some loved one has died. Some disease has taken hold of thee. - Well, these things dispirit the children of this world; for in losing these they lose their, all. But why should the loss of such things effect thee ? The wealth that is lost, ife nothing to that which remains to thee. The great man who despises thee is a very insignificant being in the presence of certain friends of thine. If thou losest a friend of earth, thou hast thousands of glorious ones who will never fail thee. Thou hast a throne prepared for thee in a region where no sickness is, where death never comes. Thou hast Christ with all his unsearchable riches. Wilt thou yet mourn because of the crumbs that have fallen from thy table ? It is in vain we talk of the unsearch able riches of Christ, if we greatly be wail the disasters of time. How shal the world ever learn that Christ is to us precious, if we are not content with such things as we have in the world, be they no matter how few, how mean ? — Bowen’s Daily Meditations. “I DIES FREE!” An old, dilapidated farm-house in a little town in Georgia, long since de serted by the owners, stood desolately by the roadside. Weedp grew rankly in the once cultivated garden, through which here and there a bright flower looked out, as sometimes a star shines through the thick interlacing of forest trees. The fields had been tramplec by thousands of horses’ hoofs, the fences were destroyed, the rooms of the household defaced, the sacred altars of home were forever broken up. The night had fallen, and it came down like a pall upon blight and death. There were no cheerful sounds along that deserted road. The voice of laughter had vanished—the sound of a child’s merry song was a thing of the past. Suddenly, in the midst of the thick gloom that covered the forsaken house, a light was seen to glimmer, and pre sently a dark form passed before the uncurtained window over the hall They were not all gone, then, the in mates of that lonely bo^e. In one corner of the room, which was very large, and nearly bare of furniture, laid a withered old negress, who seemed to have just escaped the jaws of death, for she was fearfully emaciated: Standing at the window, near the feeble light, was a young girl sewing. “ Tildy!” cried a trembling voice. “ Hi! aunty; you’s sensible, now.” - ‘‘Yes, chile; I ’members all about it. Heaps o’ soldiers here when I was took sick.” "Yes, aunty; dey’s gone, though.” "An’ whar’s your folks?” “ Dey’s gone, too.” “An’ why’s you.here, chile?” “0! I’se here to take care o’ you.” “VV hat! an’ let all de oders go to freedom?” " Ye’s all free now, aunty; don’t make no difference. Couldn’t leave you to die, no how.” ■ “De Lord bless you; de Lord give you all you needs in dis life, and ’ter gal joy in de life to come,” murmured the* old negress, with a sob. “ I’ll git well as as I can, chile; an’ we’ll both go whar de rest is gone.” Long, weary days passed, until, at last, old aunty set out, leaning upon Tildy’s aTm, a stout stick in one hand, and so she hobbled along. But she had over-estimated her strength. On the third morning the sunken cheek and glazed eye told that her hours were numbered. “ Tildy,” she said, “I’s going where you can’t lead me no more*. I’s \ tried to keep up, chile; but de ole heart’s worn out. But glory to de blessed Lord an’ Saviour, I dies free! Tell every body that ever asks for the ole woman that she died free. You’s young, Tildy; you’s going where they’ll look out for your soul, and p’r’aps learn you to read de blessed Scriptur’. That’s all I wanted, but p’r’aps I’s too old. Glory to God! I’ll read His Word in heaven, an’de Master Himself will teach me. Good-by, Til dy ; I dies free!” and with one joyous look heavenward, the tried soul went home.— Watchman and Reflector. ONLY THREE WORDS, Janet was the only* daughter of an humble Scotch widow. She was a child of many prayers, and her pious mother was made glad by perceiving that the seeds of God’s word were sown in her heart, and were springing up to bear fruit unto everlasting life. This beloved child was brought down with diphtheria in its most malignant form, and human aid seemed powerless. From the first, Janet had been unable to speak without great effort, and at last it was impossible for her to articulate at all; but she seemed to watch every movement of her moth er, as she moved about her sick bed. Mrs, L— felt anxious to know if Janet realized how near she was to the confines of another world. She spoke gently to her of the great change that awaited her, and asked her if she felt willing and ready to appear before her Jpdge and Saviour. The suffering girl fixed her eyes tenderly on her mother, and tried to speak; but it was impossible. She then made a sign that she could write. Her mother im mediately handed her a pencil and paper. Feebly her fingers grasped the pencil, and traced distinctly but one word,." unworthy.” Closing her eyes a moment, her head fell back upon the pillow; but at once a heaven- J smile illuminated her iace, as she again seized the pencil, and .wrote “Jesus Christ.” As the pencil dropped from her fingers the soul was released. With n ° plea but her own unworthiness and a dying Saviour’s love, she stodd before the Judge. It was a crumpled slip of paper, with three words almost illegibly traced upon it, yet the wealth of India could not buy that sacred legacy; "unworthy,” "Jesus Christ .” What humility, what sense of sin, what faith, what trust in a Saviour’s merits! ‘ Just as I am, without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidd’st me come to Thee, 0 Lamb of God, I come. T! THE BIRDS IN WINTER. What do the birds do in winter? Many, you know, go South. As a general thing, winter Cold does not seem to affect those who stay with us. The truth is, birds are remarkably well guarded against cold by their thick covering of down and feathers, and the quick circulation of their blood. The chickadee is never so lively as in clear cold weather. When the thermo meter is fifteen degrees below zero, it shows by its beheavior that it is pretty cold. On such a morning I have seen a small flock of them on the sunny side of a thick hemlock, rather quiet, with ruffled feathers, like balls of grey fur, waiting, with an occasional chirp, for tne sun’s rays to begin to warm them up; a little sober, perhaps, but ready, if the cold continued, to get used to it. What do they eat ? Our merciful Father does not leave the. earth bare. There is food enough and to spare. The seeds of grasses and the taller summer flowers, and the elders, birches, and maples, furnish supplies that the cold and snow don’t destroy; also the buds of various trees and shrubs, for the buds do not first come in spring, as some people think; they are buds all winter. There are insects, too. A sunny nook any time during the winter will show you a'variety of two-winged flies and several' kinds of spiders, often in great numbers, and as brisk as ever. Then in the crevices of the tree-bark and dead wood there must be something nice to be had, judging from the activity of the chickadees and gold-crests, and their associates. In winter no mischief can be done; there is no fruit to steal. Nothing can be destroyed now except the farmer’s enemies; yet the birds keep at work all the time. Winter, too, is favorable to sociabili ty among birds, as among people. The chickadee, the golden-crested wren, the white-breastea nut-hatch, and the downy woodpecker form a little win ter clique. You do not often see one of the members without one or more of the others. No sound in nature is more cheery than the calls of a little troop of this kind, echoing through the woods on a still, sunny day in winter-s-the lively chatter of the chick adee, the slender, contented pipe of the golden crests, and the emphatic, busi nesslike hank of the nut-hatch, as they drift leisurely along from tree to tree. Child's Paper. NEST OE THE HUMMING-BIRD. The nest of the humming-bird is a miracle o f perfection in domestic econo my. For beauty, fitness and safety, the wisdom and taste displayed in its arrangement are irreproachable. Be decked in a plumage ot emerald, ruby and topaz, remarkable for the delicacy of its motion, unsullied by rain from the clouds, or dust from the earth, feeding upon the nectar of'the flowers,’ its habitation should be in character, and so jt is. Sfiaped like a half cup’ it is delicately formed of lichens colored like the branch on which it is fixed, and lined with the soft down of plant blossoms, of mullein-leaves, or the young fern. It is delicately soft, shelter ed, and undistinguish able from the bark of the tree, of which it seems a most natural excrescence—a moss grown knot. Two white eggs, as large as peas, adorn the nest, upon which, as asserted by some naturalists, the cock and hen sit by turns for ten or twelve days. The little birds, scarcely larger than flies, enter upon their existence in a chamber tapestried as with velvet, and are fed with the swee.ts of flowers from the maternal tongue.* The tiny house hold exhibits not only a commendable neatness, but exquisite taste and deli cacy in all its arrangements. Gan gentle humanity derive no lesson from such an example? TREATMENT OE THE AGED. A little thoughtful attention, how happy it makes the old! They have' outlived most of the friends of their ! early youth. How lonely their hours 1 1 y fte ? partners in life have lorn* j filled silent graves; often their children ■ they have followed to the tomb. They I stand solitary, bending on their staff! 1 waiting till the same call shall reach them. How often they must think of absent lamented faces; of the love which cherished them, and the tears oi sympathy that fell with theirs, now all gone! Why should not the young cling around and comfort them cheer mg their gloom with songs and happv smiles ? Sadtts are not so much afraid of suflering as they are of sinning; in suffering, the offense is done to us, but m sinning, the offense is done to God. I am no more surprised that some revealed truths should amaze my un ders landing, than that the blazing sun should dazzle my eyes.— Servey.
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