so many of these little ones thither, has some special design to serve-some work for them in His house above" for of such is the kingdom of heaven"? THE WAY HOME. THE CHILD ANGEL. WITH What unknown delight the mother smiled, Now in her Father's house she finds a place; Or, if to earth she take a transient flight, 'Tis to fulfil the purpose of His grace, To guide thy footsteps to the world of light;— A ministering spirit sent to thee, That where she is, there thou may'st also be. JANE TAYLOR. THE DEATH AND BURIAL. SHE was not quite one year old. I cannot venture to describe her. My heart swells, and is ready to break, at the thought of some sweet, touching feature, some winning way *** Sights of her asleep, when her mother and I stood over her with lamp in hand, are as deeply stamped on my mind as views in the Alps. Sometimes I looked at her with a feeling of awe. Mine, indeed, she was; but in what a subordinate sense! That perfect frame, that wondrous mind, that immortal destiny, often made me shrink into nothingness at the contemplation of her,―feeling that God, in making her, had rolled a sphere into an orbit which is measureless, making it touch mine, but having a path of its own, which cannot be comprehended in that of another, not even in that of the earthly parent. I was glad that there was an infinite God to possess this infinite treasure and control it; for it was too much for me. My enjoyment of her was often overshadowed by these thoughts. Still she was to me a perfect joy. Her beautifully unfolding life left me nothing to desire. But the destroyer came. It had been an exceedingly hot summer, and disease began to waste the little face and frame. We saw that she must die; we nevertheless maintained a cheerfulness of feeling which afterward seemed to us unnatural ; but no doubt it was kindly given to bear us through the trial. The last night that she was put to rest, her symptoms were favourable; but, early in the morning, the nurse whispered to me that the child "looked strange," and she led the way to the nursery. The little patient lay with her hand under her cheek, her eyes were raised and fixed on the wall. I supposed that she was watching a shadow, and I spoke to her by name. She did not move, nor did she turn her eyes; I spoke again, and kissed her; it was in vain; the fearful truth flashed upon me that she was convulsed. We watched her till sundown, when she ceased to breathe. I fear that some of you will smile, if I say she seemed to me the sweetest little thing that ever died; that, as she lay in her last sleep, no sight could be quite so beautiful and touching; that the loss of a child never, probably, awoke such tenderness of love and such grief. Suffer me at least to think so, without debate. How can I tell you anything about the last sad scene at the grave? Enough to say that each of us kissed the sweet face; we gazed on her a few moments, while tears ran down; and some things were uttered, between speaking and crying, till at length her mother kneeled, and held her face near the little face, for a few moments, without a sound; then drew the white embroidered blanket over the little thing, for it was a cold day and thus the last "Now I lay me down to sleep" seemed to be said and heard. I closed the lid. "Lieth down and riseth not, till the heavens be no more;" -what shall I have seen and known before I see this face again! That simple thing, the closing of the lid, what a world of meaning was in it! My thoughts were making a whirlpool about me, till my eye was taken by the nearer approach of a man, in his shirtsleeves and rough working garb, who respectfully seemed to intimate, We are ready, Sir, when you are. O must we, must we part? Must the grave have her? With an effort I said, "Thy will be done." I turned the key, and took it out of the lock, and understood how even good men could have opened their mouths, at certain times, against the day of their birth. We waited. In a few moments, one more little mound grew up from the earth; the clods of the valley had become sweet to one more father and mother. We rode away. I was glad that the horses started off so fast, though, for the first moment, it shocked me. I was expecting to move away at the slow, solemn pace with which we came. Turning a corner in the cemetery, a little stone over a little grave, the only one in the enclosure, caught my eye, as we drove past, with this inscription: CHARLIE. Ah, is Charlie dead? I felt very sorry. Who Charlie was, I did not know; but his father, I thought, had been there on an errand like mine. Had I met him in the street, on my way home, some one pointing him out to me, I would have stopped him, and told him what I had seen, and that Agnes was dead. For a moment, the stream of my grief was broken and divided by that little headstone, as a great river is divided by the delta at its mouth; but it came together again very soon. AGNES AND THE LITTLE KEY. OUR LITTLE SPOT OF LAND. WE have a little spot of land, For we are partners joint on earth, Just o'er the village-green 't is found, Close by a shady dell, Where. silence reigns-except when death We have no title-deed of land Besides this narrow spot; Others can boast their ample farms; We have this little lot; The grass waves sweetly o'er it when The summer air is bland; 'Tis worth-'t is worth-we cannot rate We've read of islets far away, L |