A CHILD IN HEAVEN.

A CLERGYMAN lost a child. A brother minister attended the funeral, and at the close of his remarks, the father of the deceased child arose, and spoke as follows to his people who were present: "When I have sought to minister to you consolation in the times of your affliction, weeping with you over your dying children, you have often said to me that I knew nothing of the anguish, and could not sympathize with you in your loss. I feel it now. I never did before." Then he directed them to the source of his comfort and support, and invited all to the fountain of living waters. His house stood on a hill-side, overlooking a beautiful river, on the other side of which were luxurious fields. Alluding to this, he continued, " Often, as I have stood on the borders of this stream, and looked over to the fair fields on the other shore, I have felt but little interest in the people or the place in full view before me. The river separates me from them, and my thoughts and affections were here. But a few months children moved across to the took up his residence there. my heart has been there also.

ago, one of my other side, and Since that time, In the morning,

when I rise and look out toward the east, I think of my child who is over there, and again and again through the day I think of him, and the other side of the river is always in my thoughts, with the child who has gone there to dwell. And now, since another of my children has crossed the river of death, and has gone to dwell on the other side, my heart is drawn out towards heaven, and the inhabitants of heaven, as it was never drawn before. I supposed that heaven was dear to me; that my Father was there, and my friends were there, and that I had a great interest in heaven, but I had no child there; now I have; and I never think and never shall think of heaven, but with the memory of that dear child who is to be among its inhabitants for ever."

WHY CHILDREN DIE.

I HAVE seen persons who gather from the parterre their choicest flowers, just as they begin to open into full bloom and fragrance, lest some passer-by should tear them from the bush and destroy them. Does not God sometimes gather into heaven young and innocent children for the same reason lest some rude hand

may despoil them of their beauty?

THE DYING CHILD.

MOTHER, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;

Let me repose upon thy bosom seek;

But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here it is cold; the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel children smiling gladly,

When from my weary eyes I shut the light.

Mother, one steals beside me now! and listen; Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord? See how his white wings beautifully glisten! Surely those wings were given him by our

Lord!

Green, gold, and red are floating all around me; These are the flowers the angel scattereth: Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me? Or, mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going? Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine?

Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing; I will, dear mother, will be always thine!

Do not sigh thus, it marreth my reposing; And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!

Oh, I am tired,

my weary eyes are closing;

Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

FROM THE DANISH OF ANDERSON

THE PLAYTHINGS.

OH! mother, here's the very top

That brother used to spin,

The vase with seeds I've seen him drop

To call our robin in,

The line that held his pretty kite,

His bow, his and ball,
cup

The slate on which he learned to write,
His feather, cap, and all!

My dear, I'd put the things away,
Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play;
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks

The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks
Within a mother's breast.

H. F. GOULD.

THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES.

I SOUGHT at twilight's pensive hour
The path which mourners tread,
Where many a marble stone reveals
The city of the dead;

The city of the dead, where all
From feverish toil repose,

While round their beds, the simple flower
In sweet profusion blows.

And there I marked a pleasant spot
Enclosed with tender care,

Where side by side three infants lay,

The only tenants there;

Nor weed, nor bramble raised its head
To mar the hallowed scene,

And 't was a mother's tears, methought,
Which kept that turf so green.

The eldest was a gentle girl,

She sunk as rose-buds fall,
And then two little brothers came,

They were their parents' all,

Their parents' all!— and ah, how oft
The moan of sickness rose,

Before, within these narrow mounds,

They found a long repose.