ceedingly hot summer, and cholera infantum 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 favorable; but, early in the morning, the nurse whispered to me that the child "locked strange," and she led my 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 shirt-sleeves 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. 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.

THEY only truly mourn the dead, who endeavor so to live as to insure a reunion in heaven.

BABY'S DEAD.

ONE day I chanced to meet,
In the street,

A pretty little child

Crying bitterly and wild;

"What ails the little one?" said I Sobbingly he made reply, As he raised his curly head,

"Nay, my darling, do not weep, Baby's only gone to sleep; He will soon wake up again!" But my words were all in vain; "He has never slept so long; He is gone, forever gone; For, kind sir, my mother said "Baby's dead!"

Then I took him by the hand,
Strove to make him understand

How far happier than we
Baby was with Deity!

But 't was throwing words away,
For, ever and anon, he'd say,
As he, weeping, raised his head,

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Baby's dead!"

So within these hearts of ours,
In life's later, autumn hours,
Stricken hopes like withered flowers
Rustle as we tread :

When some favorite wish is crossed,
Or some cherished hope is lost,
To our souls all tempest-tossed,

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'Baby's dead!"

Kindly words and gentle deeds,
To the heart that inly bleeds,
Bring but little consolation

To the spirit's desolation;

If, for aye, sweet Hope hath fled,

"Baby's dead!"

Forever dead!

RICHARD COE.

THEN AND NOW.

THE merry, merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea,
And the merry, merry bells below were ringing,
When
my child's laugh rang through me.
Now the hare is snared, and lies dead beside the

snow-yard,

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,

And my baby in his cradle in the church-yard, Waiteth there until the bells bring me.

17

KINGSLE.