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On every decoration day
The white-haired Mildred finds her mounds
Decked with the garnered bloom of May-
Flowers planted first within her wounds,
And fed by love as white as they.
And Philip's first-born, strong and sage,
Through Heaven's design or happy chance
· Finds the old church his heritage,
And still, The Mistress of the Manse,
Sits Mildred, in her silver age.


When the black lettered list to the gods was presented

The list of what fate for each mortal intendsAt the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,

And slipped in three blessings-wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,

For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he said was defeated,

Forearth becomes heaven with-wife,children, and friends, If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,

The fund, ill-secured, oft iu lankruptcy ends,
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,

When drawn on the firm of wife, children, and friends. Though valor still glows in his life s dying embers,

The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends, Drops a tear of regret as he, dying, remembers

How blest was his home with-wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immorta, in story,

Whom duty to far-distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter old ages of glory

For one happy day with wife, children, and friends.
Though spice-breathing gales on his caravar hover,

Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover

The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends. The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smile of wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends;
O'er me wave the willow--and long may it flourish--

Bedewed with the tears of wife, children, and friends.

MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN. Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the mosi beautiful words in the English language. And truly I think that they may well be called so-what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one to whom they look and trust for protection.

A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.

The kind voice of a mother has often been the means of reclaiming an erring one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity.

The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her.

Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will ; aye, fitted to shine-not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven.

Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their minds seem to delight in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when weary with care, and burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we can go, and there, in the midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and quietness.

Heaven! that land of quiet rest—toward which those, who, worn down and tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it--safe in the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, never more to be separated.

It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here on earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, if “ faithful unto death,” we shall meet again in Heaven, our eternal home, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly Father, and go no more out forever.

HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER.–BRET HARTE. “So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea,—the lady you met

on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to

meet her again ?" “Of course,” he replied," she would know me; there never

was womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired; she excuses, but does not

forget." "Then you told her your love?” asked the elder; the young,

er looked up with a smile, "I sat by her side half an hour; what else was I doing the

while! “ What, sit by the side o: a woman as fair as the sun in the

sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from

your own to her eye? "No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and

as bold as the look, And I held up herself to herself—that was more than she

got from her book."

“Young blood,” laughed the elder; “no doubt you are voic

ing the mode of To-day; But then we old fogies, at least, gave the lady some chance

for delay. “There's my wife-(you must know,)—we first met on the

journey from Florence to Rome; It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where

was her home; "Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw

her again; And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that

day on the train." "Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach ; we travel to-day

by express; Forty' miles to the hour," he answered, “won't admit of a

passion that's less." "But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The

younger half sighed. "What happens when signals are wrong or switches mis

placed ?” he replied. “Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned,

"but admit That your chances of winning this woman your boldness has

bettered no whit. " Why, you do not, at best, know her name. And what if I

try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle

and real! “Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist—you shall

follow-this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to

stay? "My wife, Mr. Rapid-Eh, what! Why, he's gone,-yet he

said he would come; How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crim. son and dumb!”

-Atlantic Monthly.

There come the boys! Oh, dear, the noise !

The whole house feels the racket;
Behold the knee of Harry's pants,

And weep o'er Bennie's jacket!

But never mind, if eyes keep bright,

And limbs grow straight and limber: We'd rather lose the tree's whole bark

Than find unsound the timber.

Now hear the tops and marbles roll;

The floors-Oh, woe betide them! And I must watch the banisters,

For I know boys who ride them.

Look well as you descend the stairs,

I often find them haunted
By ghostly toys that make no noise

Just when their noise is wanted.

The very chairs are tied in pairs,

And made to prance and caper; What swords are whittled out of sticks,

What brave hats made of paper! The dinner-bell peals loud and well,

To tell the milkman's coming ; And then the rush of“ steam-car traing *

Sets all our ears a humming.

How oft I say, “What shall I do

To keep these children quiet?” If I could find a good receipt,

I certainly should try it.

But what to do with these wild boys,

And all their din and clatter, Is really quite a grave affair

No laughing, trifling matter.

"Boys will be boys”-but not for long;

Ah, could we bear about us This thought-how very soon our boys

Will learn to do without us!

How soon but tall and deep-voiced men

Will gravely call us “Mother;"Or we be stretching empty hands

From this world to the other!

More gently we should chide the noise,

And when night quells the racket, Stitch in but loving thoughts and prayers

While mending pants and jacket.

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