It was for many years my duty and privilege to make one of a number of individuals who visited monthly through our little village, leaving at each house one of those little messages of truth, a tract. Amid the many discouragements and trials attending this humble labor, there were still some things cheering and encouraging to the heart. While to some our visits were matters of perfect indifference, and to others an unwelcome interruption, there were some few places where our entrance was hailed with delight. The dim eye brightened, and the feeble arm was stretched out to welcome us, and we went forth from those houses encouraged and strengthened for the work before us.

That part of the village which formed my "district" was a street of straggling houses, each with its little court-yard and flower garden; these were not the dwellings of the very poor, but of those just above that class, those who were too proud to subsist on charity, and just managed to live by the labor of their own hands. As I walked through this little by-street last summer, and noticed the pretty flowers, and the climbing vines by each cottage door, I thought to myself, how contagious and how elevating is the love of the cultivation of flowers. I remember when I was a child being sent of an errand through this very street; and as I picked my way along through the mud, I saw no beautiful flowers and pretty court-yards, with their fresh green grass; no vigorous shrubbery or luxuriant climbers. What had brought about the change? Why, a few years ago one of the cottages was purchased by a stranger; he was a mason by trade, a poor man, no better off than his neighbors;

but he did not think that for that reason he need forever live in the midst of mud and filth, and have no bright beautiful things about him. No; John Wilkes believed in making the most of the good things which even he in his poverty might enjoy. And soon the old cottage appeared in a new white dress, and looked so pretty with its neat calico window curtains, that the people about thought the Wilkes's must be getting proud, and beginning to feel better than their neighbors. And in the spring, when they saw the grass springing up, and the pretty borders, in John Wilkes' garden, and the bright crocuses and daisies showing their heads, they were sure he was proud, and felt better than his neighbors. Not a bit of it; as they found out when walking by his garden, (they were not obliged to pick their way in front of John Wilkes's cottage, for he had laid boards along and made a dry clean walk,) they stopped to chat with Mary Wilkes, over the fence.

"Well, Miss Wilkes, what beautiful posies you have got, to be sure: for my part, I can't see how you've growed 'em so quick. Jest look at my mud-hole, I know I couldn't make such posies grow there, if I tried all my life."

"O yes, indeed, you could, Mrs. Moss, if you tried only one season. Why, don't you remember what kind of a place this was last spring, when we took it?"

it is time to go to his work, as my man does: and then you rise yourself an hour earlier, and spend that hour in your garden, and I will give you all the flower seeds you will plant, and see what a different place yours will be next year."

"I'll do it, Miss Wilkes." And as it was with Mrs. Moss, so it was with all, or nearly all her neighbors. And as their places improved year by year, just so they grew in self-respect, and real elevation of character; as they themselves expressed it, "they felt more like folks." And as the external appearance of their little places improved, so did the interior of their cottages improve in neatness and order; and their children look nicer, and are taught to behave as it becomes the children to behave who live in white-washed cottages, with flowers before the door. Ah, Clay street, (it was not named after Henry Clay, dear reader, but took its name from its own clay soil,) Clay street is a different place from what it was when I was a child.

But I did not sit down to tell you about Mary Wilkes or Mrs. Moss, though they are both very good friends of mine, but to conduct you, if you will go with me, dear reader, to a small and humble dwelling, standing beyond and apart from the rest, on the side of a hill, at whose foot runs a clear little stream. We will cross this little foot-bridge, enter the gate, and pass through this row of shrubbery up to the door of the cottage. Part of this cottage was occupied by an old Scotch couple, and I have never entered their door that the words of the sweet old Scotch song, "John Anderson, my Jo John," did not come to my mind. They were, indeed, going hand in hand down the hill of life, after wandering over its thorny and rugged paths for many weary years. But though the way had been rough, and the Lord had led them by "a way which they knew not," yet these dear old people, so near the grave, loved to sing of his loving kindness and tender mercy.

But let us open the door, and enter the cottage. How neat and cheerful it looks; the clean and nicely sanded floor, the cheerful blaze, the little strip of rag-carpet by the side of the fire, where the old people always sit, the little stand, with the large old family Bible on it, and lastly, but most important of all, the dear old people themselves, always in their places, side by side; old Janet, with her knitting, and her husband reading to her from the Bible, or some other good book. They had always belonged to the same humble rank of life in which I found them, and yet the old gentleman's cheerful, hospitable, courtly welcome, as he rises and extends both hands to greet us, would grace a much nobler dwelling.

There was none of that feeling of pride about these people which I so often met with in their neighbors, and which led them to think that I considered it a great condescension to visit them, and a matter of charity to leave them the tract. There was no resenting of any offers of aid, in the way of little comforts or delicacies in time of sickness, with the words I so often heard, "You may send it round if you choose, but I guess we could afford to get it ourselves." No, these dear old people were cordial, kind, and frank, ready to receive a favor in the spirit in which it was offered, and more ready to offer kindness, when in their power to do so, than to receive it.

Many an hour of pleasant intercourse have I enjoyed with these charming old people, and I always felt that "it was good to be there." Thanks for mercies past were ever on their lips, and cheerful hope for the future beamed from their wrinkled faces. And though their sailor son was lost beneath the wave, and their only daughter, their darling Jessie, had died in the first year of her marriage, and, with her "baby on her breast," had been laid in the cold ground; aye, and though their oldest son, their hope and pride, and he whom they fondly trusted would be the stay and support of their old age, and close their eyes in death, had disappointed their fond hopes, and though living was worse than dead to them, these aged servants of God would still say, from their hearts, "The Lord is just and right," "He doeth all things well.”

The love of these dear old people for each other was truly beautiful to see; one of them was never seen without the other; they sat together in the house, and though they did not often walk together by the way, yet they very rarely failed to go to the house of God in company; the old man supporting his tottering footsteps with his cane, and his old wife leaning on his arm. I often looked at them at such times with a feeling of sadness, thinking of the utter desolation of the solitary mourner, when "one should be taken and the other left."

And my fears were soon realized. I was sitting reading one summer Sunday afternoon, the services of the day being over, when a little girl rang at the door, and wanted to know if the lady would please come down and see old Mrs. Angus, for they thought she was dying. Much shocked, I hastily prepared to accompany the little messenger, questioning her on the way as to the cause of the old lady's illness. All I could learn was, that she had been taken ill in the night, had been growing worse all day, and the doctor, who had just been there, said that she could not live more than an hour or two.

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As I approached the house, I found, as I had , expected, that it was filled with people. Among those of a higher rank, the room of the sick and dying is a sacred place. A few chosen friends are admitted, one by one, and that as a very great favor. But among those in the humbler ranks of society, in villages like ours, it is a matter of course, that where there is extreme illness, and especially when the hour of death draws near, all the friends and neighbors, and often those who belong to neither of these classes, throng to the house, and crowd the room of the sufferer, sometimes almost to suffocation. Particularly is this the case on Sunday, when these people have nothing else to do.

Seeing the sitting-room quite full, and perceiving that the bed-room where the old lady was lying was still more so, I drew back hesitating about entering; but one of the women seeme, came out and said, "Oh, do go in ma'am, she has been wishing so that you would come." As I went in, I said something about the suffocating atmosphere of the room, and asked whether it would not be better if those of the friends who would be of no use should retire; but no one seemed inclined to move.

The poor old man sat by the bed side, his hand clasped in that of his dying wife, and his head leaning upon it. I missed his hospitable welcome, for he did not raise his head on my approach. Grief had mastered every other feeling. But the old lady turned towards me, and such a smile of heavenly peace beamed from her lovely countenance as I had never before seen, and never since but once. She pressed my hand, but said nothing at first. Some of her neighbors and friends sat around the bed, and with a freedom repulsive to more refined natures, remarked upon the approaching end of her who was dying. "Another saint almost got home!" sighed one. "A mother in Israel is falling!" groaned another. The old lady echoed the words, "almost home," and then turning towards the old man she said, in a low and feeble voice, "Canna ye yet say, the will o' the Lord be done, Andrew?" "I'm tryin' to, Janet; I'm tryin' to, dear old wife; but what sall I do wi'out ye?"

"Put your trust in the Lord, Andrew, and He will sustain ye."

After lying silent for a short time she suddenly said, "Raise me up, friends, raise me up, and let me look upon the setting sun and the green earth for the last time." The burying-ground on the hill side was in sight of her window. We raised her up, and long and earnestly she gazed, and then she said,

old husband; see how the sun streams across the very spot where this poor body will lie. You can look upon it from this very window." "I shall na' look upon it long, Janet."

“No, Andrew, it will na' be long before we lie side by side; it will na' be long before we shall meet in our Father's home. Dry your tears, then, Andrew, and fix the eye of faith upon that heavenly home, where I shall really be; and, friends, I charge you all to meet me there."

As I was talking in a low voice with old Janet, and repeating in her ear some precious promises calculated to sustain the dying saint, one of her Methodist friends suddenly struck up a hymn, in which several voices immediately joined. Their voices blended sweetly; and altogether, under the circumstances, the impression was affecting and solemn, as they all joined in the chorus, "Going home to glory!" In the midst of the singing, the old lady fell into what appeared to be a gentle sleep, and feeling that I could be of no further use, I kissed her forehead and slipped quietly from the house. At the door I was stopped by the woman of the house, who had her apron at her eyes. "Oh dear, ma'am," said she, "to think that I shall never again hear their dear old voices, as they sang their morning and evening hymn, when they prayed and read the Bible together."

The next morning I heard that old Janet had never wakened from the apparent slumber into which she had fallen while I was there. Her spirit had most probably gone home to glory," even while those about her were singing the words.

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I did not go to the house of old Andrew again till I went to the funeral. Being early, I was standing gazing upon the coffined form of my old friend, when I heard a step, and looking round, I found the old man standing beside me. seemed unconscious of my presence, but stood with his eyes riveted on the face of his dead wife. Soon the big drops began to roll down his cheeks and fall on the sanded floor; then he leaned over her, and parting her gray hair on her forehead, and smoothing it with his hand, he said, over and over again, in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, "Dear Janet; sweet auld wife; dear, dear Janet!"

I saw the old man again, his white locks flowing about in the wind, leaning on the arm of a middle aged man, whom I had never before seen. It was the prodigal son returned to his father's house, repentant and reformed, only to help lay the ashes of his mother in the dust. He had returned a reformed man, and with the means to make his parents comfortable: to settle down with them, and to atone to them as far as he could do to for the years of grief he had caused them.