It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend's bed. "It is beautiful," said the invalid; "but the colors are not so brilliant as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed there, at this season! I wish I could see them again." Mrs. May smiled, and answered, "Perhaps you will, dear."

Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance; but she only said, "Sing our old favorite tune of St. Martin's, Jenny." She seated herself by the bedside and sang:

"The Lord my shepherd is,

I shall be well supplied;
Since he is mine, and I am his,

What can I want beside?"

Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she continued to hum in a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and, after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She never looked in those old dim eyes again. The next morning they told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement.

Some clothing and a few keepsakes were transmitted to Mrs. May soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny's, only the glossy brown was a

shade darker. She placed the two lockets side by side, and wiped the moisture from her spectacles as she gazed upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with a trembling hand, "The hair of Grandmother and her old friend Hatty; for my darling little Jenny."

When Neighbor Harrington came in to examine the articles that had been sent, the old lady said to her: "There is nobody left now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious little Jenny. She'll never forsake her old granny; will she, darling?" The child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the wrinkled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world.

She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying during Mrs. May's lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters, and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy; but she departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin's; and the last words she spoke were: "How many blessings I have received! Thank the Lord for all his mercies!"

THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER,

WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.

SOFTLY wave the silver hair
From off that aged brow!

That crown of glory, worn so long,
A fitting crown is now.

Fold reverently the weary hands,
That toiled so long and well;
And, while your tears of sorrow fall,
Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

That life-work, stretching o'er long years,

A varied web has been;

With silver strands by sorrow wrought,
And sunny gleams between.

These silver hairs stole softly on,
Like flakes of falling snow,

That wrap the green earth lovingly,
When autumn breezes blow.

Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,
Records some good deed done;

Some flower she cast along the way,
Some spark from love's bright sun.

How bright she always made her home!
It seemed as if the floor

Was always flecked with spots of sun,

And barred with brightness o'er.

The very falling of her step

Made music as she went;
A loving song was on her lip,
The song of full content.

And now, in later years, her word
Has been a blessed thing

In many a home, where glad she saw
Her children's children spring.

Her widowed life has happy been,
With brightness born of heaven;
So pearl and gold in drapery fold
The sunset couch at even.

O gently fold the weary hands.
That toiled so long and well;
The spirit rose to angel bands,
When off earth's mantle fell.

She's safe within her Father's house,
Where many mansions be;

O pray that thus such rest may come,
Dear heart, to thee and me!

ANONYMOUS.

THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE'S

AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

ROM all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may infer that I have been on the whole a favorite of fortune; that I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor, since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I have met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancy of spirit, I have soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not been disagreeable to me.