TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIX

S

TEEN YEARS OLD.

BY ALICE CARY.

(UPPOSE your hand with power supplied,
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair,

And turn it to the golden side

Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare,

And I stood here with smiling mouth,
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
Exceeding beautiful with youth,

And that some tiptoe-treading sprite

Brought dreams as bright as they could be,
To keep the shadows from my brow,
And plucked down hearts to pleasure me,
As you would roses from a bough.

What could I do then? Idly wear,
While all my mates went on before,
The bashful looks and golden hair

Of sixteen years! and nothing more?

Nay, done with youth are my desires,

Life has no pain I fear to meet; Experience, with its dreadful fires, Melts knowledge to a welding heat.

And all its fires of heart and brain,

Where purpose into power was wrought, I'd bear, and gladly bear again, Rather than be put back a thought.

So, sigh no more, my gentle friend,
That I am at the time of day

When white hair comes, and heart-beats send No blushes through the cheeks astray.

For could you mould my destiny,
As clay, within your loving hand,
I'd leave my youth's sweet company,
And suffer back to where I stand.

THE SILVERY HEAD.

THOUGH Youth may boast the curls that flow,
In sunny waves of auburn glow,

As graceful, on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honor spread,
And there, O, softly, softly shed

His wreath of snow.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Tis a trying crisis in life to feel that you have had your fair half at least of the ordinary term of years allotted to mortals; that you have no right to

expect to be any handsomer, or stronger, or happier than you are now; that you have climbed to the summit of life, whence the next step must necessarily be decadence. The air may be as fresh, the view as grand, still you know that, slower or faster, you are going down hill. It is not a pleasant descent at the beginning. It is rather trying when, from long habit, you unwittingly speak of yourself as a "girl," to detect a covert smile on the face of your interlocutor; or, when led by some chance excitement to deport yourself in an ultra-youthful manner, some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous; or, catching in some strange looking-glass the face you are

*From Miss Muloch's "Thoughts about Women."

too familiar with to notice much, ordinarily, you suddenly become aware that it is not a young face, and will never be a young face again. With most people, the passing from maturity to middle age is so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to the individual concerned. There is no denying this fact, and it ought to silence many an ill-natured remark upon those unlucky ones who insist upon remaining "young ladies of a certain age.” It is very difficult for a woman to recognize that she is growing old; and to all, this recognition cannot but be fraught with considerable pain. Even the most sensible woman cannot fairly put aside her youth, with all it has enjoyed, or lost, or missed, and regard it as henceforth to be considered a thing gone by, without a momentary spasm of the heart.

To"

grow old gracefully" is a good and beautiful thing; to grow old worthily is a better. And the first effort to that end is to become reconciled to the fact of youth's departure; to have faith in the wisdom of that which we call change, but which is in truth progression; to follow openly and fearlessly, in ourselves and our daily life, the same law which makes spring pass into summer, summer into autumn, and autumn into winter, preserving an especial beauty and fitness in each of the four.

If women could only believe it, there is a wonderful beauty even in growing old. The charm

of expression, arising from softened temper or ripened intellect, often atones amply for the loss of form and coloring; consequently, to those who could never boast of either of these latter, years give much more than they take away. A sensitive person often requires half a lifetime to get thoroughly used to this corporeal machine; to attain a wholesome indifference both to its defects and perfections; and to learn at last what nobody would acquire from any teacher but experience, that it is the mind alone which is of any consequence. With good temper, sincerity, and a moderate stock of brains, or even with the two former only, any sort of a body can in time be made a useful, respectable, and agreeable travelling-dress for the soul. Many a one who was absolutely plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and welllooking in declining years. You will seldom find anybody, not ugly in mind, who is repulsively ugly in person after middle life.

So it is with character. However we may talk about people being "not a whit altered," "just the same as ever"; the fact is, not one of us is, or can be, for long together, exactly the same. The body we carry with us is not the identical body we were born with, or the one we supposed ours seven years ago; and our spiritual self, which inhabits it, also goes through perpetual change and renewal. In moral and mental, as well as in physical growth, it is impossible to remain