W

HEN Hope deceives, and friends betray,

And kinsmen shun me with a flout;

When hair grows.white, and eyes grow dim,
And life's slow sand is nigh run out,

I'll ask no boon of any one,

But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.

When memory is my only joy,

And all my thoughts shall backward turn; When eyes shall cease to glow with love,

And heart with generous fire to burn,

I'll ask no boon of any one,

But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.

When sounds grow low to deafening ears,

And suns shine not as once they did; When parting is no more a grief,

And I do whatsoe'er they bid,

I'll ask no boon of any one,

But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.

Then underneath a spreading elm,

That guards some little cottage door, I'll dance a grandchild on my knee,

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And count my past days o'er and o'er; I'll ask no boon of any one,

But sing old songs and sit i' the sun.

ANONYMOUS.

How far from here to heaven?

Not very far, my friend;

A single hearty step

Will all thy journey end.

Hold there! where runnest thou?

Know heaven is in thee!

Seek'st thou for God elsewhere?

His face thou 'lt never see.

Go out, God will go in ;

Die thou, and let Him live;

Be not, and He will be;

Wait, and He'll all things give.

I don't believe in death.

If hour by hour I die,

'Tis hour by hour to gain

A better life thereby.

ANGELUS SILESIUS, A. D. 1620.

M

ISS KINDLY is aunt to everybody, and has been, for so long a time, that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; and she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments threescore years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found that the way to college lay through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up and call her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. When that great fortune was a seed, it was she who carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation ran out of the cup which her bounty filled. Now she is old, very old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or ask themselves whether Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth. To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution of the

country. At Christmas, they think she is the wife of St. Nicholas himself, such an advent is there of blessings from her hand.

Her hands are thin, her voice is feeble, her back is bent, and she walks with a staff, which is the best limb of the three. She wears a cap of antique pattern, yet of her own nice make. She has great round spectacles, and holds her book away off the other side of the candle when she reads. For more than sixty years she has been a special providence to the family. How she used to go forth, the very charity of God, to heal and soothe and bless! How industrious are her hands! How thoughtful and witty that fertile mind! Her heart has gathered power to love in all the eighty-six years of her toilsome life. When the birth-angel came to a related house, she was there to be the mother's mother; ay, mother also to the newborn baby's soul. And when the wings of death flapped in the street and shook a neighbor's door, she smoothed the pillow for the fainting head; she soothed and cheered the spirit of the waiting man, opening the curtains of heaven, that he might look through and see the welcoming face of the dear Infinite Mother; nay, she put the wings of her own strong, experienced piety under him, and sought to bear him up.

Now, these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; for they are in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has done is

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treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer in its breast, which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after stratum, her good works are laid up, imperishable, in the geology of her character.

It is near noon, now; and she is alone. She has been thoughtful all day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, but say nothing. In her chamber, she takes a little casket from her private drawer; and from thence a book, giltedged and clasped; but the clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding faded by long use. Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name, on the fly-leaf; only her Christian name, “Agnes,” and the date. Sixty-eight years ago, this day, that name was written there, in a clear, youthful, clerkly hand, with a little tremble in it, as if the heart beat over quick. It is very well worn, that dear old Bible. It opens of its own accord, at the fourteenth chapter of St. John. There is a little folded paper there; it touches the first verse and the twenty-seventh. She sees neither; she reads both out of her soul. "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me." "Peace I leave with you. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you." She opens the paper. There is a little brown dust in it, the remnant of a flower. She takes the precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She drops a tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes: it is a