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death; for "He delighteth not in the death of the sinner, but would rather that all should turn unto Him and be saved."

Like the angel that came down to trouble the waters of Bethesda's pool, so here we have a troubling of the murky waters of dream-land: the first that felt its potent influence obtained liberty and was restored to his former dignity-the other was left to a most terrible fate; while Joseph, the companion of both in their troubles, remained a prisoner, through forgetfulness and ingratitude, until the waters should be troubled again by the angel whose visits at best are but "few and far between."

Notwithstanding he here comes before us as an interpreter of dreams, Joseph's condition is far more pitiable and helpless than when we saw him as a mere dreamer. But we have now advanced only one more step in the development of his history-the Divine purposes are not yet fulfilledbut we shall see him again with every promise made good, in the clear vindication of the justice and honor of "Him who doeth all things well."


"MOTHER, I wish Mr. C― would preach here all the time. I don't like to have Mr. P

come.' ""

"Not like Mr. P.


my son? I thought everybody liked him; he is an excellent man. Why do you dislike him ?"

"Why, mother, when he preached here last, he stayed here all the time from Saturday to Monday, and I was just as still as I could be, and he did not speak to me, or look at me once; but Mr. C always puts his hand on my head when he comes, and he says,

"How does Charles do, to-day?' just as though he loved me." I have a choice rose-bush in my garden presented by a dear friend. This year it had but few buds, and my little ones could only have one rose each.

"I will save mine," said little Carrie, "and carry it to my teacher. Do you think she ever saw such a beautiful tea rose?"

Day after day she watched her little bud, till it was half opened, and then it was plucked in the morning early, all fresh and dewy, and placed in water ready for school time.

When she returned from school, a cloud rested upon her unusually sunny face; and, upon inquiring its cause, she cried as though her little heart would break.

"You know my beautiful little rose. Well, I suppose the teacher didn't want it. She had a whole vase full of flowers, but none of them half So sweet as that; and when I carried it to her, she just laid it upon her desk, and didn't look at it once, and said, "Take your seat, Carrie.'"

How easy to have said, "Thank you, Carrie," and smiled upon the child, and filled her little heart with grateful love, instead of grief.

Remember the little ones.


THE following affecting tale of a lost child is from the pen of Rev. Dr. Eddy, editor of the Chicago Advocate:

Monday evening of last week, after a hard day's work, we left the office and started homeward. In the room below we found Mrs. E. in waiting, and together we started up State street. About half way we met our oldest son, and saw that he had some tidings of evil. He could only say, "Little Ramy is lost, and we cannot find him anywhere." The little one is the lamb of our fold, a bright-eyed boy, between two and three years of age, with fair hair hanging in sunny ringlets. Dear child-his little feet always patter on the hall when we ring the bell at noon, his arms have always "a hug," and his rosy lips a kiss for papa. We hastened home, and ascertained that he had been gone nearly an hour. The immediate neighborhood had been searched in vain. We started instantly-the streets, alleys, etc., within reach, were traversed, but no tidings. Night was at hand, and evidently our child was beyond our neighborhood, and that cold night was lost in the midst of this great Babel.

Notice was sent to the police, and to some of the churches having service that evening. A friend procured the crier. We have often heard that bell, and the cry of "lost child-a little boy not three years old, lost from 112 Edina Place-bare-headed, light curly hair, had on a red dress, stockings and little slippers."

Oh, those cries! We have heard them ever since. Kind friends came to our aid, strangers came with tearful sympathy; parties were formed, who patrolled the streets and alleys in all directions, but came back with the sad word, "No tidings."

The hours wore on, and near midnight the search was given up for the night.

Dear reader, may you never pass a night of such suspense! We sat by the fire, and how our hearts would bound as a footstep neared our gate. Perhaps it is some one from the police station with our child.— No; the steps sound on. The door is passed!

We did pray, we did commit our child to the All-Father, and that alone sustained us. But we could not shut out the visions that crowded upon us unbidden.

Now we imagined we heard his wail above the moaning of the tempest and sighing of the waves: now we saw him lying upon the cold ground, those locks frozen to the earth; then again we saw him caught in the net-work of railroads on Clark street, and crushed to a shapeless


Slowly passed the hours. Will daylight never come! It came at last. Ere we began our search again, we went into the breakfast room, and there, lying upon the sewing machine, was his little hat. We turned from it, and in the corner stood his rocking horse, with the reins drawn over his head, just as he left it; while on the table was his plate, with his high chair beside it. Up to that moment we maintained our firmness, but we could no longer.

Friends came to assist us. God bless them! Never did we need them more never did we appreciate them more highly. The authorities placed the police at our service, to make the search thorough.

Still no tidings. Nearly eighteen hours had passed, each hope had been crushed, and the prospect grew darker.

At this juncture came a German to the house, and said that if our child was the one described in the morning papers, he was safe, and would bring him. We did not see him, and on learning the news, drove to the place we supposed he designated, but found no child. Homeward again he did not come. The friends in search had in part returned, and were waiting the result of this intelligence ere they should go again. The anxiety was too deep for words.

At last we saw some one coming-how far one can see who looks for a lost child-nearer and nearer. It was our child! God be praised, he was safe! Sacred be the mother's emotions; mothers can imagine them!

Our friends gathered with swimming eyes about the child. There was no need to call them to come and rejoice with us! They came unbidden. There were three other children who had not been in peril; three who had not wandered; three whom we loved as we loved the fourth, but ob, there was in our hearts, there was among our neighbors, more joy over the one, than over the three that went not astray! More-aye, more! We did not love them less, but the joy was over the rescued!

The honest German had found the little wanderer a long distance from home, and saw that he was lost. He took him up and carried him to his house, placed him in a crib, and rocked him to sleep, had washed and fed him and restored him to our arms. We asked him to accept a pecuniary recompense, but he refused, saying in broken English, "I have children too; If one of mine was lost I would want some one to take him up. No, no-no money," and he buttoned his coat over his noble Teutonic heart, and bade us good bye.

Will our readers pardon this personal detail! It has taught us some lessons. Never before did we fully know the import of that word, suspense. Never did we feel the terrible meaning of the word, lost! Never did we so read the declaration of joy in heaven over the repenting.

And never did we so appreciate the kind attention of friends, whom we thank from the depth of our most inmost nature, and devoutly do we pray that we may never have occasion to assist them in a similar trial.


SPRING is but the child

Of churlish winter, in her forward moods
Discovering much the temper of her sire;
For oft, as if in her the streams of mild
Maternal nature had reversed its course,
She brings her infants forth with many smiles,
But once delivered, kills them with a frown.

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CAN a mother forget? Not a morning, noon or night, but she looks into the corner of the kitchen where you read Robinson Crusoe, and thinks of you as yet a boy. Mothers rarely become conscious that their children are grown out of their childhood. They think of them, advise them, write to them, as if not full fourteen years of age. They cannot forget the child. Three times a day she thinks who are absent from the table, and hopes that next year, at the farthest, she may have "just her own family there;" and if you are there, look out for the fat limb of a fried chicken, and that coffee which none but everybody's own mother can make. Did Hannah forget Samuel? A short sentence, full of household history, and running over with genuine mother-love, is tellingly beautiful. "Moreover, his mother made him little coat, and brought it to him from year to year, when she came up with her husband to the yearly sacrifice."

A mother mourning at her first born's grave, or closing the dying eye of child after child, displays a grief whose very sacredness is sublime. But bitterer, heavier than the death-stroke, is the desperation of a son who rushes over a crushed heart, into vices which he would hide even from the abandoned and the vile.

Napoleon once asked a lady what France needed for the education of her youth; and the short, profound reply was, MOTHERS!"


THIS sweet sonnet, which many a quiet nook, consecrated to study and de votion in our dear New England, might have suggested, is from the pen of a pastor's wife in one of our mountain parishes. It is a genuine drop of the Parnassean dew. The Portsmouth Journal has the honor of its publication.

A slumberous silence-a charmed, dreary hush
Pervades the room. The flowers from their urn

Breathe fragrance. Book-lined walls and ceiling burn
In the bright glory-the warm sunset blush
Of parting day. There, thou beloved one!

Dost sit-light beaming from thy serious eye-
Pursuing some large theme, etherial, high."
Meanwhile I weave my fantasies, and shun
The graver thought, that so, when twilight shades
Steal o'er the scene, I may with joyous mood
Beguile the hour, and fill thy solitude

With pleasant cheer. The flowers, when sunshine fades,
Their sweetest incense pour; like them I'd bring,
At evening hour, some gracious offering!

[M. L. S.

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THIS is an expression of commendation and esteem. It is not a general phrase, with a common signification; but when used, embraces a special and respectful sense. It is only a few in every community, that are the esteemed objects of its praise. In reference to those to whom it truly applies it is freely spoken by old and young, male and female, rich and poor, married and unmarried. Wherever there is found one worthy of it, it comes from every point of the compass, centering its love and honor undivded, and free upon him. Nor is it made with regard to kin, by partiality. It is real worth alone that gives cause to its use. Whether rich or poor, high or low, wherever, and in regard to whomsoever it is made, it is a free, voluntary expression of esteem, and a testimony to real worth.

To the word fine, of course there is necessarily a peculiar sense attached. It may not always mean good in the deep scriptural sense of that word, but it generally has some of the hallowed savor of it. What is usually to be understood by it is, First, That the young man is admirable; that is, lovely-worthy of love-deserving of affection. There is something about his general character and conduct which wins and holds our affections. The more we look at him, and enjoy his social intercourse, the more we love him. Nothing in his conduct is found to be unbecoming or repulsive. We cannot love what is destitute of any lovely qualities; therefore to love the rude, disorderly rowdy, is an impossibility, on the part of the virtuous and truly honorable. And because the young man, under notice, is the opposite of him whom thepure-minded cannot love, we are attracted by him, and love and esteem him.

Again, he is accomplished in his manners. We do not mean by this, that he is altogether fashionable; for we cannot conceive of any characteristic of man, more thoroughly repulsive and insulting, to a good heart at least, than fashionable absurdity, in the form of a young man. But what we mean is, that his manners are so complete, that, whether in the presence of the young or old, poor or rich, learned or unlearned,

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