I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee, I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly; But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened, And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a fiend.

I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play; For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay; But they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl, Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl

But once it was not thus with me: I was a dear-loved child; A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled; No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone, For I to them was very near--their cherish'd, only one.

But sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep, Where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep; For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care, And burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear.

And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed-- For first upon me came disease--and deformity ensued: Woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage Could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age.

And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams; 'Tis when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams: The gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot; And in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot.

The dead then come and visit me: I hear my father's voice; I hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice; Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow, And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now.

But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears; To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears; And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss To see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss.

And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given-- An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven; I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre, And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir.

And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay, And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away; I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright, Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.

I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands: But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn, And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.

I care not for their mockery now--the thought disturbs me not, That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot; But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain, And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.

Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest, Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest; For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust, And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."

LETTY.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME.

How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth! Though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. All their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day.

When Death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is fast pa.s.sing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them. It may be that they have never humbled themselves before the great Lawgiver and Judge, and their hearts, alas! have not been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never supplicated. And as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!"

The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of Him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity--he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy--for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame. How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp--of health destroyed--of youth departed--of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning! How bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth! How deeply does he feel that he has slighted G.o.d's holy law--for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! And now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance pa.s.ses in review before him.

He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth. He marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart.--He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken.

Though the cup was bitter, he drank it.

Again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written, "fading away." Yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? Almost in despair, he exclaimed, "Is there aught that fades not?" And a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "There is G.o.d's love which never fades; this world is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pa.s.s to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of Him whose name is Love."

"Then ask not life, but joy to know That sinless they in heaven shall stand; That Death is not a cruel foe, To execute a wise command.

'Tis ours to ask, 'tis G.o.d's to give.-- We live to die--and die to live."

BEATRICE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

DIGNITY OF LABOR.

From whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, "Oh, she _works_ for a living?" Surely, such ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil. The time has been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic employment.

Homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective families. The famous Lucretia used to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of Ulysses, after the siege of Troy, employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to Ithaca. And in later times, the wife of George the Third, of England, has been represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, while her daughter Mary sat in the corner, darning stockings.

Few American fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one who _had_ to work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her thousands. To be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and I hope the time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental accomplishments.

C. B.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

THE VILLAGE CHRONICLE.

CHAPTER I.

"Come, Lina, dear," said Mr. Wheeler to his little daughter, "lay by your knitting, if you please, and read me the paper."

"What, pa, this old paper, 'The Village Chronicle?'"

"Old, Lina!--why, it is damp from the press. Not so old, by more than a dozen years, as you are."

"But, pa, the _news_ is _olds_. Our village mysteries are all worn threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the printer can get them in type; and the foreign information is more quickly obtained from other sources. And, pa, I wish you wouldn't call me Lina--it sounds so childish, and I begin to think myself quite a young lady--almost in my teens, you know; and Angeline is not so very long."

"Well, Angeline, as you please; but see if there is not something in the paper."

"Oh, yes, pa; to please you I will read the stupid old (_new_, I mean) concern.--Well, in the first place, we have some poetry--some of our village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of s.e.x) effusions, or rather confusions. Miss Helena (it used to be Ellen once) Carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'The Belvidere Apollo,'--which she never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. She had better write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. But if she does not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry a _bleu_?"

"There is much that I might say in reply, but I will wait until you are older. And now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for I have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself."

"No, pa, never!--I will not marry, at least while you, or Alfred, or Jimmy, are alive; but I cannot be an old maid--not one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom I have always designated as old maids, whether they are married or single--on the sunny or shady side of thirty."

"Well, child, I hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid, then. But now for the Chronicle--I will excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes next."

"Thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. It would have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. You know I had rather take so much hot drops.--But the next article is Miss Simpkins's very original tale, ent.i.tled 'The Injured One,'--probably all about love and despair, and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear, and the girls must beware. Now ain't I literary? But to be a heroine also, I will muster my resolution, and commence the story:

"'Madeline and Emerilla were the only daughters of Mr. Beaufort, of H., New Hampshire.'