was parted smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time had written no inscription, except peace on earth, good-will to men, and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown eyes; you only needed to look straight into them, to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever throbbed in woman's bosom. So much has been said and sung of beautiful young girls, why don't somebody wake up to the beauty of old women?

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.

A

HUMAN heart can never grow old, if it takes a lively interest in the pairing of birds, the reproduction of

flowers, and the changing tints of autumn leaves.

L. M. Child.

THROW yourself upon Nature every year, she is ever new, and you will thus be ever young.

THE Poet, like Apollo, his Father, is forever a youth.

Jean Paul.

To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die.

Thomas Campbell.

HAVE you seen, my reader, the face that had grown old in life grow young after death? the expression of many years since, lost for long, come out startlingly in the features,

fixed and cold? Every one has seen it; and it is sometimes strange how rapidly the change takes place. It is a beautiful sight to see the young look come back on the departed Christian's face. Gone, it seems to say, where the progress of time shall no longer bring age or decay. Gone where there are beings whose life may be reckoned by centuries, but to whom life is fresh and young, and always will be so. Close the aged eyes! Fold the aged hands in rest. old!

Their owner is no longer

Boyd.

WE

E grizzle every day. I see no need of it. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old, but

grow young.

L

R. W. Emerson.

IFE is but Thought, so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

S. T. Coleridge.

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

T stands in a sunny meadow,

The house so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms round it
The trees a century old;

t;

And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,
The roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pasture
The herd go feeding at will.

Within, in the wide old kitchen,
The old folks sit in the sun

That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
Till the day is almost done.

Their children have gone and left them;
They sit in the sun alone!

And the old wife's ears are failing,
As she harks to the well-known tone

That won her heart in her girlhood—
That has soothed her in many a care—
And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal—
How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by the gay young lover,
In the morning's rosy light.

Oh! the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;

And the sunshine still is golden,

But it falls on a silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams once vanished,
Come back in her winter time,

Till her feeble pulses tremble

With the thrill of Spring time's prime.

And looking forth from the window,
She thinks how trees have grown,
Since clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door stone.

Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure,
And dimmed her "hair's young gold,"
The love in her girlhood plighted

Has never grown dim or old.

They sat in peace in the sunshine,
Till the day was almost done,
And then at its close, an angel

Stole over the threshold stone.

He folded their hands together;

He touched their eyelids with balm, And their last breath floated outward, Like the close of a solemn psalm.

Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen, mystic road

That leads to the Beautiful City,

Whose "builder and maker is God."

Perhaps, in that miracle country,

They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished Spring-time Will bloom in the spirits' track.

One draught from the living waters
Shall call back his manhood's prime,

And eternal years shall measure

The love that outlasted time.

But the shapes that they left behind them,

The wrinkles and silver hair

Made holy to us by the kisses
The angels hold printed there-

We will hide away 'neath the willows,
When the day is low in the West
Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.

And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father's house in the skies.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

DE soir, fontaines, de matin montaignes.

0

COMING HOME.

BROTHERS and sisters, growing old,
Do you all remember yet

That home in the shade of the rustling trees,
Where once our household met?

Do you know how we used to come from school,
Through the summer's pleasant heat,

With the yellow fennel's golden dust
On our tired little feet?