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thoughts, and you love him with even an intenscr affection than before. To part with him is hard, for our natural feelings cling to those we love, and their removal brings exquisite pain But our natural feelings have in them the taint of selfishness, and it is needful that they should be elevated and purified; or, rather, that they should die, in order that spiritual affections may be born. And what are spiritual affections? The love of things good and true for their own sake. And such affections are not born unless natural affections are laid in the grave. The death of such affections is always accompanied by pain; but the birth of corresponding spiritual affections will bo with joy. The deep sorrow you now feel is natural sorrow. Your heart is j aching for its loss; and even while reason and religion tell you that this removal from earth to heaven is one of infinite blessedness to your boy, you mourn his loss and will not be comforted. But, it is for you to look up and feel an exquisite joy in the thought that you have added one to the company of God's angels. It may not be now; it can not be now; for the smiting of your natural affection is too recent, and the waters of affliction must flow for a time. And it is good that they should flow forth, in order that spiritual consolation may flow into your heart from heaven. But the influx of healing water must depend upon yourself. You must be willing to look up and to seek comfort from the only source whence it springs. You must be spiritually glad that your child has gone to heaven—that is, glad for his sake, and for those who are made happier in heaven by his presence. There is such a gladness—but it thriLs in a region of the mind far above the place where natural affections move—and it is full of that interior delight which fills the hearts of angels."
Thus spoke the comforter, and his words found their way into the mother's heart. She did not make a response, but her thoughts were filled with new images; and even in the bitterness of her sorrow, she tried to look away from her own loss and to think of all that her absent one had gained.
In the night following, as she lav slumbering on her I, pillow which was wet with tears, a sweet dream, that was j not all a dream, came to her. She saw before her a company of angels, surrounded hy infants nnd little children— 'the latter dres-ed in white garments, with flowers blushing amid their clustering curls. They were in a garden, and the children were sporting with one another, and, ever as they drew near or touched the flowers that were springing around them, each blossom glowed with new and living beauty. Eagerly the mother looked for her precious boy, for she knew that he was in that company, and, as she looked intently, one of the angels who held a child by the hand, separated herself from the rest, and approached her. She knew her sweet one in an instant; and O! inexpressible delight! she knew the angel also. It was her own mother! Her mother, who had been taken to heaven when she was only a child, but whose gentle, loving face, had ever remained pictured on her memory.
0! the exquisite joy of that, moment. Her own mother was now the angel mother of her beautiful boy. How sweet the smile that brained upon her from eyes seen only in dreams for years! And as her lost darling sprung into her arms, and laid his head upon her bosom, a voice of exquisite melody, whose tones had come from afar off, many and many a time, since childhood, said—
"Daughter, be comforted! He was too pure, too gentle,
too frail for earth. Life would have been a scene of pain
and suffering; he would have been severely tried and
tempted of evil, and perehance, might have fallen by the
way. Therefore, in mercy he was removed to this heavenly
land, where there is no evil to tempt, no pain to afflict, no
grief to bow the stricken heart. Sorrow not for him, for all
is well. He has been committed to my care, and I will love
1 him with a tenderness made deeper for the love that is felt
for you. A Utile while longer, and you will be called home.
I will keep your darling safe for you until that time."
I An angel's kiss then warmed the mother's cheek and she
awoke. Heavenly light and heavenly music were in her
chamber. Slowly the light faded, and the music grew
.i fainter and more distant: not outwardly but inwardly distant; and as she hearkened after it, bending her spirit towards heaven, she still heard them when earthly grief is hushed and her mind is elevated into heavenly tranquility. From that time, joy mingled with the mother's sorrow. She believed the dream. To her it was no fantastic, but a vision of things that were. She had a treasure above, and her heart was there also. Love's golden chain had extended its links, and the last one was fastened in heaven. Daily, hourly, momently, she missed the one who was away, and longed to hear again the sound of his happy voice, and to look upon his beautiful face: but she knew where he was, and that it was well with him; and she dried her eyes and patiently bore her afflictions.—Life's Harvest Field, by T. S. Arthur.
INDUSTRY AND HAPPINESS.
It is the duty of mothers to sustain the reverses of fortune. Frequent and sudden as thej- have been in our own country, it is important that young females should possess some employment, by which they might obtain a livelihood in case they should be reduced to the necessity of supporting themselves. When families are unexpectedly reduced from affluence to poverty, how pitifully contemptible is it to see the mother desponding or helpless, and permitting her daughters to embarrass those whom it is their duty to assist and cheer.
"I have lost my whole fortune," said a merchant, as he returned one evening to his home: "we can no longer keep our carriage. We must leave this large house. The children can no longer go to expensive schools. Yesterday I was a rich man; to-day, there is nothing I can call my own."
"Dear husband," said the wife, " we arc still rich in each other and our children. Money may pass away, but God has given us a better treasure in those active hands and loving hearts."
"Dear father," said the children, " do not look so sober. We will help you to get a living."
INDUSTRY AND HAPPINESS. 65
"What can you do, poor things?" said ho.
"You shall see! you shall see!" answered several voices. "It is a pit)' if we have hcen to school for nothing. How can the father of eight children be poor? We shall work and make you rich again."
"I shall help," said the younger girl, hardly four years old. "I will not have any now things bought, and I shall sell my great doll."
The heart of the husband and father, which had sunk within his bosom like a stone, was lifted up. The sweet enthusiasm of the scene cheered him, and his nightly prayer was like a song of Draise.
They left their stately house. The servants were dismissed. Pictures and plate, rich carpets and furniture, were sold, and she who had been the mistress of the mansion, shed no tears.
"Pay every debt," said she; "let no one suffer through us, and we may be happy."
He rented a neat cottage, and a small piece of ground, a few miles from the city. With the aid of his sons, he cultivated vegetables for the market. He viewed with dolight and astonishment the economy of his wife, nurtured as she had been in wealth, and the efficiency which his daughters soon acquired under her training.
The eldest ono instructed in the household, and also assisted the younger children—besides, they executed various works, which they had learned as accomplishments, but which they found could be disposed of to advantage. They embroidered with taste some of the ornamentiil parts of female apparel, which were readily sold to a merchant in the city.
They cultivated flowers, sent bouquets to market in the cart that conveyed the vegetables; they plaited straw, they painted maps, they executed plain needle-work. Every one was at her post, busy and cheerful. The little cottage was like a bec-hive.
"I never enjoyed such health before," said the father.
"And I never was so happy before," said the mother.
"We never knew how many things we could do, when we lived ill the great house," said the children, " and we love each other a great deal better here. You call us your little bees."
"Yes," replied the father, "and you make just such honey as the heart likes to feed on."
Economy, as well as industry, was strictly observed; nothing was wasted. Nothing unnecessary was purchased. The eldest daughter became assistant teacher in a distinguished female seminary, and the second took her place as instructress to the family.
The dwelling which had always been kept neat, they were soon able to beautify. Its construction was improved, and the vines and flowering trees were replanted around it. 'The merchant was happier under his woodbine-covered porch in a summer's evening, than he had been in his showy drawing-room.
"We are now thriving and prosperous," said he; "shall we return to the city?"
"O, no," was the unanimous reply.
"Let us remain," said the wife, "where we have found health and contentment." "Father," said the youngest, "all we children hope you are not going to be rich again; for then," she added, '• we little ones were shut up in the nursery, and did not see much of you or mother. Now we all live together, and sister, who loves us, teaches us, and we learn to be industrious and useful. We were none of us happy when we were rich and did not work. So, father, please not be a rich man any more."—Mrs. Sigourney.
My Dear Young Friends,—I request your serious attention to a few words on a subject which I deem of considerable importance.
I doubt nor, you have all heard and read about the recent aggressive movement of the Pope of Rome, and ;our minds are beginning to take some interest in the subject; a few