But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day We are so dull and thankless; and too slow The little child that brought me only good. And if some night when you sit down to rest, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my house once more,- PAREN Courtesies to Parents. DARENTS lean upon their children, and especially their sons, much earlier than either of them imagine. Their love is a constant inspiration, a perennial fountain of delight, from which other lips may quaff, and be comforted thereby. It may be that the mother has been left a widow, depending on her only son for support. He gives her a comfortable home, sees that she is well clad, and allows no debts to accumulate, and that is all. It is considerable, more even than some sons do, but there is a lack. He seldom thinks it worth while to give her a caress; he has forgotten all those affectionate ways that kept the wrinkles from her face, and made her look so much younger, than her years; he is ready to put his hand in his pocket and gratify her slightest request, but to give of the abundance of his heart is another thing entirely. He loves his mother? Of course he does! Are there not proofs enough of his filial regard? Is he not continually making sacrifices for her benefit? What more can reasonable woman ask? any Ah, but it is the mother heart that craves an occasional kiss, the support of your youthful arm, the little attentions and kindly courtesies of life, that smooth down so many of its asperities, and make the journey less wearisome. Material aid is good so far as it goes, but it has not the sustaining power which the loving, sympathetic heart bestows upon its object. You think she has outgrown these weaknesses and follies, and is content with the crust that is left; but you are mistaken. Every little offer of attention,-your escort to church or concert, or for a quiet walk, brings back the youth of her heart; her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle with pleasure, and oh! how proud she is of her son! Even the father, occupied and absorbed as he may be, is not wholly indifferent to these filial expressions of devoted love. He may pretend to care very little for them, but having faith in their sincerity, it would give him serious pain were they entirely withheld. Fathers need their sons quite as much as the sons need the fathers, but in how many deplorable instances, do they fail to find in them a staff for their declining years! My son, are you a sweetener of life? You may disappoint the ambition of your parents; may be unable to distinguish yourself as they fondly hoped; may find your intellectual strength inadequate to your own desires, but let none of these things move you from a determination to be a son of whose moral character they need never be ashamed. Begin early to cultivate a habit of thoughtfulness and cousideration of others, especially for those whom you are commanded to honor. Can you begrudge a few extra steps, for the mother who never stopped to number those you demanded during your helpless infancy? Have you the heart to slight her requests, or treat her remarks with indifference, when you cannot begin to measure the patient devotion with which she bore with your peculiarities? Anticipate her wants, invite her confidence, be prompt to offer assistance, express your affection as heartily as you did when a child, that the mother may never grieve in secret for the son she has lost. -S. S. Times. A Winter's Evening Hymn to My Fire. THOU of home the guardian Lar, And when our earth hath wandered far Our brave old poets: at thy touch how stirs By the fast throbbing hammers of the poet's thought! The aspirations unattained, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, They bent and strained And broke, beneath the somber weight As who would say, "'Tis those, I ween, While the gay snowstorm, held aloof, By him with fire, by her with dreams, A sweetly unobtrusive third: For thou hast magic beyond wine, To unlock natures each to each; The unspoken thought thou canst divine; In Arctic outskirts of the brain. That close against rude day's offences, And open its shy midnight rose. Sun of all inmost confidence! To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretenses, -James Russell Lowell. W By the Fireside. WHAT is it fades and flickers in the fire, As if in the red embers some desire, Some word prophetic burned, defying death? Lords of the forest, stalwart oak and pine, Lie down for us in flames of martyrdom: A human household warmth, their death-fires shine; Bringing the mountain winds that in their boughs What clear Septembers fade out in a spark! What rare Octobers drop with every coal! Within these costly ashes, dumb and dark, Are hid spring's budding hope, and summer's soul. Pictures far lovelier smolder in the fire, Visions of friends who walked among these trees, Whose presence, like the free air, could inspire A winged life and boundless sympathies. Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech, When sunset through its autumn beauty shines; Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech, From the familiar glens, the haunted hills- Do you forget us-under Eden trees, Or in full sunshine on the hills of God- Is it all memory? Lo, these forest boughs The Fireside. F solid happiness we prize, The world has nothing to bestow; Our portion is not large indeed; In this art of living lies, We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our power: For if our stock be very small, Tis prudence to enjoy it all, To be resigned when ills betide, And pleased with favors given; Whose fragrance smells to heaven. Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go; And mingle with the dead: While conscience, like a faithful friend, -Nathaniel Cotton. L My Own Fireside. ET others seek for empty joys, At ball or concert, rout or play; Whilst far from Fashion's idle noise, Her gilded domes and trappings gay, I while the wintry eve away. 'Twixt book and lute the hours divide; And marvel how I e'er could stray From thee-my own fireside! My own fireside! Those simple words Can bid the sweetest dreams arise; Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. What is there my wild heart can prize, That does not in thy sphere abide; Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, My own-my own fireside! A gentle form is near me now; A small white hand is clasped in mine; I gaze upon her placid brow, And ask, what joys can equal thine? A babe, whose beauty's half divine, Bright scene of home's unsullied joys; The smile whose truth hath oft been tried; Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, Let joy or grief my fate betide; BY Fireside Dreams. Y the fireside there are old men seated, Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. |