The Anfalding Blossom.

"Jewel most precious thy mother to deck,
Clinging so fast by the chain on my neck,
Locking thy little white fingers to hold
Closer and closer the circlets of gold,-
Stronger than these are the links that confine
Near my fond bosom, this treasure of mine!
Gift from thy Maker, so pure and so dear,
Almost I hold thee with trembling and fear.

How shall I keep thee unspotted from earth?
How shall I save thee from ruin by crime,
Dimmed not by sorrow, untarnished by time?
Where from the thief and the robber that stray
Over life's path, shall I hide thee away?
Fair is the setting, but richer the gem,
Oh! thou'lt be coveted,-sought for by them!

I must devote thee to One who is pure,

Touched by whose brightness, thine own will be sure.

Borne in his bosom, no vapor can dim,—

Nothing can win, or can pluck thee from him.
Seamless and holy the garments he folds
Over his jewels, that closely he holds.

Hence, unto Him be my little one given!

6

Yea, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.''

H. F. GOULD.

THE wintry months passed quietly away, cheered by pleasant faces, and kindly greetings. At the close of the season, several of the family were attracted to the dear homestead, to celebrate, as it proved for the last time, our mother's birth-day. From a letter sent to our absent daughter, describing this celebration, the following is an extract:

"But I have not told you the very prettiest among all the pretty things. Can you guess what it was? It was your own darling sister. And very sweetly did she behave herself on the occasion, trying to talk in her little gooings. And what she could not quite say in this way, she finished saying with her loving eyes. She sat in her grandma's lap a moment, and received the praises of all for being so good a baby. And this was her letter:

"My dear Grandmama,

"Mother says I may put a letter into your pretty box. Goo, goo. Do you understand my baby-talk? Goo means, dear grandma, I love you. And when I crow loud, I am trying to tell that my you little heart is full of love. It makes me feel very happy to hear you say so kindly, 'pretty baby, pretty baby,' and to see you snap your fingers.

"I love to talk with dear grandpa. When he takes me in his lap I tell him all my little feelings, goo, goo, and it makes him smile very pleasantly. And then he sings "The pretty, pretty lark." Mama says I shall give you a sugar plum. But what is a sugar plum? She says I shall know fast enough by-and-by.

"Your littlest granddaughter."

The warm spring days had come, and with them peeped out bright green leaves from every tree and shrub, while sweet flowers of blue and white began to show their pretty heads all over the fields and meadows. But the sweetest flower of all was our darling rose-bud, now fast unfolding, and which gladdened us, not only by its

present beauty, but by the rich promise it gave for its season of bloom.

And among all the bright birds that from joyous little throats sent forth their glad, soul-full warblings, none were so bright as my autumnbird, and none made sweeter music. For although these little songsters, in their rich, full notes, excel trained choirs, yet they cannot equal the melody of an infant's voice, as it falls upon the mother's heart, filling her eye with unbidden tears.

With the Spring, our prattling daughter returned, and there soon sprung up a sweet attachment between her and her baby-sister. And great was my enjoyment in the present, as well as bright my anticipations for the future. Yet what mother does not sometimes try to conceive of her grief, were she called to lay a dear child in the grave? And what mother, in imagining such a sorrow, does not feel that she could never endure it? The promise is, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." But we cannot expect the peculiar "strength," until the trial comes, in which we may need it.

How wisely has our heavenly Father con

stituted the relations of life! How kindly is it ordered that infancy, from its very helplessness, should awaken all a parent's tenderness! Indeed, there is about it a dependence,-a trustingness, which appeals to every heart. And the love thus easily won, is, by its various little endearments, as easily preserved. What can surpass the confiding spirit with which a babe clings instinctrely to its mother? What can equal the untaught, inimitable grace of its every look and gesture? What can be compared with its artlessness, which leaves every emotion to appear upon its-open countenance? How fearless is it in its actions!-how free in the expression of its likes and dislikes! How commanding is its demeanor-how appealing its helplessness! And how irresistible is this appeal! How touchingly it says, "love me, take care of me, or I shall fade and die." And fondly does the mother's heart reply, I will love thee, my precious one. I will wear thee in my bosom. Thou shalt have the sunshine and the dew, But with all a mother's watchfulness, the canker or the mildew may touch thee, the summer's heat may blight thee, the blasting wind may chill thee, the piti