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What is a child's compassion
To the Infinite heart above? What is a child's poor pity
To the great wide Heaven of love?
“Yes, Bessie, these are God's children,
He can make them clean and white, He cares for them just like the sparrows
And watches them day and night. The beautiful gates are open,
Christ Himself will gather them in, These poor, lost children of darkness,
From their misery, want, and sin.”
Then the dear little face grew brighter,
The shadows flew from her brow, “ I'm so glad for the poor little Gypsies, But I wish God would come right now !"
SARA M. CHATFIELD.
From the Century.
maiden aunt, in her straight-backed chair,
With a flush on her pale and wrinkled cheek, And a horrified, mortified, mystified air,
Was just about to speak.
And the maiden niece-a nice little maid
Stood meekly twirling her thumbs about, With a half-triumphant, half-afraid,
And wholly bewitching pout.
Said the maiden aunt: “Will you please explain,
What your heads were doing so close together? You could easily, I assure you, Jane,
Have knocked me down with a feather! “ When I think of your bringing up—my care,
My scrupulous care—and it's come to this ! you Appeared to be sitting calmly there,
And letting a young man kiss you ! "Now tell me at once just what he said, And what you replied
you replied This is quite a trial, So do not stand there and hang your head,
Or attempt the least denial! “If I catch you once more in such a fix,
Though you are eighteen, I can tell you, Jane, I shall treat you just as if you were six,
And send you to school again ! “ Are you going to tell me what he said,
And what you said ? I'll not stand this trifling. So look at me, Jane! Lift up your
head! Don't go as if you were stifling!" Her voice was shaken, of course, with fear.
“He said-he said, “Will you have me, Jane ? And I said I would. But, indeed, aunt, dear, We'll never do so again.”
THE MISERIES OF WAR.
he, who owns it, to behold the destruction of a single individual by some deed of violence. Were the man who, at this moment, stands before you, in the full play and energy of health, to be, in another moment, laid, by some deadly aim, a lifeless corpse at your feet, there is not one of you who would not prove how strong are the relentings of nature at a spectacle so hideous as death. There are some of you who would be haunted for whole days by the image of horror you had witnessed ; who would feel the weight of a most oppressive sensation upon your heart, which nothing but time could wear away ; who would be so pursued by it as to be unfit for business or for enjoyment; who would think of it through the day, and it would spread a gloomy disquietude over your waking moments; who would dream of it at night, and it would turn that bed, which you courted as a retreat from the torments of an ever-meddling memory, into a scene of restlessness. Oh, tell me, if there be any relentings of pity in your bosom, how could you endure it to behold the agonies of the dying man, as, goaded by pain, he grasps the cold ground in convulsive energy; or, faint with the loss of blood, his pulse ebbs low, and the gathering paleness spreads itself over his countenance; or, wrapping himself round in despair, he can only mark, by a few feeble quiverings, that life still lurks and lingers in his lacerated body; or, lifting up a faded eye he casts on you a look of imploring helplessness for that succor which no sympathy can yield him? It may be painful to dwell thus, in imagination, on the distressing picture of one individual, but multiply it ten thousand times; say how much of all this distress has been heaped together on a single field; give us the arithmetic of this accumulated wretchedness, and lay it before us, with all the accuracy of an official computation, and, strange to tell, not one sigh is lifted
up among the crowd of eager listeners, as they stand on tiptoe, and catch every syllable of utterance which is read to them out of the registers of death. Oh! say, what mystic spell is that which so blinds us to the suffering of our brethren ; which deafens to our ear the voice of bleeding humanity when it is aggravated by the shriek of dying thousands; which makes the very magnitude of the slaughter throw a softening disguise over its cruelties and its horrors; which causes us to eye, with indifference, the field that is crowded with the most revolting abominations, and arrests that sigh which each individual would, singly, have drawn from us by the report of the many who have fallen and breathed their last in agony along with him. CHALMERS.
A MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
I will obey, not willingly alone,