CHEERFULNESS.

I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy: on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment: cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, or fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

Addison.

THE thought of my short-comings in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

Longfellow.

THE DYING CHILD.

"What should it know of death"?

COME closer, closer, dear mamma,
My heart is fill'd with fears,

My eyes are dark, — I hear your sobs,

But cannot see your tears.

I feel your warm breath on my lips,

That are so icy cold;

Come closer, closer, dear mamma,
Give me your hand to hold.

Nor can I recollect my prayers;

And, dear mamma, you know That the great God will angry be If I forget them too.

And dear рара, when he comes home,

Oh, will not he be vex'd?

'Give us this day our daily bread';

6

What is it that comes next?

Thine is the kingdom and the power,'

I cannot think of more;

It comes and goes away so quick,

It never did before.

Hush, darling! you are going to
The bright and blessèd sky,
Where all God's holy children go
To live with Him on high.

But will He love me, dear mamma,
As tenderly as you?

And will my own papa, one day

Come and live with me too?

Where grandpapa is laid;

Is not the church-yard cold and dark,

And sha'nt I feel afraid?

And will you every evening come,

And say my pretty prayer, Over poor Lucy's little grave,

And see that no one's there?

And promise me that when you die,
That they your grave shall make
The next to mine, that I may be
Close to you when I wake.

Nay, do not leave me, dear mamma,

Your watch beside me keep,

My heart feels cold-the room's all dark

Now lay me down to sleep;

Poor nurse is kind; but, oh, do you

Be with me when I die!

Fulcher.

THE SUN.

THE Sun has his own work; a work, how various, magnificent, and unbroken! He guides, illuminates, and feeds the kingdoms that surround him. Call him only the shadow of God; and he does not shine in vain. He is God's missionary, having neither speech, nor language, yet making his anthem heard over the city, and over the wilderness, and over the boundless sea. He is God's artist, for ever painting new scenes to decorate His theatre for the delight of His people. He is God's physician, breathing joy into every living thing, giving colour to the flower, and beauty to the cheek.

Anonymous.

It is difficult to conceive anything more beautiful than the reply given by one in affliction, when he was asked how he bore it so well. "It lightens the stroke," said he, "to draw near to Him who handles the rod."