he was weary of living. His wife
and children were dead, and the old man was alone. So one day in those
years he came to the bank of the river for the third time, and he saw
that the waters had become quiet and that the wind which came up from
the river was warm and gentle and smelled of flowers; there was no dark
cloud overhanging the yonder shore, but in its place was a golden mist
through which the old man could see people walking on the yonder shore
and stretching out their hands to him, and he could hear them calling
him by name. Then he knew they were the voices of his dear ones.

"I am weary and lonesome," cried the old man. "All have gone before
me: father, mother, wife, children,--all whom I have loved. I see them
and hear them on yonder shore, but who will bear me to them?"

Then a spirit came in answer to this cry. But the spirit was not a
strange old man nor yet an armored warrior; but as he came to the
river's bank that day he was a gentle angel, clad in white; his face
was very beautiful, and there was divine tenderness in his eyes.

"Rest thy head upon my bosom," said the angel, "and I will bear thee
across the river to those who call thee."

So, with the sweet peace of a little child sinking to his slumbers, the
old man drooped in the arms of the angel and was borne across the river
to those who stood upon the yonder shore and called.

FRANZ ABT

Many years ago a young composer was sitting in a garden. All around
bloomed beautiful roses, and through the gentle evening air the
swallows flitted, twittering cheerily. The young composer neither saw
the roses nor heard the evening music of the swallows; his heart was
full of sadness and his eyes were bent wearily upon the earth before
him.

"Why," said the young composer, with a sigh, "should I be doomed to all
this bitter disappointment? Learning seems vain, patience is
mocked,--fame is as far from me as ever."

The roses heard his complaint. They bent closer to him and whispered,
"Listen to us,--listen to us." And the swallows heard him, too, and
they flitted nearer him; and they, too, twittered, "Listen to
us,--listen to us." But the young composer was in no mood to be
beguiled by the whisperings of the roses and the twitterings of the
birds; with a heavy heart and sighing bitterly he arose and went his
way.

It came to pass that many times after that the young composer came at
evening and sat in the garden where the roses blo