morning and evening, year after year, with
the same result. It seemed of no avail. "She will die and never know
what beauties lie around her dwelling," he said, as he sat looking at the
wealth of beauty. It seemed to him that the clouds were never so
brilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's
rays, as on that evening. He longed more than ever to share with his
child the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he
hoped to attain his wish.

"I will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with
thick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. I will give her
a harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work
is being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can I induce my
child to ascend."

That night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke
not at the sound of the hammer on the nails. When all was completed,
the father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the
voice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:--

"Father! my father! It's dark! I cannot see!"

"Come up, my child!" still he cried. "Come to me, and behold new
glories."

She gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way
below to lead her up. She no longer resisted. Her steps, though slow,
were willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how
slow, so long as they were ascending.

Many times she wished to go back, but he urged her on with gentle
words and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached,
and the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no
longer needful. With a bound she sprang to the open casement, exclaiming,
"Father, dear father!" and fell, weeping, on his breast.

His wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now
behold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul.

Thus does our Heavenly Father call us upward; and when he sees
that we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not
listen to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear
below, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are
longer, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure.

VIII.

THE OAK.

An old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many
days, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his
care. "I see," he said, a little sadly; "the