n the coronal of
God.

Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it is
sweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Suffer
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is
the kingdom of heaven."

The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its
existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where
the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and
where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will
expand and bloom with unfading lustre!

Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such
unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your
bright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came to
thread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have
settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed
the guileless heart.

Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth
all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a
haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or
enter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which
fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you,
as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land of
the blest." Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise!

"Then mourn not, though the loved one go
Early from this world of woe;
Upon yon bright and blissful shore
You soon shall meet to part no more,
'Mid amaranthine flowers to roam,
Where sin and death can never come."

THE TREASURED RINGLET.

I AM thinking how, one April eve,
Upon the old arm-chair
I sat, and how I fondly played
With this brown lock of hair;
Your head was pillowed on my breast,
Your eyes were fixed on mine,
I knew your heart was all my own,
I know my own was thine.

The balmy breath of violets
Came floating in the room,
And mingling with the rose's sigh,
Spread round a rich perfume;
Yet sweeter was the warm breath which
I felt upon my cheek,
Than fragrance from the blushing rose,
Or from the violet meek.

Upon the oak the mocking-bird
Was singing loud and clear,
But notes more musical to me
Were falling on my ear;
For from your noble heart you poured
Love's low, yet thrilling tone,
And every word your pure soul breathed
Was answered by my own.

How l