with his liquid eyes, and dimpled cheeks, and
floating ringlets of gold was the favorite of all the girls at school,
often wished that I had roses to place upon his brow, and the waters of
paradise to sprinkle on his cheeks, that I might preserve their bloom
forever. But, alas! city flowers droop and fade and die; and though
tears fall, like Hermon's dews, upon the cold green earth where they are
sleeping, it will not renew their blooming, nor bring them back from the
grave.

I looked amongst the tiny throng one day, and Johnny was not there--I
came again and again, and still he was not there. "He has gone away,"
said I, "to gladden his grandmother's bosom--his grandmother, who
doubtless lives far away in some little cottage in the country. He will
soon come back again."

And he did come back again, for on a lovely summer day, when the birds
and butterflies and children were sporting in the sun, I saw him seated
in a little chair, amidst his young companions.

"Shall I soon get well again, to play with them?" said he, lifting his
pale face and sad eyes towards his mother's.

"Yes," said his mother, with a sad smile and a deep sigh, "you will
soon get well again, Johnny."

Alas no, fond mother; the bloom has gone from his cheek forever, the
beauty from his form. Henceforth, if he lives, the thoughtless will
laugh at him, as he moves painfully about the streets--the wicked will
mock him. In thy heart only, and in the bowers of paradise, shall he
now, henceforth and forever live and bloom. Slowly and sadly I saw his
pale cheek grow paler, and the lustre fade away from his eyes.

Time wore away, and this stricken flower of the city faded away with it.
He could no longer sit and look upon his former playmates; the airs of
Autumn were too cool at last for his sensitive, thin, pale, transparent
cheek.

I was walking one day, in a pensive mood, along a crowded thoroughfare,
where active men jostled each other in the pursuit of business. There
was life and hope in their eyes, and vigor in their limbs. It is not on
the streets that one is likely to meet the blighted flowers of the
city--the drooping and the dying do not wither away there. Within the
chambers of silent and sorrowful homes they breathe out their lives, and
fade away.

As I walked along, gazing at the tall grim buildings and dark alleys,
that were so full of old, historical memories, I was suddenly recalled
from a reverie, by a feeble cry; and turning quic