came a man, I
put away childish things." The experience and observation of years often
make salutary corrections, which you would in vain attempt to effect in
early childhood, by all the laws of a ponderous octavo, or by all the
birch saplings to be found in a western forest.

A GRANDFATHER.

* * * * *

Original.

MAGNETISM.

Kind reader, whoever thou art, I come to thee with an earnest plea, and
that I may the more surely prevail in my suit, let me for a time exert
over thee the mesmeric power; thy bodily eyes being closed, and thy
spirit set free from its encumbering clay, let me introduce thee to
distant scenes.

The hour is midnight,--the place an humble home in far off Michigan. Let
us enter; nothing hinders, for bolts and bars are here unknown. Step
quietly, that we may not disturb the sleeping. Come with me to this
bed-chamber; it is indeed dark, but the spirit does not need material
light. On this rude bed reposes an aged man with whitened locks and
furrowed face, and yonder lies a little child whose tiny feet have yet
taken but few steps on life's rude journey. Listen!--she moves--she is
not asleep. What has wakened thee, gentle one?--the slumbers of
childhood should be undisturbed. She sings--in the silent, lonely night,
with sweet low voice she is singing--

"Jesus, Saviour, Son of God,
Who for me life's pathway trod;
Who for me became a child,
Make me humble, meek, and mild.

I thy little lamb would be,
Jesus, I would follow thee;
Samuel was thy child of old,
Take me now within thy fold."

The old man wakens--she has disturbed him. Shall he stop her?--no; he
loves that little one, and he has not the heart to bid her be silent.
One after another she pours forth her sweet melodies, till at last her
voice grows fainter and fainter, and soon she and her grandfather are
both lying again in unbroken repose. The morning comes. The old man
calls to him the petted one, and says: "Lucy, why did you sing last
night when you should have been asleep? What were you singing?" Stopping
her play she looks up and says brightly--"I was singing to Jesus,
grandpa, and you ought to sing to him, too."

Why does he start and tremble, that stern, gray-headed man? He has lived
more than sixty years an unbeliever--a despiser of the lowly Savior. No
thought of repentance or remorse has afflicted him--no desire has he
ever had to hear the words of eternal life. He has t