avenly Father is upon us." "I
wish I could," said Helen.

"Now, Clara, we are waiting for you," said Laura. Clara smiled; and
immediately chose the pale woodbine, or convolvulus, which so
carelessly winds in and out among the bushes--this is an emblem of
loving tenderness.

"Now what says Lucy?" exclaimed Helen.

"I think I can guess," said Clara; "either a violet, or a heart's
ease. Am I right?"

"Not quite," said Lucy, "although both the flowers you have mentioned,
are great favorites of mine. But I think I should like to resemble the
daisy, most, because it is always looking upward."

Certainly Lucy made a wise choice. What more do we require for
happiness, than to be able, let the cloud be ever so dark, to look
upward with trusting faith in God.

* * * * *

MY EARLY DAYS.

My father's house was indeed a pleasant home; and father was the
supreme guide of his own household. He was gentle, but he could he
firm and resolute when the case demanded. Mother was the sunshine of
our little garden of love; her talents and energy gave her influence;
and united to a man like father, she was all that is loveable in the
character of woman.

[Illustration]

But the dear old home, where I grew from infancy to boyhood, and from
boyhood to youth, I shall never forget. It was a large house on the
slope of a hill, just high enough to overlook several miles of our
level country, and smooth enough with its soft grassy carpet for us to
roll down from the summit to the foot of the hill. At the back of the
house was another hill, where we used to roll under the shade of the
old elm, and where Miles and I would sit whole afternoons and fly the
kite, each taking turns in bolding the string. This was a happy place
for us, and especially in the spring time, when the happy looking
cows grazed along the pathway which winds around the elm to the stream
where Kate and I used to sail my little boat. All summer long this
place was vocal with the songs of birds, which built their nests in
safety among the tall trees of the grove in the rear of the farm. We
had also the music of the running brook, and the pleasant hum of my
father's cotton mill, which brought us in our daily bread. Haying time
was always a happy season for us boys. Father's two horses, "_Dick_"
and "_Bonny_" would take off the farm as large a load of hay as any in
the village.

Years past on, and we were a happy band of brothers and