er there!" She died soon after she ceased speaking. Her pure spirit
winged its way to the blest home where we shall _all_ have more light,
where the mortal shall put on immortality.

She died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle and
pure a nature to depart.

"In the cold, moist earth they laid her
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so beautiful
Should have a life so brief.
And yet 't was not unmeet that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the flowers."

But Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave,--when the
childless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy by
the smile of their departed child,--Oh! who can express or describe
their anguish! In her they had all they could ask in a child; she was
their only one. Everything speaks to their hearts of _her_; but her
light step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowers
that she loved have a mournful language. The voice of the wind sighing
in the trees has to them a melancholy tone. The light laugh of little
children, coming in at the open window,--the singing of birds which she
delighted to hear,--but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness. They
feel that the little form they had nursed with so much care and
tenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod.
Yet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustained
the afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow. They would not
call their child back. They feel that she has reached her heavenly home.
Happy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure.

Two years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard. Since
then another little daughter has been given her parents,--a promising
little bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer the
home which was made so desolate. The best wish I have for the parents,
and all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen.
I have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read this
sketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen.

[Illustration]

THE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.

BY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.

Mother, mourn not for me;
No more I need of thee;
Call back the yearning which would follow where
No mortal grief can go;
All thine affection throw