e is beloved
and respected, and the other is miserable and degraded.

The industrious man begins life, and perhaps has no better prospects
before him than his companion; but see how much better he ends life
than the other. He begins to climb the ladder of science, and by
perseverance, he will soon reach the top round, and he can not do this
unless he improves his time.

We have ample proof that unless we improve our time we can not be
happy or respected, and when we have a feeling of indolence come over
us, we must shake it off and try to arouse our energies, and we must
bear in mind that for every idle moment we must give an account at the
bar of God on the judgment day, before God and man.

Lines, Written on the Death of Frank.

For their darling boy they weep,--
For their beautiful and bright,
Who sweetly fell asleep,
One mild, autumnal night,
And the wind his requiem sang,
As his spirit passed away,
From this world of toil and pain,
To the realms of endless day.

They bore him to the grave,--
To his long and silent home,
Where the trees in summer wave.
And the birds and blossoms come;--
Where the sunlight faintly creeps,
And the autumn breezes moan,
There the loved one softly sleeps,
In his chamber dark and lone.

Now vacant is the chair,
At the table and the hearth,--
They miss him everywhere,
With the voice of joy and mirth.
They seek for him in vain,
In the chamber where he lay,
Through weary months of pain,
Wasting slowly, day by day.

He sweetly fell asleep,
As an infant sinks to rest,
When sunlight shadows creep.
Along the rosy west.
Gently as falls the rose,
Fanned by the zephyr's breath,
So his eyelids softly closed,
In the quiet sleep of death.

He has gone to his rest;
Oh! weep not for the dead,--
For the loved and the lost
Let no bitter tears be shed.
We trust that he has gone.
With the glorified to dwell,
And say, "God's will be done--
He doeth all things well."

The Pleasures of Memory.

Memory is a choice gift bestowed on man. It is a boundless source of
pleasure to most all persons, unless their lives have been fraught
with crimes of so daring a nature, that it makes the the heart revolt
at the very thought of them. It is pleasant at times to revert to the
scenes of by-gone days, and recall one beloved companion and another,
that have p