erty. Warner and Pierman died young. I alone remain. The children
of most of them are now gray with years, and have seen their
grandchildren. The name of Dooly remains only a memory.

The affections arising from youthful associations are more enduring
than those which come of the same cause in riper years. They are more
disinterested and sincere. They come with the spring of life, root
deep into the heart, and cling with irradicable tenacity through life.
We find in mature life dear friends, friends who will share the all
they have with you, who will for you hazard even life, and you love
them--but not as you love the boys who were at school with you, who
ran with you wild through the woods, when you hunted the squirrel and
trapped the quail. When fortuitous time forces your separation, and
long intervening years blot the features, in their change, from your
recognition, and chance throws you again with a loved companion of
life's young morn--the thrill which stirs the heart, when his name is
announced, comes not for the friend found only when time has grown
gray.

Go and stand by the grave of one loved when a boy, the little laughing
girl you played with at hide-and-seek, through the garden shrubbery
and the intricacies of the house and yard, one who was always gentle
and kind, she for whom you carried the satchel and books when going to
school, who came at noon and divided her blackberry-pie with you, and
always gave you the best piece--and see how all these memories will
come back; and if the green grass upon the roof-top of her home for
eternity does not bear, when you have gone away, a tear-drop to
sparkle and exhale, a tribute to endearing memory, your heart is not
worth the name. It is not given to us to love all with whom we may be
familiar in early life. But every one will sincerely love some few of
the companions of his school-days and early manhood. This is really
the sugar of life, and the garrulity of age loves to recount these,
for in his narrative he lives over and revives the attachments of
boyhood. Woman may confess only to her own heart these memories--she
must love only in secret. When the heart is fresh and brimming with
affection, she may love with all the devotion of woman's heart; but if
her love meets no return its birthplace must be its grave. She may
only tell, when she is old, of her successful and more fortunate love.
Ah! how many recount to their grandchildren their love, in budding
youth,