Points me to seven that are now in glory,
There on high!

"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod,
Sire and sisters, and my little brother-
Gone to God!

"There my Mary blest me with her hand,

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,

With yon green turf her prostrate form now pressing,
Leaving a broken band!

"Isabel,' said he, sadly, 'I am old,

And why I sit here thou hast now been told;
I have come to see her grave once more,
And the happy spot where we both delighted,
And where we worshiped in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core!''

Reader, it will indeed be a sad day for you and me, if, when we totter thus along life's path, we have no children to love and cherish us, none to gather around and listen to our story, so full of reminiscence, pathos, and tenderness! It were well, then, for us, as parents, to now lay the foundation for such a treatment as will cheer and soothe us in the days when life turns to the "sere and yellow leaf," and we shall be, as Shakespere says, "in second childhood and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

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