Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)

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THE STEP-MOTHER.

"Mother, I want to slide on the ice?"

"No, my dear; the air is sharp and cold, and your cough was very bad last night;" and Mrs. Lansing passed her hand affectionately over the silken hair of the little Minnie, as if to conciliate her.

The child shrugged her little, fat shoulders, and withdrew, pouting, to the other side of the room, saying, "I wish my own mamma was out of the ground; she'd let me go. I don't love you!"

Tears sprang to the eyes of the gentle step-mother, but she wavered not in what she believed to be her duty. Soon after she left the room, and returned with some pretty paper dolls, calling to Minnie to come and help dress them; but the child's wayward temper was not to be so conciliated. Another shrug of the shoulders and a portentous frown were the only answer.

Mrs. Lansing did not enter upon the marriage relation unapprized of the trials to which a "step-mother" is always exposed. She shrank timidly from the responsibility involved in the charge of Minnie, and fully expressed these feelings to her father; but Mr. Lansing

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repeatedly assured her that "he had seen no one, since his wife's death, to whom he would so readily intrust the care of his child;" and her sensitive fears were quieted. From her infancy, Minnie had been accustomed to rule. With the want of energy attendant upon feeble health, her mother had yielded to her imperious temper, rather than provoke a struggle; and Mr. Lansing, being necessarily absent on business, Minnie was left to the injudicious chance-training of nurses and hirelings. After his wife's death, the widowed father's heart was more closely knit in love to his child; and, with mistaken kindness, he overlooked her little, perverse fits of temper, and humored her waywardness. Minnie, who was quick of perception, and wise beyond her years, soon found out that the staff was in her own hands; and the injurious phrase, repeated unthinkingly in her hearing, about "cruel step-mothers," but ill prepared her to submit to Mrs. Lansing's gentle sway. With the promptings of a naturally kind heart, quickened by a sense of duty, and a desire to win this child of her heart's adoption, she endeavored by every ingenious device to conciliate her; but her efforts hitherto had been unavailing, or short-lived. On Mr. Lansing's return at night, Minnie would climb his knee, and, placing her little mouth close to his ear,--with a defying glance at Mrs. Lansing,--repeat her little, distorted story of complaint, unrebuked, and receive from the inexhaustible pocket a package of bon-bons, or a new toy, by way of

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sedatives, which she, of course, contrasted, in her wise little head, most unfavorably with the gentle firmness with which Mrs. Lansing strove to govern her. All this told most disastrously upon the disposition of the child, and undermined every attempt at reformation. Added to this--although it might be passed unnoted by a casual observer--the sensitive spirit of Mrs. Lansing was wounded on those occasions, by perceiving the slightly clouded brow of her husband. The smile, so dearly prized, so jealously watched for, was a shade less beaming,--the tone of the loved voice less cordial and heart-cheering; and she soon found that to retain his love she must sacrifice her duty to his child! Curious eyes, too, watched for her halting. Inquisitive neighbors tortured every accidental circumstance to extract food for their own suspicions, or skilfully catechized the child, by questions suggestive of an answer to their liking. There was no human ear into which the loving wife could pour her sorrow.

One evening, before retiring to rest, she entered the room where Minnie lay sleeping. The dimpled arms were tossed, with the careless grace of childhood, over the little curly head; the pearly teeth were peeping from beneath the coral lips, and in broken murmurs the child repeated the name of "Mother." Mrs. Lansing knelt by the bedside, and her tears flowed freely. She asked herself, had no jealous feeling of rivalry in the father's

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love clouded her sense of justice toward the wilful little sleeper? With the angel eye of her whom she believed to be still hovering over the child, bent full upon her, she weighed every motive, and questioned every passing feeling; and conscience acquitted her of being actuated by any other motive than that of a desire to perform faithfully her duty. And now, should she waver? The thought of risking the father's love was torture to her. Covering her face with her hands, she prayed,--"If it be possible, let this cup pass from me."

There had been an unnoticed listener to this spirit-conflict; and when she rose from her knees, she was folded to a heart that manfully sustained her in every future struggle; and Minnie joined him, in after years, in thanking God for the gift of a Christian step-mother.

A WORD TO MOTHERS.

"Dear mother," said a delicate little girl, "I have broken your China vase!"

"Well, you are a naughty, careless, troublesome little thing, always in some mischief. Go up stairs and stay in the closet till I send for you!"

And this was a Christian mother's answer to the tearful little culprit, who had struggled with, and conquered, the temptation to tell a falsehood to screen her fault! With a disappointed, disheartened look, the child obeyed; and, at that moment, was crushed in her little heart the sweet flower of truth, perhaps never again in after years to be revived to life. O, what were the loss of a thousand "vases," by comparison!

'T is true, an angel might shrink from the responsibilities of a mother. It needs an angel's powers. The watch must never, for an instant, be let up; the scales of justice must always be nicely balanced; the hasty word, that the overtasked spirit sends to the lip, must die there ere it is uttered. The timid and sensitive child must have a word of encouragement in season; the forward and presuming, checked with gentle firmness; there

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must be no deception, no evasion, no trickery, for the keen eye of childhood to mark. And all this, when the exhausted frame sinks with ceaseless vigils, perhaps, and the thousand petty interruptions and unlooked-for annoyances of every hour, almost set at defiance any attempt at system. Still must that mother wear an unruffled brow, lest the smiling cherub on her knee catch the angry frown. Still must she "rule her own spirit," lest the boy, so apparently engrossed with his toys, repeat the next moment the impatient word his ear has caught. For all these duties, faithfully and conscientiously performed, a mother's reward is in secret and in silence. Even he, on whose earthly breast she leans, is too often unmindful of the noiseless struggle, until, too late, alas! he learns to value the delicate hand that has kept in unceasing flow the thousand springs of his domestic happiness!

But what if, in the task that devolves upon the other, she utterly fail? What if she consider her duty performed when her child is fed, and warm, and clothed? What if the priceless soul be left to the chance-training of hirelings? What if she never teach those little lips to lisp "Our Father"? What if she launch her child upon life's stormy sea without rudder, or compass, or chart? God forbid that there should be many such mothers!

THE TEST OF LOVE.

"For charity's sake, take me in!" said the lively little Mrs. Grey, with a look of mock-distress, as she peeped her bright face into my room. "If you'll credit it, my husband has n't spoken five consecutive words since tea-time; and I'm quite undecided whether to request to have the roof raised, so that I can breathe freer, or to go into a violent fit of hysterics. Matty," said she, with a ludicrously solemn air, "I should n't be surprised if I had married the wrong man! Now, Edward is one of the best creatures in the world;--there, that's just it," said she, jumping up, "he's too good. I can't think of a fault he has; he's awfully correct,--a living reproof to me. Do compassionate me, Matty; I have what the old ladies call 'a model husband.' Now, is n't it a pity that goodness and stupidity generally go together?" said she, laughing. "Ned is so matter-of-fact! Now, if I'm reading a book, and come across a passage that delights me, I always want to put my arms round the author's neck and kiss him. Well, I read it to Ned, and he says, quietly,--without looking up from his newspaper,--'Yes, it is pretty good.' O, dear! he never gets up enthusiasm about anything. He lacks feeling. It's

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really pitiable, Matty;"--throwing herself on the sofa with a suppressed yawn.

"'All is not gold that glitters,' Mary; and there are gems, of whose value the possessor is sometimes ignorant. These butterflies, that dazzle in society, are mostly mere moths at home. Abroad they are elegant, refined, polished, graceful, full of repartee and wit; but by their own hearth-stones silent, moody, selfish, exacting and uninteresting. You'd never recognize them! You remember Vivian ----? Well, that's his mental daguerreotype; in private he is the most unlovable of mortals."

"Well, this world is a humbug, then," said Mary, "or I'm one of its restless, dissatisfied ones; and, by the way, Matty, how came you to be an old maid?"

"Simply because you appropriated the only man I ever wanted," was Matty's quiet reply.

The blood rushed to Mary's temples; she was by Matty's side in an instant, urging her to "full confession."

"Ah, I see, my little lady, your heart is in the right place, after all, else you would not be jealous. I have great hopes of you! 'Blessings often brighten' when we imagine they are 'about to take flight!' Your husband never spoke a word of love to me in his life,--I only wish that he had! I shall not enjoin secrecy upon you as to my preference, because I know very well you

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would not have him know it for a kingdom! So I am safe! But seriously, Mary, you don't know how to value Edward. A few more years over your sunny head, and a little more experience of the world, and you would not barter him for the most brilliant idol your imagination ever set up for your heart to worship."

That day was nearer than Matty prophesied! Mary, shortly after, was taken dangerously ill. For weeks she balanced between life and death. Whose supplicating eye sought the physician's with such tearful anxiety? Whose hand, with more than a woman's tenderness, smoothed her pillow, and shaded the light from her aching eyeballs? Who, with uplifted finger, crept softly about the house, hushing every noisy footfall? Who surrounded her with every comfort and luxury that affection could think of, or money--hardly earned--could procure? Who, when wearied with business cares, still kept tireless vigil, till the stars faded away, at the bedside of the poor sufferer?

Who grasped the physician's hand, saying, "Save her! It is life or death with me, as well as Mary?" Who but the "matter-of-fact" Edward?

One day, after Mary was convalescent, I called to see her. She was looking very lovely, though pale and wasted. "Thank God you are spared to us!" said I, touching my lips to her forehead.

"After Him, thank my husband," said Mary, with eyes

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liquid with feeling. "In this sick-room I have learned a lesson I shall never forget. O, Matty! there may be deep, strong love in the heart where deeds, not words, are the interpreters! Please God to spare my life, my poor love shall be his reward for this!"

Mary kept her word.

CHILD-LIFE.

How often do we hear a mother say, complainingly, of her child, "She has such exuberant spirits!--she is so full of life!" Hush! lay your finger on your lip. Thank God for it. He who appointeth our lot knows for what purpose it was given. Have you never observed that the pathway of such an one is sure to be marked by no ordinary trials? It is a wise bestowment, from Him who seeth the end from the beginning. Deal tenderly with her; check not her innocent gayety. Make her childhood and youth happy. Cloud not her sunny brow by drawing, unnecessarily, dark pictures of life; fill not her confiding heart with distrust towards its fellows.

Let her read, if she will, love in human faces. Earth is not all a charnel-house of decayed hopes and blasted anticipations. "God is love." Life is beautiful. Midnight,--starry, silent midnight,--with its glorious beauty; the silver moon riding in majesty or veiled in fleecy clouds; the cheerful sun walking in brightness; the rainbow-tinted sunset clouds; the sweet gray dawn, with its stirring life; the forest-clad hills crowned with the bow of promise; the towering rock, the shining river, the

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flower-wreathed meadow, the deep blue sea, the grand old woods, with their whispered music; and in and among them all, still, hearts that are noble, good, and true, beat with sympathy for a brother's wrongs, and are open-handed to the call of charity. Tell not the young heart, so keenly susceptible, that every cup is drugged with poison; that 'neath every flower a serpent coils. Who, among us, could fearlessly again enter upon life, and cheerfully enjoy it with such a chart of shoals and quicksands before our vision? God, in His mercy, has hidden the future from our vision. "Give us this day our daily bread," is the petition He has taught us. Shall the blessings of to-day be received with a churlish spirit, because we know not what tomorrow may bring us? That morrow we may never see; nor should we impatiently demand to know, whether for us it come frighted with joy or sorrow.

I have read a story of three little trout, which, discontented and unhappy, desired each to have a wish that should be granted. The first wished for wings, that it might fly; the next wished for a great deal of knowledge, and to understand all about hooks and nets, that it might keep out of danger; the third,--a poor ignorant fish, and not knowing what was best,--wished that God would take care of him, and choose for him, and give him just what he saw best. So God gave wings to the first; and, delighted with the exercise of his new power, he flew far,

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far away, to a desert, where he died from thirst. To the second he gave knowledge, and so he was all the time in terror; he was afraid to go into deep water, lest the great fishes should swallow him, and he was afraid to go into shallow water, lest it should dry up and leave him. He dared not eat anything, lest a hook might be concealed in it; and so he pined away and died.

But God loved the third little trout (who trusted in Him), and took care of him, and kept him from all dangers, so that he was always happy.

My story carries with it its own moral. Let the buoyant-hearted, hopeful little mariner you love, launch his little bark on life's ocean, praying always the Great Pilot for a happy voyage and safe port.

"THE OLD HOUSE."

With its ancient elms, its ambitious woodbine,--which never was weary of trying to peep into the fourth-story window;--its honeysuckle porch, where lovers came for a bright-eyed welcome, and lingered to repeat their adieux; where papa made his appearance at the orthodox hour of "nine," to warn bewitched daughters of--"the night air" (?); where midnight serenaders charmed open the eyes of beauty; where the poor, maimed and blind came, sure of a wholesome morsel; where relations--by Adam, and nearer--had carte blanche to pass in, and take their own time to pass out; where the hummingbird and drowsy bee lingered lovingly amid the flowers; where the soft west wind lifted refreshingly the silver hair of age, the silken tendrils of the infant, and the glossy tresses of laughing girlhood.

Now pass we in through the wide hall. See the antique clock, surmounted by a picture of a sailor approaching a tavern. Papa is a stanch Taylorite; so he has had "Bethel" inscribed over the inn door, and Jack is arbitrarily made a temperance man;--and has held that Bible in his hand ever since I wore

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pantalettes! And here is the old-fashioned parlor, with its broad fireplace, its carved moldings, and its anti-modern landscape paper,--so interesting to the juveniles. Here the timid, doubtful lover first asked consent of papa "to hang up his hat." Here the die was cast whether the son should be allowed to be, what nature made him, a poet! Here were read the confidential family letters from college and boarding-school. Here was planted the "Christmas tree," with its shining lights and glittering gifts. Here was spread our New Year's supper, with its little remembrances; here our Thanksgiving dinner, with "chicken fixins" enough to feed a small army. Here sat the newly-affianced maiden, bearing, with the best grace she might, certain allusions to "next year at this time!" Happy grandpapa, as he "numbered the people"!--smiling as he looked backward on life's track, tearful as he glanced forward to its goal! Under that window,

Under that window rested the coffin of the bride of a year! There, too, we looked our last upon the face of "sweet, lovely Lena!" There the dimpled hands of childhood were crossed by the broken-hearted mother. There, dear, warm-hearted grandmother received the

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caresses of her children with--for the first time--neither smile nor word of blessing! We shall surely "meet again." But now "the old house" is desolate! The roses and clematis are rooted up, like our hopes. The utilitarian axe has been laid at the root of every tree. A house has been planted in the garden; the blessed sunlight streams no longer in our pleasant sitting-room. The fingers which swept the guitar, at that vine-clad door, are dust! The tips that sang of heaven, are "nearer home." Husband and wife sleep peacefully, unmindful of the storm which beats down the fluttering wings of their timid household doves. The widow walks alone. The orphan finds no heart so true as the one over which the green sod is pressing. Far and wide are scattered the remnant of that household band. Oceans have been crossed, foreign lands travelled o'er, silver threads have mingled in dark tresses; but "may our right hand forget its cunning," if that dear "old house" be not treasured in our hearts as a sacred thing forever!

"SEEING THE FOLLY OF IT."

"Now, mother," said Edward, "don't say a word against Etta's going to the dance to-night. I have talked myself hoarse, before I could bring father over. The sleighing is fine, and, with a swift horse, ten miles will soon be compassed,--and Etta is such a pretty dancer!"

"But you don't consider, Edward, that your sister's health is delicate, and a change of dress will be a great exposure. And, then, the biting cold."

"Mother, you would n't have talked so at nineteen," said Edward, laughing. "You forget when you and father used to dance till two in the morning."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Leland, with a sigh, "but we've seen the folly of it."

"Well, that's just what we want to do! There's nothing like experience, you know. We want to see the folly of it, too; so say no more, please!" said the coaxing boy.

Mrs. Leland, persuaded against her judgment, gave a reluctant consent. "Remember, Edward," said she, "it must be the last time."

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"Thanks for so much, then," said Ned, as he flew upstairs to find his sister. "Come, Etta, I am victor; leave your guitar, pick up your trinkets, and brush out those long curls. The sleigh will be here in an hour, and we must meet our party at the hotel by eight. Wear a becoming dress, and look your prettiest. I have a reason of my own for being over-particular to-night. Mother has gone out, but she has charged me to tell you to wrap up warm. One would think you were sixty, instead of sixteen."

And so the bright ringlets were smoothed, and the silken stocking was drawn over the graceful ankle, and the snowy arms glittered with gems, and the warm merino dress was discarded, and the round, white shoulders rose fair from the blue robe that fitted so charmingly, and the little rose that nestled in her curls looked not fresher or sweeter than the wearer.

"That's a darling!" said Edward; "you are looking your very best. I don't know how you are going to 'wrap up,' though," said the thoughtless boy; "but I suppose women understand such things. I never shall hear the last of it, if you should happen to sneeze tomorrow. But here's the sleigh. What a nice horse! How the snow will fly from under his feet! Won't we have a merry time, hey?"

The buffalo robes were carefully wrapped about them, and Edward took the reins. The fleet horse skimmed

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the ground like a bird on the wing; the city was soon left behind; fences, houses, trees, disappeared as if by magic. They chatted and laughed, and for the first few miles, Etta enjoyed the swift motion and keen, frosty air.

"I can't think what mother meant," said Edward, "by saying that this must be your 'last time!' I had made up my mind for a dozen more frolics like this, before winter is over; and father and mother used to be so gay, too, at our time of life. I have heard Uncle Ralph tell what a belle mother was, and how handsome she used to look; and that we used to be fed on 'Godfrey's Cordial' by the nurse, to keep us quiet till she came back. Well, well; we will have a good time to-night, if we never have another. What, shivering? Here, curl down under the buffalo, pull your veil down, and nestle up to me;" and, spurring up the spirited horse anew, they dashed on. Etta kept very quiet; and Ned, intent upon gaining the hotel in the shortest possible space of time, left her reverie undisturbed. On--on--on they went, distancing all competitors, till the foaming, panting horse had performed well his task!

"Come, Etta, we are here at last. Fast asleep, I declare! It would be a joke to take her up, furs and all, and carry her in, just as she is." Suiting the action to the words, he carefully lifted his light burthen, and,

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entering the little parlor appropriated to their reception, and, "Here, girls; Etta is fast asleep, or pretending to be;--any of you who choose may unroll the mummy. I think you will find her fresher than Glidden's!" The gay bevy gathered round her, and, untying her thick veil, stood speechless with horror. Poor Etta was frozen to death! It was, indeed, "her last time!"

THE TRANSPLANTED LILY.

They were neat little pallets. One could find no fault with them, with their snowy sheets and Mosaic quilts of patchwork. In each was a little, homeless, houseless orphan, taken in for shelter. "Miss Betsey" had been the rounds, and seen each little head duly deposited on its pillow. A very nice, particular, proper person, was Miss Betsey! The "Board of Directors" said so, and Miss Betsey thought so herself! Her hair was as smooth as her tongue, and her kerchief starched as stiff as her manners. Not one of those little vagrant hands would have thought of touching that immaculate calico dress. She had heard them all say their prayers,--listened at the door to see if any dared break the rule that "forbade their speaking," and went down to a comfortable dish of tea and hot buttered muffins, satisfied that she had ministered to every want of their childish natures, temporal and spiritual. Blind Miss Betsey! There are depths, even in a child's soul, yours cannot fathom!

A little head is cautiously raised from its pillow. The eyes that look slowly around upon those sleeping forms, are large, dark, and sorrowful. Hot tears fall thick

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and fast upon the clasped hands. "Mother! mother!" is wrung from a little heart, too young to bear its weight of grief unshared; and the little head falls back again in helpless, hopeless misery, on the pillow. Lily closes her eyes, but she is not asleep. No, no! She sees a form, languid and emaciated, stretched upon a dying bed. She feels the soft touch of a dear hand on her forehead; large, mournful eyes follow, follow, follow her, sleeping or waking. A sweet, low voice lingers ever in her ear; "God protect my orphan child!"

Miss Betsey has told Lily that He has done it; that she ought to be very thankful she is in such a nice institution; and that if she is "good," she shall live out to service, some day, with a good lady. And Lily pushes back the thick hair with her delicate hand, and wonders what "going out to service," means; and Miss Betsey takes the long curls she has clipped from her head, and throws them out the window, and asks her if she don't feel grateful she has such a kind friend as herself? And Lily tries to swallow a great lump in her throat, that seems like to choke her, and says, "Yes, ma'am;" while she forces back to their source the large tears that are gathering under her eyelids. Then she looks at the unbending, prim figure of Miss Betsey, and wonders was she ever a little girl? And did her mother ever die, and leave her all, all alone? And she feels as if she must throw herself on somebody's neck, and ask them to love

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her. And then she looks again at Miss Betsey; but the quick instinct of childhood says,--"No, no, not there!" And then she wonders what makes all the children in the house seem like grown people; and why they tremble if they tumble down, or drop a book by accident; and why they eat less and less, every day, of their little soup dinners; and what makes her head so dizzy when she tries to knit. And then she wonders if heaven is a great way off, and how long it will be before she gets there. And then her over-charged heart can restrain itself no longer amid those voiceless, silent sleepers, but finds vent in a long, long, bitter cry of anguish.

"Miss Betsey" comes up, and tells her she is "very naughty to break the rules;" and Lily says, amid her sobs, that she "wants to go to heaven, with mamma!" And Miss Betsey asks, "if mamma belonged to the church?" and Lily "thinks not." And Miss Betsey shakes her head, doubtfully,--tells her she hopes she will be better than her mother. Advises her to "say her prayers," and goes down again to her buttered muffins."

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"I'm tired of life, Mary!" said the elegant widow Gray. "I'm sick of its hollowness and insincerity. I owe all my friends, save yourself, to the accidents of wealth and position. If Heaven had only blessed me

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with children! Could I find one to my mind, I'd adopt it tomorrow; but it must be a poetical child, Mary,--a little, fragile, spiritual, delicate blossom. Wouldn't it be a joy to watch such a mind unfold itself!--to listen to all its naive, original sayings, and teach it to love me as only such a child can love! Where's my bonnet? I'm off to the ---- Asylum! That imaginary child of mine must have its human counterpart somewhere."

"Stay!" said her thoughtful friend. "Such a child as you speak of--should you find it--requires skilful training. No careless, unpracticed hand should sweep so delicate a harp. A heart with such a capacity to love, has a capacity equally intense for suffering. When you have trained her to habits of luxury, and refined her tastes, if you weary of your charge, and allow her to fall back upon the guardianship of the rough, the coarse, and unfeeling, who would consider her superiority only a fit mark for the brutal sneer or coarse jest,--spiteful, because so far beneath her,--what then?"

"O, don't preach, Mary! 'Sufficient unto the day,' &c. Where's my hat and shawl?" said the impulsive woman.

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"This is our school-room, Mrs. Gray," said Miss Betsey. "The children are all very comfortable and very

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happy, as you see. It would be hard for one of them to leave me, I suppose; but I shall say 'It is for the best,' if you find one to your mind."

Mrs. Gray glanced up and down the long rows of benches, and her artistic eye failed to be favorably impressed with the little cropped heads and bolster-like forms, swathed up in factory gingham; and she was just about retiring, disappointed, when her eye caught sight of "Lily." A quick, bright flush came to her cheek, and her eye kindled, as she stood before her.

The vigil of the night previous had exhausted the little creature. Her knitting lay upon the floor, her small hands had fallen listlessly on her lap, her head resting lovingly on the shoulder of her next neighbor. Her long lashes were damp with tears that still trembled on her cheek; her silken hair, in spite of Miss Betsey, had formed itself in little rings about her temples; and the careless grace of her attitude, notwithstanding her unbecoming dress, was a study for a painter.

"Will you go with this lady?" said the prim Miss Betsey, as the startled child unclosed her eyes at the touch of those skeleton fingers. Lily brushes her hand across her eyes, as if bewildered with the sweet face before her, and not quite sure that she is not dreaming. "My mother smiled at me so," said she, musingly, as she slid her little hand into Mrs. Gray's.

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At the side of a richly canopied bed, kneels our little Lily. "Please God bless my new mamma, and let her go to heaven with me." Mrs. Gray stands concealed behind the curtain. Her lip quivers, her eyes fill; she has never prayed that prayer for herself! She struggles a moment with her pride, then, gliding forward, she kneels by the side of the little petitioner, and says, "Let us pray together, Lily."

And days, and months, and years glide by, and Lily grows more beautiful every day, in the sunshine of love, unspoiled by prosperity. The gay world has lost its power to charm the mother; her ear is deaf to the voice of adulation, for she has taken an angel to her bosom, and in that pure presence, she looks shuddering back upon long, wasted years of frivolity, and blesses God "that a little child" hath "let her."

But Lily's mission now is over. The bright hectic glows with fearful brilliancy on that marble cheek. the eyes are bright with a fire that is fast consuming her. Mother and child! knit together by a spiritual birth, how shall they part now? "Earth is still fair; Heaven is fairer!" whispers Lily.

"Arms empty of her child she lifts,
   With spirit unbereaven,--
God will not take back all his gifts,
   My Lily's mine in heaven.

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Still mine,--maternal rights serene,
   Not given to another,
The crystal bars shine faint between
   The souls of child and mother.

Well done of God to halve the lot,
   And give her all the sweetness!
To us, the empty room and cot;
   To her, the heaven's completeness.

To us, this grave; to her, the rows
   The mystic palm trees spring in;
To us, the silence in the house;
   To her, the choral singing!

For her, to gladden in God's view;
   For us, to hope and bear on;
Grow, Lily, in thy garden new,
   Beside the Rose of Sharon!"

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