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Thanks for the years!-whose rapid flight
My somber muse too gladly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings;

The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh

"I'm growing old!" -John Godfrey Saxe.

Give Me Back My Youth Again.

HEN give me back that time of pleasures,

THE

While yet in joyous youth I sang,—
When, like a fount, the crowding measures
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!

Then bright mist veiled the world before me,
In opening buds a marvel woke,

As I the thousand blossoms broke

Which every valley richly bore me!

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth-
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.
Give unrestrained the old emotion,
The bliss that touched the verge of pain,
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,—
O, give me back my youth again!
-From the German of Gathe.

IF

The Old Folks.

you would make the aged happy, lead them to feel that there is still a place for them where they can be useful. When you see their powers failing, do not notice it. It is enough for them to feel it without a reminder. Do not humiliate them by doing things after them. Accept their offered services, and do not let them see you taking off the dust their poor eyesight has left undisturbed, or wiping up the liquid their trembling hands have spilled; rather let the dust remain, and the liquid stain the carpet, than rob them of their self-respect by seeing you cover their deficiencies. You may give them the best room in your house, you may garnish it with pictures and flowers, you may yield them the best seat in your churchpew, the easiest chair in your parlor, the highest seat of honor at your table; but if you lead or leave them to feel that they have passed their usefulness, you plant a thorn in their bosom that will rankle there while life lasts. If they are capable of doing nothing but preparing your kindlings, or darning your stockings, indulge them in those things, but never let them feel that it is because they can do nothing else; rather that they do this so well.

Do not ignore their taste and judgment. It may be that in their early days, and in the circle where they moved, they were as much sought and honored as you are now; and until you arrive at that place, you can ill imagine your feelings should you be considered entirely void of these qualities, be regarded as essential to no one, and your opinions be unsought, or discarded if given. They may have been active and successful in the training of children and youth in the way they should go; and will they not feel it keenly, if no attempt is made to draw from this rich experience?

Indulge them as far as possible in their old habits. The various forms of society in which they were educated may be as dear to them as yours are now to you; and can they see them slighted or disowned without a pang? If they relish their meals better by turning their tea

into the saucer, having their butter on the same plate with their food, or eating with both knife and fork, do not in word or deed imply to them that the customs of their days are obnoxious in good society; and that they are stepping down from respectability as they descend the hillside of life. Always bear in mind that the customs of which you are now so tenacious may be equally repugnant to the next generation.

In this connection I would say, do not notice the pronunciation of the aged. They speak as they were taught, and yours may be just as uncourtly to the generations following. I was once taught a lesson on this subject, which I shall never forget while memory holds its sway. I was dining, where a father brought his son to take charge of a literary institution. He was intelligent, but had not received the early advantages which he had labored hard to procure for his son; and his language was quite a contrast to that of the cultivated youth. But the attention and deference he gave to his father's quaint though wise remarks, placed him on a higher pinnacle in my mind, than he was ever placed by his world-wide reputation as a scholar and writer.

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But a hundred sons couldn't be to me,
Like the woman I made my bride.

My little Polly-so bright and fair!
So winsome and good and sweet!
She had roses twined in her sunny hair,

And white shoes upon her feet;
And I held her hand-was it yesterday
That we stood up to be wed?
And no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day,
And my dear wife Polly is dead.

-Alice Robbins.

I

The Old Arm-Chair.

LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
Would you know the spell-a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer.
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were
gray;
I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with

[sighs,

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.
Eliza Cook.

A

A Good Old Age.

GOOD old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly that is as noble,—in my eyes, at least. And so I have often thought, a ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, with all its safls set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and winds that might have been its wreck have been its service. It has come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and night; it has come by reefs and banks that have been avoided, and past rocks that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to the prayers of many hearts; a delight to the owner, a joy to many a sailor's family, and a pleasure to all ashore that see it. It has been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and now it is safe.

But still more interesting than this is a good life, as it approaches its threescore years

and ten. It began in the century before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine; and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is even a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, long voyage.

On a summer's evening, the setting sun is grand to look at. In his morning beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work, and the world grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And at his setting, all things seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light.

But what is all this to the sight of a good life, in those years that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events had their happenings; with the light of it many a house has been brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown better, some of whom are now on high, and then the closing period of such a life,-how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on men and their work, and on children's children and their labors. But when once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this world. It will begin again; but it will be in a new earth, and under new heavens. Yes, nobler than a ship safely ending a long voyage, and sublimer than the setting sun, is the old age of a just, a kind, and useful life.

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BUT

Keep the Heart Young.

UT now let me tell you this. If the time comes when you must lay down the fiddle and the bow, because your fingers are too stiff, and drop ten foot sculls because your arms are too weak, and after dallying awhile with eyeglasses, come at last to the undisguised reality of spectacles; if the time comes when that fire of life we spoke of has burned so low, that where its flames reverberated, there is only the somber stain of regret, and where its coals glowed, only the white ashes that cover the embers of memory-don't let your heart grow cold, and you may carry cheerfulness and love with you into the teens of your second century if you can last so long.

-O. W. Holmes.

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