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MY "CASTLE IN THE AIR.”

BY MRS. H. C. GARDner.

AFAR from the noisy hum

Of the busy, restless world, Where its censures may not come, Or its cruel shafts be hurled, Away from society's froth and foam,

In a sunny green spot,

I have builded my cot,

I've fashioned and furnished my beautiful home.

Not one of the proud,

Who come with the crowd,

To squander the bright-jeweled moments, doth dream

That far, far away,

From their circle I stray,

And wander the farthest when nearest I seem.

They see not the nook

Where the clear little brook

Is rhyming and chanting its music immortal; A step never yet

Has the boldest one set

In my world, for no stranger unlocked its portal. Have you felt the cool breeze

As it swept down the hill on a hot summer day, Or watched the glad trees

That suddenly seemed with the zephyr to play? Have you tasted the flow

Of the pure gushing spring,

Or caught the fresh glow

That th' morning doth bring?

Has the song of the bird,

In the dim forest heard,

All the springs of your being with ecstasy stirred? Ah! then I may speak of my home;

Of the realm where my spirit doth roam.
The grass never fadeth upon its green hills;
There's never a shadow above its bright rills;
The pale, haggard visage of want is not there;
Each brow is unwrinkled by sorrow or care;
Its vales never echoed the voice of despair.
Not a gay, scentless flower

Doth flaunt in the glade;
No artistic bower

Hath my wild fancy made.
But thickly in the hollows set
Smiles the azure violet,
And along the meadows low
Buttercups and daisies grow.
Vines that tempt the humming-bird

To my casement fondly cling,
And the robins at my word

Build beneath the eaves and sing.
O many a day

By the great weary world and its clamor opprest,

I've hastened away
From its gairish display,

In my sweet realm of fancy to think and to rest.
And I've brought back the light

Of the beautiful glade,

With its colors too bright,

Too exquisite to fade

Its fresh combinations of sunshine and shade.

My world is no myth, no chimera to me; But when the day's toil,

Its care and turmoil,

Are past, and the sunset is painting the sea, I sit in the shade

By my fancy bower made

And watch the slant day-beams, upon the green lea. The twilight steals on,

Stealeth gently and still,

Till evening anon

Hath wrapped in its mantle the valley and hill; But the picture ideal,

The colors unreal,

Grow brighter while Sleep doth her poppies distill.

MY BIRTHDAY.

BY WAIF WOODLAND.

My birthday! how the tide of Time
Has hurried me along!

Till years seem but the echo of
Some half-forgotten song.

Far out upon Life's foaming Sea
Borne by the restless tide,
Mid storms and calms, and hopes and fears,
Onward I swiftly glide.

A fragile bark, by tempests rent,
I float upon the wave;
Expectant that each passing swell
Will sweep me to the grave.
Within my breast the vital flame
Is growing pale and chill;
And often in my quivering breast
The pulse is almost still.

And yet thou comest, natal day,
Upon my neck again,

To hang a new, untarnished link
Of life's dissolving chain.

Great God! with trusting heart I give
To thee this new-born beam,
Rejoicing that my anchor lies

Beyond the darkened stream.

O teach me what I am, and then
What thou wouldst have me be,
And give me life-long strength to work,
Great Infinite! for thee.

ETERNITY.

BY LIZZIE MACE M'FARLAND.

Nor from great sins, O Lord, Nor open wickedness, pray I thy hand My trembling steps to guard; for with the hedge Of public sentiment I 'm girded round. But from my secret thoughts-from evil known Only to me and thee; from seeming good Educed from selfish motive, let me be Exempt! Give the power of wrestling Jacob 'Gainst sinful thoughts, unholy aims, and love Of uscless ease, incessant war to wage!

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ing for the coming of the death-angel. The old lady seemed sleeping soundly; I shaded the light from her face and opened the only book in the room, a Bible a hundred and fifty years old. It opened at the family record the record of the Germain family. The first record stated that on the 25th of December, 1709, John Germain married Deborah King. I glanced over the numerous marriages, births, and deaths, and reflected that shortly it would be my task to add to the latter the record of the death of Judith Elspeth Germain, the last of her family. The sleeper breathed heavily and moved uneasily upon her pillow-opening her eyes, she beckoned me to her side.

"You are not afraid to stay with me while I die," she said, "for Christ is here." After a pause she continued: "I have a few words to say to you, then I will go to sleep. I am the last of my family; for a hundred and fifty years the promises of God have never failed to us. He has been our ever-present help and our gracious friend. For a hundred and fifty years no one has died in our family who had not hope in Christ. The youths and adults slept in Jesus, and Christ took the lambs that he called from us and bore them in his bosom over the dark waters; and over those waters I am not going alone. O, Father, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. I have four bequests to make. My clothes I give to the aged cripple, Lucy Ware. My little valuables I would have sold and the money given to buy Bibles for the poor. To you I leave my old Bible and a manuscript which I have written for you. And, finally, I have a testimony for you to give to as many as you can in my name, that after sixty-one years, wherein I have professed the name of Christ, I can say that the Lord hath done great things for me, whereof I am glad, and that I know that my Redeemer liveth. Even so, come Lord Jesus."

In a few moments she was dead. I kept the Bible as a precious memento of those concerning whom such joyful testimony could be borne that they had all died believers.

A few days after the death of my aged friend I perused the manuscript she left me. It had been written two years before, in a remarkably legible hand for a woman of seventy-six. Thus it read: "We were three, the children of a mother widowed before my birth. My sister Gertrude was five, and my brother George three years my senior. My father had left my mother sufficient

property, with strict economy, to clothe and educate us. My mother was a woman of good mind, pleasing manners and person, and gentle spirit, ever, within my recollection of her, sad and quiet. Gertrude was a beauty, possessed of great musical talent and fine conversational powers. Over George the mantle of my father's spirit seemed to have fallen-a gracious boy, who, like Samuel, grew in favor with God and man; the joy of my mother's heart, the pattern of my early years, and the gentle check to Gertrude's casual extravagances. Consecrated to God in his infancy, the seal of the covenant was upon his spirit, and he was among us an example of redeeming mercy while he lived; when he died, ever present in holy recollections. Daily the picture of that humble home, with my mother, sister, brother, and the elderly domestic who had been my mother's nurse, comes back to me. The morning and the evening worship; the weekday, with its lessons and labors, in the first of which our mother, in the latter good Mary was our teacher; the Sabbath, with its holy stillness and sacred instructions; the joyous sports in which we joined, all make my old age beautiful in their reflected light. God sends no arctic winter to his children; the sun of joy does not go down when the meridian of life has passed. By a miracle of redeeming mercy the spirit is enabled to stand up, like Joshua, and stay the setting of that sun while life lasts. In early childhood we three differed essentially. was careless of study, but passionately fond of music, and cultivated her fine voice as highly as possible. She showed her admiration of her beautiful face by her frequent visits to the glass, and loved gay dress and amusements. These qualities distressed my gentle mother and rendered Gertrude a source of constant solicitude; but the girl had a loving heart and a most captivating address. George was contemplative, studious, and benevolent. He spent his spare time in instructing poor children of the neighborhood, and his spare pennies in buying them primers. He encouraged them to keep little gardens and taught them hymns from a little book of his own, while he sat with them under a great chestnut-tree which stood in our garden. As for myself, at the age of eight I fell and injured myself so seriously that for seven years I was a cripple. During the first part of this time I was very exacting, repining, which I have never ceased to regret, for my misfortune was as great a trial to my dear mother as myself; for her tender heart suffered acutely in the pain of her child. And moreover, as medicine and doctors were expensive, she was harassed with cares arising from her straitened circumstances.

Gertrude

It pleased the Father to lead me very tenderly to the paths of righteousness. My mother's beautiful example, the lovely demeanor of George, the holy exhortations of our pastor, with the quiet life, so removed from temptation, which I led, drew me gradually to seek for Christ and mercy in his name. When I had ceased to look for any thing more than a life of dependence and suffering my health began to improve, and to the surprise of all who knew me I at last fully recovered. The first Sabbath I was able to walk out I took the vows of God upon me in our village church.

"I was then fifteen years old. I expected now to see the shadows leave my mother's face and the light to return to her eyes, but a deeper gloom rested upon her, and unwonted tears fell upon her books or work. She made no reply whenever I attempted to draw from her the cause of her grief. I sometimes thought her glance fell mournfully on Gertrude, but I found explanation for those anxious looks in Gertrude's gay life and acquaintances. I saw little of my sister, as indeed I had seen but little of her for two years past, she had so many visits to make, and walks, and rides, and picnics; and she spent much time altering and arranging her dresses. I found now, when I did see her for a few hours, that she was very impatient and captious, and seemed to feel unsettled and weary all the time. George grew pale and thin; his eyes were sunken and his hands were very white.

"Late one summer night we were aroused by a cry and call from George's room. We hurried in to find him attacked by a violent hemorrhage from the lungs. We watched with him all night. My whole heart was wrung with agony to see my beloved brother perhaps dying; but my mother seemed lost in some fearful dream. She performed all the little services necessary mechanically, and I was terrified at the utter woe of her face. At dawn George fell into a light sleep, and my mother and I went into an adjoining room. 'My mother,' I said, 'this is a deep grief; let us ask help to bear it patiently as from the Lord.'

"My mother covered her face and groaned. 'O,' she said, when she could command herself sufficiently to speak, 'George, whether he lives or dies, is with Jesus-but Gertrude, my poor, misguided child! O, Judith, she has gone-left us—given up her mother's care and her peaceful home for a man who only fancies for the present her beauty, and will make her utterly miserable.'

"It was even so. Gertrude had left her home early the preceding night, and when my mother sent to call her to George's aid she discovered her departure. She had received the addresses

of a man of questionable character, and my mother had disapproved it, and, ever hasty, Gertrude had left her home secretly for him. Poor mother! Poor Gertrude!

"Truly the hand of God was heavy upon us. The days wore wearily away, one dear one slowly but surely going from us through the gates of death; another, whose place and fate were unknown, and who seemed raising a barrier between herself and us forever. How we sent up eager prayers to the ear of infinite Mercy that he would save the wanderer from the second death! Nearly two years went by. Wasted by suffering and waiting George lingered yet. Day after day he lay silently watching the garden gate and praying God that Gertrude might come home. With every evening we thought he would die with the twilight, and every morning seemed as if it would be his last. The cold winds of March visited the earth a second time while he lingered, and the next June Gertrude would have been two years away. One evening he was worse. I felt that the trial was very near; and while my mother watched him I wrapped myself in my cloak and sought the church-yard by my father's grave to beseech his God to strengthen me. It was a chill, cloudy night. As I neared the grave I thought I saw a figure gliding from it and disappearing among the tombs; yet I assured myself it was but a fancy, and approached the consecrated spot. A faint wail met my eara something lay among the long sear grasses. It was a babe. I knew but one would place her child by our father's ashes, and praying God to guard my steps aright I sought her in the darkness. She was hidden by a stone, her maternal heart would not suffer her to go far away till she saw how her babe was received. I clasped her in my arms, 'O Gertrude, Gertrude! God has sent you home,' I cried. She would not rise, but kneeled before me sobbing. Then I implored her to return to our home with me. I promised her a warm welcome from the hearts that loved her so well. I told her how our brother had lingered so long at the very gate of heaven, perchance that he might rejoice at her return. I showed her how it would solace our mother's heart, while she wept over her dead, to have her lost one back again. I recalled the days of our childhood and our early love that might not suf fer change, and reminded her that Christ would purify and love her still. So she rose and I took her by the hand to lead her home, and just then the clouds broke and the full moonlight fell over us where we stood. I took up the little babe and carried it, and still leading her by the hand brought her within our door again. But just then a great cry arose and sobbed itself away,

and I knew that the death-angel, that had hovered over us so long, had now crossed our threshold and stood with folded wings among us.

"I forgot all but the one for whom the Master had called, and flung open the door and hurried to the bedside. Our old servant kneeled at the foot of the bed, her face hidden in the clothes; our mother hung over the pillow of her boy. She did not look up as I entered, and I stood speechless by the dying one. George opened his eyes; he did not look on me, but past me to the crouching, shivering figure in the doorway. "Gertrude! Gertrnde! God has sent you home,' he said, holding out his hand.

"My mother saw her then and flew to her side. There was no bitterness in her fond heart for the erring one, only love and welcome. She clasped her to her heart with words of joy and led her in. Gertrude took the babe I had held unconsciously in my arms and laid it before our brother as he sat bolstered up in the bed. George laid his hand on its head and prayed that the good Shepherd would make it his own. Then he turned to Gertrude; her arms were flung over the bed as she kneeled, hiding her face, beside it. He clasped her thin, cold hands in his and spoke of Christ; and when his faltering tongue could no longer urge his Master's cause, his glazing eyes and the pressure of his chilling hands spoke of Christ and him crucified. Thus God called our brother home. To us it was a night of mingled joy and grief; but in heaven all was joy, for a sinner had repented, and another soul was new-born into the upper kingdom to wear the white robes and the crown of light, and to go no more out forever.

"The funeral over, our stricken hearts had no time to sorrow in quiet and solitude, for disease had not departed from among us. Consumption had stretched forth his hand and laid it upon Gertrude, and day by day she faded, like a crushed rose exhaling a rare perfume in that slow dying. How different was she from the gay, healthy Gertrude of other days! Once ever singing, we now heard her voice but in whispers. All pride had left her; humility sat in its place, and she loved much her God who had much forgiven. O how she wound herself about our hearts in her patience and meekness!

"She never spoke of that long, fearful year; we could but judge of it when terrible recollections would seem to overpower her, and forgetful of our presence she would tremble and shudder, and clasp her babe close to her bosom, while the look of horror and agony on her features filled our souls with a great grief and sympathy. O, Gertrude! thou wert led by a hard path to the foot of the cross; but, thank God, thou, wayworn and

wounded, didst sit down there and the Savior blessed thee with the baptism of his Spirit.

"And that little child-Agatha--was dear to us for her own and her mother's sake. She had all of Gertrude's surpassing beauty, but softened and refined. There was a something spiritual about her little face that made one think of an

gels. The white lids almost always drooped over
her large violet eyes, and her soft, golden curls
fell about her bowed face. Thus would she sit
for hours, with a grave look that was not born
of a shadowed heart, and yet we knew not what
it was till our eyes were open and we knew that
she was blind and mute. Dear Gertrude, when
she felt that it was so, but bowed her head and
whispered it was well. But we, alas! rebelled
when we found that God had taken to himself
the keys of the casket we deemed so full of purity
and joy.
In Agatha we had hoped to have the
glad bloom of Gertrude and the pure heart of
George. How could it be that those eyes should
never be gladdened by the sunshine and the flow-
ers; that the sweet, peaceful look would be a
perpetual, unchanging thing; that her lips would
never be parted by speech!

"It seems strange now that we were so impatient of the chastenings of our Lord; that while he was teaching us such priceless lessons of his power and love, we cried out after what his wisdom withheld.

We thought that days might

come when the helpless one would be alone in the world, and we forgot the goodness and love of God. Our brother's prayer was answered; the good Shepherd cared for the lamb, but he carried it away from the fields where his earthly flock are feeding to the heavenly fold. Little Agatha slept under the late violets.

"Gertrude's sufferings were over before the first snows fell, and the autumn winds heaped the sear leaves above her grave.

"One evening, a few days after Gertrude died,
'Is Gertrude here?'
a man came to our door.
'Yes, she is here.
her,' he persisted.

he said. I only replied, 'No.'
Let me come in; I must see
She is not here,' I said, and shut the door.
Something in his appearance repelled me; I
could not say, 'She is dead.' I went back into
'That was John
the room where my mother sat.
Gray,' she said. I looked out of the window and
could see him standing in the road. I took my
'You asked for Gertrude,'
shawl and went out.

I said.

'I did not know who you were. I know you now, John Gray. Come, I will show you where Gertrude is.' I led him by an unfrequented path to a gate of the church-yard close by our loved ones' graves. I opened the gate, and, grasping his arm, drew him in with me to the grave. Then I said, 'Here is Gertrude, and here

her child, and her soul is with God.' He grew whiter than the gleaming stones around, and clinching his hands fled away, and I went home alone. God forgive me, I had not forgiven John Gray! After that ever, when I kneeled to pray, and true to the custom of childhood repeated the Lord's prayer, with the words 'as we forgive our debtors,' came a memory of twilight shadows, and a new-made grave, and John Gray, with his blanched face and clinched hands, flying away from it into the darkness. The consciousness of my hard heart and sins against my God constrained me to cry, 'Lord, teach me to forgive!' So I prayed for months and still did not forgive, and the dark picture haunted my hours of worship.

"One winter's night, after my mother had gone to her bed, while I kneeled in our little parlor, with that prayer on my lips and that picture before me, there came a trampling of feet and neighbors' voices calling to us. I hastened to open the door, and they brought in a man they had found lying in the road before our house. The snow clung to his feet and clothes, and his beard was stiff with his frozen breath. They laid their burden down on the settle and thought that he was dead. Then God taught me to forgive. They rubbed him and gave him wine, and after several hours' exertion succeeded in partially reviving him, and he knew where he was. He looked on me and shuddered, and my heart was softened, and I kneeled down and said, 'Forgive me, John Gray.'

"By and by they left us alone with him, and he opened his eyes again and said, 'God has visited me with his wrath, and by his anger am I troubled. I am dying. God help me! Forgive me that I took from you your loved one. Forgive me that I left my wife, Gertrude, alone to her remorse, and poverty, and suffering. God has abandoned me as I abandoned her, and after death there is no space for penitence or forgiveness.' God helped me, and I kneeled down and wept and prayed for him; and he joined me in my prayers, and I cried to God for him till daybreak, and when I rose from my knees he was dead.

"So for a year death had been among us constantly. Four times had the funeral train passed from our door in twelve months, and we two were alone. How calmly years went by after that! Springs, summers, and harvest-times, and the white winters, and we were at peace. Once God tried me. O what a bitter trial! But he gave me strength to do right, and my mother never knew of that trial. Thereafter there was for me one more grave, where not a coffin but a dead hope was hidden. Trials are blessed teachers.

All the peace and hope of my maturity and age are the fruits of the trials I bore in my youth. Long and useful was my mother's life, and for her to die was gain.

"I adopted a little orphan girl and educated her. She was a loving and lovable child, and my heart clung to her, and she gave me a daughter's love. She married a missionary and died in India, after fourteen years of labor among the heathen. It has been very blessed to live and labor, but my work is almost done. You have often asked me for the story of my life; so I have written it for you, and if it will please y.1 I am glad.

"All the days of my appointed time I wait till my change come.'

Thus the manuscript finished, and I remembered the crowds that had followed Judith Germain to her grave, blessing her memory. I remembered how she had visited the sick, clothed the naked, fed the hungry, and daily broken the bread of life to perishing souls. A humble woman, in straitened circumstances, she had laid up for herself treasure in heaven. Then at midnight was a cry heard, "Behold the Bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him," and she went forth with her lamp trimmed and burning. And I pray that in every land may live many a Judith Germain to serve the Lord.

ANOTHER YEAR HAS GONE:

BY PHOEBE CARY.

ANOTHER year has gone; alas, for me,
That ever I was born to such a lot;
My time is nearing to eternity,

And the good thing I looked for cometh not.
I had more hope than this a year ago.
For I remember now that then I said,
If any comfort is for me below,

It must be mine before the year is dead.
Now this has failed, nor can I any more

Delude myself with idle words, and say, Though all my life was sorrowful before, To-morrow may be better than to-day.

Sometimes old spells of charmed rhymes I've told Over the new moon, when it met my sight, Saying, when this is full, or this is old,

Life may be brighter than it is to-night.

I have had visions in my sleep, that seemed
Sweet presages of future happiness;
But all that ever came, of all I dreamed,
Was the sad waking, sadder after bliss.
Now hope is done, and dreams delude me not;

Night follows weary night, morn joyless morn; Alas, that I was born to such a lot!

Alas, for me, that ever I was born!

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