life into a portentous array? She might

have said

"Fresh hopes are hourly sown

In furrowed brows."

But kindling aspirations they, that writo

no wrinkles on the soul.

"The Requital," we call the joy of our household:

"Loud roared the tempest,

Fast fell the sleet;

A little child angel

Passed down the street,

With trailing pinions

And weary feet.

"The moon was hidden,
No stars were bright,
So she could not shelter
In Heaven that night,
For the angel's ladders,
Are rays of light.

"She beat her wings
At each window pane,
And pleaded for shelter,

But all in vain.

Listen, they said,

To the pelting rain.

"She sobbed, as the laughter

And mirth grew higher,

Give me rest and shelter

Beside your fire,

And I will give you

Your heart's desire.

"The Dreamer sat watching

His embers gleam,

While his heart was floating

Down hope's bright stream,

So he wove her wailing

Into his dream.

"But fiercer the tempest

Rose than before,

When the angel paused

At an humble door,

And asked for shelter

And rest once more.

"A weary woman,

Pale, worn and thin,

With the brand upon her

Of want and sin,

Heard the child angel

And took her in.

"Took her in gently,

And did her best

To dry her pinions,

And made her rest

With tender pity,

Upon her breast.

"When the eastern morning

Grew bright and red,

Up the first sunbeam

The angel fled;

Having kissed the woman
And left her-dead.”

It might be thought a difficult task for one of high and lofty aspirations to suit herself to the capacity of childhood, but such was the universality of Miss Proctor's genius, that whether we consider her breathing strains for babyhood, or teaching lessons of sublime endurance for poor, suffer

ing humanity, we must still accord to her the homage of our heartfelt admiration. What a felicity of expression do we find in the following sweet little fragments:

"Is my darling tired already,
Tired of her day of play!

Draw your little stool beside me,
Smoothe the tangled hair away.

Can she put the logs together

Till they make a cheerful blaze?

Shall her blind old uncle tell her

Something of his youthful days?"

The story is continued with all the winning sweetness which the preface indicates. Another :

"Will she come to me, little Effie,

Will she come, in my arms to rest,

And nestle her head on my shoulder

While the sun goes down in the west?