THE

MOTHERS' FRIEND.

"SHALL I DIE THIS YEAR, MAMMA?”
"Whatever passes as a cloud between

The mental eye of faith and things unseen,
Causing that brighter world to disappear,
Or seem less lovely and its hope less dear:
This is our world-an idol, though it bear
Affection's impress or devotion's air!"

"A HAPPY new year to you, mamma," said little Charley Trueman, as he came bounding into the parlour, on the first of January. The mother looked up from her Bible smilingly upon her boy, and replied, "Many happy new years to you, my darling-to poor mamma this day comes clouded by sorrow." "Ah! yes, ma, I know why the tear comes down your face. You are thinking of poor pa and Etty; they were both here with us, last new year's day; but you know, ma, they are in heaven now; and pa told us to think of him as always near us, like the angels, and that he will come to meet us when we die! But, ma, is God angry with us, when he sends death here to take away our papas and sisters?" " 'No, dear; it is not because God is angry that he takes away our dear ones, but generally to make us more holy, and to love to think about Him and heaven more. Sometimes, my boy, we make idols of those dear friends that God has, in mercy, given us, and then He sees it necessary to take them away." "Oh! indeed, ma; then did pa mean that, when he said you had loved him too well? But, ma, he said,

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SHALL I DIE THIS YEAR, MAMMA?

too, that Jesus would live with us, and take care of us—so don't cry. I think He will, too-for grandpa asked Him to bless us this new year. I don't like that odd cap you wear, ma; I want to see the nice curls that Etty used to pull, and pa called her shining playthings.""

Mrs. Trueman's tears fell fast as the prattle of her boy recalled the deep sorrow of the past year. A beloved and affectionate husband and an infant daughter were laid in the tomb together, and the little chatting, bright-eyed boy was now her only earthly treasure.

"But, mamma,” continued the sweet child, "you must not love me too well, I suppose. Shall I die too, ma, this year? Shall I go down to see the star-worlds when I die, and live in heaven? You told me about that great telescope; what is it called, ma?" "The Craig telescope, dear." "Ah! yes, that is it; but I suppose we shall not want telescopes when we die. Shall we see the people walking about the star-worlds like they do here? Oh! ma, won't it be nice to die and go up to pa and Etty, and see all the beautiful things? Shall I die this year, mamma? Ah! I forgot, but then you would be down here all alone —I mean without any of us, pa, and Etty, and me; but you would have Jesus, ma, all the same, would you not? Please, ma, will you read that pretty story again about the little girl and her dead mamma?" The mother read the following interesting fact:

"A little girl-a lively and gentle child-lost her mother at an age too early to fix the loved features in her remembrance. She was as frail as beautiful-and as the bud of her heart unfolded, it seemed as if won by the mother's prayers to turn instinctively heavenwards. The sweet, conscientious, and prayer-loving child was the cherished one of the bereaved family, but she faded away early. She would lie upon the lap of the friend who took a mother's care of her, and winding one wasted arm about her neck would say, 'Now, tell me about my mamma;' and when

SHALL I DIE THIS YEAR, MAMMA?

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he oft-told tale had been repeated, she would ask softly, Take me into the parlour-I want to see my mamma.' The request was never refused, and the affectionate child vould lie for hours contentedly gazing on her mother's ɔortrait, but—

'Pale and wan she grew,
and weakly,
Bearing all her pains so meekly,
That to friends she still grew dearer,

As the trial-hour drew nearer.'

That hour came at last, and weeping friends assembled to see the little child die. The dew of death was already on the flower as its life's sun was going down; the little chest heaved faintly-spasmodically. Do you know me, darling?' sobbed the voice that was dearest, but it awoke no answer. All at once a brightness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's colourless countenance-the eyelids flashed open the lips parted-the wan cuddling hands flew up in the little one's last impulsive effort as she looked piercingly into the far above-Mother! Mother!' she cried, with surprise and transport in her tone, and passed with that last breath into her mother's bosom. A divine, who stood by, remarked, 'If I never believed in the ministration of departed ones before, I could not doubt it

now.'

"Oh! mamma," said Charley, "why that was exactly as it will be with pa and me! He said he would welcome us, you know, when we die. Shall I die this year, mamma?" "I hope not, dear," replied his mother, while the tears rolled fast over her pale cheek; "I hope you may be spared to comfort me when I am sick and old." "Well, ma, I should like that, too; but pa and Etty up there! and you down here! I like to go, and I like to stay! but I think I shall die this year, mamma." Let us pause and reflect.

Mother! do you think it is written against the name

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TALK WITH TIME AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

of any of your, dear ones, "This year thou shalt die!" Ah! it may be written against your own name! and what then? are you ready? How important to be ready— always ready! but how difficult to hold the beloved and cherished things of earth with a loose hand-not to have them dragged and torn from our grasp. The Lord loveth a cheerful giver! Did you ever carefully observe how the sorrows of life are suited to our varied characters? If riches are a snare, they are given wings to fly away; or, sometimes, they seem to be put into a bag with holes at the bottom-they slide away, we know not how. If we idolize mind or person, some disease or accident destroys one or both. If we make household gods they are commanded to depart, and we are left to feel, too late, that the creature was stealing the heart from the Creator; but, bereaved mother, better this than that your heavenly Father should say, "She is joined to idols-let her alone.” What are your resolves for this new year?

TALK WITH TIME AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

"TIME, old Time, with the forelock gray,
While the year in its dotage doth pass away,
Come, sit by my hearth ere the embers fail,
And hang thy scythe on yon empty nail,
And tell me a tale, 'neath this wintry sky,

Of the deeds thou hast done as the months swept by."
"I have cradled the babe in the churchyard wide;

From the husband's arms I have taken the bride;
I have cloven a path through the ocean's floor,
Where many have sunk to return no more;

I have humbled the strong, with their dauntless breast,
And laid the old, with his staff, to rest;

I have loosened the stone on the ruin's height,
Where the curtaining ivy grew rank and bright;
I have startled the maid, on her couch of down,
With a sprinkle of white 'mid her tresses brown;