He whispered something to his wife with a smile.

Mother Anna at first looked at him doubtfully, as if quite alarmed; but the expression of her features soon changed, and her face beamed with a joy which lighted up her whole countenance.

"It is a charming idea," exclaimed she; "but how shall we gain time? for evening will quickly be here, and great preparations will be needful. Where shall I find flowers? and an invitation must be sent to all our relatives. As to the feast, there will be plenty of good things, for I am always prepared on a day like this. Then, the goldsmith;-I must go into the town myself. No! I can send. But there is no time to be lost; evening is at hand. Go, my dear husband; and do your part."

Mother Anna set to work so eagerly that she put all the house in motion; but no one could guess the reason of these extraordinary preparations. One messenger was sent to the town; another to the wood; a third to invite the guests; a fourth to the goldsmith and the jeweller.

And when evening came, and the happy Jacob arrived, and had embraced his parents, brothers, and sisters, all was prepared to make the holy day a most happy one for him.

Much time was spent, as may be well imagined, in questions, answers, caresses, and rejoicings over the newly arrived guest. At length the father made his way through the joyful family group, and raised his voice above the rest for silence. He took Jacob's hand, and said:

"To business, my children, to business! before we sit down to supper. Our young missionary has not left his post to-day in vain. He expects his Christmas gift. Ah! poor Jacob, you were too late to share with the others. But it would grieve your mother's heart to leave you uncared for at this happy time. Come, mother, lead the way into your drawing room and we will follow. Now, young people, after us;" cried the father, smiling merrily at his flock.

No sooner said than done. The family entered Mother Anna's saloon, which was gaily lighted up. At one end of the room, near a sofa, stood a table adorned with confectionery of all sorts. To this table the father and mother led their son. Both watched his looks, smiling, and enjoying his surprise. Jacob embraced them both, exclaiming:

"How affectionate, how good you are to me!"

"Affectionate, certainly," repeated the Elder; "but good?-no, Jacob. This table, so trifling a gift, contradicts your assertion. However, I can, should you wish it, add something to these nothings. It is a jewel which many will covet, and yet many will reproach you for taking it. Reflect before accepting it, for if you do so, you must keep it for ever. It is not mine, yet I can give it to you. It cost me nothing, yet it will cause you much expense, which expense may increase yearly. It delights all who look upon it, and I confess it charms me by something magical in its form and color. But in a few years the gold frame will tarnish, and then the worth or the worthlessness of the jewel will be discovered. Dear Jacob, look not so astounded, even though I speak in riddles. This jewel is itself an enigma to which time alone can give you a clue. Yet, I feel certain, that the more anxiety it costs to obtain, the greater happiness will it bestow on you. But why say more? Come, my son, see it with your own eyes, and then decide."

While the Elder thus spoke, the whole family stood around him in a circle, listening with much curiosity. Danielis opened the door of an adjoining room, and exclaimed, "Follow me !"

There, beneath the flower-garlands and ivy branches which adorned the chamber, more beautiful in her simple white robe than if glittering with jewels,-sat Else; her head bowed down, and her hands clasped in deep anxiety. The whole household looked on amazed; then followed a deep silence. Jacob stood as though petrified with wonder; but joy and ecstasy flashed from his eyes. He stretched forth his arms to his beloved; Else rose, trembling, and sank fainting with happiness upon his faithful breast.

The father and mother looked on with joyful tears, and the rest soon found their tongues in affectionate congratulations to the young lovers, who threw themselves into their parents' arms.

Scarcely a year from this joyful betrothal, the marriage of Jacob and Else was celebrated. The Elder and his wife live their own young days over again in witnessing this happy union; and every coming year adds to the bliss of the pastor and his beloved Else.

If thou art sorrowful and sad,

And thought no comfort yields; Go leave the busy, bustling world, And ramble in the fields, Blessed Nature will have sympathy Both with thy sufferings and thee."

Have friends proved false; doth fortune frown;
And poverty depress?

Ne'er, ne'er with unavailing grief,
Increase thy wretchedness.
Go to the fields, and Nature will
With pleasant thoughts thy bosom fill.

If thou have placed thy youthful trust
Upon some maiden's love,
And she, regardless of her troth,

Should false and faithless prove,
Ne'er mope nor pine. In pleasures holy,
Drive away thy melancholy.

If thou have seen thy cherished hopes
Like bubbles burst to air,

Ne'er let thy manly courage sink
In cowardly despair.

Go list the lark's ethereal lay,

"Twill soothe thy gloomy thoughts away.

Kind Nature solace offers all;
Gives joy in storm or calm;
For every pain a pleasure has;
For every wound a balm.
A mightier physician she
For heart-ills than philosophy

Go to the fields, and Nature woo,

No matter what thy mood;

The light heart will be lighter made,
The sorrowful imbued

With joyous thoughts. The simplest flower
Has o'er the soul a magic power.

Alone, communing with thyself,
Or with congenial friends;
If joy expands thy soaring soul,
Or woe thy bosom rends,

Go to the fields, and thou wilt find
Thy woe subdued, thy joy refined.

A VISION.

BY W. J. LINTON.

Only the Beautiful is real:
All things whereof our life is full,

All mysteries that life enwreathe,
Birth, life, and death,

All that we dread or darkly feel,—
All are but shadows; and the Beautiful
Alone is real.

Nothing but Love is true:

Earth's many lies, whirl'd upon Time's swift wheel,

Shift and repeat their state;

Birth, life, and death,

And all that they bequeathe

Of hope or memory, thus do alternate
Continually:
Love doth anneal,

Doth beauteously imbue,

The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate.

Love, Truth, and Beauty-all are one:
If life may expiate

The wilderings of its dimness, death be known
But as the mighty ever-living gate
Into the Beautiful;- -All things flow on

Into one Heart, into one Melody,
Eternally.

SPIRIT SOLACE.

BY THOMAS WADE.

Perpetual moanings from the troubled sea
Of human thought, and wail from the vex'd wind
Of mortal feeling fill our life's wide air:
Yet, let thereof the breather not despair;
For wind and wave obey a high decree,
Which we perceive not in this transit blind
From body unto soul. Oh ! the clear calm
Of that wild ocean, and its sunlit splendors,
And even the rainbows of its tempests fierce,
Beget a tranquil spirit-trance, which renders
Its terrors dreadless: and the flower-fed balm
Of that mind, lulled to zephyrs, doth so pierce
The immortal sense with an odorous hope,
That earth seems verged on heaven, and all hea-
ven's portals ope.

From Sharpe's Magazine. THE DUMB GIRL.

BY ANNE A. FREMONT.

Oh! for the harshest sound
To break this weary silence, and to be
Like the glad ones around,

So prodigal of speech, and full of glee-
I am too sad my hair with flowers to dress,
Nor can the mute one sing of happiness.

And when some childish grief
Cometh to cloud their brow, or wet their cheek,
Ah, me! its stay how brief,

For they in list'ning ears the cause can speak;
Each word is breathed more touching than the last,
And when the tale is done, the woe is past.

But must I hide mine deep

In the recesses of my own sad heart,

For I can only weep.

And when they ask what I can ne'er impart, How weak, how impotent, seems look or sign! Ah! even words were vain for grief like mine.

But there is one, the best,

The sweetest, gentlest, most beloved of all;
For me she'll leave the rest,

And oh ! how gladly seem her words to fall,
Though all unanswered by the silent lute,

Whose chords are broken, and the sweet voice

mute:

And with a skill, love-taught,

Will read my feelings on my varying cheek,
Unlock each sealed thought

And give it utt'rance: if these lips could speak,
Oh, my sweet sister! ev'ry word should be
A heartfelt blessing, and breathed forth for thee!

REALIZATION OF A DREAM.

"I thought he loved, and blushed to think
A maiden's heart should feel
A hope, a trust, a joy which yet
She could not but conceal.

"I thought he loved; the anxious eye,
Upraised in doubt to mine,
Spoke in a language which the heart
Can easily divine!

"I thought he loved: it was not once Our eager glances met;

But times too many to recount,
Too happy to forget!

"Oh! blissful thought! oh! daylike dream! It seemed the dawning bright

Of hope beyond anxiety,

Of a day without a night!

"And moments passed, and happy hour
In silence glided by;

And I felt the magic of his voice,
And the lightning of his eye:

"But oh! when sorrow on me fell, And tears from hope were wrung, I felt the living tenderness

That trembled on his tongue!

"I felt he loved! few words were spoken In that eventful hour,

For faith and truth live in the eyes,
And silence hath its power!

"And then no more a maiden's blush

My own fond heart reproved, For I could only think of joy When I only felt he loved!"

THE TRUEST FRIEND.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

There is a friend, a secret friend,
In every trial, every grief,
To cheer, to counsel, and defend,-
Of all we ever had the chief!-
A friend, who watching from above,
Whene'er in Error's path we trod,
Still sought us with reproving love;
That friend, that secret friend, is God!

There is a friend, a faithful friend,

In every chance and change of fate, Whose boundless love doth solace send,

When other friendships come too late! A friend, that when the world deceives,

And wearily we onward plod,
Still comforts every heart that grieves;
That true, that faithful friend, is God!

How blest the years of life might flow,
In one unchanged, unshaken trust;
If man this truth would only know,

And love his Maker, and be just!
Yes, there's a friend, a constant friend,
Who ne'er forsakes the lowliest sod,
But in each need, His hand doth lend';
That friend, that truest friend, is God!

From Fraser's Magazine.

THE CHARM OF FRIENDSHIP.

Sweet comes a calm to weary mariners,
Who long have struggled with the ocean wave's
Tempestuous fury-toss'd on billows high,
'Mid lightning flash, and thunder's deaf 'ning peal.

Some wild excitement-hope-or stern despair,
Endured by turns, for days; each passing hour
To them a day, and every day-a year.
All hope resigned their home again to see,
Where a fond mother, sister, wife, doth weep
Through the long night, and for their safety pray
As steals through lattice pane the taper's lonely ray.

How sweet to these the morning calm! but far
More sweet, methinks, to one who, crushed by woes
And by the crowd, which in prosperity
Had fawned and flattered, left to weep alone,
To find one gen'rous, faithful friend, whose soul,
Scorning the world's harsh taunts, will gladly share
His sadden'd friendship,-spurn with bold disdain
The open charge or secret slander, calm
His troubled soul, and be the world to him.

Such to Orestes was his Pylades;
Such to a Damon, Pythias. One friend
Thus found will sweeten ev'ry bitter cup
Misfortune holds in store; will teach our minds
To love the world our selfishness had cursed,
And lead us back in quiet peace to Him
Who bade us "Love our neighbor as ourself."

MEMORY.

I am an old man-very old

My hair is thin and grey; My hand shakes like an autumn leaf, That wild winds toss all day. Beneath the pent-house of my brows, My dim and watery eyes Gleam like faint lights within a pile, Which half in ruin lies.

O'er happy childhood's sports and plays, Youth's friendship, and youth's love, I ofttimes brood in memory,

As o'er its nest the dove.

In fancy through the fields I stray,
And by the river wide;

And see a once beloved face
Still smiling at my side

I sit in the old parlor nook,

And she sits near me there;

We read from the same book-my cheek
Touching her chestnut hair.

I have grown old-oh, very old!
But she is ever young,

As when through moonlit alleys green
We walked, and talked, and sung.

She is unchanged-I see her now
As in that last, last view,
When by the garden gate we took
A smiling short adieu.

Oh Death, thou hast a charmed touch,

Though cruel 'tis and cold; Embalmed by thee in memory, Love never can grow old.

INFANCY.

BY MARY LEMAN GILLIES.

How beautiful is infancy!
The bud upon the tree,
With all its young leaves folded yet,
Is not so sweet to me.

How day, like a young mother, looks
Upon the lovely thing;

And from its couch, at her approach,
How rosy sleep takes wing.

Oh! this makes morning's toilette-hour
So beautiful to see;

Her rising wakens all young things-
The babe, the bird, the bee.
The infant sunbeams, from the clouds
That curtain their blue bed,
Peep forth, like little ones that fear

Lest darkness be not fled;

Till morn assures them, and they wave
Their saffron wings, and take
The rapture of their rosy flight
O'er lee and lawn and lake,
Gladd'ning the glowing butterflies
That float about like flowers,
And the bee abroad on busy wing
To seek the budding bowers,
And breezes up-sprung from the sea
And hurrying o'er the hills,
Brushing the bright dews as they pass,
And rippling all the rills.
But infancy-sweet infancy!-
Thou'rt sweeter than all these-
Than bird, or bee, or butterfly,

Or bower, or beam, or breeze:
Far sweeter is thy bloomy cheek,
Thine eyes all bland and bright,
Thy mouth the rosy cell of sound,
With thy budding teeth all white;
Thy joyous sports, thy jocund glee,
Thy gushes of glad mirth,

The clapping of thy rosy hands,
Thou merriest thing on earth!
Thou gift of heaven-thou promise-plant→→→
On earth, in air, or sea,
There's nothing half so priceless, or
So beautiful to me.

PRINCIPLE AND OPINION.

Principle and Opinion !-of the last

I deem but lightly: 'tis a thing of change;
Holds not the earnest man, or holds not fast;
But which he holds, subjected to the range

Of thought and time and chance. A man can yield

Opinion, hide it, quit it, or defer.

Not so with Principle: he anchors there;
It is his lever; it hath power to wield
His life, to make him ever minister
To its behests; it is his soul, his life;
And whether it shall bring him peace or strife
Is wide o' the mark; it is his sword, his shield,'
His dominant chord.-They are thus different;
That Principle is fate, Opinion accident.