(A Fact.)

When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac Was called from out his happy home-life here To that blest sphere Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back.

"His questions wise will now sure answer find," Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, In happy chase Of many a thought which flitted through his mind.

"Yes, he knows more than we," another said, "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide To where abide The things we need most to be comforted."

While thus the older ones their comfort sought, Two of the children paused in midst of play, To have their say Concerning this great mystery Death had brought.

"Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh, "He's gone way up to heaven where angels are, Way up so far That we can't ever see him till we die."

"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be. I saw them put him in the cold dark ground, And I went round And threw some flowers in for him to see."

"He isn't there," replied the four-year old, "He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so. He is, I know. He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."

A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought, While Miriam felt the joy of victory. Then suddenly The lovely six-year-old this idea caught:

"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground; His head, his feet, and every other part, But just his heart-- And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."

The child thus solved the thought that troubled so. And as I overheard this earnest talk,-- Which might some shock,-- I wondered if we could more wisdom show.

As each seemed satisfied, their play went on. But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind, And left behind The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.

At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night," She softly said, "It can't be very dark, Not very dark For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."

Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days, Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide, When sadly tried By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.

[D] MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.

WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT WACHUSETT.

July, 1888.

Happy little girl and boy, Dancing hand in hand Over hill and valley land, Filled with summer joy;

Climbing up the steep path side To Wachusett's top, With that graceful skip and hop Born where fairies hide;

Seeing Holyoke from the height, Old Monadnock clear, While Washacum twin-lakes near Sparkle in sun-light;

Tripping down the mountain-road Back to cottage home, Only pausing there to roam Where laurel finds abode;

Jumping on the new-mown hay, Sitting under trees, Feeling every mountain breeze, Hearing birds' sweet lay;

Lying on the mossy stone By the brook's cascade, Listening 'neath the sylvan shade To its rippling tone;

Down at pretty Echo Lake, Plucking maiden-hair, Gathering glistening "sundew" there For "dear mamma's sake";

Picking in the pastures near Berries red and blue; Spying where the mayflowers grew Earlier in the year;

Watching for the sun to rise, Following sunset-cloud, Singing low and singing loud While the swift day flies;

Waiting for the "Tally-Ho," With its looked-for mails, Hearing strangers tell their tales As they come and go;

Happy little girl and boy, Dancing hand in hand Over hill and valley land, Filled with summer joy.

A LITTLE BRAZILIAN.