The Angel.

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.

Whenever a good child dies, there comes one of God's angels down to the earth, who takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his broad, white wings, and flies with him over all the places where the child has lived, and gathers a whole handful of flowers, which he carries up to God, where they bloom much more beautifully than on earth.

See! all that was said by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child to heaven, and the child heard as in a dream; and then went over to home places, where the little child had played, and they came through gardens with beautiful flowers.

“Which will we now take with us and plant in heaven?" asked the angel.

And there stood a tall but beautiful rose-bush; but an evil hand had broken the stem, so that all the branches, full of large, half-blown buds, were dried up.

"The poor rose-bush!" said the child: "take it, and let it come and bear blossoms near God."

And the angel took it, and embraced the child for it, and then the little one half opened his eyes. He plucked the rich blooming flowers, and also the unnoticed buttercups, and also the wild daisies.

"Now we have flowers," said the child, and the angel approved, but did not go immediately to God. It was night, it was entirely still; they remained in the great city. And they flew over one of the small streets, where there were great heaps of straw, ashes aud sweepings, for the day had been a great time of moving. There lay broken pieces of plates, plasterings, rags, and old hats, which were worthless. And the angel saw in all this worthless matter, some pieces of a broken pot, and in a lump of earth which was fallen, some roots of a field flower, which were regarded as worthless, and cast out with the rest.

"Take that with us," said the angel; "I will tell thee why during our flight." And they flew, and the angel said:

"Down in that little street, in that low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; from his infancy he was always bed-ridden. When he was strongest he could only walk across his poor little room once or twice on crutches— that was all. A few days in summer the sunbeams penetrated for half an hour on the floor of the cellar; and then, when the poor boy saw the warm sun shining, and the red blood in his little finger which he held before his face, he said, 'Yes, to-day he is out.' He only knew the glorious green of the spring woods, by the beechen buds brought him by a neighbor's son, and he placed them over his head and dreamed that he

was among the beeches, where the sun shone and the birds sang. One spring day, the neighbor's boy brought some field flowers, and one of them had a root which the little boy planted at the window by his bedroom. And the flower was well planted, for it put forth new twigs, and each year bore flowers. So the sick boy had a fine garden, his only treasure here on earth; he took care of it, tended it, and thought of it until the last sunbeams shone through the window, and the flower grew in his dreams, for it grew for him, shedding its fragrance and rejoicing his eye, until God called him to die. One year he has been with God; one year has the flower been forgotten in the window, and it has withered and been cast out into the dirt of the street. And this is the flower, the poor withered flower, which we have taken into our bouquet, for this flower has caused more joy than the finest in the garden of a queen.**

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But how know you all this?" asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.

"I know it," said the angel, "for I was myself the little sick child that went on crutches. I know my own dear flower."

And the child opened his eyes, and looked into the angel's glorious, beautiful face, and at the same moment he found himself in God's heaven where joy and happiness are. And God pressed the dead child to his heart, and he received wings like the other angels, and flew hand in hand with them. And God pressed all the flowers to his heart, but he kissed the poor, forsaken field flower, and it received a voice, and sang with all the angels which surrounded God-some very near, and others farther off, and so farther and farther in the infinite distance, but all alike happy. And they all sang, small and great, about the good, blessed child, and the poor field-flower, which had lain withering and unnoticed in the gutter, among the dirt of the small, dark lane.

CONSCIENCE. Wherever you go, conscience accompanies you; whatever you say, do, or but think, it registers and records in order to the day of account. When all friends forsake you-when even your soul forsakes your body, conscience will not, cannot forsake you; when your body is weakest and dullest, your conscience is then most vigorous and active. Never is there more life in the conscience than when death makes its nearest approach to the body. When it smiles, cheers, acquits, and comforts-oh! what a heaven doth it create within; and when it frowns, condemns, and terrifies, how are our pleasures, joys, and delights of this world clouded, and even benighted! 'Tis certainly the best of friends, or the worst of enemies in the whole creation. A good conscience is to the soul what health is to the body. It preserves a constant ease and serenity within us, and more than countervails all the calamities and afflictions that can befall us.

GATHERINGS.

LIFE IS REAL.—The following beautiful lines, from the pen of H. W. Longfellow, are familiar to many, yet they are as sparkling, as impressive and interesting, as when they first contributed to the fame of their distinguished author.

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for ANY fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, BEAUTIFUL is an infant whatever we may picture it to ourselves. Beautiful in the cradle, beautiful on a parents knee; beautiful awake or asleep; beautiful at play in the corner of the room, or under the shade tree before the door; beautiful as a lamb in the Savior's arms; beautiful at the font of baptism; beautiful beneath the coffin lid! yes, beautiful even there in the loveliness of death, with hands folded peacefully, with brow like molded wax, with eyes closed in sleep, "perchance to dream!" with lips so gracefully composed, as if to say, "I murmur not," and with its entire face radiant with a smile, which is the imprint of its dying vision.

AS FROST to the bud, and blight to the blossom, even such is selfinterest to friendship; for confidence can not dwell where selfishness is porter at the gate.

"MOTHER," said a Spartan boy, going to battle, "my sword is too short." "Add a step to it," was the reply of the heroic mother. So should it be with all our duties of life. When we cannot reach the hight we aim at, add a step, and keep on adding until we reach it.

SWISS CUSTOM.-Ricard describes a custom which, amid the sublime scenery of that country, must be peculiarly impressive. The horn of the Alps is employed in the mountainous districts of Switzerland, not solely to sound the cow-call (Kubreihn, Ranz des Nachee), but for another purpose, solemn and religious. As soon as the sun has disappeared in the valleys, and its last rays are just glimmering on the sunny summits of the mountains, then the herdsman who dwells on the loftiest, takes his horn and trumpets forth, "Ruft durch diess Sprachorohr !"-" Praise God, the Lord!" All the herdsmen in the neigborhood, on hearing this, come out of their huts, take their horns, and repeat the words. This often continues a quarter of an hour, while on all sides the mountains echo the name of God. A profound and solemn silence follows; every individual offers his secret prayers on bended knees, and with uncovered head. At this time it is quite dark. "Good night!" trumpets forth the herdsman on the loftiest summit; "Good night!" is repeated on all the mountains, from the horns of the herdsmen, and cliffs of the rocks. Then each one lays himself down to rest.

A GEM. Who wrote the following beautiful epitaph on an infant? It speaks to the heart.

Beneath this stone, in sweet repose,

Is laid a mother's dearest pride;

A flower that scarce had waked to life,
And light, and beauty, ere it died.

God in his wisdom has recalled

The precious boon his love had given; And though the casket molders here, The gem is sparkling now in heaven.

Or all felicities, how charming is that of a firm and gentle friendship— it sweetens our cares and softens our sorrows, and assists us in extremities. It is a sovereign antidote against calamities.

WHEN virtue leaps high in the public fountain, you seek for the lofty spring of nobleness, and find it afar off, in the dear breast of some mother who melted the snows of winter, and condensed the summer's dew into fair, sweet humanity, which now gladdens the face of man in all the city

streets.

FANNY FERN, in enumerating the misfortunes of bachelors, says, "Even their stockings get mis-mated; if you pulled off their boots you would find they were 'Odd Fellows.'""

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A GOOD ANSWER.-A lady the other day asked a young gentleman of our acquaintance, "Sir, is your wife as pretty as you are?" He did not care to be complimented at the expense of his wife, and so by way gentle reproof, he blushingly replied-" No, Miss, but she has very pretty manners."

WHAT is time? The shadow on the dial? The striking of the clock? The running of the sand? These are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of time, not time itself. Time is the life of the soul.

A LEARNED Irish Judge, among other strange peculiarities, had a habit of begging pardon on every occasion. Once his favorite expression was employed in rather a singular manner. At the close of the assizes, as he was about to leave the bench, the officer of the court reminded him that he had not passed sentence of death on one of the criminals, as he had intended. "Dear me !" said his lordship, "I beg

his pardon-bring him up."

FIDELITY, Good Humor, and Complacency of Temper, outlive all the charms of a fine face, and make the decays of it invisible.

LEARNING will accumulate wonderfully if you add a little every day. Pick up the book and gain one new idea, if no more.

add another as soon as you can.

Save that one,

A PERSON Who wished to borrow a small sum, being asked by Dean Swift whom he proposed as security, "I have none to offer," said the poor man, "excepting my faith in my Redeemer." Swift accepted the security, made the entry in his book accordingly with all formality, and declared that none of his debtors were more punctual than this man.

NEGRO ANECDOTE.-At a recent celebration, on breaking ground upon a Railroad, in Tennessee, it was thought proper to commence the exercises by prayer. An Episcopal clergyman officiated and read a very appropriate prayer from a written manuscript. An old Methodist negro present remarked at the close as follows: "Dat is the first time I eber knew the Lord written to on de subject of Railroad."

DIPLOMACY.-The art of saying something when you have nothing to say—as much as the art of saying nothing when you have really got something to say.

A RARE OCCURRENCE.-A learned clergyman in Vermont was accosted in the following manner by an illiterate preacher who despised education: "Sir, you have been to college, I suppose?" "Yes sir," was the reply. "I am thankful," rejoined the former, "that the Lord has opened my mouth to preach without any learning." "A similar event," replied the latter," occurred in Balaam's time; but such things are of rare occurrence at the present day."

THE LETTER H.-Five of the sweetest words in the English language begin with H, which is only a breath-Heart, Hope, Home, Happiness, Heaven. Heart is a hope-place, and home is a heart-place, and that man sadly mistaketh, who would exchange the happiness of home for any thing less than heaven.

I MUST LIVE-A man whom Dr. Johnson reproved for following a useless and demoralizing business, said in excuse, "You know, doctor, that I must live." To this the brave old hater of everything mean and hateful, coolly replied, that he did not see the least necessity of that."