My mother had a fit of sickness when my little brother was but seven months old, and she was obliged to wean him at that early age. He was always a feeble child and clung to our mother with almost a death-grasp. The weaning of that child will never fade from my recollection. In fact our mother used to say that that boy was never weaned. When he was about a year old, he was found fast asleep one day behind the bed-room door, leaning his little head upon a chest. Over the chest was a line, and across the line had been thrown a chintz shawl, memorable as having always been worn by our mother when nursing her children. In one hand he had hold of the end of the shawl, which he could just reach, and he was sucking the thumb of the other. This shawl, which this little child had not previously seen for some time, was associated in his mind with its sweetest, but short-lived comfort. This fact will serve to explain the propriety of taking all the ordinary week day play-things from children on the Sabbath, and substituting in their place others more quiet--for instance, relating Scripture stories, explaining Scripture pictures, and the like. Such scenes and experience as have been above alluded to, must be more or less familiar to every faithful and praying mother. Children who have been dedicated to God, as was Samuel, and David, and Timothy, in all ages of the world, will be found in after life to be, to the praise, and glory, and riches of God's grace, vouchsafed to parents, in answer to their faith and prayers, and pious teachings. * * * * * THE YOUNGLING OF THE FLOCK. Welcome! thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of bliss! How have I looked, till hope grew sick, for a moment bright as this; Thou hast flashed upon my aching sight when fortune's clouds are dark, The sunny spirit of my dreams--the dove unto mine ark. Oh! no, not even when life was new, and life and hope were young, And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I hung, Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep, That stir my bosom's inmost strings as I watch thy placid sleep! Though loved and cherished be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies, The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize. One does but make our bliss more bright; the other meets our eye, Like a radiant star, when all besides have vanished from on high. Sweet blossom of my stormy hour, star of my troubled heaven, To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is given; And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far than thou, A messenger of peace and love art sent to cheer me now. What, tho' my heart be crowded close with inmates dear though few, Creep in, my little smiling _babe_, there's still a niche for you; And should another claimant rise, and clamor for a place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as fair a face.