And now, my dear son, are you willing to set out in all sober earnestness so to live, not one day, but always? If you are, God will bless and aid you. You will be a happy boy, and as you grow older you will be happier still; and in the end you will go to God and to your pious friends now in heaven, or who may hereafter reach that blissful abode, and spend an eternity in loving, praising and serving God. This is the constant prayer of your affectionate father. * * * * * Original. CHILDREN OF THE PARSONAGE. BY GEORGIANA M. SYKES. Little Charlie, the youngest child of our pastor, was the delight of all the household, but especially of the infirm grand-mother, to whose aid and solace he devoted his little efforts. He was a beautiful and active child, of nearly three years, and was to the parsonage what the father emphatically called him,--its "_fountain of joy_." But little Charlie was suddenly taken from it, after an illness of a few hours. A week afterward, FANNY, a beautiful and highly intelligent child of five years, died of the same fearful disease, scarlet fever. The following little poems were intended as sketches of the characteristics of the two lovely children. Some three years after, death bore away also little EMMA, a child two years old, who had in some measure replaced the lost children of the parsonage. To express the sparkling and exuberant vivacity of this last darling of friends very dear to the writer, has been the object of another simple lay. There are smitten hearts enough in the homes to which this magazine finds its way to respond to notes that would commemorate the infant dead. LITTLE CHARLIE. Beside our pilgrim path there sprang A pleasant little rill, Whose murmur, ever in our ear, Was cheerful music still. The earliest rays of brightening morn, Back to our eyes it flashed, And onward through the livelong day, In tireless sport it dashed. We loved the little sparkling rill, We sunned us in its glance;-- The turf looked green where, near our feet, It kept its joyous dance. And welcome to our weariness Was the clear draught it gave; E'en way-worn age took heart and bowed, Its aching brow to lave. But where is now our pleasant rill, We miss it from our side; We looked, and it was at its full-- We turned, and it was dried. Oh Father.--thou whose gracious hand Bestowed the boon at first, A parched and desert land is this-- Let not thy servants thirst! Fountains of joy at thy right hand Are gushing evermore-- Bid them for us, thy fainting ones, Their rich abundance pour. FANNY. We miss thee on the threshold wide. Smiling little Fanny! Thine offered hand was wont to guide Our footsteps to thy mother's side, Ready little Fanny!