The loveliest sight in this beautiful world is that of a child, dressed in white, with a pink sash about her, running, skipping, waltzing across the green sward—under the trees—plucking here and there a bud or blossom—vocalizing the air with ripples of laughter,—rivalling the birds with songs of heart-melody. Is she not a revelation—a poem? Ought we to marvel at the words of Jesus, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" But, alas! how often we see the outward grace and beauty in children to-day, without that wealth of mind which is its jewel! The child, taught by its foolish, fashionable mother, —whose highest ambition is to attudinize on life's stage to the glee of devils and the infinite pity of angels—becomes a mere automaton, echoing the words of others, and living over in miniature a life of worldly folly. Sad is this change, so marring the young life,—so sad that it were better that captive freshness and truth were released for heaven.
