To-day us I yen these lines, one picture from the long-vanished past rises in my memory as clearly as though it hung on a wall before my very eyes, It is of a boy about fourteen years old, propped up in a great arm-chair with pillows and bed: clothes, and gazing through a window. He is just convalescing after a Tong and dangerous illness, and is still thin, pale, and weal The iieny f arms of his loving father have taken him from the bed and placed him snugly by the window in order that he may see hi playmates at their games in the snow; for the time is mid-winter. They wave their hands to him and he waves his hand feebly to them. The scene is from my own boyhood, forty years ago. What magic has conjured it up uow? Only a sentence fr a letter, This: "tI was so weak that for yeara I had to be carried upstairs to bed." A lady speaks thus of her girlhood. What a pitiable thing. It ie not what nature meant; but alas! too often what really happens in this perverted world. Children should never suffer pain, for pain is punishment. For, whose ofence, then—surely not their own—do the little ones sicken and die by uncounted millions.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.