Child Angels--their Early Going Home

Benjamin F. Taylor, of the Chicago Journal relates thus eloquently and foeiingly the death of a child : It went in the morning - a bright aud radiant morning; many went yesterday, more to day, and there are dews to be slied for the departuros of tomorrow.-And eau t be wondered that pleasant sumnier mornings sboul'd beguile them iuto going? Is it a marvel that Ihey do not wait for the burden aud the noon but follow the laik, and hear her song over the raiubow ? That those words so beautiful, they shuuld make so true, "and joy cometh in the moruing?" Goijig in the morning ! a glonous moruiug - when the sky is all beauty and the world is all bliss, ere the dews have gouo to heaven, or the stars have gone to God ; when the birds are siuging, and the cool winds are blowing, and the flowers are out that will be simt at noon, and the clouds that are ncver rent in rain, and the shadows, inlaid with crimson, lie awav to the West. We have sometimes secn a little colfin, like a casket for jewels, all alone by tsclf in a Luge bearse, melancholy with plumes, and gloomy as a frown, and we have tbought not so should we accompany those a little way, who go in the uiorning. We have wondered why tliey did not take the little coffin into the carriage with them, and lay it gently upon their laps, the sleeper there lulled to slumber without a bosora or a eradle. - We have wondered what there was for tears in such a going - in the early morning from home to home - like fair, white do'vcs, with downy wings, emerging from nether uight, and fluttering for entrance at the windows of Heaven. Never has there been a hand wanting to take the wanderer in, and shut out the darkness and the storm. Upon those little faces it never seemed to us that death could place his great seal; there is no thought of the charnel house in those young listeners to the invitation, whose acceptance we are bound not to forbid, there should be morning songs and not sighe; fresh flowers and not badges of mourning; no tears nor clouds, but bright dews and bright dawnings together. Fold up the white robe; lay aside the forgotten toy; smooth the little unpressed pillow and gently smile as you think of the white garment, and the harp of gold, and of the fair brow with its diadem of light; smile as you think that no years can niake that memory old. An eternal, guileless child, waiting about the threshold of Paradise for the coming friend from home. Here the glad lips would quWer with anguish ; the bright curls grow grizzled and gray; the young heart weary and old; but there, changeless as the stars, and young as the last new morning. The poet tells of a green bough rent by the tempest from the tree, and swept ludely aloDg on the breast of an angry river, and a tnother bird, with cries of grief, fluttering beside it, for her nest and nestlings were there. Ah ! better to bewafted away from eai'.h than thus that they should drift around the world in storm.