The Drowned Boy

But there is uo future without its straggliug clouds. Evea now ashadovv is traïliug along the landscape. It is a solt mild day oi summer. The leaves are at their íullest. A soutliern breeze has been blowing up the valley all the moriiing, and the light suioky haze bangs in the dietant mouutaiu gaps, like-a veil on beauty. Jamie had beeu buey witii bis lessous, and afterwards playing vvith Milo upon the lawn. LitUe Carrjt has coma in lïom a long ridii - hor face blooming, and her eyes all smiles aud joy. The mother has busied hersejf with those flowers she loves so well. Little Paul, they say, has been playing in the meadow, aud old Tray haH gone with him. Iiut at dianer time Paul has not coma back, " Paul ought not to rambla ofi' so far," I say. The mother says nothing; but theru is a look of anxiety upon her face, that disturba me. Jamie wonders where Paul can be, aud he suves for him whatever he knows Paul will like - a heaping platelul, But the dinner pusses, and Paul doe not come, üld Tray lies iu the sunshine by the porch. Now, indeed, the mother is anzious - and I, though I conceal this from hei-, find uiy íeai'8 stiangely active. Something like instinct guides mo to the meadow, Í wander down the brook side, calling Paul ! Paul ! but thcro ig no answer. All the afternoon we search, and the neighbors aearch ; but it is a fruitless toil. There is no joy that eveniog ; tho raeal passos iu silence ; only little Oarry, with tears m her eyes, asks, wili Paul soou come back 't AU thö night we search aud cali; ihe mother eveu braving the night air, and runuing here and thore, until the morniug fiuds us 3ad and despairint;. ïhat day - tho next - cluured up the myetery, but cleared it up with darküesg. .Foor littlo Paul - he has sunk under tho murderous eddies of the biook ! His boyish prattle, his rosy smiles, his artless talk are lost to us forever. I wil! not teil how nor where we found hitn, nor vrill I teil of our desolate home, aDd of her grief - the first erushing grief of hor life. The cottage is still. The sarvants glide noisleesly, as if they might gtartle the poor little sleeper. Tho house Rflüms cold. vorv cold, Yet it is siim mer weather ; and the south breezt, plays softly along ihe meadow, anc 3oftly over the murderous eddies of the brook. Theu comea tho husb of burial. The kind rnourners are thero ; it ie easy foi them to mourn 1 The good clergyman prays by the bier; " Oh Thou who didst take upoi thyself human woe, and drank deep o: every pang in life, let thy Spirit como and heal this grief, and guido fcovar that Better Land, wliero justiuo int love shall reign, aud hearts luden wit] anguish shall rest forevermore." Weeks rolled on, aud a smile of re signation lights up the saddened feature of the mother. Those dark mournin robes speak to the heart deeper anc more teuderly thau ever the bridul cos turne. She lightens the weight of you grief, by hersweet words of resignation " Paul," sho says, " God has taken ou boy !" Other weeks roll on. Joys are sti left great aud ripe joys. The cottug t-miling in Autumu in the suushiuo is there ; the birds are in the forest boughs. Jamie and little Carry are there ; and she who is n?ore thaa all, is cheerful and coutent. Heaven has taught us that the brightest future has its olouds ; that this lifo is a motley of lights and shudows. And as e look upon the world around us, and upon the thoueand fornis of human inisery, there is a gladness in our deep thanksgiving. A year goes by ; but ít leavea do added shadow on our heartbstono. The vines olatnber and flourisb ; the oaks are winning age acd grandeur ; little Carry is blooming iuto thq coynesa of gjrUiood. and Jamie with Lis durk hair aud Üabhing oyes, is the pi'ide of Lis mot her. There is uo alloy to pleasure, but the remembrauce of poor littlo Paul And even that, chabtened as it is with years, is rather a gratelul mumorial that our life is DOt here, than a grief which wuighB upoQ our boartö. Sometimos leaving titile Curry and Jaiiiie ut thtjir pluy, we wander at twilight to the willow tree, boneatli whiuli our drowncd boy sleops oalrnly till the Great Avvakenicg. It is a Suuday fn he week-duy of our 1 i fe, to liuger by tlie ittle grave, to huug flowers upou tho leadstone, and to breath a prayor th:it ur little Paul inay sleep well iu ,tho arms of H'un that loveth childreu. And her heart and my heurt knit toí;ether by aorrow as they have been by oy - a silver threiid minglod with the fóld- follow the duad one to tho land hat is before us, uütil at last, we come ;o reekon the boy as living in the new lome, vvhich, when this is oíd, eball be urs also. And my spirit, speaking to lis Rpirit in the evening watches, seems .o gay so joyfully that the tears half hoke tho utterance, " Paul, my boy, we wiil be there 1" And the mother, turning her face to i.iuo, so that I see the moisture in her ves, and oatoh its heavenly looks, vhispers softly - so softly, that au angel might have aaid it - " Yes, dear, we will ie tiikrh ! '