The Oíd 11. Wtth Father and Blother. There's one hallowed place in childhood, Wherc wo ever foei f ree from ill- Where the sweet, holy hush of the twilight Heems a whlsper of "Peaoe, be still,"- While a fond mother's kind, gentle teaching) Fall loviDgly then on our ears, And a father's dear Bmile of affection Is a balm for all sorrows and tears. Once severed from thin, there is never another Xhat seenis like the Old Home, with l'ather and Mother. Sometinies we grow tired of the old waye, And like robins that flit from the nest, The world seems so smiling and 8Uny, We think its broad highway the beat ; Ro we leave a good-by with the homestead, And fly out where gaiety singn, Bnt we flnd there's a world full of danger For poor little unfledged wings. But one path seems brighter to ns than another- The path that leadshomeward to Father and Mother. The years as they come up to meet us, May f urrow our brows with their care, But they cannot Wot out from our memory The touch of%Tfcother's kiss there; And tho' Time may reach out his old fingere, And weave in our hair ailver thread, Yet he never can mar our first blessing - A f ather'e dear hand on our head. These sweet thoughts still linger above every other( When we think of the Old Home, with Father and Mother.