The Heart

Throb, tlirob, throb. Never sleeping, Diit often tirecl, loaded with care, chilled oy despair, bleeding with wounds, often inflicted by tliose who do not understand it, or burdencd with afíection, it mnst beat on for a lifetime. Nothing flnds a lodgment in its chambers that does not add to its labors. Every thought tliat the mind gonerates steps upon the heart before ifc wings its way into the ontcr world. The memory of the dead loved ones are mountains of wcight upon its sensitiveness; the anxieties of the soul stream to the heart and bank themselves npon it, as the early snowdrif ts cover the tender plant; love, if it lovcs, fircs it with feverish waimtli and makes it the more sensitive; hate, if it hates, heats it to desperation and filis it with conflicts. Still it works on. When slumber closes the eyelids the heart is beating - beating beneath all its burdens; it works while we sleep; it works while we play; it aches when we laugh. Do no unnecessarily woiind it; do not add to its bleeding wounds. Speak a kiiu word to eheer it; warm it when it ie oold; encourage it when it despairs. -