Those sunny days have departed.  The old cottage is not there now.  Years ago it was taken down.  My grandfather died when I was yet a boy, and I followed him to the grave with a heavy heart.  My grandmother lived to be almost a hundred years old,—­her powers all gone, and she helpless.  It would sometimes, even in my manhood, deeply affect me to have her look into my face with no sign in hers that she knew me, when she had once loved her talkative and delighted grandchild so fondly.  But she, too, found her resting-place at last beside her companion.  Peace to them!  They blest me with their kindly, cheering words when most I needed them, and I will bless their memories.  And peace to the spot where once stood their quiet home!  Wherever in life I may be,—­however brightly its pleasures may shine, or heavily its cares and afflictions press upon me—­never would I outgrow the inspiration of these early enjoyments; never forget, that, however the great, proud, and contentious world may distract and dishearten, there will yet be peace to the humble and virtuous soul in many a nook like that which sheltered and blest my grand mother’s cottage.

THE FIRST OATH

BY REV.  EBEN FRANCIS.

It is now many years since a near friend of mine uttered his first oath.  We were very intimate in our youthful days.  I have thought that I would write a little story about him, for some of the little folks of these times to read, hoping that it will not only be interesting, but do them good; for I am indeed sorry to know that swearing is a very common sin among the boys of our times.

The parents of my young playfellow were of the humbler class in society; they were industrious and prudent, and took great pains to teach him what was right.  They lived in the metropolis of New England, where my schoolmate was born.  His father wrought with the saw, the plane, the hammer, and such tools as carpenters use about their business.  His home was a neat, wooden two-story house, in one of the streets of that part of Boston which was generally known, when we were boys, by the name of the MILL-POND.  I suppose that most of my little readers who live in the city can tell where it is.  Many changes have taken place there since my childhood.  When I was a small boy it was called the town,—­now we never hear of it but as the city of Boston.  Its population has increased rapidly; its territory has been extended; it has grown in wealth, in splendor, in its means for mental and moral improvement; in the number and convenience of its public schools,—­the pride and ornament, or the disgrace, of any place.  Yes, Boston is not, in appearance or in fact, what it once was.

But I am getting off from my story.  I was saying that my young friend resided on the “new-land”—­no; the “Mill-Pond;”—­well, it’s all the same—­for when they dug down old Beacon Hill, they threw the dirt into the Mill-Pond, and when it was filled up, or made land, the spot was still known as the Mill-Pond, and oftentimes was called the new-land.  In later years, there have been other portions added to the city, by making wharves, and filling up where the tide used to ebb and flow, and where large vessels could float.