THE YOUNG SOLDIER

BY REV.  J.G.  ADAMS.

   A soldier! a soldier! 
     I’m longing to be;
   The name and the life
     Of a soldier for me! 
   I would not be living
     At ease and at play: 
   True honor and glory
     I’d win in my day!

   A soldier! a soldier! 
     In armor arrayed;
   My weapons in hand,
     Of no contest afraid;
   I’d ever be ready
     To strike the first blow,
   And to fight my good way
     Through the ranks of the foe.

   But then, let me tell you,
     No blood would I shed,
   No victory seek o’er
     The dying and dead;
   A far braver soldier
     Than this would I be;
   A warrior of Truth,
    In the ranks of the free!

   My helmet Salvation,
     Strong Faith my good shield. 
   The sword of the Spirit
     I’d learn how to wield. 
   And then against evil
     And sin would I fight,
   Assured of my triumph,
     Because in the right.

   A soldier! a soldier! 
     O, then, let me be! 
   Young friends, I invite you—­
     Enlist now with me. 
   Truth’s bands will be mustered—­
     Love’s foes shall give way! 
   Let’s up, and be clad
     In our battle array!

[Illustration]

THE STOLEN CHILDREN.

BY MRS. M.A.  LIVERMORE.

Not many years ago, the beautiful hills and valleys of New England gave to the wild Indian a home, and its bright waters and quiet forests furnished him with food.  Rude wigwams stood where now ascends the hum of the populous city, and council-fires blazed amid the giant trees which have since bowed before the axe of the settler.  Between that rude age and the refinement of the present day, many and fearful were the strifes of the red owner of the land with the invading white man, who, having crossed the waters of the Atlantic, sought to drive him from his hitherto undisputed possessions.  The recital of deeds of inhuman cruelty which characterized that period; the rehearsal of bloody massacres of inoffensive women and innocent children, which those cruel savages delighted in, would even now curdle the blood with horror, and make one sick at heart.

It was in this period of fearful warfare that the events occurred which form the foundation of the following story.

Not far from the year 1680, a small colony was planted on the banks of the beautiful Connecticut.  A little company from the sea-side found their way, through the tangled and pathless woods, to the meadows that lay sleeping on the banks of this bright river; and here, after having felled the mighty trees whose brows had long been kissed by the pure heavens, they erected their humble cottages; and began to till the rich alluvial soil.  The colonists were persevering