Some three years after, death bore away also little EMMA, a child two years old, who had in some measure replaced the lost children of the parsonage.  To express the sparkling and exuberant vivacity of this last darling of friends very dear to the writer, has been the object of another simple lay.  There are smitten hearts enough in the homes to which this magazine finds its way to respond to notes that would commemorate the infant dead.

LITTLE CHARLIE.

  Beside our pilgrim path there sprang
    A pleasant little rill,
  Whose murmur, ever in our ear,
    Was cheerful music still.

  The earliest rays of brightening morn,
    Back to our eyes it flashed,
  And onward through the livelong day,
    In tireless sport it dashed.

  We loved the little sparkling rill,
    We sunned us in its glance;—­
  The turf looked green where, near our feet,
    It kept its joyous dance.

  And welcome to our weariness
    Was the clear draught it gave;
  E’en way-worn age took heart and bowed,
    Its aching brow to lave.

  But where is now our pleasant rill,
    We miss it from our side;
  We looked, and it was at its full—­
    We turned, and it was dried.

  Oh Father.—­thou whose gracious hand
    Bestowed the boon at first,
  A parched and desert land is this—­
    Let not thy servants thirst!

Fountains of joy at thy right hand
Are gushing evermore—­
Bid them for us, thy fainting ones,
Their rich abundance pour.

FANNY.

We miss thee on the threshold wide. 
Smiling little Fanny! 
Thine offered hand was wont to guide
Our footsteps to thy mother’s side,
Ready little Fanny!

We miss the welcome of thy face,
Winning little Fanny! 
We miss thy bright cheek’s rounded grace
Thy clear blue eyes’ confiding gaze,
Lovely little Fanny!

We miss thy glowing earnestness,
Guileless little Fanny! 
We miss thy clasping arms’ caress,
The solace of thy tenderness,
Loving little Fanny!

We miss thy haste at school-time bell,
Docile little Fanny! 
Learning with eager face to spell,
Thy Sabbath verses conning well,
Studious little Fanny!

  We miss thee at the hour of prayer,
                              Gentle little Fanny! 
  Thy sweet low voice and thoughtful air,
  Reading God’s word with earnest care,
                              Serious little Fanny!

  The hour of play brings woeful dearth,
                              Merry little Fanny!
  With thee the voice of childhood’s mirth,
  Died from about our twilight hearth,
                              Joyous little Fanny!

  But angels’ gain doth our loss prove,
                              Precious little Fanny! 
  Now dwelleth with our God above[C]
  That little one whose life was love,
                              Blessed little Fanny!