the days when Lincoln was President, like those which weary you now about the Declaration of Independence.  It will not be the same world then.  Your children will not be always children.  Enjoy their fresh, youth while it lasts, for it will not last long.  Do not skim over the present too fast, through a constant habit of onward-looking.  Many men of an anxious turn are so eagerly concerned in providing for the future, that they hardly remark the blessings of the present.  Yet it is only because the future will some day be present, that it deserves any thought at all.  And many men, instead of heartily enjoying present blessings while they are present, train themselves to a habit of regarding these things as merely the foundation on which they are to build some vague fabric of they know not what.  I have known a clergyman, who was very fond of music, and in whose church the music was very fine, who seemed incapable of enjoying its solemn beauty as a tiling to be enjoyed while passing, but who persisted in regarding each beautiful strain merely as a promising indication of what his choir would come at some future time to be.  It is a very bad habit, and one which grows unless repressed.  You, my reader, when you see your children racing on the green, train yourself to regard all that as a happy end in itself.  Do not grow to think merely that those sturdy young limbs promise to be stout and serviceable when they are those of a grown-up man; and rejoice in the smooth little forehead with its curly hair, without any forethought of how it is to look some day when over-shadowed (as it is sure to be) by the great wig of the Lord Chancellor.  Good advice:  let us all try to take it.  Let all happy things be enjoyed as ends, as well as regarded as means.  Yet it is in the make of our nature to be ever onward-looking; and we cannot help it.  When you get the first number for the year of the.  Magazine which you take in, you instinctively think of it as the first portion of a new volume; and you are conscious of a certain though slight restlessness in the thought of a thing incomplete, and of a wish that you had the volume completed.  And sometimes, thus locking onward into the future, you worry yourself with litile thoughts and cares.  There is that old dog:  you Lave had him for many years; he is growing stiff and frail; what arc you to do when he dies?  When he is gone, the new dog you get will never be like him; he may be, indeed, a far handsomer and more amiable animal, but he will not be your old companion; he will not be surrounded with all those old associations, not merely with your own by-past life, but with the lives, the faces, and the voices of those who have left you, which invest with a certain saeredness even that humble but faithful friend.  He will not have been the companion of your youthful walks, when you went, at a pace which now you cannot attain.  He will just be a common dog; and who that has reached your years cares for that?  The