The Children’s Angels. Here lies the village in its nest of green, With plumy pine-trees ever sighing round ; And through dark boughs you catch the silver sheen, And hear the river-sound : While clamorous-crows across the lowlands call, Blotting the cloudless sky with sable wings ; Or perching idly on the grey church wall Where fibrous ivy clings. Here stands the old farm-house, with moss-grown eaves, Where sparrows chirp and building martins hide ; Its porch a very bower of dancing leaves, Its casements opened wide. Above the golden thatch the sweet-brier flings Its long green arms and pink, shell-tinted flowers ; And soft bird-music from the garden rings Through long, long summer hours. Here in the door-way framed in shifting shade, Mary, the meek house-mother calmly sits ; While round her brows the mellow light hath made A glory as she knits. Swift glide her glancing needles to and fro, Her ball of yarn moves softly at her feet ; Her cheeks are pale, her locks are white as snow, Her eyes are strangely sweet. Something out-lived, and something yet to come Have set on her calm face the seal it wears ; You know that when those patient lips are dumb Her soul is full of prayers. Ask for the story that she loves to tell, The simple tale of comfort born in pain ; A dream perchance it may be called,—ah, well, Such dreams are not in vain ! “ I had three children, sir ; five years ago A fever came, and swept my two away ; It was to me a time of frenzied woe, I could not weep nor pray. “ No tender thought of comfort came to me, And I grew hard and thankless in my grief ; The cruel wind had stripped my household tree, And left but one small leaf. “ I languished in the stillness of the house, I missed the tiny shouts and words and cries ; My one wee darling—quiet as a mouse, Watched me with large, sad eyes. “ I missed them in the budding days of spring, I missed them when I saw the ripe nuts fall ; But when the Christmas chimes began to ring, I missed them most of all ! “ On Christmas evening in yon little room My child lay sleeping on her father’s knee, My goodman slumbered too ; and awful gloom Had settled down on me. “ Without—I heard the Christmas carols sung ; Within—I only saw those vacant chairs ; Ah me ! I shivered in my woe, and wrung My wild hands unawares ! “ And was I dreaming, sir ?—I scarcely know (The carols sounded louder in the street) : But a bright angel, white as driven snow, Sat in each darling’s seat. “ I cannot tell, it might have been a dream, But from that hour mine agony was past ; Angels were in the house—I caught the gleam Of wings around me cast. “ One blossom springeth when another dies, The blue-bells quiver in the cowslips’ place ; Naught lieth waste—for Nature’s hand supplies Each void with fresher grace. “ And in the heart no blanks unfilled remain, Each empty seat shall have its angel guest ; Our saddest losses bring our highest gain ;— Through sorrow cometh rest. “ That is my story, sir ; and it may be A doting mother’s fancy, vague and wild ; Yet in my soul I know God gave to me An angel for each child.” Sarah Doudney.