THE DYING BOY.

A little boy, by the name of Bertie, was taken very ill, and for

sometime continued to grow weaker until he died. A few hours before

his death he revived up, and his first request was to be bathed in the

river; but his mother persuaded him to be sponged only, as the river

water would be too cold for his weak frame. After his mother had

sponged him with water, he desired to be dressed; when his mother

dressed him in his green coat and white collar, and seated him at the

table with all his books and worldly treasures around him. As he sat

there, one would have thought that he was about to commence a course

of study; and yet in the marble paleness of his features, and in the

listless and languid eye, there was evidence that life in the boy was

like an expiring taper, flickering in the socket. He soon asked to go

out in his little carriage. His grandfather, whom he very much loved,

placed him in it, and carefully avoiding every stone, drew him to a

spot commanding the entire landscape. The tide was up and the sun was

shining on the deep blue waters, and bathing the distant mountains and

the green meadows in liquid gold. The gardens and orchards around were

gay in the rich crimson blossoms of the apple tree; the air was filled

with the sweet fragrance of flowers, and the birds were singing

beautifully, when little Bertie looked for the last time on the scenes

of earth. He could not remain long, and was soon taken back to the

little parlor, where he sat on the sofa, resting his elbows on the

table. It was not long before the little boy died. But he was very

happy. Among his last words were these, addressed to his little sister

three years old: "Well, Emmie, very ill--me going to Jesus."



"Oh, mamma, Emmie loves her Saviour."