, 1867-06-28
OFFICE ON THIRD STREET,
NUMBER 2S.
HOme-Mother- Heaven.

The three words, Home, Mother, Heaven, ;,
arc the sweetest in our language. kArs heart
has memories that can never die. Il makes
no difference how We may be tossed about
upon life's turbid and tempestuous stream,
these memories still live with US. They are
memories of home-early home Dear, hal>
lowed spot What magic in the sound
Home 1t has attractions for every true
heart-is the center of every social tie
And as our mind wauders. back far over the
misty past, how many tender "reminiscences
of that early home come crowding upon us
There is the old tree, under which the light,
hearted school boy swung in many a sum.
mer day there the home in which be knew
parents love and a parents protection
and hard by is the church, and even the old
schoolshouse, with its dark, old walls, which
in former days impressed him with such
awe-associated as they were with thoughts
of terule and taskS-comes back to bring
pleasant remembrances of the 'far long ago
Home the dearest spot on earth, around
which my young affections cling into the
sweetest, holiest tie of love-the place where
are Graded the scenes Of my childhood, my
joys and sorrows, my hopes and fears. IT'S
the place where memory loves to dwell and
linger upon its well remembered scenes, its
bright, gladSome days that have passed
away forever. How soothing thy recoIec-
tions; how sweet thy associations how
many pleasing as we'll as saddening memo
ries rush before my vision The favorite
woods and fountains, the rocks and rivulets,
the mossy dells and shady valleys-Oh
how much like dream they seem!
MOTHER.
a mothers love How thrilling the
sound The angel spirit that watched over
our infant years and cheered us with her
smile-how faithfully does memory cling to
the fast-fading mementoes of the sweet coup.
sells of a mothers tongue. And oh, how
instinctively do re hang over the scenes Of
our boyhood, frightened by the recollections
of waking eyes that never closed while
single wave of misfortune or danger sighed
around her child Tho dearest, the truest,
and the hest friend allotted US here below
All who can write of a mothers love-
ever true and constant, through change, sick
ness and death-ever watchful of thy inter>
est, f;om the cradle to the grave? All who
can tell its worth? Poets have sung of its
beauty ever since the morn of creation, and
It's a theme that is still fresh-a subject
that can never be exhausted The rough
winds of adversely may darken it's pathway,
remains the same. Oh none can rightly
prize it. Thrice precious and holy is thy
memory, Mother!-sacred name blessed
be thy name forever.
HEAVEN.
"Ihe great bourne whence no traveller
has yet returned" And there is a second
and final home that home is heaven-the
home above, where we expect to meet the
whole family of man. But who shall paint
its landscapes, describe its glories, picture
its inhabitants, or point out the locality
Prophets, poets and evangelsts have done
much; but not enough to satisfy the cravings
of curiosity. Like the holy of holies, into
which none but the high priest entered, it is
mostly veiled from the eyes of others.
Change, sorrows and trials attend our earthly
pilgrimage, yet through all this there is a
hope, beaming light, that when all is over
aud our forms are shrouded for the tomb,
our spirits will rise on buoyant wings to the
great throne where our Father reigns, and
all is love, peace and joy, and anthems are
swelling through the lofty domes, and gush-
ing forth in glad sweet echoes. "Eye hath
not seen it; ear hath not heard Its deep
songs ofjoy." Let our Fathers promise be
beacon through all thy trials, and through
chance and change, still hope for the perfect
rest that is promised when thy work is
DONE