Year: 1865

When / think of Parson Avery l grow
young again. A chiids pulses beat
within me l remember the long, bright
days before my soul had began to ask
solemn questions about its destiny, or
my heart To mourn over any broken idols.
My veins are full once more Of the quick
howing current of young life my hair
turns golden in the sun, and ! feel on it
soft. tender touch-the touch / relncm
Der SO well when that good man blessed
me


had been accustomed ever since
was old enough to be taken To church. to
seeing and hearing him every SUNDAY
At first, his low, quiet voice used 20 lull
me 20 rest, and / had such long, nice
maps in that old meeting house, with the
summer sun shine St canning through
the open windows !; the insects hum
ming drowsily outside, and now aud
then huttering in for a moment, and pois
ing themselves on their gauzy wings /;
the sweet, summer odors of trees and
shrubs in bloom filling the air full -
Then grew a little older, and learned
to Keep awake, listening sometimes to
those low, tender tones, telling of God 5
love and mercy; sometimes going on
silently with my own cherished thoughts


II is little thing, but am glad now
that was never tired Of Parson Avery,
or wanted to see any one else in his place,
as some of my elders did | used to
wonder, when heard them wish that he
would exchange oftener, how they could
bear to see n strange face In the old pul
pit. To me it would not have seemed
like Sunday at all, without the pursu "a
sive sweetness of those mild tones the
calm, benignant expression of that face
set in its silver hair, with the look Of
peace which had settled there in the long
life through which he had done the Mas
ter 8 work. 1t was no wonder that he
did not care to go into new pulpts, when
for Is years he had stood i'll that one,
and every face that looked up at him from
those old pews was familiar as those
OF his own children, whom he saw eve
ry night in his dreams.


For Parson Avery was alone in the
world now-as much alone as a soul can
be whom G cd loves. Four children had
made the old parsonage gay once; but
none of them had lived to grow up
Bold boys, and shy, sweet girls-the
summons had come for all-and their
graves had been green in the glory of
many summer. Perhaps that was why
to Parson Avery all children were SO
dear. Gods little ones, he called them
for he had been taught, one after another
had folded their hands for the long death
slumber, to whom they belonged. The
wife of his youth had lived with him till
she was the wife of his age, and then,
one day, she too grew tired by the way
side, and the angels carried her home.


Then the old man of seventy was
alone and they said he failed rapidly.
I was not old enough to reason about it
then; but looking back now, I wonder
At the parish who grew weary Of him.
What would have been the eloquence of
younger lips in its power to persuade, to
the sight of that good man, grown old in
the peace Of God, and resting on it still
when all human staysSwere gone from
him-when the lips he had loved were
silent, and the heart which had beat so
long was under the sod which summer
blossoms crowned, and SHOWS of winter
folded? l wonder they could not have
given him time TO put his house in order
and wait, in his lifc's sunset, for the
voice of the Lord to call. and then die
among them as quickly as a father anon.
his children.


But the brillisnt rhetoric, the rich
voice, the spirited gestures OF young
man Just through his course of geology,
becuiled them in an evil day, and "A meet
ing was quietly called To talk the matter
over. Some oue--was ii a bird in the
air Whispered this matter to parson
Avery, and contrary to all rule or prece
dent, he came among them. l have heard
NV father tell how full of grand and
simple majesty were his face and manner
as ne entered the vestry.


Brethren" he said, = all this is un
necessary know l am an old man, and
l ought long ago TO have given up my
place tossome one who could have done
my work better You have had great
patience with me. | have come now to
resign nv position aS your pastor, and
next Sunday morning l will preach my
last sermon.


Half dozen voices began TO expostu-
late. y quiver of emotion ran through
every heart there, which told them how
dear the old man was; and ii it hai not
been too late, they would fain have kept
him, even then. Bat he would not sui
fer any one 10 demonstrate with or per.
suade him.


Il know l am right he said. simply
:" and YOU must not ask me 10 change my
mind. "


That was Tuesday, and through the
week that followed. there was n strange
cad quiet in the little village-something
such a feeling as when the dead whom We
have loved are visiting for their burial.
Saturday afternoon my father came into
the room where l sat on low stool be-
side my mother. putting the last stitches
in my stint of patch work He had his
hat and his cane in his hand


Wife, he said, II am going over to
see Parson Avery I know his week 5
work is done now. and it has been a sad
week for him. I know what he must
suffer at this change, of which he will
never complain and 1 doubt much il
one Of the church has been near him
since the meeting


"May go too. papa z" cried. eager
ly, breaking OFT my thread at the end oi
my last seam.


NV father looked at me a moment in
silent consideration. Perhaps he though,
my presence would be brief in the EN-