قراءة كتاب Our Gift

"Remember me!" How swift the tide
   Of memory glideth o'er the past;
Those sunny hours so quickly sped,
   Perchance a few with clouds o'ercast.
But memory hath more lasting flowers,
   Which Time's rude hand can ne'er efface,
The sweets we cull from friendship's bowers,
   The gems affection's altar grace.

"Remember me!" In youth's bright morn
   Those simple words so lightly spoken,
Far into future years may reach,
   And wake a spell which ne'er is broken.
A star to gleam in Memory's sky,
   A line on Memory's page to glow,
A smile to offer at her shrine,
   Or tears which from her springs shall flow.

"Remember me!" As one by one
   The cherished ties of earth are torn,
The magic spell which Memory weaves,
   Shall long in kindred hearts be worn.
And when the last farewell is said,
   A solace to each heart shall be
The memory of that love which spoke
   In parting tones, "Remember me!"

HONOR THY PARENTS.

CONVERSATION I.

"Honor thy father and thy mother."

"Well, Clara," said Mary, as they left the church, "shall we go now and take a walk before we go home? Look, there are William Johnson and George Field waiting to see which way we shall turn, in order to accompany us."

"Not this afternoon," answered Clara, "I think we had better go home."

They continued their way homeward until they reached the street where Clara lived, and were about to part, when Mary asked her companion at what time she would meet her the next morning to take a long walk, adding that William and George would go with them.

"I will ask mother," replied Clara, "and if she is willing, I will meet you at six o'clock."

"How is this," said Mary, "you never used to say you would ask your mother; besides, there can be no possible objection to our going to take a walk."

"True," rejoined Clara, "there can be no objection to our taking a walk; but we have never told our mothers that William and George are in the habit of going with us."

"Well, I don't see any great harm in their going with us," continued Mary, with a tone which indicated that she did not see any harm whatever in it.

"Perhaps there is not, and yet, Mary, I have thought that there might be; therefore, I prefer to speak to my mother about it."

"And pray, Miss Clara, what has made you so conscientious all at once?"

"I will tell you, Mary. You recollect that on the last Sabbath, our pastor took for his text, the fifth commandment."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, something which he said, caused me to think more about these words than I ever did before; and the more I think of them, the more convinced I am, that we do not consider and reflect upon them so much as we ought to."

"Let me see," said Mary, "Honor thy father and thy mother;"—"Well, I am sure I do honor my father and my mother; I obey them when they give me a command, and I love them with all my heart. What more can I do?"

"So I reasoned before, but when I sat down alone in my chamber, a good many things came to my mind, to convince me that I was wrong."

"Well," added Mary, "let me have the benefit of your reflections."

"Why, in this very instance of going to walk, I had always asked my mother's consent, and she had given it; but I never told her where we went, or who went with us, which now appears to me wrong. Our mothers are much older than we are, and have had much more experience than we have, and there may be wrong in doing what appears to us quite harmless."

"For the life of me," interrupted Mary, "I cannot think there can possibly be any harm in such a slight occurrence. However, say nothing to your mother to-night; but go with us to-morrow morning, and then you can mention it to her, and see what she says."

"I beg your pardon, Mary; but you said just now, you could not see what possible harm there could be in so slight an occurrence, and yet your request to put off mentioning this to my mother, shows that you have some misgivings on the subject."

Mary reflected for a moment. "Clara," said she, "if you have no objection, I will go home with you, and hear what your mother will say."

"I shall be delighted to have you," was the answer.

Mary Winthrop and Clara Spaulding had

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