"What pleases my little girl?" asked the mother.
"Why, 'Samson'" the child said,—"that's what you call papa!"
Then Ruth, who stood by the table with a pitcher of water in her hand, staggered backwards like one stricken a violent and sudden blow!—staggered backwards, dropping the pitcher with a heavy crash as she retreated, and crossing her hands upon her bosom with quick, short catchings of the breath! Then crying, "My son! my son!" she threw herself, with one long, long sob, upon the stranger's neck!
* * * * *
The story is told. What lay in his power was done by the returned prodigal, who did not come back empty-handed to the paternal roof. His wife and children fostered and petted the old people, till, after the passage of two or three more Thanksgiving-Days, they became as cheerful as of old, and they are now considered one of the happiest couples in the county. Do not, on that account, O too easily influenced youth, think that happiness for one's self and others is usually secured by dissolute habits in early life, or by running away from home. Half the occupants of our jails and alms-houses can tell you to the contrary.
* * * * *
SONG IN A DREAM.
Winter rose-leaves, silver-white,
Drifting o'er our darling's bed,—
He's asleep, withdrawn from sight,—
All his little prayers are said,
And he droops his shining head.
Winter rose-leaves, falling still,
Go and waken his sad eyes,
Touch his pillowed rest, until
He shall start with glad surprise,
And from slumber sweet arise!
* * * * *