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MARCH, 
THE ALMOND BLOSSOM—FADING CHILDHOOD. 
‘ Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past, 
But you might stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last.’—H errick. 
m- 
T is a new and terrible feeling wben a tender 
parent first looks upon the corpse of his 
own child. Every father and mother possesses a 
sort of instinctive persuasion that his child is to 
outlive him; and if ever he presents his own 
death-bed scene to himself, he always imagines 
that his sons and daughters will be standing 
round him, endeavouring to administer every 
comfort in their power. Nature shrinks at the idea 
of the child going before the father. Well do I 
remember, that although the death of infants is so com¬ 
mon an event, I was utterly confounded when I was called upon to 
give up my infant baby. Oh, my baby! oh, my Henry! Teach me 
to do Thy will, my Grod! 
In the evening I walked with my Henry in Lucy’s verandah (the 
verandah of the room in which the little fair one was born). I sang 
the ‘Evening Hy mn f I sang many Psalms; and took him at last 
asleep to bed. These words are ever sounding in my ears : ‘ Mamma, 
Mamma, remember Henry! ’ I used to fancy at the time that I con¬ 
stantly heard him repeating them. 
On Saturday I saw him in the back verandah, with a little slender 
stick in his hand ; and I saw him afterwards with corn for the fowls 
in his frock. 
I know not how it was, but I often found myself singing this verse 
whilst I nursed him,— 
‘And sickness, alas! to the cold grave has brought him.’ 
This is part of a sweet song- which Mr. Sherwood used to sing;. Yet 
