Our little boy died yesterday, and we have just returned from the graveyard and have left him behind us.

We have left him behind us. His absence makes HOME desolate. We wander from room to room, as if in search of something that is lost. Here is the bed in which he slept. His head will not again press the smooth pillow. We open some drawer. There are the little shoes he wore; the many frocks in which he looked so lovely. We have not heart to stay longer in the room. We hasten into some other. A picture-book, the leaves of which were torn by his cunning hands, we see. All around in the closet are the toys, just in the confusion in which he left them--the little wagon, with its load of pictured blocks--the doll that the darling nursed and cared for, as though it were alive--the sword and drum, with which he marched so soldier-like about the house. Tears come too fast. We miss him so, that we have not strength to stay where he is not. We seek another room. Here is the little chair in which he sat. It was scarcely a week ago when he was sitting by our side, and asking his queer, puzzling questions, and was looking so delighted, whilst we were telling him, for the fiftieth time, the old, old nursery stories. Now the chair is vacant. He has gone from our side. It seems as if there was nothing for us to do but to sit still, and fold our hands, and count our tears. O! how HOME is desolated by the death of a child! A grown person is missed at morning and evening, and at meal times. But a child is missed every minute of the long, long day. He is missed from the mother's arms; he is missed from the father's knee. The sunlight is not more missed, when cloudy day succeeds to cloudy day. The vacant cradle, the vacated crib, the vacated nursery, are constant. The vacated bed, the vacated parlor, are occasional. Indeed, that little grave has left home dreary. We would not have courage to sleep beneath our own roof; we would exchange its hearth-stone for a stranger's hospitality; we would forsake its quiet table for the crowded hall; the roof-tree we would leave, and find another shelter; if it were not that we still loved the places which our baby-child was once familiar with; as if was not heard the Savior saying: "I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE."