I took his trembling little hand in mine, and shaking my head to clear the moisture from my eyes, said I, attempting to smile—­“How are you?”

“Quite well,” said the dying infant, and he, too, smiled.

I knew that it was an angel that lighted up that smile—­that it was the immortal spirit, rising in sublime resignation above the vanity of health and earthly beauty, that beamed in his blighted face.

“I cannot walk now,” said Johnny, in a soft, low voice, that his panting chest could scarcely articulate.

I could not speak—­and, continued the boy, with a little sigh, and in tremulous tones—­“My mother is dead.”—­But thy Father, from whom the purest and holiest things and thoughts have their being—­the Source of all light and life and beauty and goodness, lives to thee Johnny, said I in my heart.  Poor little blighted city flower, thought I, as I looked at him through my tears—­immortal flower of humanity—­purer and lovelier now in thy pain and resignation than when thy cheeks were rosy, and thy laugh was like a song-bird’s music; thou shall soon be transplanted to a land where no sorrows, sighs, and pains are known; thy little feeble frame will moulder away beneath the daisy and the weeping snow-drop, but thy purified soul shall bloom in everlasting glory, in the bosom of God.

Oh! you who are strong and full of life, speak gently to the fragile, drooping, blighted flowers of cities, and do not scorn them.  They once were beautiful; and now they only linger sadly here, with no mother to cherish them.  Kind words and gentle looks are everlasting sunshine to city flowers.

Around the throne of God are white-winged cherubim, whose countenances are purer than transparent snow, and whose voices are sweeter than that of the angel Azazil, who leads the choir of the daughters of Paradise.  Those are the souls of little children, who have suffered in their bodies and in their affections, and who have yet complained not.  The soul of little Johnny blooms brightly amongst those celestial spirits—­a flower of heaven.

SEVENTH VOLUME OF

BURRITT’S CHRISTIAN CITIZEN.

ELIHU BURRITT, Proprietor.

EDITORS,

ELIHU BURRITT, THOMAS DREW, Jr.

REGULAR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENTS,

Edmund Fry, London, Ernest Lacan, Paris.

THE SEVENTH VOLUME of this large and popular Family Newspaper, commenced
Jan. 1st. 1850.  Devoted to

Christianity and Reform, Literature, Education, Science, Art, Agriculture and News.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING, AT

WORCESTER, MASS.

TERMS.—­ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CENTS, per Annum, INVARIABLY in
Advance.

* * * * *

The Citizen is the organ of no party or sect, but expresses freely the sentiments of its editors upon all the great reformatory questions of the day.  Sympathising with all the great enterprises of Christian benevolence, it especially speaks against all war in the spirit of peace.  It speaks for the slave as a brother bound; and for the abolition of all institutions and customs which do not respect the image of God and a human brother, in every man, or whatever clime, color or condition of humanity.