And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain?  O, no; they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother’s face; had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing of the extent of their bereavement.  The husband, too, had lost the companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to be judged according to the deeds done in the body.

The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the windows.

“Hark!” said he, springing up, “the bees are swarming; I shall be stung to death,” and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye and a more intense one in his brain.  Descending the hill, he watched the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death.  With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.

Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide and direct him.

Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair.  The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed back, no hope.  But still they did hope.  The breath came heavily from the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so brief a space.  The parents were young in years and unacquainted with sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant.  They felt they could not part with the dear one.  Carefully they nursed the flickering lamp of life:  through that dreary winter night, lest some ruder blast should extinguish it forever.  Wished they to join the thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion?  O, no, they had rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus’ harp, or thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.