MIKE MARBLE’S LAST DAYS.

I should love to chat about my old friend a good while longer. But perhaps I had better stop, for fear you may get tired of the theme. I must tell you a little about his old age, then I will leave off.

He was one of the happiest old men I ever knew. He was always cheerful. One could never meet him in the street, and look into his pleasant face, without catching something of his cheerfulness. Bad humor is catching, you know, as much as the small pox, or the canker rash, and so is good humor, too. At all events, I remember that once, when I felt ever so much “out of sorts,” because things did not go right, I came across Uncle Mike, on my way to school, and a chat of about half a minute completely sweetened my temper.

There was nothing which Uncle Mike liked better, after his hair the little hair that time had spared to him was whitened with age, than to have a group of children about him, coaxing him to tell them stories.

Dear old man! my heart blesses him now, as my memory recalls the scenes in which he used to take a part. With all his oddities and crotchets, he always had a kind and warm heart beating in his bosom. I don’t believe that he ever had an enemy in the world. Every body, it always seemed to me, respected him, and those who knew him most, loved him best.

He possessed an art which is worth more than the finest farm in America. It was the art of being happy himself, and of making others happy. He was never out of humor. Nobody could get him into a passion. I never heard of his having wounded the feelings of a single individual, during all the time that I was acquainted with him.

Now some people will say, “Oh, it was Mike Marble’s way. That was his disposition. He could not help being good-natured. It came natural to him to make friends. It was as easy for him to scatter happiness all around him, as it was to breathe.” I don’t know about all that. There may have been something probably there was something in Mike Marble’s natural disposition, which was pleasant and cheerful. But I guess it cost him some effort to live in the sunshine so constantly. There is such a thing, reader and I hope you will mark these words well there is such a thing as keeping the heart fresh, and green, and tender, and loving, by one’s own effort; and there is such a thing, too, as letting the heart, by neglect and want of culture, become old before its time, and dry, and tough, and crabbed. You can school your affections. Did you know that? I’ll tell you how to dry up all the love and kindness you may have. Shut up your heart, as an oyster does its shell. Shut it up, and be selfish. Do so, and you will soon be sick enough of the world, and the world will be sick enough of you. But I would not do that, if I were in your place. I would advise you to try to keep the heart open, by doing all the kind acts you can. But I must end my tale of Mike Marble.

Dear old man! He has gone to his rest. His voice long since ceased to be heard on earth. He died as he lived cheerfully and peacefully. The Saviour, in whom he had trusted, was with him in his dying hour, and I cannot doubt that that good man went to dwell with the angels.