For sorrow is man's heritage
From early youth to hoary age.




THE RECORD


"The hours are viewless angels, that still go gliding by,
And bear each moment's record up to Him that sits on high."

A mother wrote a story about her daughter in which she represented her
as making some unkind and rude remarks to her sister. Julia was a
reader of the newspapers, and it did not escape her notice. The
incident was a true one, but it was one she did not care to remember,
much less did she like to see it in print.

"Oh! mother, mother," she exclaimed, "I do not think you are kind to
write such stories about me. I do not like to have you publish it when
I say anything wrong."

"How do you know it is you? It is not your name." Julia then read the
story aloud.

"It is I. I know it is I, mother. I shall be afraid of you if you
write such stories about me, I shall not dare to speak before you."

"Remember, my child, that God requireth the past, and nothing which
you say, or do, or think, is lost to him."