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VACATION FUN
EMBRACING
STORIES FROM FAIRY LAND.
STORIES FROM NATURAL HISTORY. \
STORIES @F WONDERFUL THINGS IN THE SEA, ON THE LAND AND IN THE AIR.
STORIES FROM HOME LIFE AND STORIES OF GAMES
INDOOR AND OUT, WHICH LITTLE FOLK
LOVE SO WELL. ,
+ e » ENLIVENED BY THE . . .
CHOICEST SELECTIONS From tHE POETIC WORLD.
SUPERBLY. ILLUSTRATED
By a Wealth of Special Engravings by the Best Designers, !
COPYRIGHTED 1894, BY ROBERT O. LAW.
W. W. HOUSTON & COMPANY,
46 AND 48 NORTH FOURTH ST,
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
“THE SULTRY DAY IS WELL-NIGH DONE,â€
JENNIE'S CROSSING.
MUSIC OF THE MONTHS.
JANUARY.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
ANUS am I; oldest of potentates!
Forward I look and backward and below.
I count—as God of avenues and gates—
The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads and drift the fields with snow,
I chase the wild fowl from the frozen land;
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.
HOW STOCKINGS GROW.
{= was New Year’s Day! Grandmother had
finished her cup of tea, and was ready
for a quiet nap in her high-backed chair; but
to-day she had to forego the pleasure, as she
had promised to show little Polly ‘‘how it »
was done.†How what was done? Listen.
The day before Polly had asked Granny a
dozen or more questions about stockings, to
all of which questions Granny only nodded
her head, and said, ‘‘Stockings grow.â€
“Grow! grow! but they don’t grow like
cherries on acherry-tree; they don’t grow
like mushrooms in the meadow; and I have
never, never seen any stockings growing any-
where, I am quite sure, quite sure,†said
Polly, with confidence.
So when Granny ended the dispute by say-
ing, “‘ You come to me to-morrow afternoon
and I’ll show you how stockings grow,†Polly
was delighted.
-Whata picture they make! Fora long time
-she could not see how, bit by bit, the tiny
thread of worsted lapping over the bright knit-
ting-needles was making the stocking grow
longer and tonger. But at last the patient
erseverance of the teacher was rewarded, and
olly exclaimed, ‘‘I see it all now, Granny.
You can’t nohow make a stocking all at once:
you must do it bit by bit; and it is really just
like growing.†;
Granny was very wise, as most Grannies
are. Quicker than I can write it, she drop-
ped the knitting needles and unraveled the
stocking all at once. To Polly’s great dis-
may there was nothing left on the floor but
acrumpled, tumbled-about pile of worsted.
“Oh, Granny! It isa shame! How could
you!†And poor Polly was ready to burst
into tears.
““T’ve done it on purpose, child,†said
Granny, gravely. ‘It is quite true, as you
have seen, that we can only make a stocking
bit by bit; out look there, and learn that we
39
can spoil it all ina moment. So it is with
our characters. We make them bit by bit
every day, and we can spoil them in a mo-
ment. Granny is an old woman, and she has
often seen the work of a lifetime ruined in a
few minutes. ‘Watch and Pray.’
‘Watch, as if on that alone
Hung the issue of the day ;
Pray, that Help may be sent down—
Watch and Pray!â€
SUNSET.
FANNIE ISABEL SHERRICK.
eco gold, gold!
Gold in the meadows of God,
Gold in the blossoming sod,
Gold in the crown of the yellow sun.
Rest, rest, rest!
Rest in the purple sky, :
Rest where the cloudlands lie,
Rest for the lands of the wind and sun.
Dreams, dreams, dreams!
Dreams for the ones that we love,
Dreams for the star-souls above, .
Dreams for the world when the day is done.
LITTLE FEET.
FLORENCE PERCY.
ARS little feet so small that both may nestle,
In one caressing hand, —
Two tender feet upon the untired border
Of life’s mysterious land.
Dimpled and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms,
In April’s fragment days,
How can they walk among the briery tangles,
That edge the world’s rough way.
These white-rose feet, along the doubtful future
Must bear a woman’s load; i
Alas! Since woman bears the heaviest burden
And walksthe roughest road.
Love, for a while, will make the path before them
All dainty, smooth and fair,—
‘Will cut away the brambles, letting only
The roses blossom there.
Will they go up Ambition’s summit,
The common world above?
Or in some nameless vale securely sheltered,
Walk side by side love? -
How shall it be with this dear gentle stranger,
Fair-faced and gentle-eyed; _
Before whose unstained feet, the world’s rude high-
way.
Stretches so strange and wide.
Ah! who may read the future? For our darling,
‘We crave all blessings sweet — F
And pray that he who feeds the crying ravens
Will guide the baby’s feet.
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LITTLE FEET.
“THE LAND OF LITTLE PEOPLE.â€
COOPER WILLIS. i
ES ; the land of little people is a lovelier land
than ours,
With its mine of new-found treasures, mossy glades,
and fairy bowers ;
Harth her robe of choicest beauty spreads to woo the
tender feet,
And the angels whispering round them thrill the air
with accents sweet.
Memory brings no pang of sorrow, troubles lightly
pass away,
Hope’s horizon 1s to-morrow, and the sun is bright
to-day ;
Every moment has its blessing, sweeter thoughts,
and fairer flowers.
Yes ; the land of little people is a lovelier land than
ours.
But from o’er the silent river comes to us a purer
glow—
Purer even thun the sunbeams that the little people
know ;
And the love song of the heavens steals upon the
wearied ear,
Sweeter than the angels’ whisper that the little peo-
ple hear;
And the wanderer, overstriven, humbled as a little
child, :
Knows the past is all forgiven, and his God is recon-
ciled,
When around his faltering footsteps comes the
blessing of the dove,
From the fairest world of any, from the home of
peace and love. ‘
“DON'T YOU THINK WE LOOK VERY
PRETTY.â€
LD. you think we look very pretty ?
Why of course you do. You never
saw five handsomer kittens in all your life,
now did you? But perhaps Lette — that’s
the tall serious one inthe middle of the back
row —can hardly be called a kitten; she is
older even than Belle and Saucy, those are
the kittens on either side of her. Roxie
and I, are twins. You will know Roxie by
the beautful leather collar she wears around
her neck. And a cunning, wicked Roxie
she is, though she does look so demure. I’m
sure Ishouldn’t get into half the trouble I
flo, if it were not for Roxie. You will see
that I have a beautiful old gold satin-ribbon
bow, tied under my left ear, which is fash-
ionable—and you will also observe that I
have a very beautiful bushy tail. I asked
Ma one day how long kittens could be kit-
tens, and she said she could hardly tell. She
said she understood chickens were chickens
until they were cooked, and so she supposed
kittens were kittens as long as they were
kittenish. That’s just what makes me
think Lette’s kittenhood has come to an end,
for she is cross and very stupid, and when
we went to have our photographs taken in
what the photograph man called “A Feline
Group,†Lette winked and blinked and
looked half asleep. Well, I’ve just made
up my mind to be a kitten as long as ever I
can. Some people don’t like kittens, but I
know agentleman who wrote a long poem,
all out of his own head, about kittens. I
only remember two verses, but Im sure
yow’ll say with me that it’s real beautiful |
poetry, and that he was a real nice geutle-
man.
A small bright face, two round green eyes,
A fluffy head as soft as silk,
Two ears pricked up in swift surprise,
Two whiskered lips to drink the milk, °
So sleek, so quick, so fair, so fat,
There’s nothing like the youngest cat. .
She’s here, she’s there, she’s everywhere ;
No spot is sacred from the pet.
Of food she takes the lion’s share :
She rushes where the saucer’s set ;
The mouse she claims ; she beards the rat
Within his hole—the youngest cat.
THE BOY WHO PROMISED MOTHER.
GEORGE COOPER.
HE school was out, and down the street
A noisy crowd came thronging;
The hue of health, and gladness sweet,
To every face belonging.
Among them strode a little lad,
Who listened to another,
And mildly said, half grave; half sad.
“YT can’t—I promised mother.â€
A shout went up, a ringing shout,
Of boisterous derision;
But not one moment left in doubt
That manly, brave decision.
“Go where you please, do what you will,â€
He calmly told the other;
“But I shall keep my word, boys, still;
I can’t—I promised mother.â€
Ah! who could doubt the future course
Of one who thus had spoken?
Through manhood’s struggle, gain and loss,
Could faith like this be broken?
God’s blessings on that steadfast will,
Unyielding to another,
That bars all jeers and laughter still,
Because he promised mother.
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“DON’T YOU THINK WE LOOK PRETTY ?â€
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
I. A LESSON FROM THE COLISEUM.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
E are not quite certain who wrote the
Epistle to the Hebrews. The popular
impression that Paul was its author is not
sustained by sufficient evidence to make that
impression certain. Whoever wrote it, was
aman of very remarkable skill, of wide
scholarship, and of keen powers of observa-
tion. This letter was, in the first instance,
addressed to the Hebrew converts to Christi-
anity, and its main purpose was to show
them that in giving up Judaism for this faith
of the Nazarene, they were not in any real
sense giving up the sacred faith of their
fathers, but were accepting the larger spirit-
ual development of the promise made of God
untothe fathers. It was the business of this
epistle to show that ‘‘ Christianity was Juda-
ism gone to blossom and fruit;†that the
“law†which came by Moses was but the fore-
runner of ‘‘the grace and truth,†which at
last came by Jesus Christ. The author of
this epistle sees Christ exalted as head over
all. Ile is higher than the angels, greater
than Moses, a greater priest than Aaron or
Melchisedec. But the writer of this letter,
who wrote as though he had been baptized
into Jewish: modes of thought, into Jewish
hopes and Jewish dreams—‘‘a Hebrew of
the Hebrewsâ€â€”was also greatly moved by
the Greek love of athletic sports and the
grand endurance of the Roman gladiator.
And from remembrances of what he had
geen in the Coliseum at Rome, he suggests a
few wise lessons, that we should be quite
willing to learn. In the days of Tiberias
the Roman amphitheater was capable of hold-
ing fifty thousand spectators. The Coliseum
was well filled at the Olympian races, but
when gladiators fought with gladiators or
with wild beasts it was crowded. Whata
sight for the poor wretch—who was being
“butchered to make a Roman holiday â€â€”it
must have been to see fifty thousand pairs of
cruel eyes looking down upon his torture!
But when the scene was only one of compe-
titive skill, as in the Greek races, it was both
pleasant and humane. It must have been
an inspiration to those swift runners to have
seen that great cloud of witnesses, and, per-
chance, to have heard voices that were dear
to them cheering them on. The ambitious
racer, eager to gain the prize, unclasped his
mantle, and, freeing himself from all en-
tanglements, sped on, ‘‘ laying aside every
weightâ€; inspired by the witnessing multi-
tude, but not allowing their presence to dis-
tract him, his eye fixed on the goal, and om
the laurel crown that was to gird the brow
of him who was fleetest of foot. Every
atom of power was pressed into the service,
and so he reached forth and ran for the prize
that was set before him. From such ascene
what may we not learn of the kind of life
our life should be, if we are to win, not a
crown of fading laurels, but a crown of char-
acter that shall shine pure and bright in the
light of the great white throne. For this is
the great end of the Christian race, not the
mere attainment of position, but the acqui-
sition of a Christ-like disposition and
character. There are those who seem to
think that the highest guerdon of the
Christian life would be to be ‘‘ nearest the
throne and first in song.†Better far is the
ambition of the psalmist, ‘I shall be satis-
fied when I awake in Thy likeness.†Te
attain such a prize is worth all it can ever
cost through all the trying years of time.
With an eye ever fixed on the goal let us run
with all patient continuance, for the crown
we seek is not the fading crown of honor,
but the unfading crown of character.
Live for something, live in earnest, |
Though thy work may humble be,
By the world of men unnoticed,
Known alone to God and thee.
Every act has priceless value
To the architect of fate:
Tis the spirit of thy doing,
This alone that makes it great.
EULA’S MORNING RIDE.
ULA is an early riser. Often before
the birds are wide awake, or the sun.
flowers have turned their hearts of gold to
the sun, or the morning-glories have blown
their trumpets of beauty wide open, Eula’s
voice may be heard singing through the
dewy.morning. As soon as she hears the
ring of the milking pail, she is out of bed
and throws her window wide open, and be-.
fore her father has finished milking Curly
Bess she is down stairs for her morning
ride. Greatly as Eula enjoys her ride from
the milking-shed to the meadow, it would
almost seem asif Curly Bess was equally de-
lighted to bear so fair a burden.
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EULA’S MORNING RIDE.
PLAYING BROWNIE.
TZ was a very dismal, rainy Saturday, anda
very dismal little girl, with something
that looked like a raindrop running over
each cheek, stood at the sitting-room win-
dow drumming drearily on the pane, through
which there was nothing to be seen but a
rubber coated grocery-boy with a basket on
his arm.
‘What a horrid, horrid day!’ pouted Alice
Kent.
‘What a little Miss Grumblekin?†ex-
claimed busy Aunt Julia, as she hurried
through the room clad in her waterproof,
en route for the market.
“But, Auntie, I haven’t anything to play
with.â€
Aunt Julia stopped a moment. ‘I know
a nice game you can play all by yourself,â€
she said.
“What isit?†asked Alice.
“Play you are a good brownie,†replied
he Aunt. ‘Your mother has a great deal
to attend to this morning.â€
‘‘What do good brownies do, Aunt Julia?â€
Things to help people when nobody sees,â€
was the reply—‘“‘surprises you know.†Then
she was gone,
Alice stood and watched the umbrella turn
the corner; then her face brightened, and
sheran up stairs as fast as her feet could
carry her.
As the family sat at the cozy tea-table that
-evening mamma remarked, “‘I believe there
has been a good fairy around today. Some-
body dusted my room and put my work-
basket to rights and arranged my top-drawer
beautifully. 3
“Why, thatis strange Ellen,†said grand-
ma; ‘‘I had asimilar experience. Somebody
found my spectacles, and saved me the
trouble of coming down after the morning
paper.â€
“I wish you would notice the hall-closet,â€
interjected Aunt Julia. ‘You knowit’s a
catch-all for the family.â€
“Yes,†sighed mamma; “‘when everything
else is in order that closet rises up before me
likea nightmare. I must straighten it out
this evening.â€
“Butit looks very nice to-night,†con-
tinued Aunt Julia—‘‘shawls all folded on
the shelves, hoods and gloves and hats and
rubbers in their proper places. I could
hardly believe my eyes.†|
«There is a certain little girl,†said papa,
“who often forgets to put my gown ang
slippers by the fire, but my fairy must have
done it-tonight. Have you had adull day,
Puss?†.
“The pleasantest Saturday I can remems
ber,†replied Alice. or
Noone would have thought her to be the
child who pouted at the rain that morning.
HOW MUCH THERE IS THAT’S BEAUTI-
FUL. i
OW much there is that’s beautiful,
In this fair world of ours!
The verdure of the early spring,
The sweetly blooming flowers.
The brook that dances in the light,
The birds that carol free,
Are objects beautiful and bright,
That everywhere we see.
MONUMENT TO LINCOLN, IN LINCOLN
PARK, CHICAGO.
LI BATES a wealthy citizen of Chicago,
who died some years ago, left alargesum
of money for the erection of a suitable monu-’
ment to the memory of Abraham Lincoln,
After some years spent in perfecting the
wishes of the donor the statue was ready for
unveiling. Thousands of people gathered to-
gether to witness the ceremony. Afteran ad
dress from Leonard Swett, one of Lincoln’s
law partners, and a brief speech by Mayor
Roche in which hesaid, ‘‘Herein the metrop-
olis of the great state that nurtured him from
boyhood to ripened manhood, and saw him, by
the nation’s suffrage, consecrated to leader-
ship and invested with more than kingly
power; here in the beautiful park commem-
orating his name, by the waters of this great
inland sea, it is fitting that we raise a mon-
ument to his memory where future genera-
tions may come and see the likeness of the
hero who died for liberty;†Master Abraham
Lincoln, grandson of the martyr President
stepped to the base of the statue and unloos-
ing the string that held the American colors
in which the statue was enveloped, unveiled
the beautiful monument amid loudand long
continued applause. While this impressive
scene was transpiring in Lincoln Park, the
Hon. Elihu Washburne, one of the most
honored and gifted of American citizens lay
dying, and before the cannonade of the cere-
mony had wholly ceased, the man who had
so distinguished himself as minister to the ,
court of France had passed away.
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LENA’S GOSSIP WITH THE MOON.
R. W. LOWRIE.
L met the moon the other night,
Out by the chestnut tree;
Pl teil you, if you'll listen all,
Some things she told to me.
She says that ong ago she was
As blooming as the sun.
Though now so pale her cheeks, and blanched
Her roses one by one.
She says she sees the frost before
It comes upon the ground;
And hears the footsteps of the snow
While men are sleeping sound.
She says she sees the babies smile
When no one else can see;
And that she loves to see them dream,
And dimple prettily.
She told me many a pretty tale,
And many a secret, too.
And made me promise yester-night
Vd never tell it you!
But if to-morrow night, my dears,
You'll seek the chestnut tree,
No doubt she’ll tell you every word,
Just as she did to me!
REAL COWBOY FUN.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
ee the head men are gathered in
a little knot, planning out the work,
the others are dispersed over the plain in
every direction, racing, breaking rough
horses, or simply larking with one another.
If a man has an especially bad horse, he
usually takes such an opportunity, when he
has plenty of time, to ride him; and while
saddling he is surrounded by a crowd of
most unsympathetic associates who greet
with uproarious mirth any misadventure. A
man on a bucking horse is always considered
fair game, every squeal and jump of the
bronco being hailed with cheers of delighted
irony for the rider and shouts to “stay with
him.†The antics of a vicious bronco show
infinite variety of detail, but are all modeled
on one general plan. When the rope set-
tles round his neck the fight begins, and it
is only after much plunging and snorting
that a twist is taken over his nose, or else a
hackamore—a species of severe halter, usu-
ally made of plaited hair—slipped on his
head. While being bribed he strikes vici-
ously with his fore feet, and perhaps has to
be blindfolded or thrown down; and to get
the saddle on him is quite as difficult,
When saddled he may get rid of his exuber-
ant spirits by bucking under the saddle, or
may reserve all his energies for the rider. -
Tn the last case, the man, keeping tight hold
with his left hand of the check-strap, so as
to prevent the horse from getting his head
down until he is fairly seated, swings him-
self fairly into the saddle. Up rises the
bronco’s back into an arch; his head, the
ears laid straight back, goes down between
his fore feet, and squealing savagely, he
makes a succession of rapid, stiff-legged,
jarring bounds. Some times he isa ‘* plung-
ing†bucker, who runs forward all the time
while bucking; or he may buck steadily in
one place, or ‘‘sunfish,â€â€”that is, bring first
one shoulder down almost to the ground and
then the other—or else he may change ends
while in the air. A first-class rider will sit
throughout it all without moving from the
saddle, quirting his horse all the time,
though his hat may be jarred off his head
and his revolver out of itssheath. Aftera
few jumps, however, the average man grasps
hold of the horn of the saddle—the delighted
oniooker meanwhile earnestly advising him
not to ‘go to leatherâ€â€”and is contented to
get through the affair in any shape provided
he can escape without being thrown off. An
accident is of necessity borne with a broad
grin, as any attempt to resent the raillery of
the bystanders— which is perfectly good
humored—would be apt toresult disastrously.
“YOURS, DEAR HEARTS, AND MINE.â€
FANNIE ISABEL SHERRICK.
-[ ET us look in our hearts and count the gifts
That the Father in heaven has given ;
'The poorest among us has life at least
And hope of a future heaven.
We each have a blessing that others have not,
Some gift that is sweeter than all,
And the guiding hand of a Savior near
Whatever our lives befall.
We all have sorrows that we must bear,
And a cross that is hid from sight:
But though in darkness we walk to-day,
To-morrow we'll find the light.
Though we see them not in the cloudy sky,
The stars inthe heaven still shine,
And beyond them all is the Father’s Love
That is yours, dear hearts and mine.
THE UNRULY MEMBER.
There are many men whose tongues might
govern multitudes if they sould govern their
tongues.
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LENA’S GOSSIP WITH THE MOON.
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A SURE RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS.
nce there was a king who had a little
boy whom he loved. He gave him beau-
tiful rooms to live in, and pictures and toys
and books. He gave him a pony to ride and
‘a row boat on a lake, and servants. He
provided teachers who were to give him
knowledge that would make him good and
great. But for all this the young prince
was not happy. He wore a frown wherever
he went, and was‘always wishing for some-
thing he did not have. At length, one day,
- a magician came to the court. He saw the
boy, and said to the king: ‘I can make
your son happy, but you must pay me a
great price for telling the secret.†. <‘ Well,â€
said the king, “what you ask I will give.â€
So the price was paid. The magician took
the boy into a private room. He wrote
something with a white substance on a piece
of paper. Next he gave the boy a candle and
told him to light it and hold it under the
pee and then see what he could read. Then
e went away. The boy did as he was told,
and the white letters on the paper turned
into a beautiful blue.
_ They formed these words: ‘*Do a kind-
ness to some one every day.†‘The prince
made use of the secret and became the hap-
piest boy in the kingdom.
LONGINGS FOR THE SPRING.
GEORGE COOPER. :
Wi you never wake up little brook?
You are sleeping so cold and still:
Have you nothing to say,
Till the snow flies away,
And the daisies the springtime fill?
“Wait,†the little brook lisped, very low,
“‘T have wonderful things to tell;
Though the winter seems long,
I shall break into song
we tars bluebirds that flash through the
ell.
«You look withered and lonely, poor tree!
‘Will you soon wear your crown of green?
Only icicles fall -
From your boughs, dark and tall,
Where a torn empty nest is seen.â€
“Wait!†thetree murmured softly “still wait!
Though the snow all around me lies deep,
‘When the warmer wind brings
The flutter of wings,
T shall rock the sweet birdies to sleep.
** Are you stirring below, tiny seed?
For I am longing to see you peep,
When the storm blusters near,
Are you frightened to hear? â€
** Wait,†the tiny seed whispered, ‘‘I’ll eome
When the rain-drops above me cali;
Then, in gold, pink and blue,
With a sweet ‘ How d’ye do,’
I shall welcome the little ones all!â€
“WELL-ENOUGH JONES.â€
«¢ Have you got your lesson, Will?†asked
Harry Mayo, standing outside the open sit-
ting-room window of the Jones’ farmhouse.
‘Pye got it well enough.†And the tat-
tered, coverless spelling-book was thrown
into the farthest corner of the room, as the
lad crammed his new but battered straw hat
upon his curly, half-combed hair, and started
to join his comrade in the yard.
“Tt is not well enough unless it is per-
fect,†replied Harry; ‘‘and I am in no
hurry.â€
«Well enough’ is my motto, and ‘ Per-
fect’ is yours,†laughed Will.
“And that is why Harry is always at the
head of your classes, and you are at the
foot,†put in Aunt Hannah, with a sigh;
while Mrs. Jones called after her son, “‘ That
onion bed is not thoroughly weeded by any
means.â€
“It is weeded well enough,â€, retorted
Will, as he vaulted over a rail fence on the
brow of-a hill, from which point a broad
sheet of water, glistening inthe sunlight, was
visible a mile away.
“Have you mended your boat?†asked
Harry, as the two lads ran swiftly down the
grassy pasture slope.
«Yes, well enough,†replied Will, reach-
ing the water’s edge, and pushing the paint-
ed skiff out upon the mirror-like surface.
“A well-enough boat will not do for my
mother’s only boy,†said Harry, stoutly.
“Let us give up going upon the water to-
day, and throughly mend and tar The Speed-
well, then we can take some comfort going
out in her.â€
‘Oh, nonsense! You are such a notional
chap! The boat is well enough. - Come on!â€
And, jumping in, he took up the oars.
Harry sat down upon a rock, saying, “‘Go
on, and I will stay here to render you what
assistance I can when the boat sinks.â€
Will laughed heartily as he paddled away,
and his laughter ran back over the water at
intervals for haif an hour. Then he shouted,
making a trumpet of his hands: ‘‘ She’s fill-
ing and sinking! I can’t get ashore!â€
“‘Put for Brush Island,†Harry shouted
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back; and knew his advice was being taken
by the changed course of the little boat.
“He won’t drown—he can swim,†said
Harry to himself. But he watched with in-
tense anxiety, there being nothing else that
he could do, until the boat disappeared, and
the owner struck out for the island, now
only a few rods away from him. Not until
he had scrambled upon the rocks, and
waved his hat in triumph, did Harry leave
his own exposed position; then, waving his
hat in reply, he turned and ran as fast as
possible for the house.
“There is only one thing for me to do,â€
he said, breathlessly, to Mrs. Jones, “and
that is to go as fast as I can for Tom Fisher’s
boat. Iam afraid we can’t get him off be-
fore dark, and it is awfully lonely over
there.â€
“JT don’t care at all,†said Aunt Hannah.
“TI don’t pity him one bit. I think it would
be a good lesson for him to stay there all
night. It might teach him that nothing
partly done is done well enough.â€
The kind old lady, however, as Harry sped
away, took her knitting work and went and
sat upon the rocks by the boat landing where
she could see her nephew and he could see
_ her, although the distance was too great for
either to hear the voice of the other.
“ He’s well enough,†she said to the fam-
ily, a8 one and another came down to keep
her company; “but there would be no harm
in making a bonfire here, so he will know
we have not forgotten him.â€
The sun went down, the daylight faded
away in the west, one by one the stars came
out; but still there was no sign of the ap-
proaching boat.
When the flames of the bonfire shot up
against the sky, an answering flame shone
out from the island.
“Oh, he had his metallic match-safe with
him that he uses when he goes fishing even-
ings,†said his sister.
“Now, if he. only had something to cook,
he would be all right; but he has not, and,
oh dear, how hungry he must be!†and the
little girl sobbed bitterly.
The hours dragged along, one, two, three
of them, and then from out of the darkness,
at the upper end of the pond, astar appeared,
coming gradually nearer and nearer. It was
a boat with a lantern, but it was not coming
from the direction of Tom Fisher’s,
They all watched breathlessly as it rounded
the point and shot up into the rays of
light. It was a boat with two men, and it
took off the adventurer and sped to the
shore.
“Tt seems as if I had been gone as long as
Rip Van Winkle,†said Will, as he jumped
onshore. “I think my hair must be turned
quite gray. I am hungry asa wild Indian;
and I am sure I could write a book, if I could
put down all the thoughts that have run
through my mind, and all the good resolu-
tions I have made. There is one thing sure,
I never will say, ‘Well enough,’ again.â€
“And how are you, Harry?†asked Aunt
Hannah, gently, of the lad who stood quietly
b
%Oh, well enough,†laughed Harry, good-
naturedly. “Tom Fisher was not at home,
and I had to tramp three miles further, clear
to the head of the pond.â€
“You were as much alone as I was, tramp-
ing alone through the pine woods,†said
Will, with unusual thoughtfulness,
“Why, yes, so I was; but I did not think
of it, because I was doing something for
somebody, and you had nothing to do but
wait.â€
“Have you had supper?†asked Aunt
Hannah. Harry shook his head. “Neither
have I,†said the other lady. “I didn’t
think of it, I was so anxious for both you
boys.â€
Will was cured of his bad habit; but the
schoolboys insisted that the initials W. E.
stood not for William Everett, but for Well
Enough; and “ Well-Enough Jones†he has
been called all his life.
The pond where the little red boat can
still be seen on the clear, sandy bottom, is
known as Well-Enough Pond; and the short
cut through the pinewoods that leads from
the pond to the village is known as Well-
Enough Lane.
A GOOD TIME TO BE DEAF,
SIR T, BROWNE.
Be deaf unto the suggestions of tale-
bearers, caluminators, pick-thanks or
malevolent detractors, who, while great
men sleep, sow the tares of discord and
division; distract the tranquility of charity
and all friendly society. These are the
tongues that set the world on fire—cankerers
of reputation, and, like that of Jonah’s gourd,
wither a good name in a single night.
ea
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gay
But the song lived on through all the day,
THE WELCOME SINGE
il every street in the old town rang
With liquid notes from the silver bill.
And an added softness gently lay
Twitter and warble and softest trill
Through pastures green and meadows
Moisture from cheeks where it seldom lay,
As pictures arose of valley and hill
Entered houses through window and door,
Of forest nook and mountain rill
A wandering bird dropped lightly down;
On a swinging spray he sat and sang
And filled every shop from roof to floor.
And many a hard hand brushed away
Of beautiful youths and maidens fair,
The dear old home and mother’s chair.
The unconscious bird flew far away,
On the little town with houses gray.
Made each ‘become as a little child.â€
Into the heart of a dusty town
Every one wondered
The jubilant melody,
Men spoke more softly,
Ti
A //} LEE ZR
LT LE,
y
BABY JO.
KATE HARRINGTON.
UT from heaven's portals, those flood-gates of
light,
Came ee soul in the hush of the night.
On, past the star-isles that floated on high:
. On, past the moonbeamis that goldened the sky:
Truant from Eden it wandered away
Down to the edge of the dawn of the day.
No one could tell how the pathway was known,
Or how, unguided, it came to its own.
This we but knew — that a heaven of love
Came to our home with this gift from above,
This we but felt — that a transport of joy
Burst in each heart at the birth of our boy.
Just while we mourned o’er the vanishing flowers
One from the summer-land floated to ours.
Just when we sighed that the song-birds had fled
Came our sweet nestling to cheer us instead.
Just when earth’s shadows its sunlight concealed,
Lo! to our spirits this bliss was revealed.
Soft, dimpled hands we can hide in our own,
What will you do when our baby is grown?
Promise me, now, when your work has been planned,
Ever to cheerfully heed His command.
Strike, if need be, for Justice and Right,
Lead back misguided ones into the light.
Constant in friendship and steadfast in love,
Hand-clasp and heart-throb in concert will move.
Small, tender feet! O, so daintily flushed,
Dyed with a tint as of rose petals crushed,
Wilkyou not carry our darling alway
Onward and upward, but never astray?
Will you not bear him, with tenderest care?
Over each pitfall and past every snare? .
Whether his path lie through thorns or through
flowers
Hold from temptation this treasure of ours!
Lips like twin blossoms a-quiver with dew,
When will the sweet, lisping words tremble
through?
When, O how long must I wait ere I see
Answering smiles in the blue eyes for me?
Questioning glances and looks of surprise
Brighten and flash in those wondering eyes.
Sueh a large world for a baby so small!
Wenuld he might tell what he thinks of it al?!
GOOD HUMOR’S VISIT TO PESKY JIM.
ESKY JIM was a good boy generally,
and had plenty of toys, such as nine-
pins, blocks, drums, a boy doll, a lovely
horse, and he liked to play with all those
things and scatter them over the floor, which
his mamma allowed him to do all day, until
evening. Then mamma said: “Now, Jim,
ick up your toys and put them in the
rawer.†But Jim, being tired and a little
eross, would say with a pout:
“T don’t want to put them away. Mam.
ma, pick them up.â€
Well, one evening Jim was sitting on the
carpet with his toys all around him, when
there was a brisk rat-a-tat at the door, and
in walked a little man who said,
“Good evening, Jim. Why, what is the
matter? You look so cross. I see you don’t
know me to-day. My name is Good Hu-
mor.â€
Jim said, ‘“‘I don’t want to pick up all
these things every evening.â€
Then Good Humor laughed and said,
“‘ Well, I will have to introduce you to two
friends of mine. I expect them here every
minute.â€
While he was yet speaking there came a
“rat-a-tat, tat†at the door, and in walked
two little gentlemen. One of them went to
Jim and said,
““Good evening, Jim; my name is Cheer-
fulness. Allow me to introduce you to my
friend, Werk. We have called this evening
to help you put away all your toys in their
proper places for to-night. Come, show us
the drawer.†-
“‘Here it is,†said Good Humor with a
laugh.
So Jim went with Cheerfulness to work,
and they piled up the toys on Work’s back,
and they put them away in the drawer very
carefully. Then Good Humor shouted,
“Hurrah, hurrah!†and Cheerfulness
shook hands with Jim, and Work said,
“Good evening. I am going to bed;â€
and they all went away and left Jim laugh-
ing.
Dear. little boys and girls, whenever you
feel cross or sulky, and don’t wish to obey
your parents, call on Good Humor and
Cheerfulness, and they will help you with
your work.
TAKE YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR
POCKETS, MY BOY.
O begin with, it does not look well when
a young man crooks his arms and
thrusts his hands into his pockets, making a
figure eight of himself, and then stands up
against the sunny side of the house, like a
rooster in December. :
How would the girls look all turned to
eights and leaning against the wall? How
would your mother look in that posture?
ZESS,
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Catch her doing it! You don’t find her
hands in her pockets. Your mother’s hands!
While you are loafing, they are the hands
that sew, and bake, and stew, and fry, and
sweep, and darn, and nurse, but she does not
sink them in her pockets and then loll against
a building.
Are your hands cold? Warm them up at
the end of the hoe handle and scythe. Swing -
the hammer; drive the plane; flourish the
axe. There is untold caloric about a spade,
a trowel, a wrench. :
Besides, pocket. heat is not profitable.
Have you money there though? Are your.
pockets the safes in which you have hid
treasure, and shands the:bolts:th
: eth
3
°
°
Be
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pressing the
the work of t;
years.
we build our bridg:
the sleepers, launch’
run our factories. Y
twenty hills of pota
talking to you, my b
out of your pockets.
have planted
I have been
> your hands
A SONG OF WORK,
E. W. BATCHELDER.
A charming tale was that of old,
For lazy folks by poets told, .
That ’tis Love that makes the world go round—
Round and round,
With never a sound;
Over and over,
From Sydney to Dover,
Here we go, there we go, till the brain reels;
Now on our heads and now on our heels;
But we know it is not Love atall
That keeps agoing this cosmic ball;
: For oh!
Tis Work that makes the world go round,
And Love only oils the wheels!
Then prate no more of a ‘‘ primal curse;â€
With Eden kept, things might have been worse;
For ’tis Work that makes the world go round;
: So day by day
We'll work away,
Plowing and sowing,
Reaping and mowing,
Spinning and weaving and getting of meals,
Forging and building and laying of keels;
Slaves and prisoners labor; free men disdain
A word so fraught with crime and pain!
Yet oh!
’Tis hard to make the world go round
If Love do not oil the wheels!
it know they of rest who never work,
ithe duties of manhood and womanhood shirk,
Work that makes the world go round!
2 When work is done
*Tis time for fun—
Father and mother,
. Sister and brother,
d all, with the merriest peals,
‘éeting the joys home life reveals,
Day's work brings peace and rest at night;
For, Work means Duty, and Duty is Right!
an _ And oh!
is easy to make the world go round
ove will but oil the wheels!
AN ALPHABET OF PROVERBS.
Attend carefully to details of your business.
Be prompt in all things.
Consider well, then decide positively.
Dare to do right, fear to do wrong.
Endure trials patiently.
Fight life’s battle bravely, manfully.
Go not into the society of the vicious.
Hold integrity sacred.
Injure not another’s reputation nor business,
Join hands only with the virtuous.
Keep your mind from evil thoughts.
Lie not for any consideration,
Make few acquaintances. ~
Never try to appear what you are not.
Observe good manners.
Pay your debts promptly.
Question not the veracity of a friend.
Respect the counsel of your parents.
Sacrifice money rather than principle.
Touch not, taste not, intoxicating drinks,
Use your leisure time for improvement.
Venture not upon the threshold of wrong.
Watch carefully over your passions.
*Xtend to every one a kindly salutation.
Yield not to discouragement.
Zealously labor for the right.
And success is certain.
iu
Al at
THEA FIRST LASSON,
LITTLE THINGS.
T CANNOT do great things for Him
Who did so much for me, .
But I would like to show my love,
Dear Jesus, unto Thee.
Faithful in every little thing,
O, Saviour, may I be!
There are small crosses I may take,
Small burdens I may bear,
Small acts of faith and deeds of love,
Small sorrows I may share,
And little bits of work for Thee,
I may do everywhere.
And so I ask Thee, Give me grace
My little place to fill,
That I may ever walk with Thee,
And ever do Thy will,
And in each duty, great or small,
May I be faithful still.
INDEPENDENT PIERRE,
A MONG the French aristocrats who es-
caped the guillotine, in the days when
it was a crime to have been born with a title,
was the Marquise de Sourcy, who fled to
England, and thence to this country, with
her son, a boy of fourteen. Her husband
having keen executed, this boy, Pierre, in-
herited the title; estates there were none.
His mother landed penniless in Wilming-
ton, Del., and found refuge in a little
cabin on Sixth street. The influential peo-
ple of the town called on Madame de Sourcy,
and offered her aid; many houses were
opened to her, but Pierre refused all help.
“We are poor, but not beggars,†he said,
proudly. “I have hands. [ will support
my mother.†—
He had no profession, trade or capital.
In the garden attached to their cottage
grew a gourd vine. He cut the smaller
gourds and made of them boxes, which he
stained and decorated with black figures.
These boxes sold rapidly at high prices. He
then invented an ice-boat, which drew large
crowds to the banks of Christiana Creek
when it was frozen over,
There the young marquis was waiting
with toy boats which he had made for sale.
When spring came he had several small boxes
. ready to dispose of.
In the garden he raised poultry and vege-
tables enough to supply his mother’s table.
Two years passed. Pierre had wider ambi-
tions. He built, after many failures, a boat
so large that in it he was able to cross the
Delaware, and to bring from New Jersey
sand, which he sold for building purposes,
He had from this a steady.income, and began
to look with contempt on his toy boxes and
boats.
But one day the poor little Marquis.
weighted with his cargo of sand, was over-
taken by a storm on the Delaware, his boat
was capsized, and he was drowned within
sight of his home. His mother sank under
her trouble and died the next day.
They were buried together in the old
Swedes’ churchyard, and the grave is still
shown to strangers, of the little nobleman
who played his part in the world, in the
midst of cruel misery and pain, more bravely,
perhaps, than any of his ancestors.
MAXIMS FOR THE YOUNG.
EVER be idle. When your hands are
not usefully employed, attend to the
cultivation of your mind.
Always speak the truth.
Keep good company or none at all.
Make few promises.
Live up to your engagements.
When you speak to a person look him in
the face.
Good company and excellent conversation
are the very sinews of virtue.
Good character is above all things else.
Never listen to loose or idle conversation.
You had better be poisoned in your blood
than in your principles.
Your character cannot be essentially in-
jured except by your own acts.
Early in life secure a practical business
education.
Do not make too great haste to be rich if
you would prosper.
Small and steady gains give competency
with tranquility of mind.
Never play games of chance, or make bets
of any description. :
Avoid temptation through the fear that
you may not withstand it at last.
Drink no intoxicating liquors.
Never run in debt, unless you see a way
to get out again.
Keep yourself innocent if you would be
happy.
Save when you are young to spend when
you are old.
Aim high in this life, but not so high that
“you cannot hit anything.
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M. B. CULVER.
,
A H! Robin red breast, here you are!
Back from the southern clime afar.
What is the news you chirpingly bring,
Returning tous oneager wing?
How did you leave that summer land,
Where flowers bloom on every hand?
Do soft winds whisper a lullaby
To nature fair in earth and sky?
Do the roses bloom with beauty rare,
Yielding perfume to all the air?
Lifting to God in their purity
An incense glad to His deity?
Why did you leave your sunny home,—
Were you quite ready and anxious to come?
Tell us, sweet robin, what do you bring?
Dear little robin, poor little thing!
“Summer is coming!†you chirpingly say~
‘Tam coming to show her the way.
Qoming with roses and violets blue,
Flowers and grasses baptized with dew.
This is thy message, O birdie, to-day,
Heralding summer, showing the way.
Oh, it is joyous, this message you bring,
Glad robin red-breast, sweet little thing!
THE SONG OF THE BREEZE.
J. M. Ke
A UNT Jemima’s flower-bed certainly
did need weeding. Tommy had prom-
ised to keep it in order, and it looked very
well the first part of the summer, but later
on there were so many things more delight-
ful to do than weeding. There was fishing,
and Tommy had such a beautiful new rod,
and such good luck fishing! Then there
were picnics, and excursions down the river
to the seashore, and the blackberry parties,
and base-ball,matches, and tennis, and arch-
ery, and foot-ball. The summer days went
by so fast! At first the weeds were a little
timid about starting up, fearful of attract-
ing attention; but as no one noticed their
- little shy advances, they became bolder, and
they grew, and they grew, and they grew,
until the little discouraged geraniums and
rose bushes just hid their heads, and could
not be seen at all.
““ Why, Ido declare!†said Tommy, one
bright morning as he was hurrying by, and
caught sight of the tall flaunting weeds.
Aunt Jemima had made some particularly
nice apple-turnovers, and Tommy’s con-
science gave a decided twinge at the
thought of her unfailing kindness to him.
“Tt is too had,†said he, pulling off his
jacket; “‘’ll go to work right off, and clean
out that bed before noon!†: :
But the sun was very hot, and the weeds
were very large and their roots very long,
and it took many a strong tug to pull even
one up.
“My!†exclaimed Tommy, the perspira-
tion rolling down his face, ‘* what tough old
customers these are! How did they ever get
such a start?â€
At length the shade of a neighboring
apple-tree seemed very inviting, and Tommy
threw himself down on the grass beneath the
branches for a moment’s rest. A breeze hap-
pened to be wandering by, and stopped to
cool off Tommy’s hot face. ‘* How nice!â€
he sighed. ‘I wish I were a breeze, just to
fly about all the time, and play among the
leaves and grasses, and have nothing else to
do!â€
“Dear little boy!’ the breezes seemed to
murmur, ‘‘now listen and hear. [’ll whisper
a secret just into your ear. You think
- *twould. be lovely to dance and play, and
frolic about the whole long day, but it would
be tiresome to you, with nothing else in the
world to do.â€
“Ha! ha! ha!†laughed Tommy, “I'd
like to try it just once; no dull school-room,
no sums, no weeding inthe hot sun.†Here
the breeze playfully tickled his ear witha
spear of grass as it whispered: ‘‘It is cer-
tainly hard, all the weeding you’ve done be-
neath the hot beams of the summer sun!
Let me see how long—one hour or two—you
have been working here, and are not yet
through! Don’t you think you’d better
return to your charge?—for the weeds are
strong and the bed is large. For when at
length the task is done, the rest of the vaca-
tion is nothing but fun!â€
“No,†said Tommy, “I’m not going back
quite yet; you don’t know how hard it is.â€
“ But, dear little boy, I’d have you know,
this is true of all the breezes that blow:—
through all the moments of bright daylight,
and on through the silent hours of night,
we are busy and working, each doing his
share, no rest or vacation for us anywhere.â€
‘* Why! what on earth have you got te
do?†asked Tommy. ‘‘ You’re joking!
there’s nothing for you to do!â€
The breeze began softly rocking the
SS
SS
HIS MESSENGER.
ranches of the old apple-tree, and seemed
to sing among the rustling leaves. ‘ Noth-
ing to do, nothing to do! Indeed, my work
is never through. From ‘lands of sun to
jands of snow,’ over the whole wide world I
go. I marshal the clouds that bring the
showers, and hurry them on to the thirsty
flowers, and when they have given the blessed
rain, then I must scatter them all again, and
show the depths of the sky so blue with the
beautiful sunlight shining through. Lazily
rocking upon the sea, the ships are waiting
and watching forme. ‘The sailor sighs for
the favoring gales, when lo! I come and fill
the sails, and off and away they swiftly glide,
dashing the water on either side, bearing
rich cargo from far and near, or carrying
home some loved one dear. Then on I fly
to that distant land, where, gaunt and grim,
great windmills stand. They beckon to me
to hurry and blow, helpless they are without
me, they know. Then off to the city’s nar-
- row street I travel to drive away the heat,
and bring new life and fresher air to those
who are toiling and stifling there,—a breath
from the country, of pastures that lie sweet
and green ’neath the summer sky, or a cool-
ing whiff from the neighboring sea, that
quickens the pulses to life more free.
‘Then over the hills I hurry with speed
to plants, where I promised to carry their
seeds to a different soil or a richer field that
shall an abundant harvest yield. By a
window an invalid sits in her chair, and I
come to bring her a breath of air, and blow
softly in that she may get the scent of the
blossoming mignonette. Then on to the
North with fiercer blast, I whirl the snow-
flakes thick and fast, and over the plants,
an their winter’s sleep, I lay a white cover,
soft and deep, and tuck them in snugly, to
keep them warm, away from the King
Frost’s mighty arm. Down chimneys wide
I whistle and sing, and up start the bright
flames quivering on the farmhouse hearth
from birch-logs dry, and the children laugh
at the sparks that fly. I watch their faces
redden and glow, as the fire to brighter flames
I blow; then around the house I shout and
roar, and rattle the windows and shake the
uoor, The farmer’s wife stops her work to
hear, and smiles at thought of the comfort
near, and her loved ones sheltered from
stormy blast, and I laugh and shout as I
hurry past. I lash the waves into seething
foam, and hurry the lingering fisherman
os,
home. Now I am stopping and idling here,
just to whisper a secret into your ear. From
early morn to set of sun, there’s always work
that must be done; and, little boy, you
should do your share in this world of nature
so wide and fair, and learn a lesson from
birds and bees, from murmuring brooks and
murmuring breeze. The rest is sweetest
that toil has won, and the happiest play
when the task is done.â€
At that moment a little green apple drop-
ped down on Tommy’s face. He jumped up
and rubbed his eyes. The wind was blow-
ing, and a cloud had covered the sun.
‘‘ Well!†said Tommy, looking all around,
“it certainly is queer; how very queer it all
was!†He went thoughtfully back to the
garden-bed and the tall weeds, and worked
with such good will that by afternoon they
were all cleared out, and the bed was raked
carefully over, and the rose-bushes looked
as if they could hold up their heads.
Tommy had a beautiful time fishing next
day in the reservoir, and caught a bass and
six perch, while the words kept ringing in
his ears :
‘Rest is sweetest that toil has won,
And the happiest play when the task is done.â€
LITTLE BOPEEP AND LITTLE BOY
BLUE.
A ROMANCE.
I T happened one morning that little Bopeep, |
While watching her frolicsome, mischievous sheep.
Out in the meadow, fell fast asleep.
By her wind-blown tresses and rose-leaf pout,
And her dimpling smile, you’d have guessed, no
doubt,
*T was love, love, love, she was dreaming about.
As she lay there asleep, came Little Boy Blue,
Right over the stile, where the daisies grew ;
Entranced by the picture, he stopped in the dew.
So wildly bewitching that beautiful morn
Was little Bo-peep, that he dropped his horn,
And thought no more of the cows in the corn,
Our sorrows are many, our pleasures are few;
Oh, moment so lucky! What could a boy do?
He kissed the wee lassie, that Little Boy Blue!
Each sheep heaved a sigh as they stood iu a row,
And said as their heads they wagged srlemnly, slow,
“Such conduct is perfectly shocking—let’s 9.â€
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GOOD NIGHT.
MERCIE M. THIRDS.
Shadows have crept into every nook
Where the sunbeams sported to-day,
And the pure moon chased with her saintly look
The tumult of toil away;
The bird has folded its dew-wet wing,
And gone to its welcome nest;
It awoke with the first light ray to sing,
So is wearily seeking rest.
Good-night, sweet bird, good-night.
How oft in my busy work to-day
I have thought, dear love, of thee,
And still when the day has passed away,
Thy image comes back to me.
Ere I seek repose with slumber blest,
I will pray the Power above
To send good spirits to guard thy rest,
And weave thee bright dreams of love.
Good-night, my love, good-night.
WORTH OF A GOOD NAME.
MAN of very pleasing address, but
very dishonest in his practices, once
said to an honorable merchant: “I would
give fifty thousand dollars for your good
name.â€
““Why so?†asked the other, in sur-
prise.
“Because I could make a, hundred thou-
sand dollars out of it.â€
The honorable character, which was at the
bottom of the good name, he cared nothing.
for; it was only the reputation, which he
could turn to account in a money point of
view, which he coveted.
But a good name can not be bought with
silver. It, of all other possessions, must be
fairly earned. When it is. possessed; jt is
better business capital than a great sum of
money. It isa fortune any boy or girl may
secure. Honesty must be its foundation,
even in the smallest particulars. When an
employer says: “‘There is a boy I can
trust,†that youth will always find himself
in demand, provided he joins industry with
honor. ‘The hand of the diligent maketh
rich.â€
It seems hard at the time, perhaps, to be
bound to a ceaseless round of work while
other boys are lounging, or playing on the
green. But the reward will come if you are
faithful. While idlers are dragging out a
miserable life-time in privation and poverty,
the hard-working boy lives at his ease, re-
spected and honored.
Remember that if you desire to make
your way in the world, there is nothing
that can serve your purpose likea name for
honesty and industry; and you will never
_ acquire either if you are a loiterer about the
streets, and neglectful of your business.
<‘A good name is rather to be chosen than
great riches, and loving favor rather than
silver and gold.â€
WORTH REMEMBERING.
That the tongue is not steel, yet it cuts.
That cheerfulness is the weather of the
heart. .
That sleep is the best stimulant; a nervine
safe for all to take. :
That cold air is not necessarily pure, nor
warm air necessarily impure.
That a cheerful face is nearly as good fox
an invalid as healthy weather.
That there are men whose friends are more
to be pitied than their enemies.
That advice is like castor oil—easy enough
to give but hard enough to take.
That wealth may bring luxuries, but that
luxuries do not always bring happiness.
That grand temples are built of small
stones, and great lives made up of trifling
events.
That an open mind, an open hand, and an.
open heart would everywhere find an open
door. %
WE ARE BUT YOUNG PEOPLE YET.
E are but little children yet—
Young people yet.
But as we grow, the more we know;
We hope we may be wiser yet.
We wish to learn to read and spell;
We wish to know our duty well,
And every one who asks we'll tell
That we shall soon be wiser yet.
Perhaps we are but naughty yet,
Naughty yet.
But every day we try to say
We'll be a little better yet.
‘We mean to mind what we are told,
And if we should be rude or bold,
We'll try to mend as we grow old;
We'll wish that we were better yet.
You think we are too giddy yet,
Giddy yet,
But wait awhile; you need not smile,
Perhaps you'll see us steady yet.
For though we love to run and play,
And many a foolish word we say,
Just come again on some fine day,
You'll find us all quite steady yet..
LOOK WHERE SHE COMES!â€
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LITTLE PROBABILITIES.
HEN he frowns his mother cries;
“Clouds to-day and gloomy skies!â€
When he roams in noisy play,
“‘Boisterous winds and high to-day.
When he’s sweet and still and grave,
«* Fair and clear—a warmer wave.â€
When he cries with might and main,
«* Storms and cyclones, wind and rain.â€
When he’s bright and blithe and gay,
“Sunshine, breeze—a perfect day!â€
Ah, you look so grave and wise, -
‘Little Probabilities.â€
Since you make for us our day,
Listen, baby, when we pray.
Give us only pleasant weather,
Banish frowns and tears together.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS, '
Il. WHAT THE WORLD OWES TO REUBEN,
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
The world owes a great deal to men whose
names have never become very famous. The
obscure men and women, the unseen toilers
and sufferers, have done the world’s best
work in every age. How small a place the
name of this young man Reuben, son of the
patriarch Jacob, fills in the world’s history,
and yet, if we think of it, if we ponder a lit-
tle on the life and character of this noble
elder brother, we shall see that he did the
world grand service. For if it had not been
for the gentleness and faithfulness of Reuben
the world would never have heard much of
Joseph. Jacob was the father of Joseph but.
Reuben was his savior. The world has a very
lofty place in its temple of fame for this
young dreamer of ancient Israel, who after-
ward became the best friend of Egypt and
the world. But Hgypt and the world
owe Reuben a debt of gratitude, for if it had
‘not been for Reuben’s brotherly tenderness, -
Joseph would have found a bloody grave on
the plains of Dothan, a martyr to his youth-
‘ful vanity. Let us pause here a moment and
‘look in upon this family of Jacob. Four
‘thousand years have passed since the spoiled,
yproud Joseph wassold into slavery, but there
‘are fruits and lessons that are worth garner-
‘ing to-day. Jacob’s family was big enough
ito be very troublesome, and Jacob was not
ph
very wise in his old age. He was foolish
enough to have favorites in his family. This
boy Joseph was young and fair and gifted.
There was a touch of the poetic in his nature. .
He had. many dreams—day dreams, some of
which he would have been wise to have kept
to himself. Joseph was spoiled and petted,
the old man made a favorite of him, bought
him a coat of many colors, which, but for
Reuben would have cost him his life. Favor-
itism in a family is sure to work evil, be-
cause it is founded in injustice. No doubt
Joseph was vain and overbearing. His
dream of the sun, moon and stars bowing be-
fore him, was straw quite big enough for his -
less favored brothers to see, and seeing to
know which way the tide was flowing. Then
he was very proud of that fine coat, as most
spoiled boys would be, and when ‘his father
sent him with a message to his brothers, he
must needs go—not in the dress of a farmer’s
boy, but in this coat of many colorsand much
mischief. The sight of this fine gentleman
irritated his farmer brethren; they had borne
enough of his arrogance and conceit; he had
the best place and the best of everything
always—they were tired of this sort of thing,
and not, valuing human life as men value it
to-day, they conspired to kill the young
dreamer, and take the fine coat, all dabbled
in blood, to Jacob, and tell him that some
evil. beast had devoured hisfavorite son. But
Reuben had a brother’s heart and a brother’s
tenderness. He saw Joseph’s faults, and,
being a true brother, he saw more than his
faults, and with as much wisdom as gentle-
ness, he interposed. He did not openly
champion Joseph’s cause, that would have
awakened stronger opposition, and he was
only one against ten of them. He proposed
to leave the proud lad in a pit to die, with
the secret purpose of delivering him after a
little while. Reuben did not accomplish all
the good he wanted to do. What Reuben
ever did? But he saved Joseph. Reuben’s
plan failed in part. He meant to restore
Joseph to his father. Joseph was sold into
Egypt, but the very part of Reuben’s plan
that failed was the gateway through which
God led the young captive Israelite to a
larger and wider destiny. Therefore let all
Reubens lay this to heart, that in His wise
love God often over-answers Reuben’s broth-
erly purposes by making failure in detail
the occasion of divine success. It was
Shakespeare who, seeing the far-reaching
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: . GIBSON, THE GUIDE,OF WATKINS GLEN.
radiance of a feeble taper in a dark night,
said:
‘* So shines a good deed in this naughty world.â€
This kind, brotherly deed of Reuben’s
many centuries ago shines in beauty through
the world’s history. We owe Reuben much.
He spared Joseph to the world. And there
are few pages of buried history more inter-
esting than that which records the wise ad-
ministration of the Hebrew statesman Jo-
seph, through the years of Kgypt’s peril.
The fields of Troy are constantly yielding
secrets of the Homeric age; why should not
the banks of the Nile whisper some day the
secrets of the wise policy of Joseph? When
we know more of this hidden history, we
shall know better what a debt we owe to
Reuben. Reuben has set us the pattern of
true brotherhood, of that brotherhood that
spite of all faults and failings, and even
sins, holds on to the brother’s heart and love.
And all through these thousands of years
the voice of Reuben comes to us saying:
“‘Don’t let them kill Joseph! He is vain
and foolish, but don’t let. them kill him!
You don’t know what wonderful work God
has in store for him. Do all you can, strain
every nerve, be sure and save Josenh!â€
HOME.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
HEN the long day’s work is over,
When the light begins to fade,
Watching, waiting in the gloaming,
Weary, faint, and half afraid,
Then from out the deep’ning twilight,
Clear and sweet a voice shall come,
Softly through the silence falling—
‘Child, thy Father calls, come home.â€
GIBSON, THE GUIDE OF WATKIN’S
GLEN.
HE guest at the Jefferson House in
Watkins’ Glen, is almost sure to be
greeted on his arrival by a large, handsome,
well-fed dog. Thisis Gibson, famed far and
near as the only living guide to Watkins
Glen, Gibson isa remarkable animal, with
more sagacity even than the dog which the
girl with the laughing eyes possessed in
Glenville Murray’s tale. For the past eight
years Gibson has made daily trips to the glen,
and has been petted and caressed by thou-
sands of women and children, for Gibson is
avery gallant dog, and a great admirer of
the ladies, whom he is particularly proud to
pilot through the glen, watching after their
safety with great care. The dog is an aris-
tocratic fellow, too, and only likes well-
dressed people. He will growl at the ap-
proach of a man in poor clothes, and when
escorting ladies he has been known tospring
on a workman who passed, so zealous was he
in the protection of the fairtourist. But ordi-
narily Gibson is one of the best natured dogs
in the world, and will allow ladies and chil-
dren to pet him all day long, accepting their
attentions with quiet dignity. He never
plays with the other dogs about the street,
but holds himself apart from all canine com-
panionship. A curious trait is that, al-
though ever ready to guide a guest of the
Jefferson House, to the glen and through it,
he will never go with a resident of the vil-
lage. He seems to know the tourist and
pleasure seeker by instinct, and will come
up to them and draw their attention by a
rub of the nose or a touch of the paw. He
seems to know that the commercial traveler
does not want to visit the glen, and he
makes no attempt to cultivate his acquaint-
ance. If a visitor says to the dog: ‘‘ Gib-
son, I want to go to the glen.†Gibson is at
once by his side, and even his master can not
call him away when once a tourist has been
placed under his guidance. He will lead the
way to the entrance of the glen as sedately
as though he knew the responsibility of his
duty, and will conduct him through unerr-
ingly, going a few steps in advance, and
stopping now and then as if to call attention
to the beauties of thescenery. He will never
desert any one whom he sets out to escort,
and if avisitor from the Jefferson House de-
cides to take a meal in the glen, Gibson will
wait until he is ready to return. He is more
fond of ice cream than a school girl, and
giving him some of this delicacy isthe surest
way to win his favor. When he rides he al-
ways sits upright on the seat of the carriage
by the side of the person in whose company
he has started out. In going through the
glen if a tourist gets on the wrong path Gib-
son will at once drop a few steps behind,
and nothing can induce him to go ahead
again until the way has been retraced and
the right path regained, when he will bound
ahead with every manifestation of pleasure.
It is no unusual thing with him to catch the ,
person he is with by the clothes and pull him —
the right way.
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BE THOROUGH.
THOMAS CARLYLE.
ss YOU want to succeed in life, be thor-
ough in your work, whatever it is. It is
sometimes convenient to be Jack-of-all-trades,
but it is always profitable to be master of
one. A workman who thoroughly under-
stands his business is seldom in danger of
coming to want. While the mass of the
inefficient suffer, the few who do the best
work, whether men or women, are always
sought for. Young men, you can not prepare
yourselves for life’s duties too thoroughly or
stick to your vocations too persistently after
having chosen them. But before adopting
any calling educate yourselves practically in
order that there may be some certainty of
puccese attending your faithfulness to your
work.
CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONES.
URANIA LOCKE BAILEY.
ss HE Master has come over Jordan,â€
Said Hannah, the mother one day;
‘‘He is healing the people who throng him,
With a touch of his finger, they say.
“And now I shall carry the children—
Little Rachel, and Samuel, and Joha;
I shall carry the baby, Esther,
For the Lord to look upon.â€
The father looked at her kindly,
But he shook his head and smiled:
‘“Now who but a doting mother
Would think of a thing so wild?
“Tf the children were tortured by demons,
Or dying of fever, ’twere well;
Or had they the taint of the leper,
Like many in Israel.â€
“Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan,
I feel such a burden of care;
If I carry it to the Master,
Perhaps I shall leave it there.
“Tf he lay his hand on the children,
My heart will be lighter, I know;
For a blessing forever, and ever,
Will follow them as they go.â€
So, over the hills of Judah,
Along by the vine-rows green,
With Esther asleep on her bosom,
And Rachel her brothers between.
*Mong the people who hung on his teaching,
Or waited his touch and his word,
Through the row of proud Pharisees listening,
She pressed to the feet of the Lord.
“Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master?"
Said Peter, ‘‘ with children like these?
Seest not how, from morning till evening,
He teacheth and healeth disease?â€
Then Christ said, ‘‘Forbid not the children—
Permit them to come unto Me;â€
And He took in His arms little Esther,
And Rachel He set on His knee.
And the heavy heart of the mother
Was lifted all earth-care above,
As He:laid His hands on the brothers
And blessed them with tenderest love
As He said of the babes on His bosom,
“Of such is the kingdom of Heaven;â€
And strength for all duty and trial
That hour to her spirit was given.
WONDERFUL TOOLS.
R. W. EMERSON.
WwW have a pretty artillery of tools now
in our social arrangements: we ride
four times as fast as our fathers did; travel,
grind, weave, forge, plant, till and excavate
better. . . . We have the calculus, we
have the newspaper, which does its best to
make every square acre of land and sea give
an account of itself at your breakfast-table;
we have money, and paper money; we have
language, the finest tool of all, and nearest
to the mind. :
I AM GREAT AND YOU ARE SMALL.
A SPARROW swinging on abranch,
Once caught a passing fly;
“Oh, let me live!†the insect prayed,
With trembling, piteous cry.
‘*No,†said the sparrow, ‘‘ you must fall,
For Iam great and you are small.†-
The bird had scarce begun his feast
Before a hawk came by;
The game wascaught. ‘ Pray let me live!â€Â®
‘Was now the sparrow’s cry.
“No,†said the captor, ‘‘ you must fall,
For I am great and you are small.â€
An eagie saw the rogue, and swooped
Upon him from on high ; ;
‘* Pray let me live! why should you kill
So small a bird as 1?â€
* Oh,†said the eagle, ‘‘ you must fall,
For I am great and you are small.
But while he ate the hunter came;
He let his arrow fly.
“Tyrant!†the eagle shrieked, ‘‘ you have
No right to make me die!â€
“Ah,†said the hunter, “‘you must fall,
For I am great and you are small,â€
“T AM GREAT AND YOU ARE SMALL.â€
THE BABY AND THE SOLDIERS.
ie ae and ready the troopers ride,
Great bearded men with swords by side;
They have ridden long, they have ridden hard,
They are travel stained and battle scarred ;
The hard ground shakes with their martial tramp,
And course is the laugh of the men of the camp.
They reach a spot where a mother stands,
With a baby clapping its little hands,
Laughing aloud at the gallant sight
Of the mounted soldiers fresh from the fight.
The captian laughs out: ‘‘I’ll give you this,
A handful of gold, your baby to kiss.â€
Smiles the mother: ‘‘ A kiss can’t be sold,
But gladly he’ll kiss a soldier bold.â€
He lifts up the babe with a manly grace,
And covers with kisses its smiling face,
Ite rosy cheeks and its dimpled charms,
And it crows with delight in the soldier’s arms.
“Not all for thecaptian,†the soldiers call :
‘«The baby we know, hasa kiss for all.â€
To the soldiers’ breasts the baby is pressed
By the strong rough men, and by turns caressed
And louder it laughs, and the mother fair
Smiles with mute joy as the kisses they share.
«Just such a kiss,†cries one trooper grim,
““When Ileft my boy I gave to him;â€
«* And just such a kiss on the parting day
I gave to my girl as asleep she lay.â€
Such were the words of the soldiers brave,
And their eyes were moist as the kiss they gave.
PLEASANT PEOPLE.
IZAT a boom to all his friends and
acquaintances a pleasant person is!
‘It may be hard to define pleasantness,
but we find no difficulty in recognizing it
when we meet with it. Pleasant people are
not always by any means the most admirable
of mankind, nor the most interesting; for it
often happens that the qualities in a man
which are worthiest of esteem are, for lack
of other modifying elements, the very ones
which make against his agreeableness as a
companion ; and a person who does not im-
press us as particularly pleasant may, never-
theless, interest us very much by the display
ef unusual mental or moral characteristics,
or trom a complexity of nature which seems
to offer itself as an enigma we are curious to
solve. Pleasant people may not even be the
most truly lovable, but they are likable; we
perhaps have no desire to make friends of
them, in the deeper sense of friendship, but
we are glad when we meet them, and enjoy
ourselves while in their society. The tie
thus formed, though slight, is a real one, and
I beiieve that we should all do well to re-
member, in the interest of our closer friend-
ships, the attractive and cohesive force of
mere pleasantness. The highest virtues and
offices of friendship we are not called on to
exercise every day,and in familiar intercourse
we have not less, but rather the more, need
ef making ourselves pleasant, because of the
times when our friends will have to answer
our drafts on their patience and sympathy.
ONE GOOD LIFE.
A SUNBEAM piercing the forbidden shade
Of some drear prison cell, has often brought
Quiet to troubled spirits, and has made
Dark, morbid brooding change to peaceful thought.
So one good life will prove a guiding light,
To brighten paths weak mortals oft find drear—
A beacon in the narrow way of Right,
To lure the fallen to a higher sphere.
“SMART ALEC.â€
UGH Brent won the name of ‘‘ Smare
Alec†so thoroughly that he was never
called byany other name by his intimate com-
panions. He was not really clever, he was
only ‘“‘smart,†and as boastful as he was
“smart.†His boasting and his smartness
brought him very few real friends. Very
often his smart tricks failed so utterly that
those who really liked him could not help
laughing at him. One day there was a pic-
nic held in Royston Woods, and Hugh Brent
was there, and of course took every oppor:
tunity to do smart things. After lunch the
whole company rambled down to the bank
of a very narrow stream, across which a huge
tree was thrown. No sooner did Hugh seg
this rustic bridge than he announced his in-
tention of walking across it. It was very
slippery and his friends urged him not to
try. They told him there was nothing eas-
ier than “falling offa log,†but it was in
vain. ‘‘Smart Alec†started, and before he
had proceeded more than three yards, his foot
slipped, he lost his balance, and down he fell
into the mud and slime of the river. He
was met with only the laughter of his com-
rads as heclimbed up the river bank, and the
ery of itis “Smart Alec!†was all the pity
he got. Boys, its worth while to struggle to
be clever, but America has had ali the
“smart†boys she needs.
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AC ARS
TEN ROBBER TOES.
LILLIAN BARR.
dares is a story that I have been told,
And it’s just as old as babies are old,
For sweet. mother Eve, as every one knows,
Told the babies the tale of the toes.
Told to her babies how ten little toes— ‘
Each one as pink as the pinkest pink rose —
Once on a time were naughty and bad,
And sorrow and trouble in consequence had *
How this big toe wanted butter and bread,
After his mamma had put him to bed.
And this lying next said: ‘‘Sposen we go
Down to the pantry, and get it, you know.â€
And this wicked toe cried, ‘‘ Come along, quick,
Let’s sugar the butter ever so thick.â€
And this naughty toe said, ‘‘ Jelly for me,
Top of the butter and sugar, you see.â€
And this little toe cried, ‘‘ Goody, let’s go,
We'll slip down the stairs so quiet and slow.â€
So ten robber toes, all tipped with red,
Stole silently out of their snowy-white bed.
While this wicked toe, so jolly and fat,
Helped nine naughty toes to pitty-pat, pat
Along the big hall with pillars of white,
And down the back stairs devoid of light.
Then this little toe got a terrible scare,
For he thought in the dark of a grizzly bear
And this little toe said : ‘‘ Nurse must be right
"Bout gobbles and witches living at night.â€
And this little toe said, ‘‘ A fox may be hid
In the hat rack box, right under the lid.â€
And this little toe said, ‘‘ Dearie me, oh!
Lions and tigers is coming, I know.â€
Then mamma came out with the beautiful light,
Caught ten robber toes all ready for flight.
Yes, she caught and she kissed those ten robber
toes
Till redder they were than any red rose.
THE GENERAL AND THE CORPORAL.
NE day during the American Revolu-
tion, an officer was passing on horseback |
by some military works that were being pre-
pared by a small squad of soldiers, and he
found the leader of the party merely standing
by and looking on at the operations, which
were being carried on with difficulty owing to
small number of men. The officer, seeing the
‘the state of affairs, and that assistance was
much needed, inquired of the man why he
did not render a little aid instead of only
standing idle. The latter, in great astonish-
ment, turned around, it is said, “with all
the pomp of an emperor,†and replied, “Sir,
Iam a corporal?!†“You are, sre you ef
said the officer; “I did not know that,†ané
raising his hat in solemn mockery, he con-
tinued, ‘‘I ask your pardon, Mr. Corporal.â€
He dismounted from his horse, threw off his
coat, aud not until he was tired out with
sheer hard work did the stranger cease to
render his assistance to the squad, and then,
turning round to the corporal, he said,
“‘ Mr. Corporal, when you have another such
@ job as this, and have not men enough,
send for your General, and he will come
and help you a second time.†And, to the
amazement of the poor corporal, he found
that the unknown cfficer who had addressed
him was indeed, no other than his own
Commander-in-Chief.
THE WAY TO SING.
Ae birds must know. Who wisely sings,
Will sing as they.
The common air has generous wings:
Songs make their way.
No messenger to run before,
Devising plan;
No mention of the place, or hour,
To any man.
No waiting till some sound betrays
A listening ear,
No different voice—no new delays
If steps draw near.
‘What bird is that? The song is good.â€
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood
In glad surprise.
Then, late at night, when by his fire
The traveler sits,
Watching the flame go brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain,
To help him rest. ©
When next he goes that road again,
An empty nest
On leafless bough will make him sigh,
Ah me! last spring,
Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing.â€
But while he sighs, remembering
How sweet the song,
The little bird, on tireless wing, .
Is borne along
In other air; and other men,
With weary feet,
On other roads, the simple strains
Are finding sweet.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings;
Songs make their way.
SS
SS
THE GENERAL AND THE. CORPORAL |!
BOYS MAY WHISTLE.
Cl Goff said a curious thing—
“‘ Boys may whistle but girls must sing.â€
That's the very thing [ heard her say
To Kate, no longer than yesterday.
“Boys may whistle.†Of course they may,
If they pucker their lips the proper way,
But for the life of me I can’t see
Why Kate can’t whistle as well as me,
‘‘Boys may whistle, but girls must sing,â€
Now I call that a curious thing.
If boys can whistle, why can’t girls too?
It’s the easiest thing in the world to do.
First you do that, then you do this—
Just like you were fixing up for a kiss.
It’s a very poor girl, that’s all I say,
Who can’t make out to do that way.
“Boys may whistle, but girls may not ;â€
A whistle’s a song with the noise knocked out,
Strayed off somewhere down in the throat,
Everything lost but the changeful note.
So if the boys can whistle and do it well,
Why cannot girls, will somebody tell ?
Why can’t they do what a boy can do ?
That is the thing I should like to know.
I went to father and asked him why
Girls couldn’t whistle as well as I.
And he said ‘‘ the reason that girls must sing
Is because a girl’s a sing—ular thing.â€
And grandma laughed till I knew she’d ache,
When I said I thought it all a mistake.
“Never mind, little man.†I heard her say,
“They will make you whistle enough some day,â€
COMMON SENSE.
ETTER bend the neck promptly than
to bruise the forehead.
An evil intention perverts the best actions
and makes them sins.
A coxcomb is ugly allover with the affec-
tation of the fine gentleman. ‘
Cleverness is asort of genius for instru-
mentality. Itis the brain of the hand.
Men who live without religion live always
in a tumultuary and restless state.
_ When respiration ceases our education is
finished, and not a moment sooner.
Most of the shadows that cross our path
through life are caused by standing in our
own light.
Even reckoning makes lasting friends, and
the way to make reckonings even is to make
them often.
Many men claim to be firm in their prin-
ciples, when really they are only obstinate
in their prejudices.
True friends visit us in prosperity only
when invited, but in adversity they come
without invitation.
Frugal and industrious men are friendly
to the established government, as the idle
and expensive are dangerous.
JUDY AND THE GEESE.
MRS. H. N. CADY.
6¢ TUDY,†we called her; the pretty red
calf, all over spotted with white,
which came to us in the spring, and a de-
lightful playfellow she proved to be. It
seemed as if we must always have the gentle
creature, so she soon became a part of our
very lives. We never tired of admiring her
beautiful coat and soft velvety eyes, and
would play with her by the hour, when she
was kept in the lot behind the barn. But,
as summer advanced, father needed that
pasture for other purposes, and poor Judy
was carried down to the woodland lot at the
lower end of the farm. We children didn’t
let that keep us from seeing our pet how-
ever, and scarcely a day passed on which the
wood-lot did not hold some of us within its
borders.
.One morning, as we jumped the bars, we
were surprised at not finding Judy in her
accustomed place near the gate, waiting for
us, and for a minute we feared that some-
thing had happened to our pet, but a bend
in the path brought us in full view of the
dear creature, and we all burst into the most
uproarious laughter at the sight before us.
There was Miss Judy, in a small open space
among the tall trees, charging upon a flock
of geese, which had evidently swam the
brook from the neighboring farm, and were
then noisily investigating the animal before
them. Poor Judy! She was quite overcome
by her strange guests, and evidently found
it hard to decide what manner of creatures
they were; and it was some hours before we
could calm her manifest fright, or make her
forget her snappish visitors. So strong
indeed was the impression they left on her
mind, that for years afterward the sight of
a flock of noisy, hissing geese would drive
her into an insane kind of fury entirely
- foreign to her usually gentle self.
JUDY AND..THE GEESE.
“COME SIT ON MY KNEE, LITTLE
CHILDREN.â€
Gre sit on my knee, little children, _
Too tired for laughter or song,
The sports of the daylight are over,
And evening is creeping along.
The snow-fields are white.in the moonlight,
The winds of the winter are chill,
But under the sheltering roof-tree
The fire shineth ruddy and still.
You sit on my knees little children,
Your cheeks are ruddy and warm ;
But out in the cold of the winter,
Is many a shivering form.
There are mothers who wander for shelter,
And babes that are pining for bread;
Oh! Thank the dear Lord, little children,
From Whose tender hand you are fed.
He heareth the cry of the sparrow .
And careth for great and for small,
Tn life and in death, little children,
His love is the truest of all.
LEGENDS OF THE ROSE.
ee are several legends to account
for the origin of the rose.
Mandeville relates a very beautiful one. A
certain Jewish maiden, Zillah, rejected the
advances of a lover, Hammal, a degraded
and cruel man. In revenge he accused her
of offenses for which she was condemned to
be burned at the stake. When brought to
the spot the flames did no harm to the
maiden, but consumed the false lover. ‘¢ And
when the fyre began to burn about her, she
made the prayers to oure Lord, and anon
was the fyre quenched and oute, and
brandes that were brennynge becomen white
roses, and theise werein the first roses that
any man saughe.†The burning brands
thus became red roses—the others white
ones. :
According toa Greek myth, red roses were
white ones, tinged with the blood of Venus,
who wounded her foot in a thorn while
hastening to the aid of the dying Narcis-
sus. According to another legend, they
sprang from the bath of Aphrodite. A
later Christian tradition asserted that the
crown of thorns was one of the rose-thorns,
and that the red roses sprang from the blood
of Christ.
Men saw the thorns on Jesus’ brow,
But angels saw the roses.
A still different origin is given to the
Sir John.
“
«queen of flowers†by Mussulman tradition.
According to it, white roses sprung from
the sweat of the prophet Mohammed during
his journey to heaven, and yellow ones
dripping from the mane of Al Borak, his
steed. It is further reported that the red
flower is colored with drops of his blood, .
and the faithful will never suffer one to
lie on the ground. There is an Arab tra-
dition that a certain King Shaddad planted
a field of roses in the desert, which are
still flourishing, but no man can find them.
A popular tradition asserts that in Para-
‘ dise the rose grew without thorns, basing
the statement upon the third chapter of
Genesis, eighteenth verse: ‘‘ Thornsalso and
thistles shall it bring forth unto thee.â€
Early Christian writers maintain that there
were no thorns in Eden, and Milton says in
it there bloomed “flowers of all hue, and
without thorn the rose.â€
The rose has always been an important
flower in folk legends. It has several
emblematic meanings. It is, to begin with,
the symbol of beauty:
Whatsoe’r of beauty
Yearns and yet reposes,
Blush and bloom and sweet breath,
; Took a shape in roses.
- Anciently it was the emblem of silence.
Eros gave to Harpocrates, son of silence, a
rose to keep the secrets of Venus. On the
ceiling of banquet rooms to remind strangers
that what was ‘‘sub-rosa,†was not to be re-
peated, was anciently sculptured a rose.
Red as the rose of Harpocrate.
For the same reason it was placed over
confessionals in 1500. Doubtless its place
on Greek and Roman tombs was given to it
as the flower of silence. It was the symbol
of the mystic Rosicrucians (sub-rosa crux).
As diplomacy is secret, it becomes a
national emblem. Roman soldiers bore it
as an insignia on their shields. Adopted as
an emblem of England, and each political
faction having selected his color, the rose
figured conspicuously in English history.
The wars of the roses lasted thirty years,
with the white rose asthe badge of York,
and the red one of Lancaster.
The rose of Jericho, also called the rose of
the Virgin Mary, become the symbol of resur-
rection. It is not really a rose, however. A
tradition reported that it marked every spot
where the holy family rested during the
journey to Egypt.
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HOW MOTHER EARTH GOT A NEW
DRESS.
OM Mother Earth woke up from sleep,
And found she was cold and bare;
The winter was over, the spring was near
And she had not adress to wear!
‘‘ Alas!†she sighed with great dismay,
“© Oh where shall I get my clothes?
There’s not a place to buy a suit,
And a dressmaker no one knows.â€
“T’]] make you a dress,†said the springing grass,
Just looking above the ground;
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To cover you all around.â€
“‘And we,†said the dandelions gay,
Will dot it with yellow bright;â€
“Tl make it afringe,†said forget-me-not;
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«« We’llembroider the front,†said the violets,
“‘ With a lovely purple hue; â€
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Of red jeweled over with dew.â€
“And we'll be your gems,†said a voice from the
shade
Where the ladies’ ear-drops live—
“Orange is a color for any queen,
And the best that we have to give,â€
Old Mother Earth was thankful and glad,
As she put on her dress so gay;
And that is the reason, my little ones,
She is looking so lovely to-day.
“WHAT IS WORTH DOING IS WORTH
DOING WELL.â€
bea HARGRAVES was the son of a
clergyman, and as there were three
other brothers all older than himself, and all
of them studying for professions, he thought
he would vary things a little, and try and
learn a trade. Harry was to be a doctor,
Joe was studying land surveying, and Austin
was to follow in his father’s footsteps and be
apreacher. So Fred made up his mind he
would go to the Manual Training School and
afterwards take up a trade. He went to
work with a will, and though he felt a little
strange for a while in a workingman’s square
paper cap and leather apron, his heart was
in his work, and the ring of the anvil was
really musical. Mr. Melson, the Principal of
his department of the Manual School, after
some general instructions, congratulated
Fred on his decision to become thoroughly
master of a trade, said: ‘‘ Fred, my boy,
keep this thought in your mind, that the
certain way to gain proficiency in any trade,
is to attend to all the details of your work
thoroughly. Look well after the little
things, and you won’t be likely to forget the
more important matters. With every stroke
upon that ringing anvil, remember, that
‘what is worth doing is worth doing well.’
Do your best in small things as well as
great, and you will succeed.â€
JUNE IN THE COUNTRY.
LOUISE E, LEWIN.
ODDING daisies ’mid the grass
Hide their faces when we pass;
Cups of gold that grow beside
Hold their heads with lofty pride,
Blossoms sweet of clover red
Nestle in their grassy bed,
While the butterfly and bee
Seek the sweets so fresh and free.
All the birds their ruffled throats
Fill with joy, their sweetest notes;
By the meadow’s winding stream
In the woodland’s misty gleam,
Purple flags in marshy lots
Cover up the barren spots
And upon the silvery lake
Lilies white unfold and wake;
While among their leaves of green
Timid fish delight to swim.
At the closing of the day
Whip-poor-will begins his lay;
From the dark and lonesome dell
Come his notes of woe to tell.
How much pleasure, how much joy,
Could men have would they employ
Only things of truth and worth,
Not so much of pride and birth:
And like nature’s children dear,
Make the best of what is here.
WORK AND PROSPERITY.
THOMAS CARLYLE.
T takes a sound body to make a sound
mind. Work is not vulgar. So longas
the brain needs the juices of the body, so
long will hard work be the fundamental
element in the developement of the mind.
Business is eminently fit for a man of
genius, and to earn a livelihood is the best
way to sharpen one’s wits. Besides, business
affairs offer better opportunities at present
than the so-called professions. Therefore
our youth should be thoroughly and prac-
tically trained for business, in order that
they may succeed and become a credit to
whatever calling they may choose to adopt.
At the same time they should be educated
not to despise labor; for, after all, it is only
by hard work that we achieve any success
worthy of the name.
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“WHAT IS WORTH DOING IS WORTH DOING WELL.â€
‘THE CALMNESS OF TRUTH.
HORATIUS BONAR.
LL truth is calm,
Refuge and rock and tower,
The more of truth the more of calm,
Its calmness is its power.
. Calmness is truth,
And truth is calmness still—
Truth lifts its forehead to the storm,
Like some eternal hill.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
Ill. SONGS OF THE MORNING.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
OETS of all ages have sung sweet songs
concerning the morning. They have
found in the dawn of day a symbol of youth
and beauty. In the growth of the morning
form the first gray glooms to the golden sun-
rise, they have seen a parable of those mystic
days through which a youth passes from the
fair garden of his early years to climb the
hill of manhood. If in these later days our
great teachers would inspire our hopes con-
cerning the world’s future, they tell us that
_ the darkness of the ages is passed, and the
morning of the world’s brighter day has
dawned. And whenthey would picture for
us the peacefulness and serenity of that land
that lies beyond the boundaries of time they
tell us of a ‘‘ morning without clouds†that
shall never know the shadow of the setting
sun, for there is ‘“‘no night there.†The
Psalmist David loved the morning and so
recorded a vow, ‘‘ My voice shalt thou hear
in the morning, O Lord; to Thee will I di-
rect my prayer and look up.†The godly
poet resolves to begin the day with praise, he
will fill the morning hours with songs of
gratitude. While yet the day is young he
will lift his hands and heart in prayer. A
later poet utters the same sentiment in these
words:
‘“O timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morning arise;
Eyes that the beam celestial view
‘Which evermore makes all things new.â€
Many of our acknowledged divisions of
time are to a large extent arbitrary, but day
and night are ordinances of nature that
never change. ach day rounds off a sepa-
rate and complete period of time; and that
was a very beautiful conception that thought
of each morning as a new creation, and our
rising from sleep as adaily resurrection from
Sh TT SER a
the dead. Every morning we turn over a
fresh page of life’s eventful history. The
page of to-day is linked with the page of
yesterday, and will be linked with to-mor-
row’s page, but these pages are nevertheless
complete in themselves. Through the shin-
ing gateways of each and every morning
there come to us new blessings, new cares,
new opportunities.
New every morning is the love
Our waking and uprising prove:
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life and power and thought.
Since each new morning comes thus loaded
with new benedictions, it is mete that each
morning should find us with songs of thanks-
giving on our lips. Of all the hours of the
day, the morning hours are most suitable for
devotion. When the mind is fresh and clear
and when the heart is untouched by the
cares of the day.
An hour spent with God every morning
would make men conquerors all the day long.
It is worth while to make and keep such a
vow as we are considering now on another
ground. As the morning is so the day is.
There is much ina good start. And the man
who begins the day with God will have
divine companionship all the day long. The
man who begins the day with songs of praise
will hear all day long strains of heavenly
music above the roar of the crowded street
or the clamor of the mart. Our days are
often dull and gloomy, but the fault is ours.
The day will not often rise above the key-
note of the morning hours. Almost every-
thing depends on the use we make of the
first hour of the day.
A great man said: “The mouth of the
morning is full of gold.†Let us wake be-
times and gather that gold, that we may be
rich all the day. Mornings thus attuned to
. the Divine harmonies, will be the portals
through which we shall pass to. happy, useful
days. The pathway of our common life will
be illumined with a brightness which will
be ‘‘above the brightness of the sun.â€
If on our daily course, our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still of boundless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.
Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
As more of heaven in each we see,
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Will dawn on every cross and care.
The trivial round; the common task,
Will furnish all we ought to ask.
Room to deny ourselves—a road
To bring us daily nearer God
BASS CATCHING AT NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND.
HOW INDIANS POISON THEIR ARROWS
VENERABLE Indian arrow-maker
explained how arrows were poisoned,
in the following words:
“First we take a bloated yellow rattle-
snake in August, when he is most poisonous,
and tie him with a forked stick to a stake;
. then we tease him until he is ina great rage.
This is done by passing a switch over his
body from his head to his tail. When he
thrashes the ground with his tail and his
eyes grow bright and sparkle like diamonds,
we kill a deer, antelope or some other small
animal, and, tearing out the liver, throw
it to the snake while it is warm and the
blood still coursing through it. The reptile
will strike it again and again, and pretty
soon it will begin to turn black. When he
tires, the snake is teased again, and he is in-
duced to sink his fangs into the soft flesh
until all the poison has been extracted from
him and the liver is reeking with it. He is
then killed and the liver lifted with a sharp
pole; for so dangerous is it no one dares
_ touch it. The liver is let lie for about an
-hour, when it will be almost jet black and
emit a sour smell. Arrowsare then brought
and their iron heads pushed into the liver up
to the shaft. They are left sticking there
for about one hour and a half, when they
are withdrawn and dried in the sun. A
thin, glistening, yellow scum adheres to the
arrow, and if it but so much as touches raw
flesh it is certain to poison it to death.â€
I asked if Indians still used poisoned ar-
rows. ‘* No,†he replied; ‘‘no man, Indian
or white man, for years past has been shot
with these arrows, and they are no longer
made.â€
AGAIN.
Oe. and over again,
No matter which way I turn,
I always see in the book of life
Some lesson that I must learn.
I must take my turn at the mill.
I must grind out the golden grain.
I must work at my task with resolute will—
Over and over again. f
Over and over again,
The brook through the meadow runs;
And over and over again
The ponderous mill wheel turns,
One doing will not suffice— -
Though doing be not in vain—
And a blessing failing us once or twice,
May come if we try again.
THE GOLD DOG.
ROF. McALLISTER, the ventriloquist.
happened to be traveling across Lower
Idaho some years ago on his way from one
town to another. It was in the days of
early stage coaching, before railroads were
quite as plentiful as at the present time.
The professor one afternoon, before the
show commenced, in wandering about the
streets of, I think it was Lewiston, encoun-
tered on the outskirts of the town a small
band of Indians. Two or three companions
were with him. While chatting together,
looking about and observing things generally,
McAllister became quite familiar with a
mongrel dog owned by the redskins, whom
he proceeded to pet.
«Fine dog,†said the professor.
“Ugh,†grunted an Indian.
‘* How much you sell him for?†asked the
magician.
“‘Ugh! two dollar,†replied the Indian
holding up a pair of dirty fingers to indicate
the amount.
“* Him very fine dog,†said McAllister,
stroking the cur down the back and taking
a gold piece from the end of his tail.
<¢ Hi! hil†exclaimed the redskin, looking
on in astonishment, his eyes ready to start
from his head in excitement.
“* Him very fine dog indeed,†quitely con-
tinued the professor, this time taking a
whole handful of coin from the cur’s tail,
and picking stray pieces from his mouth,
nose and ears, which he transferred to his
pockets.
Strange noises were heard proceedin
from the interior of the brute. He aioanel
and laughed and howled and barked, at all
of which the poor deluded redskins stood
in the utmost awe and astonishment, and
couldn’t for the life of them understand
what had come over the spirit of the animal.
It was hard to tell which was the most sur-
prised—the Indians or the dog. After
filling his pockets with gold and taking
another fistful from the cur’s tail, the pro-
fessor left the redskins in peace. He had
not been gone ten minutes before the latter
pounced upon the poor doomed animal and
cut him wide open.. Like the goose that
laid the golden egg, there was nothing inside,
and it was only fair to presume that the only
reward was a fine feast upon ribs of roast
dog, browned tea turn.
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HOW INDIANS POISON THEIR ARROWS.
MY TYRANT QUEEN.
My lady she bids me go, and I go;
My lady says ‘‘ Come!†and | come;
My lady says ‘‘ Sing!†and I sing to her;
My lady says ‘‘ Stop!†and I’m dumb.
Whatsoever she does I find her fair,
Whatsoever she says is good;
Her word to me is the breath of my life,
Her most foolish fancy is food.
One day she is cruel, one day she is kind,
This dear little lady of mine;
One day her pretty brow puckers with frowns,
One day with love her eyes shine.
‘But now she was sunny, all smiles and all wiles,
And now she is off in a pet.
She’s an angel, I’ll vow, but oh, and alas!.
My lady’s an arrant coquette.
To-day she will crown me a king with a kiss
From her honey-sweet rosy-lips;
To-morrow, mayhap, my lady’ll not deign
To grant me her finger tips.
Her bond-slave? Yes. But I hug my chains
Till pleasure flows out of pain.
© love it is better than liberty; O
I would never be free again!
With a rod of iron she rulesme. She knows
I'll do whatsoever I’m told.
A tyrant? No doubt of that— but then
y lady’s but twelve years old.
“DAN,â€
GEO. H. SARGENT.
A WAY out in western Nebraska, where
the sluggish North Platte rolls its tur-
bid waters down through arich valley withthe
land on either hand rising until it gradually
merges into a series of low sandhills, the
country is but thinly settled, and the
scream of the locomotive never disturbs the
solitude of the Great Plains. This country,
half garden and half desert, is, however, full
of animal life. Here the great American
eagle makes its home, and the prairie dog
and rattlesnake live and rear their kind in
peace. The native grasses growing on the
sandy soil furnish grazing for cattle all the
year round, and so the country is for the
most part given up to the sturdy ranchmen
and the wild animals.
On a certain ranch in this region, some
years ago, a party of herdsmen caught a young
eagle which was unable to fly. Its mother
had been killed, so they took it home to their
cabin, and kept it confined in a cage.
There was a boy named Charley on this
raneh, who entreated his father to let him
keep the eagle. His father finally did so,
and Charley took great pleasure in caring for
his new pet, naming him Dan. After a
while, Dan became so tame that the boy no
longer kept him in the cage, but had a
small collar put around one leg and fastened
him by a small chain to a post.
For a long time Dan chafed and fretted.
under his confinment and refused to eat, but
finally came to the conclusion that his cap-
tivity was to be permanent, and began to
make the best of his situation. As he grew
less uneasy under restraint, the boy allowed
him a longer chain, until finally Dan had
quite an extensive range in front of the
cabin,
Dan soon learned to come at the call of his
name and would eat from Charlie’shand. He
would follow the boy as far as his chaiu
would permit, when Charlie went away any-
where, and on his return Dan would be
waiting on the edge of his circular range te.
welcome his master back. He would shake
hands, turn somersaults and perform many
other curious tricks. . But all the time Dan
was as solemn and grave as a judge. He
never smiled or even made the attempt.
Sometimes Charlie would lie down in
front of the cabin and pretend to be asleep,
and Dan would come over very cautiously
and pull Charlie’s watch from his vest.
pocket, and when the boy jumped up and
said. ‘‘Give it up, you thief,†Dan would
stand on one leg and hold out the watch in:
one claw, hanging down his head and look-
ing very guilty.
One summer day, Charlie had been run-
ning about in the morning and was very
tired. All the men had gone away from the:
ranch, and Charlie was left alone with Dan.
He did not mind this, however, for his very
solitude made him safe, and as he knew
there were no wild animals near he lay down.
in the warm sunlight in front of the cabin,
and was soon fast asleep. Dan came up and
stole his watch, but Charlie did not say,
*‘Give it up, you thief,†which somewhat.
surprised the bird, so he played with it for
a while, but finally becoming tired of the
sport replaced it in Charlie’s pocket and lay
down near him.
Very soon, Dan became interested in a.
long, black object that crawled along slowly
through the tufts of prairie grass, in the
direction of the sleeping boy. In a moment
his native instinct for fighting with small
animals was aroused, and Dan made a rusk
for tne intruder. A warning, ominous rat-
tle halted him but for an instant, then he
struck at the serpent with both of his claws.
The rattlesnake coiled itself ready to strike,
but Dan, with a harsh shriek, was upon him.
The noise awakened Charlie, who recognized
the danger, and sprang outside of the circle.
It was a desperate encounter; the snake
coiled itself around Dan’s body, and strove
to strike him with its powerful fangs, but
Dan eluded these attempts, and seizing the
rattlesnake in his powerful talons tore it
with his strong beak and in a few moments
the snake was writhing in agony at Dan’s
feet, when a few blows from Charlie dis- -
patched it.
And Dan! Alas! the light chain had
proven too much of an encumbrance ; the
poor eagle had been bitten in the fray, and
despite Charlie’s efforts to save the bird by
bathing it in whisky poor Dan died. When
the men returned at night they found the
trio in front of the cabin ; the dead rattle-
snake lay on the ground, while Charlie was
shedding unavailing tears over the body of
the dead eagle.
Charlie has grown to manhood now, and
only goes to Nebraska occasionally for pleas-
ure; but in his elegant New York home,
over the door of one of the parlors, there is
a large stuffed specimen of an American
eagle, with a rattlesnake in its claws, while
underneath is the legend,
“Faithful Unto Death.â€
“WE THOUGHT TO WEEP, BUT SING
FOR Joy.â€
LOUISA M, ALCOTT.
These beautiful lineswere written by the poet onthe death
of her mother.
N { YSTERIOUS death ! who in a single hour
Life’s gold can so refine
And by thy art divine :
Change mortal weakness to immortal power!
Bending beneath the weight of eighty years,
Spent with the noble strife
Of a victorious life,
‘We watched her fading heavenward through our
tears.
But, ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung,
A miracle was wrought,
And swiftas happy thought
‘She lived again, brave, beautiful and young.
Age, pain and sorrow dropped the veils they wore,
And showed the tender eyes
Of angels in disguise,
"Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past-years brought their. harvest richand fajy!
While memory and love
Together fondly wove
A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft,
When every pang ef grief
Found balm for its relief
In counting up the treasures she had left?
Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time,
Hope that. defied despair,
Patience that conquered care,
And loyalty whose courage was sublime.
The great, deep heart that was a home for all,
Just, eloquent and strong,
In protest against wrong ;
Wide charity that knew no sin, no fall.
The Spartan spirit that made life so grand,
Mating poor, daily needs
With high, heroic deeds,
That wrested happiness from fate’s hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,
Full of the grateful peace
That follows her release;
For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh! noble woman! never more a queen
Than in the laying down
Of sceptre and of crown,
To win a greater kingdom yet unseen.
Teaching us how to seek the highest goal;
To earn the true success;
To live, to love, to bless,
And make death proud to take a royal soul,
WONDERS OF SPIDER LIFE.
ce On here is a spider! Mean thing! kill
it!†said little Tom.â€
“Stop!†said papa; ‘what harm has he
done?â€
“Well, papa,†said Mary, coming to little
Tom’s aid, ‘‘does he not entrap and kill the
flies? He’s a cruel, sly, spiteful thing!’
Ugh! Ishudder to look at it!â€
Papa by way of reply, took upa plate with
a poison fly-paper, on which were several
dead flies. Mary understood the silent re
proof.
“Oh, papa! you know the flies must not:
have it all their own way. If we did not
use the fly-papers we should be quite over:
run with flies.†“ |
“T do not blame you, my dear, for using}
fly-papers; but on the same ground I must |
speak a word for the despised spider; they
are God’s fly-papers to check the excessive
abundance of flies. All kinds of animal and
sacaiete
;
SSS
Se
MY TYRANT QUEEN,
vegetable life also, if left to increase without
check, would soon overrun the earth, and
instead of the harmony and variety now ex-
isting we should have the earth monopolized
by afew animals and plants.â€
“Well, papa, but spidersare such repul-
sive ugly things.â€
“That is no reason why they should be
killed as a matter of course whenever we see
them; but I don’t think they are very repul-
sive, and they have a beauty of their own,
like everything that God has made, and ful-
fil a useful purpose in nature. Perhaps you
would like me to tell you a little about
them?â€
“Yes, papa, please do!â€
“‘ Well, my dears, the spider is, in the first
place, very skillful.
is itsweb! How fine! how perfect! Whena
spider cannot fasten all parts of its web to
corners or twigs or posts, he attaches his web
to asmall bit of gravel, which hangs down
as a weight to balance and keep the mass of
the web stretched out. If a bee or a wasp is
caught in the web, the spider will help it to
get free, for he does not like to attack such
big insects.â€
““How clever!†said Mary.
“By a microscope I could show you the
spider’s eyes. He has six or eight, and you
would be surprised to find how bright they
are. His skin too is very beautiful, often
covered with bright spots; and when this skin
gets worn and dull, he sheds or changes it,
and comes out in a new suit of clothes.â€
“‘Dear me, how wonderful!†said little
Tom.
““Yes,†continued papa, “‘and he also has
anew set of legs now and then, and if one
is pulled off or broken, a new one grows in
again, so that he never has to limp about with
a wooden leg. I have heard the same of the
crabs.â€
““Oh papa! and the lobster,†said Mary.
‘* Yes, the spider is very much like the crab.
It has claws at the end of its legs, and two
short fore-arms that enable it to grasp its
prey tightly. | Now you see that the spider
can do many things besides crawl.†|
“*Oh, yes,†said Mary, “‘ he can drop down
from his web like a stone just as far as he
likes, and then run up again as quick asa
monkey up a pole; and he can swing himself
by his wonderful web in all directions; really,
pape; he is very clever! but what else can he
oP?
“* He can feel and taste,†said little Tom.
What a wonderful thing .
_ “Yes,†said papa. ‘and how exquisite
must be his power of feeling, to be able to
pull his web like a lot of ropes; and each
thread of his web, though so fine, is com-
posed, like a rope, of several strands. But
the spider can also hear very well, and is
also able to foretell the weather.â€
“* How do we know that?†inquired Mary.
“When a storm or frost is coming, he goes
away from his web, and remains snugly in
his nest,†replied papa.
““T wonder that he has not sense enough
to be taught,†remarked Mary.
“Tt really can be tamed. A poor prisoner
once had no companion but a poor spider,
and he was so gentle and patient with it,
that in time it came and ate out of the pris-
oner’s hand. Now, Mary, do you think the
poor prisoner would have been pleased to kill
the poor spider?â€
“Oh no, papa! I don’t think I should
like to kill one now. Poor thing! It has as
much right to live as Ihave. But is there
no fear of spiders becoming too numerous?â€
‘*T think not,†replied papa; ‘: spiders can
not live without food, and they require a
great deal. A spider will eat six or eight
times his own weight in a day, so that you
see he keeps flies in check by destroying
great numbers. If pressed by hunger, spi-
ders will also destroy one another, so that
there is no fear of their becoming pests, and
and no need, I think, for little boys and girls
to crush them whenever they see them.â€
ROSY MORN.
pees morning sits and swings
In her hammock of rose and gold,
Her feet just touch the sea
And the edge of her garments fold;
She wafts a breath to me
Of the blossoms of hope and love,
As swinging to and fro
Ske croons like the brooding dove.
Sing soft, swing Iow,
Oh, rosy morn!
Clasp to thy breast
The day, new born.
The morning swings far out
O’er the foam of the misty seas,
And lights with rosy glow
The tops of the tallest trees;
The sleeping flowers wake
At the touch of her quick’ning lips,
And drink the dewy showers
That fall from her finger tips.
Sing soft, swing low,
Oh, rosy morn!
Clasp to thy breast
The day, new born.
LIB PER) EMERGE
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“THEY DO NOT DIE!â€
FRANK N. SCOTT.
nes do not die ;—
Our loved ones fade, droop, and sink to rest,
We cross tired hands above the pulseless breast,
We kiss cold lips that warmly ours have prest ;
The love-lit eye
Whose glanees cheered our lives, and made earth
blest.
We close and sigh,
And strive in faith to say ‘‘ God doeth best,
He knowth why ;—
For though in robes funereal they are drest,
They do not die.â€
The flowers bloom,
All their fresh, budding glories to display
To cheer the heart and glad the toiling way,
Then droop, and yield their sweetness to decay,
*Tis Nature’s doom. i
The cloud dissolves amid the lightning’s play,
And stormy gloom,
Darkness weaves up into the sun’s bright ray,
In airy loom,
And glorious light fades into twilight gray,
And finds a tomb.
But nothing dies ;-—
That we call death is but progressive aim ;—
As gold is tried and purified by flame,
Soearthly loves are purged of taint or shame,
And higher rise.
Tho’ for a time the tomb our loved may claim,
And rend all ties,
It only holds the worn-out earthly frame,—
’*Tis that which dies—
The soul mounts upward to a grander fame
Above the skies,
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
V. ONESIPHORUS: THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
ie isa very sad thing to hear people say, as
many do, that the world is all a hollow
mockery, and there is no such thing as
genuine friendship to be found. Such com-
plainings speak but poorly for those who
complain, for the man who can go through
life without finding at least a few genuine,
disinterested friends is not only unfortunate,
but must be himself of a most unfriendly
disposition. His bitterness’“must have reé-
pelled what a gentler spirit would have
attracted. Because true friendship is not
ostentatious, because love blows no trumpets,
flaunts no banners in the air, but breathes
out its life in quite unseen paths, therefore
some men judge that there is very little
genuine friendship. But their judgement is
aot just. The violets bloom in secret dells
and the gentlest friendships have always
sought a hiding-place from the rude gaze of
acritical and censorious world. The student
of the Bible never calls in question the exist-
ence of genuine friendships. He has no
need to ask the poets of the classic age for
some cunningly devised fable of friendship,
he needs only to turn the sacred page, and
lo, the clinging fidelity of Ruth, the love of
David and Jonathan—passing the love of
women—the divine friendship of the Christ
for all men, but especially for those who
formed the first little band of disciples,
these examples and many more serve to show
how men and women understood true friend-
ship when the world was young. The
Apostle Paul—that noblest spirit of the apos-
tolic age—had hosts of friends. Read the
last paragraph of his letter to the Romans,
and see how tenderly he thinks of them; not
sending his ‘* kind regards to all,†but nam-
ing them one by one—Priscilla and Aquila,
the well-beloved Epenetus, Andronicus and
Junia, Amphlias and Appeles, Herodian and
Narcicus, Tryphena and Tryphosa, and a
host of others. How they had loved him,
and how he loved them! And in this letter
to Timothy, his well-beloved son in the
gospel, he tells of a genuine friend, a man
whose very name is not known to one man in
ten thousand. And, indeed, the world
would never have heard of Onesiphorus, but
that he was worthy to stand for all time as
an example of the true and faithful friend.
He was probably an Ephesian merchant,
whose business occasionally brought him te
Rome. Christianity was not popular in Rome
in those days, and because Paul had dared
to lift the standard of the cross in the palace
of the Caesars he was cast into prison. And one
day the gloom of his dungeon was changed
into gladness, for Onesiphorus of Ephesus,
after a long and diligent search through all
the prisons of Rome, had at last found his
old friend and pastor. Paul was most likely
allowed some brief liberty on his word of
honor, and so, accompanied by a slave to
whom he was chained, he was allowed a brief
respite. A strange trio that, walking the
streets of Rome 2000 years ago! A prisoner
chained to a slave, and a gentleman of
Ephesus on the other side. And Paul says .
he was “‘ not ashamed of my chain.†That
one phrase covers all the ground, the friend
who is not ashamed of our chains is the
friend to cling to and trust in. Heaven has
no greater gift for us, in this life at least,
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THE SLEEPING CHILD.
EUGENE FIELD.
My baby'slept; how calm his rest
As o’er his handsome face a smile
ike to an angel’s flitted, while
He lay so still upon my breast.
My baby slept; his baby head 6
Lay all unkissed neath pa!l and shroud.
did not weep or cry aloud;
Tonly wished I, too, were dead.
My baby sleeps; a tiny mound,
All coverd by the little flowers,
Woos me in all my waking hours,
Down in the quiet burying ground.
And when I sleep I seem to be
With baby in another land, a
I take his little baby hand,
He smiles and sings sweet songs to me. |’
Sleep on, O baby, while I keep
My vigils till this day be past,
Then shall I, too, lie down at last
And with my darling baby sleep.
SSS
than a friend who is true when the days are
dark, and the way is rugged, and the chain
clangs its rude music at every step we take.
One such friend in such an hour is enough
to redeem us from despair. And it should
be remembered that was an example of
Christian friendship. ‘The world chooses to
be very merry sometimes in its criticisms of
church friendships, and it is sad that there
should be any foundation in truth for such
criticisms, but when all is said and done,
there are no truer friendships in the world
than church friendships. Onesiphorus was
the kind of a friend that Christianity makes;
the friend whom no chain can scare away,
the friend who thinks that if one be in
sorrow or pain, in prison or disgrace, then
there is so much more the need of gentleness
and love. There is much true friendship in
the world and in the church, and if a man is
friendless in days like these the fault is his
own. Let us cherish dearly those who love
us. . Let us count our wealth not in acres or
stocks or gold alone, but in friends. Happy
is the man, and wealthy is the man, though
he never own an acre who can count amongst
his treasures a host of faithful friends.
Life’s burdens will be light if love keeps
equal step with us in the march, and heaven
itself will have little better to bestow than
the reunion of sundered friendships.
DUTIES LEFT UNDONE.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER,
ie isn’t the thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which give you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flower you might have sent, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts to-night.
The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother’s way,
A bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.
These little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind,
These chances to be angels
Which even mortals find—
They come in night and silence,
Each chill, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a blight has dropped on faith,
For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And it’s not the thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heartache
At the setting of the sun.
MOTHER’S TOILING SAINT.
Cee is a girl, and I love to think of
her and talk of her, who comes in late
when there is company, who wears a pretty
little air of mingled responsibility and anxiety
with her youth, whom the others seem to
depend upon and look to for many comforts,
She is the girl who helps mother.
In her own home she is a blessed little
saint and comforter. She takes unfinished
tasks from the tired, stitf fingers that falter
at their work; her strong young figure is a
staff upon which the gray-haired, white-
faced mother leans and is rested. She
helps mother with the spring sewing, with
the week’s mending, with a cheerful conver-
sation and congenial companionship that
some girls do not think worth while wasting
on only mether. And when there comes a
day when she must bend over the old, worn-
out body of mother lying unheeded in her
coffin, her rough hands folded, her long dis-
quiet merged in rest, something very sweet
will be mingled with her loss, and the girl
who helped mother will find a benediction
of peace upon her head and in her heart.
The girl who works—God bless her!—is
another girl whom I know. She is brave
and active. She is not too proud to earn her
own living, or ashamed to be caught at her
daily task. She is studious and painstaking
and patient. She smiles at you from be-
hind counter or desk. There is a memory
of her own sewn into each silken gown. She
is like a beautiful mountaineer already far
up the hill, and the sight of her should be
a fine inspiration for us all. It is an honor
to know this girl—to be worthy of her re-
gard. Her hand may be stained with factory
grease or printer’s ink, but it is an honest
hand and a helping hand. It stays misfor-
tune from many homes; it is one shield that
protects many a forlorn little family from
the almshouse and the asylum.
FIVE ESSENTIAL POINTS.
WILLIAM PENN.
Five things are requisite to a good officer—
ability, clean hands, dispatch, patience and
impartiality.
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“CARRY YOUR GIFTS OF FLOWERS.’
MRS. F. S. LOVEJOY.
Ca your gifts of flowers,
In memory of the brave;
Strew them thickly, like summer showers,
Over each soldier's grave.
Bravely they fought, and well,
Nor feared the battle’s strife,
And bravely for their country fell,
Dearer to them than life.
Then carry gifts of flowers,
And over graves ‘‘ Unknown â€
Strew the fairest from spring’s fair bowers,
For God has marked each one.
“Unknownâ€! No mother’s tears,
Or wife’s or sister’s care,
These graves have known thro’ changing years;
So place the fairest there.
Within our Nation’s grounds
Are sleeping, side by side,
The friends and foes; in all your rounds
Let no grave be denied.
Through the soft summer hours
They rest in quiet sleep,
While waving trees and blooming flowers
Above their vigils keep.
No more war’s clarion cry
Will call them into strife;
‘They've gained a glorious victory
And passed from death to life;
‘While over our fair land,
Kven from sea to sea,
Floats undisturbed, on every hand,
Our flag of Liberty.
Then carry gifts of flowers,
In memory of the brave,
Who fought so well through weary hours,
This blessed land to save. :
HOW TO CLIMB SAFELY.
eee safety of a mountain climber depends
4_ upon being well shod; therefore, the Swiss
uides wear heavy shoes with sharp spikes
in the soles. On a bright July morning a
famous man of science started with two gen-
tlemen to ascend Piz ‘Morteratsch, a steep
and lofty snow mountain in Switzerland.
Though experienced mountaineers, they
took with them Senni, the boldest guide in
. the district. After reaching the summit of
Morteratsch, they started back, and soon
arrived at a steep slope covered with a thin
snow. They were lashed together with a
strong rope, which was tied to each man’s
waist,
‘Keep carefully in my steps, gentlemen,â€
said Senni, “for a false step here might start
the snow and send us down in an avalanche.â€
He had hardly spoken when the whole field
of ice began to slide down the icy mountain
side, carrying the unlucky climbers with it
ata terrible pace. A steeper slope was be-
fore them, and 24 the end of it was a preci-
pice. The three foremost men were almost
buried in the whirling snow. Below them
were the jawsofdeath. Everything depend-
ed on getting a foothold. Senni shouted
loudly, ‘Halt! Halt!†and with desperate
energy drove his iron nail boots into the firm
_ice beneath the snow. Within a few rods of
the precipice Senni got a hold with his feet,
and was able to bring the party all up stand-
ing, when two seconds more would have.
swept them into the chasm.
The narrow escape shows the value of be-
ing well shod when in dangerous places.
The lesson is especially needed by the young.
No boy is well prepared for rough climbing,
unless he is ei shod with Christian princi-
ples. Sometimes temptation ices the track
under him, and then he must plant hig foot
down with an iron heel or he is gone.
THE PICTURE OF A MAN.
W. SHAKSPEARE.
i | IS words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears, pure messengers sent from his heart;
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
“ARE YOU HURT, WALLACE?â€
66 A RE you hurt Wallace, dear?†asked
Panzie, as she came running down
the bank the moment she saw Wallace fall
from his bicycle.
“Hurt! no, only shaken just a little,â€
answered Wallace, who had just “come a
cropper†through, not looking out for
stumps and snags.
“You see,†Wallace added as he picked
himself up from the ground, “ Pride must
have a fall, and the boys tell me that I shall
never be an expert manager.of the bicycle
till I have had a dozen falls. And this is
only my third, so you see I have nine more
to have.â€
With this Wallace remounted his trund-
ling wheels and was off whistling merrily.
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OLD DOBBIN GRAY.
HE merciful man is merciful to his beast.
The man or boy who is merciful to poor
dumb beasts will never be very unkind to
any one.. Farmer Armstrong was more than
merciful to his poor o1a horse Dobbin Gray.
Dobbin had been a faithful servant for many
years, and. now that he had grown old and
feeble he was not permitted to work any
more. Once a day the children brought him
out for a little exercise and Oscar, the farm-
er’s little grandson, was allowed a short ride.
‘Poor old Dobbin has a very happy old age
for everybody is kind to one who has been a
faithful servant for so many years.
LESSONS OF STEM AND LEAF.
E. P. ROE.
Eee purple-tipped strawberry run-
ner, every bud forming at the stem of
the leaf, every ripening seed, should teach us
that it is God’s will that we should live and
be happy in the future as well as in the
present.
EASTER LILIES.
AGNES MAUDE MACHAR.
H, where are the sweet white lilies,
- Stately and fair and tall?
And why don’t they grow for Easter,
Down by our garden wall?
Dear, in the bare, brown garden,
- Their roots lie hidden deep,
And the life is pulsing through them,
Although they seem to sleep.
And the gardener’s eye can see them,
In germs that buried lie,
Shine in the spotless beauty
That will clothe them by and by.
So may Christ see in us growing
The lillies he loves best—
The faith, the trust, the patience
He planted in the breast.
Not yet their crown of blossom,
But he sees their coming prime,
As they will smile to meet him
In earth’s glad Easter time.
The love that striveth toward him,
Through earthly gloom and chill;
The faithful, meek obedience,
In darkness following still—
These are the Easter lilies,
Spotless and fair and sweet,
We would bring to the risen Saviour,
And lay at his blessed feet.
EASTER EGGS.
1 is not altogether easy to establish the.
connection between eggs and Haster Day,
as we have a number of superstitions te
choose from. The Persians, for instance,
used eggs asa New Year’s gift, assymbolizing
prosperity. The Romans had egg games in
honor of Castor and Pollux, who were said te
have been hatched from an egg of the swan
Leda.
form of an oval, and decorated eggs were
given as prizes to the victors. As the new
year, with the Romans, began at Haster,
nothing was easier than to transfer the egg
custom from the Pagan to the Christian fes-
tival. Furthermore, eggs formed a part of
the Passover feast of the Jews, being put on
the table, we are told, ‘“‘in honor of the
bird, Ziz,†a fowl holding as important a part
in the rabbinical legends as the Roc does
in the tales of the Orient. Itis quite possi-
ble, however, that our modern Haster eggs
had no such far-fetched beginning. In the
fourth century the eating of eggs during
Lent was forbidden. But as the unothodox
hens continued to lay, there was naturally a
large accumulation of eggs by the close of
Lent. On Easter Day, then, they formed the
first ‘‘ flesh food†eaten, and they were set
out in great platters upon the tables. As
the appetite was soon cloyed upon them, and
they were so plenteous, the suggestion prob-
ably followed to give them to the children
to play with, for which purpose, of course,
it was necessary to boil them hard, The
simple fact of the plenteousness of the eggs
at these medieval Hasters seems to account
readily enough for the fancy for decorating
them, giving them away, or using them for
sports. Later came in the emblematic idea,
which accepted the egg as an emblem of the
resurrection. The custom became very pop-
ular in Europe and continued to modern
times. In France, eggs gilded and painted,
were brought as tribute to the King in
_ heaped baskets, and after being blessed by
the chaplain or bishop they were distributed.
The decorated eggs, filling the toy shops and
hawked about in the streets, are now one of
the sights of Paris in Easter week, and
everybody gives everybody else an egg or a
picture of an egg in honor of the occasion.
In Russia Easter Day is Calling Day, as New
Year’s Day with us, and each swain who
sallies forth has his pockets full of hard-boiled
eggs. Meeting a friend, he salutes him
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THE HERITAGE OF THE RICH
AND THE POOR.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Mt t ION N is HE rich man’s son inherits lands,
a} pa |S aI i And piles of brick and stone and gold,
Ws And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
SI One would not care to hold in fee,
The rich man’s son inherits cares:
The bank may break, the factory burn;
\| Some breath may burst his bubbles hares;
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
What does the poor man’s gon inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
2 \ A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
NLS _ King of two hands; he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to holdin fee.
What does the poor man’s son inherit ?
Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things;
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit;
Content that from employment springs;
A heart that in his labor sings;
6 A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
Both heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the ground at last;
Both children of the same dear God;
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By records of a well-filled past:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee,
after the manner of the early Christains:
“Christ is risen!†To which the reply is
made; “‘ He isrisen, indeed!†Then the two
exchange eggs, and usually rub their beards
together in token of good will. Ladies who
“receive†have platters of gaily colored eggs
to give away, and always a kiss can be
claimed with the exchange of eggs, if either
party desires. In Scotland, where Haster
prener has been suppressed for centuries,
aster Monday. is unfailingly celebrated
among the young people by rolling hard-
boiled cggs down hill. In England and in
the continental countries for centuries a
feature of the same day has been ball playing
with eggs, the hardest and the toughest one
proving the winner of the game. In the
villages of the continent another old custom
was to scatter a number of eggs on the village
green, when the young couples would dance
among them, and if any pair concluded the
figures without stepping upon an egg they
were to be regarded as affianced. This cus-
tom once brought about a very happy royal
marriage between Philibert the Handsome,
King of Savoy, and the fair Marguerita of
Austria, who successfully performed the egg
dance at Bresse on Easter Day, 1501, and
were married the same year. The absurd
fiction which connects the rabbit or hare with
Raster eggs comes from a German nursery
tale, and originated, no doubt, in the desire
of some parent or nurse to hoax the children
as to the origin of their favorite eggs.
BONES! BONES! NOTHING BUT BONES!
Fee many bones in the human face?
Fourteen, when they’re all in place.
How many bones in the human head?
Eight, my child, as I’ve often said.
How many bones in the human ear?
Three in each, and they help to hear.
How many bones in the human spine?
Twenty-six, like a climbing vine.
How many bones in the human chest?
Twenty-four ribs, and two of the rest.
* How many bones the shoulders bind?
Two in each: one before, one behind.
How many bones in the human arm?
In each arm onc¢; two in each fore-arm.
How many bones in the human wrist?
Eight in each, if none are missed.
How many bones in the palm of the hand?
. Five in each, with many a band.
How many bones in the fingers ten?
Twenty-eight, and by joints they bend.
How many bones in the human hip?
One in each; like a dish they dip.
How many bones in the human thigh?
One in each, and deep they lie.
How many bones in the human knees?
One in each, the knee-pan please.
How many bones in the leg from the knee?
Two in each, we can plainly see.
How many bones in the ankle strong?
Seven in each, but none are long
How many bones in the ball of the foot?
Five in each, as in the palms were put.
How many bones in the toes half a score?
Twenty-eight, and there are no more.
And now, all together, these many bones fix
And they count in the body two hundred and six, Lei:
And then we have in the human mouth,
Of upper and under, thirty-two teeth.
And we now and then have a bone, I should think,
That forms on a joint, or to fill up a chink.
A seamoid bone, or a wormian we call,
And now we may rest, for we’ve told them all.
TRUTH IN A STRAIGHT LINE.
THOMAS BASFORD.
RUTH lies in a straight line, following
which a man may always stand erect in
the full dignity of his manhood; but false-
hood ever has a zigzag, underground course,
pursuing which he must bend his judgment,
twist his conscience and warp his manhood.
till he ceases to be a man.
CONCERNING MONEY.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
ND as for money—Don’t you remember
-\. the old saying, ‘“‘ Hnough is as good as.
feast’? Money never made a man happy
yet, nor will it. There is nothing in its
nature to produce happiness. The more a
man has, the more he wants. Instead of its
filling a vacuum, it makes one. If it satis-
fies one want, it doubles and trebles that
want another way. That was a true proverb
of the wise man, rely upon it: “ Better is
little with the fear of the Lord than great
treasure, and trouble therewith.â€
THE MUSIC OF THE MARSH.
Wien the sun is going down and the stars are at a twinkle,
And the drapery of night falls down without a wrinkle,
A quaint and curious chorus in the twilight is agog,
= And "tis then we hear the music of the fair and festive frog.
Oh, Froggie, sing your song in peace—lift up your chorus shrill—
And make the evening’s musical, though they be warm or chill, |E
We'd miss you in the May time with your tiny pollywog, i
If we didn’t hear your music, Ok, festive, merry frog. ; 34
ON DUTY.
EMMA L. BURNETT.
TNCLE ALEX came out on the back pi-
azza with his newspaper, and was just
going to seat himself in one of the arm chairs,
when a very large spider, weaving its web
among the vines, attracted his attention. He
went closer to look atit, and presently called
‘to Neddie, who was playing in the yard:
*‘Neddie come and see this huge spider.â€
“TI can’t come now, Uncle Alex,†replied
Neddie; “Iam on duty.â€
Uncle Alex stopped looking at the spider
and looked at Neddie. He had a paper sol-
dier-cap on, and, carrying his toy gun, was
gravely pacing up and down before his tent,
which was pitched on the grass under the
big cherry-tree. Will Ramsey and two or
three other boys were in the adjoining
meadow galloping around on sticks and
flourishing wooden swords. There was prob-
ably a battle going on, though the cows
chewing their cud under the trees didn’t
seem a bit frightened.
‘“‘What are you doing ?†asked Uncle
Alex.
“‘l’m a sentinel keeping guard,†said
Neddie.
“«Can’t you come over here just a minute
if I watch the tent ?â€
“No indeed,†answered Neddie decidedly.
“Soldiers mustn’t go away a second when
they’re on duty.â€
‘Well, well,†said Uncle Alex, seeming
quite amused as he sat down to his paper.
Towards the close of the afternoon, when
the tent was deserted, and the boys were
playing something else at the other side of
the house, Neddie’s mother came out on the
porch from the kitchen carrying a small
basket. She looked hastily around, and
then called, ‘‘Neddie, Neddie! where are
you ?â€
“‘Here, mamma!†he shouted, bounding
around the corner of the house and up the
steps.
““T want you to go over to the store and
get me two pounds of sugar and half a
pound of raisins†said his mother, adding,
as she gave him the basket and some money,
“‘Now don’t be gone long. I’m making
something good for supper, and want those
things as soon as possible.â€
About ten minutes after Neddie had gone,
Uncle Alex started to the post-office. When
he reached the little brook which had to be
crossed to get to the village, he saw Neddie
standing on the bridge throwing pebbles in-
to the water.
“¢ Hello, Neddie!†he said, ‘“‘I thought you
were on duty.â€
“No sir,’ replied the boy, looking up in
surprise; ‘“‘we’re not. playing soldier any
more. Mamma sent me on an errand.â€
«©Did she send you here to throw pebbles
inthe brook?â€
““No, sir; she sent me to the store for
something.â€
“T thought I heard her giving you a com-
mission which was to be executed with
promptness and dispatch, and knowing you
to be such a soldierly fellow, who could not
be tempted away from duty a moment, I
wonder, rather, to see you standing here.â€
and Uncle Alex stroked his whiskers medi-
tatively and knit his brows as though he
was trying to study the matter out.
Neddie, with a puzzled expression, looked
steadily in his uncle’s face for a moment or
two, and then turning toward the village
was off like a flash.
Uncle Alex was standing on the post-
office steps reading a letter, when he hap-
pened to see Neddie come out of the grocery
store with his basket and walk rapidly home-
ward. Some little boys on the other side
of the street also spied him, and running
over, surrounded him, evidently wanting
him to stop with them a little while, but he,
though in a very good-natured way, de-
clined there invitation, and kept on his way.
He realized that he was on duty.
JESSICA’S BOUDOIR.
AY ARMITAGHE?’S sister Emily has
spent a summer in Europe and on her
return brought May the loveliest doll from
Paris with a little trunk of doll’s clothes.
There were at least seven different dresses and
asmany beautiful little hats. Since herreturn
from abroad Miss Armitage had changed
the name of her pretty little dressing room
tothe fine French name “boudoir.†May
soon caught up the new name and said her
doll could have.a “‘ boudoir †just as well as
Emily. She called her little doll Jessica,
and the quiet little spot at the foot of the
big elm tree wheroc May used to dress and’
undress her beautiful doll was known as
«* Jessica’s Boudoir.â€
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JESSICA’S BOUDOIR.
“NO YOU DON’T!â€
Sree has gone to sleep. She is thor-
oughly tired out, too tired to eat the
piece of cake that remains on her plate.
Master Tip has avery fine nose for cake,
and if there was no one else around he would
soon have that piece of cake between his teeth.
But Miss Malty, Susie’s little cat, ison guard,
and says just as plain as alittle cat can say:—
“No you don’t Master Tip! Not while I’m
here. You’re a nice sort of a dog to take
advantage of your little Mistress being asleep,
if you were a boy you’d be mean enough to
try and win a pair of gloves.â€
THE STOUTEST. HEARTS ARE THOSE
THAT BLEED.
BY FATHER RYAN.
ee summer rose the sun has flushed
With crimson glory, may be sweet—
*Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed
Beneath the winds’ and tempests’ feet,
The rose, that waves upon its tree,
In life, sheds perfume all around—
More sweet the perfume floats to me
Of roses trampled on the ground.
The waving rose, with every breath, .
Scents, carelessly the summer air—
The wounded rose bleeds forth in death
A sweetness far more rich and rare.
It is a truth beyond our ken—
And yet a truth that all may read—
It is with roses as with men,
The sweetest hearts are those that bleed,
The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom
Out of a heart all full of grace.
Gave never forth its full perfume
Until the cross became its vase.-
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS,
VI. THE FOOL’S CREED.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
A eee is no great difficulty in under-
standing what the Bible means when it
speaks of a man as a fool. The phrase is
never used in the Bible in scorn of a man
of weak or imperfect intellect. The fool of
the Bible is not a man of unbalanced mind,
a mental weakling, or an imbecile; but one
who, blessed with reason, wilfully runs coun-
ter to the teachings of sound judgment.
The poor demented child who puts his hand
in the fire, not knowing that the fire will
burn, is to be pitied and cared for most ten-
derly. But the man who, knowing that the
fire burns, still plays with fire, is a fool, and
has only himself to thank for the scorching
and the scars. In short, the fool of the Bible
is one who, blessed with the inestimable
treasure of a sound mind, will not follow its
teachings. The fool of the Bible will sow
the wind, though he knows perfectly well he
must sooner or later reap the whirlwind; he
will turn aside from the fountain of living
waters, and spend his life and strength in
hewing out broken cisterns that he knows
can hold no water; he will make a mock at
sin, though he knows that the wages of sin
are death; he will look upon the wine when.
it is red, though he knows that at the last it
biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an ad-
der. There can be no reasonable complaint
against the Bible for calling such men fools 3
on the contrary, there should be great thank-
fulness that the Bible lifts its voice of warn-
ing with such clearness and fidelity. But
there is another kind of folly that takes very
largely the form of stubbornness, and be-
cause the impossible ig not made possible
and easy, utterly refuses to give credence,
not to say faith, to that which is shrouded
in mystery. This folly says: “* What I can
not know I will utterly reject. There shall
be no place in my creed for anything that is.
not capable of the most complete demon-
stration.†This is the arrogance of ignor- |
ance. ‘This is folly of the emptiest kind.
And there are many who are foolish enough
to boast that they are so far removed
from credulity and superstition that they de-
cline to believe anything that is not made
perfectly clear to them. Such a creed will
be very brief; in fact there will be nothing
torecord. The final step of such folly is to
complete the picture David saw. Folly per-
fected says: ‘*There is no God†That a
man may have serious doubts about the ex-
istence of a personal God, is quite easy to
understand. Some thingsseem too good to
be true, and faith stands faltering by. Some
things are too great for mortal grasping, and
not infrequently the-blazing light in which
one stands so dazzles the feeble orbs of vis-
ion that the landscape about our fect is for
the time being hidden from our eyes. But
the man is a fool who, in the face of all
the ten thousand probabilities that stand be-
fore him, avows the sad negation as his creed.
Let us never forget that religion, ‘to be
worth the name of religion, must always be
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“NO YOU DON'T!â€
a hope rather than a demonstration. This
was enough for the Apostle Paul,a man whose
‘mind was so far-reaching and colossal in its
rasp that no man need be ashamed to fol-
ow where he trod. He declared on the
plainest grounds the utter inexcusableness
of atheism. In his wonderful letter to the
Romans he says: <‘ Because that which may
be known of God is manifest in them; for
God has shown it unto them. For the in-
visible things of Him, from the creation of
the world, are clearly seen, being under-
stood by the things that are made, even His
eternal power and God-head; so that they
are without excuse.†In other words, the
seen is wholly inexplicable, save on the
ground that it points to the unseen; and the
known is wholly unaccountable, save as it
points to a wide and boundless realm of the
unknown. The folly of men who take a
negation for their creed is only seen when we
come to think of the poverty of such a creed.
Without God we are without hope, for the
life that is and for the life that is to be. We
can not dream of a world without God. God
can not be retired from our life, from our
world, from our homes. He is interwoven
in the warp and woof of the world’s history.
The creed of Atheism is the nightmare of
disordered souls.
Could I for a moment deem
God is not in all I see,
O how awful were the dream,
Of a world devoid of Thee!
But since Thou are ever near,
Ruling all that comes to me,
Ican smile at pain or tears,
For they come in love from Thee.
_ HOW DIMES ARE MADE.
pee United States Mint in San Fran-
cisco is said to be the largest of the
kindin the world. Just at the present time
there is a lively demand for silver dimes,
and twe of the money presses have been for ~
some tiwe running exclusively on this coin.
The dex und is so great that these machines
are not even stopped on Sunday. The pro-
cess of dime making is an interesting one.
The silver bullion is first melted and run
into two-pound bars. These in turn are
run through immense rollers and flattened
out to the thickness of the coin. These sil-
ver strips are then passed through a machine,
which cuts them into proper size for the
presses, the strips first having been treated
with a kind of tallow to prevent their being
scratched in their passage through the cut
ters. The silver pieces are then put into —
the feeder of the printing presses, and are
fed to the die by automatic machinery at
the rate of 100 per minute, 48,000 dimes
being turned outin a regular working day
of twelve hours.
As the smooth pieces are pressed between
the ponderous printing dies, they receive
the lettered and figured impression in a
manner similar to that’ of a paper pressed
upon a form of type; at the same time the
piece is expanded in a slight degree, and the
small corrugations are cut in its rim. The
machine drops the completed coin into a
receiver, and it is ready for the counter’s
hands. The instrument used by the count-
er is not a complicated machine by any
means, as one might suppose. It is a sim-
pla, copper-colored tray, having raised edges
running across its surface ab a distance
about the exact width of a dime. From the
receiver the money is dumped on the board
or tray, and as it is shaken rapidly by the
counter the pieces settle down into the
spaces between the ridges,
All these spaces being filled, the surplus
coin is brushed back into the receiver, and
the counter has exactly 1,250 silver dimes,
or $125 on the tray, which number is re-
quired to fill the spaces. The tray is then
emptied into boxes, and the money is ready
for shipment. The dime does not pass
through the weigher’s hands, as does the
coin of a larger denomination. One and
one-half grains is allowed for variation, or
‘*tolerance,†in all silver coins from a dollar
down, and the deviation from the standard
in the case of the ten-cent pieces is so
trifling that the trouble and expense of
weighing coins of this denomination is dis-
pensed with.
A GENTLE MOTHER.
ON’T imagine fora moment that that cat
is cruel because she carries her kitten in
her mouth. The truth is, it is just the ten-
derest way possible to carry a kitten about
Old Sue has long been a favorite at the farm.
She isa proud mother, as she well may be,
with that beautiful piece of ribbon round
her neck and that more beautiful kitten in
her mouth. A very proud and a very gentle
mother is old Sue,
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CHARLEY AND HIS PET.
GYP’S MORNING LESSON,
NEY Master Gyp, sit up and beg very
prettily and you shall have this piece
of sugar. But now mark, my dear little pet,
I have brought you out into Grandpa’s big
garden chair, because I want to give you a
special lesson this morning. You know,
Gyp, we have company in the house, and I
want you to behave in the best possible man-
ner. Specially I want you to leave Kittie
alone. I’m sure she’s a well-behaved little
Kittie, and does you no harm, and yet for all
that I saw you chasing her all over the
garden yesterday, and finally to escape yon,
she ran up a tree, and there you sat at the
foot of the tree barking for more than an
hour, and you would not let hercome down.
Gyp, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,
And I really think by the look of your eyes
you are. Now do try and be a good dog,
don’t run out with your tail bristling up
every time you see a dog go by, as if you
were dying for afight. Be a good, obedient
dog, and V’ll take you a walk every day dur-
ing vacation, and you shall have a lump of
sugar every morning, as long as there is a
lump left in Grandma’s sugar bowl.
e
A BARREL OF WHISKEY.
DRAYMAN rolled forth from his cart to
the street,
A red-headed barrel, well bound and complete;
And on it red letters, like forked tongues of flame,
Emblazoned the grade, number, quality, fame,
Of this pole Teco yaad whiskey from somebody’s
still,
Who arrested the grain on the way to the-mill.
So there stood the barrel delivered, but I
Could see that a shadow was hovering nigh,
A sulphurous shadow that grew as I gazed,
To the form of Mephisto. Though sorely amazed,
I ventured to question this imp of the realm,
Where Vice is the Pilot, with Crime at the Helm;
And asked him politely his mission to name,
And if he was licensed to retail the same
Identical barrel of whiskey which he
Was fondly surveying with demoniac glee?
“Oh, I never handle the stuff,†he replied,
““My mortal partners are trusty and tried;
Mayhap, peradventure you might wish to look
At the invoice complete—I will read from this book.
You will find that this barrel contains something
more
Than forty-two gallons of whiskey galore.â€
_And ere I could slip but another word in,
He checked it off gaily, this cargo of sin:
“A barrel of headaches, of heartaches, of woes;
A barrel of curses, a barrel of blows;
A barrel of tears from a world-weary wife:
A barrel of sorrow, a barrel of strife;
A barrel of all-unavailing regret;
A barrel of cares and a barrel of debt;
A barrel of crime and a barrel of pain;
A barrel of hopes ever blasted and vain;
A barrel of falsehood, a barrel of cries
That fall from the maniac’s lips as he dies;
A barrel of agony, heavy and dull;
A. barrel of poison—of this nearly full;
A barrel of poverty, ruin and blight; °
A barrel of terrors that grow with the night;
A barrel of hunger, a barrel of groans;
A barrel of orphans’ most pitiful moans;
A barrel of serpents that hiss as they pass
From the bead on the liquor that glowsin the glass,
My barrel! My treasure! I bid thee farewell,
Sow ye the foul seed, I will reap it in Hell!â€
THE LEGEND OF THE LOOM AND THE
HAMMER.
JOAQUIN MILLER,
T WAS living in Nazareth, a good many
years ago, when an old man asked me one
sweet spring morning to lay my ear to the
ground and listen to what I might hear.
There was a dull, soft, far-away sound,
not much unlike the thrumbing of a grouse
in a fir tree high up on the wooded hills of
Oregon. Only this sound here at Nazareth
was softer, and too, it seemed not so monot-
- onous,.
The sound, heard only at rare intervals,
and when the wind lay very low, was at first
very faint, and very soft and doubtful. But
after awhile I heard a heavier and a harder
stroke. Then the two would blend together
and then finally be lost, to be lifted up to
the thick tangle of foliage by the road-
side, which hung in festoons above and about
us, where the doves sat and sang, or the
bluebird flitted along in a line of sapphire.
But in the morning, if the morning is
still, and warm and pleasant, go out on the
hills and listen. Listen and believe, and
you will hear the low, soft and almost pa-
thetic monotony of sound of which I have
spoken. ae
“‘ And what does it all mean?†T at last
asked of the half-naked old son of Syria who
had constituted himself my guide and only
companion.
He put a whole pile of dirty fingers to his
thin, brown lips, and would not answer.
But as spring advanced, day after day we
went on the wooded hills to catch the sound.
Sometimes, not often, however, we were re-
warded, for in Nazareth, as well as else-
where, there are cloudy days, and days of
wind and storm.
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But to cut the story short, as I was about
to leave this holiest place on earth to one
who loves the woods and believes in God,
the ragged old follower led me once more up
to the hills to lay my ear for the last time to
the bosom of the earth. I never heard the
sound so distinctly before.
“« What can it mean? â€.
The old man crept close and whispered in
his wild and broken way: “Theloom! It
is Mary at her loom; and then the carpenter’s |
hammer.â€
You understand? Then let it go at that.
But it then and there seemed to me as the
most beauteous thought, the most entirely
pathetic thing on all this earth, to feel that
through eighteen hundred years there still
echoed the sound of Mary’s.loom and the
stroke of the carpenter’s hammer.
And I thought if I could teach the toiling
world that Mary still leans to hear the loom,
that Christ is still in some sort a carpenter,
I might maybe bridge over the awful gulf of
infidelity and lead the world to redemption.
But even if I could teach each laborer the
dignity of his labor, show him how God
worked at a trade, how the echo of the ham-
mer is still heard—if I could only teach one
poor broken-hearted old woman bending to
her toil that Mary toiled the same way, why,
that would be glory, glory enough and
enough of good.
ODD SAYINGS.
A 8 poor as a church mouse,
As thin as a rail;
As fat as a porpoise,
As rough as a gale;
As brave.as a lion,
As spry as a cat;
As bright as a sixpence,
As weak as a rat.
As proud as a peacock,
As fly as a fox;
As mad as a March hare,
As strong as an ox;
As fair as a lily,
As empty as air;
As rich as Croesus,
As cross as a bear.
As pure as an angel,
As neat as a pin;
As smart as a steel-trap,
As ugly as sin;
As dead as a door-nail,
As white asa sheet;
As flat as a pancake,
As red as a beet,
Asround as an apple,
As black as your hat;
As brown as a berry,
As blind as a bat;
As mean as a miser,
As full as a tick;
As plump as a patridge,
As sharp as a stick.
As clean as a penny,
As dark as a pall;
As hard as a millstone,
As bitter as gall;
As fine as a fiddle,
As clear as a bell;
As dry as a herring,
As deep as a well.
As light as a feather,
As firm as a rock;
As stiff as a poker,
As calm as a clock;
As green as a gosling,
As brisk as a bee;
Now let me stop,
Lest you weary of me.
WHAT THE BEES SAY.
ss afi WONDER what the bees are trying toe
say as they go buzz-buzz-buzzing in and
out of the hive?†said little Effie to her
Aunt, who had sat down for a little rest at
the end of their morning walk,
“I hardly know my dear,†said Miss
Windsor,†but I think we may easily fancy
what they would say if they could speak.
That little fellow who is crowding his way
into the hive says—‘Dear me, I’m tired, but
I’ve got such a load of honey. Every flower
has yielded honey. Honey, honey, honey!
The world is full of honey.’ And that one just
settling on the white clover blossom SAYS:
‘There’s no time to be lost, winter is com-
ing, there is no time to be lost!’ And that
one winging its way in the distance, sings as
it flies, as if it would teach us that all our
duties should be discharged with a glad heart.
So my dear, there are three wise lessons for
us at the end of our morning’s walk. The
world is full of honey—There is no time to
be lost—We should do our work with a glad
and merry heart.
HOW THE FARMER PACKS APPLES,
And now the cunning farmer packg
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WHAT THE BEES SAY.
: CLOTHILDE AND THE FLOWERS.
HERE is no more common sight in the
villages of the South of France than
that which our artist has sketched for us on
the following page. Pere Dumond and his
little daughter, Clothilde, are on their usual
daily rounds. He playing the hand-organ
while the little girl sings and then spreads
out her apron to catch here and there a sou
that generous souls toss into her lap, while
Trix, Clothilde’s favorite poodle, sits in sol-
emn silence by Pere Dumond’s side. But
there is one little girl, the daughter of a
French soldier, who having no sou to give,
plucks a bunch of flowers as soon as she
hears Pere Dumond’s organ in the distance,
and throws them into Clothilde’s wide-open
apron. Of course, the flowers will not buy
fish or garlic, but they help to sweeten and
beautify a life that without them would
often be dulland sad. Clothilde does not
know the name of the fair girl who makes
this daily gift of flowers, but she has placed
her amongst her saints and calls her, ‘‘My
Lady of the Flowers.â€
THE SONG OF THE CRICKET.
GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD.
ys. the world is big; but I'll do my best;
Since I happen to find myself in it;
And Tl sing my loudest out with the rest,
Though I’m neither a lark nor a linnet,
And strive toward the goal with as tireless zest,
Though I know I may never win it.
For shall no bird sing but the nightingale?
No flower bloom but the rose?
Shall little stars quench their torches pale
When Mars through the midnight glows?
Shall only the highest and greatest prevail?
May nothing seem white but the snows?
Nay, the world is so big that it needs us all
To make sweet music in it,
God fits a melody e’en to the small;
We have nothing to do but begin it;
So I'll chirp my merriest out to them all,
Though I’m neither a lark nor a linnet!
FIVE LUMPS OF SUGAR,
HEN Ethel May waked on Monday
morning, her mind was filled with an
idea given by her teacher in Sunday-school
the day before. She had that rare style of
teacher who managed to interest her class in
the lesson, and who gave, in a bright, cheer-
ful manner, many hints which lodged firmly
in the minds and hearts of her young
hearers.
Yesterday she had said to them:
«TJ think almost everybody in this world is
either sugar or lemon. They sweeten things
for other people, or make them sharp and
sour. Now, I want every girl in this class to
make up her mind to be sugar; and whenever
she sees anyone in trouble, or cross, or tired,
or in any way wrong, just pop a great, big
lump into that person’s mouth, and see what
will happen.â€
The girls had laughed, but the impression
remained, and Ethel May, waking that dis-
mal, cold Monday morning, had quite made
up her mind to try the plan. Being an im-
aginative child, she improved upon the idea
in her mind, and by the time she was dressed,
had decided to take five lumps of sugar with
her that day, and if success warranted it, to
double the number to-morrow.
She soon used her first lump. Tom, her
younger brother, was grumbling away like an
ill-natured bear. It was hard to go toschool
in this sleety rain, and, somehow, things al-
ways seemed harder for Tom than for anyone
else; at least, he thought so. Just now it
was his books he could not find, and he was
dashing about in that helpless, masculine
manner which develops so early.
Although a good-natured child, Ethel
ever concerned herself much. with Tom’s
worries. There was always something for
him to grumble over; but this morning, with
a little feeling of curiosity as to the result,
she decided to give her first lump of sugar to
om.
“Tl help you to find them,†she said,
cheerily. ‘‘I think they are on the table.in
the library.â€
Notwithstanding his emphatic assurance
of having looked there “a dozen times al-
ready,†the missing books were found and.‘
given into his hands: without the tempting
“I told you soâ€â€”that slice of lemon we slip
so often into the mouth of our neighbor.
His looks of relief and gruff thanks were
her only rewards; but she did not mind that,
and started off with a cheery ‘“‘good-by†to
mother, who stood watching her from the
window.
It was not pleasant out of doors; for the
sleety rain beat against her face, and she had
a long walk befor her. So she scarcely
heeded a little child who was timidly trying
to cross a swollen drain, and the ‘“‘ Please
help me over†struck her as rather an un-
pleasant interruption. Suddenly she remem-
bered the sugar, and took out another lump.
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With ready hand and strong arm, she
jumped the little girl over the gutter, and
helped her to cross the slippery pavement,
landing her safely on her own doorstep;
then, not waiting for thanks, hurried off to
school.
We all know how many opportunities of
sweetening are given here. A kind word, a
lesson help, a lunch shared, and you will not
be surprised to find that when Ethel started
for home, she had but one lump left of the
five she had taken with her in the morning.
Thinking of this as she walked slowly along,
determined to save it up for some great oc-
casion, she was startled by such a. prodigous
roar near by that she nearly dropped her
books in the street. The explanation was
ludicrous. In the middle of a sloppy, half-
frozen pool, a little boy was seated, and it
was wonderful to see how much noise could
come from such a small cause.
Farther up the street ran a larger boy,
dragging a sled, and prancing in imitation
of half a dozen wild horses, apparently un-
conscious of the fact that there was a “pas-
senger aboard who had been left behind.’;
“Oh dear!†Ethel thought, half regretful-
ly, *‘must my last lump go to comfort that
little rascal?â€
Her hesitation was but momentary, then,
stooping down, she lifted the small traveler
to his feet, and sent a call after the runaway
steed, which brought him to a full stop.
But it was not easy to comfort the little
fellow; he was completely under way, and
his mouth opened again for another roar,
which closed abruptly, for into the yawning
cavern was pushed something soft and sweet,
and the yell could be postponed until that
was settled.
The other boy now joined them, and to
him Ethel delivered a little lecture, sweet-
ened with another chocolate drop, then
started the pair off again, seemingly on the
- best terms.
““ Now I am out sugar,†she said to her-
self, ‘‘and must hurry home as fast as I
can for fear of seeing some one I can not
help.â€
That night, while talking things over with
mother, she told her of the teacher’s idea,
and her own manner of carrying it out.
“But, dear me, mother,†she added with
a merry laugh, ‘‘it will never do to limit
one’s self to five, or ten, or twenty lumps.
One must just carry the whole sugar-bowl
along.â€
THE BROWN THRUSH.
LUCY LARCOM.
pees a merry brown thrush sitting up in the
tree:
He’s singing to me; he’s singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy? ©
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?
y Hush! Look! In my tree
I’m as happy as happy can be!â€
And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest, do
you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don’t meddle, don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy:
Now I’m glad! now I’m free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.â€
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy:
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
But long it won’t be—
Don’t you know? don’t you see?—
Unless we are as good as can be!â€
THE HEART WAS MASTER OF THE
GUN.
ie Varney had begged his father
many times to give him a gun. His
father was a sportsman, and told Lewis
that he should have a gun just as soon as he
was old enough to use one carefully. Well,
on his twelfth birthday, the gun came, and
it was a beauty. Lewis was very proud of
it, and very anxious to use it. So, after
many warnings and instructions, he made
his way into the woods. He aimed at sever-
al birds, but they were too quick for him.
At last his attention was attracted by a
squirrel sitting on the limb of a tree munch-
ing away at a nut with great delight. Lewis’s
first impulse was to fire, but the squirrel
looked so harmless and happy, that he could
not find in his heart tokillhim. He thought
he would save his gun for rats and other
vermin. The squirrel went on munching
his nut, unconscious of his danger. When
Lewis got home and told his story, his father
laughed, but his mother kissed his forehead,
and said she should always be proud of a
boy whose heart was bigger than his gun.
NETTLES AND CLOUDS. ’
HERE are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common
still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud,
HANNAH F. GOULD.
A BLIND BOY’S SONG.
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Hi} tell me the form of the soft summer air,
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
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strain.
While touched to my heart with its deep thrilling
"Till pleasure—
it breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek
Yet gives me no answer though often I speak
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What brightness of hue is with music combined?
The perfumes of flowers-that are hovering nigh
What are they? On what kind of wings do they
Will any one tell me? I’
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fly?
Are they not sweet angels, who come to delight
moon and stars are to me undefined,
A poor little boy who knows nothing of sight?
Oh! tell me what light is! I’m blind! Oh! I’m
The sun,
blind!
HOW A PRACTICAL JOKE FAILED.
GENTLEMAN who has a steam-mill in
Waldo, Me., came to Chelsea on a visit,
and while there purchased a large steam-
whistle, which he carried home and placed
on his mill. .
' A-number of boys conceived the idea of
stealing the whistle, and the owner, hear-
ing of their plan, remained in his mill all
night. Sixty pounds of steam was kept up.
About midnight the boys put in an appear-
ance, and climbed up on the roof of the
building. Just as one applied a wrench to
the whistle, Mr. Sanborn opened the throt-
tle wide, and there went up into the stillness
of the night such a screech as was never be-
fore heard in Waldo. People jumped from
their bedsin affright, and wondered what
wasup. The boys tumbled off the roof of
that mill as though shot, and departed as
rapidly as their legs could carry them, while
Mr. Sanborn fired agun after them to hasten
their retreat. The whistle is still on the
mill, and the boys will probably think twice
before they again undertake to steal any-
thing as noisy as a steamboat whistle.
BABY’S WALK.
OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.
O* a bright and beautiful summer’s day
Mr. Baby thought best to go walking away;
His little white sacque he was well buttoned in,
And his shady hat was tied under his chin.
Onehand was tight clasped in his nurse’s own,
And the other held fast a little white stone;
There hung by his side his new tin sword,
And thus he began his walk abroad. _
He walked and he walked, and by and by
He came to the pen where the piggy wigs lie;
They rustled about in the straw in front,
And every piggy said, ‘‘ Grunt, grunt, grunt!â€
So he walked and he walked, and what do you
think!
He came to the trough where the horse was at
drink;
He cried, ‘‘Go along! Get up, old Spot!â€
And the horse ran away with a trot, trot, trot!
So he walked and he walked, and he came at last
To the yard where the sheep were folded fast;
He cried, through the crack of the fence, ‘‘ Hur-
rah!â€
And all the old sheep cried, ‘‘ Baa! baa! baa!â€
So he walked, and he walked, till he came to the
pond,
Of which all the ducks and the ducklings were
fond;
He saw them swim forward, and saw them swim
back,
And all the ducks said was ‘‘Quack, quack!
quack!â€
So he walked and he walked, and it came to pass,
That he reached the field where the cows eat grass;
He said, with a bow, ‘‘ Pray, how do you do?â€
And the cows all answered, ‘‘ Moo, moo, mo!â€
So he walked and he walked to the harvest ground,
And there a dozen turkeys he found;
They were picking the grasshoppers out of the
stubble,
And all the turkeys said, ‘Gobble! gobble! gob-
ble!â€
So he walked and he walked to the snug little
house
Where Towser was sleeping, as still as a mouse;
And the baby cried out, ‘‘ Hello, old Tow!â€
And the dog waked up with a ‘‘ Bow, wow, wow!â€
So he walked and he walked till he came once
more
To the sunshiny porch and the open door;
And Mamma looked out with a smile and said,
“It’s time for my baby to go to bed.â€
So he drank his milk and he eat his bread,
And he walked and he walked to his little bed;
And with sword.at his side, and stone in his hand,
He walked and he walked to the Sleepy Land!
THE WORST-AND THE BEST.
VICTOR HUGO.
ET us fear the worst, but work with
faith ; the best will always take care of
_ itself.
THE SHADOW OF A RAINBOW.
Bi NEVER knew a day so drear,
But on its leaden sky was hung
Some shadow of a rainbow clear,
From vanished joy in farewell flung.
JESSICA’S FOUR O'CLOCK TEA.
N | ISS ARMITAGE has become quite
fashionable since her return from
Hurope. She now invites her young friends
to what she calls ‘* Four-O’Clock Tea; †and
very pleasant times they are. You remem-
ber how little May followed her sister’s ex-
ample and had a “boudoir†for her doll
Jessica. She has now determined to give
Jessica a ‘‘ Four-O’Clock Tea;†she has a
little table and her doll is seated there as
you see, and May is giving her very careful
instructions as to how she shall behave when
*“company†comes. It is really almost a
pity that Jessica is not alive that she might
know how much interest her little mistress
takes in her well being,
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WAITING FOR PA.
eee Ruth has gone with her mother,
who is somewhat of an invalid, to spend
the summer inthe mountains. Every Satur-
day afternoon her Pa comes by the mountain
coach to spend Sunday with his wife and
little daughter. And if the afternoon is
fine Ruth is taken to a pleasant little resting
place where she waits and watches for Pa. |
Just as soon as the coach turns the corner of
the road Pa waves his hat and Ruth claps
her hands in childish gladness.
MORE GOOD THAN EVIL.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
eS fragrance and the beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give the thorn;
And the sweet music of the lark’s clear song
Stays with me longer than the night-hawk’s cry.
And even in this great throe of pain called life
I find a rapture, linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of anguish. :
I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.
MODERN JAPAN.
J. M. DANDY.
APAN, the land of beautiful islands has
long slept peacefully in her Northern
Pacific home. An occasional wanderer like
Mungo Park, seeking to compass a knowl-
edge of the globe, has, for a moment, rested
upon some outer islet of the group, to be -
dismissed as ignorantashe came. A Portu-
guese vessel in the year 1540, bound for
Macaw, driven out of her course by tempest
finally arrived at a spot on the. most south-
erly of the islands. The captain and crew
kindly received, were enabled to learn some-
thing of the productiveness of the land, and
they returned to their own country to excite
the cupidity of the nation and the zeal of the
church. The Dutch in 1600, jealous of the
rich trade monopolized by the Portuguese,
sought the islands and soon established lucra-
tive traffic. An intercourse so peacefully
initiated seemed to give promise of opening
this undiscovered country to the knowledge
of Europeans and of bringing this hitherto
secluded people into the companionship of
mankind; but St. Xavier and his follow-
ers, by their intolerance and political in-
termeddling soon excited the jealousy of
the rulers and the great body of the people,
so that all foreigners were banished and ail
Japanese Catholics put to death. As Aineas
enveloped in a cloud and hidden from all
eyes until temporarily disclosed in the pres-
ence of Dido, so Japan for a moment ap-
peared to the nations to be as suddenly ob-
secured. To-day, this nation with a popula-
tion of 40,000,000, a civilization unique.
and interesting, long secluded from the so-
ciety of nations, is startling the world by
the advances she is making for recognition
and fraternity. The supreme power, from
the seventh century before, to the sixteenth
after Christ was under the control of two
Emperors, ruling conjointly. The Mikado
had charge of the spiritual welfare of the
nation and the Tycoon of the secular inter-
ests. This copartnership still existed up to
the present century, but the Mikado was so
engrossed with his ecclesiastical duties that
he left the management of the potitical af-
fairs of the nation almost entirely to the Ty-
coon.
Western ideas working upon the better
class of minds, including many princes,
brought about the revolution of 1867-68, in
which the duality of the government was de-
atroyed and the Mikado, a young man of
great intelligence and of liberal commerciai
and. political opinions, was invested with the
sole sovereignty. This act of the chief
princes of the Empire stands unparalleled in
the annals of nations as a surrender of power
and emolument for the public good. Hold-
ing the Chinese, her nearest neighbors, in
contempt, satisfied with hereditary ideas and
institutions, the temperament of the people
being ease-loving and unambitious, the cen-
turies have passed unmarked by any radical
change in Japan. The gradually acquired
knowledge of the higher civilization of
Western Powers has first awakened respect
for those so greatly her superiors, and sec-
ond, is exciting a desire to introduce among
themselves, the ideas, the science, and the
institutions that have contributed to this
envied superiority.
In striking contrast with India and China,
who have felt but little sympathy with West-
ern thought and manners, and among whom
Western ideas and institutions have been
planted with the bayonet, Japan has shown
a sensibility to the excellencies of other
Powers, and is now with an almost unequalled
abandon surrendering herself to those in-
fluences which must inevitably place her in
the front rank of nations. This nation is of
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peculiar interest to Americans. © The policy
of the United States being very liberal, is
calculated to inspire a nation struggling for
new ideas with confidence, and the manner
in which the United States has acted toward
- Japan causes her to look with marked favor
upon both our commercial and political in-
stitutions. The fact that the commercial
barrier between Japan and the outside world
was broken by the United States has not
been forgotten by the people of that country.
For advancement in domestic arts Japan
looks across the ocean to America. Some
even think that the English language will
some day supersede the Japanese as being
adapted to the uses of civilization.
What nation ever made greater strides in
progress? Already, throughout the land,
she has established schools with the most
competent foreigners as instructors. She
has sent hundreds of her sons and daughters
to receive educational advantages in the best
European and American colleges, and hun-
dreds more are coming every year. Japan
has ship-yards, where European and Amer-
ican mechanics are constructing vessels on
the most improved modern models. Rail-
road building is rapidly going on, and even
now the electric telegraph is no longer a
mystery. Many of the most simple forms
of machinery, steam engines, agricultural
implements and American manufactures
and products have already been introduced.
The Emperor has forsaken his ancient se-
clusion and moves among his people in a
manner worthy of an American President.
The Japanese are keen observers and learn
quickly, and we expect from them a marvel-
ous advancement in a comparatively short
time. We cannot, as yet, foretell the des-
tiny of Japan, but this much is certain, that
its admission into the great brotherhood of
nations must ultimately advance the great
interests of our common humanity.
AN ANECDOTE OF JOHN WESLEY.
A N old man and a young man were riding
inastagecoach. The old man was grave
but sprightly, short of stature, spare, with
a smooth forehead, a fresh complexion and
a bright, piercing eye. The young man
swore a great deal; until once, when they
stopped-to change horses, the old man said
to him: “I perceive by the registry books,
that youand I are going to travel together a
long distance in this coach. I kave a favor
to ask of you. Iam getting to bean old
man, and if I should so far forget myself as
to swear, you will oblige me if you will
caution me about it.â€â€ The young man in-
stantly apologized, and there was no more
swearing heard from him during that jour-
ney. The old man was John Wesley.
LO! PEACE ON EARTH.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
O! peace on earth. Lo! flock and fold,
Lo! rich abundance, fat increase,
And valleys clad in sheen of gold.
O, rise and sing a song of peace !
For Theseus roams the land no more,
And Janus rests with rusted door.
DON’T.
5 O not all that you can; spend not all
that you have; believe not all that you
hear; and teil not all that you know.
CALLING THEM UP.
“C\ HALL I go and call them up—
Snowdrop, daisy, buttercup?â€
Lisped the rain; ‘they've had a pleasant winter’s
nap.â€
Lightly to their doors it crept,
Listened while they soundly slept,
Gently woke them with its rat-a-tap-a-tap!
Quickly woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap.
Soon their windows opened wide,
Everything astir inside;
Shining heads came peeping out, in frill and cap.
“Tt was kind of you, dear Rain,â€
Laughed they all, ‘‘to come again;
We were waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap!
Only waiting for your rat-a-tap-a-tap!â€
“WAKE UP, ROB, IT’S SIX O'CLOCK.â€
OB was going with his father and
mother to spend Thanksgiving Day
at Grandpa’s, so he went to bed early the
night before in order that he might be
ready early in the morning to start on the
journey, for it was more than a hundred
miles from the farm where his father was
born. No sooner had Rob fallen asleep than
he began to dream—such a dream, —all
about turkey and pumpkin pie, and roasted
apples. He was just in the midst of the
most delightful of Thanksgiving feasts when
his father woke him, saying, ‘‘ Wake up,
Rob, it’s six o’clock!†How glad Rob was
when he woke, to find that his dream wag
only a dream and that all the real Thanke-
giving delight had to come.
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“WAKE UP ROB. IT’S SIX O’CLOCK 1â€
THE CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS,
eRee flowers of many climates,
That bloom all seasons through,
Met in a stately garden
Bright with the morning dew.
For praise and loving worship,
The Lord they came to meet;
Her box of precious ointment
The Rose broke at His feet.
The Passion-Flower His symbols,
Wore fondly on her breast;
She spoke of self-denial’
As what might please Him best,
The Morning-Glories fragile,
Like infants soon to go,
Had dainty toy-like trumpets,
And praised the Master so.
“ His word is like to honey,â€
The Clover testified,
“© And all who trust Thy promise
Shall in Thy love abide.â€
The Lilies said, ‘ Oh, trust Him,
We neither toil nor spin,
And yet, His house of beauty,
See how we enter in!â€
The King-cup and her kindred
Said, ‘‘ Let us all be glad;
Of his abundant sunghine,
Behold how we are clad.â€
** And let us follow Jesus,â€
The Star of Bethlehem said,
And all the band of flowers
Bent down with rev’rent head.
The glad Sunflower answer’d,
And little Daisies bright,
And all the cousin Asters,
“* We follow toward the light!â€
** We praise him for the mountains,â€
The Alpine roses cried;
“« We bless Him for the valleys,â€
The Violets replied.
* We praise Him,†said the Air-plant,
‘« For breath we never lack;â€
** And for the rocks we praise Him,â€
The Lichens answered back.
“We praise God for the waters,â€
_ The gray Sea-mosses sighed;
AnG all His baptized Lilies
“ Amen! Amen!†replied.
“« And now for the green, cool woodlands,
We praise and thanks return,†:
Said Kalmias and Azaleas,
And graceful Feathery Fern.
“* And for the wealth of gardens,
And all the gard’ner thinks,â€
Said Roses and Camellias,
And all the sweet-breath’d Pinks R
‘* Hosanna in the highest,â€
“ The Baby-Bluets sang;
And little trembling Harebells
With softest music rang.
** The winter hath been bitter,
The sunshine follows storm,
Thanks for His loving kindness
The earth’s great heart is warm.â€
So said the pilgrim May-Flower,
That cometh after snow,
The humblest and the sweetest
Of all the flowers that blow,
“« Thank God for every weather,
The sunshine and the wet,â€
Spoke out the cheerful Pansies
And darling Mignonette,
And then the sun descended,
The heavens were all aglow;
The little Morning-Glories
Had faded long ago.
and now the bright Day-Lilies
Their love watch ceased to keene
** He giveth,†said the Poppies—
“To His beloved sleep.†:
The gray of evening deepened,
The soft wind stirred the corn,
When sudden in the garden
Another flower was born,
It was the Evening Primrose,
Her sisters followed fast;
With perfumed lips they whispered,
“« Thank God for night at last,â€
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS,
VII. ALWAYS READY.—A LESSON FROM THR
LIFE OF DAVID.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
oe Shepherd King of Israel was a hero.
His name went forth to the ends of the
earth as a man of fearless courage, who had
torn asunder a lion and a bear when they
had come to molest his father’s flock 3; who
had smitten to the death Goliath, the giant
of Gath, who had swept the last Jebusite
from the walls of Zion; concerning whom,
in carlier days, the daughters of Israel had
sung:
Saul hath slain his thousands,
But David his tens of thousands!
This David, who had been as mighty in war
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as he was gifted in song, became a fugitive
from home and throne and power, and, sad-
dest of all, the foe before whom he fled was
his own son, the beautiful, the spoiled, the
gifted Absalom! Surely the cup of Ahitho-
pel’s revenge was full to the brim as he saw
David running like a coward from Jerusa-
lem. But there is power in evil courses to
palsy the strongest arm. And David, the
warrior, the poet, the king, had fled from
his throne! But he was not wholly friend-
less. Ahithopel and Joab were conspirators,
and, using Absalom as their tool, they had
stirred up a rebellion. But David had some
friends left, and when the dark hour came
they rallied to his side and said, with the
accent of whole-hearted loyalty: “‘ We are
ready. Do you command, we will obey. We
are ready to do whatsoever the King may
appoint.†One cannot look back upon this
old-world picture of life without feeling
the unspeakable value of genuine friendship.
A dozen stars are enough to illuminate the
darkest sky. And when some wild blast of
winter has driven away all one’s summer
friends, it is unspeakably good to feel the
grasp of some trusty hand, and to know that
there are some at least whom neither fate
nor fortune, life nor death, things present
nor things to come, can ever separate froma
beautiful fidelity. To know the full value
of such fidelity, a man must stand where
David stood. Above all the turmoil and
clamor of rebellion there was one strain of
music for the venerable monarch’s ear. The
servants of David’s household, armor-clad
and sword in hand, stood ready to obey his
commands, to follow wherever he might lead.
This quality of loyal readiness is an element
of true nobility. It takes more than courage
to make a perfect soldier. A man may be
valiant, and yet most unwise in his valor.
A soldier may rashly rush on death, and men
may think him a hero when he is only an
impetuous fool. The true soldier is ready
to fight and ready to wait, ready to march
and lead the forlorn hope, or to guard the
vantage ground already won—just as the
general may command. And in the pres-
ence of the certain uncertainties of life, this
readiness is of unspeakable value. Nothing
can come ill-timed to the man who is ready,
There is a world of deep spiritual meaning
in Hamlet’s reply to Horatio: ‘If it be now,
*tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will
be now; if it be not now, yet it will come.
_ The readiness is all.†Readiness for al)
duty, and for all consequences of duty, is a
sublime attribute. The bridegroom can not
call at an inopportune hour if we are ready,
lamps trimmed and lights burning. The
so-called disasters of life acquire double force
if they find us not ready. And even the
good things of life are shorn of half their
gracious strength because we are not ready.
It is good to be ready for the worst, and
equally good to be ready for the best. Good
to be ready, well housed, well clad, well pro-
visioned—when winter snows begin to fall,
and equally good to be ready, with good seed
and with plowed furrows, when the genial
springtime smiles and the early rains begin
to fall. Spasmodic getting ready for great
times often ends in never being ready at all.
Great times!
All times are great !
To the sentinel, that hour is regal
When he mounts on guard.
The last Napoleon lost Sedan, and died in
exile, because he went to fight before he was
ready. Others greater than he have lost
kingdom, and fame, and all, because they
were not ready when the tocsin sounded.
The old Roman fable of the ox between the
altar and the plow—ready for sacrifice or for
service, has not lost its force yet. Happy
motto this, for the young to bind about their
brows and write upon their hearts: ‘‘ Ready!
—whatsoever my Lord the King shall ap-
point.â€
THE WIND.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TL SAW you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky ;
And all around [ heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass —
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song !
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, [ heard you call,
LT could not see yourself at all —
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are youa beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing -all day long,
4 wind, that sings so loud a song 2
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SKIPPING TILLIE.
- Matilda Isabel Clay
Skipped all through the livelong day,
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Alas! poor Isabel Clay!
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AVENGED!
HERE is a look of intense satisfaction in the eye of Topsy as she leaps over the fence with Liz-
beth’s new doliin her mouth. Again and again Topsy’s precious little puppies have been
taken away and drowned. And now her time of vengeance has come! Lizbeth’s brand-new doll
ig making quite a sensation in the family. Everybody praises its beauty and the splendor of its
clothes. Now is Topsy’s time! Aud she has seized the new favorite and is over the fence, while
Lizbeth comes screaming after. In a few minutes Topsy will have torn and dissected this very
beautiful doll, and then she will be avenged.
ME LY P A h
ee a Sa
A MONKEY SUSPENSION BRIDGE.
CAPTAIN REID.
““FTXHEY are coming toward the bridge;
they will most likely cross by the rocks
yonder,†observed Raoul.
“Oh, no!†answered the Frenchman.
“‘Monkeys would rather go through fire
than water. If they cannot leap the stream
they will bridge it.â€
“Bridge it!—and how?â€
«*You will see in a moment,†my com-
panion replied.
Presently the monkeys appeared on the
opposite bank, headed by an old gray chief-
tain, officered like so many soldiers. One,
an aide-de-camp, or chief pioneer, perhaps,
ran out upon a projecting rock, and after
looking across the stream, as if calculating
the distance, scampered back and appeared
to communicate with the leader. This pro-
duced a movement in the troops. Mean-
while several of the monkeys (engineers, no’
doubt) ran along the bank, examining the
trees on both sides of thearrayo. Atlength
they all collected around a tall cotton-wood
that grew over the narrowest part of the
stream, and twenty or thirty of them scam-
pered up its trunk. On reaching a high
point the foremost, a strong fellow, ran out
upon a limb, and taking several turns of his
tail around it, slipped off and hung head
downward. The next on the limb, also a
stout one, climbed down the body of the
first, and whipped his tail tightly round the
neck and forearm of the latter, dropped off
in hig turn, and hung head downward. The
third repeated this manceuver upon the sec-
ond, and the fourth upon the string rested
his forepaws upon the ground. The living
chain now commenced swinging backward
and forward like a pendulum of a clock.
The motion was slight at first, but gradually
increased, the lower monkey striking his
hands violently on the earth as he passed
tangent of the oscillating curve. Several
others upon the limbs above aided the move-
ment. This continued till the monkey at
the end of the chain was thrown among the
branches of a tree on the opposite bank.
Here, after two or three vibrations, he
clutched a limb and held fast. ‘This move-
ment was executed adroitly, just at the cul-
raination point of the oscillation, in order to
save the intermediate links from too sudden
a jerk. The chain was now fast at both
ends, forming a complete suspension bridge,
over which the whole troop, to the number
of four or five hundred, passed. It was a
comical sight to witness the quizzical expres-
sion of countenances along the living chain.
After the troops had passed, one monkey
attached his tail to the lowest end of the
bridge, another girded him in the same man-
ner, and another, until a dozen or more
were added to the string. These last were
powerful fellows, and running up a high
limb, they lifted the bridge into a position
almost horizontal. Then a scream from the
monkey of the new formation, warned the
tail end that all was ready, and the whole
chain was swung over and landed safely on
the opposite bank. The lowermost link now
dropped off like a melting candle, while the
higher ones leaped to the branches and came
down by the trunk. The whole troop then
scampered off into the chapparal and dis-
appeared.
THE BRAVEST OF BATTLES.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
Bee bravest battle that ever was fought,
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you'll find it not;
’T was fought by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword, or nobler pen;
Nay, not with eloquent word or thought
From mouth of wonderful men,
But deep ina walled-up woman’s heart—
A woman that would not yield—
But bravely, silently bore her part—
Lo! there is that battlefield.
No marshalling troop, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam and wave!
But, oh, these battles! they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave!
PUNCH AND JUDY.
UNCH AND JUDY is one of the oldest
forms of amusement in the world, It
is quite wonderful how many men have made
large fortunes exhibiting this simple merry
show. This kind of entertainment is very
common at seaside resorts. All kinds of
people young and old seem to delight in
Punch and Judy. There is comedy and
tragedy allin one. You see the clergyman
at the left hand side of the picture—who is
at the seaside for his vacation is just taking
a quiet peep. And really Punch and Judy
well done, isa very enjoyable performance-
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PUNCH AND JUDY.
LARRY’S ONLY FRIEND.
ee was the gardener at Captain Os-
borne’s, and he declared he had only
one friend in the whole family on whom he
could rely, and that was Master Bernard.
He was ordered here and ordered there, and
as he said in his quaint way, he was nearly
always ‘‘in hot water.†The Captain was a
cross man and the ladies of the house never
had patience enough to let a seed grow ora
flower bloom. They wanted spring flowers
long before the frost had gone and expected
grapes to be ripe and asters to bloom in June.
But Larry said Bernard was a gentleman if
ever there was one’in the world. Bernard
was really a kind thoughtful boy and spoke
kind words to Larry, whenever he had an
opportunity. And you may be sure that
Bernard didn’t often go to school without
one of the most beautiful flowers Larry
could find in the garden.
NIGHTFALL.
JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.
One o’er the meadow, and murmuring mere;
Falleth ashadow, near and more near;
Day like a white dove floats down the sky;
Cometh the night; love, darkness is nigh,
So dies.the happiest day.
Slow in the dark eye riseth a tear,
Hear I thy sad sigh, Sorrow is near;
Hope smiling bright, love, dies on my breast,
As day like a white dove flies down the West;
So dies the happiest day.
JOHNNIE WAITE.
ANNIE M. LIBBIE.
OHNNIE WAITE— the boys called him
““Couldn’t Waite,†he used those words
so often — went home from school one night
and gave his. weekly. report to his father.
The family were at supper. Mr. Waite took
the report after he had finished his biscuit
and looked at it. There were five black
marks on it. He turned to Johnnie:
“* What was this mark for Monday?†:
‘Tran by Phil Black going out in the
ine.â€
“* What was that for? â€
“IT couldn’t wait for him to go along,â€
said Johnnie, ‘‘and—â€
“‘That will do’ said his father, “and
Wednesday’s mark? â€
“‘T upset some ink on my writing-desk.â€
** And the two on Thursday?â€
‘¢Y wanted to tell Phil something, and I
whispered to him.â€
“‘Couldn’t wait till recess, I suppose,â€
said Mr. Waite, stroking his moustache to
hide a smile.
<‘ And I took out my sling shot —â€â€™ John-
nie’s cheeks were growing redder than usual.
‘* And to-day?â€
“‘T ate an apple,â€
dropped.
«Another ‘couldn’t wait,’ †said his father;
“‘and you went to school this morning with-
out sweeping the steps, and this afternoon
without giving Ponto his dinner; you didn’t
take the note your mother asked you to carry
to Mrs. Bracket, you tipped the baby over in-
stead of going round him, and you left the
front door open and somebody came in and
took my silk umbrella, and all because you
couldn’t wait. Well, you’ll have to have a
lesson, young man, that will break up this
habit of yours.â€
Mr. Waite ate a cookie, played a few min-
utes with the baby, and then went down
town.
Johnnie ate four cookies, and then went
into the parlor. Great-aunt Mary Sherwin
sat in the bay window knitting.
«* Did you ever hear of your great-great-
uncle Titus Foss?†she asked, peering
through her glasses at Johnnie.
Jonnie said “‘No’m,†‘and wondered how
old a great-great-uncle could be.
“* He couldn’t wait,†continued great-aunt
Mary. ‘I'll take you over to Lyme some
day, and show you the nick in the door of
the old house where he threw the stove hook
at the cat because he couldn’t wait for her to
step along. That mark’s been there fully
fifty years. ‘
“One night Uncle Titus was driving home
from Camden, and he came to a bar with a
and Johnnie’s head
“lantern hanging from it, right across the.â€
road. “T'was just before he got to the toll
bridge. Uncle Titus couldn’t wait. He
leaped his horse over the bar. The tollman
said he ran out to tell him part of the bridge
was up for repairs, but Uncle Titus couldn’t
wait. The river was high and he and the
horse were washed down stream and
. drowned.â€
Great-aunt Mary rattled her knitting
needles swiftly, and Johnnie, seeing that the
story was done, ran away to play.
When he came into the dining-room the
next morning he found breakfast’ cleared
away and mamma feeding the canaries. She
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said they thought they couldn’t wait for
him, and Johnnie went into the kitchen and
begged some bread and milk from Mary. He
went back to ask if his father left the quarter
of a dollar he promised the day before, that
Jobnnie might pay for a share in the new
foot-ball elub some of the boys in his class
were getting up, but Mrs. Waite said, “‘ Papa
went to the office early, and he told me to
tell you he couldn’t wait.â€
The boys thought they couldn’t wait for
Johnnie to see his father, and as Lew
Dunton, a boy whom Johnnie especially dis-
liked, had twenty-five cents ready, they took
him into the club and left Johnnie out. He
felt sure of sympathy when he began to tell
his father about his trouble at noon, . but
greatly to his surprise, he was cut short by a
curt, *‘ Thatll do, I can’t wait.â€
“*T can’t wait for you, John, said the
teacher, when he hesitated for the right
word in his geography lesson that afternoon,
and Johnnie was marked down, though he
had studied hard and knew his lesson.
He met Mary on his way home. She told
him the rest of the family had gone to Uncle
Byron’s and he would find his supper on the
kitchen table, ‘‘for I’d not be waitin’ for
one lone boy to ate,†said Mary, as she walk-
ed heavily away.
This was the greatest disappointment of
all. Johnnie had counted on the ride to
Uncle Byron’s for weeks. He ate a little sup-
per, and lay down on the sofa in the parlor.
The tears trickled down his face in the dark.
- “Touess ’m getting that lesson papa meant,â€
he said, with a little sob, and then he must
have dropped asleep, for when he opened his
eyes the lamp was lighted, and he looked up
into his mamma’s face. She sat down onthe
edge of the sofa by him. '
‘‘Well, Johnny, do you like ‘couldn’t
wait?’â€
“‘ No, ma’am,†said Johnnie, emphatically
sitting up straight and punching the sofa
pillow with a stout little fist. ‘I think it’s
just mean when — when other folks do it!â€
Mrs. Waite laughed. ‘‘There are four
puppies out at Uncle Byron’s, Johnnie,†she
said, ‘‘and I happen to know that if you
don’t use those dreadful words, and if you
do wait for two weeks, papa means to take
you out to see them, and if you break your-
self entirely of this bad habit you are to
have one of those puppies for your own.â€
Johnnie put his arms around his mother’s
neck and kissed her. . «‘ I'll try just as hard
as I can.â€
*‘And TV’ll help you allI can,†said his
mother, kissing him back. John ran out to
the front gate, and meeting his father, slip-
ped his hand into the bigger one held out to
him and said, ‘‘That dog’s mine, sir.†~
“When you’ve gained the victory, young
man,†laughed his father. -
And Johnnie did win the victory, and
that’s why the handsome brown spaniel is
Victor — to commemorate Johnnie’s learning
to wait.
THE MOTHER-GLANCE OF GOD.
E. P. ROE.
NLY God can give to the whole of his
creation the all-seeing gaze that we be-
stow upon some familiar scene. His glance
around the globe is that of a mother around
her nursery, with her little children grouped
at her feet.
IN THE MORNING.
MARY KNAPP.
T was at morning when sad Mary found
The grave was empty and the stone away;
The sorrow of the night passed wlth the dusk,
And joy awoke with the new rising day.
Each dayisnew The weight upon the heart
May slip with darkness into Lethe’s stream,
And hope and strength come in the hours of rest,
To point the sun’s first beam.
And not alone the pain and ill of life—
_ The life itself may ebb at night away;
He may call for usin the midnight watch,
And we awake to an Eternal Day!
THE HAPPY FAMILY.
EREisahappyfamily. But nota family
of cats, as you might imagine at a first
glance. The home of this family is not in
America but in the grassy brakes and jungles
of Central Africa. This family is composed
of a leopardess and her cubs. The father
leopard is away gathering provisions for his
family. The leopard is as cunning as a fox,
and will hide from the hunter as long as
possible, but if brought to bay its fury is
something terrible to contemplate. That
young cub on the ground just ready for a
spring, gives some idea of the stealthy char-
acter of his race.
THE HAPPY FAMILY.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
IX. THE DEAD BOY IN THE PROPHET’S
CHAMBER,
$ THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
HEN Elijah passed to the heavens in
a chariot of fire, his mantle fell upon
Hlisha, the son of Shaphat. The clothing
of Elisha with the mantle of Elijah was the
symbol by. which it was understood that he
was to succeed Elijah as God’s prophet in
Israel. The first time Elisha is met in the
Bible story, he is found at work in his
father’s fields in Abel-meholah, a farming
district in the valley of the Jordan. Elijah
was passing on one occasion from Sinai to
Damascus through this fertile valley, when
he saw Hlisha at work, and moved. of God, he
went and cast his mantle about him, which
was undoubtedly the first intimation the
young farmer received of the great destiny
that awaited him. He prayed that a double
posnen of the spirit of Elijah might rest upon
him, and the Bible tells us in brief, impres-
sive words, that the spirit ot Elijah did rest
upon Elisha. It would be very difficult to
think of two men more widely different in
character than these two men. Elijah was
stern, unbending and severe, the incarnate
conscience of his age; Elisha was of gentle
‘spirit, full- of pathos, tenderness and love.
There were magnificent, heroic scenes, inthe
life of Elijah, but none in the life of Elisha.
Still there are some touching stories in the
life of this more gentle prophet. Just as
Christ found a home and welcome in the
little cottage home of Bethany, so Elisha
founda peaceful and pleasant resting place
_in the little village of Shunem. There was
a devout woman who served the God of Is-
rael, who, with her husband, urged the
prophet to make their house his home when-
ever,in his prophet wanderings he came near.
The prophet’s chamber on the wall furnished
with bed and table, with stool and candle-
stick, was sacred to his service.
the peaceful hours Elisha spent in Shunem.
From the window of his chamber on the
wall Elisha could see the verdant slopes of
Mount Tabor, for Tabor was but five miles
away. But the home of Shunem could not
charm death from the threshold any more
than from the home of Lazarus and Martha
and Mary.
The. pious Shunammite had an only
son—the son of her mature age—and one
day as he was’ busy in his father’s fields
Many were .
among the reapers the sun smote him, and .
with a wild, sad cry he fled home and died.
By a strange instinct the sorrowing mother
took her dead boy into the prophet’s chamber
and laid him upon the prophet’s bed. She
called to the boy, but he did not answer; she
kissed his cold lips but there was no response.
The balmy breeze from Mouat Tabor blew in
from the open window, but it brought no
color back to the cold, dead face. And as
Martha and Mary in later years wished for
the coming of the Christ when Lazarus was
dead, so this sad-hearted woman wished for
the coming of the man of God. And at
last Elisha came. Entering his chamber on
the wall and closing the door, he gazed fora
moment upon the dead boy, who had always
been the first to welcome him and the last to
bid him farewell. Then he prayed for power,
and stretching himself upon the child, hand
to hand, heart to heart, mouth to mouth, he
breathed his very life into the child, and he
revived, and his heart began to beat, and his
eyes were filled with wondering glances, and .
he lived. Little more is known of Elisha’s
nameless hostess. Tradition says this. boy
was afterward a constant companion of
Elisha, and became hiniself in turn a
prophet, the prophet Jonah, at whose
preaching Niveveh repented and was saved.
However this may be we know not. But the
pathetic story of the dead boy, the sorrowing,
broken-hearted mother and the praying
prophet will make the lowly chamber of
Shunem a sacred place forever; for death,
and love, and prayer, make sacred the low-
liest scenes.
THREE WISE WORDS.
ence reading and conversation may
furnish us with many ideas of men and
things, yet ourown meditation must form
judgment.
Love is not altogether a delirium, yet it
has many points in common therewith. I
call it either a discerning of the infinite in:
the finite, or the ideal made real.
Truth is the object of our understanding;
as good is of our will; and the understand-
ing can no more be lighted with a lie than
the will can choose an apparent evil.
The greatest thoughts are wronged, if not
linked to beauty; and they win their way
most surely into the soul when arranged in
this, their natural attire. ;
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THE DEAD BOY IN THE PROPHET’S CHAMBER.
PICKING THE APPLES
LAURA E. RICHARDS.
PPLES to pick! Apples to pick!
Come with a basket, and come with a stick.
Rustle the trees and shake them down,
And let every boy take care of his crown.
There you go, Tommy! Up with you, Jim!
Crawl to the end of that crooked limb.
Carefully pick the fairest and best;
Now for a shake, and down come the rest.
Thump! plump! down they come raining!
Shake away! shake, till not one is remaining.
Hopping off here, and popping off there,
Apples and apples are everywhere.
Golden russets, with sunburnt cheek, .
Fat, ruddy Baldwins, jolly and sleek;
Pippins, not much when they meet your eyes,
But wait till you see them in tarts and pies!
Where are the Pumpkin Sweets? oh, here!
Where are the Northern Spys? oh there!
And there are the Nodhaads, and here are the Snows,
And yonder’s the Porter, best apple that grows.
Sort them and pile them, the red and the brown—
What! are-the Blue Pearmains not down?
They’re blushing purple with rage, I see,
And the Oxfords are black with jealousy.
Beautiful Bellefleurs, yellow as gold,
Think not we're leaving you out in the cold;
And dear, fat Greenings, so prime to bake,
TL eat one of you now for true love’s sake.
Ob! bright is the autumn sun o’erhead,
And bright are the piles of gold and red!
And rosy and bright as the apples themselves ©
Are Jim,.Tom and Harry, as merry as elves.
It’s plenty of work and plenty of play,
And plenty of apples the livelong day.
Oh, the time and the place for boys, I maintain,
Is the month of October, in the good State of Maine.
A WORD TO THE BOYS.
FRANCES E. WILLARD.
I HAVE made up my mind to speak to you
about a little matter, for I believe you
want to do what is fair. Now, when the girls
study the same books you do, and often go
far ahead of you at school; when so many of
them study stenography, telegraphing, and
other kinds of business, become teachers,
doctors, missionaries, etc., as they are doing
more and more each year, what right have
you to sit about, as lazy as a cat, and let
these girls work and tug till they are tired out,
for your comfort, and to do things which
you should attend to yourself? Don’t they
like to run and play as well as you do? Don’t
they need the exercise and fun that, you get
in the great, splendid out-doors, just as
much? Are you not physically stronger and
better able to bear the heat of the kitchen,
and the breathed over-and-over air of in-the
house, than they? Ought you not, then, in
your big, hearty, good-natured fashion, to
“give them a lift,†every time, when the
work presses on them, and to take care of
your own room, if they do of theirs? It
seems to me this is just ‘‘a fair divide.â€
Let me tell you about three splendid boys
I know once on atime. Their father died,
and their dear mother was left to bring them
up and to earn the money with which to do
it. So these young fellows set in to help
her. By taking a few boarders, doing the
work herself and practicing economy, this
blessed women kept out of debt, and gave
each of her sons a thorough college educa-
tion. Butif they hadn’t worked like beav-
ers to help her, she never could have done
it. Her eldest boy—only fourteen—treated
his mother as if she was the girl he loved
best. He took the heavy jobs of house
work off her hands, put on his big apron
and went to work with a will; washed
the potatoes, pounded the clothes, ground
the coffee, waited on table—did any-
thing and everything that he could coax her
to let him do, and the two younger ones fol-
lowed his example right along. Those boys
never wasted their mother’s money on to-
bacco, beer, or cards. They kept at work,
and found any amount of pleasure in it.
They were happy, jolly boys, full too, of fun,
and everybody not only liked, but respected
and admired them; and I don’t know any
better fortune for a boy than to be praised
by good girls, nor anything boys like better.
They all married noble and true women; and
to-day one of these boys is president of a
college, goes to Europe every year, almost,
and isin demand for every good work; an-
other lives is one of the most elegant houses
in Evanston, and is my very “‘ beloved phy-
sician;†while the third is a well-to-do
wholesale grocer in Pueblo, Cal., and a mem-,
ber of the city council.
I tell you, boys who are good to their
mother and to their sisters in the house,
always grow up to be nice men. Now I’m
not blaming you, boys, nor anybody else.
I know that any number of you are good
and generous as you can be, and I know,
too, that you haven’t been taught to think
about these things.
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PICKING THE APPLES.
SCENE IN SAMOA,
; ERE is a scene in Samoa in the South
Sea Islands, and here are two young
American artists who have been sent out to
sketch the country. There are some very
beautiful spots in that far away region of the
world. The mountains and the sea, and the
lofty paims that spread their branches high ~
overhead. But the people are rude and un-
couth, and these young men are weary of
their journey and long for home. ‘Chey be-
guile the time often by singing ‘‘ There’s no
place like home,†and they are both of the
opinion that America is not only a land of
Freedom, but that its mountains and rivers,
its prairies and hills make it as beautiful as
any land on earth.
TO THE MEMORY OF PETER COOPER.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
| ONOR and glory forever more
To this great man gone to rest;
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore—
Rest in the land of the blest.
Treckon him greater than any man
That ever drew sword in war—
Greater, indeed, than King or Kahn,
Nobler, and better by far.
Aye, and wisest, too, in this whole wide land,
Of hoarding till bent and gray—
For all you can hold. in your cold, dead hand
Is what you have given away. ;
So return to wander the stars, or to rest,
Forever hushed and dumb—
He gave his best, and gave with a zest,
Give him the best to come.
WINFRED’S VISIT TO THE MOON.
JULIA D. PECK. - :
Wee was playing dominoes with
his sister Kate when the clock struck
eight,
“‘ Winfred,†said his mother.
The little boy knew very well what that
meant, but he didn’t understand why he
should have to go to bed at eight o’clock
every night, when he wasn’t sleepy—not at
all; and besides Katie, who was two years
older, could sit up half an honr longer. It
was the great trial of his life.
** Please, mamma, can’t I play one more
game?’ he asked, though he knew very well
it wasn’t of the slightest use.
“Your five minutes of grace is almost
gone, Winfred,†was his mother’s answer.
So there was nothing left for him to do
but to hurry off to bed; and when he had
asked God to keep him safely through the
night, and his mamma had kissed him and
gone away with the lamp he could hardly
keep from crying. nes
The moon shone brightly into his room,
and as he lay looking atit his heart was very
rebellious.
‘“‘T don’t believe the little boysin the moon
have to go to bed at all,†he said to himself.
I just wish I was there, I’m not sleepy a
single speck, and I don’t s’pose I can go to
sleep before midnight.â€
It wasn’t two minutes after when he heard
a whisper—or thought he did—and when he
looked at the window there sat the queerest
little man with a tall pointed red cap on his
head, and a round, jolly face.
He was beckoning .to Winfred, and the
little boy jumped out of bed in a twinkling,
and into hisclothes, and went to the window
and what do you think he saw? :
As true as you live he saw a rope ladder—
at least he says he did—reaching way up to
the moon, and the queer little man was run-
ning up the rounds, beckoning for Winfred
to follow. -
You would not think he would do it—now
would you? for to tell the truth, he was asad
eoward, though I would not have him know
I told you, so don’t lisp it. But he did—he
truly did hurry up the ladder, and he thought
it was the greatest fun he ever had.
It was a long way, but Winfred never
thought of being tired. When he was part
way up he stoppeda moment. and looked
down. Such a view he never saw before.
His father’s house looked like a little toy
house, and the trees seemed no taller than
his finger. He wanted to look longer, but
his queer guide touched him on the shoul-
der, and again he followed on. They reached
the moon at last, and climbed up through a
hole, and the man pulled the ladder up
after him, and shut down the trap-door.
It was summer on the earth, but it seemed
to be winter there, for the ground was
covered with something that looked like
snow, only it was pink instead of white. A
small sleigh was near, to which four rein-
deers were harnessed, and Winfred and the
man got in, and were carried swiftly away.
They passed palaces which glistened like
gold, and trees covered with pink ice spark-
ling brightly in the sun.
At last they stopped before a grand palace,
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By CLA
A SCENE IN SAMOA..
and Winfred followed the man inside. A
beautiful little woman met them at the door
and taking Winfred’s hand she kissed him,
and led him over the house, showing him all
the strange and beautiful things it contained.
He had never seen or dreamed of all the
strange and beautiful things he saw. There
was almost everything that anyone could de.
sire, but singularly enough there was not a
bed in all the palace.
Then he heard the sweetest music and the
lady opened a glass door and led him into a
garden, where a great many children were
playing and dancing among the flowers.
Fountains and statues were all about, and
many large trees. Some of them were cov-
ered with luscious fruit, while from others
hung many kinds of candy. The merry
children picked the fruit and candy, and ate
and gave to Winfred until he could eat no
more. I hear he played and danced with
them, and thought he was perfectly happy,
though he could not understand a word they
said.
Presently he heard a voice—it sounded
miles away—calling his name. He knew
at once it was his mother’s voice and a great
longing to see her came over him. He slipped
through a gate, and found the pink snow
covered the ground everywhere outside the
garden.
The reindeer and sleigh still waited, and
the little boy jumped into the sleigh, and was
swiftly carried back over the road he had
come.
He reached, in a short time, the piace from
which he started. There was the trap-door,
and the rope ladder beside it.
He heard the voice still calling him, and
he tried with all his small strength to open
the door—when suddenly he felt it sinking
down under him.
He screamed, and lo! he found himself
lying upon the floor in his little room and
his mother was bending over him.
“You. had bad dreams, dear,†she was
saying, “and you rolled out of bed. I
think it must be because you ate an apple
after supper. Don’t do it again.â€
“TJ fell down from the moon,†said Win-
fred, rubbing his eyes.
Then he was sound asleep again, but the
next morning he told them all about his
strange visit. /
“Tt was just beautiful,†he said. “You
needn’t laugh, for I don’t believe ’twas a
dream, and anyway I wish I lived there, for
the little boys don’t have to go to bed at all,
"cause there wasn’t any bed in the whole big
house—not one. But I guess, maybe, I
should want to have you live there, too,
mamma.â€
OVER THE PURPLE SEAS.
LOUISE PHILLIPS,
Q)YER the purple seas
A fragrant wand’ring breeze
Comes from some sunny island of the South;
Where tall and vernal pine
Gives out a breath like wine,
And stoops to kiss the creeper’s scarlet mouth.
Across the limpid lakes
The light in blushes breaks
From roseate sky with white clouds mottled o’er;
- While billows rise and fall
Against the breaker’s wall,
Or greet with coy caress the circling shore.
Afar in musky wood,
Where stately trees have stood,
And kept their watch and ward for ages past,
Dead leaves of burnished brown
Reluctantly drop down,
As if they knew on earth they’d looked their Jast.
A dreamy, golden haze
Broods over all the days,
And softens outlines that will soon be bleak;
While in our breasts will wake
A thirst we cannot slake
For a vague something that we vainly seek.
A DAY’S SHOPPING IN THE CITY.
ANNY EGGLESTON had come to
spenad few days with her uncle and
aunt in New York. ‘She was not enough of
a country girl to appear awkward in her
manners, but she was enough of a girl to be
rejoiced when Cousin Eva proposed a day’s
shopping in the city. Whata day they had!
Fanny thought New York must be the most
wonderful place in the world, Her Cousin
George met them at noon and took the two
young ladies to lunch, and then begged to be
excused, and as he went away buttoning up
his coat he said he couldn’t see for the life
of him what pleasure girls could find in
shopping. Perhaps some of George’s pleas-
ures would be as hard for the girls to under-
stand. Anyway Fanny and Eva had a glor-
ious day of shopping.
CLOUD CURTAINS.
LOUDS are curtains which God, with
motherly care, hangs over the bed of
His children to give His beloved sleep.
THE CORN PALACE, SIOUX CITY, IOWA
TO-MORROW.
NORA PERRY.
O-MORROW, and to morrow,
Oh, fair and far away
What treasurers lie, when hope is high,
Along your shining way.
What promises fulfilled,
What better deeds to do
Than ever yet, are softly set
Beneath your skies of blue.
To-morrow, and to-morrow,
Ob, sweet and far away
Still evermore lead on before
Along your shining way.
Still evermore lift up your eyes
Above what we have won, :
To higher needs and finer deeds
That we have left undone.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
X. MIRIAM THE SISTER OF MOSES,
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
Ae is not often that three illustrious peo-
ple are born in the same house, and yet
to two pious Jewish parents of the tribe of |
Levi, there were born in the old Egyptian
days, two sons and a daughter, who bore
three of the greatest names known $9 the
Hebrew race. First of all, Moses, the great
Lawgiver and Leader of Israel’s wandering
tribes, whose life from his cradle on the Nile
to his unknown grave amid the solitudes of
gray Beth-Peor’s Mountains was full of sac-
red romance ; next came Aaron, the great
High Priest of the desert wanderings, whose
burial at Mount Hor was in many respects a
more sublime scene than the departure of
Moses ; and last of the three, came Miriam—
the Poet, the Prophetess of Israel, who led
forth in grand procession with timbrels and
dances, the loud thanksgiving of a redeemed
people. Happy the home that had such sons
and such a daughter. And yet what sad-
ness there was in the early days. The terri-
ble decree went forth that every son born of
Hebrew parents should be drowned, and the
sluggish Nile became the remorseless grave
of thousands of fair Hebrew boys. But a
mother’s love is often more than a match for
a tyrant’s plans, and the wife of Amram, the
Levite, was moved to make a bulrush cradle
for her boy, and as she floated her priceless
cargo in its frail boat on the waters, we may
be sure that it was with tears and prayers that
some good fortune might befall her child.
-is a God like unto thee ?â€
‘full of teaching as it is of romance.
And here we first meet Miriam, the sister of
the Sacred Vigil, half-hidden amid the tall
reeds of the river, watching with intense
anxiety the fortunes of the frail bark that
bore her infant brother. And when Pharo-
ah’s daughter resolved to have the laughing
infant carried to her palace home, it was
Miriam who, with the instinct of sisterly
love, suggested a Hebrew nurse, and sped
homeward to tell the joyful news and bring
the mother of the child so strangely saved,
to be its happy nurse. Years pass by, and
marvelous changes take place. The child -
saved from a watery grave by Egypt’s daugh-
ter, has become the great Emancipator of
his enslaved brethren. Safe landed on the
further shore of the Red Sea, the stately
form of Miriam is seen, leading with tim-
brel and dance and song, the procession of
the free. A grander war song than that has
never trembled on mortal lips. Not to the
courage and sagacity of her heroic brother, not
to chances or the fortunes of war, but to the
God of Israel this great deliverance is wholly
ascribed, “The Lord hath triumphed glori-
ously, His right hand and His holy arm
have gotten him the victory. With singular
poetic force Miriam marks the completeness
of the overthrow of the Egyptians by lan-
guage that accumulates in strength. ‘‘ They
_ sank ;†“they sank to the bottom like a
stone ;†“they sank like lead in the mighty
waters !? Well might she cry aloud, ‘‘ Who
For Egypt had
lords many and gods many, but they had all
failed. Every barrier erected to keep the
Hebrews in bondage had been broken down.
Every hindrance had been overcome. The
voice of God had shaken the palaces of Miz-
raim’s ancient splendor, ‘‘Let my people
go!†And now witha high hand and an
outstretched arm, God brought His people
forth. The scene by the Red Sea shore is as
The
history of the world has been a story of mar-
velous growth, and not a chapter of acci-
dents. The song of these happy thousands,
led by the inspired Poetess of their race, was
the first song of freedom the world had ever
heard. It was the birth song of a new na-
tion, the loud hallelujah of a ransomed peo-
ple that made the desert ring with its free,
-wild airs of liberty. While we toss our ban-
ners of freedom in the blue heavens to-day,
let us not forget how this first anthem of the
ransomed Israelites ascribed to’ the God of
Battles the overthrow of Egyptian bondage.
By
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THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY,
at night.
MUSIC OF THE MONTHS.
NOVEMBER.
E. EDITH SOPER.
HE brilliant carnival of the year is ended,
The merry maskers all denuded stand,
Their gorgeous robes in common ruin blended,
And tossed in fragments o’er a wind-swept land.
Brown-coated oaks, with Titan brows uplifted
Over bleak hill fortresses, are standing guard,
Dead leaves, like wraiths, in spectral squadrons
drifted,
The progress of the fretting brook retard.
*Sconced in a giant pine’s high wind-rocked tower,
The shivering birds discuss their southern trip;
While loud repinings at the frost king’s power
Are passed in spiteful tones from lip to lip.
Weird, hoarse-voiced winds, through mead and for-
est roaming,
Thrill with desire at thought of June’s red rose,
And ’mid the shadows of the purple gloaming
Shriek out their hatred of the coming snows,
Sad memories o’er my gloomy heart are thronging;
They whisper of a mound fresh-paved with sod,
And all my soul calls out in bitter longing
For her whose dear feet walk the vales of God.
HOW A CAT SAVED A SOLDIER'S LIFE.
URING the Crimean war, a little cat
reared in his mother’s cottage, followed
a young French soldier when he left his
native village. The lad’s heart clung to
this small dumb member of his family,
and he gave pussy a seat on his knapsack by
day on the march and a corner of his couc
She took her meals on her
master’s knee and was a general pet in the
company.
On the morning that his regiment was
first ordered into action, the soldier bade his
little cat farewell, and left her in charge of a
sick comrade. He had marched about a
mile from the camp, and what was _ his sur-
prise to see Miss Puss running beside him.
He lifted her up on her usual seat. and soon
the engagement commenced. ‘Twice did
the soldier fall, but the cat clung fast hold.
At last a severe wound stretched him bleed-
ing on the field. No sooner did pussy
catch sight of the blood flowing from her
master, then she seated herself upon his
body, and began to lick his wound in the
most assiduous manner. Thus she remained
for some hours, till the surgeon came to the
young lad, and had him carried off to the
tent of the wounded. When he recovered
consciousness, his first question was ‘‘ Shall
I live?†‘Yes my good fellow,†was the
surgeon’s answer,, “thanks to your little
cat; for if she had not used her tongue so
intelligently, you would have been too ex-
hausted by loss of blood to recover.â€
You may be sure that pussy was well cared
for, and, contrary to all regulations, she was
allowed to accompany the young soldier to
the hospital, where she was regaled with
the choicest morsels from his plate, and be-
came avery distinguished character.
GOD AND THE TAILOR.
Wie judge a man by the clothes he
wears; God made one and the tailor
the other.
THE TENANTS OF THE WOOD.
PAUL H. LEAR.
I LOVE these gentle tenants of the wood,
The timid hare, the filibustering jay,
Who, flitting here and there throughout the day,
Fill with discordant notes the solitude.
The chattering squirrel, with plumes of red and
gray;
The woodpecker, beating off his reveille;
The partridge, whirring rapidly away
To denser coverts where no eye can see,
And often, when beneath the silver moon,
Placid and still the basking river lies,
_ The far-off wail of some belated loon
Floats faintly up to purple evening skies;
While swaying pine, with soft Aolian tune,
Forever join in Nature’s symphony.
A JAGUAR CATCHING FISH.
ee jaguar is a magnificent animal, a
native of South America, resembling
the African leopard, in many respects, but
possessed of greater strength. Its muscular
force is wonderful. Itis known often to de-
stroy, and then drag to her hiding-place,
an animal as large as a horse; indeed it
makes more havoc with horses than with
any other class of animals. The jaguar is
also fond of fish, and in order to induce the
fish to come to the surface it will wave its
tail gently over the surface of the water, and
then, with a dash, pluck the fish from the
water and eat it alive. The jaguar is a mag-
nificent animal, but its room is much more
to be desired than its company.
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A JAGUAR CATCHING FISH.
SULKY JANE.
HAT, sulking again, Jane? You
foolish little girl. Don’t yeu know
that sulky children harm themselves more
than any one beside. And then its so fool-
ish to sulk. You might just as well take a
cane and whip yourself till you are sore, it
would not be a bit more foolish. Give up
this sulking, my child, or you will grow up
an unhappy, miserable girl. You ought to
be like a sunbeam or a morning-glory about
the house, and here you are, quarrelling with
your breakfast. Even the cat looks aston-
ished, and I think a little bit ashamed. If
I were your mother, my dear, and you per-
sisted in quarrelling with your breakfast, I
would try how it would work to let you go
without breakfast for a few mornings. Give
up sulking, Jane. Sulky girls are not want-
ed. in this beautiful world.
MARGARITE.
JOHN R. TABB.
ARGARITE was born at sea—~
Thence her name, -
- Never rarer pearl than she
From ocean came,
Nor doth a fairer dwell
Within its cloister shell.
Wind and wave her playmates were,
And the storm— :
Boisterous to all save her—
Rocked her form
Upon the cradle-deep,
Crooning the babe to sleep.
So, when the treacherous stranger, Land,
Before her smiled,
And seaward stretched a pleading hand
3 To claim the child,
Proud rose the Warrior Tide,
And clasped her for his bride.
A WONDERFUL SNOWBALL.
HE snow fell thickly, and in the morn-
ing, there was nothing but white to be
seen. ‘Two days passed; more snow came,
but then the weather cleared; and Lily, put-
ting on her thickest boots and warmest
clothes, went into the garden with her
brothers to make ‘“‘the biggest ‘snow-bak
that ever was seen!†Of course Tim, the
cat, looked on. Nothing can be done unless
Tim has a share in the fun of this happy
family. Perhaps, as it turned out, it was a
good thing that Tim was looking on.
The children kept rolling the snow about
until the ball had got much bigger than Lily
herself. They were scooping it out in the
middle to make it into a house when dinner-
time came, and the children went indoors
with such red hands and faces, and looking
as well as possible.
After dinner the boys went out walking.
Lily kept quiet for a while thinking. Soon
she crept down-stairs and out into the gar-
den to see her big snow-ball, and to play at
being a Laplander. She had heard that
Laplanders lived in cold countries in snow-
houses; so she wasa ‘‘ Lap.†She dug out
more snow, until the hole was large enough
here to get in and sit comfortably down.
Lily was very hot as she crept in and piled
the snow by degrees in front of her; her
gloves got very wet, and her hands burned
when she struck them together. At last she
got drowsy and fell asleep.
Tea-time came. ‘‘ Where is Miss Lily ?â€
asked nurse. No one could tell. No one
had seen her since dinner, except the
parlor-maid, who said: ‘Perhaps she is in-
the garden.†The nurse looked ont. It
was then getting dark. She put on her
rubbers and walked all around the gar-
den seeking Lily. She looked at the snow-
ball. No Lily was there; she could see
nothing but the snow-mass. Then she be-
came frightened; where could ‘Lily be!
There were no marks in the snow to show
that she had gone out into the road. Per-
haps she had gone with her brothers to see
the sliders on the common. =
Five o’clock. No Lily. Now it was dark.
Father and mother would be home soon.
The nurse, cook and parlor maid searched
all over the house—up-stairs, down-stairs.
But no Lily. As they were searching, a
knock came to the door. Father.and moth-
er had come home. In a few minutes the
two boys came in, too, but without Lily.
Their mother at once noticed the pale
and pallid face of the parlor-maid, but said
nothing until she reached the nursery, when
she saw the nurse just as frightened, and
even paler. ’ é
“What is the matter?†cried Mrs. Smith.
“Ts anything wrong? You and Fannie are
both looking as frightened as if there had ©
been thieves in the house. What has hap-
pened? Speak !â€
_*O ma’am, Miss Lily—is—lost !â€
«Lost !� screamed Mrs. Smith. ‘ Lost,
and you sit here quietly? Have you search-
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SULKY JANE. iS
ed ? Did you send for the police ? Where
was she lost!â€
The poor mother’s alarm and distress
were terrible to see. She was so fond of all
her children that she was nearly distracted ;
she rushed into every room, dashing the cup-
boards and presses open, and unlocking the
trunks; she looked into the cistern, into a
great sofa-box in the bedroom, under all the
beds.
Willie and Ernest also searched. Mr.
Smith went off to the police station to de-
scribe the little girl and to inquire. Poor
little Lily was lost—perhaps dead, and no
one could think where the child had got to!
The garden was searched with lanterns ; and
when the boys with their father were look-
ing around for the last time, up came Tim,
the cat, and mewed. :
“I believe Tim misses Lily,†said Ernest.
Tim mewed again, turned around, walked
down the garden, and made a dreadful noise.
Then, to the astonishment of all, the cat
leaped on the big snow-ball and scratched at it.
“«T do believe Lily’s buried in the snow,
father,†cried Willie. “‘Come along, let’s
see.â€
Mr. Smith said nothing, but with a tre-
mendous shove turned the ball over. The
boys clutched it, and there in the center lay
Lily—insensible or asleep, but alive cer-
tainly.
Tim mewed and raced into the house in
front of Mr. Smith, who, with his little girl
in his arms, came running into the kitchen.
The cook screamed. Mrs. Smith came rush-
ing down when the boys cried, ‘ Lily’s
found.â€
The doctor came, and poor Lily was in
bed with terrible chilblains for many days;
but she never was really ill.
“«T fell asleep,†she said, ‘‘and I remem-
ber no more. I pretended to be a Lap-
lander. I never heard any one call me.â€
But they were so glad to find her that no
one scolded her. ‘Tim was praised for being
so sensible, and he purred his thanks. But
if Lily had not been kind to him she might
never have been found.
And so ended Lily’s strange adventure
and the story of the “‘ biggest snow-ball that
ever was seen.â€
~ THE HAPPY DEAD.
Bees is sorrow, sorrow for the pulses that are
beating,
But unutterably blessed are the dead.
~ HONORABLE OLD MEN.
R. DOLLINGER is 88; Moltke and
Bancroft the historian are each 87; Kos-
suth is 85, and professor Owen is 88; but it
is not easy to extend the list. Yet it is as-
tonishing to note the large number of living
great men who have passed the ordinary
limit of human life. Of sovereigns, the
Pope is 87, and King William, of the Neth-
erlands, is well and in his 81st year. Of
Statesmen, Mr. Gladstone is 79, Mr. Bright
is 76, Prince Bismarck is 72, M. Jules Grevy
is 74. M. Leon Say and M. Leroyer are each
71, Lord Shelborne is 75 and Lord Granville
is 72. Of Generals, MacMahon is 79, Le-
beef is 78 and Bazaine and Cialdina are each
76. Of poets, Lord Tennyson is 78, Mr.
Browning is 75 and Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes is 78. Of musicians, M. Verdi is 73.
Of engineers, Lord Armstrong is 77, and
Sir John Hawkshaw is .76. Of painters,
Messonier is 72; and finally, a showman,
Barnum, is 77. Perhaps, however, M.
Chevreul, who is fairly started on his 102d
year ought not to be omitted.
A CLEVER LITTLE MAIDEN,
( NCH, in a class of little maids,
._/ The teacher vainly sought
Their catechism to instill ;
And chain the wandering thought.
- * Now who has been baptized?†she asked,
“ Just answer with a word.â€
They shouted, “I†and‘‘I†and “I,â€
All clamoring to be heard.
Then one small maid so eager seemed
And guite important grew—
**O, Ihave been baptised,†she said,
“And vaccinated, too!â€
GEORGE’S MISTAKE,
Ce was only a little boy, and when
J he found in the shrubbery a nest with
four little birds in all alive, he thought what
fun it would be to take them into the barn
and feed them with bread and milk, and go
digging for wormsfor them. So he brought
the nest to his sister, who explained to
him what a mistake he had made, for shes
told him the hirds would surely die, and the
poor mother bird would be broken-hearted.
George saw his mistake and took the aest
back again at once, and put it just where he
had found it. :
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GEORGE’
OUR MOTHER.
JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
N | OTHER'S so good to us, what can we do?
How can we ever repay her?
O, ’twould be better for me and for you
‘Were we more prompt to obey her.
Ready to lighten her burdens of care,
Ready our tempers to smother;
Striving each day, in a delicate way,
To prove our affection for mother.
Mother has always been thoughtful and kind,
On the look-out for our pleasure;
Deep in her heart are her children enshrined;
None her devotion can measure.
What can we do in return for this love,
Faithful and fond as no other?
Can we forget how deeply in debt
We always must be to our mother?
Mother’s so patient, so quick to excuse
Each little weakness and failing;
Ready her comforting powers to use
When we are troubled or ailing.
Teaching us more by example than words
Truly to love one another;
And in return how we should yearn
To care in her old age for our mother.
Mother’s so good to us, day after day,
Giving us tender protection;
O, how the thought of her kindness should sway .
Ever our heart’s recollection.
Yet there are many who treat her with scorn,
Grateful emotions they smother,
And angels—ah me!— must weep when they see
How cruel they are to their mother.
Better for us to be faithful and kind
To mother dear, while she is living;
Better for us when we bear in mind,
Kisses and sympathy giving,
That after her presence is missed from the home,
And she’s gone from this world to another,
To weep and lament, and with anguish repent
Of the way we neglected our mother.
INDECISION.
MRS. H. N. CADY.
ae ishere again! And with
it the grand old-fashioned feast of turkey
roast-pork and pumpkin pie. The first
snowstorm of the season came but yesterday,
and our friends, the rabbits, have found
Some difficulty in obtaining a good break-
fast or dinner in consequence. Perhaps
they do not know it is Thanksgiving morn-
ing, but they were truly very thankful when
they first spied the rosy red apple just inside
: that little fence. ;
**How good of somebody !†was the first
thought of the younger bunny, and he was
quite inclined to rush in at once and secure
his prize. f
“Wait a moment,†said the elder rabbit,
noting his younger brother’s rash impulse,
‘it may be a trap, you know, and in that
case the apple would have but little charm
for either.â€
So there they both sit this gray November
morning, with the tempting apple hanging
just in front of them, and reasoning in their
silly little minds how they can secure the
prize, and still keep their soft furry bodies
ont of harm’s way. Poor little creatures!
Every moment of indecision is but a step
nearer to their fate. If Willie, who ar-
ranged that ‘‘figure-four†trap yesterday,
while the snow was falling so thickly around
him, could see them at this moment, he
would feel quite confident of eating rabbit
stew for hisSunday’s dinner. From present.
appearances, we can confidently predict that
the younger bunny will be the victim.
THE SONG OF THE MOSQUITO.
GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD.
Hum! hum! I’m coming, coming,
Don’t you hear me humming, humming,
Like some distant drummer drumming
His tired troops to sleep ?
Rat-tat-tat, and hum-hum-hum,
Near, more near, I come, I come,
‘With some to dine, to sup with some,
With all a feast to keep.
Hum! hum! How neatyou are!
Hum!hum! How sweet you are! :
Humm-m! hum-m! Too sweet by far $
Tl dally for a bit.
Try you there, and try you here:
Taste your chin, your cheek, your ear;
And that line of forehead near ;
Ere settling down to it.
Hum! hum! You cannot say
I sup and dine and slo not pay.
Behind me, when I go away,
Just here, and here, and here,
Till leave a tiny, round, bright spot—
A brand new coin, laid down red hot,
In full return for all I got.
Ipay most dear, most dear.
Hum! hum! I’ve supped and rarely !
And you still are sleeping fairly.
Hum-hum-hum! We twain part squarely;.
All my dues I pay for.
One more taste, and one more sip,
From your eyelid, from your lip,
Then away Ill skip-skip-skip—
There’s nothing more to stay for.
INDECISION,
THANKSGIVING DAY.
AURRAH FOR THE PUMPKIN PIE.
LYDIA MARIA CHILD.
(Cee te river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To bear the sleigh
Though the white and drifted snow.
Over the river and though the wood,
Now grandmother’s cap I spy;
Hurrah for the fun:
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
WHY WE SHOULD BE THANKFUL.
THOMAS W. HANFORD.
Te the Jews had the right to regard their
history as the unfolding of God’s provi-
dence, so have we. If they have had great war-
riors to fight their battles; great poets to sing
their songs and ballads; great statesmen to
guide their national affairs, and great pro-
phets with shining brows to declare the will
of God, sohave we! The history of America
is notan idledream. If the footprints of
God were to be seen from Dan to Beersheba,
so also are they manifest in America, for
from Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate,
God’s smile fills all the land with glory.
There has not been a day since the Pilgrims
ceased their wanderings and found on these
hospitable shores cities of abiding habitation,
when the goodness of God has not made
every hour rich with blessing and every night
ealm beneath the watchfulness of His un-
slumbering eye. very line of every page
of American history is an argument for
thanksgiving and gratitude. Four times
in one brief psalm David cries out, “Oh!
that man would praise the Lord for
His goodness.†One of the chief points of
that goodness that attracted the poet’s eye
in that day was the home-life of the people.
The wandering, nomad life, was at an end.
Israel was now no longer dwelliag in tents,
but every man was now under his own vine
and under his own fig tree, peaceful and
unafraid. And this home life of our land is
our great joy and hope. Out of heaven
there is nothing more blessed than a happy
home. We have much to be thankful for,
and much to be proud of in this great land
of liberty—great men, great institutions,
great resources; but the homes of America
are our greatest Joy and our greatest hope.
eel
nk!
Oh, that we knew how fully to appreciate
the benediction of a peaceful, happy home!
When the wheels of labor stand still next
week, and children stand around the
well-filled table, let us not forget to praise
the Lord for His goodness and for all the
tokens of neve1-failing love and care.
For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight,
For bending wheat and blasted maize,
For health and sickness, Lord of Light,
And Lord of darkness, hear our praise.
We trace to Thee our joys and woes—
To Thee, of causes still the cause—
We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows;
We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws.
We bring no sorrows to Thy throne;
We come to Thee with no complaint;
In Providence Thy will is done.
And that is sacred to thesaint.
WHAT A BIBLE COST IN THE OLDEN
TIMES.
HE price of a Bible, fairly written, with a
commentary, was, in the year 1274, from
$150 to $250, though in 1240 two arches of
London Bridge were built for $125. In the
year 1272 the wages of a laboring man were
less than four cents a day, while the price
of a Bible at the same period wasabout $180.
A common laborer in those days must toil on
_Iindustriously for thirteen long years if he
would possess a copy of the Word of God.
Now the earnings of a portion of a day will
pay the cost of a beautifully printed copy of
sacred oracles. What a contrast! What an
illustration of the power of the press!
SHE-WHO-MUST-BE-OBEYVED.
A GREAT writer has recently written a
book which many thousands have read,
entitled, ““She.†The name of the wonder-
ful heroine of the story is ‘‘ Ayesha,†a
name that translated means ‘‘ She-who-must-
be-obeyed.†The homes of this fair land
are crowded with little ladies who rule us
with the sceptre of their loving ways.
Lord Dufferin said that the greatest tyrant
in the world was a loving, gentle daughter,
she must be obeyed. And this is very true.
This little maiden with her doll, playing on
the flowery hill-side, is only one of tens of
thousands of those little queens who rule our
hearts and homes and gladden all our lives.
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QUESTIONS.
Cs you put the spider’s web back in place
That once has been swept away?
Can you put the apple again on the bough
Which fell at our feet today?
Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem,
And cause it to live and grow?
Can you mend the butterfly’s broken wing
That you crushed with a hasty blow?
Can you put the bloom again on the grape,
And the grape. again on the vine?
Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers,
And make them sparkle and shine?
Can you put the petais back on the rose?
If you could, would it smell as sweet?
Can you put the flower again on the husk,
And show me the ripened wheat?
Can you put the kernel back in the nut,
Or the broken egg in the shell?
_ Can you put the honey back in the comb,
And cover with wax each cell?
Can you put the perfume back in the vase
When once it has sped away?
Can you you put the corn-silk back on the corn,
Or down on the catkins? Say!
You think my questions are trifling, dear?
Let me ask another one:
Can a hasty word ever be unsaid
Or an unkind deed undone?
NED’S WATER-WHEEL.
MRS. H. N. CADY.
aC O for the country!†shouted Ned
: Warren, as he rushed into the hall
of his New York home on the last day of
school. ‘‘ School is out at last, and now we
can go!†he declared, as he grasped his sis-
ter Nell around the waist and danced her
down the passage.
“Don’t be absurd, Ned!†remarked that
young lady, trying to free herself from his
arms.
Oh, well, perhaps you dont care to go!â€
he replied, letting her go in time to catch
his mother, who had just reached the foot of
the stairs. ‘‘ Perhaps you like staying in
the city all summer, but I dont; I’m ready
to start this afternoon.â€
“We can start to-morrow, can’t we
mother?†he asked, caressing the sweet faced
little woman at his side.
“* Not quite so soon,†she replied, return-
ing the caress he had given. ‘‘ We shall
probably start Monday; you certainly can
wait that short time when a whole two
months’ visit is before you,†she added, as
she saw the look of disappointment which
momentarily overshadowed his face.
*“T suppose I’ve got to,†he replied, as he
made his way up stairs to prepare for dinner.
Monday came at last, and with it the jour-
ney in the cars and the subsequent ride over
the fresh country road to grandfather’s farm
far up among the New Hampshire hills.
Never were happier children than those who
jumped from the long buckboard and rushed
peil mell into grandma’s open arms. The
barns and stables were visited, the dogs seen
and caressed, and even the turkeys and
chickens had received their share of atten-
tion before the sun hid himself for the day
behind the great western mountain top, and
grandma’s voice called them to supper in
the long, cool dining-room. What a grand,
old room it was, with its rafters showing
overhead, and its great wide fire-place—
filled with logs which were ready to burst
into flame when the weather should become
cool—cutting off one corner of the apart-
ment. On either side of the chimney-piece
were the glass-covered cupboards, where
grandma’s best china and glass was displayed.
‘he supper spread upon the heavy oaken
table, was the final evidence to the children’s
minds at least, that they were really in
grandma’s home at last. Nowhere else was.
the butter so golden, or honey so tempting,
as here; and the precious seed-cakes, which
no-one but grandmother knew so well how
to make, were there in profusion.
A whole summer before them, and this.
delightful place to spend it in! Were chil-
dren ever so blessed as they? ‘* Never!â€
thought they, as they rushed down stairs the
following morning, and prepared to follow
the haymakers into the field.
But hay-making does not last forever, and
all new things become old in time, so when
at last a rainy day came, both Ned and his
little sister Ethel were far from ‘dissatisfied
with their fate. Now, Ned could make the
waterwheel Joe Barney had told him about,
and Ethel might assist him, perhaps. Pos-
sibly the result would not have been as satis-
factory, however, if Joe had not come to the
rescue, and given his active assistance, as
well as advice, in its construction. Joe was.
a genuine Yankee, and consequently thor-
oughly at home with his jack-knife. Havy-
ing lived many years with grandfather War-
ren he was much attached to the children,
and was ever ready to assist them in their
small undertakings.
The rain fortunately continued to fall all
day ; and before night Joe had not only com-
pleted the wheel, but a small trough ales,
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through which he was to convey the water
from the dam.
“But where are we to get thedam?†asked
Ethel.
‘““Why, make it, of course,†answered
Ned, as he examined the uprights upon which
the wheel was to turn.
““You think the brook in the lower mea-
dow lot will be better than that behind the
barn?†he went on, as he watched Joe sand-
paper the ends of the axle.
“Yes,†replied Joe, ‘‘it will be out of
the way there; and your grandfather might
object to our filling up that one. The cattle
water there sometimes, you know.â€
<‘ When do you believe you'll get.a chance
to help me build it?†asked Ned, full of his
project.
“‘ Might havea few minutes to-morrow if I
don’t have to go to town,†he continued, as
the thought suddenly came to him, ‘‘you
and Ethel could fill up.the brook just below
the old wall with those stones I threw into a
heap lastspring. You’ll find them close by the
spot where I mean, and I’llrun down to-mor-
row morning after breakfast, and show you
how.
True to his promise Joe went with the
children on the following morning, and
showed them how to pack the stones. The
spot which he had chosen was one where the
brook having suddenly narrowed, forced itself
a channel between two quite steep banks.
“For,†said he, ‘‘if we took a shallower
place the water would spread out more, and
we shouldn’t get enough force on our wheel.â€
Then he lifted a few of the larger stones in
with thesmaller onesat hand. By noon they
had filled in quite a wide space,: leaving a
narrow channel for the water to run through.
When grandpa heard what they were try-
ing to make, he let Joe off for the rest of the
afternoon; and with his assistance they pro-
gressed much more rapidly with their work.
After the brook had been filled for some dis-
tance with the stones, Joe shoveled in some
coarse gravel, and later, when the passage
for the water was finally stopped, he covered
the whole with sods, pounding them in place
with his foot. Now they built up the face
of the dam carefully and solidly, like a wall;
and finally when the trough had been fitted
or sunk slightly into the structure, the large,
flat stones Joe had reserved for the purpose
were placed on top, and the children had the
satisfaction of seeing a full shimmering
stream fall from the trough.
It was but the work of a few minutes to
place the wheel in position, when it began
to turn rapidly over and over, making a soft,
dreamy kind of creaking sound; pleasanter
to the children’s ears than the most enchant-
ing music.
During the long summer, that water-wheel
was ever a source of amusement to the chil-
dren; and even the older members of the fam-
ily shared to some degree in their delight.
When the fall came, and they were to return
to their city home, it was taken from its place
in the brook and stored in the shed loft,
where it would safely rest until another sum-
mer brought it into usefulness again. And
there it rests to-day.
GROWN-UP LAND.
6¢ (YX OOD-morning, fair maid, with lashes brown?
: Can you tell me the way to Womanhood
town?â€
“‘O, this ‘way and that way—you can never stop.
Tis picking up stitches that grandma will drop,
*Tis kissing the baby’s wee troubles away,
"Tis learning that cross words never will pay,
‘Tis helping mamma, ’tis sewing up rents,
*Tis reading and playing, ’tis saving the cents,
’Tis loving and smiling, forgetting to frown—
O, that is the way to Womanhood Town.â€
‘* Just wait, my brave lad; one moment I pray.
Manhood Town lies where—can you tell me the
way?â€
‘‘O, by toiling and trying we reach that land.
A bit with the head, a bit with the hand:
*Tis by climbing up the rugged hill Work,
Tis by keeping out of the wide street Shirk,
*Tis by always taking the weak one’s part,
*Tis by giving mother a happy heart,
*Tis by keeping bad thoughts and actions down—
O, that is the way to Manhood Town.â€
And the lad and the maid ran hand. in hand
To. their fair estates in the ‘‘ Grown-up Land.â€
_ HETTIE’S THANKSGIVING DAY
ESCAPADE. :
MAY BLOSSOM DAVIS.
er ee is something very lovely in the
affection between old people and chil-
dren — the -first are so full of the rich and
useful experiences of along life, one that has
solved all the mysteries and surmounted all
the sorrows of living, and is looking earnestly
forward into that which is to come with a.
new and almost longing interest, as if their
feet had already begun to tread the holy soil
of the sweet Beula land. What wonder that
they love to guide and instruct the little
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ones, and show them how to avoid the dan-
ers and mistakes along the way of life.
While the children, in their first strange
awakening toa new and untried world filled
with the wonderful and the great, cling to
the old, who have solved all these mysterious
secrets, with a reverent admiration that is
akin to worship.
So while the one gives loving and hopeful
connsel, the other gives a trustful affection
and dependence.
I remember a story told me by a lady who,
when a little girl, loved her grandmamma
very tenderly, They lived in New England,
where Thanksgiving Day is one in which it
would be almost heathenish not to. attend
church and render thanks. So, although
the day broke cold and threatening and the
snow lay deep upon the ground, the old
sleigh, filled with furs and blankets, and the
faithful horse, were brought out to convey
the family, even to the old grandma, to
church.
The little girl and her younger sister went
too, but during the service they crept over to
the back of. the church to get near the fire,
and over there where the minister’s voice
sounded indistinct and far away, they forgot
they must not whisper, and hence began to
talk about their Thanksgiving dinner that
was coming, and what wonderful things
grandma had been preparing in the way of
pies and cookies.
“She must be very tired from so much
work,†said Hettie, the older.
« Yes, poor grandma!†replied the little .
one pathetically.
“Pll tell you what we’ll do to surprise
her,†said Hettie, her face lighting up glee-
fully with a new thought; ‘we'll take old
Jack and drive home, and get the table all
prepared beautifully, with holly on it and
ferns, too, and that will surprise her and help
her ever somuch. Wecan get back before
church is over.â€
So two childish figures ventured timidly
out of the church door and found a light
snow falling; but everything was noiseless
outside and the soft snow muffled all sound
as they took old Jack out of the shed and
drove briskly away. But they soon slack-
ened their pace because it was so pleasant to
eatch thesoft, cold flakes on their little faces
_ upturned to the wintry sky filled with white
specks slowly falling far as the eye could see
into the cloudy dome above, They had great
sport trying to catch the light flakes on thei~
warm, rosy lips, and letting it slowly melt.
But when they tired of that sort of play
they found that old Jack had lost the road
and had wandered into a shady forest alto-
gether unlike the tree-lined road that led to
their home. There was vain striving to find
their way back, but they became confused in:
another sleigh-track and finally gave up in
despair. Vainly they had endeavored to find.
their road back, when, as the afternnon was
wearing away, worn out and drowsy with the
cold they curled up in the furs in the bot-
tom of the sleigh and went to sleep.
It was grandma who missed them before
church was over, and going out found, to her
consternation, that the sleigh was gone.
Old and feeble though she was, she did.
not disturb the church service, but bravely
started out to track the fugitives through
the snow. It is useless to try to describe the
faithful love that bore the hardships which
she went through for her darlings that day.
But after long following at last she found
them, and without waking them drove home
where the anxious ones were preparing to
make a great search for the lost ones — grand-
ma and all.
I was not informed, but I will venture to
say that the Thanksgiving dinner was a very
happy one, and enjoyed in utter forgetful-
ness of the past troubles of the day. How
could it fail to be when such gentle self-sac-
rificing love bound together the hearts of ©
those at home?
TACT.
ACT is the life of the five senses. It is
the open eye, the quick ear, the judging ©
taste, the keen smell and the lively touch.
Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight,
tact is momentum; talent knows what to do,
tact: how to do it; talent is wealth, tact is
ready money.
ANYTHING FOR QUIET.
ieee came home and found his hoy
Filling all the house with riot,
Banging madly on his drum,
While his mother in the room
Sat serenely, unmoved by it.
“‘Madam,†said the irate sire,
‘© T would stop this nuise—or try it.â€
‘“*No, you wouldn’t,†answered she;
“Were you vexed all day like me,
You'd do anything for quiet.â€
ee
HETTIE’S THANKSGIVING DAY ESCAPADE.
WINTER SONG.
M. R. WELD.
\ Ny 7 HY liest thou still and pale now,
Wiapped in thy snow-white veil now,
Dear mother earth of ours ?
‘Where are Spring’s voices, say now ?
Where Summer’s plumage gay now ?
And thy bright festal robe of flowers ?
Thou sleep’st cf it bereft now,
Nor lamb nor sheep is left now
In field or upland bare,
The bird’s sweet songs are dumb now,
Hushed is the bee’s soft hum now,
Yet even in winter art thou fair.
On twigs and branches dancing,
A thousand gleams are glancing,
Where e’er the eye may light.
Who hath prepared thy bed now?
The coverlid who hath spread now?
And decked thee with frost jewels bright?
The bounteous Lord of Heaven
To thee thy veil hath given,
Who sleeps not day nor night.
Be thy sleep fearless taken,
He doth the weary waken
In good time to new strength and light
Soon to Spring’s breezes pleasant
Thou 'lt rise rejuvenescent,
With new life wondrous fair;
When down their breath floats duly,
Thou earth wilt prank thee newly
With wreaths of flowers upon thy hair.
GOLDEN MOMENTS.
GBPIRGE ELIOT.
HE golden moments in the stream of
rush past us, and we see nothing but
sand; the angels come to visit us, and we
only know them when they are gone.
SOCRATES AND HIS HOUSE.
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
HEN Socrates was building himself a
house at Athens, being asked by one
that observed the littleness of the design, why
aman so eminent should not have an abode
more suitable to his dignity, he replied, that
he would be sufficiently accommodated if he
could see that narrow habitation filled with
real friends. Such was the opinion of this
great master of human life, concerning the
infrequency of such a union of minds as
might deserve the name of, friendship, that
among the multitudes whom vanity or curi-
-osity, civility or veneration, crowded .about
him, he did not expect that very spacious
apartments would be necessary to contain —
all thatshould regar d him with sincere kind-
ness or adhere to him with steady fidelity.
So many qualities are indeed requisite to
the possibility of friendship, and so many
accidents must concur to its rise and its con-
tinuance, that the greatest part of mankind
content themselves without it, and supply
its place as they can, with interest and de-
pendence.
CAUSES FOR THANKFULNESS.
LUCY LARCOM.
OR the hidden scroll, o’erwritten
With one dear name adored;
For the heavenly in the human,
The spirit in the word;
For the tokens of thy presence
Within, above, abroad;
For thine’ great gift of peing,
I thank thee, O my God!
FRIENDSHIP LIKE A DEBT OF HONOR.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
RIENSHIP islike a debt of honor: the
ment it is talked of it loses its real name,
and assumes the more ungrateful form of
obligation. From hence we find that those
who regularly undertake to cultivate friend-
ship find ingratitude generally repays their
endeavors. That circle of beings which de-
pendence gathers around us is almost ever
unfriendly; they secretly wish the terms of
their connections more nearly equal; and,
when they even have the most virtue, are
prepared to reserve all their affections for
their patron only in the hour of his decline.
Increasing the obligations which are laid _
upon such minds, only increases their bur-
den; they feel themselves unable to repay
the immensity of their debt, and their bank-
rupt hearts are taught a latent resentment
at the hand that is stretched out with offers
of service and relief.
THE LIONESS AND HER CUBS.
HE lioness is not always very ferocious.
There are times when she seems to be
almost gentle and playful. But when she is
caring for her little cubs you had better keep
at a safe distance. One dash of those terri-
fic paws would be terrible to endure, and if.
by any chance the lioness should fancy you
were going to rob her of any of her cub:
your life would be in danger.
ful mother and will guard her young ones.
with her life. At the foot of this illustra-_
tion you see the lion hunting for his prey’
in order that his growing family may be f
You observe that the travellers are â€â€œ
disposed to give him all the room he~
Sheisafaith- |
Tak
, SQATTIRN AY ARDERRNOAON IN WITNTTD
THE TRUE FRIEND.
OMMEND me to the friend that comes
When Jam sad and lone, .
And makes the anguish of my heart
The suffering of his own;
Who coldly shuns the glittering throng
At pleasure’s gay levee,
And comes to gild a sombre hour
And give his heart to me.
He hears me count my sorrows o’er,
And when the task is done
He freely gives me all I ask—
A sigh for every one
He cannot wear a smiling face
When mine is touched with gloom
But, like the violet, seeks to cheer
The midnight with perfume.
Commend me to that generous heart
Which, like the pine on high,
Uplifts the same unvarying brow
To every change of sky ;
Whose friendship does not fade away
When wintry tempests blow,
But, like the Winter’s icy crown, -
Looks greener through the snow.
He flies not with the flitting stork
That seeks a Southern sky,
But lingers where the wounded bird
Hath laid him down to die.
Oh, such a friend! He is in truth,
Whate’er his lot may be,
A rainbow on the storm of life,
An anchor on its sea.
AN AUTUMN EVENING.
E. P. ROE.
ie around thislovely autumn evening.
See the crimson glory of those clouds
yonder in the west. See that brightness shad-
ing off into paler and more exquisite tints.
Look, how those many-hued leaves reflect
the glowing sky. The air is as sweet and
balmy as that of Eden could have been.
The landscape is beautiful in itself and
specially attractive to you. To our human
eyes it hardly seems as if heaven could be
more perfect than this.
“WHAT TIME IS IT?â€
IME to do well,
Time tolive better— .
To give up that grudge,
To answer that letter.
To speak the kind word
“That may sweeten some sorrow,
To do now the good
You would leave till to-morrow,
Time to try hard
In that new situation;
Time to build up.
On a solid foundation,
Giving up needlessly
Changing and drifting,
Leaving the quicksands
That ever are shifting.
Time to be earnest
In laying up treasure;
Time to be thoughtful
In seeking true pleasure;
Loving stern justice,
Of truth being fond,
Making your word
Just as good as your bond.
Time to be happy
In doing your best;
Time to be trustful,
Leaving the rest.
Knowing, in whatever
Country or clime,
Ne’er can you call -back
One moment of time.
THE ICE PALACE OF ST. PAUL.
EE would be exceedingly difficult to imag-
ine a more romantic scene than is pres-
ented by the Ice Palace at St. Paul, the
erection of which has come to be regarded
as one of the great annual institutions of
that growing city. Faithful, as is the sketch
presented by our Artist on the next page,
the Ice Palace, like the falls of Niagara or
the Mammoth cave, must be seen to be ap-
preciated. ‘he Ice Palace erected in St.
Paul this year surpassed all its predecessors.
It covered an acre of space, and. the tower
was 130 feet high. It occupied 200 square
feet of ground, and was built of 55,000
blocks of ice 22x28 inches, and about 18
inches chick. The Ice was taken from a
lake north, of, the city, and weighed about
16,000,000 pounds. If this ice had been
used in building a wall six feet high and
eight inches thick, the wall would have
extended fourteen miles.. By day or night,
this crystal palace was a scene too gorgeous
for words to describe. And w’-r.the gay
crowds gathered from far and near da. the
thousands of electric lights ae
Shone o’er fair women,
And brave men,
in their rich carnival attire, it seemed as
though the dreams of fairy land were more
than realized.
LIFE TOO SHORT.
CHARLES DICKENS.
NY christian spirit working kindly in
its little sphere, whatever it may be,
will find its mortal life too short for its vast:
means of usefulness.
THE LIONESS AND HER CUBS,
GOD'S AGES ROLL ALONG.
F. HUNTINGTON RUNNELS.
] | ERE in the broad fields of the busy. West,
A generous harvest waits the tireless hand;
With peaceful trust the golden days are blest,
And sweet, unbroken rest’ the nights command;
Amid brave toil, and hope, aud tsiumph strong,
; God’s ages roil along.
In other lands the calm reflex of heaven
Is rent ofttimes from cloud and clash of wars,
To seething strife humanity is given,
Till pitying earth the ebbing life-tide draws.
Yet, who can doubt? serene above the Wrong
: God’s ages roll along!
‘Whether the glad earth blossoms teem with fruit,
Or her fond bosom bear the load of death;
. Whether the soul in dark distrust be mute,
Or from its woe give forth immortal breath;
Whether defeat or victor’s joyful song,
God’s ages roll along,
CHRISTMAS DAY IN CALIFORNIA.
N this land of inverted seasons it is hard
for him who has wandered hither from
less congenial climes to realize that to-mor-
row is Christmas, which this year has a .
double sanctity, falling as it does on Sun-
day. In all Christmas countries the anni-
versary of Christ’s natal day is signalized by
a general abandoment to merriment and
revelry; the festive feature of the occasion
in many instances entirely eclipsing its sa-
cred aspects. Indeed, the religious element
is wholly eliminated in many communities,
and only the yule-logs and the Lord of Mis-
rule are recognized as having place in the
program of the hour. But even the tradi-
tional yule-log is a superfluity in the “ glori-
ous climate†of California, and its existence
here is only a pleasing and romantic fiction
of the imagination. In this respect, it must
be confessed, the balmy softness of our occi-
dental skies is a drawback. As the pen
forms the words over which the reader’s eye
is now passing, the orb of day is shining
over the dancing wavelets of the Golden
Gate with all the glowing ardor of an East-
ern spring-time. The russet-brown mantle
which tlfe Oakland hills and Tamalpais and
the more distant mountains have worn
through the long, tiirsty summer, is chang-
ing toari¢h emerald. We are just getting
glimpses ofthe beauties which Nature’s en-
chantress, Spring, unfolds to the gladsome
eyes of the dwellers beyond the Rockies in
the month of May. But how sadly out of
consonance is all this with the Christmas as.
pect of Nature as mirrored in the stories an@
pictured scenes of childhood’s hapry hours!
Where is the wintry sky, the snow-laden
boughs, the sparkling carpet of dazzling
white, the frosted window-panes, where
the music of the sleigh-bells, the merry
uproar of the coasters on the hillside, the
snap of breaking icicles, and the roaring fire
to keep ont the cold breath of all-prevading
Jack Frost? All these we sadly lack, and
their absence is fatal to the completeness of
the ideal picture of a Christmas scene. But
it is not given to all men to have all things.
We have our full share of Nature’s bounties,
and with these we ought to be, we must be,
satisfied. If the question of California’s cli-
mate could be put to vote, and a change be
contingent on the result, we do not believe
it would be altered one jot or tittle from its
present conditions.
-LITTLE BOY BLUE.
EUGENE FIELD.
Hs little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red-with rust.
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And there was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there. :
“Now, don’t you go till I come,†he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!â€
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamed of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting these long years
through, 4
In the dust of that little chair,
‘What has become of Our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
NOT A PARTICLE TOO MUCH.
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
HERE is not one particle too much, or
of no consequence, in all the star-dust
of God’s universe; there cannot be a human
soul, or a human soul’s experience, too much
or too little in the making of His heaven.
— SSS
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JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
ON THEIR WAY TO BETHLEHEM.
A. T. SLOSSON.
\ \ 7 HERE are you going my little children,
Soft-eyed Zillah and brown-faced Seth,
Little David with cheek so ruddy,
Dark-haired, slender Elizabeth? ~
What are the burdens you carry with you,
Poised on the head and swung in the hand;
What is the song from your red: lips ringing?
Whatis your errand, you little band?
‘« Sirs, as you know, we are Hebrew children,
Tam Zillah and this is Seth;
Here is David, our little brother;
And this is our sister, Elizabeth.
“Our father’s sheep are on yonder hill:side,
He cares for us and he watches them;
We left our home in the early morning,
And go our way into Bethlehem,
«Surely you know that blessed baby,
Greeted by angels with songs of joy,
Is lying there with his gentle mother,
And we are going to see the Boy.
‘‘Here in our baskets are gifts we bring him,
All to lay at his little feet;
Amber honey our bees have gathered,
Milk from our goats so white and sweet;
‘* Cakes of our figs, and grapes that are purple,
Olives plucked from our own old trees;
Savory herbs, and fragrant spices,
_ All we bring him on bended knees.
‘See, this is wool so soft and so fleecy,
Purple dyes that a king might wear;
Skins of the goat, and the ram, and the badger,
All for the baby that’s sleeping there.
‘‘ Here are shells from the Red Sea brought us,
Here are feathers all bright and gay;
Tell us, good sirs, had ever a baby
Fairer gifts than we bring to-day?
‘Seth gives his dove, though he loves it dearly;
David these shells for tue Holy Boy;
Elizabeth wove him this pretty basket,
But I have only this little toy,—
«Two sticks of olive wood, carved by my father,
One standing up and one crossing it—so;
We have little to offer, we poor little children,
But we give all we can, and we sing as we go.â€
Singing they went with their simple treasures,
Sweet rang their voices o’er valley and hill;
“Glory, oh, glory to God in the highest,
Peace upon carth, and to men good-will.â€
Still they went singing, these Hebrew children,
Soft-eyed Zillah and brown-faced Seth;
“ttle David with cheek so ruddy, and
Dark-haired, slender Elizabeth.
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
WADE ROBINSON.
OR earth our home, is brighter
That Thou hast touched its clay;
The very day is lighter :
For some supremer day; —
And night is softly ringing
In all her depths afar,
With starry armies singing a
The song of Bethlehem’s Star.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
XII. THE CHILD JESUS,
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
NCE again Christmas thoughts press
themselves upon the attention; once
again Christmas carols leap unbidden to the
lips; and in all lands beneath the stars,—in
prisons and palaces,— young men and maid-
ens, old men and children, join in happy
concert to sing
“‘Glory to the new-born king.â€
The world grows old, but its memory is
unfailing; and it will never forget the day
when Christ was born. ‘That wondrous ad-
vent amid the lowliest circumstances in
David’s ancient city of Bethlehem, is better
known than any story of the romantic age,
or the more enchanting tales of classic anti-
quity. The strange stories of the mystic
gods who shook the crest of high Olympus
are for the wonder and entertainment of the
scholarly, but the story of the birth of Jesus -
is for the universal earth. The angels who
broke the midnight silence with their songs
centuries and centuries ago, did not bring a
strange story to startle the wondering few ;
they brought good tidings of great joy for
all men, for all men on to the remotest years
of time. The tidings were for the startled
shepherds on Bethlehem’s plains, and they
are for the tens of thousands in Chicago and
New York and London to-day, and they will
be glad tidings for millions when our graves
have grown green through many generations.
There are many points of interest in this
message from the heavens. Here is a thing
to be considered. The angel did not regard
the lowliness of the birth of the Messiah as a
matter that should be concealed. On the
contrary, he called attention directly to the
fact. ‘‘And this shall be a sign unto you: -
Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swadding
clothes, lying ina manger.†If Christ had
been born to the purple and fine linen of the
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state, he would not have been all men’s
Christ. The wealthy and the favored would
have claimed him. But now as we seek the
star of Bethlehem glimmering gently over
the lowly cradle of Mary’s son, we cry:
“*Glory to God! for unto us, the poor and
lowly, the men of no greatness, the common
men—unto us a child is born; unto usa son
is given—the blessed Son of God, the friend
of the friendless—the Savior of all men.
Glory to God in the highest!†It should be
a pleasant thing for all children to remem-
ber that Jesus Christ was once a little child.
We know little of those very early days in
Nazareth, but doubtless they were happy
days. The child Jesus would have toys as
other children had, no doubt, and playmates.
At least so the legends run. -Of course
there is very little reliance to be placed on
legends, but some of them are very beautiful.
Here is a beautiful legend for example about
Jesus and his playmates and the sparrows.—
I like that old, old legend,
Not found in holy writ,
And wish that John or Mathew
Had made Bible out of it.
How the little Jewish children,
Upon a summer’s day,
Went down across the meadows
With the child Christ to play..
And in the gold green valley,
Where: low the reed grass lay,
They made them mock mud sparrows
Out of the meadow clay.
So when they were fashioned,
And ranged in rows about,
“Now,†said the little Jesus
We'll let the birds fly out.
Then all the happv children,
Did call and coax and cry,
Each to his own mud sparrow
“Fly as I bid you! fly â€â€”
. But earthen were the sparrows,
And earth they did remain,
Except the one bird only
The little Christ had made.
Softly he leaned and whispered,
“Fly up to heaven, fly â€â€”
And swift his little sparrow
Went soaring to the sky.
And silent all the children,
Stood awe-struck looking on,
*Till deep into the heavens
The bird of earth had gone.
T like to think for playmate,
We have the Lord-Christ still,
And that above our weakness
He works his mighty will.
~ found him out.
That all our little playthings,
Of earthen hopes and joys,
Shall be by His commandment
Changed into heavenly toys.
Our souls are like the sparrows,
Imprisoned in the clay: —
Bless him who came to give them wings
To soar to heaven’s bright day.
THROUGH THE GOSPEL TO THE GATES
OF PEARL.
-MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
HE way to Revelation is all through
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
When you’ve dove all that, then you’ll come
to the jaspar walls and the gates of pearl.
LEGEND OF ROBIN REDBREAST.
Wiki time the Christ to Calvary was led
/Â¥ And hung all bleeding on the cross of same,
While frenzied hordes reviled and mocked his
: name, .
O’er thorns the golden aureole’s flame was shed.
When o’erhis face death’s deadly pallor spread
And one great cry of anguish shook his frame,
On rapid wings a pitying robin came,
And fluttered’ sorrowful about his head.:
From out the wounded brow, with eager beak,
The robin plucked a thorn, when like a tear,
’ Upon its breast one drop of life-blood fell.
And even now the blessed mark will speak,
From every robin’s bosom, of the dear
And tender pity that he knew so well.
‘HOW UNCLE DAN WAS FOUND OUT.
OU. never saw such fun as we had at
Christmas. Ma said that Santa Claus
would call upon us just after sunset. Alice
and I had our doubts about Santa Claus,
but sure enough at about 7 o’clock a tail
man with a large buffalo robe and a great
white beard came into the parlor and asked
if we had been good children, and began to
talk about the long journey he had before
him and all that kind of thing. But I
I knew it was Uncle Dan.
You know Uncle Dan sings in the church
choir, and he has a wonderful voice. And
it was by his voice I found him out. So
T said “I know you Uncle Dan,†and then
he let the robe fall and took off his ‘beard,
and the very merviest Christmas eve I can.
remember was wken Uncle Dan was found
out.
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CHRISTMAS.
| | OW did they keep His birthday then,
-The little fair Christ, so long ago?
Oh, many there were to be housed and fed,
And there was no place in the inn, they said,
So into the manger the Christ must go,
To lodge with the cattle and not with men.
The ox and the ass they munched their hay,
They munched and they slumbered, wondering
not,
And out in the midnight cold and blue
The shepherds slept and the sheep slept too,
Till the angels’ song and the bright star ray
Guided the wise men to the spot.
But onry the wise men knelt and praised,
And only the shepherds came to see;
And the rest of the world cared not at all
For the little Christ in the oxen’s stall; .
And we are angry and amazed ae
That such a dull, hard thing should be?
How do we keep His birthday now?
We ring the bells and raise the strain,
We hang up garlands everywhere
And bid the tapers twinkle fair,
And feast and frolic—and then we go
Back to the same old lives again.
LOVE ON THE THRONE OF GOD.
~ OVE is on the front of the throne of
s God, but justice and judgment, with
inexorable dread, follow behind; and where
law is slighted and mercy despised, when
they have rejected those who would be their
best friends, then comes justice with her
hoodwinked eyes, and with the sword and
scales.
YOUTH THE TIME OF ENTERPRISE
AND HOPE.
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Y OUTH is the time of enterprise and
hope: having yet no occasion of compar-
ing our force with any opposing power, we
naturally form presumptions in our own fav-
our, and imagine that obstruction and im-
pediment will give way before us. ‘The first
impulses rather inflame vehemence than
teach prudence; a brave and generous mind
is long before it suspects its own weakness,
or submits to sap the difficulties which it is
expected to subdue by storm. Before dissa-
pointments have enforced the dictates of
philosophy we believe ii in our power to short-
en the.interval between the first cause and
the last effect: we laugh at the tiromous de-
lays of ploding industry, and fancy that by
increasing the fire we can at pleasure accele-
vate the projection.
MAN IS BORN TO WORK.
THOMAS CARLYLE,
NE is born to expend every particle
‘& of strength that God Almighty has
given him, iu doing the work he finds he is
fit for. We are called upon to do that; and
the reward we all get— which we are per-
fectly sure of if we have merited it —is that
we have got the work done, and I should
say there is not very much more reward than
that going in this world. If the man gets
meat and clothes, what matters it whether
he have 10,0007., or 10,000,0002., or ‘700.
He can get meat and clothes for that; and
he will find very little difference intrinsi-
cally, if he is a wise man.
THE CROWN OF THORNS.
ELLA G. IVES.
WONDROUS sight! In Pilate’s hall,
. The Prince of Peace on mockery’s throne;
While jeering acclamations fall
From ribald lips and hearts of stone,
Oh, bitter irony of scorn,
The King of Glory crowned with thorn!
A scarlet robe around Him-flung;
His scepter but a flimsy reed;
Knees bent in insult; blows that stung,
And taunts that made His spirit bleed.
Oh, sharper than the wounding thorn,
The scoffs and jeers so meekly borne!
By suffering crowned, in sorrow’s night;
His royal lineage ne’er so plain,
As when upon the Lord of Light
Sin’s scarlet robe fell in disdain;
And brow and soul alike were torn
With seal of kingship,— crown of thorn!
O Lord of lords! O King of kings!
More glorious in thy lowliness
Than when the world thy triumph sings,
And princes to thy foot-stool press,—
This, this, thy coronation morn,
Thy diadem, acrown of thorn! -
COASTING.
LBERT and Ned Burton are both of
(\. them members of a juvenile Coasting
Club. They livein Montreal, one of the best
places in the world to live in in the winter.
For almost all the young people form them-
selves into little Coasting Clubs, and they go
out to the mountain and have the merriest
time you can think of. Beautiful as the
spring and summer are, it really seems as if
winter was the most beautiful of all seasons
in Montreal.
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CHRISTMAS TIME IN CALIFORNIA. ms
THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL.
R, L. STEVENSON,
A NAKED house, a naked moor,
A shivering pool before the door,
A garden bare of flowers and fruit,
And poplars at the garden foot;
Such isthe place that I live in,
Bleak without and bare within.
Yet shall your ragged moor receive
The incomparable pomp of eve,
And the cold glories of the dawn
Behind your shivering trees be drawn;
And when the wind from place to place
Doth the unmoored cloud galleons chase,
‘Your garden gloom and gleam again,
With leaping sun, and glancing rain,
Here shall the wizard moon ascend
The heavens, in the crimson end
Of the day’s declining splendor; here
The army of the stars appear.
The neighbor hollows, dry or wet,
Spring shall with tender flowers beset.
And oft the morning muser see
Larks rising from the broomy lea.
And every fairy whéel and thread
Of cobweb dew-bediamonded.
When daises go shall winter time
Silver the simple grass with rime;
Autumnal frosts enchant the pool
And make the cartruts beautiful;
And when snow-bright the moor expands,
How shall your children clap their hands!
To make this earth our hermitage,
A cheerful and a changeful page,
God’s bright and intricate device
Of days and seasons doth suffice.
COLD WEATHER.
PERSON who has never been in the
polar region can probably have no
idea of what cold really is. But by reading
the terrible experiences of arctic travelers in
that icy region some notion can be formed of
the extreme cold that prevails there. When
we have the temperature down to zero out
of doors we think it bitterly cold, and if our
houses were not so warm as, at least, 60
' degrees above zero, we should begin to talk
of freezing to death. Think, then, of living
where the thermometer goes down to 35
degrees below zero in the house in spite of
the stove. Of course, in such a case the fur
garments are piled on until a man looks
’ Tike a great bundle of skins. Dr. Moss, of
the English polar expedition of 1875 and
1876, among the other odd things, tells of
the effect of cold on a wax candle which he
burned there. -The temperature was 35
degrees below zero, and the doctor must
have been considerably discouraged when,
upon looking at. his candle, he discovered
that the flame could not melt the wax of the
candle, but was forced to eat its way down
the candle, leaving a sort of skeleton of the
candle standing. ‘There was heat enough,
however, to melt oddly-shaped holes in the
thin walls of wax, and the result was a beau-
tiful lace-like cylinder of white, with a
tongue of yellow flame burning inside it and
sending out into the darkness many streaks
of light. This is not only a curious effect of
extreme cold, but it shows how difficult it
must be to find anything like warmth in a
place where even fire itself almost gets cold.
The wonder is that any man can have the
courage to willingly return to such a bitter
region after having once got safely away
from it, and yet the truth is that the spirit
of adventure is so strong in some men that it
is the very hardship and danger that attract
them.
TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
K. F. W.
HE answer given by a youth
Who lacked both speech and hearing too,
When asked by signs, ‘‘ Now what is Truth?â€
Is well worth being told to you.
He did not doubt or hesitate—
The answer came without aelay.
He simply thrust his hand out straight
- To show Truth has no devious way.
Of Falsehood, he was asked his view:
Again he did his hand upraise;
A zig-zag line he quickly drew
To show how far from Truth it strays.
Now, should you ever feel inclined
To wander from the line of Truth,
Bear these two answers well in mind,
And learn a lesson from this youth.
SAVED!
NLY those who live on the sea coast
know how perilous is the sailor’s life,
and what heroism is manifested by the brave
members of our Life-saving Service. Here
is a scene of awful peril. ‘The vessel is fast
going topieces. No life boat could live ina
sea like that. A rocket has been sent over
the doomed vessel with a rope attached, and
now one by one the crew is being borne
ashore. The old captain comes last of all.
What a shout of joy will go up from the
shore when the old captain is safe landed
and all are saved!
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AFTER THE SHADOWS, THE MORNING.
ieee may grow darkened, though love has
thrown
The strength of its light around it;
Till longer and deeper the shadows, grown,
Hide the halo of bliss that crowned it;
Clouds may float down on our valley of peace
And crush our meek flowers with scorning,
‘Yet never this song in our spirits shall cease—
After the shadows, the morning.
SUNDAY MORNING TALKS.
XI. THE SHADOW OF PETER.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
HE world has never seen a more re-
‘markable body of men than the twelve
apostles. Coming up from lowliness and
obscurity, with no special gifts or powers to
arrest attention, they became, in spite of
much bitter opposition, the mightiest influ-
ences of their age; ‘‘ they closed the gates of
heathen temples, they quenched the fires on
Pagan altars, they gave the world a new
morality,†and left deep footprints on the
sands of time, thattwenty centuries have not
obliterated. Whence had these men this
wonderful influence? That they received
from heaven special endowments of wisdom
and power no reasonable man will deny.
But we do ourselves wrong if we suppose
that the outpouring of the spirit of wisdom
and usefulness was in any sense restricted to
the apostles. What they had we may have
in large, if not in perfect measure. What
they were we may be to a much larger ex-
tent than we dream. The picture presented
to us in the record of the Acts of the Apos-
tles is very remarkable. This man Peter,
who a few years ago was gaining a precari-
ous living by fishing in the Galilean waters,
and was probably not known even by name
a dozen miles beyond the lake. This man,
who had no silver, or gold, or eloquence, or
genius of any kind, has now become a man
of such influence that people flock in multi-
tudes to catch a. sight of him, and are
thankful if even his shadow falls upon them
as he passes by. We need not stay to dis-
cuss the exact value of Peters’s shadow, but
if we are wise we shall take this lesson to
heart, that a man may so live in this world
that his very shadow may be a blessing.
This is as true of thousands of men and
women in this age as it was of Peter in the
early eo ven years. It was true a thou-
sand years before Peter’s time, for in those
ancient days Moses came down from the
stormy heights of Sinai with a face so radi-
ant with the light of God that the men of
Israel were awed and silent in his luminous
presence. So it ever has been, so it ever
will be—men and women walk the earth
with smiling faces, and they know it not,
even as Moses who “‘ wist not that his face
shone.†It becomes us to guard most jeal-
ously all the avenues through which our
influence flows, so that even our unconscious
influence may be all on the side of the useful
and the good. Itshould be borne in mind
that it is this unconscious influence that has
a mightier power than the influence put
forth of a set purpose. It is not the influ-
ence that is put forth with grave design on
set occasions that molds and makes the
child; but the natural, effortless, unconsci-
ous influence that makes or mars the bud-
ding growth. The flowers exhale a thou-
sand odors, but they know it not. Peter
knew nothing about his shadow being a
blessing; he did not control his shadow; he
made many efforts to do good, and spoke
words of deepest import, but he made no
effort about his shadow. The radiant halo
with which art has girt the heads of saints
is dim and dark compared with the real
light which gathers about the brows of good
and gentlemen. They move among us and
make our life bright and glad by their very
presence. Though they speak no word,
their very silence is eloquent. They diffuse
an air and atmosphere of blessing wherever
they go, and all this springs forth:
As effortless as woodland nooks
Send violets up and paint them blue.
There are men whose presence isas a blight
and amildew. There are men from whose
presence it were best the children should be
hidden, men who carry maledictions in their
speech and pestilence in their breath. It
is of such that Jesus warns us when he
says: ‘Beware of men.†The vision of the
crowded streets comes back to view. Multi-
tudes throng the streets anxious for a word
from Peter, or a smile, or even that his
shadow: may rest on them. As it was with
Peter, so it may be with us to a large degree.
We may be, if we will, true successors of
the apostles. We may so walk the ways of
life that our words will be music, our smile
will be sunshine, and our very shadow will
be a benediction.
THE LATE LADY BRASSEY,
oF “THE SUNBEAM.â€
Onn of the most remarkable and gifted
ladies of this age was Lady Brassey,
wife of Lord Brassey, who served through
two administrations under Hon. W. E.
Gladstone, and was subsequently raised to
the Peerage by that distinguished states-
man. Lady Brassey had an inordinate
love of travel, and managed to make a
most spirited yachtsman of her husband.
The yacht “Sunbeam†was as dear to
Lady Brassey as her home, indeed she
wag nowhere so much at home as when on
board that gallant bark. Her delightful
volume, “A Voyage in the Sunbeam,â€
has been sold by tens of thousands, and
remains to-day one of the most delightful
books of travel ever written. To the
deep regret of all who had the honor and
happiness of her friendship this gifted,
genial lady, died on board the “Sunbeamâ€
she loved so well. Besides “A Voyage in the
Sunbeam†she was the author of “‘Sunshine
and Storm in the Hast.†She was created a
“Dame Chevaliere†of the order of St. John
of Jerusalem; and was invested by the
King of the Sandwich Islands with the
Order of Kapiolani.
MUSIC OF THE MONTHS.
DECEMBER.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN,
ECEMBER’S come and with her brought.
A world in whitest marble wrought;
The trees and fence and all the posts
Stand motionless and white as ghosts,
And all the paths we used to know
Are hidden in the drifts of snow.
December brings the longest night
And cheats the day of half its light.
No bird song breaks the perfect hush;
No meadow brook with liquid gush
Runs telling tales in babbling rhyme
Of liberty and summer time,
But frozen in its icy cell
Awaits the sun to break the spell.
Breathe once upon the window-glass
And see the mimic mists that pass—
Fantastic shapes that go and come
Forever silvery and dumb.
December Santa Claus shall bring—
Of happy children happy king,
Who with his sleigh and reindeer stops
At all good people’s chimney-tops.
Then let the holly red be hung,
And all the sweetest carols sung,
While we with joy remember them—
The journeyers to Bethlehem,
- Who followed trusting from afar
The guidance of that happy star
Which marked the spot where Christ was born
Long years ago one Christmas morn!
FREEDOM THE SAFEGUARD OF
NATIONS.
JOHN MILTON.
HEN will rulers learn that where lib-
érty is not, security and order can
never be? We talk of absolute power; but
all power hath limits, which, if not fixed by
the moderation of the governors, will be fixed
by the force of the governed. Sovereigns
may send their opposers to dungeons; they
may clear out a senate-house with soldiers;
they may enlist armies of spies; they may
hang scores of the dissatisfied in chains at
every cross-road; but what power shall stand
in that frightful time when rebellion shall
become a less evil than endurance? Who
shall desolve that terrible tribunal which, in
the hearts of the oppressed, denounces
against the oppressor the doom of its wild
justice? Who shall repeal the law of self-
defence? What arms or discipline shall
resist the strength of famine and despair?
How often were the ancient Cesars dragged
from their golden palaces, stripped of their
purple robes, mangled, stoned, defiled with
filth, pierced with hooks, hurled into Tiber!
How often have the Eastern sultans perished
by the sabres of their own janissaries or the
bow-strings of their own mutes! For no
power which is not limited by laws can ever
be protected by them. Small, therefore, is
the wisdom of those who would fly to servi-
tude as if it were a refuge from commotion;
for anarchy is the sure consequence of
tyranny. That governments may be safe,
nations must be free. Their passions must
have an outlet provided, lest they make one.
OPEN THE GATES OF THE TEMPLE,
Ors the gates of the temple:
Spread branches of palm and of bay;
Let not the spirit of nature
Alone deck the Conqueror’s way,
While Spring from her death sleep arises
And joyous his presence awaits;
While Morning’s smile lights up the heaveng,,
Opens the beautiful gates.
The altar is snowy with blossoms,
The font is a vase of perfume;
On pillar and chancel are hung
Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom.
Christ is risen! with glad lips we utter,
And far up the infinite height
Archangels the psens re-echo
And crown Him with lilies of light.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
AS there ever a grander institution
than Saturday afternoon holiday,
especially in the winter when the coasting
is good? What a scene of merriment is
here! The winter sun shines cold and clear,
and boys and girls in happy crowds are
enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content.
And even that old gentleman with a fur cap
on at the bottom of the hill seems to be en-
joying the scene. We can fancy he is
repeating the words of the poet:
“T love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
To persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray.â€
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DRAWING THE SCHOOL-MARM.
RNOLD MATHESON was a most
mischievous boy, but there was noth-
ing very bad about him, and in spite of all
his merry pranks, he was generally liked.
And what is of more importance, those who
knew the most of him liked him the best.
He never could miss an opportunity of
getting into mischief, and very often he
brought his sister Minnie into sore trouble
by his merry thoughtless games. Arnold
was particularly a terror to the School-marm
of Melton Mowbray school. This School-
marm—we won’t tell her name—was grow-
ing a little old, and someway she really was
not growing much more amiable as she grew
older. She did not get along with Arnold
nearly as well as she might have done, for
he was really a kind boyat heart. But if he
was ever doing any careless, foolish thing, he
was sure to see the School-marm looking
angrily over the rims of her spectacles, and
often her voice, which was not melodious,
was heard in a very high key, saying:
«* Arnold Matheson, I shall be compelled to
make an example of you sir!†So Arnold
did not love the School-marm; and when his
uncle George brought him a box of paints
from the city, the first thing he did was to
sketch, what he called, ‘‘ A true and faith-
ful portrait of our esteemed and_ gracious
School-marm.†But we don’t believe that
there was ever a School-marm in the whole
of America with a hand, or a nose, or a foot
like that sketched by Arnold Matheson.
MILLIE’S SIX CLEAN LITTLE
CHILDREN.
M. F. NOLAN,
IX little timid kittens, |
Out in the cold alone,
Their mother is always gadding about,
And brings them not even a bone;
She’s off in the morning early,
She’s off till late at night ;
A mischievous, selfish old pussy,
That never does anything right..
The. kittens are always hungry,
They’re too timid to catch a mouse,
And their mother is such an old gadder,
They won't keep her in any house.
She never petted nor played with them,
Nor washed them nice and clean,
Such six little dirty faces
I’m sure I have never seen.
Six little sad, sad kittens,
‘All sitting in a row,
Cold and hungry and dirty,
From the tip of each nose to each toe.
Twelve little ears and six little tails
’ further attention to us.
Hanging and drooping low,
So out on the steps I found them,
Sitting allinarow. -
And Millie begged hard to keep them,
And fed them and washed them so clean
Such six bright, cunning kittens
I’m sure I have never seen.
The boys laughed at Millie’s babies,
She cared not a whit, would you ?
If she hadn’t adopted those kittens,
What in the world would they do?
IDLENESS.
ee is the bane of body and mind,
. the nurse of naughtiness, the step-mother
of discipline, the chief author of all mischief,
one of the seven deadly sins, the cushion
upon which the Devil chiefly reposes, and a
great cause not only of melancholy, but of
many other diseases: for the mind is natur-
ally active; and, if it be not occupied by
some honest business, it rushes into mischief,
or sinks into melancholy.
DWELLERS'BY THE ROADSIDE.
LOUISE ESTELLE HOOK.
ee country road runs through won-
derland. The trees that meet overhead
whisper strange stories; the rail fence, or
lichen-covered stone wall, half hidden by
vines and bushes, are the highways of many
a queer little traveler; and the dusty road-
side flowers have a mysterious look, as if
they knew secrets. To the right stretchesthe
pasture; to the left the deep, shady woods.
It is an enchanted region.
‘‘Chip, chip!†says a voice behind the
elder-bushes. What is that? Has a bird
built her nest on the stone wall? No, that
is no bird’s chirp, for presently out runs the
prettiest little striped creature, with bright
eyes and a bushy tail, and hestops and gazes
at the traveler saucily, as much as to say,
“Well, what do you want here?†This
greeting reminds us that Mr. Chipmunk is
at home, while we are only intruders in his
territory; and, after satisfying himself that
we have not come to attack him, he pays na
Over the wall he
goes, and down on the ground, and next we
see him crowding leaves into his mouth ina
manner that looks very greedy, but, as he is
not eating them, a little haste is excusable.
The chipmunk has only come out foraging,
and he carries in his cheek-pouches the pro-
visions for hisfamily, which, having secured,
he starts for home.
And where is his home? See where he
goes. Over the wall again and right into
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DRAWING THE SCHOOL MARY
the ground, darting into his hole so suddenly
that we can only see a flash of reddish-
brown fur as he disappears; and if we
could only follow him, as Alice followed the
white rabbit to Wonderland, what marvels
might we not discover! The sly, cruel
weasel knows all about it, for he winds
through many such curving passages into
the earth to find the chipmunk family
in their grotto and seize the helpless little
ones for his dinner; and he might tell us, if
he were better natured, how they live in a
snug central room, with several tunnels
leading therefrom in different directions, so
that when the wily foe enters by one road
they can escape by another, if he is not too
quick for them. Thus the ground-squirrel
hives as snugly in his underground home as
his cousins of the trees do in their air-cas-
tles, and but for such enemies as the weasel
would be as safe.
But this is not the only subterranean
dweller by the roadside. Here isa poor lit-
tle dead mole. Probably some farmer’s boy
has killed it, for most people object to moles
in their gardens; but the poor mole has no
idea of doing harm as he pursues his prey,
the wriggling earthworms, under the rows
of young peas, perhaps rooting them up in
his haste, and making a great furrow in the
ground. But he never thinks of biting the
roots that penetrate the earth all around
him, and where he is so much at home that
he seldom comes out. You see how com-
pletely his tiny eyes are hidden by his vel-
._vety fur—for what use can he have for eyes
in the dark? And as to his feet, though
moles can run fast, their queer pawsare better
adapted to digging than anything else. He
lives in an underground castle more wonder-
ful than that of the chipmunk, but we have
not time to search for such a secluded re-
treat just now.
As we go on, we see all mannerof curious
or beautiful things. Every plant has its
guest. The milkweed harbors pretty striped
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caterpillars that will be large orange-colored °
butterflies by and by, and queer little red
beetles with long feelers, and jaws that can
pinch. In fact, the milkweed seems to be a
general favorite with the insect world, for its
clusters of dull purplish flowers are constantly
filled with bees; and on this one the most
beautiful creature is sunning himself —a
beetle in golden armor, reflecting all the col-
-ors of the rainbow from his burnished back.
Allalong the roadside we see the encamp-
ment of spiders, that live, gypsy-like, in
their tents, waiting for travelers to come
along. What a perilous journey it must be
through the grass, if one happens to be a
small insect very much to the spiders’ taste!
And, behold! while watching them we have
stumbled upon another highwayman.
He does not look the character, it must be
confessed. He has settled down in a little
hollow, and seems to be asleep, for thenight
is his favorite time for wandering. He is
brown, and wrinkled, and ugly; in fact, he
is just what the children call a *‘ hop-toad.â€
How can this dull-looking creature hurt
anything ?
Ask the ants. If we had paid a visit to
one of these ant-hills early in the morning,
we might have surprised the toad in the act
of eating his breakfast. Slow and stupidas
he looks, there is one thing about him that
moves with the rapidity of lightning—his
tongue. Such a tongue! Very long and
very narrow, and covered with something as
sticky as glue; and instead of pointing
toward the front of his mouth, like ordinary
tongues, it grows from the front and points
down his throat. As an ant runs by, too
busy to think of danger, out flies this long
tongue, touches the ant, which of course
sticks fast, and the tongue flies back again.
It is all done so quickly that the other ants
do not know what to make of it. Another
runs by, and vanishes in the same unaccount-
able manner. What can this strangeenemy
be? More ants come out, and the terrible
tongue strikes again and again, till the
toad’s appetite is satisfied.
Butthe ants are avenged. How many a
toad, going home after such a meal varied
with an occasional fly, himself falls a victim
to the hunger of still another roadside de-
stroyer! A snake, too, eats his breakfast
without ceremony, hiding in the grass,
catching the toad as he hops along, and
calmly proceeding to swallow him whoie.
This is a sad state of things, but almost all
the.animals that prey on others do some good
by destroying harmful creatures that injure
plants, and the toad himself is one of our
best friends in this respect. :
He did not always live in this way, how-
ever. His little ones know nothing of the
road, the grassy hollow, and the ants; but to
find their homes we must go on to the brook
and leave our roadside friends.
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COASTING.
CHARLEY’S BIRTHDAY GIFT.
HARLEY BIRCHAM was as happy a
boy as could be found in all America,
when on his eighth birthday, his father
brought him home amagnificent mastiff with
a large brass collar round his neck with the
name ‘‘ Hero†engraved upon it, fora birth-
day present. Charley had had all sorts of
presents, boxes of tools, skates and books,
and once he had a very large rocking-horse.
But this was areal live present, the grandest
present he had ever received. Charley and
Hero soon became fast friends, and taking
the saddle from the old rocking-horse,
Charley would mount.the patient mastiff,
and Hero seemed to be almost as proud of
his rider as Charley was of his horse.
THE BABY’S PRAYER.
HE knelt with her neat hands folded,
Her fair little head bowed low,
While dead vines tapped at the window
And the air was thick with snow.
Without, earth dumb with winter;
Within, hearts dumb with care;
And up through the leaden silence
Rose softly the baby’s prayer.
¢¢ Bless all whom I love, dear Father,
And help me to be good,†she said,
Then, stirred up a sudden fancy,
She lifted the shining head.
Did she catch on the frozen maple
Some hint of the April green,
Or the breath of the woodland blossoms
The drifts of the snow between?
«The beautiful trees,†she whispered,
‘« Where the orioles used to sing;
They are tired of the cold white winter,
O help them to grow inthe spring;
And the flowers that I love to gather,
Lord bring them again in May;
The dear little violet, sleeping
Down deep in the ground to-day.â€
Ah, earth may be chill with snowflakes, |
And hearts may be cold with care,
But wastes of a frozen silence
Are crossed by the baby’s prayer;
And lips that were dumb with sorrow
In jubilant hope may sing;
For when earth is wrapped in winter,
In the heart of the Lord ’tis spring.
SPEAKING TO PEOPLE.
se HO in the world is that you are
speaking to ?†said one young lady
to her companion of the same sex and age,
as they walked down one of the avenues the
other day.
‘¢That man? He is the man that mends
my shoes when they need it,†was the reply.
“Well,†said the first speaker, “I
wouldn’t speak to him; don’t think it’s:
nice.â€
‘‘And why not,†queried the other.
“He’s a kind, faithful, honest, hard-work-
ing man. I never pass his window but I see
him on his bench working away, and when
I bow to him and give him ‘Good morn-
ing,’ he looks as pleased as can be. Why
shouldn’t I speak to him?â€
«‘T never speak to that class of people,â€
said the other; ‘‘they’re not my kind.â€
‘“*T do,†was the rejoinder.. “‘I speak to
everybody I know—from Dr. Brown, our
minister, to the colored man who blacks our
stoves and shakes our carpets—and I notice
that the humbler the one in the social scale
to whom I proffer kindly words, the more
grateful is the recognition I receive in re- ©
turn. Christ died for them as much as He
did for me, and perhaps if some of them
had had the opportunities my birth and
rearing have given me they would be a great
deal better than I. That cobbler is really
quite an intelligent man. I’ve lent him
books to read, and he likes quite a high
style of reading, too.â€
The two girls were cousins, and they
finally agreed to leave the question as to rec-
ognizing day laborers, mechanicsand trades-
men to a young lawyer of whom they had a
high opinion. So the first time the three
were together one of the girls asked him:
“If you met Myers, the grocer, on Broad-
way, would you speak to him ?â€
“Why, yes, certainly; why do you ask ?â€
_**And would you speak to the man that
cobbles your shoes ?â€
“Certainly, why not ?â€
«« And the boy that runs the elevator ?â€
“Certainly.â€
“Ts there anybody you know that you
don’t speak to ?â€
“‘Well, yes; I don’t speak to Jones, who
cheated a poor widow out of her house; or
to Brown, who grinds down his employes
and gives them starvation wages; or to
Smith, whom I know to be in private any-
thing but the saint he seems to be in public. °
I speak to every honest man I know whom I
chance to meet.â€
It is the privilege of nobility to be gentle
and courteous to all. Kindly words hurt no
one, least. of all him or her who speaks
them.
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BETTER THINGS.
GEORGE MACDONALD. F
Bete to smell the violet cool than sip the
glowing wine;
Better to hark a hidden brook than watch a dia-
mond shine.
Better the love ofa gentle heart than beauty’s favor
proud ; j
Better the rose’s living seed than roses in a crowd
Better to love in loneliness than to bask in love all
day ;
Better the fountain in the heart than the fountain
by the way. :
Better be fed by a mother’s hand than eat alone at
will; j .
Better to trust in God than say, ‘My goods my
storehouse fill.†:
Better to be a little wise than in knowledge to
. abound ; :
Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection’s
round,
Better to sit at a master’s feet than thrill a listening
state ;
Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure
that thou art great.
Bettér to walk the real unseen than watch the hour’s
event ;
Better the ‘‘ Well done!†at the last, than the air
with shouting rant.
Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying delight ;
Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday
burning bright.
Better a death when work is done than earth’s most
favored birth ; 2
Better a child in God’s great house than the king of
all the earth.
LIVE FOR SOMETHING.
Tae of men breathe, move and
live—pass off the stage of life, and are
heard of no more. Why? They did nota
particle of good in the world, and none were
blest by them; none could point to them as
the instruments of their redemption; not a
line they wrote, not a word they spoke,
could be recalled, and so they perished—
their light went out in darkness, and they
were not remembered more than the insects ©
of yesterday. Will you thus live and die?
Live for something. Do good, and leave
behind you a monument of virtue that the
storms of time can never destroy. Write
your name in kindness, love and mercy on
the hearts of the thousands you come in
contact with year by year, and you will
uever be forgotten. No, your deeds will be
as legible on the hearts you leave behind as
the stars on the brow of evening. Good
‘deeds will shine as bright on the earth as
the stars of heaven.
IT CAN NOT LAST FOREVER.
Ae a word of comfort for you
Who on life’s rugged road
Are toiling ’neath the burden
Of a heavy, hopeless load.
It will make your heart grow lighter,
Whatever be your wrong,
And give you strength to bear it
If you take these words along,
And say when clouds of darkness
Around your pathway hover,
“ The sun is shining just beyon4,
It can not last forever.â€
A LESSON FROM A NEST OF WASPS,
A N English gentleman lately took asmal}
wasps’ nest, about the size of an apple,
and, after stupefyingits inmates, placed it in
a large case inside of his house, leaving an
opening for egress through the wall. Here the
nest was enlarged to a foot in diameter, hold-
ing thousands of wasps, and he was able to
watch their movements, and noted one new
fact—namely their systematic attention to.
ventilation. In hot weather, from fovr to
six wasps were continually stationed at the
hole of egress, and, while leaving space for
entrance or exit, created a steady current of
fresh air by the exceedingly rapid motion of
their wings. After a long course of this vig-
orous exercise the ventilators were relieved by
other wasps. During cold weather, only two
wasps at a time were usually thus engaged.
MY DOG FLUSH.
“Gentle Fellow-Creature.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
een a lady’s ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Hither side demurely
Of thy silver suited breast,
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine striking this,
Changes it from dullness,
When the sleek curls manifold,
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fullness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland,
Kindling, growing larger.
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetin g,
Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright
Canopied in fringes.
Leap! those tasseled ears of thine
Flicker strangely fair and fine
Down their golden inches.
MY DOG, FLUSH.
THE FLOWER MISSION.
FOR THE DAUGHTERS OF THE KING.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
Oey of the happiest and simplest. forms
of service in which the younger Daugh-
ters of the King are engaged is known as
the Flower Mission. -The flowers of the
garden and the prairie and the field are
amongst God’s best gifts to men. They are
amongst the lnxuries that crowd the com-
mon ways of men. Asthey bud, and bloom,
and blossom, they perform a ministry as
-sacred and as silent as it is unobtrusive.
What a strange, sad world this would be if
it were not for flowers! How the poets
have sung of them! —
worldly must the hearts be that are not in-
fluenced by their tender graces! How
sweetly our own Longfellow sings of them:
Everywhere about us they are glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the corn,
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,
And in Summer’s green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing
In the center of his brazen shield.
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top and by the brink
Of the sequestered poolsin woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink.
Not alonein her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of: heroes,. carved in stone.
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers.
In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, ~
How akin they are to human things.
And with childlike, credulous affection.
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection;
Emblems of the bright and better land.
To make the most of this sacred ministry
of flowers, the young Daughters of the
King are often engaged. They go out to
the prairies and the fields and gather wild
flowers or beg flowers from the garden wher-
ever they can, for hospitals and homes of
sorrow. And tens of thousands of weary
souls are cheered and sad hearts comforted
And how dull and-
by this simple service. If the cup of. cold
water given in His name was not in vain,
neither is a handful of wild flowers or a bou:
quet from the garden. Those little girls
on the opposite page—Jane and Ida—are
the daughters of one household; they are
members of a flower circle, and they have
brought to the cottage of Mrs. Townsend
every morning through the summer a little
bouquet of flowers, and sometimes a few new-
laid eggs in a basket with their mamma’s
love. With what joy the aged lady goes to
meet them every day! She says these dear
girls are God’s good angels to her. And
truly Jane and Ida do look very happy,
and even Master Frisk, the little dog seems
to be enjoying his share of the walk. Happy
Daughters of the King! Life will grow
more and more precious and beautiful as its
morning hours are filled with deeds of love
and kindness,
WHY DO CATS HAVE WHISKERS?
Res one must have observed what are
usually called the whiskers on a cat’s
upper lip. The use of these in a state of
nature is very important. They are organs.
of touch. ‘They are attached to a bed of
close glands under the skin, and each of
these long and stiff hairs is connected with
the nerves of the lip. The slightest contact
of these whiskers with any surrounding
object is thus felt most distinctly by the
animal, although the hairs themselves are
insensible. They stand out on each side in
the lion as well as in the common cat; so that.
from point to point they are equal to the
width of the animal’s body. If we imagine,
therefore, a lion stealing through a covert of
wood in an imperfect light, we shall at once
see the use of these long hairs. They indi-
cate to him, through the nicest feeling, any
obstacle which may present itself to the pass-
age of his body; they prevent the rustle of
boughs and leaves, which would give warn-
ing to his prey if he were to attempt to pass
through too close a bush; and thus, in con-
junction with the soft cushions of his feet
and the fur upon which he treads (the re-
tractile claws never coming in contact with
the ground), they enable him to move
toward his victim with a stillness greater
even than that of the snake, that glides
along the grass and is not perceived till it is
coiled round its -prey.
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DAUGHTERS OF THE KING:—THE FLOWEK MISSION.
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OFF TO THE OLD HOME.
NLY those who have had a pony or a
horse can tell how much good sense
and how much affection these dumb creat-
ures can manifest. -They know how to love
a good home and a kind friend much better
than many human beings. Bessie Clifford’s
father gave his daughter a grand surprise,
by buying for herfrom a farmer friend about
seven miles distant a very beautiful white
pony. Bessie was charmed as well as thank-
ful. And being a very good rider, she was
anxious to try the powers of her newly
acquired treasure. All went well fora while
and Bessie was delighted, but at last the
pony, seeming to know the road he was trav-
eling, suddenly took matters into his own
hands or rather his legs; and away he went
like Gilpin’s horse of the olden times, Bes-
sie’s bonnet flew off, but she held on bravely.
At last, after more than five miles of a merry
canter, he pulled up.at the barn which had
been his home for years, and pranced and
neighed as if he would say,
“Be it never so humble
There’s no place like home.â€
BABY IN THE GARDEN.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
ABY, see the flowers!
—Baby sees
Fairer things than these,
Fairer though they be than dreams of ours.
Baby, hear the birds!
—Baby knows
Better songs than those,
Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words.
Baby, see the moon!
—Baby’s eyes
Laugh to watch it rise,
Answering light with love and night with noon.
Baby, hear the sea!
—Baby’s face
Takes a graver grace,
Touched with wonder what the sound may be.
Baby, see the star!
5 —Baby’s hand
Opens, warm and bland,
Calmin claim of all things fair that are.
Baby, hear the bells!
—Baby’s head
Bows, as ripe for bed,
New the flowers curl round and close their cells.
Baby, flower of light!
Sleep, and see
Brighter dreams than we,
Till good day shall smile away good night.
THE ORIGINAL CINDERELLA.
HE ancient Cinderella was a beautiful
Greek; Sappho calls her Doricha, and
that was most likely her proper name, but-
the Greek people, with whom fairness of
skin was one of the highest qualities of
female beauty, named her from the loveli-
ness of her.complexion ‘‘Rhodopis,†Rosy
Cheeks, and as Rosy Cheeks she is known in
history.
She is mentioned by several writers, but
the slipper story rests on the authority of
Ailian. He relates it as having occurred in
Psammetichus.
There were three kings of the name, and
he probably meant the third (Psametik ITI.
of the sculptures), the last of the dynasty of
the Saite kings, who was conquered and
deposed by Cambyses the Persian.
Rhodopis was originally a slave and a
fellowbondswoman of Aisop, the writer of
fables, in the house of Iadmon of Samos,
and like the heroine of the modern tale, a
menial and a drudge, so the parallel holds
good from the beginning. Like Cinderella,
too, she had a fairy godmother, but a more
powerful and lavish one, and her name was
Aphrodite.
This patroness procured her liberty, and
heaped upon her riches; and Rhodopis, to
make her name immortal by an offering such
as had never been made before, dedicated,
with a tenth part of her property, a quantity
of iron spits in the Temple of Apollo at
Delphi, and this extraordinary gift was still
. to be seen there in Herodotus’ time.
Some also say that she built one of the
pyramids of Egypt, but, as Herodotus re-
marks, those who say so evidently know
nothing about it, and however this may be,
if Rhodopis was not so simple as our own
Cinderella, she was, at all events, more lucky,
and, if her coachman and horses and chari-
ots were really rats and mice and pumpkins,
they never resumed their proper shape, and
no disenchanting clock sent her hurrying
back to her scullery, one shoe off and one
shoe on. Midnight never struck for her,
and she lost her shoe in qnite another way.
At the time I speak of, she was said to be
the most beautiful woman in Egypt, and she
lived at Naucratis, a port on the Canotic
branch of the Nile, founded in the preceding
reign by colonists from Miletus, and though
a born Greek, living in a Greek city, it
pleased her now and then to play the Egyp-
Hil
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ef her new country. And so it came about
that one morning, before the sun was yet
high, she went down, just as did Pharaoh’s
daughter, with her maidens to bathe in the
ile.
At a short distance from the bank she left
her litter, and sought a secluded creek,
where, screened in by the feathering papyrus,
she would be undisturbed and unseen from
the busy river, and where her girls unmade
Now the banks of the Father of
Rivers are hard in places—a mixture of sand
and clay baked in the scorching sun, and
rough to delicate feet. So Rhodopis did not
quit her sandals until the moment when she
stepped down into the still, cool water, herself
as white and rosy as the lotuses around her.
There, half-wading and half-swimming,
she played and frolicked, happy in the pure
joy of living like the gay butterflies that
fluttered about the rushes. She gathered
handfuls of lotuses, and threw them away
again, and then in a lazy fit, she floated on
her back, and gave herself up to thoughts on
thingsin general and on herself in particular.
But to return to her sandals, which she had
kicked off on the river’s brink. ;
They lay as she had left them. a pair of
dainty shoes fit for such dainty feet. They
were embroiuered 1 gold and brilliant colors,
with a quaint pattern and with the ever-pres-
ent lotus, and, most curious of all, the upper
surface of the sole on which her foot rested
bore the figure of acaptive with bound arms,
on one sandal an Egyptain, on the other a
Greek—a fanciful way of suggesting the
dominion of their owner over the hearts of
two nations.
Now it chanced that just above, sailing
round in his vast circle, a mere speck in the
dancing blue sky, was an eagle, and as the
aandals glittered by the water’s edge they
caught his eye. Now, whether he thought
they were good to eat, or whether he was a
bird of cultivated taste, I know not, but
atraightway he swooped and seized one.
Rhodopis, roused from her reverie by the
rush of wings, caughtsight of the great bird
as it flew off, and, frightened, set to scream-
ing and then ducked. By the time she
had recovered herself and taken in what had
happened, the eagle and her sandal were in
the next parish.
Of course, directly it was al] over, her
girls, who had been busy telling one another
‘dared to touch it.
secrets, began in their alarm to hiae every-
thing away in a place of safety, ag if they
expected a whole phalanx of eagles were
coming to carry off their mistress’ clothes.
And no doubt they had some reason for their
concern, for ancient ladies had a variety of
amiable little ways of producing sympathy in
their slaves when things went wrong, and
Rhodopis, sweet as she was to look at, was
like therest. But, after all, it was not a
very serious matter, for Rosy Cheeks had
cupboards full of sandals at home, and be-
sides her litter was only round the corner,
so, after her first astonishment and fright
was over, she thought little more about it.
Now this event was in reality the turning
point of her life, for what did this mysteri-
ous bird do but fly straight away with his
prey, over the Delta, far up the long river to
Memphis, and there, as if his mission ended,
he dropped the sandal before the judgment
seat of King Psammetichus.
The King wassitting in the open air, close
to the city gate, dispensing justice to his
subjects. The sun was hot, and the imag-
inations of plaintiff and defendant equally
inventive and inexhaustible, so Psammeti-
chus was bored; his thoughts wandered far
away, and, he fell to building castles in the
air. Nowno Oriental could ever build a
castle in the air or otherwise without giving
it a mistress; so he pleased himself by imag-
ining for his ideal palace an ideal beauty.
He pictured her with the eyes of the
gazelle, the voice of the nightingale, the
litheness of the panther, the tread of a god-
dess, and as his thoughts dwelt still on the
dainty toes that hardly pressed the ground
they rested on, the sandal fell from heaven
plump at his royal feet. Astonished out of
all dignity, he jumped up, stared up into
the sky and down at the slipper, and then
stooped and picked it up—for no one had
Was it a goddess’? No;
it was a lovely little shoe, but certainly an
earthly one, with the print of five little
earthly toes distinctly marked on it—the
very little toes he had just been dreaming of.
Then of a sudden it became plain to him
It was an answer from the gods to the wishes
he had just been indulging in—he had
planned a castle, here was a mistress for it.
“Let search be made,†cried he, ‘for her
who owns this sandal, and by these signs
shall you know her: Whosoever the shoe fits
and who has the fellow shoe, and who can
A LITTLE FACE.
LITTLE face to look at,
A little face to kiss;
Is tuere anything I wonder,
That's half so sweet as this?
A little cheek to dimple,
When smiles begin to grow,
A little mouth betraying
Which way the kisses go.
A slender little ringlet,
A rosy little ear,
A little chin to quiver
When falls the little tear.
A little hand so fragile,
All through the night to hold,
Two little feet so tender
To tuck in from the cold.
Two eyes to watch the sunbeam,
That with the shadows play—
A darling little baby,
To kiss and love alway.
A little face to look at,
A little face to kiss,
Is there anything I wonder,
That's half so sweet as this?
explain the symbol on the sole, she is the
rightful owner; bring her to me that I may
make her my queen.†To hear was to obey,
and the messenger started on his search.
Many days he traveled down the Nile, mak-
ing proclamations of the will of Psammet-
ichus as he went, bearing the sandal on a
cushion. And wherever he came through
the whole land of Egypt there was a routing
out of cupboards and a hunting up of left-
off shoes, in case by chance there might be
found among them a match for the wonder-
ful sandal; but none came to light and the
maidens were left forlorn.
At last he came to Naucratis, and when
the proclamation reached the ears of Rho-
dopis she remembered the theft of her san-
dal, and knew herself the one sought for by
the King. The ambassador was admitted to
her presence, and then at last the shoe fitted.
«* And here,†cried Rhodopis, “‘is the fellow
shoe, and this is why I wear these symbols
on the soles—as Greece is captive to my
beauty, so shall Egypt be, and Egypt’s mas-
ter!†And then she went with him to Mem-
phis, and when the King, whose heart was
sick with waiting, saw her, he at once suc-
cumbed to the charm of her loveliness; he
did as he had promised, and made her his
queen. And the rosy-cheeked Greek slave
sat beside Psammetichus on the throne of
Pharaoh.
DO NOT BE A COWARD.
M. EL
O not be a coward,
If your task is long,
Only try the harder;
Idleness is wrong.
In the day of battle
Should the soldier fly, .
Would you praise or blame him?
Child, arise and try!
For this is the battle
Which you have to fight—
Conquering the evil,
Doing what is right:
Firmly plant the footstep,
Firmly fix the eye;
Work while day remaineth--
Child, arise and try!
If you feel the evil
Of your heart within,
Orif Satan tempt you,
Leading you to sin—
- Stillin prayer remember
Jesus Christ is nigh;
Ask, and He will help you
Child, arise and try!
“MORITURI SALUTAMUS.†‘
About to die we salute you,
PROFESSOR N. A. BARRETT.
66 ORITURI Salutamus,â€
So the Roman soldiers cried,
Bowing to their stately city,
Marching on with martial stride.
Heeding not grim death before them,
Caring naught for war’s alarms,
Proud alone of Roman glory,
Won by gallant feats of arms.
Past the vineyards’ purpling clusters,
Lordly hall and cottage home,
Worldward sped the brazen les‘ons,
Proud to bear Rome’s eagles on,
* * * * * * * &
“ Morituri Salutamus,â€
Must at times owr sad hearts cry,
Passing life’s elysian gardens,
Marching onward, but to die.
Far behind lies beauty’s charming,
Fame’s bright phantoms quickly fly;
Vain mirage is earthly glory,
Fading in life’s western sky.
Strange and dim the road we travel,
None may know the toils to come.
Stern endurance, fierce encounter,
Where, or when the journey’s done,
March we not to martial music,
Trumpet-note, nor bugle blast;
But the white cross shines above us,
Heaven is won when earth is passed,
MABEL’S TREASURES,
ieee has had many treasures in her
time. Dolls of all sorts. Dolls that
would wink, and dolls that would go to
sleep, and. dolls that would cry “Ma†and
**Pa,†and dolls that were dressed in gar-
ments fit for a queen. But these two
little kittens are dearer to her than all her
treasures besides, and for this estimate of
them, she gives a very sensible and sufficient
reason. ‘Dolls can’t know you and love
you,†she says, “but kittens can, and my —
little kittens just love me with all their little
hearts. They purr and never scratch. And
when they have had their breakfast they
just snuggle down in my arms as if I was
their own real, sure-enough mother.†Mabel
is quite a little philosopher in her way,
though she don’t know it. Our real treas-
ures, after all, are those we love and those
who love us. And it’s better for little girls
to love a little kitten, than to grow selfish
and not love anything.
favors
MABEL TREASURE
THE GRAPEVINE SWING.
A SONG OF THE SOUTH.
1 K ] HEN I was a boy on the old plantation,
Down by the deep bayou,
The fairest spot in all creation,
Under the arching blue — k
‘When the wind came over the cotton and corn,
To the long, slim loop I’d spring,
With brown feet bare and a hat brim torn,
And swing in the grapevine swing.
Swinging in the grapevine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing—.
I dream and sigh
For the days gone by,
Swinging in the grapevine swing.
Out—o’er the water lilies bonny and bright,
Back to the moss-grown. trees;
T shouted and laughed with a heart as light
As a wild rose tossed by the breeze.
The mocking bird joined in my reckless glee,
I longed for no angel's wing;
Iwas just as near heaven as I wanted to be,
Swinging in the grapevine swing.
. Swinging in the grapevine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing —
O, to be a boy
With a heart full of joy,
Swinging in the grapevine swing.
M. EIFFEL AND HIS WONDERFUL
TOWER.
= THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
GUSTAVE EIFFEL is one of the
e most wonderful men of modern
France. France has had many brilliant
men, but in the long list of her illustrious
civil engineers, she has never had one to
compare with the designer and builder of
the famous Hiffel Tower.
M. Eiffel was born at: Dijon in 1832, and
in 1855 passed out of the Central College of
Art and Manufactures as clerk of the works
in the building of the great iron bridge at
Bordeaux. His fine practical talents were
at once conspicuous, and while quite young
he designed and constructed the bridge over’
the Nive, at Bayonne, and those at Capdenac
and Florac.
In_ 1868 he distinguished himself by
introducing iron-in the construction of piles
for bridges, and in this way he constructed
the viaducts between Comenentry and Gan- -
nat.
Being in the traveling vein, M. Hiffel:
next went to Cochin-China, if not exactly
for his pleasure, certainly to the advantage
of his reputation, for it is a long way out of
the world of civilized industry to be caleu-
lating costs and drawing plans. He was
forced to go from timber yard to depot, to
be his own elerk of the works, and teach his
own workmen without knowing a word of
theirlanguage. And neverthelesshe bridged
over a gully eighty yards across in the neigh-
borhood of Fan Han by an inclined bridge
which amazed his professional brethren. -
M. Eiffel has designed and built some of
the most stupendous erections in the world.
And the tower that bears his name is indeed
a grand monument to his genius. In 1878
M. Hiffel was made Chevalier of the Legion
of Honor, and on the 31st of March last,
the day on which the flag was hoisted on
the finished Eiffel ‘Tower, he received the
Cross of an Officer of the Order from the
hands of M. Tirad, President of the Council.
Some impression may be gathered of the
enormous character of this tower by compar-
ing it with the group of large buildings that
lie at its base. The first story is over 200
feet high and rests on the arches which join
the four foundation columns that carry upon
them the entire weight of the huge tower.
The tower has four distinct sections.
Each wing is provided with a refreshment
saloon that may be reached by means of
winding stair cases under the foundation
piers. Notwithstanding the center of the
space has been set apart for the elevator,
there still remains 4,200 square yards of floor
room for the accommodation of visitors who
may desire to promenade and enjoy a view
of the city from that height.
The apartments are very roomy, and pre-
cautions have been taken to insure the visi-
tors against all possibility of accident.
An iron railing, about four feet high, with
an arched roof to exclude the intense rays of
the sun, surrounds the extreme edge of the
platform, as it may be called, which has been
reserved as a promenade forthose who desire
to walk about. The requirements for the
comfort of the inner man, too, have not been
forgotten. Kitchens, store-rooms, ice-chests
and the like have been fitted up in the most
_handy manner imaginable, so that there is
little occasion to fear that the supply of stim-
ulating refreshments will give out, even in
the days when such lodgings in the hotels
and private houses will not be obtainable for
love or money. Lach one of the four cafes
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M. EIFFEL AND HIS WONDERFUL TOWER.
a Wt cee
is provided with a cellar capable of holding
two hundred tuns of wine.
Everything about the structure is abso-
lutely fire-proof, for iron is the only material
that has been used in its construction. Two
thousand persons per hour can ascend and
descend the stair cases leading to the plat-
form, and 4,000 can find seats to rest upon
in the cafes at one time.
The second story, which is 200 feet above
the first one, is also reached by four stair
cases built inside of the supporting columns,
which make asharp inward curve, leaving
above 1,400 square yards of surface for the
platform and promenade. Here, too, in the
commodious and handsomely decorated cafe,
the thirsty and tired sightseer may find
something more potent than Seine: water to
recuperate his strength.
This story is 130 feet above the tip of
Notre Dame steeple, and higher than the
tower of the palace of the Trocadeo, on the
other side of the river, and, as may easily
be imagined, the view of the surrounding
country to be had from such an altitude is
almost indescribable. From hereon the col-
umns of the tower fall in toward each other
until they ascend a distance of 900 feet
above the ground, where the third and last
story is situated.
Only one staircase leads to the third story,
which is for the exclusive use of the persons
employed in the tower, and all visitors are
expected touse the elevators, two innumber,
to reach that point. The platform is eight-
een yards square, still large enough to erect
thereon acomfortably sized dwelling. The
view here is simply superb. The story is
equipped with reflecting mirrors and a large
supply of. field glasses for those who wish to
use them. It has been estimated that the
ordinary eye can discern objects seventy
niiles away.
The tower terminates in what is known as
the lantern, seventy-five feet above the third
section, but this place has been set aside for
the use of the scientists for making observa-
tions.
WHAT THE SUN SAYS.
“7 OOK at me,†cried the sun, rising in
unclouded splendor over the eastern
hills. “*DoI notcome back to you after the
darkness of night? So will He, whose light I
reflect, shine away your sorrow, and He has
sent me to comfort you.â€
A LITTLE BOY’S TROUBLES.
CHARLOTTA PERRY.
THOUGHT, when I'd learned my letters
That all of my troubles were done;
But I find myself much mistaken—
They only have just begun.
Learning to read was awful,
But nothing like learning to write;
I'd be sorry to have you tell it,
But my copy-book 7s a sight!
The ink gets over my fingers;
The pen cuts all sorts of shines,
And won't do at allas I bid it;
The letters won’t stay on the lines,
But go up and down and allover,
As though they were dancing a jig—
They are there in all shapes and sizes,
Medium, little and big. ;
The tails of the g’s are so contrary,
The handles get on the wrong side
Of the d’s and the k’s and the h’s;
Though I’ve certainly tried and tried
To make them just right; it is dreadful,
I really don’t know what to do,
I'm getting almost distracted—
My teacher says she is, too.
There’d be some cowfort in learning,
If one could get through; instead
Of that, there are books awaiting,
Quite enough to craze my head.
There’s the multiplication table,
And grammar, and—oh, dear me,
There’s no good place for stopping,
When one has begun, I see.
My teacher says, little by little
To the mountain tops we climb,
It isn’t all done in a minute,
But only a step at a time;
She says that all the scholars,
All the wise and learned men,
Had each to begin as I do;
If that’s so—where’s my pen?
HIDE AND SEEK.
HAT is better than an old-fashioned
picnic in the country? Away from
the heat and noise of the city, in the very
heart of the woodlands. How unrestrained
the laughter, how genuine the fun! These
boys and. girls are evidently from the city,
as you may tell by their trim attire; and
they are bound to make the very best of the
time. The grand old trees and tangled un-
dergrowth form a most excellent opportu-
nity forthe game of Hide and Seek. Nelly
stands behind that tree and thinks if she
keeps perfectly quiet she will not be caught.
But if Arthur West don’t catch her in less
than a minute, he is not the kind of .a boy
we take him for. And perhaps Nelly won’t
much mind being caught after all.
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THE HONEST OLD TOAD.
H, a queer little chap is the honest old tead,
A funny old fellow is he;
Living under the stone by the side of the road,
Neath the shade of the old willow tree.
He is dressed all in brown from histoe to his crown,
Save his vest, that is silvery white.
_ He takes a long nap in the heat of the day,
And walks in the cool, dewy night.
“‘Raup, yaup,†says the frog,
From his home in the bog,
But the toad he says never a word;
He tries to be good, like the children who should
Be seen, but never be heard.
When winter draws near, Mr. Toad goes to bed,
And sleeps just as sound as a, top.
But when May blossoms follow soft April showers,
He comes outwith a skip, jump and hop.
He changes his dress only once, I confess—
Every spring; and his old worn-out coat,
With trousers and waistcoat he rollsin a ball,
And stuffs the wholething down his throat.
“ K-rruk k-rruk,†says the frog,
From his home in the bog;
But the toad he says never a word;
He tries to be good, like the children who should
Be seen, but never be heard.
THE GREAT SHOWMAN’S PROVERBS
CONCERNING CHILDREN.
P. T. BARNUM.
ae you would beas happy as a child, please
one.
Childish wonder is the first step in human
wisdom.
To best please a child is the highest tri-
umph of philosophy.
A happy child is the most likely to make
an honest man.
To stimulate wholesome curiosity in the
mind of a child is to plant golden seed.
I would rather be called the children’s
friend than the world’s king.
Amusement to children is like rain to
flowers.
He that makes knowledge most attractive
to the young is the king of sages.
Childish laughter is the echo of heavenly
music.
The noblest art is that of making others
happy. .
Wholesome
thoughts.
Innocent amusement transforms tearsinto
rainbows.
The author of harmless mirth is a public
benefactor. ,
recreation conquers evil
WHAT A GIRL SHOULD LEARN.
O sew.
To cook.
To mend.
To be gentle.
To value time.
To dress neatly.
To keep a secret.
To be self-reliant.
To avoid idleness.
To tend the baby.
To darn stockings.
To respect old age.
To make good bread.
To keep a house tidy.
To control her temper.
To be above gossiping.
To make a home happy.
To take care of the sick.
To humor a cross old man.
To marry a man for his worth.
To be a helpmate to a husband.
To take plenty of active exercise.
To see a mouse without screaming.
To read some books besides novels.
To be light-hearted and fleet-footed.
To wear shoes that will not cramp the feet.
To be a womanly woman under all circum:
stances.
“LET ME CARRY THE LAMB.â€
Rees RADFORD has had a grand
time with Aunt Frances. She has been
to the city to buy Christmas presents for her
little cousins at the white house on the hill,
There’s a bundle of beautiful things under
Auntie’s arm, and a big Chinese doll, and a
lovely fan in a long box, and a box of can-
dies, and the prettiest and wooliest lamb you
ever saw, with a blue ribbon and a little
locket. This little lamb was Roxie’s own
choice, for as she said she wanted it, *es-
pressly for Cousin Nette.†And now she
wants to be the bearer of this particular
little treasure. ‘‘Let me carry the lamb,
Auntie!†she cried as they drew near to the
house. Aunt Frances granted Roxie’s re-
quest, and the merry little maiden marched
up to the house in high glee, singing the old
peddler’s ditty:
“Young lambs to sell}
Young lambs to sell!
Oh, if I had asmuch money as I could tell,
I wouldn't go singing, ‘young lambs to sell,’™
web frill—
But where is the baby face?
up a little cambric dress
Trimm ’d with ruffiesand edged with
lace,
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And a dainty cap with a cob
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And 4 blue worsted sock that auntie knit,
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But where has my baby gone?
And here is a pretty petticoat.
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MAXIMS OF KINDNESS.
Cee costs nothing, but it buys
everything. :
The seat of knowledge is in the head; of
wisdom, in the heart. We are sure to judge
wrongly if we do not feel right.
Good manners are a part of good morals.
Politeness is like an air-cushion. If there.
be nothing in it, it eases our jolts wonder-
fully.
Fine manners are the mantle of fair minds.
No cord or cable can draw so strong or
bind so fast as love can do with only a sin-
gle thread.
Like snow, love levels all inequalities and
covers all unsightly objects with beauty.
Children have more need of models than
of critics.
In case of doubt, lean to the side of mercy.
All are not thieves that dogs bark at. Had
even the wolf stayed in the woods there would
_ have been no hue and cry about him.
There are follies which are caught like con-
tagious diseases.
Unbecoming forwardness oftener proceeds
from ignorance than impudence. Therefore
be patient.
Every man isa volume if you know how
toread him. It takes brains to appreciate
brains.
The beauty one sees is largely in him who
sees it.
If you would make a thief honest, trust him.
He who has lost confidence can lose noth-
ing more. :
We hang little thieves and take off our:
_ hats to great ones.
Faint praise is akin to abuse. :
Love doth sing as sweetly in a beggar’s
hut as in a king’s palace.
THE VAGABONDS.
J. T. TROWBRIDGE,
Ws are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger’s my dog ;—come here, you scamp |
Jump for the gentleman,—mind your eye!
Over the table—look out for the lamp!—
The rogue is growing a little old ;
Five years we’ve tramped through wind and
weather,
And slept out doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank, and starved together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs—poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there’s been frozen —
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,—
This out-door business is bad for the strings;—
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No thank ye, sir,—I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,—
Aren’t we, Roger?—see him wink!— .
Well, something hot, then,—we wan’t quarrel,
‘He’s thirsty too,—see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can’t talk!
He understands every word that’s said,—
And he knows good milk from water and chalk,
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I’ve been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I’ve not lost the respect—
Here’s to you sir!—even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
. He’ll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn’t another creature living
Would do it, and prove through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
To such a miserable; thankless master!
No, sir!—see him wag his tail and grin!
By George, it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there’s something in this gin
-That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music, if you’re willing,
And Roger—hem! what a plague a cough is
sir!—
Shall march a little. Start, you villain!
Stand straight! ’Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your riflel— _
Some dogs have arms, you see!—Now hold your
Cap, while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier,
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence,
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps,—that’s five; he’s mighty knowin gl
The night’s before us, fill the glassesi—
Quick, sir! I’m ill,—my brain is going!
Some Brandy,—thank you—there!—it passes.
Why not reform! That's easily said,
But Pve gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach’s past reform:
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
Td sell. out heaven for something warm,
To prop a horrible inward sinking,
Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl’s love;—but I took to drink,—
The same old story,—you know how it ends,
Tf you could have seen these classic features,
You needn’t laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God’s creatures ;
I was one of your handsome men!
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THE VAGABONDS.
If you had seen her so fair and young,
__ Whose head was happy on this breast!
if you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn’t have
guessed ;
That ever I, sir, should be straying
From door to door with fiddle and dog,
Ragged, penniless, and playing
To you to-night, for a glass of grog !
She’s married since,—a parson’s wife;
"T'was better for her that we should part ;
Better the soberist, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her ?
On the dusty road. A carriage stopped ;
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
_ Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped !
‘You've set me talking, sir ; I’m sorry—
It makes me wild to think of the change !
‘What do you care for a beggar’s story?
Isitamusing? You find it strange?
_ Thad a mother so proud of me!
*T-was well she died before—do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain, then Roger and I will start.
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doxbt, remembering things that were,
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I’m better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet,
‘We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink—
The sooner the better for Roger and me!
& WORLD OF ADVICE IN A COUPLE
OF WORDS. -
DR. BURTON.
HEP still. When trouble is brewing,
keep still. When slander is getting on
its legs, keep still. When your feelings are
hurt, keep still, till you recover from your
excitement at any rate. Things look differ-
ently through an unagitated eye. Inacom-
motion once I wrote a letter, and sent it, and
wished I had not. In my later years I had
another commotion, and wrote a long letter;
but life rubbed a little sense into me, and I
kept that letter in my pocket against the
day when I could look it over without agita-
tion and without tears. I was glad I did.
Less and less it seemed necessary to send it.
Once! J was weak and spent .
I was not sure it would do any hurt, but in
my doubtfulness I leaned to reticence, and
eventually it was destroyed. Time works
wonders. Wait till you can speak calmly,
and then you will not need to speak may be.
Silence is the most massive thing conceivable,
sometimes. It is strength in very grandeur.
It is like aregiment ordered to stand still in
the mad fury of battle. To plunge in were
twiceaseasy. The tongue has unsettled more
people than anything besides.
MURMUR NOT.
A URMUR not—
ae At nature’s actions,
Changing all our thoughts and plans;
Marring now our joyous households,
As the floods o’erwhelm the lands.
Murmur not—
Through pain and sorrow,
Toiling onward day by day;
Striving—though it seem but useless—
Seeking for the perfect way. ©
TO SCHOOL THROUGH SNOW AND
STORM.
ASuaE is no royal road to learning.
Our young friends on the opposite page
are finding out by experience, that the path
to scholarship is sometimes rough and steep
and stormy. Knee deep in snow they
plodded to school in the morning, and now
with the wind and storm happily at their
backs, they are returning home, their glad
young hearts undaunted by the blustering
tempest. It seems a little like stern hard
work. But in the days and years to come
these young students will not regret the
price they had to pay for the priceless boon
of a good sound education. There are some
_things not worth having asa gift, but a well-
grounded education is worth all the long
patient study, all the time and money, and
all the endurance it costs. Boys and girls
blessed with a good education are blessed
with the kind of wealth that has no wings.
and with the best possible opportunity of
making a fair mark in the world. To such
the song of the poet should be an inspira
tion: ee
Deeper, deeper, let us toil
In the mines of knowledge;
Learning’s wealth and freedom’s spoil,
Win from school and college:
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.
(4 —
of. message. tor malher ?
My message.is this:
dust fell her Isend-her
My heart in a kiss!â€
Bend then on jhe paper
A roundâ€O†she traced,
And:siratght inthe middle
| A largekiss she placed.
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NY ; Wy g martes undef led?
(| \\y What love can compare with
The love of a child ?
SACRED TO THANKSGIVING.
GEORGE COOPER.
66 Grae gobble!†a plump turkey cried,
The cows looking on very meek;
‘Of the barnyard, you see, I’m the pride,
Your friendship I don’t care to seek,
Humble cows,
So don’t notice me while you browse.â€
Little chickens looked up in alarm
When, puffing, her turkeyship passed;
And there wasn’t a bird on the farm
That envious looks didn’t cast,
As she went,
Swelled out with triumphant content.
«Very plain you are, good mother hen,
You haven’t one touch of the style;
Your dress is outlandish, and then,
Your manners occasion a smile.
Pray, what use
In this world are you more than a goose?â€
Lowed a thoughtful and innocent cow:
‘«To-morrow is Thanksgiving morn;
Through the gate the old farmer comes now,
With an ax and a handful of corn,
: And I guess
There soon will be one turkey less.â€
SLOWLY BUT SURELY.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
ILIGENCE and moderation are the best
steps to climb to any excellence. Nay,
it is rare if there be any other way. The
heavens send not down their rains in floods,
but by drops and dewy distillations. A man
is neither good nor wise nor rich at once;
yet, softly creeping up these hills, he shall
every day better his prospects, till at last he
gains the top. Every year something laid
up, may in time make his stock great.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.
A. D. 1622,
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
cs ND now,†said the Governor, gazing abroad
on the piled-up store
Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings, and cov-
ered the meadows o’er,
‘Tig meet that we render praises because of this
yield of grain;
"Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked
for His sun and rain.
«* And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace
of God to-day,
And the franchise of this good people), Governor
_ of Plymouth, say
Thro’ virtue of vested power—ye shall gather with
one accord,
And hold, in the month o’ November, thanksgiving ©
unto the Lord.
_ ‘He hath granted us peace and plenty, and .he
quiet we’ve sought so long;
He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him .
from doing wrong;
And unto our Feast the Sachem shall be bidden,
that he may know
We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the
harvests grow.
‘*So shoulder your matchlocks, masters; there is
hunting of all degrees;
And fisherman, take your tackle, and scour for spoil
the seas;
And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate
crafts employ ;
To honor our first Thanksgiving, and make it a
feast of joy! i
“We fail of the fruits and dainties so close to our
hand in Devon;
Ah, they are the lightest losses we suffer for sake of
Heaven!
But see, in our open. clearings, how golden the
melons lie;
Enrich them with sweets and spices, and call-them
Pumpkin-Pie!â€
Atlength came the day appointed; the snow had
begun to fall,
But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang
merrily out for all,
And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who has-
tened with glad accord
To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked
the Lord.
In his seat sate Governor Bradford; men, matrons
and maidens fair;
Miles Standish and ;ail his soldiers, with corselet
and sword were there; ;
And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its
turn the sway,
For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o’ershad-
owed Thanksgiving Day.
And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with
his hundred braves, ;
And ate of the varied riches of gardens and wooda
and waves,
And looked on the granaried harvesi—with a blow
on his brawny chest,
He muttered, ‘‘The good Great Spirit loves His
white children best!â€
And then, as the feast was ended, with gravely
official air, .
The Governor drew his broadsword out from its
scabbard there,
And smiting the trencher near him, he cried in
heroic way, ;
Hail! Pie of the Pumpkin! I dub thee Prince of
Thanksgiving Day.†-
FEEDING THREE.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
OT what we give but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,~-
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.
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SACRED TO THANKSGIVING.
NEGRO PHILOSOPRY.
JOHN RUSSELL FISHER.
T doan’t pay to do much talkin’ w’en you’m mad
enuff to choke,
*Kase de word dat stings de deepes’ am de one dat’s
nebbah spoke:
Let the udder fellow wrangle till de stohm am
blowed away
Den he'll doa pile ob thinkin’ ’bout de things you
didn’t say.
Spec’ de leetle blue-eyed daisy peepin’ fru de med-
der soil,
Though it ain’t no tow’rin’ oak tree has its sheer ob
hones’ toil;
Spec’ de red rose in de garden, blushin’ neath de
June-day sun,
Nebbah scatters o’er de grass tops till its wuck at
home am done. .
*Taint de chap dat’s allus kickin’ kase de worl’ ain’t
jes’ his size.
Dat’ll lib on roasted ’possum in dat lan’ beyond de
skies;
Dar’s a likely soht o’blessin’ eben wid de hardes’
lot, h
But de one dat looks de bigges’ am de one you
habn’'t got.
Spec’ de gray squir'l snubs de chipmunk kase his
color ain’t jes’ right,
But w’en guns bang in de wood lot, chipmunk
sleeps de bes’ at night.
*Bout de smahtes’ chap I know on is de one dat
doan’ git leff.
’ Kase he spen’s his loafin’ minnits gittin’ ’quainted
wid hisseff.
Nebbah quarrel wid yo’ nabur ’kase his’ligion doan’
seem soun’,
Lots ob roads dat staht out dif’rent wriggle roun’ to
de same town. ;
Though yo’ lot in life am grubbin’ in a crooked
’tater row,
Allus’ hol' yo’ head up firmly, as you’m trab’lin’ to
an’ fro.
SERGEANT JASPER:
THE YOUNG HERO OF GEORGIA.
N the history of the State of Georgia one
of the most heroic figures is that of Ser-
geant Jasper, who served in the War of the
Revolution in the Second South Carolina
Regiment, under General Moultrie..
Jasper was a freckled, sun-burned, unedu-
cated country lad, of singularly quiet but
firm bearing. In the attack made on Sulli-
van’s Island by the British, a flag-staff, cut
by a ball, fell outside of the works. Jasper
sprang forward, and, under a shower of
bullets, nailed his own colors to the parapet.
For this act of gallantry he was offered
promotion, but declined it, saying: ‘‘I have
not the education nor manners befitting au
officer.â€
General Moultrie then granted him a rav.
ing commission and placed six men undex
him, who were known during the war at
*‘Jasper’s. Command.†Scarcely a week
passed that this troop did not bring in
prisoners captured by the most reckless
daring.
On one occasion Jasper, with one comrade,
Newton, entered the British lines in dis-
guise. In Savannah he overheard a woman,
an American, with a child in her arms, bit-
terly lament the condition of her husband,
who was held a prisoner in irons for deser-
tion of the Royal cause. He was deeply
touched with her distress and with his com-
rades resolved to free her husband,
They lay in wait near a spring, about two
miles from the town, which the guard who
had the prisoners in charge must pass. The
guard, consisting of two officers and eight
privates, arrived about noon with five pris-
oners in irons. The day being hot, they
left the prisoners, as Jasper expected they
would, and hurried to the spring for water,
having previously stacked their guns by the
roadside.
Jasper and Newton crept out from the
thicket, seized their arms, knocked the irons
from the prisoners, and brought the guard
into the American camp.
A few months after this feat, during the
attack on Savannah, the country lad fell,
mortally wounded, while trying to place his
colors on a redoubt.
For one of his many bold exploits a sword
had been presented to Jasper by Governor
Rutledge. He now unbuckled this sword
and gave it to Newton, saying, ‘“‘ Take it to
my father, and tell him I have not dis-
honored it.â€
THE MOST VALUABLE MEMORIES OF
LIFE.
JOHN RANDOLPH.
HEN, I can just remember, each night:
before my mother put me to bed, I
repeated on my knees before her the Lord’s.
Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed; each morn-
ing kneeling in bed I put up my little hanas
in prayer. These lessons 1 am now con-
scious have been of more value than all I
have ever learned from my preceptors and
compeers.
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SERGEANT JASPER, THE YOUNG HERO OF GEORGIA.
HURRAH FOR THE OPEN SEA.
CHARLES J. BEATTIE.
urrah ! hurrah for the open sea! ©
‘Hurrah for the bounding wave _.
Where the trade winds whistle wild and fre
And storms o’er the waters rave—
A brilliant sky,
A tempest high,
Hurrah for the brakers roar:
Hurrah for the gale,
That fills the suil,
Scudding out from a sunny shorel
Hurrah ! hurrah for our gallant craft
That cork-like skims the tide—
As trim as a maiden fore and aft,
And fair as a sailor’s bride.
~~ Give her canvas white
To the breeze to-night,
Let her fly o’er the waters blue;
Farewell to the land,
To Columbia’s strand,
To our wives and our sweethearts true.
The sea is the sailor’s hunting ground,
O’er the waters he loves to roam,
With never a path, a mark, or bound
The mariner’s destined home;
On the ocean’s breast,
On the waves’ white crest
He can rock in his bark to sleep;
And he marks his way
O’er the white, winged spray
Like milestones on the deep.
I love the plains and the bright green woods,
With the maple, the oak, and the elm,
But better a bark o’er the sea that scuds,
That’s true to the compass and helm,
Yes, I love the hills
With their bubbling rills,
Where falls the sparkling dew;
But better I love,
O’er the seas to rove,
With a gallant sailor crew.
THE OAK TREE AND THE IVY.
EUGENE FIELD.
fe the greenwood stood a mighty oak. So
majestic was he that all who came that
way paused to admire his strength and beauty,
and all the other trees of the greenwood
acknowledged him to be their monarch.
Now it came to pass that the ivy loved the
oak-tree, and, inclining her graceful tendrils
where he stood, she crept about his feet and
twined herself around his sturdy and knotted
trunk. And the oak-tree pitied the ivy.
“Oho!†he cried, laughing boisterously,
but -good-naturedly. ‘‘Oho!†so you love
me, do you, little vine? Very well, then; play -
about my feet, and I will keep the storms
. from you and will tell you pretty stories
about the clouds, the birds and the stars.â€
The ivy marveled greatly at the strange
stories the oak-tree told; they were stories
the oak-tree heard from the wind that loi-
tered about his lofty head and whispered to
the leaves of his topmost branches. Some-
times the story was about the great ocean in
the east, sometimes of the broad prairies in
the west, sometimes of the ice-king who
lived in the north, and sometimes of the
flower-queen who dwelt inthe south. Then,
too, the moon told a story to the oak-tree
every night — or atleast every night that she
came to the greenwood, which was very often,
for the greenwood isa very charming spot, as
we all know. And the oak-tree repeated to
the ivy every story the moon told and every
song the stars sang.
“Pray, what are the winds saying now?â€
or ‘“‘ What song isthat I hear?†the ivy would
ask; and then the oak-tree would repeat the
story or the song, and the ivy would listen in
great wonderment.
Whenever the storms came, the cak-tree
cried to the little ivy: ‘‘ Cling close to me
and no harm shall befall you! See how
strong Iam; the tempest does not so much
as stir me — I mock its fury!â€
Then, seeing how strong and brave he was,
the ivy hugged him closely; his brown, rug-
ged breast protected her from every harm
and she was secure.
The years went by; how quickly they flew
—spring, summer, winter, and then againâ€
spring, summer, winter —ah, life is short in
the greenwood as elsewhere! And now the
ivy was no longer a weakly little vine to ex-
cite the pity of the passer-by. Her thousand
bearftiful arms had twined hither and thither
about the oak-tree, covering his brown and
knotted trunk, shooting forth a bright, deli-
cious foliage and stretching far up among
his lower branches. Then the oak-tree’s pity
grew into a love for the ivy, and the ivy was
filled with a great joy. And the oak-tree
and the ivy were wed one June night and
there was a wonderful celebration in the
greenwood, and there was the most beautiful
music in which the pine-trees, the crickets,
the katy-dids, the frogs and the nightingales
joined with pleasing harmony.
The oak-tree was always good and gentle
to the ivy. “‘ There is a storm coming over
the hills,†he would say. <‘‘The east-wind .
tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air.
and the sky is dark. Cling close to me, my
beloved, and no harm shall befall you.â€
Then, confidently and with an always ~
HURRAH FOR THE OPEN SEA.
growing love, the ivy would cling more closely
fo the oak-tree, and no harm came to her.
“How good the oak-tree is to the ivy,†said
the other trees of the greenwood. The ivy
heard them, and she loved the oak-tree more
and more.
And, although the ivy was now the most
umbrageors and luxuriant vine in all the
greenwood, the oak-tree regarded her still
as the tender little thing he had laughingly
called to his feet that spring day, many
years before—the same little ivy he had
told about the stars, the clouds and the birds.
And, just as patiently as in those days he
had told her of these things, he now repeated
other tales the winds whispered to his top-
most boughs — tales of the ocean in the east,
the prairies in the west, the ice-king in the
north and the flower-queen in the south.
Nestling upon his brave breast and in his
stout arms, the ivy heard him tell these won-
drens things and she never wearied with the
lioceing.
«How the oak-tree loves her!†said the
ash. ‘The lazy vine has naught to do but
to twine herself about the arrogant oak-tree
and hear him tell his wondrous stories!â€
The ivy heard these envious words, and
they made her very sad, but she said nothing of
them to the oak-tree, and that night the oak-
tree rocked her to sleep as he repeated the lul-
laby a zephyr was singing to him.
“There is a storm coming over the hills,â€
said the oak-tree one day. ‘
tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air
and the sky is dark. Clasp me round about
with thy dear arms, my beloved, and nestle
close unto my bosom and no harm shall
befall thee.â€
“
she clasped her arms most closely about him
and nestled unto his bosom.
The storm came over the hills and swept
down upon the greenwood with deafening
thunder and vivid lightning. The storm-
king himself rode upon the blast; his horses
breathed flames and his chariot trailed
through the air like a serpent of fire. The
ash fell before the violence of the storm-
king’sfury, and the cedars groaning fell, and
the hemlocks and the pines—but the oak-
tree alone quailed not.
“«Qho!†cried the storm-king, angrily,
«
not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall
see.†,
With that, the storm-king hurled a mighty
thunderbolt at the oak-tree, and the brave,
strong monarch of the greenwood was riven.
Then, with a shout of triumph, the storm:
king rode away.
«© Dear oak-tree, you are riven by the storm-.
king’s thunderbolt!†cried the ivy, in
anguish.
* Ay, †said the oak-tree, feebly, ““my end
has come; see, I am shattered and helpless.â€
«But I am unhurt,†remonstrated the
ivy, ‘‘and I will bind up your wounds and
nurse you back to health and vigor.â€
And so it was that, although the oak-tree
was ever afterwards a riven and broken thing,
the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered
form and covered his wounds all over with her
soft foliage.
“
grow up to thy height, to live with thee
among the clouds, and to hear the solemn
voices thou didst hear. ‘Thou wouldst have
loved me better then? â€
But the old oak-tree said: ‘‘ Nay, nay, my
beloved, I love thee better as thou art, for
with thy beauty and thy love thou comfort-
est mine age.â€
Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to
the old and broken oak-tree — storiesshe had
learned from the crickets, the bees, the but-
terflies and the mice when she was an humble
little vine and played at the foot of the
majestic oak-tree, towering in the greenwood
with no thought of the tiny shoot that crept
towards him with her love. And these sim-
ple tales pleased the old and riven 0&2-""--.
they were not as heroicas the tales the winds,
the clouds and the stars told, but they were
far sweeter, for they were tales of content-
ment, of humility, of love.
So the old age of the oak-tree was grander
than his youth.
And all who went through the greenwood
paused to behold and admire the beauty of
the oak-tree then; for about his seared and
broken trunk the gentle vine had so entwined
her graceful tendrils and spread her fair foli-
age that one saw not the havoc of the years
nor the ruin of the tempest, but only the
glory of the oak-tree’s age, which was the
iv-’s love and ministering.
WHY SOME MEN WERE BORN.
WILL. §. CARLETON. .
Cone men were born for great things,
Some men were born for small;
‘Some, it is not recorded
Why they were born at all.
“LET ME CARRY THE LAMB.â€
THE RAINBOW.
O* all the beautiful things in God’s beau-
tiful world, what can compare with the
rainbow, that child of storm, and sun, and
rain? That gorgeous arch that. spans the
cloudy sky is like a divine smile chasing
away the darkness of the tempest, and giv-
ing promise of sunny hours. Jean Paul
Richter tells a thoughtful, suggestive story
of a little child and a rainbow, in the follow-
ing words: 5
*‘A delicate child, pale and prematurely
wise, was complaining on a hot morning that
the poor dew-drops had been too hastily
snatched away, and not allowed to glitter on
the flowers like other happier dew-drops that
live the whole night through and sparkle in
the moonlight, and through the morning on-
ward to noonday. ‘Thesun,’ said the child,
‘has chased them away with his heat, or
swallowed them in his wrath.’ Soon after
came rain and a rainbow; whereupon his
father pointed upward: ‘See,’ said he,
‘there stand thy dew-drops gloriously re-set
—a glittering jewelry —in the heavens. By
this, my child, thou art taught that what
withers upon earth blooms again in heaven.’â€
This is a world of storms, but it is also a
world of rainbows ; and as the merciful sun
flashes rainbow splendors through the dark-
est storm, we, too, by gentleness and love,
may brighten and cheer the lot of the soli-
tary and the sad.
If the world’s a vale of tears,
Smile till rainbows span it; -
Breathe the love that life endears,
Clear of clouds to fan it.
Of your gladness lend a gleam
Unto souls that shiver ;
Show them how dark sorrow’s stream
Blends with hope’s bright river.
THE WIDOW AND HER LITTLE
MAIDENS.
A FABLE,
WIDOW woman, fond of cleaning, had
two little maidens to wait on her. She
was in the habit of waking them early in the
morning, at cockcrow. The maidens, being
aggrieved by such excessive labor, resolved
to kill the cock who roused their mistress so
early. When they had done this, they found
that. they had only prepared themselves for
greater troubles; for their mistress, no longer
hearing the hour from the cock, woke them
up to their work in the middle of the night.
RAIN-DROPS.
LOUISE E. LEWIN.
( } ENTLY on the grass blades falling
Comes the rain, new life recalling;
By its warm drops flowers are growing,
All the earth its freshness knowing.
Blue birds’ songs sound never sweeter,
Hillside streams grow broader, fleeter;
All the atmosphere seems clearer,
E’en the blue skies look much nearer.
When again the sun comes shining,
All earth seems as if reclining;
’Neath thy soft drops lowly bending,
Flowers their perfumes upward sending.
Bright the sun again is glowing,
Freshened winds from southward blowing.
Light clouds come from dark ones frowning,
Lo! the bow of promise crowning.
THE BELLOWS OF A SMITH.
E whose days pass without imparting
and enjoying, is like the bellows of a
smith; he breathes, indeed, but he does not
live.
CHURCH MICE.
_H. L. D’ARCY JAXONE.
A LITTLE church mouse stole out of his house,
At the top of the pulpit stair,
And slyly looked down at the folks of the town,
Professing to kneel in prayer;
But he saw that many had come to be seen,
And that more had come to see;
So he stole inside to his little brown bride,
And thus to his mate sang he:
“A very strange world is the world below;
I haven’t much faith in its faith, you know.â€
The little church mouse looked out of his house,
Where the tinted sunbeams play;
While he watched the bride leave her father’s side,
And December mated with May. :
Then he heard her whisper her life-long vows,
As she took his gift of gold;
So he sadly sang, while the church-bells rang,
For a heart that was bought and sold,
“A very strange love is the love below,
I wouldn’t give much for the lot, I trow.â€
This little church mouse looked out of his house,
Thro’ the haze of the dying day,
While the children wept, where a loved one slept,
To wake in the far away.
When he heard the message of perfect peace,
That floated on unseen wings.
This little mouse stole into his house,
And still to himself he sings,
“A very strange life this life would be,
Were it not for the end that we may not see.â€
yi
‘THE RAINBOW.
THE MUSIC OF THE MONTHS.
MARCH.
M. E. BLAKE,
ARCH! you blustering, noisy lout !
What are you doing? Where do you stay ?
Winter is flying in broken array ;
Come! bid her whirl to the right-about :
Get the fields ready for April and May.
Thaw the ice from the frozen rill,
Blow the clouds to their proper places,
Gather the strong winds loud and shrill,
To dry the marsh and to clear the hill,
For spring to display her airs and graces !
Awkward you are and sharp, no doubt;
Still are we glad to see you near,
With cheek so ruddy and eye so clear,
‘With lusty humor and joyous shout,
Calling far off for the summer to hear.
Bough as your clumsy touch may be,
It fringes the tassel for alder and larch ;
Your jolly, gruff laughter rings merry and arch ;
You are the sort of a fellow for me,
Come from your hiding piace! Forward, March!
“MARCH WITH THE VIOLETS.â€
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.
Tr was Robert Browning who, absent from
= hisnative land one fickle April-tide, sang
that brief and simple strain: ‘‘ Oh, to be in
England, now that April’s here.†But other
poets have anticipated Browning, and have
hailed the advent of March as the month of
Violets. Happily or unhappily for us, we
must be content if March should bring us
only the promise of the violets. This is not
a region blessed with a prolonged Spring-
time. We leap too suddenly from Winter
into early Summer. But March, that comes
with violets for other lands, comes to us with
its hands full of promise, and with music in
all its blustering winds. At least, February
is gone! The dreary, doleful month— the
month of dullness and of clouded skies; and
the month of the valentine and the ground-
hog. With March comes brighter skies and
fitful sunshine, and spite of Winter’s iron
rule, a paler light glows in the tops of the
willows, the waters are babbling in the brooks,
and the hearts of us all take better cheer if
only with the promise the wild March morn-
ings bring. Of course there may be plenty
of’ stern Winter weather yet, but we have
heard the promise of the Spring. It may be
that biting frosts and drifting snows are in
store for us, but we shall persuade ourselves
that this is positively “‘the last appearance
this season.†Winter may linger in the lap
of Spring, but the days are growing longer,
and the nights are growing shorter. The
farmer will wake from his Winter’s sleep,
and the barren fields will tremble beneath
the useful plow, and the sower will go forth
sowing good seed over the warm, yielding
breast of mother earth. March will not bring
us Violets, but it brings. us hope and gives
promises of sunny fields and blossoming
meadows. So we may gladly welcome the
«bleak winds of March.â€
** Ah, March! We know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And out of sight art nursing April’s violets.â€
NEVER MIND.
HENRY BURTON, M. A.
ne you hear the angry word ?
Never mind;
Let it be as never heard—
Never mind;
*T will but rankle in the breast,
’T will but break the spirit’s rest;
Cast it from thee, that is best—
Never mind.
Have you planned and toiled in vain ?
Never mind;
Loss sometimes is highest gain,
Never mind;
Honor is not bought and sold,
Character is more than gold,
These are yours, a wealth untold—
Never mind;
Does the night seem dark and long ?
Never mind;
You can cheer it with a song,
Never-mind;
Darkness always leads to dawn,
Night is but the gate of morn,
Out of griefs our joys are born—
Never mind.
Does the east wind rudely blow ?
Never mind;
Does the north wind bring the snow ?
Never mind; :
’T- would be south, or ’twould be west,
If thy Father thought it best;
Face it like the vane, and rest
Never mind.
Ts the future all unknown °
Never mind;
Thou wilt never be alone—
Never mind;
Turn above thy weeping eyes,
Heaven is watching through the skies.
Trust the Love that never dies—
Never mind.
, THE ARCTIC EXPLORER,
NORDENSKJOLD
ONE COMFORT.
“(NAN Katie come and play with me?â€
His bashful cheek was glowing,
Half wearily upon my knee :
I dropped the endless sewing.
O Katie! in the clover tops
Isee your gold head glancing,
No taller than the buttercups
Or daisies that you dance in,
“No, Chauncy, no, she cannot go;
She’s such a little baby!
She teases so; and then you know,
She’ll get in mischief, maybe.
I'll have to keep her close by me;
Why ? But that’s no use saying!
It’s only great big girls, you see,
Go off with big boys playing.â€
Then quick came Katie’s answer clear
Across the clover blowing
“Well, Chauncy, dear,†came to my ear,
“Well, Chauncy, I’m a-growing.â€
“ROBERT OF LINCOLN.â€
EANING idly over a fence, a few days
since, we noticed a little four-year-old
“lord of creation,†amusing himself in the
grass by watching the frolicsome flight of
birds which were playing around him. At
length a beautiful bobolink perched on a
bough of an apple-tree, which extended
within a few yards of the place where the
urchin sat, and maintained his position, ap-
parently unconscious of his close proximity
to one whom birds usually consider a danger-
ous neighbor.
The boy seemed astonished at his impu-
dence; and, after regarding him steadily
for a minute or two, obeying the instinct of
his baser part, he picked up a stone lying at
his feet, and was preparing to throw it,
steadying himself fora good aim. The little
arm was drawn backward without alarming
the bird, and Bob was within an ace of dan-
ger, when, lo! his throat swelled, and forth
came nature’s plea: ‘‘A-link, a-link, a-link,
bob-a-link, bob-a-link, bob-a-link, a-no-weet!
I know it, I know it, a-link, a-link, don’t
throw it, throw it, throw it,†etc. And he
didn’t. Slowly the little arm fell to its nat-
ural position, and the now despised stone
dropped. The minstrel charmed the murd-
erer. We heard the songster through, and
watehed his unharmed flight, as did the boy,
with a sorrowful countenance. Anxious to
hear an expression of the little fellow’s feel-
ings, we approached him and inquired:
“Why didn’t you stone him, my boy? You
might have killed him, and carried him
home.â€
The poor little fellow looked up doubt-
ingly, as though he suspected our meaning;
and, with an expression half shame and
half sorrow, he replied, ‘‘Couldn’t, cos he
sung so!â€
“DOWN TO SLEEP.â€
JOHN HOWARD.
ae Angel of Night has come bringing
The little birds home to the nest,
The Angel of Slumber is singing
Our home-bird to sleep.on her breast.
An Angel of Mem’ry is haunting
The over-wrought mother-heart there—
Old lullaby’s softly are chanting—
Hush’d voices are breathing a prayer.
Herself, in her child there repeating,
She grieves for the untrodden way,—
_ The morrow’s bright promise defeating
With echoes of dead yesterday.
* * x
The Angel of Hope, gently beaming
Low whispers ‘‘ Dear heart do not weep.â€
Lay all thy bitter-sweet dreaming
And fears with thy child, ‘Down to sleep.â€
WHAT NAPOLEON I. THOUGHT OF
CHRIST.
A CROSS a chasm of eighteen hundred
years Jesus Christ makes a demand
which is beyond all others difficult to satisfy.
He asks that for which a philosopher may
often seek in vain at the hands of his friends,
or a father of his children, or a bride of her
spouse, or a man of his brother: He asks for
the human heart: He will have it entirely to
himself: He demands it unconditionally;
and forthwith His demand is granted.
Wonderful! In defiance of time and space,
the soul of man, with all its powers and
faculties, becomes an annexation to the em-
pire of Christ. All who sincerely believe in
Him experience that remarkable supernat-
ural love toward Him. This phenomenon
is unaccountable; it is altogether beyond the
scope of man’s creative power. Time, the
great destroyer, is powerless to extinguish
this sacred flame: time can neither exhaust
its strength nor put a limit to its range.
This it is which strikes me most. I have
often thought of it. This is it which proves
to me quite convincingly the Divinity of
Jesus Christ.
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THE HEART WAS MASTER OF THE GUN.
THE LITTLE LEAVES.
GEORGE COOPER.
wu E must go,†sighed little Ruby,
Orange, Topaz, Garnet, Gold ;
“For the chilly breeze is calling,
And the year is growing old.
Good-by, quiet, sunny meadows
That we never more shall see ;
Good-by, winding brooks of silver,
Snowy lambs and dead old tree—
Dear old loving mother-tree.â€
From the branches down they fluttered,
Like a rainbow scattered wide;
And the old tree looked so lonely,
That was once the woodland’s pride.
But the wind came wildly piping,
And they danced away with glee,
Ruby, Topaz, Garnet, Orange,
Soon forgot the poor old tree—
Poor old loving mother-tree.
But when skies of drear November
Frowned upon their wild delight,
All the little leaves grew lonely,
And they wandered back one night;
And they nestled in a hollow
At the foot of the old tree,
Sighing: ‘‘ All the long white winter
We shall now so quiet be
Near our dear old mother-tree.â€
BIRD CHAPELS.
J. R. S. CLIFFORD.
LIL careful observers of the doings of
the <‘‘irrepressible†London sparrow,
which greets us amid city streets as well as in
the parks and suburbs of the metropolis,
know it as a fact that these birds hold, at
certain times, meetings, which have been
rather oddly styled their “‘chapels.â€
Beholding one of these chapels, we are apt
to wonder how it is such hosts of sparrows in
or near the metropolis, manage to escape
guns, traps, cats, and the other perils that
beset them. This “chapel†may be in a
tree, a church turret—perhaps the top of a
wall—and to it, while the place is used, the
sparrows gather by hundreds or, it is stated,
even in larger numbers, the meeting being
invariably of a noisy character, designed,
possibly, for the discussion of some perplex-
ing question that is agitating sparrowdom,
or rather, as some have suggested, for the
consideration of the behavior of sparrows that
have been delinquents, due punishment fol-
lowing, we may suppose. For prudential
reasons, a chapel is seldom held during many
weeks in one spot, and the birds choose a new
meeting-place, seemingly by common con-
sent. It should be added that these chapels
occur generally in broad daylight; occasion-
ally it may be the dusk of early evening when
the birds assemble, but they scatter ere they
go to roost.
Other birds hold meetings, too, which we
might entitle ‘“‘chapel;†the rook, for in-
stance. A naturalist noticed once that an
enormous number of rooks had assembled
upon a lawn, and after a good deal of chat-
tering, the whole party whirled hither and
thither within the space, evidently encom-
passing some object. In a little time, he
perceived the centre of attraction was one
unfortunate rook, which was pushed about,
and made the recipient of scores of pecks;
rushing forward, he rescued the poor wretch,
which was still alive, and the host of his
tormentors dispersed with an angry caw.
We have ourselves noticed flights of rooks
from different directions which appeared to
indicate that they were seeking some field or
wood where an assembly was to be held, and
have also observed on the outskirts of a wood
at evening, large parties careering to and fro,
uttering loud cries, preparatory, as we pre-
sume, to dispersing to their respective rook-
eries. Rooks, it is found, sometimes go for-
aging miles away from their own locality,
and it is very likely that, when night sud-
denly sets in upon them, they call and roost
at some rookery near them, instead of jour-
neying to their proper home.
We have now to relate a curious circum-
stance connected with the starling, a bird
often insufficiently prized by the gardener
and farmer, though it is a great destroyer of
insects. About two miles from the town of
Gravesend there is a small copse or wood,
not much frequented. Any person going
thither any November afternoon last year
would have witnessed something not easily
to be forgotted. At a quarter to four (for
their punctuality is remarkable) thither troop
starlings from all points of the compass in
rapid succession ; the cry is “still they come,â€
and by conjecture their number must be
some thousands; we are reminded of the ac-
cumulating autumn leaves of Vallombrossa’s.
vale, immortalized by the poet of Paradise:
Lost. But, unlike the leaves, they are vocal,
and so persistent are they that their cries ren-
der it impossible for persons standing under-
neath to make themselves audible in ordi-
nary talk.
These starlings, however, do not disperse
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THE LITTLE MILEIMAN.
when their chapel is over; it is a place chosen
by them just now for their nightly repose,
and, if we wait long enough, we shall find
them settled down upon the smaller boughs
chiefly, yet not so fast asleep as to fail to
raise an alarm should real or imagined dan-
ger approach. Another season we might
seek the birds in vain there, they would prob-
ably have chosen another as quiet a resort.
Migration is a cause which brings together
many species at certain seasons, and apart
from that, other species show a tendency to
gather in flocks: the larks and finches of
our fields and woodlands offer a familiar
instance. Partly this is a love of compan-
ionship, now and then it is because they are
seeking for some food congenial to them,
and we may suppose that they also join
company to protect themselves from the at-
tacks of the rapacious birds.
THE, BROOK.
THOMAS ASHE.
ROOK, happy brook, the merriest of our dells,
Go tripping with light foot adown the mead ;
With lingering haste your winding water lead,
By pebble-beds and reeds, and foxglove bells ;
And find the cottage where my dear one dwells,
Ripple your sweetest ripple, sing the best
Of melodies you have ; lull her to rest
With softer tales than many a brooklet tells.
Say ‘One is sitting in your wood to-night,
O maiden rare, to catch a glimpse of you;
Or see your shadow, with the taper’s light,
Fall on the little lawn and evening dew.â€
Brook, happy brook, I pray, go lingering ;
And underneath the rose-twined lattice sing.
THE JOURNEY OF A DAY.
HANA life is a journey marked off
into stages of four-and-twenty-hours.
A person of average age sees about eleven
thousand of these stages; if he reaches three-
score years, he will have seen twenty-two
thousand risings of the sun. Night brings
the bivouac and tired nature’s sweet restorer.
After a few hours of sound slumber (and
woe be to the man or woman who cannot
sleep), the rosy fingers of the morning
touch us, as the Divine Restorer touched
the dead maiden in the house of Jairus, and
says to us, ‘‘ Arise!†In a moment the
whole machinery of life is again in full play.
God puts us on a new probation, when the
griefs of yesterday may be corrected, and a
new chance is given us to ‘‘make good speedâ€
on a higher walk of diligence, and a closer
fellowship with our Guide.
One hour of the morning is commonly
worth two at the sunset; nearly all the mind’s
best work is wrought after its resurrection
from the couch, and not when it is seeking
repose. Sir Walter Scott wrote his Waverley
romances before breakfast, while his guests
were sleep. All those commentaries of be-
loved Albert Barnes are the product of five
o’clock in the morning. The night watch-
man of Philadelphia got accustomed to see
him marching over to his study before day-
light in winter. Let the devil’s devotees be
astir at midnight, God’s children ought to
be in bed and asleep. Especially students
and ministers should perform their chief in-
telectual labor in the morning.
Every day’s journey should be commenced
with God. As the Oriental traveler sets out
for the march over the burning sands by
loading up his camel under the palm trees,
and by filling up his water flagons from the
cool fountain that sparkles at the roots, so
doth a Christian wayfarer draw his early sup-
plies from the inexhaustable spring. ‘In
the morning will I direct my prayer unto
Thee, and will look up,†said the man after
God’s own heart. The buoyant soul makes
its earliest flight, ike the lark, towards the
gates of heaven.
TABBY GRAY.
’M a pretty little kitten,
My name is Tabby Gray;
I live at Frogley Farmhouse,
Some twenty miles away.
My little eyes are hazel,
My skin as soft as silk,
Im fed each night and morning
With a saucerful of milk.
The milk comes sweet and foaming,
Fresh from the good old cow,
And, after I have lapped it,
I frolic you know how.
I’m petted by the mistress
And children of the house,
And sometimes when I’m nimble
I catch a little mouse.
And sometimes when I’m naughty
I climb upon the stand,
And eat the cake and chicken,
Or anything at hand.
Oh, then they hide my saucer,
No matter how I mew;
And that’s the way I’m punished
For naughty things I do.
OUR SAILOR BOY.
MARK MERVIN.
URRAH! hurrah! here’s a letter from Tom—
A letter from Tommy across the sea;
The good Ship Rover is sailing home
With her blue flag flying so fair and free.
He sailed for China a year ago,
With a wonderful cargo, from far Hong Kong;
And he sang as he left us out on the pier,
“Good-bye, my hearties, I’ll not be long!â€
Oh, my boy Tom is as fair as the day,.
With his cheeks so fresh and his eyes so blue;
‘We used to laugh at his golden curls—
They looked so bright when the sun shone through.
Hurrah! hurrah! here’s a letter from Tom—
Have you seen it Maggie?— we're all so gay;
He sent this off in a shore-bound boat, :
And he'll try and be with us, he says, to-day.
WAKE UP, GIRLS, WAKE UP!
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
OFTEN hear girls say: ‘‘Oh, I’ve gota
new pattern for knit lace,†or, ‘I’ve
learned to make paper flowers.†Now, I
dare say knit lace will wear longer than
women; that paper flowers, well made, are
pretty decorations. These things are all well
enough for play; but how many of you do
anything useful?
This does not apply to that large class of
country girls who honestly work for their
living, and are therefore respectable and
respected; a girl who has sold goods all day
in a store, tended machines in a factory,
made or trimmed bonnets, sewed for a dress-
maker, can knit lace or make paper flowers
at her leisure, without remark or criticism
from me; she has earned a right to amuse-
ment of any harmless kind; but when I see,
as I do see often, girls who spend their time
walking, driving, doing fancy work, dancing
whenever they can, living —if this is living
—in a self-indulgent idleness, while their
fathers and mothers are working hard to
give them this leisure, I want to shake them.
Yes, undignified as it is, I want really to
shake them. I want to shout in their ears:
“Girls, wake up! What are you doing?
What did God make you for? Are you good
for anything in heaven above or earth be-
neath?â€
And, indeed, what are they good for? I
don’t think they are of any use at home;
they never get up in time for breakfast if
they can help it; they never offer to wash
the dishes, to sweep, to dust. If they make
their own beds it is under protest and com-
laint; and as for cooking! a Hottentot
nows better how to prepare a meal than the
nominally Christian girl; and their sewing
would not pass muster at an old-fashioned
dame school. They don’t help their mothers
in anything, not even by loving them; for
self-indulgence is a dry rot that eats out all
the moral affections, and leaves in their
place self-love, self-conceit, impatience of
control, disobedience, and all the repellent
traits that this self-center throws out from
its daily revolutions.
A WINTER FANCY,
JULIA H, MAY.
HE Summer is fast asleep
Under the winter snow;
Her bed is warm, her bed is deep,
Deeper than frosts can go.
She has slept for many a week —
Oh, I wish she would awake!
T long for the blush of her rosy cheek
And the music she will make,
Sometimes, when the south wind blows,
I fancy that I hear,
In the hush of the storm, an echo that goes
Into my longing ear.
Like the thrill of a robin’s note,
Or the murmur of growing things;
On the frosty air it seems to float, ;
Then mounts on a snow-flake’s wings.
<°Tis but the wind,†they say,
But my fancy J must keep:
The Summer ts pushing the snow away
And talking in her steep.
UPWARD AND ONWARD,
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
aan more thorough a man’s education is,
the more he yearns for and is pushed
forward to new achievement. The better a
man is in this world, the better he is com-
pelled to be. That bold youth who climbed
up the Natural Bridge, in Virginia, and
carved his name higher than any other,
found, when he had done so, that it was
impossible for him to descend,.and that his
only alternative was to go on and scale the
height, and find safety at the top. Thus it
is with all climbing in this life. There is
no going down. It is climbing or falling.
Every upward step makes another necdful,
and so we must go on until we reach heaven,
the summit of the aspirations of time.
.
=
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OUR SAILOR BOY.
“JACK, DEAR, COME HOME!â€
H@BE WATSON had a lovely canary
whom she called Jack, whose only fault
was that he would sing too much. Hé could
sing very sweetly, and when the fancy took
him he would sing for hours together. All
the talking and scolding in the world was in
vain. Phceebe would beg and plead, “Oh,
Jack, dear, do be quiet for a little while; â€â€”
but Jack would sing in spite of all. Then
Phoebe would take him into a dark closet,
but that didn’t matter, he would still sing.
Still, with all his noise, Jack was a great
favorite. His cage door was left open after
breakfast and he would hop about and sing.
One day, the door being open, Jack flew
away, and poor. little Phcebe’s heart was
almost broken. She called, and cried and
called, but all in vain. At last she put on
her hood and took the empty cage and wan-
dered all about the farm, and just as she was
returning home ‘very sad and weary, she
heard Jack’s voice. There he was in the
middle of the road. He seemed quite
delighted to see his little mistress, and Phoebe
opened the cage door and called to her little
feathered pet and said, ‘“‘ Jack, dear, come
home, and you may sing just as loud as you
wish.†Well, whether Jack understood it
all or not I don’t know. But one thing I
know, Jack flew into his cage and has never
flown away since.
MAN WAS MADE TO. TOIL.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
S for a little more money and a little
more time, why it’s ten to one if either
one or the other would make you a whit hap-
pier. If you had more time, it would be sure
to hang heavily. It is the working man who is
the happy man. Man was made to be active,
and he is never so happy as when he isso. It
is the idle man who is the miserable man.
What comes of holidays, and far too often of
sight-seeing, but evil? Half the harm that
dappens is on those days.
NEW-YEAR RESOLUTIONS.
E. L. BENEDICT.
pee were three little folks, long ago,
Who solemnly sat in a row,
On a December night,
And attempted to write
For the new year a good resolution
“s I will try not to ParaKe so much noise,
And be one of the quietest boys,â€
Wrote one of .the three,
Whose uproarious glee
Was the cause of no end of confusion. .
“‘T resolve that I never will take
More than two or three pieces of cake,â€
Wrote plump little Pete,
Whose taste for the sweet
Was a problem of puzzling solution.
The other, her paper to fill,
Began with, “Resolved, that I will —â€
‘And right there she stopped,
And fast asleep dropped,
Ere she came to a single conclusion.
LAST WORDS OF SOCRATES.
OCRATES was condemned to drink the
hemlock at Athens in his seventy-second
year, because his lofty teaching ran counter
to the prejudices and party spirit of his age.
He was charged by his accusers with cor-
rupting the youth of Athens by inciting
them to despise the tutelary deities of the
state. He had the moral courage to brave
not only the tyranny of the judges who con-
demned him, but of the mob who could not
understand him. He died discoursing of the
doctrine of immortality of the soul, his last
words to his judges being, ‘It is now time
that we depart—I to die, you to live; but
which has the better destiny is unknown to
all except to the God.â€
THE FLOWER ETERNAL.
HENRY W. AUSTIN.
Fats
Ts great!
Be our state
Importunate
Or most fortunate
We all come, soon or late,
Unto Death’s predestined date,
Which doth for some alleviate
Sorrows that for years gathered weight;
But ah!—-——how oft it doth abbreviate
Royal raptures that no language may translate—
Raptures of love — divine !—_—_—— if it were not for Fate!
Yet, on humblest graves, the flower of Faith still grows,’
More strange, more beautiful than Passion’s rose;
Flower of Faith, Love’s autumn bud, that shows
By its persistence through all times
And perfection in all climes
The reason of its bloom.
So, tho’ Doubt o’ergloom
With cloudy wraith,
Blooms more great
Than Fate
Faith |
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Hh i isi} Wah |
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RESTA mi
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“JACK, DEAR, COME HOME!â€
THE MAN IN THE MOON.
HE man in the moon who sails through the sky,
Is a most courageous skipper;
But he made a mistake when he tried to take
A drink of milk from the ‘‘ dipper.â€
He dipped it into the ‘‘ milky way,â€
And slowly, cautiously filled it;
But the ‘‘ Great Bear†growled and the ‘Little Bearâ€
howled, ;
And scared him so that he spilled it.
POOR BOYS WHO BECAME GREAT.
Aes ADAMS, second president, was the
son of a farmer of very moderate means.
The only start he had was a good education.
Andrew Jackson was born in a log hut in
North Carolina, and was raised in the pine
woods for which the state is so famous.
James K. Polk spent the earlier years of
his life helping to dig a living out of a new
farm in North Carolina. He was afterward
a clerk in a country store.
Milliard Fillmore was the son of a New
‘York farmer, and his home a very humble
one. He learned the business of a clothier.
James Buchanan was born in a small town
in the Allegheny mountains. His father cut
the logs and built his own house in what was
then a wilderness.
Abraham Lincoln was the son of a very
poor Kentucky farmer, and lived in a log
cabin until he was 21 years old.
Andrew Johnson was apprenticed to a tai-
lor at the age of ten years by his widowed
mother. He was never able to attend school
and picked up all the education he ever got.
General Grant lived the life of a common
boy in a common house on the banks of the
Ohio river until he was 17 years of age.
James A. Garfield was born in a log cabin.
He worked on the farm from the time he was
strong enough to use carpenter tools, when
he learned the-trade. He afterwards worked
on the canal. -
THE CRADLE AND THE NEST.
TRUE W. WILLIAMS.
RADLES are rocked and lullabys sung,
In the halls of the great with tapestry hung,
Cradles are rocked in the boughs on high
_And the wind sings lullabys sweeping by.
Baby heads curling with gold and brown,
Baby heads covered with feathers and down.
Homes in palaces—homes in the air, ;
But home is not home.without mother is there.
A COMMONPLACE LIFE.
“ susAN COOLIDGE.
COMMONPLACE life, we say, and we sigh;
But why should we sigh as we say ?
The commonplace sun in the commonplace sky
Makes up the commonplace day. :
The moon and the stars are commonplace things,
The flower that blooms, and the bird that sings;
But sad were the world, and dark our lot,
If the flowers failed and the sun shone not,
. And God, who sees each separate soul,
Out of commonplace lives makes his beautiful
whole.
A LESSON FROM THE GARDEN.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
es issaid that gardeners, sometimes, when
‘ they would bring a rose to richer flower-
ings, deprive it for a season of light and.
moisture. Silent and dark it stands, drop-
ping one fading leaf after another, and seem-
ing to go down patiently todeath. But when
every leaf is dropped, and the plant stands
stripped to the uttermost, a new life is even
then working in the buds, from which shall
spring a tender foliage and a brighter wealth
of flowers. So, often, in celestial gardenings,
every leaf of earthly joy must drop before a
new and divine bloom visits the soul.
AUNT MARIA’S STORY OF A PELICAN.
OME, I’ve a story, children dear,
It may be good to tell;
But you must listen carefully,
And think upon it well;—
Astory good for playmates all,
For sister and for brother,
Who think it hard for any one
To give up for another.
There is a bird of foreign lands
Of which strange tales are told,
And one strange tale, it seems to me,
I well might write in gold :—
That all for softness, all for warmth,
To line her quiet nest,
She plucks the down, the soft, warm down,
From her unselfish breast.
Now, as the nest to that wild bird
So is your home to you.
Let the wild bird’s unselfish life
Be like your home-life too :
Though it may sometimes cost you pain,
Give up without a frown
Your own for others, and you'll be
Like the good pelican, you see—
You'll line the nest with down.
=
AUNT MARIA’S STORY OF THE PELICAN,
THE EMPTY NEST.
EMILY H. MILLER.
\ \ ] E found it under the apple tree,
Torn from the bough where it used to swing,
Softly rocking its babies three,
Nestled under the mother’s wing.
This is a leaf, all shriveled and dry,
That once was a canopy overhead;
Doesn’t it almost make youcry —
To look at the poor little empty bed?
All the birdies have flown away;
Birds must fly, or they wouldn’t have wings;
Don’t you hope they’ll come back some day?
Nests without birdies are lonesome things.
Deep in the mother’s listening heart
Drops the prattle with sudden stings,
For lips may quiver and tears may start,
But birds must fly, or they wouldn’t have wings.
A CHILD’S EYES.
HON. MRS. NORTON.
CHILD’S eyes! those clear wells of unde-
filed thought; what on earth can be more
beautiful! Full of hope, love and curiosity,
they meet your own. In prayer, how ear-
nest; in joy, how sparkling ; in sympathy,
how tender! The man who never tried the
companionship of a little child has carelessly
passed by one of the great pleasures of life,
as one passes a rare flower without plucking
it or knowing its value. A child cannot un-
derstand you, you think: speak to it of the
holy things of your religion, of your grief
for the loss of a friend, of your love for
some one you fear will not love in return : it
will take, it istrue, no measure or soundings
of your thought ; it will not judge how much
you should believe; whether your grief is
rational in proportion to your loss; whether
you are worthy or fit to attract the love which
you seek ; but its whole soul will incline to
yours, and ingraft itself, as it were, on the
feeling which is your feeling for the hour.
CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS.
ANNIE M. BARTON.
9 IS Christmas Day,
Ae And little May
Peeps from her bed in the morning gray.
She looks around,
But not a sound
- Breaks on the quietness profound.
So, heaving sighs,
She shuts her eyes,
And hard to go to sleep she tries,
But sleep has fled
That little bed,
And wearily moves the curly head.
Until the light :
(Oh, welcome sight,)
Has banished every trace of night.
Then out of bed,
s With hurried tread,
She runs to waken brother Fred;
For oh, what joys,
In shape of toys,
Does Christmas bring to girls and boys?
Fred gives a groan,
Or sleepy moan,
And mutters, ‘‘Do let mealone!â€
But bonnie May
Will not have Nay,
She whispers, ‘‘It is Christmas Day!â€
Oh, magic sound!
For Fred turns round, ath
And in a trice is on the ground.
“Our stockings where?â€
“They’re on that chair.â€
“Oh what has Santa Claus put there?â€
May laughs with glee
The sight to see,
Of stockings filled from toe to knee
With parcels queer
That stick out here,
Before, behind, in front and rear.
“Oh, Fred! a dolly !
Tl call her Molly.â€
““Why, May, a penknifé here! how jolly P
“A necktie blue!
- A paint-box, too!
Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new !â€
“May, here’s a gun!
Won't we have fun,
Playing atsoldiers !—you'll be one.â€
“Now that is all.â€
‘*No, here’s a ball,
Just hold it, or these things will fall.â€
“What’s in the toe,
May, do you know?â€
“Biscuits and figs!—I told you so.â€
-“T think,†said May,
“That Christmas Day
Should come at least each second day.â€
And so say we;
But then you see,
That Santa Claus would tired be,
And all his toys,
And Christmas joys,
*Vould vanish then from girls and boys.
My
fy
HY Wy
Wi
i
“Gill He Shall
Give Me Light.â€
BELLA G. MASTERS.
dias! all the dewy morning,
Through all the golden day,
And when the quiet shadows
Fall soft around my way,
Beneath the sky's soft splendor,
All through the silent night,
Still I am waiting, waiting,
Till He shall give me light.
I feel the sweet, warm sunshine,
The kiss of balmy air,
And know the young spring’s footsteps
Have made the brown earth fuir;
I breathe the breath of roses,
In summer’s golden glow
And hear the reapers’ singing,
Adown the autumn row;
And through the long, cold winter,
When earth lies still and white,
Still Iam waiting, waiting,
Till He shall give me light.
EARS a
SLs
= at WS 5
RUS The faces of the children
2: LW ws That used to smile so fair,
rs SSNS My heart holds bitter grieving
To feel the darkness there.
I wonder of their seeming
What change my eyes might see,
If_in through all the darkness
Each face should shine on me.
But I’ve no time for grieving,
I hear the voices cry,
Im waiting by the roadside,
And ‘Jesus passeth by ;â€
And some time He will see me, -
And smile with sweetest grace,
And still my hungry longing
When I shall see His face.
RE :
ek
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fi
‘ee
¢f
fe
Zig
My feet hive grown so weary,
The long road almost o’er,
a hands have dropped their burden
hat they can bear no more,
But still my heart is watching,
His promise is its might;
My life is at its even
And soon it will be light.
Oh, sound of many harpers,
That echo far and sweet!
O, city of all glory,
T see your golden street!
Oh, throne of the Eternal,
And of the Crucified,
Oh, peace that passeth knowledge,
Oh, life beyond the tide,
Some day my soul shall greet you
With Heaven’s new gift of sight,
For I am waiting, waiting,
And He shall give me light.
Ihe Veiceof Â¥â€
the Helples
W.C. GARNETT.
PAN in birds for millinery purposes re-
ceived, when the fashion was at its height,
a single consignment of thirty-two thousand
dead humming birds; and at another time,
thirty thousand aquatic birds, and three hun- |\\\
dred thousand pairs of wings.
en
Think what a price to pay,
Faces so bright and gay,
Just for a hat!
Flowers unvisited,
Mornings unsung, Se
Sea-ranges bare of the wings that o’er- \ .
swung— 9
Bared just for that!
Think of the others, too, 1
Others and mothers, too, {
Bright eyes in hat!
Hear you no mother-groan \
Floating in air? \
Hear you no little moan—birdling’sdespair— { a
Somewhere, for that?
Caught mid some mother-work, ~
Torn by a hunter Turk,
Just for your hat!
Plenty of mother-heart
Yet in the world ;
All the more wings to tear, carefully twisted,
Women want that! .
Oh, but the shame of it,
Oh, but the blame of it,
Price of a hat!
Just for a jauntiness
Brightening the street !
This is your halo. Oh, faces so sweet—
Death: and for that !
eC ae
ql? re
SUH :
; AEN AA
Y
“raid Gat. |
OOR little Kitty! She has just been
taken from her motherand brought ) VR gee SAF
to the farm asa present for Florence. | ELE a
* Worence calls her a poor little ‘‘’Fraid
Cat.†She is hungry and wants some
milk butis afraid to come. Well, she
is very young and don’t know much.
But when she gets older and finds out
how kind and loving Florence is, she {’
will be as boldand merry as any cat
6 that ever chased a mouse or rat.
ie
17,
i
Sp pte eh epee ti ees re nt rr enn epee Sn A ERTS
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. ©
JOHN DENNIS.
E cannot walk, he cannot speak,
Nothing he knows of books and men,
He is the weakest of the weak,
And has not strength to hold a pen ;
He has no pocket, and no purse,
Nor ever yet has owned a penny,
But has more riches than his nurse,
Because he wants not any.
He rules his parents by a cry,
And holds them captive by a smile—
A despot, strong through infancy,
A king from lack of guile.
He lies upon his back and crows,
Or looks with grave eyes on his mother—
What can he mean? But I suppose
They understand each other..
Indoors or out, early or late,
There is no limit to his sway,
For wrapt in baby-robes of state,
He governs night and day.
Kisses he takes as-rightful due,
And Turk-like, has his slaves to dress him.
His subjects bend before him too ;
I’m one of them. God bless him!
A ROSE FROM HOMER’S GRAVE.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
A LL the songs of the east speak of the
love of the nightingale for the rose in
the silent starlight night. The winged song-
ster serenades the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant
drives hig loaded camels, proudly arching .
their long necks as they journey beneath the
lofty pines over holy ground, | saw a hedge
of roses. The turtle dove flew among the
branches of the tall trees, and as the sun-
beams fell upon her wings, they glistened as
if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-
bush grew a flower more beautiful than them
all, and to her the nightingale sung of his
woes; but the rose remained silent, not even
a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her
leaves. At last she bowed her head over a
heap of stones, and said, ‘Here rests the
greatest singer in the world; over his tomb
will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will
let my leaves fall when the storm scatters
them. He who sung of Troy became earth,
and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose
from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to
bloom for a nightingale.†Then the night-
ingale sung himself to death. A camel driver
came by with his loaded camels and his black
slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and
buried the lovely songster in the grave of the
great riomer, while the rose trembled in the:
wind.
The even’ .g came, and the rose wrapped.
her leaves more closely round her, and:
dreamed; and this was her dream:
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of
strangers drew near who had undertaken a.
pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among
the strangers was a minstrel from the north,
the home of the clouds and the brilliant auro-
raborealis. He plucked the rose and placed
it in a book, and carried it away into a dis-
tant part of the world, his fatherland. The
rose faded with grief, and lay between the
leaves of the book, which he opened in his.
own home, saying, ‘‘ Here is a rose from the
grave of Homer.â€
Then the flower awoke from her dream,
and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew
fell from the leaves upon the singer’s grave.
The sun rose, and the flowe