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MPRANY

NEW- YOR





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Finding Oat Where the Wind Gomes Erom,



BRIGHTEST NUGGETS

Stories, Cincedotes, Poems and fun for the Boys
and Girls, |

FROM SUCH AUTHORS AS

HENRY WARD BEECHER, BULWER-LYTTON, D. P. ROE, ELLA WHEELER WILCOX,
EDITH M. THOMAS, HELEN HUNT JACKSON, GEORGE McDONALD,
H. W. LONGFELLOW, AND OTHERS.



PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED.

COPYRIGHTED 1895, BY W. B, CONKEY COMPANY.

LONDON. - NEWYORK. - CHICAGO.
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.













































GHhe fairy ©ift Bag.

NAPA, said Lom Everard, atthe breakfast cabic, on the morning
J of his last birthday, ‘‘ 1 disremember when | ever had a birth-
day without a party.”

‘It must have been a long time ago, when you were a
iattle boy,’ said Mr. Everard, with a smile.

‘Tom was seven years old, had found the usual! silver dol-
lar under his plate that morning, and the beautiful sunshine streamed
in through the east window.

Tom has an idea that, somehow, the weather prophet, of whom
his father had told him, always looks out a good day for him; but there is one
thing that, should it fail, Tom would miss even more than the bright sunshine,
and that is his yearly party.

' Tf you would like to know why these birthday fetes of Tom’s are occasions
of particular interest to all his friends, let me describe to you his charming
home.

Tom lives in a large city and his father’s house is the only one in the whole
block which has a very large yard, enclosed at the back by a high fence, and
sloping away in a green lawn at the front. The old, yellow brick house, with
its pillared veranda, was built long ago, by Tom’s grandfather, when the city
was only a big town, and this house almost in the country. Back of the house
are fine shade trees, with hammocks and swings. 3

An old cak has steps leading up to its low, gnarled branches, upon which
the finest kind of seats have been built cut with boards; then there are apple
trees and the “squirrel corner,” where Tom’s tame bunnies climb the trees
or frisk into their little house and have great sport turning upon a curious
wheel.

Altogether Tom has one of the prettiest places in the city for a sum-
mer party.

This year ali the children came early and had even a better time than ever
before; there were games, a supper in the latticed summer-house, and lastly, a
fairy gift-bag.

This pretty surprise was planned by Tom’s mother, who tried, each year,
to have something different from the year before. It was a brown paper sack,
covered with bright fringes of crimped tissue paper and hung in the door-way
of the summer-house.

The “fairy god-mother,” within the bag. had her gifts s: cleverly arranged



Ht



—f

SSE







Se eee a ey eS

that whenever a boy or girl, with eyes blindfolded, struck the bag with a long

cane, out came a fine toy, at the end of a bright ribbon.

There were pink ribbons for the girls and apple-green ror the boys. At
last, when all had fallen out and were cut down, each guest was the owner of a
top, a game, a doll, or some other pretty favor.

But thencame the greatest surprise of all. Chariey Brown’s Aunt Sue
had come in to see the fun and was delighted with the new game.

‘‘How I wish,” said she to Mrs. Everard, ‘“‘that we could have one of these
for the Orphans’ Home picnic next week,” ‘Tell us all about it,” said Tom’s
mother.

So kind Miss Brown gathered all the children about her and told them of
the picnic which she and a number of other ladies were planning for the little
ones, who had no kind parents to give them pleasures.

All of Tom’s friends knew where the Home was. They could just see the
top of the big stone building through the trees.

‘“We shall go to the park,” said Miss Brown, ‘‘shall have a dinner under
the trees and a boat-ride. I had not thought of a fairy gift-bag for them until
I saw yours.”

Barbara Benton nad listened with glowing face. Barbara was ten years
old and very tender-hearted toward the orphans. ‘Oh, Mrs. Everard,”
said she, ‘“‘mayn’t we all join together and send this bag to the Home pic-
nic?”

Tom's mother was surprised at this new turn of affairs and hesitated, while
ner kind eyes rested lovingly upon the little company.

“These gifts are your very own, children, but as many as feel, with Bar-
bara, that you would rather give the orphans a treat than carry the toys home,
may replace them in the bag.

There was a ringing shout of ‘ We will!” from most of the children, and
when the party broke up, not more than half a dozen took home their favors.

One of these was Charley Brown, though Charley was often a generous lad.

“Tt’s just like Aunt Sue tryin’ to spoil all my fun,” said he, ‘ I’ve wanted
a box of cavalry soldiers, times and times, ’n she needn't think I’m goin’ to give
it away, when I’ve just got it.”

But Charley’s sleep was troubled that night, for he dreamed of the sad-
faced little orphans, and his soldiers did not seem nearly so nice when he awoke
the next morning.

Tom’s mother was just going through the hall, on her way to the break-
fast-table, when she heard Charley Brown's voice at the front door. “Why,
good-morning, Charlie,” she said. “‘ Wont you come in?’



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“Can't stop,’ said Charley Brown, “I just thought one of them fellars at
the Home 'd have'a better time with the cavalry men ’n I would, so I brought
‘em over.”

He was off like a flash and, turning a double somersault down the lawn
terrace, showed a very happy, round face as he turned the corner toward his
home.

And thus it happened that the Orphans’ Home children had a shower of
pretty presents from the fairy gift-bag.

They were so happy that they thought the year was turned around and

Christmas had come in the summer-time.
—Mrs. CHARLES E. BREWSTER.

3 yo NIP.
4 57

P\ellic’s @irthday-Party.

“OME months ago Chrissy Lee had a birthday party, and when
she came to invite Kitty Grey, who was two years older than
Nellie, she said: ‘I’m not going to invite you, Nellie; you are so
much younger than we are.’

Nellie’s feelings were sadly hurt. She went away and cried
about it. But when the cry was over she wiped her eyes and began to think.

Then she ran to mamma and asked if she might have a party when her
birthday came.

“And then,” said she, “I'll invite all the little bits of things, so they wont
feel badly.”

The day came, and the invitations went out to all her little playmates and
their younger brothers and sisters. Anda gay company it was. Mamma pro-
vided toys of all kinds, games and picture books. Nellie devoted herself to
the very youngest, and mamma and Kitty played with the older ones.

When they went home Nellie sat down in her little chair and leaned her
head on mamma’s lap.

“I’m se tired, mamma, but I’m so happy. I asked Jesus to make my
birthday party a real good time; you know what I mean, mamma, without any
troubles or quarrels. And, mamma, Chrissy said: ‘I wish now I had invited
you to my party; and I said: ‘Oh, never mind, Chrissy,’ and I tried to say it
as pleasant as I could, so she shouldn't know I felt hurt.”

ay























































































NO, THANK YOU, TOM.

HEY met, when they were girl and boy,
Going to school one day,

And ‘‘won’t you take my peg-top, dear?”
Was all that he could say.

She bit her little pinafore,
Close to his side she came,

She whispered, ‘‘ No! no, thank you, Tom,”
But took it all the same.

They met one day, the selfsame way,
When ten swift years had flown;

He said, ‘‘I’ve nothing but my heart,
But that is yours alone.”

“And won’t you take my heart?” he said,

And called her by her name;

Ske blushed and said, ‘‘ No, thank you, Tom,”
But took it all the same.

And twenty, thirty, forty years,
Have brought them care and joy,
She has the little peg-top still,
He gave her when a boy.
‘ ‘* [ve never brought you fame;”
She whispers, ‘‘ No, no, thank you, Tom,
You’ve loved me all the same.”
—F. LE. Weatherly,

ON VENTNOR DOWNS.

HAVE traveled much in many lands, but

I have not seen many more lovely spots
in this beautiful world than the Isle of Wight,
which lies, like a gem in the ocean, on the
southern coast of England. It is divided
from the main land by the river Solent.
Standing on one of the crowded quays at
Portsmouth, and looking over the rippling
waters of the “narrow stream ” to that fair
garden beyond, its quiet, peaceful beauty
becomes all the more impressive by its con-
trast with the noise and bustle of this busy
port. It was this contrast that inspired
Isaac Watts with that beautiful hymn which
describes the heavenly land, as a land of
perpetual spring-time, where the flowers
never fade, and the beauty never grows
dim. Looking out from his study window
over the placid Solent to the fair, green
fields of the Wight, the Christian poet sang
of another and a fairer land:

‘ There everlasting Spring abides,
And never withering flowers;

Death like a narrow sea divides
This heavenly land from ours.”

This little island has figured considerably
in history. On the eastern coast, is Carris-
brooke Castle, where Charles I. was im-
prisoned for a while; and it is here, he is
said to have written that pathetic poem, in
which, with the prospect of execution im-

says he,



mediately before him, he appealed from
his earthly cares to the comfort of the King
of Kings. A few miles from this old castle
is the summer residence of the poet Tenny-
son. I was quite as anxious to see the
home of the author of “ The May Queen,”
and “In Memoriam,” as the Castle-prison
of the King. I found it at iast, half buried
in a shady wood. Just beyond, a field of
lavender in full bloom waved its purple
beauty and wafted its perfume; and all
about the poet’s home flowers were bloom-
ing, and the gentle murmur of the sea came
over the jutting cliffs and mingled with the
songs of birds. On the western coast of
the island, the Queen of England has a
summer residence, called Osborne. But if
there is a busy spot in the island it is Ven-
tor. It is worth going a thousand miles to
gain the view from Ventnor Downs. Though
why they call these majestic hills “downs”
I-don’t know. After climbing for half an
hour you feel that they ought to be called
“ups” rather than “downs.” On the pre-
vious page is a picture of a pleasant little
group who have climbed the downs; they
are all tired, and glad to rest. Aunt Hilda
and Flossie, and Laura and Mabel and Kit,
and poor weary Jim—whose attitude is more
easy than graceful—sprawling on the rich
grass declares that he can never walk down,
he'll just Lave to roll home. There are
wild flowers in abundance, and the golden
corn waves in perfect splendor. Over the
cliff is the deep blue sea and there are the
ships passing to and fro. All agree that the
sight is worth the climbing, and Aunt Hilda
says that all through life we shall find out
that the visions on the summits of the hills
will well repay the climbing.—Z/mo.



a

ALWAYS BEAR IN MIND

Ape there is no resurrection for a dead oppor-

tunity
_ Thata little of everything really amounts to noth-
ing.
That nothing can come out of a sack but what is
in it.

That itis much easier to be critical than to be
correct.

That the good paymaster is lord of another
man’s purse.

That there would be no shadows if there were no
sunshine.

That the only way to learn the value of a dollar is
to earn one,

That to-morrow has no overflow to make good
lost yesterdays.



QS PSE From SE SSS
BEST foe eh Soe Se oo BS OS Se PS
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See SS
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EGE See ee aie = Sn e nee es
LS



THE HELPLESS, HAPLESS POOR.



THE HELPLESS, HAPLESS POOR.

pee is no dishonor in being poor
unless that poverty is the direct result
of idleness, or. improvidence, or vice. In
this happy land there is, generally speaking,
plenty of work for willing hands, and much
of the poverty that exists is the result of
idleness, or drink, or both. The saddest
thing concerning this whole matter is, that
idleness and vice entail suffering on those
who have done no wrong. The wife and
children of the idler and the drunkard have
to suffer the pangs of cold and hunger, and
many alittle grave is filled by the wicked and
wilful neglect of idle dissipated fathers.
Boys beware of idleness! It is a deadly
enemy to all that is beautiful and honorable
in life. The grandest law of life is the law
of labor. Where all things work, where sun
and moon and stars shine, where flowers

bloom, and birds sing, an idle boy is out of

lace. God makes the noblest men out of
onest, truthful, industrious boys.

CHARITIE.
JOHN RUSKIN.

FT\HE beams of morning are renewed,
The valley laughs their light to see ;
And Earth is bright with gratitude,
And Heaven with Charitie.

O, dew of Heaven! O, light of Earth!
Fain would our hearis be filled with thee,

Because nor darkness comes, nor dearth,
About the home of Charitie.

God guides the stars their wandering way,
He seems to cast their courses free,

But binds unto Himself for aye:
And all their chains are Charitie,

When first He stretch’d the signéd zone,
And heaped the hills, and barred the sea,
Then Wisdom sat beside His throne,
But His own word was Charitie.

And still, through every age and hour,
Of things that were and things that be,

Are breathed the presence and the power,
Of everlasting Charitie.

By noon and night, by sun and shower,
By dews that fall and winds that flee,

On grove and field, on fold and flower,
Is shed the peace of Charitie.

The violets light the lonely hill,
The fruitful furrows load the lea:
Man’s heart alone is sterile still,
For lack of lowly Charitie.

He walks a weary vale within,
No lamp of love in heart hath he ;

His steps are death, his thoughts are sin,
For lack of gentle Charitie, .

Daughter of Heaven! we dare not lift
The dimness of our eyes to thee,

O, pure and God-descended gift!
O, spotless, perfect Charitie.

Yet forasmuch thy brow is crost

With blood-drops from the deathful tree,
We take thee for our only trust,

O, dying Charitie.

Ah! Hope, Endurance, Faith—ye fall like death,
But Love an everlasting crown receiveth ;

For she is Hope, and Fortitude, and Faith :
Who all things hopeth, beareth and believeth.



THE STARRY HEAVENS.
HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD.

UT lie still in your hammock and see
B the stars come out when the afterglow
has faded. The Pleiades are still with us,
as in the earlier days when the stars sang to-
gether, and Arcturus still waves his torch
aloft, and stately Saturn circles with his
rings throughout the blue dome. The con-
stellations known to the oldest time still
keep their ordered ways, as when the shep-
herds gazed upon them in the solemn mid-
night centuries.ago. And their magic and
their mystery still stir the heart of man as in
the dim morning of time. The hosts of them
are still unnumbered and numberless as they
sail the illimitable deep of heaven, and no
man hath yet comprehended in smallest
measure the vastness of their creation. The
starry heavens open up infinity to us as per-
haps no other part of creation can do. _Imag-
ination may take her highest, flights, but she
cannot begin to conceive of what is revealed
to us for our study upon every starlit night.
But lo! in the east there comes a golden
glory, and the Queen of Night is ushered in.
What enchantment there isin her presence—
how quickly she changes the whole face of
nature. How garish and harsh the daylight
seems when we are flooded with moonlight.
How coarse and common is the world when
the sun shines beside the world that. lies
bathed in the subdued radiance of the moon.
What a softener of outlines is the new light.
Nothing is ungraceful in the moonlight,
nothing unattractive. The gnarled old trees
are softened, the rude fences straggle grace-
fully, and the rough bushes have a drapery
of shadow that transfiguresthem. The earth
become a fairyland as at the moving of a wand,
Bnd we forget the common cares.of lifo and

ream,










OW busy the children were, knitting
7 i and sewing
t For grandmother's Christmas-tree!
There were lace caps and wristers
and woolen shoes growing
Into beautiful objects to see!

Ee I Pg ge ETRE ENE
9 =

It was the notion of Susie, the youngest ofall,

That the surprise should be grandma’s this
year;

“She’s such a nice lady, in such a nice shawl,

And her footsteps are trembling and queer!

“She’s got bonbons that nobody scolds me
for eating,
And dolls that aze tiny and stout,
Which she gives me when somebody else
: has been treating
Me badly!” Sue lisped, with a pout.

So it soon was decided to accept these rea-
sons
Why grandma should have this great honor;
And her presents were made on the sly at
all seasons
With loving delight by each donor.

Dear grandma was dressed in silken array,
. When the bright Christmas Eve had come
round;
| And the doors flung aside, lo! out shot a ray
| From each twig on the huge fir’s dark ground!

} Andpresents—they dangled in crowds every-
where,
Till it looked like a fairy’s bazar;
| And the children cried out, with pride in
i their air: ;
“This fine tree is for you, grandmamma!”
§
; Then grandmother stared, and grandmother
laughed,
© And she courtesied in old-fashioned style,
“And she piped: “I declare, I believe I’ve
gone daft,
(Or have fallen to dreaming awhile!
H2

PS

RIES ES TI BO



©randmother’s @hristmas Gree.

“Well, well, little pets, I'll accept the bright
tree,

That shall light me far on my old way;

And now take your presents, which I hope
will be

Worthy children so kind and so gay!”

So down sat old grandma inher high-backed
old chair;

But they brought to her gift after gift,

With many a speech and well-wishing prayer,

Till her treasures she scarcely could lift.

‘For nobody else,” cried the children in glee,

“Can have presents at this Christmas-tide!

Papa says perhaps that at New Year's there’ll
be

Something for us!” (Their hope they can't
hide).

“But, grandma, you have been so kind and
so sweet,

And asked nothing of us at all,

That no wonder we gave you these presents
so neat—

Are you sure that you've quite seenthem all?”

And up the old lady got then with a look

That shone as a girl’s for delight;

And raising both hands, which like autumn
leaves shook,

She blessed them on left and on right.

The effect upon Sue, of the blessing, was this,

That she sang out a nursery song,

And danced down the room with a face full
of bliss,

While the others all scampered along;

And round the tall tree they joined hands in
a ring,
And capered and crowed full of glee;
Their kind thoughts had made such a capital
thing
Of their gay Christmas Eve, as you see,
—Rost HAWTHORNE LATHROP.



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THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

1 the ninth month of the Jewish year,

corresponding nearly to our December,
and on the twenty-fifth day, the Jews cele-
brated the Feast of Dedication of their
Temple. It had been desecrated on that
day by Antiochus. It was rededicatcd by
Judas Maccabeus, and then, according to
the Jewish legend, sufficient oil was found
in the temple to last for the seven-branched
candlestick for seven days, and it would
have taken seven days to prepare new oil.
Accordingly, the Jews were wont on the
twenty-fifth of Kisleu in every house to
light a candle, the next day two, and so on,
till on the seventh and last day of the feast
seven candles twinkled in every house. It
is not easy to fix the exact date of the Nativ-
ity, but it fell, most probably, on the last
day of Kisleu, when every Jewish house in
Bethlehem and Jerusalem were twinkling
with lights. It is worthy of notice that the
German name for Christmas is Wehnacht,
tne Night of Dedication, as though it were
associated with thisfeast. The Greeks also
call Christmas the Feast of Lights; and in-
deed this was also a name given tothe Dedi-
cation Festival,—Chanuka, by the Jews.
In every house the seven-nozzled lamp, or
seven-branched candlestick, symbolized the
seven-branched candlestick in the Temple.
This latter was, moreover, made like a tree,
and each lamp was like a flower on the tree.
Lightfoot thus condenses the description
give of itin Exodus: <‘‘ The foot was gold,
from which went up a shaft straight, which
was the middle light. Near the foot was a
golden dish, wrought almondwise, and a
little above that a golden knop, and above
that a golden flower. Then two branches,
one on each side, bowed, and coming up as
high as the middle of the shaft. On each
of them were three golden cups, placed al-
mondwise iu sharp scollop-shell fashion,
above which was a golden knop, a gol-
den flower, and the socket. Above the
branches at the middle shaft was a golden
boss, above which rose two more shafts;
above the curving out of these was another
boss and two more shafts, and then on the
shaft upwards were three golden _scollop-
cups, a knop, and a flower; so that the heads
of the branches stood at an equal height.”
This is according to the representation of
the candlestick on the Arch of Titus.
Many seven-branched candlesticks were in

use in the German churches in the Middle
Ages; the most magnificent that remains is
one in the cathedral of Essen, dating from
1008, standing nearly nine feet high. An-
other is-at Brunswick, standing nearly four-
teen and a half feet high. Many others ex-
ist. The writer saw a very beautiful iron-
work stand of seven candles in Iceland, made -
in imitation of angelica leaves. He was told
that this was only lighted on Christmas Eve.
In Milan is one of the thirteenth century,
called the Tree of the Virgin, with four
rivers represented as flowing from the base.
Yggdrasill had but three. A superb tree
of seven branches was presented to Canter-
bury in the twelfth century; another to
Winchester by King Canute in 1085. An-
thony Beck, Bishop of Durham, bequeathed
what seems to be one of silver gilt, with an
image of the Virgin and Child at the foot,
to his cathedral. The blessed Virgin takes
the place of the Norse Hertha by the well
or spring. A seven-branched candlestick.
remains at Litchfield, several remain in
France, at Lyons, Angers, Tours, Vienne.
They were placed at the entrance to the
choir, and were certainly lighted at the mid-
night mass on Christmas Eve, as the Pas-
chal Candle was lighted at Easter.

BEAUTY THE GIFT OF LOVE.
ALICE CARY.
Wwe tread through fields of speckled flowers
/ As if we did not know

Our Father made them beautiful
Because He loves us so.

MEDDLESOME MATTIE.

OOR little Mattie was a motherless
child, who lived with her sister Kate,
at her grandmother’s in a little cottage on
one of those bleak hillsides that abound in
the Northwest near. Canada. Kate had a
yery sharp, new pen knife in her work bas-
ket, and Mattie had been warned many
times about meddling with it. But Mattie
was very meddlesome, and so spite of all
warnings she would try what the peh-knife
would do, and alas! for her she came very
near cutting her thumb off. If Kate and
her grandmother had not been on hand to
bind up the wounded thumb and stay its
bleeding it is hard to tell what might have
happened. Mattie has learned a lesson,
however, that she will not soon forget.



On Sonday [wash my dollie’s clothes,
On Guesclay smoolhly foress ‘em,
On Weelnesclay mend their little hose,

On Ghursday neally cleess ‘em,

i On Friday I play they're laleen ill,
| On Saturday something or olher,
Bul when Sunday comes, Tsay, Lie still,
Ln going 1o chupeh wilh motljer.”

Lip
cir df ¢



Lh
‘ cc Wits








with tiny cracks and don’t happen tobe dressed like your other
dolls. I know I look funny and old-fashioned to you, but really
my heart is as young as ever it was.

And when your grandmama was a little girl this way of wear-
ing the hair was very fashionable, and it was considered quite
vulgar to wear heels on one’s shoes, and so mine were made as
you see, and were thought very genteel, indeed.

I was so happy yesterday, for Miss Martha said that we were to have com-
pany, and she took me out of my box, where I had_ been laid away for so long
that it is a treat to get out of my paper wrappings.

Her “grand-niece,’ she said. So youare her grand-niece! Well! you favor
your grandmama, child. You are very like what she was at your age: the
same yellow hair and laughing mouth, only your eyes are not so blue nor your
skin so fair as hers was. Or am I forgetting? Was it her sister Betsy who
waslight? Yes, it was Betsy; I remember now, your grandmama was quite dark.
How one dees forget in seventy years!

I am a little stiff, you notice, but it’s no wonder, forit is fully twenty years
since I was last out of my box; then, too, we were taught in my time to stand
or sit very straight and stiff, and habits grow very strong upon one, you know.

How well I remember the last time Miss Martha had me out. Twenty
years ago—that was long before you were born, my dear. They gave me to your
Aunt Lucy to play with, I recollect. I don’t like to speak ill of your kinfolk,
child, but really your Aunt Lucy was a very rude girl. She laughed at my
oddly-dressed hair and made fun of my flat feet, and made the most odious
comparisons between me and an ill-bred china doll that she carried; and she
stuck pins into me to such an extent that I assure you I had a pain in my in-
side for hours.

She is a woman now and I understand that she is very well mannered and
gentle, but somehow it always gives me a turn even to think of her.

And your Uncle Rob, your great-uncle I mean, he used to tease me too.
He once tied me tothe cat’s back and I was terribly frightened. To this day I
am afraid of cats and china dogs.

-I know it sounds silly, but I cannot overcome my fear of china dogs. Now
your grandmama had one, a brown and white one, that used to sit upon the
parlor mantel, and he looked very gentle indeed, when, really, he was a most



BS

e a













ferocious beast. I had it from a friend of mine who heard him growl savagely
atthe cat worked upon your grandmama’s sampler. My friend fainted with
fright and remained unconscious for fully forty minutes, until she was aroused
by the striking of your great-grandfather’s clock and the whirring of the wheels
as the heavy weights ran down.

But I was telling you how your great-uncle, Rob, tied me to the cat’s back.
I was wearing a pink muslin frock anda buff pelisse and a tippet that your
grandmama had just finished. I always tried to keep my clothes neat and tidy
and so I was lying quite still upon the shelf, that my new finery should not be-
come mussed.

Robespied meand he called the cat. I can hear his voice now as he called,
“Puss, nice pussy, come here, puss.” Strange how one can recalla voice after
seventy years! Puss came, suspecting no mischief, and in a twinkling Rob had
tied me to herback with a stout piece of pack-thread, and she was tearing
across the yard at such a mad pace that I was breathless with fear.

I think that Rob was frightened when he saw this, for he had meant no harm,
but only to have a bit of sport. Away we flew into the barn and up on the hay-
mow, when the string broke and I felt myself slipping down—down toward the
horses’ manger. My love, I cannot tell you my sensations asI felt the hot
breath of the great monsters, but they only pushed me to one side, where Rob

soon found me.
5 He carried me back and laidmeon my shelf, but my tippet was lost and my
pelisse torn and ruined; and there was a large ugly crack across my neck; lift
up my gold beads, dear, and you can see it now.

Rob bought these beads as a peace-offering, and your grandmama tied
them on with her own hands. I havenever had them off since then. Be careful,
dear, the silk thread may have become tender with age and it might break easily,
and I should not like anything to happen to them.

It may sound sentimental, but I should like always to keep them on ac-
count of Rob. Poor lad! it must be fifty odd years since he was drowned.

I can't tell you the story, child, for whenever I think of him such a lump
comes in my throat that it opens the old crack, and I cannot speak at all.

Well! well how I have run on, and really my throat begins to ache, and you
must notice that my voice is growing husky. I dare say it’s because I can’t help
thinking of your great-uncle, dear, but I think I must stop talking now.

Lay me down carefully, child, for I am not so young as I once was, andI
feel quite fatigued. There! that will donicely. How gentle youare, my dear,
quite like what your grandmama was seventy years ago.























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































TOBOGGANING AT MONTREAL.

Se ae said there was a time for every-
thing under the sun. A time for laugh-
ter and a time for tears, a time for toiling
and atime for rest. But it really seems as
if in these later years all times and seasons
were devoted to enjoyment. In the spring-
time we wander through the woodlands
gathering the wild flowers; in the summer
and the early autumn, we go away for a vaca-
tion and climb the mountains or ramble by
the lake shore or the sea. But the winter is
now made as joyful as the spring or summer.
The winter that we were accustomed to
call dark and- cold and drear, is now as
merry as the laughing month of June, and
from the frost and snow of January we have
plucked the most entrancing of out-door de-
lights. In St. Paul and at Montreal great
palaces are erected. every winter of huge
blocks of ice, that in sunlight or in moon-
light flash and gleam like those fairy palaces
that sometimes come to us in our dreams.
In Montreal, especially, the great delight of
the people is in that grandest of out-door
sports—tobogganing. This pastime is prob-
ably of Indian origin. The illustration on
the next page will give a good idea of the
game. The swiftness with which the tobog-
gan comes down the snowy hill is most in-
vigorating, and though accidents sometimes
happen, there is really very little danger if
ordinary care is exercised. Tobogganing has
become exceedingly popular, and thousands
of people visit Montreal in the winter for
the sake of these most delightful sports.
Perhaps it is a little tiresome to drag the
empty toboggan up the hill, but the speed
of the descent, which is almost like flying
through the frosty air, amply repays for all
the up-hill toiling.

THE STORY OF GRUMBLE-TONE.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

ESERE was a boy named Grumble-Tone, whe
ran away to sea.

“Tm sick of things on land,” he said, ‘‘as sick as I
can be!

A life upon the bounding wave will suit-a lad like
me.”

The seething ocean billows failed to stimulate his
mirth,

For he did not like the vessel or the dizzy, rolling

berth;

And he thought the sea was almost as unpleasant as
the earth,

He wandered into foreign lands; he saw each won-
drous sight;

But nothing that he heard or saw seemed just ex:
actly right; _

ads he journeyed on and on, still seeking for de
ight.

He talked with kings and ladies fair, he dined at
courts, they say,
But always found the people dull, and longed to get

away,
To search for that mysterious land where he would
like to stay.

He wandered over all the world, his hair grew white
as snow;

He reached that final bourne at last where all of us
must go,

But never found the land he sought.
would you know?

The reason

The reason was that, north or south, where e’er his
steps were bent —

On land or sea, in court or hall, he found but dis-
content;

For he took his disposition with him everywhere he
went,





BUSY IDLERS.
BULWER LYTTON.

DLERS are the most busy, though the

least active of men. Men of pleasure
never have time for anything. No lawyer,
no statesman, no bustling, hurrying, restless
underling of the counter is so eternally occu-
pied as a lounger about town. He is linked
to labor by a series of indefinite nothings,

GOOD-NIGHT.

Goer eat ! the sun is setting,
‘*Good-night!” the robins sald
And blue-eyed dolls and blue-eyed girls

Should soon be following.
Come! lay the Lady Geraldine

Among the pillows white;
Tis time-the little mother kissed

Her sleepy doll good-night.

And Willie, put the cart away,
And drive into the shed
The pony and the muley cow;
’Tis time to go to bed.
For, listen! in the lilac tree
The robin does not sing;
‘* Good-night!” he sang, and tucked his head
Beneath his weary wing.

Soon all the world will go to rest,
And all the sky grow dim;

God “‘ giveth His beloved sleep,”
So we may trust in Him.

The Lord is in the shadow,
And the Lord is in the light,

To guard His little ones from harm;
Good-night, dear hearts, good-night!



ANARY

iN AC



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MAMMA!

T'S ‘‘Mamma!” here and ‘‘ Mamma!” there,
‘Till Iam like to drop;

“It’s ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ all the time,
O, will it never stop?

“Tt’s ‘Mamma! Mamma! Mamma’ till
It would wear out a saint!”

Ah, poor, tired mother! Thus I hear
You oft-times make complaint.

But when the quiet night descends,
And every voice is still;

O does no vague but haunting fear
Your gentle bosom fill?

O, does no sudden heart-throb make
You seek the children’s beds,

And call Heaven’s blessings down upon
Their precious, curly heads?

Their little hands make mischief, and
Their little feet make noise;

But, O, what could you do without
These naughty girls aud boys?

Ah, think of lonely mothers who
All day in silence sit;

Across those hearthstones nothing now
But ghostly shadows flit!

Ah, think of those who never hear
The sweet child voices call;

Whose empty arms reach out to find
No little ones at all!

rHE NEED OF THE WORLD IS PEACE.

E. P. ROE.

i impressed with the truth that peace is
the chief need of the world—the chief

need of every human heart. Beyond suc-

cess, beyond prosperity, beyond happiness,

is the need of peace—the deep, assured rest
of the soul that is akin to the eternal calm-
ness of Him who spake the words of peace.

AT SUNSET TIME.

HE painted shadows fall
From the church windows tall;
Its pictured saints look down
Upon the quaint old town,
: At sunset time.

No tramp of horses’ feet

Disturbs the quiet street;

The distant hill-tops seem

Wrapt in a halcyon dream,
At sunset time.

A bird flits to and fro
Above the branches low,
And sings in monotone
Qf joys forever flown,
At sunset time.

Strange shadows, floating, rise
Across the evening skies,
As daylight wanes apace
In this sequestered placz,
At sunset time.

The glowing tints grow dim,
And faintly, like a hymn
Heard through the half-closed gate. .
They fade—and it is late,
At sunset time.

Pale watcher! though the night

Shall quench yon rays of light,

Know that all sorrows cease,

And troubling sinks to peace,
At sunset time.

We seek the fields where bright

Streams run, and lilies white

And fadeless roses grow—

Where deathless summers glow,
At sunset time.

There is the perfect rest!

In pilgrims’ garments drest,

We march, with staff in hand,

Straight to the Sunset Land,
At sunset time.



HOW TO TRAIN A CANARY.

ee the cage on a table near where you
wish to sit; after a little conference with
the bird, introduce a finger between the
wires near the favorite perch, holding it
there patiently, yourself occupied with book
or paper the while. Presently, as it shows
no disposition to harm him, he cautiously
goes up to examine it. Then he picks to
ascertain its quality, maybe he fights it.
That is well; heno longer fears it. Pay him
with a little bird food, put him away. Next
day try him again. He may go further and
light on it, or he may be several days getting
thus familiar. Be patient. Once this step
is attained, vary the programme by intro-
ducing the finger in other spots. He will
soon light on it at any point or angle. Then
try the door, at first thrusting the finger
under it, next time fasten it open, blockad-
ing egress with the rest of the hand as one
finger extends within. When he perches on
it draw him forth a little, next time tempt
him to the perch outside a little, and so on.
In a short time you have but to open the
cage door, uplift a finger, and he is sure to
fly for it; and he may thus be called to any
part of the room to rest on the familiar
perch. Most birds learn this familiarity in
a few days, yet there are those which will be
two to four weeks about it,



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A BLIND BOY'S SONG.

HANNAH F. GOULD.













Ky

Â¥ i

Bi\ tell me the form of the soft summer afr, \ 4 :
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair! ‘ Ua .

It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek, h fl :
I

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EAN

\ \
Yet gives me no answer though often I speak,
I feel it play o’er me refreshing and kind, f
Yet I cannot touch it—I’m blind! Oh! I’m blind! |
f

And music, what is it? And where does it dwell?

I sink and I mount with its cadence and swell,

While touched to my heart with its deep thrilling
strain, u

*Till pleasure— till pleasure is turning to pain. Ws)

What brightness of hue is with music combined ? iw \

Will any one tell me? I’m blind! Oh! I’m blind! vA




Wh. 9. & ig
The perfumes of flowers that are hovering nigh, B nt Ta





What are they? On what kind of wings do they a Te

WS TANI
Are they not sweet angels, who come to delight 24 aN \\ Vy WN Nh
A poor little boy who Knows nothing of sight? 2: i NY AY iN

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The sun, moon and stars are to me undefined, \ \ : \\
Oh! tell me what light is! I’m blind! Oh! I’m Ws \S “\
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blind! Wi
SW



Gom’s \@ish.

WISH I could always, always play



Every minute of every day,

Just as long as I ever shall live,”

Cried little Tom Temple one day. ‘I'd give
My dollar bill and my old dog Turk,

If I never again should have to work.’

“Ho, ho, ha, ha,” laughed Tom’s grandpapa,

“TI can fix that, sir, with your good mamma:

Give me the dog and your dollar bill,

And I pledge you my word you may have your will—
No more work, but just play, play, play,

Every minute of every day.”

“I guess, mamma,” said our Tom that night,
“That just all play isn’t—well, not quite

So very nice as I thought it would be,
Because—because—well, don’t you see,

You work and I ought to help some too,
Because—to show how much I love you.”

—WILLIAM Norris BuRR,

HPSS

~ Byow to \@Baik.

Throw back your shoulders, if you can,



; And give your lungs full room to play,
Toe out, not in, like a circus clown:
Just let your arms hang loosely down,

| And walk as though you knew the way.

; —?P, T,





rere '
iotinge
ees

THR TrIGRESS AND HER CUBS AT HOMBE..





The Royal Tiger.

SSS >*F ==




He es L, the beasts of the field and the woods are afraid of the
Royal Tiger. The elephant, and rhinoceros, and the deer;
the horses, cattle, and mules are afraid of him; the
. monkeys are afraid of him; and men and women and
iF children are very much afraid of him.

He kills them when he can, and eats them, too. These
Tigers are found in Asia, and in the islands of Java and Sumatra.
They live in the thick jungles. There they crouch under the
long, drooping branches of the trees, and wait for their prey—
an animal, or a man.

Somietisties they spring into the trees, and lie upon the branches. For
a tiger can spring like a cat. He zs a big cat; he is big enough to carry
off a deer, or an ox, in his mouth.

If you should see a tigress playing with her babies, you would think
Ithem very pretty. She washes them, and pats them, and cuffs them, just
Hike a cat. The mother looks very gentle. She does not show her teeth
nor her claws. But what frightful claws she has!

A man once had a ride on a tiger’s back, in the jungle. He was out
lwith a party, hunting for tigers. She hunters all rode on elephants.

Suddenly out from the bushes, sprang a huge tigress. She leaped upon
an elephant, seized the rider in her teeth, tossed him upon her shoulders,
pnd ran off with him. At first he fainted with fright and pain; for the

)




t the bushes; then he remembered his pistols. They were in his belt. He
a ew one and fired at the tigress’ head, but she kept right on. He fired
Bee's and she pet down dead; and sm he escaped,

UNCLE Gen,



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BEN EZRA AND HIS BASKET OF BREAD AND FISHES,





BEN EZRA AND HIS BASKET OF
BREAD.

THOMAS W. HANDFORD.

EARCHING through the note-books of

an old fellow student, who had spent
some years in travei through Greece, Egypt
and the Holy Land, partly in search of health
and partly from-lové of travel, but who died
- all too soon, leaving me his well-thumbed
Greek testament, a German finte, and six or
seven note-bonks as a legacy, I came across
. some rough notes — half story, half legend —
which I thought worth transcribing for the
readers of these pages. My old friend spent
some months on the shores of-Galilee during
‘the fishing season, and although, as he says
in his journal, he was:pained to find that the
sacred memories that ought to cling forever
about the shores.and waters of.Galilee are
fast dying out, and such as remain: are gen-
erally made:the medium of extorting money
from the too credulous visitor, yet here and

there he met a man or woman-who kept these —

memories green for love of Him who trod
_ these shores and hushed the noisy tempest to
an abiding calm. One old fisherman he

. found who had quite a store of legends of -

the days of Christ, and who seemed to know
_ every spot of interest in that deeply interest-
ing region. One day this fisherman took my
‘old class-mate to Cana, where the wedding

feast was held-at which Jesus was present.:

After pointing out certain supposed relics of
that memorable occasion, he took him to the
-home of ‘the descendant of an old Jewish
“Rabbi who who was possessed of a treasure
‘known as ‘‘ Ben Ezra’s.-Basket.”-. Old
Lemuel Ezra set great store by this treasure,
_ as was manifested by the care he took of it.
He had a beautiful box of polished olive
wood inlaid with silk, in which he kept this
basket, which was a plain, strong, common
basket about two feet long, eighteen inches
wide, and about eight inches. deep. But
what made this plain, common basket 80
- precious inthe sight of Lemuel Ezra? It
was the identical basket that his honored
ancestor,.Ben Ezra, carried when a boy, in
~his wanderings with his- Uncle Philip and
the other followers of Jesus Christ. Ben
_ Ezra was the only son of Miriam, the sister

of Philip, and she was a widow. Very

early in the ministry of Jesus she had
been won. to-devout“and earnest disciple-
ship. It was a great joy to ber that her
_ brother Philip had been chosen one of. the



twelve apostles of theSaviour. But above all
things she longed to see her son, Ben Ezra,
following in the footsteps of the Son of God;
and these desires she often expressed to her
brother Philip Now it so happened that
Philip had charge of those modest meals in
which Christ and His disciples joined in
their seasons of quietude and retirement. It
was Miriam’s joy to arrange for these meals,
and what more natural than that young Ben
Ezra should carry the basket of loaves and
fishes and fruit. One day the boy went at
the appointed time with these materials for
the noon meal, and lu! he saw a crowd
of many thousands. He waited and won-
dered what would bedone. At last his uncle,
after a talk with Jesus about the hunger of
this great multitude, so far away from home,
said: ‘‘ There is a lad here with five barley
loaves and two small fishes.” At tl is, Ben
Ezra brought his.-basket, and placing it at
the feet of the Master, heard more talk about
the hungry multitude, and then Jesus lifted
His eyes to heaven and. prayed; and lo! the
little meal became a banquet for the multi-

‘tude, and when all had had enough the bas-
_ket was too srnall to hold the fragments that

remained. From that day forward Ben Ezra
held his basket precious, and when long
years after he became a pastor of one of the
early Christian churches, he was accustomed
to distribute the bread at the communion
service with his own hand from the basket
he had carried with such joy in his youth,
and to:the younger members of the flock
he would often talk -of those days when
Jesus trod the happy shores of Gulilee.
Dying, he left this basket as a legacy, beg-
gitig all who followed him to hold it sacred.
And so to this day the seed of Ben Ezra
count their most precious heirloom ‘“ The
Basket of Ben Ezra.” My old college friend
has left a few more notes which I will not
stay to transcribe, farther than to copy one
paragraph, which was evidently intended as

‘a sort of moral. ‘‘ A boy in the discharge of

his ordinary duty may become the ineans of
blessing to thousands. A little hand may
sow seeds that will wave in golden harvests
for many, many years.” Then follows a short
poetical quotation which was intended to-
emphasize the moral: 2

“ Thy hands unsparing and unwearied cast, :
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,

.And yield thee golden fruit in heaven’s unfading
werm,” : .

eer















WHAT D’YE Soy!







TIME AND 1.

ae Sots TE, are two travelers, Time and I,

; VYV- ‘Through gay or gloomy weather,
_ And since.he-hailed me at my birth, -
. ,. = We've always been together. —

‘He led me through the land of youth,
es He journeys. onward ever, :

And helped _niy toiling footsteps climb

_ The hills of right endeavor. -

“We are two travelers, Time and I,
Through harsh or happy weather,
Unsolved the’secrets of his soul,
- Though we have walked together !

He guards the mysteries of the world, ~
~ - Life, Death, Disease and. Sorrow ;
He knows so much, s0 little I,

And we must purt to-morrow.





~

_ SAUCY DICK.

- “C\AUCY Dick,” I think I hear some one.

-say, ‘‘pray who and what is he?” Well,
- that is‘ just what Iam going totell you. He
was. only a little, bright-yellow canary bird.

>. We called him-‘‘ Saucy Dick ” because of
“= the saucy way he had of turning up his
~ . head, first on one side, then on the other, and
looking at-us in sucha pert manner, whenever
we -gathered around his-cage, as if he were

. trying.to count and see how many of us there
“were. -He was a-very cunning, mischievous
bird, and-it would take-up more time-and



his cunning tricks, but his greatest delight
~was in sprinkling the cat.
~ habit of lying down directly underneath












took his bath and.sprinkled a few drops of
water on the floor the cat.would run. Then



- hew many times he had: bathed, or at what
_time of day the cat would come and lie down,

- dish and begin to dash and splash about,
“> peeping over every féw minutes to see-if. the
cat. was still there, and-then going. back,
until: he had succeeded at.last in making her
‘manner he would peer through the bars at
“look: of triumph. If there was no. water
in his-dish he would:make sucha fuss about
it that. mamma would be compelled to give

lady called to see mamma, and happened to

pete

lady’s attention.

_ space than I haye to give to tell you oné-half
Pussy was in the

- Dick’s-cage to take her morning nap, and the |
little. fellow soon discovered that when he ~

~ he began to take delight in it, and no matter .

'. Dick. would go immediately into his bathing 3

Tun, 'Then in the‘most'comical and cunning -

-his- vanquished foe with. an unmistakable —

him some in order to quiet him. One day a -

take a seat. quite near to Dick’s cage, Dick



- eyed her a moment, and then hopped into his

dish and began to splash, which attracted the
Mamma told her about his
naughty trick of splashing the cat, and
added: ‘‘I doverily believe he is trying to do
thesame to you.” Thelady scarcely believed
that a bird could be so intelligent, but asked
mamma to give him some water, for she
wanted to see what he would do. Mamma

‘did so, and he dashed-and splashed about till ©

soon there was not a drop left, stopping every

little while to look at the lady and see if |

there were any indications of moving on her
part, and then going back to his dish with
renewed vigor. But the lady did not move.
She only laughed and shook her finger at him,
and said: ‘‘ Now, you naughty bird, is that
the way you treat your visitors? I’m not
going to run from you like a cat, for my.
dress and shawl are. thick, and I can stand a
good deal of splashing.” ‘Then she asked
mamma to give him: more water, for she
“‘wanted to see the fun out,” she said.
Mamma very reluctantly filled his dish the

third time, when he made such a vigorous

splashing that he not only wet the lady com-
pletely, but the floorand furniture all around
him, and she was compelled to. move or have
her new bonnet ruined. Then with what a
saucy, self-satisfied air did that bird look at
her, with a look that seemed to say: ‘‘ Aha,
you had to move at last.”



‘A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS!
WM. I. HAYNE. é

(\H, happy band of bluebirds,
Brave prophets of the Spring,
Amid the tall and tufted cane,
How blithesomely you sing!
What message haunts your music *
*Mid Autumn’s dusky reign?
You tell us Nature stores her-seed
To give them back in grain!

Your throats are gleeful fountains,
Through which a$ong-tide flows;
Your voices greet me in the woods,
“On every wind that blows! | ~
I dream that Heaven invites you - .
To bid the Earth ‘‘ good-bye”;
For in your wings you seem to }.old
- A portion of the sky!

_ Oh, happy band of bluebirds,
wr . You could not long remain ~

- To flit across the fading fields

s - And glorify the grain;
.- You leave melodious memories,
Whose sweetness thrills me through:

Ah, if my songs were such as yours,
= They’d almost touch the blue!







O, How It Rains!

HE wind, it is roaring,




The rain, it is pouring,
“And Sissy and I have been out for a walk ;
But isn’t it lucky,
We both are so plucky,
The rain cannot scare us from laughter and
talk?

I am her big brother
(She hasn’t another),
And she’s all the sister that ever I had.
No girl could be nearer,
Or sweeter, or dearer :
She’s my little lassie, I’m her little lad.

It was in December

(We both can remember),
I drew her about o’er the snow on my sled.

But all fun won’t be going,

For though it’s not snowing,
‘There’s rain to be kept from my wee Sissy’s

head.
Mrs. MARY C. BRINE.

[Our Little Ones.)

OUT IN TMK RAIN,







EVENTIDE.

vo | ‘IS true I’m aged, gray and worn;
That ruthless Time, who harvests

all,

Will soon, with sickle sharp and dread,
Upon my hapless shoulders fall.

*Tis true my days are nearly spent,
My youth and vigor gone;

- That there now shines the evening star

Where shone the star of dawn.

The light of life is fading fast,
And Jat last —

Will leave this troubled shore —
To nevermore

Return!

But though Time’s wheel is almost turned
For me on this vain earth below,
I'll cross when its dull motions cease

To where the living waters flow,—

Where griefs are found not, clouds ume

known,
Where all is joy and light;
Where morn’s eterna) sunbeams chase
Away all shades of night.
Then bless the day I stand
Upon the strand :
To leave this troubled shore
And nevermore

Return!



















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































BACK. FROM TLE WAR.



BACK FROM THE WAR.

HE little village of Atherton was all
astir one bright afternoon in June, for

Joe Stevens had come back from the war.
There was not a lad more respected in all
that country side than Joe Stevens, and when
the war was raging sorest, and further calls

were made for men, Joe obeyed the call of.

duty and went to fight for the Union. Many
an eye was wet and many a heart was sad
when Joe went, and during the two years of
his absence every scrap of news of, him, and
of his regiment, was eagerly sought for, and
when a letter came from camp it was read in
every house in the village, for Atherton was
a very small village, and Joe was its only
soldier. At last the war was over, and Joe
returned, wounded, as you see, but his
wound was regarded as a badge of honor.
As soon as Parson Wingfield heard of Joe’s
return he set the church bells ringing, and
that night Atherton was wild with delight,
because her young hero had returned from
the war.

MRS. LOFTY AND I.

MRS. C. GILDERSLEEVE.

RS. Lofty keepsa carriage,
M Sodo I; 3
She has dapple-grays to draw it,

; None have 1;
She's no prouder with her coachman

- Than am I,
With my blue eyed laughing baby,
Trundling by.

T hide his face, lest she should see
Phe cherub boy and enyy me.

Her fine husband has white fingers,
Mine has not; *

He could give his bride a palace—
Mine a cot;

Hers comes home beneath the starlight,
Ne’er caresses she; E

Mine comes in the purple twilight, «

Se Kisses me.
And prays that He who turns life’s sand
Willhold his loved ones in His hand.

Mrs, Lofty has her jewels,
So have J;

She wears hers upon her bosom,
Inside, I;

She will leave hers at death’s portal,
By and by;

I shall bear my treasure with me,
When I die;

For I have love and she has gold; _

@he counts her wealth—mine can’t be told.

@he has those who love her—station,
None have I;

But I’ve one true heart beside mo
3 Glad am I.
Td not change it for a kingdom,
No, not I.
God will weigh it in His balance;
By and by.
Then the difference He’ll define
Twixt Mrs, Lofty’s wealth and mine.



DR. JOHNSON.

R. JOHNSON, though himself consti-
tutionally prone to melancholy, and -
alilicted by it as few have been from his
earliest years, said that ‘‘a man’s being in a
good or bad humor very much depends upon
his will.” We may train-ourselves in a habit
of patience and contentment on the one
hand, or of grumbling and discontent on the
other. We may accustom ourselves to exag-
gerate small evils, and to underestimate great
blessings, We may even become the victim
of petty miscries by giving away to them.

“Thus, we may educate ourselves into a happy

disposition, as well as in a morbid one.
Indeed, the habit of viewing things cheer-
fully, and of thinking about life hopefully,
may be made to grow up in uslike any other
habit. It was not an exaggerated estimate
of Dr. Johnson to say that the habit of look-
ing at the best side of any event is worth fas
more than a thousand pounds a year.

OUR REAL RULER.

rYAHIS a free country?
Well, may be,
So long as you haven't
A baby. :

Young or old, tho’ golden °
Or gray be
_ Our heads, we're all ruled by
A baby.

Fond and foolish the words that -
We say be

When we bow to that tyrant,
The baby. ~

The wise man’s a fool and
A gaby

And a hobby-horse for his
Own baby.

But, of light in our homes, where'd
A ray be

Without the bright cherub,
The baby? :

Then hallowed and blest let
The day be .

That brought that dear despot,
The baby! i















































SON,

§ FIRST. LES

’

O

YOUNG PAUL















=





«Rdoy’l.”

& HERE is a small town in North Carolina, near the boundary line
of Virginia, that is noted as a railroad junction, seven different
toads meeting there. But the outside world only speaks of the
town in this way: “Did you make the connection at Weldon?”

There was a disjointed period in traveling South, and it
was my lot to miss it by half an hour. They told me at the
depot that there was nothing for me to do but to wait twenty-four hours at the
hotel. The one I hit upon proved very dreary, having the barren air of a
restaurant in which no one had stayed long enough to make it feel inhabited,
To add to the loneliness, the rain was pouring down in great torrents outside,
and the only books I could discover in the hotel parlor were a ponderous gilt-

edged Bible, a moth-eaten copy of “Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy,” ‘“Bax-
ters Call to the Unconverted,” and some old census reports.

Glancing at the negroes who were waiting on me at the table, I had to
confess that, though attentive, they were far from picturesque. There appeared
to be a great many of them. Judging hastily from this dining-room one might
infer that the staples of the South were negroes and flies; the latter charging
at me in battalions from their ambush in the fringed arsenic green papers
attached to the chandeliers. The fried chicken and corn-bread, however, were
compensating.

When embowered in my solitary bed-room I began to count the hours
to be spent there, twenty-three, and it would be Ganoscible to sleep away more
than eleven of them.

Hark! Somebody was crooning snatches of a quaint tune in the back
premises.

An idea broke in upon me,—I disrobed my banjo of its “traveling
ulster.”

Why not spend the time learning the songs the negroes were singing over
their work down in the yard and kitchen? In all the accounts of Southern life
I had read in novels and magazines, the negroes were represented as always
singing merrily, except when they were deauey and nodding.

I tuned the banjo—then the song stopped. Not another note did I hear
for an hour; there was plenty of noise, but it came from the clatter of dishes,
the slamming of doors, the steady rainfall, and the shrieking of the locomotives
on the seven roads.

I was not to be balked of my project. I rang for the chamber-maid, and





asked her to get some colored man who could sing and play the banjo, to come
up and give me a lesson—I would pay him well.

She first gazed at me vacantly for a moment, as if her brain were busy
enlarging to receive a brand new idea; then she grinned from ear to ear.

“Yes, Miss, I'll see ef I kin find you one of the good singahs;—ef you had
only a sont word fo’ you arrove, and got it norrated roun’ dat you want ’struc-
tions in de banjer,—dat would ’a been de bes’ way. But Louvinia ’ll do de
bes’ she kin for you. I gwine ter be a real good darkey to you while you heak
—dat I is, you can put ‘pennance on dat, Miss.

She talked to herself all the way down the hall about what she meant te
do for my comfort while I was at the hotel.

Imagination now began to work; I expected to see a lively young fellow
with laughing eyes and dancing feet ushered into my room; it would be jolly,
he should teach me all he knew. :

Presently a muffled knock came at my door.

“Come in!”

A large, middle-aged negro, with a very grave and very black face, stood
on the threshold, making a low bow with all the ‘“deportment” ofa Turveydrop,
hat in one hand, banjo in the the other. He wore a shabby blue tweed suit,
his toilet getting poorer as it went down, the coat still attempting to make an
impression of style with its double row of white china buttons, the pants well
patched about the knees and threadbare in spots, and his shoes broken into
gaping holes, and tied with red twine strings.

“Yes, come right in. I sent for you. What's your name?”

‘Simon Barjona, dat’s my proper name, m’am, but they mostly calls me
Roy’l (Royal) ‘bout heah, ‘kase I come out o’ de Roy’l fam’ly in Fahginy fo’ I
come to Weldon.”

“T hope you are well, Royal?”

‘Pretty well, m’am, ‘cep’n I subjec’ to typhoid fever an’ consumption; when
I gets het up I is attacted wid de fever, an’, ef I gits cold I breaks out wid
de consumption; but I makes out to keep a goin’; my health is tol’able good
now, m’am.

“I’m glad to hear it,—sit down there. I want you to make yourself com.
fortable, Royal, so you can teach me some of your L ‘t songs. You sing,
don’t you?”

“Oh, yes'm!”

‘Did you ever live on a plantation?”

‘Sho'ly I did. I ain't live nowhar else, clear 0’ dese las’ two years I been
a .efugeein’ down heah in Weldon. I was riz on de ole Roy’! plantation, an’ I



nuver come away twellole Mis’ die. You heerd how she met with a turrible
accident? I tole her dat was a superstitious ladder, an’ she mustn’t sot her
foot on it agin—I seen a ha’nt on dat same ladder one moonlight night in de
barn. Sperrits is mighty quiet folks mostly; dey stays whar dey put, dey ain't
a gwine ter meet up wid yer less’n dey come for sump’n;—but ole Mis’ she
wont listen to me, she so full 0’ whimsies, an’ she got ter hang up dem greens
wid her own hands, Christmas, an’ sho’ ‘nuff, she tumble down an’ broke her
spinal bone, so she couldn't get up no mo’! Ole Mis’, she set a heap o’ sto’ by
me; white folks allers did like me; I never had no boss'nan’ doggin’, 'kase dey
soon see t’err people’s property ain't got no chawms for my principles an’ char-
acter. 1 bewar’ o’ covishness, I does, I too much enameled wid Christianity
for dat. Well’ w'en dey sell de ole place, I come down heah to work on de
railroad; but dey tu’n me off las’ wintah w’en dey done layin’ de new track. I
keep a hangin’ on, a hopin to git sump’n ter do on de road agin,—but I got to
scratch roun’ an make out ter live in de meantime.”

“What are you doing now?”

‘“T ain't got no speshal employmun, m’am; only wat I kin pick upa white-
wash’n an’ a mendin’cha'rs an’ tables at de hotel, wen dey gits so onsteadfas’
can't do nuffin wid’em. Times is gittin’ harder ev'ry day now.” Hescratched
his head and looked down on the floor with a becoming reserve.

‘Have you any family?”

‘“Yessum, I has had consid’able fambly;—my wife she present me wid fo’
o’ de fines’ an’ de blackes’ niggah babies in de state o’ Fahginy, fo’ de wah, an’
to make shorts out of a mighty long tale—we raised 'em all, an’ dey tu’nd out
scamps, dey did, it’s de naked trufe, an’ its a scannel an’a shame. [I ain't kep’
track of allof’em. I don't want to hear no mo’ ’bout’em. [ain't got much use
for niggahs no how.” He gavea deep sigh. ‘‘Den after all our sufferment, de
Lawd he greed to make a complomise, an’ he’sont down a |’il lamb f’om de
gret white frone, ter be de pride of our life. Dat was des fo’ years ago, she
come tak de las’ button off Gabe’s collar, after Tildy done give de cradle away,
—Oh, dat blessed I’'il gal!”

Royal's voice quivered with a mystezious parental tenderness, and there
was a moist look in his eyes. ‘‘But my membunce gittin’ slack,—-w’at kinder
song dat yo’ want yo’ humblin’ servant teach yo'?”

“T’d rather you should choose one.”

With a firm, solemn chord or two, he preluded a strangely stirring hymn I
aad never heard before. What a roll and volume of sound he brought out of
his dilapidated banjo, as he sang this “Old Ship Zion!” The woodwork was
warped, every string tied at the bottom, yet a longing seized me to possess it,













































































such as a violinist might cherish fora Paganini. It seemed to me it must have
a superior soul to that of my frisky, be-ribboned instrument, which was so in-
dependent of my touch that it would only twang and clang with defiant metallic
echoes. The coy banjo deity was a familiar of this grave, dignified negro, and
yielded such melody to his fingers as I never heard from the expert in a
northern city who had been giving me lessons at the rate of two dollars
per hour. %

Royal's voice showed no signs of the consumption it was subject to; it was
rich and deep beyond a suggestion of fatigue.

When the hymn ceased, I said: ‘‘ ‘The Old Ship Zion’ is very fine, I am
. glad to hear it, but it’s not exactly the kind I'd rather learn from you—I can
find that ina book somewhere. Let me have some of your regular plantation
tunes that you used to sing at corn-shuckings.”

He hesitated a moment with a reluctant air. ‘Seems lak’ I kinder tu’n ter
de hymn chunes ter-day, lady, des natchul, but I mus’ try ter please yo’. How
yo’ lak’ dis one?”

Straightening up briskly he changed the key entirely.

Look-a look-a heah, look-a-look a whar!
Look-a-look away 0’ yandah!

Don’t you see de ole gray goose

A smilin’ at de gander?

Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, @ low down!

johnny come down de hollow!

A settin’ on a’ ole gum leg,

A lookin’ for his dahtah,
Terrapin crope up behine dat frog
An’ pushed him into de watah.
Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, @ low down!
Johnny come down de hollow!

Oh, de squirrel am got de bushy tail,

De possum tail am bar’,

De raccoon tail am ring all ’roun’,

An’ stumpy am de tail-ob de har’!

Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, a low down!

Unh unh um, @¢ low down!

Wooow! Johnny come down de hellew!”



I laughed and clapped neartily—‘Splendid! Just the thing. I'll put the
words down right away’—taking a pencil and sheet of paper out of my sachel.
“ Now say the first words over.”

‘ Look-a-look a heah, look-a-look a whar?”——he repeated—‘‘set that down
in yo’ rememberandum book.”

Then, when I had all the words before me, I began to sing them as well
as I could, with a random accompaniment on my banjo. How weak and thin
my imitation.

Royal wriggled in his seat—‘‘Scuse me ef I disrup’ you, m'am, but you
don't screech mo'n half loud enough; des make up yo’ mind ter take de roof
off—dis way—‘wooow /—He opened his mouth like a yawning cavern—‘ ‘John-
ny came down the hollow!’ Strike t'err string dar, dat off string yandah, pull
on it lak yo’ boun’ ter rip de insides outen de banjer. You is as well built a
lady as evah I see; don't be skeered 0’ yo’ own voice—des holler ‘wooow’ wid
de bes’ of ’em. Dat some better.” After I had gone over the song twice,—
*Don’ yo’ be disencouraged; ef I had yo’ two or free days I’d make a
fust-rate singin’-bird out 0’ yo’. Can’t yo’ lay yo’ plans ter stay awhile in
Weldon?”

“Stay here, in this place? no indeed!”

“Dat w’at dey all say dat has ter stop heah—dey swivetin’ to git on.”

“I wish you'd let me have your banjo to carry away with me, Royal, and
take mine in place of it. Perhaps I could learn to play if I had yours.”

He glanced down lovingly at his, as a parent regards an afflicted child.

_“ Laws, m’am! dis heah instrumen’ ain't wuf shucks ‘long side o’ yourn; can't
tell me nuffin ‘bout him; I knows dis banjer inside an’ out; didn’t dese hands
make him fom de wud go? He gittin’ ole an’ skreaky. He don’t hold he age
good as he marster, but I got ottached to him, somehow. I don’t want ter part
wid him twell dey gives me a harp ter play on, up in de New Jerusalem. I
made dis here banjer on de ole Roy'l plantation w’en I was a co'tin’ Tildy. Dat
‘oman,—she gwine ter stick to me clean fru’ twell de crack o’ doom.,—I never
had no wife like her.”

After strumming at ‘“ Look-a-look a heah” awhile longer, I said: “Can't
you sing me another one now, Royal?”

He turned his eyes up to the ceiling with an abstracted air, as though his
thoughts were wandering far away from this room, There was something pa-
thetic in his gaze, something imploring; was the man praying? His fingers
strayed over the strings till they found a soft minor, and then came a tender,
lingering wail that thrilled me to the core, his voice melting to the consistency
of a wistful lullaby: :



SEE SS TBE AT PP SA SMR ENP TE te RT TT



“ Oh, Susie, oh, Susie! wouldn't you like to go

Way up in de mountains?

Dar’s whar de river flow,

Oh, de hills an’ de mountains will all pass away,

An’ you will have a new heart again some other day!”

The music ceased with a broken sob; Royal leaned his head against the
banjo; his tears fell over the strings. ‘‘What’s the matter? Poor fellow!
Are you sick? Is it that you are so awfully poor? Never mind, I'll help you
some.” :

“| mighty po’, lady; dat why I ‘bleege tocome heahan’ pick up a few cents
to-day; but dat ain’t troublin’ me now. You must 'scuseme. Roy’! hearts too
heavy. Hscan’t sing nomo. Oh, my lil Suste! dat onlies lamb de Lawd send
me after all my mis'ry,—she lyin’ DAID at home!”

—FRANCES ALBERT DOUGHTY.





























































Ghe Polls’ @hristmas Party.



T was the week before Christmas, and the dolls in the toy-shop played
together all night. The biggest one was from Paris.

One night she said, “We ought to have a party before Santa
Claus carries us away to the little girls. I can dance, and I will
show you how.”

“T can dance myself if you will pull
the string,” said a “Jim Crow” doll.

‘What shall we have for supper?
piped a little boy-doll in a Jersey suit.
He was always thinking about eating.

“Oh, dear,” cried the French lady,
“T don't know what we shall do for
supper!”






big rag doll. The other dollshad never
liked her very well, but they thanked ¢ :
her now. She had taken lessons ata cooking-school, and knew how to maka
cake and candy. She gave French names to everything she made, and this
made it taste better. Old Mother Hubbard was there, and she said the rag
doll did not know how to cook anything.

They danced in one of the great shop-windows. They opened a toy piano,
and a singing-doll played “Comin’ through the rye.” The dolls did not find
that a good tune to dance by; but the lady did not know any other, although
she was the most costly doll in the shop. Then they wound up a music-box,



ie mead pete in lt lala as

FTP RE

aad danced by that. This did very well for some tunes; but they had to walk
around when it played “Hail, Columbia,” and wait for something else.

The “Jim Crow” doll had to dance by himself, for he could do nothing but
a break-down.” He would not dance at all unless some one pulled his string.
A tay monkey did this; but he would not stop when the dancer was tired.

They had supper on one of the counters. The rag ~s
doll placed some boxes for tables. The supper was of — 4
candy, for there was nothing inthe shop toeat but sugar gf
hearts and eggs. The dolls like candy better
than anything else, and the supper was splen-
did. Patsy McQuirk said
he could not eat candy.
He wanted to know what
kind of a supper it was
without any potatoes. °
He got very angry, put
and smoked his pipe. It
do so in com- Gi Be
the little ladies. f
to climb intoa
get out of the

Mother
two black wait-
love little pus-
in abrigand hat
wide that the
afraidthey
clown raised
and Jack in the Box â„¢
could to look down into the fellow’s throat.

All the baby dolls in caps and long _. dresses had been put to
bed. They woke up when the others = &ug/%$ were at supper, and began
to cry. The big doll brought them some candy, é and that kept them quiet
for some time.

BY Sa
The next morning a little girl found the & toy piano open. She was
sure the dolls had been playing on it. The grown-up people thought it had
been left open the night before, but they do not understand dolls as well as
little people do.
















his hands into his pockets,
was very uncivil for him to
pany. The smoke made
Y sick, and they all tried
> ,
“horn of plenty” to
way.
Hubbard and the
ers tried to sing “I
sy; but the tall one
opened his mouth so
small dollies were
might fallintoit. The
both armsin wonder,
sprang up as high as he



—VIOLA ROSEBOROUGH.
H4



Pt
ETT































































































































































NOW YOU'VE DONE IT!
eee Don! He had no idea of throwing
down Aunt Louisa’s geranium and
breaking it all to pieces. He was really so
delighted to see his young mistress back
again from, her vacation that he could not
help whisking and barking and tumbling
around, and in the midst of all his glee,
down fell the flower pot! Don’t you see how
enitent he is? Observe that downcast tail.
ee that uplifted, pleading paw! Let us hope
Aunt Louisa will not be very angry. Acci-
dents will happen to dogs as well as men.

GRUMBLING JIM.

E sat at the dinner-table
With a discontented frown,

‘The potatoes and steak were underdone,

And the bread was baked too brown,
The pie too sour, the pudding too sweet,

And the roast was much too fat;
The soup so greasy, too, and salt,

Sure ’twas hardly fit for the cat.”

“T wish you could eat the bread and pies
I’ve seen my mother make;

They are something like, and ’twould do you good
Just to look at a loaf of her cake.”

Said the smiling wife, ‘I'll improve with age,
Just now I’m but a beginner,

But your mother has come to visit us,
And to-day she cooked the dinner.”

“GO TO THE ANT—CONSIDER HER
WAYS.”

A N invalid, while confined to his room by

sickness, was annoyed by the presence
of a colony of very small red ants, which,
issuing from a hole in the wall near the ceil-
ing, formed an almost unbroken procession
to a vase of flowers on the mantel shelf. He
frequently brushed them in great numbers
off the wall down to the floor; but this course
had the effect only of dividing the colony,
and now a new settlement was made at the
base of the mantel. One day he killed some
of the marauders on the shelf at the foot of
the vase of flowers, and disabled others. In
half an hour the wall above the shelf was
cleared of ants, the procession retreating
from the scene of carnage with all possible
haste. For an hour or two the lower colony
continued to ascend, until reaching the lower
beveled edge of the shelf; here the more
timid individuals were aware of trouble
ahead, and turned back, while the more dar-
ing ones advanced hesitatingly just to the
upper edge, peeping cautiously out to survey

the field. Then they too turned back, and
in a short time no more ants were to be seen.
A curious and invariable feature of their
behavior was that when an ant, returning in
fright, met anothcr approaching, the two
would always communicate, but each would
pursue its own way, she sccond ant continu-
ing its journey to the spot where the first
had turned about, and then following that
example. No ants were visible for several
days after the disaster, but at length a few
from the lower colony madc their appear-
ance. They carefully avoided the vase,
which had been to their race so fruitful of
misfurtune, and attacked some violets in a
tumbler in the middle of the shelf. The
same experiment was repeated here, and
with the same results as before. Occasion-
ally an ant would advance toward the tum-
bler until it found itself among the dead and
dying; then it seemed to lose all self-posses-
sion, running hither and thither, making
wide circuits about the scene of the trouble,
stopping at times and elevating the antenne
with a movement suggestive of wringing
them in despair, and finally taking flight.





AUTUMN FASHIONS.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

pee maple owned that she was tired of always

1. wearing green,

She knew that she had grown, of late, too shabby to
be seen!

The oak and beech and chestnut then deplored their
shabbiness,

And all, except the hemlock sad, were wild to change
their dress.

“For fashion-plates we'll take the flowers,” the rust-
ling maple said,

** And like the tulip I'll be clothed in splendid gold
and red!”

‘«The cheerful sunflower suits me best,” the light-
some beech replied;

‘“The marigold my choice shall be,” the chestnut
spoke, with pride.

The sturdy oak took time to think —‘‘I hate such
glaring hues;

The gillyflower, so dark and rich, I for my model
choose.”

So every tree in all the grove, except the hemlock
sad,

According to its wish ere long in brilliant dress was
clad.

And here they stand through all the soft and bight
October days;

They wished to be like flowers—indeed they look
like huge bouquets!



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ate oo

GOING TO THE WEDDING.

HERE was not a more popular man in
all the West Riding of Yorkshire than
old William Richards. It was said that if
there was a man in all that country side
who knew anything about playing a fiddle it
was William Richards. No wedding party
among the working people of that district
was complete without William Richards and
his fiddle. He is on his way to a wedding
now, and if you will carefully look at the
illustration on the following page, you will
see Haworth church in the distance, and a
little west of it the old Parsonage, where the:
Bronte family lived, where Charlotte Bronte
and her gifted sisters lived their lone, sad:
life. It was in this dreary house, with its;
outlook on the bleak and barren Yorkshire,
wolds that Charlotte Bronte’ wrote that:
remarkable book “Jane Eyre,” and here
Annie Bronte wrote most of her exquisite
devotional forms. There isto be a wedding
at Haworth church to-day, and after the
wedding, the wedding breakfast, with the
cutting of the bridecake, and sundry speeches;
then the departure of the wedded pair, after
whom old slippers and showers of rice will
be thrown. And then will begin the real
merriment of the day. There will be songs
and games, and then the dancing. Dancing
in earnest, till the young feet are tired, and
the sun sets, and the moon rises and
“« Charles’s swain comes out
Above the tall white chimney tops.”
William Richards may well tune up his
fiddle for he has a long and delightful task
before him, for if not the heart and soul, he
ig at least the music of that wedding feast.

THE SWALLOW.
MARY N. PRESCOTT.

A LMOST ready to fly

Was the little barn swallow;
Day after day he would try

The old birds to follow.

Day after day he would take
A flight of a minute,

Not daring the nest to forsake,
Or his brothers within it.

What journeys were yet in store
Through sweet, growing woods,

When once he could sing and soar
In their green solitudes!

“Come,” called the passing linnet,
~- Come, follow,” sang thrush and wren;
“ Begin it, begin it, begin it,”
‘Oyer and over again,

And what was the good of wings,
If a bird could not fly?

Summer and all gracious things
Would be gone by-and-by.

The swallow impatient for flight,
Spread his pinions to go;

And his mother at fall of night,
Found him silent below.

He will never finish his song,
His journeys are over and done
The sweet growing woods among,
And the summer has just begun.

THE FACE OF THE LORD JESUS.
HENRY WARD BEECHER.

S in some summer’s morning, which

wakes with a ring of birds when it is
clear, leagues up into the blue, and every-
thing is as distinctly cut as if it stood in
heaven and not on earth, when the distant
mountains lie bold upon the horizon, and the
air is full of the fragrance of flowers which
the night cradled, the traveler goes forth
with buoyant and elastic step upon his jour-
ney, and halts not till in the twilight shad-
ows he reaches his goal, so may we, who are
but pilgrims, go forth beneath the smile of
God wpon our homeward journey. May
heaven lie upon the horizon, luring us on;
and, when at last we sink to sleep, and dream
that we behold again those whom we have
lost, may we wake to find that it was not a
dream, but that we are in heaven; and may
the children for whom we have yearned, and
the companions who anticipated us and
gained heaven first, come to greet us. Then,
sweeter than all, may we behold the face of
the Lord Jesus, our Master, our life, and
cast ourselves before him, that he may raise
us up with great grace, to stand upon our
feet evermore!

CHRISTMAS WISHES.

LITTLE maid sat on a garden seat,
On a sunny morn in May;
The flowers were blooming at her feet,
The thrush’s song was clear and sweet
As he piped his roundelay.

He sang: ‘‘Oh, are not the days of spring
The sweetest days of all?

And is not the merry song I sing

The blithest lay that a bird can bring
To answer a maiden’s call?”

Said the child: ‘‘ You have a tuneful throat,
But still I love the robin’s note

On a cheery Christmas day;
Though he sing on a leafless tree,
For then my well-loved friends I see,
Whose smiles are brighter far to me

Than even a morn in May! ye







PRINCE AND PEARL.
EMMA C. DOWD.

ES the very same year, on the very same day,
Two little babies were born;
One was a doggie, and one was a girl;
One was named Prince, and one was named Pearl
All on a New Year’s morn.

And in one cradle the babies slept,

All through the mid-winter weather,
One on her pillow dimpled and sweet,
- And one curled up at the darling’s fect,
Prince and Pearl together.

But Prince grew fat as doggies will
Till he was large and strong.

With a coal black coat that was curly and fine,
And he learned to know right from wrong.

‘And Prince would sit by the baby Pearl
Rocking her while she slept.

Gently, lightly, to and fro

And the mother was free to come or go
For Prince a true watch kept

And he’d bear caresses from baby hands,
With never so much as a wince;

And Pearl on his back was secure from harm,

For he’d carry her safely all over the farm,
Darling, trusty old Prince.

And when Pearl went to the village school,
A inile or more away;

Prince carried her basket and primer too,

And would run and fetch her when school was through
At the close of the long, long day.

Oh, they were ever the best of friends,
In sunny or stormy weather;

Up inthe mountains, or down by the sea,

In town or country, ’twould always be,
Prince and Pearl together.

THE TAJ—A DREAM IN MARBLE,

M. D. CONWAY.

| ET that day be marked round with a
|4 many colored pencil of light when I
first saw the Taj. For that beautiful dream
in marble will stand in my memory, tinted
with the rose-of dawn beneath which I first
beheld it, and flushed with the soft evening
sky when I parted from it, and between the
dawn and moonrise, as I returned to it again
and again, I beheld not one Taj, but several.
As the statue of Memnon was said to emit
music when the sun touched it, one may say
without fable that the changing sky of the
day brings forth varied architectural harmo-
nies from the Taj. Now it isof the faintest
snow-blue tint, now purest white, and again

pink in its response to dawn or sunset. One
cannot see it of a sudden. I met an intel-
ligent lady in the hotel who was disap-
pointed in the-T'aj. Toward evening I met
her seated before the edifice in speechless ad-
miration. It is vain to attempt to describe
this wonderful monument or tell the secret
of its fascination. The Taj occupied 20,000
men for twenty-two years, and cost over
fifteen million dollars, and it was a small sum
to give the earth such a jewel on her zone.
It would require a volume to explain the
flora of the Taj alone. In its mosaic orna-
mentation the rarest flowers and leaves are
traceable, and the way these things twine and
frame the sentences of the Koran reminds
one of the pleasant fact that the materials of
ancient literature were the leaves, bark, or
tablets of trees, still preserved in the words
by which we call them paper, library, book.
At the gateway to the park of the Taj there
is a very interesting little museum of Bud-
dhist and Jain antiquities, discovered in the
neighborhood. Some of these are very strik-
ing. Among them are Hindu deities, who
seemed to have laid aside much of their sen-
sual and fierce aspect, and I think one might
in this museum trace the growth of some new
religious movement through modifications of
Krishna and Vishnu up to the flower of them
all—Buddha himself. Beside the Taj flows
the Jumna, on whose banks Krishna dwelt
among the cowherds and milkmaids ;
charmed the lowly with his lute and danced
with the rustic beauties those marvelous
dances where each believed that he was her
partner. It is a peaceful languid river, with
alternating meadows and sandy beaches;
where in the bright warm morning the mild-
eyed lotus-eaters were visible, seated on the
yellow sand or bathing in the sacred stream.

APRIL.

\ ELL, April, fickle lass, you’re here,
With muddy shoe and cap of snow,
With now a smile and now a tear,
With first a kiss and then a blow.

You come with saucy flap of skirt,
With pout of lip and roguish eye

That, mark you, April, for a flirt
Who offers love but to deny.

But then, dear April, we forgive
The follies of your wanton way;
Yeu tend the flowers while you live,

And, dying, give them all to May.

















































































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TABBYBLUE AND HER FAMILY.



OOR Tabbyblue was tne pet of the household, but she is now in sore distress. She has a lovely little
family of five little kittens; four are white and one is black. They are all to be given away but the

black one. Marion and Jessie are arranging about their disposal, and poor Tabbyblue is looking on in an
anxious and unhappy state of mind,



MR. NOBODY.

KNOW a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house.
There’s no one ever sees his face;
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.

Tis he who always tears our books,

Who leaves the door ajar;
. He pulls the buttons from our skirts,

And scatters pins afar.

That squeaking door will always squeak;

- For, prithee, don’t you see,

We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.

He puts the damp wood on the fire,
That kettles cannot boil;

His feet are the feet that bring in mud
And all the carpets soil.

The papers always are mislaid:
Who had them last but he?

There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the doors
By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you see,’

Are not our boots, they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.

THE ASS AND THE LAP-DOG.

MAN had an Ass and a Maltese Lap-

dog, a very great beauty. The Ass
was left ina stable, and had plenty of oats
and hay to eat, just as any other Ass would.
The Lap-dog knew many tricks, and was a
great favorite with his master, who often
fondled him, and seldom went out to dine
or to sup without bringing him home some
titbit to eat, when he frisked and jumped
about him in a manner pleasant tosee. ‘The
Ass, on the contrary, had much work to do
in grinding the corn-mill, and in carrying
wood from the forest or burdens from the
farm. He often lamented his own hard fate,
and contrasted it with the luxury and idle-
ness of the Lap-dog, till at last one day he
broke his cords and halter, and galloped into
his master’s house, kicking up his heels with-
out measure, and frisking and fawning as
well as he could. He next tried to. jump
about his master as he had seen the Lap-dog
do, but he broke the table and smashed all
the dishes upon it to atoms. He then at-
tempted to lick his master, and jumped

©

upon his back. The servants hearing the
strange hubbub, and perceiving the danger
of their master, quickly relieved him, and
drove out thé Ass to his stable, with kicks
and clubs and cuffs. The Ass, as he re-

turned to his stall beaten nearly to death,

thus lamented: “‘I have brought it all on
myself! Why could I not have been com
tented to labor with my companions, and
not wish to be idle all the day like that use-
less little Lap-dog ?”

ROSE LEAVES.

NDER the feet of the years,
Hidden from life and light,
With its burden of grief and tears,
The past has gone from my sight,
Leaving only a dream,
And a lonely grave by the sea,
And a song, with love for a theme,
Set to a minor key.

Like one who gathers the leaves
Of a fragrant rose that is dead,
And sighs as he sadly grieves
At the life and beauty fled;
So I, from the buried past,
Yall back in its bloom a rose,
And wonder if dreams that last
Are the best that man ever knows.
T have only a dream in my heart,
And a face that is now in my eyes!
Can a new love’s smile impart
The love that never dies?
Can rose leaves, withered and dried,
Be stronger than flesh to hold
The Jove a new love would buy
With its coin of beauty’s gold?
In my heart lives only a dream,
And the ghost of the past that is dead;
In mine eyes the living eyes gleam,
By fleeting desire fed.
But the withered leaves in my hand
Are sweet with the rose’s breath,
And a voice from the shadow land
Is stronger than life or death.

TWO GREAT TRUTHS.

HE divinest attribute in the heart of man
is love, and the mightiest, because the
most human principle in the heart of man is
faith. Love is heaven; faith is that which
appropriates heaven.—/’. W. Robertson.
The best thing to give to your enemy is for-
giveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a
friend, your heart; to your child, a good
example; to a father, deference; to your
mother, conduct that will make her proud
of you; to yourself, respect; to all men,
gharity.—Mrs. Balfour.















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ALFRED TENNYSON AT‘HOME.

g ‘ENNYSON works alone in the early
hours of the morning, and comes down
long after his own frugal meal is over to
find his guests assembling round the social
breakfast table. He generally goes out fora
walk before luncheon, with a son and a
friend, perhaps, and followed by a couple
of dogs. All Londoners know the look of
the stalwart figure and the fine face and
broad-brimmed felt hat as he advances.

There is one little ceremony peculiar to
the Tennyson family, and reminding one of
some college custom, which is that when
dinner is over the guests are brought away
into a second room, where stands a white
table, upon which fruit and wine are set,
and a fire burns bright, and a pleasant hour
passes, while the master of the house sits in
his carved chair and discourses upon any
topic suggested by his guests, or brings
forth reminiscences of early Lincolnshire
days, or from the facts he remembers out of
the lives of past men who have been his
friends. There was Rogers, among the
rest, for whom he had a great affection,
with whom he constantly lived during that
lonely time in London. “I have dined
alone with him,” I heard Mr. Tennyson say;
“and we have talked about death till the
tears rolled down his face.”

Tennyson met Tom Moore at Rogers’s,
and there, too, he first met Mr. Gladstone.
John Forster, Leigh Hunt, and Landor were
also friends of that time. One of Tenny-
son’s often companions in those days was
Mr. Hallam, whose opinion he once asked
of Carlyle’s French Revolution. Mr. Hal-
lam replied in his quick, rapid way, “ Upon
my word, I once opened the book, and
read four or five pages. The style is so
abominable I could not get on with it.”
Whereas Carlyle’s own criticism upon the
History of the Middle Ages was, “Eh! the
poor, miserable skeleton of a book!”’

Was it not Charles Lamb who wanted to
return grace after reading Shakspeare, little
deeming in humble simplicity that many of
us yet to come would be glad to return
thanks for a jest of Charles Lamb’s? The
difference between those who speak with
natural reality, and those who go through
life fitting their second-hand ideas to other
people’s words, is one so marked that even
achild may tell the difference. When the
Laureate speaks, every word comes wise,

Peppa a : ea ese eee et

racy, absolutely natural, and sincere; and
how gladly do we listen to his delightful
stories, full of old humors and knowledge
of men and women, or to his graver talk!
When a man has read so much and thought
so much, it is an epitome of the knowledge
of to-day we find in him, touched by the
solemn strain of the poet’s own gift. I
once heard Mr. Tennyson talking to some
actors, to no less a person indeed than to
Hamlet himself, for after the curtain fell the
whole play seemed to flow from off the
stage, into the box where we had been sit-
ting, and I could scarcely tell at last where
reality began and Shakspeare ended. The
play was over, and we ourselves seemed a
part of it still; here were the players, and
our own prince poet, in that familiar simple
voice we all know, explaining the art, going
straight to the point in his own downright
fashion, criticising with delicate apprecia-
tion, by the simple force of truth and con-
viction carrying all before him. “You are
a good actor lost,” one of these real actors
said to him.

It is a gain to the world when people are
content to be themselves, not chipped to
the smooth pattern of the times, but simple,
original, and unaffected in ways and words.
Here is a poet leading a poet’s life; where
he goes, there goes the spirit of his home,
whether in London among the crowds, or
at Aldworth on the lonely height, or at Far-
ringford in that beautiful bay.

THE FIRST MAY NIGHT.

OME, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet!
Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue delight!
Lo! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer!
Bring her to my arms on the first May night!
: —George Meredith,

THE TRUE GENTLEMAN.

HAT fact more conspicuous in mod-

ern history than the creation of the
gentleman? Chivalry is that, and loyalty
is that. The word gentleman, which, like
the word Christian, must hereafter charac-
terize the present and the few preceding
centuries by the importance attached to it,
is a homage to personal and incommunica-
ble properties. An element which unites
persons of every country; makes them
intelligible and agreeable to each other,
and is somewhat so precise that it is at’
once felt if an individual lack the masenis
sign,

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FOUR MOTTOES.
66 OOK up and not down;”—do you mind how
the tree-top
Rejoices in sunshine denied to its root?
And hear how the lark, gazing skyward, is flooding
All earth with its song, while the ground-bird is
mute.

‘‘Look out and not in!”—see the sap rushing ont-
ward
In leaf, bud and blossom: all winter it lay
Imprisoned, while earth wore a white desolation;
Now Nature is glad with the beauty of May.

‘Look forward, not back!”—’Tis the chant of crea-
tion,
The chime of the seasons.as onward they roll;
’Tis the pulse of: the world, ’tis the hope of the
ages— 0°
This voice of the Lord in the depths of the soul!

“‘Lend a hand! ”—like the sun, that turns night into
morning,
The moon, that guides storm-driven sailors to
land:
Ah, life were worth living with this for its watch-
word— --
‘Look up, out and forward, and each lend a hand!”
: — Caroline A, Mason.

THE NICKEL THAT BURNED IN JOE’S
“POCKET.

EACON JONES kept a little fish mar-

ket. “Do you want a boy to help

you?” asked Joe White, one day. “I guess
I can sell fish.”

“Can you.give good weight to my cus-
tomers, and take good care of my pen-
nies?” :

“Yes, sir,’ answered Joe; and forthwith
he took his place in the market, weighed the
fish and kept the room in order.

“A whole day for fun, fireworks and
crackers to-morrow!” exclaimed Joe, as he
buttoned his white apron about him the day
before the Fourth of July. A great trout
was flung down on the counter.

“Here’s a royal trout, Joe. I caught it
myself. You may have it for ten cents.
Just hand over the money, for I’m in a
hurry to buy my fire-crackers,” said Ned
Long, one of-Joe’s mates.

The deacon was out, but Joe had made
purchases for him before, so the dime was
spun across to Ned, who was off like a shot.
Just then Mrs. Martin appeared. “I want
a nice trout for my dinner to-morrow. This
one will do; how much is it ?”’

“A quarter,:ma’am,” and the fish was
transferred to the lady’s basket and the sil-
ver piece to the money-drawer.

But here Joe paused. “Ten cents was





very cheap for that fish. If I teil the Dea-
con it cost fifteen, he’ll be satisfied, and I
shall have five cents to invest in fire crack-
ers.”

The Deacon was pleased with Joe’s bar-
gain, and when the market was closed, each
went his way for the night. But the nickel
in Joe’s pocket burned like a coal; he could
eat no supper, and was cross and unhappy.
At last he could stand it no longer, but
walking rapidly, tapped at the door of Dea-
con Jones’ cottage.

A stand was drawn out, and before the
open Bible sat the old man. Joe’s heart
almost failed him, but he told his story, and
with tears of sorrow laid the coin in the
Deacon’s hand. Turning over the leaves
of the Bible, the old man read, “‘ He that
covereth his sins shall not prosper; but
whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall
have mercy.’ You have my forgiveness,
Joe; now go home and confess to the Lord,
but remember you must forsake as well as
confess. And keep this little coin as long
as you live to remind you of this first
temptation.”

THE MIND.

T is the Mynd that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore;

For some, that hath abundance at his will,
Hath not enough, but wants in greatest store;
And other, that hath little, asks no more,
But in that little is both rich and wise;
For Wisdome is most riches; Fools, therefore,
They are which Fortune’s doe by vows devize,
Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize.

—Ldmund Spenser,

WHERE WISDOM DWELLS.

LL*the argument and all the wisdom

are not in the encyclopeedia, or the
treatise on metaphysics, or the body of di-
vinity, but in the sonnet, or the play. In
my daily work I incline to repeat my old
steps, and do not believe in remedial force,
in the power of change and reform. But
some Petrarch or Ariosto, filled with the
new wine of his imagination, writes me
an ode, or a brisk romance, full of daring
thought and action. He smites and arouses
me with his shrill tones, breaks up my whole
chain of habits, and I open my eye on my
own possibilities. He claps wings to the
sides of all the solid old lumber of the
world, and I am capable once more of
choosing a straight path in theory and
practice. —&. W. Emerson,





SHEEP.

THE

SHING

WA



HOW DID THE LORD KEEP EASTER.

A. D. T. WHITNEY.

{Ow did the Lord keep Easter? With His own!
‘E Back to meet Mary, where she grieved alone—
And I do think, as he came back to her,

The many mansions may be all astir

With tender steps, that hasten in the way,

Seeking their own upon this Easter day.

Parting the veil that hideth them about,

I think they do come, softly, wistful, out

From homes of heaven that only seem so far,

And walk in gardens where the new tombs are.

THE DAY OF PENTECOST.

THOMAS W. HANDFORD.

HERE has not been a more remarkable
period in human history than that which
is known as the apostolic age. It was mete
that the world should begin to date its years
anew with the advent of Christianity, for the
dawn of Christianity was thé dawn of a new
day, the dawn of new life and hope for a
worn and weary world. ‘lhe men who made
the first century of the Christian era great,
were men whose strength Jay not in special
gifts and endowments, but in the enthusiastic
consecration of their manhood to a grand and
noble cause. The world was fast sinking
into rnin when the apostles of Jesus Christ
appeared; the altars of the earth were burn-
ing with feeble and fruitless fires; the tem-
ples of Paganism were vacated; the oracles
were dumb. The great heart of humanity,
weary and disappointed and sore, yearned for
a new morality, for bread of life and water of
life, to satisfy the hunger of the soul. And
in the world’s hour of sorest need these
apostles of the Lamb—full-charged with the
gracious gift of Pentecost—came forth to
light a new fire on the world’s high altar and
to proclaim a new evangel—the reconcilement
ot earth and heaven—the gospel that declares
that

‘« You and J and all men move,
Under a canopy of love,
As broad as the blue heaven above.”

And the gospel of love became a gospel of
life and power. All this marvelous work for
the world dates specially from the day of
Pentecost. Of all the wonderful experiences
of that day we have but fragmentary and
suggestive records.
about the preaching of that day was, that it
was intelligible to all. Every man under-
stood it. The preachers were powerful men
who could so preach that all men hearing

One astonishing thing —

understood. And the hearers were astonish-
ed that they heard in their own native tongue
or dialect the wonderful works of God. It
would serve no great purpose to stay and in-
quire how these Galileans were able to speak
to Parthians and Medes, to Greeks and Jews,
and to the dwellers beyond the sea. They
received power. They had been told to
“wait,” and they waited and watched and
held their souls in receptive poise, and the
power came—as power always comes to
waiting, watching, trustful men—and they
spoke with tongues warm as fire and clear as
lambent flame. But behind this wonder a
grander wonder lay. It is one thing to have
power to tell, but another thing to have a
message to tell. Here was the crowning
marvel, that not a man of all that strangely
mingled crowd but felt that these preachers
had a word for him. There was a word to
his own understanding, his conscience, his
heart. Whatever there was-in this new
school of morality he was interested in it.
It concerned him. For on the lip of every
one of these apostolic preachers was this
direct message: “To you is the gospel of
this salvation sent.” ‘Two millenniums have
passed away since that first Pentecost, and
the same gospel is preached in every land,
and to all the dwellers on the earth it comes
with a direct personal message. It speaks to
us in our own tongue—on a level with our
mental and moral apprehension. It speaks
to every one of us, and to all our conditions
and moods. —_ It gives the truest philosophy
of the life that is and the fairest promise
of a life beyond. It is still Pentecost!
And every man who will listen may hear in
words he cannot misunderstand the wonder-
ful works of God.

YET THERE IS ROOM.

No father’s house is full,
E’en though there seems no resting place for mere;
Forgiving arms and doors do open wide
If one repentant child implore
Outside.

No mother’s heart is full,
Unless it be with longing, burning, wild
Heart-throbbings that no cheerful face can hide——
The wish to clasp her sinning child
Outside.

God’s flock is never full;
Fear not to enter boldly at His door;
None ever were refused who there applied:
He hath abiding-place for more
Inside.































































































































































ONLY A ROSE.
MRS. H. P. SPOFFORD.
AM the one rich thing that morn
Leaves for the argent noon to win;
Grasp me not, I have a thorn,
But bend and take my fragrance in.
Petal on petal.opening wide,
My being into beauty flows,—
Hundred-leaved and damask-dyed,—
Yet nothing, nothing but a rose.

slOW PEOPLE LIVED THREE HUNDRED
YEARS AGO.

a ee the diary of the cele-

brated Elizabeth Wocdville, previous
to her marriage with Lord Grey. She was
afterward Queen to Edward IV., and died
at Southwark, in the reign of Henry VIL.

“«Monday morning—Rose at 4 o’clock
und helped Catherine to milk the cows,
Rachel, the other dairymaid, having scalded
her hand in so dreadful a manner the night
before; made a poultice for Rachel, and
gave Robin a penny to get something from
the apothecary.

**Six o’clock—The buttock of beef too
much boiled, and beer a little of the stalest.

“Seven o’clock—Went to walk with the
lady, my mother, in the courtyard; fed
twenty-five men and women; chid Roger
severely for expressing some ill will at attend-
ing us with broken meat.

“Hight o’clock—Went to the paddock
bebind the house with my maid, Dorothy:
eaught Thump, the little pony, myself, and
rode a matter of six miles without saddle or
bridle.

«Ten o’clock—Went to dinner with John
Grey, a most comely youth—but what is that
to me? A virtuous maiden should be entirely
under the direction of her parents; John ate
but little, but stcle a great many tender
looks at me; said women would never be
handsome, in his opinion, who were not
good natured; I hope my temper is not intol-
erable; nobody finds fault with me except
Roger, and he is the most disorderly serving
man in the family; John Grey loves white
teeth; my teeth are of a pretty good color,
I think, and my hair is as black ‘as jet, and
John’s, if I mistake not, is of the same
color.

“‘Mleven o’clock—Rose from table; the
company all desirous of walking in the fields;
John Grey would lift me over every stile,
and twice he squeezed my hand with vehe-
mence; I can not say I should have no objec-

H5



tion to John Grey; he plays at prison bars as
well as any country gentleman, and is re-
markably dutiful to his parents, my lord and
lady, and never misses church on Sunday.

“Three o’clock—Poor Farmer Robinson’s
house burnt by accidental fire; John Grey
proposes a subscription among the company
for the relief of the farmer; gave no less than
£4 for this benevolent intent. Mem.: Never
saw him look so comely as at this moment.

“« Four o’clock—Went to prayers.

«Six o’clock—Fed the hogs and poultry.

“Seven o’clock—Supper on table; delayed
till that hour on account of Farmer Robin-
son’s misfortune. Mem.: The goose pie too
much baked and the pork roasted to rags.

“« Nine o’clock—The company fast asleep;
these late hours are very disagreeable; said
my prayers a second time; John Grey dis-
tracted my thoughts too much the first time;
fell asleep and dreamed of John Grey.”





FLOWERS.

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

LOWERS are the sweetest things God
' ever made and forgot to put a soul into.





THE DAY DREAM.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER:
LL yesterday I was spinning,
Sitting alone in the sun;

And the dream that I spun was so lengthy,
It lasted ‘till day was done.

J heeded not cloud or shadow
That flitted over the hill,

Or the humming-bees, or the swallows,
Or the trickling of the rill.

I took the threads of my spinning,
All of blue summer air,

And a flickering ray of sunlight
Was woven in here and there.

The shadows grew longer and longer
The evening wind passed by,

And the purple splendor of sunset
Was flooding the western sky.

But I could not leave my spinning
For so fair my dream had grown,
I heeded not, hour by hour,
How the silent day had flown.

At last the gray shadows fell round me,
And the night came dark and chill,

And I rose and ran dowp the valley,
And left it all on the hill.

I went up the hill this morning -
To the place where my spinning lay—
There was nothing but glistening dewdropg

Remained of my dream to-day.





IN Loh FILLY.



THE FERRY FOR SHADOWTOWN.
LILLIAN D. RICE.

WAY to and fro in the twilight gray,
This is the ferry for Shadowtown;
It always sails at the end of day,
Just as the darkness is closing down.

Rest, little head, on my shoulder, so;
A sleepy kiss is the only fare;

Drifting away from the world we go,
Baby and I in the rocking-chair.

See, where the fire-logs glow and spark,
Glitter the lights of the Shadowland;

The winter rain on the window — hark!
Are ripples lapping upon its strand.

There, where the mirror is glancing dim,
A lake lies, shimmering, cool and still;

Blossoms are waving above its brim —
Those over there on the window-sill.

Rock slow, more slow, in the dusky light;
Silently lower the anchor down.

Dear little passenger say, ‘‘ Good-night,”
We've reached the harbor of Shadowtown.

A TRUE HERO.

RUSSELL H. CONWELL.

ace was in the gray of the early morning, in
the season of Lent. Broad Street, from
Fort Hill to State Street, was crowded with
hastening worshipers, attendants on early
church. Suddenly a passer-by noticed tiny
wreaths and puffs of smoke starting from the
shingles of the roof upon a large warehouse.
The great structure stood upon the corner,
silent, bolted, and tenantless; and all the
windows, save a small, rough light in the
upper story, were closely and securely coy-
ered with heavy shutters. Then came a
flash, like the lightning’s glare, through the
frame of the little gable window, and then
another, brighter, ghastlier, and more pro-
longed. ‘‘Fire!” ‘Firc !” screamed the
throng. Great bells with ponderous tongues
repeated the cry, and brave firemen leaped
upon engines and hose-carriages, and rattled
into the street.

Soon the roof of the burning warehouse
was drenched with floods of water, poured
upon it from the hose of many engines, and
the surging multitude in Broad Street had
grown to thousands of excited spectators.
The engines puffed and hooted -h« retreat.
As far as one could see, the streets were
crowded with living human flesh and blood.

**My Goci! my God!” said the engineer.
“What can be done? What can be done!”

“‘What can be done? T’ll tell you what
can be done,” said one of Boston’s firemen,
whose hair was not yet sprinkled with gray.
“Yes, bring out that powder! And I’m the
man to doit. Better one man perish: than
perish all. Follow me with the water, and,
if God lets me live long enough, I’ll have if
out.” Perhaps as the hero rushed into th
burning pile, into darkness of smoke and
withering heat, he thought of the wife and
children at home, of the cheeks he had
kissed in the evening, of the cheerful good-
bye of the prattling ones, and the laugh as he
gave the ‘last tag” ; for, as he rushed froin
the hoseman who tied the handkerchief ove
his mouth, he muttered, “God care for my
littie ones when I am gone.”

Inte the flame of the rear store rushed the
hero, and groping to the barrels, rolled them
speedily into the alley, where surged the
stream from the engines; rushing back and
forth with power superhuman, in the deep-
est smoke, while deadly harpoons loaded te
pierce the vhales of the Artic seas began te
explode, and iron darts Hlashed by him in all
directions, penetrating the walls and piereing
the adjacent buildings. But as if his heroic
soul was a charm impenetrable, neither har
poon nor bomb, crumbling timbers noi
showers of flaming brands, did him aught of
injury, beyond the scorching of his hair and
eyebrows, and the blistering of his hands
and face. “T'was a heroic deed! Did ever
field of battle, wreck, or martyrdom show
a braver ?

TWO LITTLE GIRLS.

KNOW a little girl
(You? O, no!)
Who, when she’s asked to go to bed,
Does just so-
She brings a dozen wrinkles out
And tikes the dimples in ;
She puckers up her pretty lips,
And then she does b gin :—
“Oh, dear me! I don’t see why —
All the others sit up late,
And why can’t 1?”

Another little girl I know,
With curly pate,

Whosays: ‘‘ When I’m a great big girl,
Tl sit up late ;

But mamnia says ‘twill make me grow
To be an early bird.”

So she and dolly trot away
Without another word.

Oh, the sunny smile and the eyes so blue i
And —and — why, yes, now I think of it
She looks like you!





Bong of the Brook.

COME from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges;
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles,

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I fiow
To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever,

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever,—A/fred Tennyson.



HEART OF THE SUMMER IS HEART OF
THE YEAR.

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

EAUTY of roses—the lavish, sweet light,
Splendor of trees, rearing up the blue height,
smell of the blueberry, balsam of pine,
3liss of the brook—and this rapture of mine!
Tell they not all, now their heyday is here,
Heart of the summer is heart of the year.

THE HEART OF THE SUMMER.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.

E OW glorious is the summer! How

charming the out of doors life to which
it invites us! he sky is better than the fres-
coed ceiling howsoever elaborately wrought,
the gnarled and lichen-covered trunks of the
trees are much more beautiful than the cost-
liest of carved furniture. The hammock is
better than the bed, and a field of growing
oats or a patch of prairie meadow will furnish
us with pictures such as painters, ancient or
modern, never drew. The piano and the
organ can rest for a little, for the birds are all
in chorus, filling the air with anthems, and
cantatas, now sweet and low, and now loud
and melodious. We have but to look about
our feet and above our heads, and every-
where within the range of vision a wealth of
beauty appears, filling the heart of this sing-
ing, shining summer-time brimfull of bless-
ing. Each morning brings dewy messages
of mercy, andif the noonsare hot and sultry,
the nights are calm and beautiful, and trom
“the cool cisterns of the midnight air” we
drink the luxury of repose. The Bible is
the best text-book in the world, but nature
is full of texts and sermons, and whole gos-
pels in days like these. And if, from the
heart of this summer time—so prodigal in
grace and beauty—we gather no impulses
of thankfulness, no broader views of the in-
finite richness of life, no clearer vision of that
open hand from whose limitless bounty the
wants of all living things are supplied, then
the birds have sung, and the flowers have
bloomed tolittle purpose. But, alas! for us,
the Summer will soon be gone, and the last
rose will scatter its fair leaves to the blast.
It remains for us to quaff therich wine while
the Summer holds its dewy crystal goblet to
our lips. Centuries ago, Herrick—one of
the sweetest and quaintest of English poets

—sang a stanza that comes to us with special
appropriateness to-day:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-tlying ;
Hnd this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

THE MINISTRY OF FLOWERS.

MRS. M. L. CHILD.

OW the universal heart of man blesses

flowers, they are wreathed around the
cradle, the marriage alter, and the tomb.
The Persian in the far East delights in their
perfume, and writes his love in nosegays,
while the Indian child of the far West clasps
his hands with glee as he gathers the abund-
ant blossoms—the illuminated scriptures of
the prairies. The cupid of the ancient Hin-
does tipped his arrows with flowers, while
orange blooms are a bridal crown with us.

THE LONG MIDSUMMER DAY.’
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

1 PHROUGH all the long midsummer day
The meadow sides are sweet with hay,

I seek the coolest sheltered seat,

Just where the field and forest meet,

Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,

The ancient oaks, austere and grand,

And fringy roots and pebbles fret

The ripples of the rivulet.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD.

A NY one could tellthat Donald Me Tavish

was a Scotchman if they had never
heard his very Scotch name. That plaid
jacket, and the clear cut face and flowing
beard all bespeak the Highlander. McTav-
ish is busy feeding his sheep, and a kind
gentle shepherd he is. All his sheep know
the sound of his voice, and they come
when he calls, and follow where he leads.

Once when I was staying at that happy
home of his among the hills, I tried if the
sheep would take any notice of my voice, and
I called, and called, and called, but the
sheep might all have been deaf for any
notice they took of me. Donald laughed at
me, and said:—‘‘ Div ye no ken laddie what
the guid book says?” And then he quoted
those beautiful words:—‘‘I am the good
shepherd, and know my _ sheep, and am
known of mine.” The sheep follow him,
for they know his voice. A stranger will
they not follow, but will flee from him, for
they know not the voice of strangers.



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HELEN HUNT JACKSON.



HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
THOMAS W. HANDFORD.

HEname of Helen Hunt Jackson,—whose
portrait will be found on the next page,
is dear to many thousands. She was one
of our sweetest poets, a member of that
rowing Guild of singing, suffering woman-
ood, whose songs have brought solace to the
troubled, and courage to the despairing.
Helen Hunt Jackson was born at Amherst,
Massachusetts, October 18, 1831. Her father
was professor of languages and philosophy in
Amherst College. Early in life she lost both
father and mother. In 1852 she was mar-
ried to Major Hunt, of the United States
Army. For a time life was very glad and
beautiful for the young poetess, but the
shadows soon darkened her path. In August,
1854, her first-born son, Murray, died; in
1863, her husband was killed; and two years
later her second son, Warren, died of diph-
theria. The sweetness of Mrs. Jackson’s
songs is to be accounted for largely on the
theory that the nightingale sings sweetly
because of the thorn in its throat. For nine
years she walked the path of life alone,
cheered mainly by the songs that came from
the depths of her own sorrow. In 1875 she
was married to William S. Jackson, of Colo-
rado Springs. Then came ten happy years,
years of joyful home life, and of happy
service in the fields of sacred song. In the
summer of 1884 it was discovered that she
was suffering from amalignant cancer. The
last year of her life was spent in pain and
anguish, but she did not murmur, she bowed
with patience to the will divine. Some of
her latest songs were the sweetest. As death
drew near she bade him weleome—there was
no terror for her in his demands. Hear how
she sings:

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;

Thy only fault thy lagging gait,

Mistaken pity in thy heart

For timorous ones that bid thee wait.

And yet, with all her love of work strong
upon her, she could not help grudging Death,
the busy hand and the throbbing heart, and so
with the last effort of a life that had been
both sad and beautiful—as beautiful as sad
—she yields to the summons all must answer,
not without the hope that otherwhere, in
some happy region beyond this world of
weakness and pain, there must be work for
the toiler.

Oh, feeble, mighty human hand!
Qh, fragile, dauntless human heart!

The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine;
Poor little hand, so feeble now;

Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow.

* * * * *

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
I shail be free when thou art through.

Take all there is—take hand and heart;
There must be somewhere work to do.

Helen Hunt Jackson now lies at peace in
her strange mountain grave, but the songs
she sang will live through many years to
cheer the sorrowful and inspire the sad. A
triend who knew her well thus describes her
grave: ‘‘ To-day I visited the grave of my
friend, Helen Hunt Jackson. The burial
place was of her own choosing, about 2,000
feet above her home at Colorado Springs,
and 8,000 teet above the level of the Atlantic
ocean. She selected as her final resting-
place a plateau upon the top of the Cheyenne
mountains. The chosen place was one
where she had spent much of ner leisure
time in exploring the mountains. Many
pilgrims from all parts of this country, and
from abroad also, visit this mountain grave.
«‘ Why,” almost every one asks, ‘‘this strange
place of burial?” I1f the dead cannot speak,
the living cannot answer. The mountain
site is where everything is grand and beauti-
ful in nature—where nothing can ever dis-
turb her love of sweet repose and rest—where
the passing clouds and the heavens are
nearer than the boundless sweep of plains
below—where, with a clearer sky, if possible,
than elsewhere,. one can look througn nature
up to nature’s God.”



TO THE MEMORY OF HELEN HUNT
JACKSON.
EDITH M. THOMAS.

Gee heart of many loves! while earth was
thine,

Thou didst love nature and her every mood:

Beneath thine eye the frail flower of the wood

Uplifted not in vain its fleeting sign,

And on thy hearth the mast-tree’s blaze benign,

With all its sylvan lore, was understood !

Seems homely Nature’s mother-face less good,

Spirit down-gazing from the Fields Divine ?

Qh, let me bring these gathered leaves of mine,

Praising the common earth, the rural year,

And consecrate them to thy memory dear,—

Thought’s pilgrim to thy mortal body’s shrine,

Beneath soft sheddings of the mountain pine

And trailing mountain heath untouched with sere !







ABOUT SUNSHINE.

‘C7 WISH God had never permitted man

I to invent ‘green blinds,’” said a gay
and brilliant woman,

Why did she say it?

Because she saw, wherever she went, over
our fair and sunshiny land, that green
blinds were closely shut upon our comforta-
ble houses, excluding the sun’s light, which
we may be sure God sends down for some
blessed purpose. That blessed purpose is
to promote growth, to give strength, to im-
part color, to gild with beauty, to inspire
good thoughts and to insure light hearts
and cheerful faces,

It is thoroughly well known that no val-
uable plant can grow-well without being
visited by the direct rays of the sun; no
plant can bear seed, no fruit can ripen with-
out it. It is thoroughly well known that
no valuable animal can grow and perfect it-
self except it enjoys the direct rays of the
life-giving sun. The pigs of a friend of
mine, which were shut under his barn, and
who had everything favorable except the
sunlight, failed to grow well; they did not

,at all equal those which had the ordinary
run inthe openair. So it is, as we all know,
with city-grown children; they are pale
weaklings the world over.

The fish of the Mammoth Cave are white;
their eyes are not opened, because they have
never felt the glorious light; they are weak
and imperfect, a kind of idiots, if fish are
liable to that wretchedness.

Now, then, can man, can woman thrive
if debarred this life-giving light? Can our
lovely Americans afford to shut out this
light from their houses, and grow idiotic in
the dark? Are not green blinds a curse,
rather than a comfort? We appeal’ to our
fine women, who wish to be strong, who
wish to be beautiful, who abhor “low spir-
its,” to consider this matter.

Recent discoveries have shown there is
conveyed to animals, by the direct action of
the sun’s rays, a subtle current of iron. It
does not exist in light, or but very slightly,
if at all, but it is a part of the sun’s rays.
Therefore, we must enjoy these rays, if we
would feel their full effect. This iron it is,
which is supposed to give color to plants
and animals, and to impart strength and
beauty. With strength and beauty come
health and good spirits, and despondency
and fear are banished,



Sleepless people—and there are many in
America—should court the sun. The very
worst soporific is laudanum, and the very
best, sunshine. Therefore, it is plain that
poor sleepers should pass as many hours in
the day in sunshine, and as few as possible
in the shade.

Many women are martyrs, and yet do not
know it. They shut the sunshine out of
their houses and their hearts; they wear
veils; they carry parasols; they do all pos-
sible to keep off the subtlest and yet most
potent influence, which is intended to give
them strength, and beauty, and cheerful-
ness. Is it not time to change all this, and
so get color and roses in our pale cheeks,
strength in our weak backs, and courage in
our timid souls?) The women of America
are pale and delicate—they may be bloom-
ing and strong, and the sunlight will be
a potent influence in this transformation.
Will they not try it a year or two, and
oblige thousands of admirers?

TRUE WEALTH.

HE true wealth of a man consists in

the number of things he loves and
blesses, and by which he is loved and
blessed.— Thomas Carlyle.

A NEGRO’S PRAYER.

TEACHER in one of the colored

schools at the south was about to go
away for a season, and an old negro poured
out for her the following fervent petitions,
which we copy from a private letter: “J
give you the words,” said the writer, “but
they convey no idea of the pathos and
earnestness of the prayer: ‘Go afore her
as a leadin’ light, an’ behind her as a pro-
tectin’ angel. Rough-shod her feet wid de
preparation ob de Gospel o’ peace. Nail
her ear to de Gospel pole. Gib her de eye
ob de eagle dat she spy out sin ’far off. Wax
her hand to de Gospel plow. Tie her
tongue to de line ob truf. Keep her feet
in de narrer way and her soul in de channel
ob faith. Bow her head low beneaf her
knees, an’ her knees way down in some
lonesome valley where prayer and supplica-
tion is much wanted to be made. Hedge
an’ ditch "bout her, good Lord, an’ keep her
in de strait an’ narrer way dat leads to
heafen,’”











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A LITTLE LESSON.

MARION REYBURNE.

Sou youthful housekeepers one day
Were getting supper in a way
That was delizhtful really.
The grass a velvet carpet made
Beneath the glowing maples’ shade,
No room so charming nearly.

Then Flossy brought a napkin red,

«oTwill make a lovely cloth, ” she said,
But when she came to try it,

Alas! ’twas not quite large enough

To hide the table, slightly rough,
"~was useless to deny it.

Then rueful looks of blank dismay
Began to chase the smiles away,
So meagre did they find -it;
Till out spoke sunny little Nell,
“We'll leave it so, tis just as well,
And play we do not mind it.”

The joyous smiles returned once more,
Too soon the dainty feast was o'er,
And shadows gathered thickly;
A star shone silvery in the west
Warning each merry little guest
To seek the home-fold quickly.

The lesson is as plain as day:
A cloud may rise above your way,
The sunshine is behind it.
When things go wrong and others frown,
Just put all vain repining down
And play you do not mind it.

TRANSYLVANIA MARRIAGE CUSTOMS.

ANE the young people go to church
the day after the wedding, they are
met at the church door by a group of masked
figures, who surround them, singing and
hooting, and playfully endeavor to separate
the young matron from her husband. If
they succeed in so doing, then he must win
her back in a hand-to-hand fight with his

adversaries, or else he must give a piece of °

money as her ransom. In general it is con-
sidered a bad omen for the married life of
the young couple if. the wife be separated
from her husband on this occasion; there-
fore it is customary for the young husband
to take his stand close by the church door
while his wife is praying within, and then
be ready to catch hold of her as soon as she
steps outside. For greater precaution, the
man often holds her about the waist with
both hands during the dance which imme-
diately takes place before the church, and at

which they assist merely as spectators, taking ~

no active part, as it is not considered seemly
to dance in the church attire.

As commonly several couples are married
at the same time, it is usual for each sepa-
rate wedding party to bring its own band of
music, and dance thus independently of the
others. On the occasion of a triple wedding
I lately witnessed, it was very amusing to
watch the three wedding parties coming down |
the street, each accelerating its pace till it
came to be arace up to the church door to
‘secure the best dancing place. The ground
being rough and slanting, there was only one
spot where anything like a flat dancing floor
could be obtained, and the winning party at
once secured this enviable position, while the
others had to put up with an inclined plane
or a few hillocks accidenting their ball-room
floor. ‘The ten to sixteen couples belonging
to each wedding party are enclosed in a ring
of bystanders, each rival band of music play-
ing away with heroic disregard for the
scorched ears of the listeners. ‘‘ Polka!”
calls out the first group; ‘* Walzer!” roars
the second, for it is a point of honor that
each party should display a noble independ-
ence in taking its own line of action, and if,
out of mere coincidence, two of the bands
happen to strike up the self-same tune, one
of them is sure to change to something totally
different as soon as aware of the unfurtunate
mistake, the caterwauling effect produced by
this system baffling all description. ‘‘ This is
nothing at all,” said the worthy pastor from
whose garden I was overlooking the scene,
laughing at the evident dismay with which
I endeavored to stop my ears. ‘‘ Sometimes
we have eight or ten weddings at a time, each
with their own fiddlers. That is something
worth hearing, indeed!”

OVER THE MOUNTAIN OF SORROW.

- DEXTER SMITH.

VER the mountain of sorrow
There is a valley of rest,
Ours but to wait for the morrow,
When we may dwell with the blest;
Upward and onward, though troubled,
Let us go forth and be brave,
Knowing that joys shall be doubled
When we have gone past the grave.

Courage! Keep on to the ending,
Step after step of the way;

Shadow with sun although blending
Cannot shut out the whole day!

Far up the mountain is brightness,
Whence the dark clouds have unrolled,

Where the pure Angel of Whiteness
Opens the gateway of gold.









THE CHEMISTRY OF NATURE.

E, P. ROE.

HAT a chemist Nature is! How in

the name of all that is wonderful can
she manage to give every kind of flower and
vegetable a different perfume ? Some of the
most homely and useful products of the gar-
den give out odors that are as grateful as
those of choice flowers, just as some human
lives that are busiest and fullest of care have
still the aroma of peace and rest about them.

STEADY AND SURE.

EDMUND T. WRAY.

“C\TEADY and sure,” said the snail,
h As he slowly passed by;
“Tf steady and sure, you are evermore,
‘You'll succeed, if you only try.”
‘Steady and sure,” said the horse,
As he dragged his load along;
“Tf steady and sure, though ever so poor,
You'll conquer, if only you are strong.”
‘« Steady and sure,” said the boy,
As he climbed the ship’s tall mast;
“Tf steady and sure, whatever’s before,
We may overcome all at last.”
‘Steady and sure,” said the ship,
As she ploughed the ocean main;
“If steady and sure, we'll anchor once more,
In the port of New York again.”
“Steady and sure,” said the clock, -
Chiming out slowly the hours;
“Tf steady and sure, we are evermore,
The victory certain is ours.”

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

EFORE 1789 there was a delightful
period of universal confidence during
which a belief in the perfectibility of man
was insensibly merging into a conviction that
he could be perfected by some formula of
words, just as a man is knighted. He kneels
down a simple man like ourselves, is told to
rise up a perfect being, and rises accordingly.
it certainly was a comfortable time. If there
was discontent, it was in the individual, and
not in the air; sporadic, not epidemic. Re-
sponsibility for the universe had not been in-
vented. A few solitary persons saw a swarm
of ominous question-marks wherever they
turned their eyes; but sensible people pro-
nounced them the mere musce volitantes of
indigestion which an honest dose of rhubarb
would disperse. Men read Rousseau for

amusement, and never dreamed that tnose
flowers of rhetoric were ripening the seed of
the guillotine. Post and telegraph were not
so importunate as now. People were not
compelled to know what all the fools in the
world were saying or doing yesterday. It is
impossible to conceive of a man’s enjoying
now the unconcerned seclusion of White at
Selbourne, who, a century ago, recorded the
important fact that ‘‘the old tortoise at
Lewes in Sussex awakened and came forth
out of his dormitory,” but does not seem to
have heard of Burgoyne’s surrender, the news
of which ought to have reached him about
the time he was writing. It may argue
pusillanimity, but I can hardly help envying
the remorseless indifference of such men to
the burning questions of the hour, at the first
alarm of which we are all expected to run
with our bucket, or it may be with our can
of kerosene, snatched by mistake in the
hurry and confusion. They devoted them-
selves to leisure with as much assiduity as we
employ to render it impossible. The art of
being elegantly and strenuously idle is lost.
There was no hurry then, and armies still
went into winter quarters punctually as
musquashes. Certainly manners occupied
more time and were allowed more space.
Whenever one sees a picture of that age with
its broad skirts, its rapiers standing out al-
most at a right angle, and demanding a wide
periphery to turn about, one has a feeling of
spaciousness that suggests mental as well as
bodily elbow-room. Now all the ologies fol-
low us to our burrows in our newspaper, and
crowd upon us with the pertinacious benevo-
lence of subscription-books. Even the right
of sanctuary is denied. The horns of the
altar, which we fain would grasp, have been
dissolved into their original gases in the
attempt to combine chemistry with theology.

LONGING FOR HOLIDAY TIME.

| | OW many weeks to Holiday-time?
Working and waiting, we count the days;
Soon to be free, and off to the sea,
Or roaming in meadow and woodland ways,
The cliff to scale and the hill to climb,
And many a mile from the busy town
To breathe the air of the breezy down;
Or listening stand
Where the yellow sea-sand
Is beaten and bared by the rush of the tide;
For the glorious sunlight far and wide
Beckons us out with a golden hand,
And we envy the flight of the sea-gull white,
As he wanders at will ’twixt the foam and the land.



























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































GREEN HILL.

HERE is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.

We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear,

But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffered there.

He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,

That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by his precious blood.

There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin,

He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in.

O, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And w: must love Him too,

And trust:in His redeeming blood,
And try Ilis works to do.













































EMPTY HEADS.
REY. C. KINGSLEY.

| verily believe that a great deal of bad
company, drunkenness, and folly, and sin
comes from mere want of knowledge, from
emptiness of head. A young man or young
woman will not learn, will not read, and
therefore they have nothing useful or profit-
able to employ their leisure hours, nothing
to think of when they are not actually at
work; and so they run off to vain and often
wicked amusements. Gambling, what does
that ruinous vice come from save from idle-
ness of head, from having nothing to amuse
your minds with save cards and dice? and so

“The devil finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.”

Therefore if you want to keep your brain and
thoughts out of temptation, read and learn;
_get useful knowledge: and all knowledge—I
say all knowledge—must be useful. I care
little what you read, provided you do not
read wicked books; or what you think of,
provided you do not think of sin and folly.
For all knowledge must be useful, because it
is knowledge of God’s works. Nothing lives
upon earth but what God has made. Nothing
_happens upen earth but what God has done.
So whatever you study, you may be certain
you are studying God’s works and God’s
laws; and they must always be worth the
study of rational beings and children of God.
Learn what you like, only learn; for you are
in God’s world, and as long as you learn
about God’s world your time cannot be
thrown away.

A MOTHER’S WORK.

I.
AKING, stewing, and brewing,
Roasting, frying, and boiling,
Sweeping, dusting and cleaning,
Washing, starching, and ironing,
Ripping, turning, and mending,
Cutting, basting, and stitching,
Making the old like new:
Shoestrings to lace,
Faces to wash,
Buttons to sew,
And the like of such:
Stockings to darn
While the children play,
Stories to tell,
Tears wipe away,
Making them happy
The livelong day:
It is ever thus from morn till night:
Who says that a mother’s work is light?

H6



Il.

At evening, four
Little forms in white;
Prayers all said,
And the last good-night,
Tucking them safe
In each downy bed,
Silently asking
O’er cach head,
That the dear Father
In heaven will keep
Safe all my darlings,
Awake or asleep.
Then I think the old adage true will prove
‘Tt is easy to labor for those that we love.”

Ill,
Ah me! dear me! I often-say,
As I hang the tumbled clothes away,
And the tear-drops start,
While my burdened heart
Aches for the mother across the way,
Where, O where, are
Her nestlings flown ?
All, all are gone,
Save one alone!
Folded their garments
With tenderest care,
Unpressed the pillow
And vacant the chair;
No ribbons to tie,
No faces to wash,
No hair all awry;
No merry voices
To hush into rest;
- God save them!
He took them,
And he knoweth best.
But ah! the heart-anguish! the tears that fall!
This mother’s work is the hardest of all!

THE SECRET OF JOY.

J. G. HOLLAND.

BELIEVE that twice as much may be
enjoyed in this life as is now enjoyed if
people would only take and use the blessings
which heaven confers upon them for present
use. We strive to accumulate beyond our
wants and beyond the wants of our families,
In doing this we deny ourselves leisure,
recreation, culture and social relaxation. It
is not often that great accumulations of’
wealth do anybody good. They usually spoil
the happiness of two generations—one in get-
ting and one in spending.

THE WORLD’S TWILIGHT.
G. B. WILCOX.
HE world is yet in the twilight, doubt-
less, but it is the twilight of the break-
ing dawn, not the falling night. Despair of
the world’s future is disloyalty to God.









































































SSS
SSS SS
SSS

SSSS

SSS





THE LITTLE STONE SCHOOLHOUSE.,
GEO. NEWELL LOVEJOY.

HE little stone schoolhouse

Still stands on the green,

Where it stood in my boyhood
When life was serene;

And around it the sunshine
Falls just as of old —

As in days long since vanished,
The dear days of old!

nder its windows

The violets grow,
Just as they used to

Long, long years ago;

And the brown-coated swallow
Still builds her rude nest

Under the eaves where
Naught can molest;

While the robin still sings in
The butternut tree,

Hard by the place that
Is hallowed to me.

Children pass in through
The wide open door,
Just as they did in
The fond days of yore;

And the grass is as green, and
The skies soft and fair,

As amid the dear days when
My heart knew no care;

While the breezes so fragrant
Blow over the green,

As they did in mv boyhood
When life was serene

But the children who pass in
Through the wide open door,
And who sport on the green, are

Not they — they of yore!

And my heart it grows sad, and
Tears fill my eyes,

As I look on their faces
Where happiness lies.

THE FATHER AND HIS TWO DAUGH-
TERS.

MAN had two daughters, the one mar-

ried to a gardener, and the other toa, .

tileemaker. After a time he went to the
daughter who had married the gardener, and
inquired how she was, and how all things
went with her. She said “All things are
prospering with me, and I have only one
wish, that there may be a heavy fall of rain,
in order that the plants may be well water-
ed.” Notlong after, he went to the daughter
who had married the tile-maker, and likewise

inquired of her how she fared; she replied,
“I want for nothing, and have only one
wish, that the dry weather may continue,
and the sun shine hot and bright, so that the
bricks might be dried.” He said to her,
“If your sister wishes for rain, and you for
dry weather, with which of the two am I to
join my wishes? ”

WISHES.
~ USED to wish I was a bird
Last summer when the days were long
With nothing else at all to do
But fly about and sing a song.

But in the drowsy afternoons
Teven wished I were a sheep,

Then I should have no bothering books,
But lie among the grass and sleep,

I even thought I'd like to be

A gorgeous, bright-winged butterfly,
To idly float in shining air,

Or in the flower-cups to lie.

But now the winter-time has come,
And all is frost and cold and drear;

The trees are bare, the hillside bleak,
How warm and bright and pleasant heret

And see the birdie’s bare, cold feet,
While [am now so warmly dressed,

And hear the shivering Iambkins bleat,
Ah! God is good, and knoweth best

The butterfly! O where is he?

Poor thing, he perished Jong ago,
And buried with my lovely flowers

Is covered deep and white with snow

Poor birds and sheep and butterflies,
I’m glad my wishes can't come true,

I'll take my books and study hard —
Much better be a bey than you.

THE NEW BABY,
MARY NORTON BRADFORD.

V HAT strange little man ean this be,

So weird and so wizened and wise?
What mystical things has he seen

With those wide-open wondering eyes?

What treasures unfold, from what lands,
Do his soft baby fingers enfold?

What word does he bring from afar,
This stranger so young, yet so old?

Does he bring us some message from spheres
Unheard of, from worlds we know not —
Starry countries we dwell in, mayhap,
As babies, and now have forgot?

Who can tell what he knows, what he thinks?
He says not a word, but he looks,

In a minute, more wisdom, I’ll swear,
Than is shut in the biggest of books.











































































































‘TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW.
D. HAUGHTON.

eae hand of mercy lights the past
But hides the future ill;
It tempers every stormy blast

And bids us onward still.
Whatever cloud may darkly rise

Or storm may wildly blow,
Whatever path before us lies,

’Tis better not to know.

Our friends may falter one by one
And leave us to our fate,

If but the staff we Jean upon
May still support our weight ;

Unconquered by a dream of ill,
Unburdened as we go,

The storm may break beyond, but still,
*Tis better not to know.

If faith in human constancy
Be but a dream at best;

If falsehood lurk where love should be,
Yet in that dream I’m blest;

If warning of a coming wrong
Cannot avert the blow,

If knowledge fail to make me strong —
’Tis better not to know.

And if within my brother's heart
A buried hatred lies;

If friendship be an acted part,
His smile a cold disguise,

The knowledge would each blessing dim,
And not a boon bestow — :

Ab! leave me still my trust in him,
Tis better not to know.

THE DOGS AND THE FOX.

OME Dogs, finding the skin ofalion, be-
gan to tear it in pieces with their teeth.
A Fox, seeing them, said, ‘‘Ifthis lion were
alive, you would soon find out that his claws
were stronger than your teeth.”
it is easy to kick a man whois down.

THE ASS AND THE WOLF.

N Ass, feeding in a meadow, saw a Wolf
approaching to seize him, and imme-
diately pretended to be lame. The Wolf,
coming up, inquired the cause of his lame-
ness. ‘The Ass said that passing through a
hedge he trod with his foot upon a sharp
thorn, and requested the Wolf to pull it out,
lest when he supped on him it should injure
his throat. The Wolf consenting, and lifting
up the foot and giving his whole mind to
the discovery of the thorn, the Ass with his
heels kicked his teeth into his mouth and
galloped away. The Wolf, being thus fear-
fully mauled, said: ‘ why did J attempt the art of healing, when

se
my father only taught me the trade of a
butcher?”

THE GEORGIA WATERMELON.

pee the banks of old St. Mary’s,
_ From the rolling Tybee River,
From the shores of the Oconee

And the classic Withlacoochee,

The Ogeechee, the Ocmulgee,

Brier Creek and Ochlochonee,

From the Flint and the Savannah,
Beautiful Altamaha and

Sunny Brunswick’s breezy bay,
Shortly comes the watermelon,
Comes the Georgia watermelon,
Laden with the sweets of Southland.

With the Syndicate’s permission
Soon will come this luscious melon,
Pride of every native Georgian.

It will come from Chattahoochee,
Milledgeville and Hatcher's Station,
Buzzard Roost and Tallapoosa,
Tuckahoe and Sugar Valley,
Double Branches, Coosawattee,
Nankin, Nickajack, Jamaica,
Jimps, Geneva, Marietta,

Hickory Flat and Okapilco,

Gully Branch, Mazeppa, Ophir,
Hard Cash, Plains of Dura, Jasper,
Long Pond, Two Run, Hannahatchee,
Huckleberry, Perkins Junction,
Riddleville, Persimmon, Trickum,
Hardaway, McDade, Suwanee,
And from every little clearing
From Atlanta to the seashore,
Where there lives a Georgia Cracker
In the pride of his half acre.

Let it come, this watermelon,

This imperial Georgia melon,

Stay it not as north it cometh.
Though the crop will be two millions,
Yet there’s room for millions more.

THE PEACOCK AND JUNO.

HE Peacock made complaint to Juno
that, while the Nightingale pleased every
ear with his song, he no sooner opened his
mouth than he became a laughing-stock to
all who heard him. The Goddess, to console
him, said: ‘‘ But you far excel in beauty and
size. The splendor of the emerald shines in
your neck, and you unfold a tail gorgeous
with painted plumage.” ‘But for what
purpose have I,” said the bird, “‘ this dumh
beauty so long as I am surpassed in song?”
«The lot of each,” replied Juno, ‘has been
assigned by the will of the Fates— to thee,
beauty; to the eagle, strength; to the night-
ingale, song; to the raven, favorable, and to
the crow, unfavorable, auguries. These are
all contented with the endowments allotted
to them.” i





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THREE KINDS OF WEATHER.
JULIE M. LIPPMANN,

CE and snow and fleet reindeer
Every day throughout the year—
That is how the weather goes
With the little Esquimaux.

Clouds and heat, and not much rain,
Figs and rice and sugar cane,
Waving flies with palm-leaf fans—
Lazy little Africans !

Ice in winter and a sled,

Mufifled warm from foot to head;
Summer days—not much to do,
So the weather goes with you.

WELCOME TO THE COLD BUT KINDLY
WINTER.

THOMAS W. HANDFORD.

_JHOPLE may talk as they will of ‘‘the
glorious climate of California,” and of
the perpetual Summer of ‘‘the sunny South;”
but for our part we hail the coming of the
Winter, asa friend, who, if often very cold,
is also very kindly. Thereis atime for every-
thing under the sun; a time for breaking
buds and bursting flowers, a time for Sum-
mer beauty and songs of birds, a time for
Autum’s wealth and splendor, and a time
also for Winter—with its own especial bene-
dictions. For every season has its own treas-
ures of blessing, and its own peculiar de-
lights. The camping days are gone, and all
the merriment of Summer jaunts by moun-
tain, road and river. But in these long
nights of Winter
The largest lamp is lit.
And round the household ingle young and
old gather in happy bands. This is a land
very rich in outdoor pastimes. But with
Winter there come opportunities of cultivat-
ing the richer and more enduring delights
of the home. If it were not for the Winter,
we should never know half the value of our
homes. ‘The camp, the lakeside, the croquet
lawn, claim us for awhile, but Winter brings
us home. We learn to know each other bet-
ter, and by such knowledge tender ties grow
strong. Under the mystic gleams of the
Winter lamp-light, we find time and oppor-
tunity to commune with great minds of the
living and the dead, through the books with
which they have enriched the world. If we
are wise we shall bid the Winter welcome,
and avail ourselves of the opportunities this
season offers for the larger culture of the

mind and heart. Nature woos us all the
Summer long, but Winter opens wide the
chambers of literature and and art, and bids
us drink from these springs refreshment and
recreation of soul and spirit. We may well
hail the coming Winter, for it will not shut
us in as prisoners and refuse us any out-door
delights. Welcome Winter, with its mystic
traceries of frost, with its ‘‘snow like wool,”
its clear skies, ‘‘the flying cloud, the frosty
light”—Welcome Winter with the merry
jingle of sleigh-bells, with its blazing Christ-
mas fires, with its skies all aflame with
Christmas stars. Springtime and Summer
and Autumn we love, and very heartily he
bid the Winter—All Hail!

SLUMBER SONG.
E. ALICE KINNEY.

UN, little brooks, from the uplands brewn,
wv Run, run to the sea!
Fly, little birds, when the sun goes down,
Back to the greenwood tree!

Beat, little waves, on the rocky shore,
Sing on the pebbly beach,

And teach us the sweet truths o’er and o’er
That you always used to teach.

Crowd, little birdies, "neath mother’s wings,
The night is dark and cold;

Hide, white moon, from all earthly things,
The month is growing old.

Nestle closer, O baby head,
To the tender snow-white breast!
Soundly sleep on thy downy bed.
Sleep, sleep and rest;

For the years come and the years go,
Hearts of youth grow cold; G

The roses bloom, but soon the snow—
The world grows old.

A LESSON IN KINDNESS.

LAUDE WILSON never meant to be
unkind. He was really a kind, gentle
boy at heart. But when he got that present
of a bow and arrows what could he do but
shoot? It would have been just as well if
uncle had sent him some other kind of pres-
ent. He really felt sorry when he saw the
dead bird lying on the ground, and he
hardly needed the gentle remonstrance of
his father, who is trying to teach him what
all boys need to learn, that the greatest
law of life is kindness. Claude made up
his mind to shoot at the target and to
leave the birds alone.

















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































FOUND DROWNED!

Na bright autumn morning the fisher-
men ot Wilson’s Point were re-
turning from their early toil when just as they
neared the land they saw the dead form ofa
fair young girl on the beach. Who she was,
or whence she came, no on: knew. Washed
up by the remorseless sea she bore the marks
of one who had early known a life of sorrow.
She could not be more than seventeen, and
yetshe bore the impress of one whom suffering
had made prematurely old. In vain the
people of Wilson’s Point tried to find out
who she was,

Had she a father?

Had she a mother?
Had she a sister?

Had the a brother?
Or had she a nearer one

And a dearer one
Still than all other?

Alas! no one ever knew. The waif cast
up by the sea was buried in the church yard
of Wilson’s Point, and nothing more was
ever known of her. She was “found drown-
ed,” that was all!

FRIENDSHIP.

SSENTIAL honor must be in a Friend,

Not such as every breath fans to and fro;

But born within, is its own judge and end,
And dares not sin, though sure that none should

know,
Where Friendship’s spoke, Honesty’s understood ;
For none can be a Friend that is not good,

: —Catherine Phillips.

THE YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK.

O much public attention has been directed

to the Yellowstone Park, this season,

by the visit of the President, the Rufus
Hatch party, and the Villard party, all of
whose movements and doings have been
chronicled by the press of the. country, that
some specific facts in regard to this “wonder-
land” will be of interest. Its area is about
3,500 square miles. The surface is in large
part rolling, but is diversified by short ranges
of mountains, several peaks of which are vol-
sanic, and reach a height of nearly 12,000
feet. A large part of the entire surface is
covered with a dense growth of pine. Its
mean elevation is from 47,000 to 8,000 feet
above the sea level, which puts it out of, or
rather above, all agricultural possibilities, ex-
zept in a limited way. It abounds in natural

wonders, the chief of which are the geysers,
or hot springs, over seventy in number,
mostly in action, These, in their magnitude
and the intensity of their action, exceed any
other similar phenomena to be found upon the

earth. Besides the geysers or hot springs,
the park abounds with springs of pure cold

water. Prof. Hayden, who has made a topo-
graphical map or survey of it, locates over

2,000 of these springs. It is, in fact, the
water-shed of our northern region. It also

abounds in lakes and marshes- In some
cases marshes extend across a divide, send-
ing streams to both the Pacific and the Gulf
of Mexico. The lakes cover about 2,000
square miles of the territory, and like the
numerous streams, abound with fish, of
which the speckled mountain trout are
especially abundant. Contrary to the preva-
lent idea it is not a game country, and there
is no special need of a law of Congress to
protect the game from extermin: ition. The
buffalo and ‘antelope, the chief game animals
of the west, are never found in a timber
country like the park. Members of the
bruin family are occasionally met with, but

do not act as an additional attraction to
visitors. Game birds are scarce or entirely
lacking. The park is now reached by rail

by a branch of the Northern Pacific, which
saves to visitors a toilsome overland journey
to reach it, as has been the case heretofore.
Uncle Rufus Hatch has, in the past season,
erected a magnificent hotel upon ground
leased him by the Department of the Interior.
The pure, invigorating atmosphere of this
region, the grand and sublime scenery, the
natural wonders,-not the least of which are
the Yellowstone canons and falls, will
serve to attract sight-seers and __health-
seekers as perhaps no other portion of our
continent will.

BE YOUR OWN PIONEER.
HOW the practical strength of faith.

Don’t pick your trembling steps across
the stones pioneers have laid for’ you; be your
own pioneers—make your own ways—and
show the originality and high daring of pro-
found trust in God. I dare say you may be
afraid of rashness—you are pi artly right, yet
it is possible you may hardly know what
rashness is. It is certain that the world is
deeply indebted to its rash men, its first trave
elers, its leading spirits. .



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TEN LITTLE TOES.

BY is clad in her nightgown white;
Pussy cat purrs a soft good-night;
And somebody tells, for somebody knows,
The terrible tale of ten little toes,

RIGHT FOOT,

This big toe took a small boy, Sam,

Into the cupboard after the jam;

This little toe said: ‘‘Oh, no! no!”

This little toe was anxious to go;

This little toe said: ‘*’Tisn’t quite right!”
This little toe curled out of sight.

LEFT FOOT.

This big toe got suddenly stubbed;

This 'ittle toe got ruefully rubbed;

This ..ttle frightened toe cried out, ‘‘ Bears!”
This little timid toe ran up stairs;

Down came a toe with a loud slam! slam
This little tiny toc got all the jam!

WISE COUNSEL.

IMPLE industry and thrift will go far
toward making any person of ordinary
working ‘aculty comparatively independent
in his means, Even a workingman may be
so, provided he will carefully husband his
resources, and watch the little outlets of
useless expenditure. A penny is a very
small matter, yet the comfort of thousands
of families depends upon the proper spend-
ing and saving of pennies. If a manallows
the little pennies, the results of his hard
work, to slip out of his fingers—some to the
beer-shop, some this way, and some that—
he will find that his life i. little raised above
one of mereanimal drudgery. On tho other
hana, if he take care of the pennies put-
ting some weekly into a benefit society or
an insurance fund, others into a savings-
bank, and confiding the rest to his wife to
be carefully laid out with a view to the
comfortable maintenance and education of
his family—he will soon find that this at-
tention to small matters will abundantly
repay him in increasing means, growing
comfort at home, and a mind comparatively

free from fears as to the future.

Samuel Smiles.



HOW EVIL IS WROUGHT,

Ee is wrought by want of thought
As well as by want of heart.
Thomas Hood

ARGUMENT.
A SNEER JS A FOOL'S ARGUMENT.

SAYING is current to the effect that a

sneer is an argument that cannot be
answered; but this is not true. A sneer
can be answered, but it takes time and la-
bor, and these cannot always be available.
To one who wishes to be fully equipped for
every form of hostile attack, nothing is more
important than a knowledge of the history
of the ridiculous. In sucha history not the
least important part would be that which
would be devoted to the sneerers of all
ages. We should find that nearly every-
thing which we now most revere has at one
time been an object of these malignant as-
saults. We should see Socrates caricatured
by Aristophanes; St. Paul mockcd at by the
Athenians; Columbus ridiculed by navi-
gators, Galileo by philosophers, Milton by
courtiers, Harvey and Jenner by physicians,
George Peabody by brokers. We should
find the steamboat, the railroad, and the
el ctric telegraph assailed in their infancy
by the same class of enemies. But time
comes forward at length to vindicate the
great teacher, or the great inventor, and the
shafts thus misdirected recoil with fearful
effect. upon those who sent them forth. In
view of the abuse of the ridiculous, we per-
ceive the truth of the saying, “A sneer isa
fool’s argument.” James De Mille.

GOOD-NIGHT.

OOD-NIGHT! the sun is setting,
‘*Good-night!” the robins said.
And blue-eyed dolls and blue-eyed girls
Should soon be following.
Come! lay the Lady Geraldine
Among the pillows white;
’Tis time the little mother kissed
Her sleepy doll good-night.

And Willic, pat the cart away,
And drive into the shed
The pony and‘the muley cow;
’Tis time to go to bed.
For, listen! in the lilac tree
The robin does not sing;
‘*Good-night!” he sang, and tucked his head
Beneath his weary wing.

Soon all the world will go to rest,
And all the sky grow dim;
God *‘ giveth His beloved sleep,”
So we may trust in Him.
The Lord is in the Shadow,
And the Lord is in the Light,
To guard His little ones from harm;
Good-night, dear hearts, good-night!















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































I THANK THEE, O MY GOD!

OR the rosebud’s breath of beauty
Along the toiler’s way;
For the violet’s eye that opens
To bless the new-born day;
For the bare twigs that in summer
Bloom like the prophet’s rod;
For the blossoming of flowers,

I thank Thee, O my God!

For the lifting up of mountains
In brightness and in dread;
For the peaks where snow and sunshine
Alone have dared to tread;
For the dark or silent gorges,
Whence mighty cedars nod;
For the majesty of mountains,
I thank Thee, O my God!

For the splendor of the sunsets,
Vast mirrored on the sea;

For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain
Heaven’s inner myster,



ys
For the molten bars of twilight,

Where thought leans, glad, yet awed;
For the glory of the sunsets,

I thank Thee, O my God!

For the earth in all its beauty,
The sky and all its light;

For the dim and soothing shadows
That rest the dazzling sight;

For unfading fields and prairies
Where sense in vain has trod;
For the world’s exhaustless beauty,

I thank Thee, O my God!

For an eye of inward secinug,
A soul to know and love;

For these common aspirations,
That our high heirship prove;

For the hearts that bless each other,
Beneath Thy smile, Thy rod;

For the amaranth saved from Eden,
I thank Thee, O my Gad!

For 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 own great gift of being,
I thank Thee, O my God! —Lucy Larcom.

ST. MARK’S CATHEDRAL, VENICE.
NE of the most famous and remarka-
ble of the cities of the Old World is

Venice, a city of Northern Italy, built on a !

cluster of little islands on the north-west
coast of the Adriatic sea. Venice—the
Queen of the Sea—was once one of the
most gorgeous cities of the earth. It was
the cradle of art, and the mart of commerce.





All the world of wealth and fashion flocked -

toits canals and crowded its fair lagoons with
romantic gondolas. Its palaces abornded





with the works of Titian and Tintoretto;
and Shakspeare made the Rialto famous by
his “Merchant of Venice.” The awful
Bridge of Sighs spans the dark gulf that
lies between the palace and the prison.
Venice is very famous for her churches. On
the preceding page will be found a sketch
of the wonderful Cathedral of St. Marks,
dedicated to the second of the Apostles.
The first church of St. Mark’s was built in
$13 but was destroyed by fire in 976. It
was rebuilt in 1071. Above the main en-
trance are the four horses which Marino
Zeno brought from Constantinople in 1202.
In 1797 they were carried away by Napoleon
to Paris, and were restored to Venice in
1815. A great dome arises high into the
air, surrounded by other smaller domes that
give the stately edifice a most imposing ap-

pearance. The structure is of red brick
interspersed with costly marbles. Its

shape is that of the Greek cross, and it is
in all respects one of the most wonderful
edifices in the world. It was once a proverb
that “he who had not seen Venice had not
seen the world.” It may be said of her as
Byron said of Greece:

Eternal summer gilds her yet,

But all except her sun has set. —EL£lmo,



BELL OF JUSTICE.

T is a beautiful story that in one of the
i old cities of Italy, the king caused a bell
to be hung in a tower in one of the public
squares, and called it the “ Bell of Justice,”
and commanded that any one who had
been wronged should go and ring the bell,
and so call the magistrate of the city, and
ask and receive justice. And when, in the
course of time, the lower end of the bell-
rope rotted away, a wild vine was tied to it
to lengthen it; and one day an old and
starving horse, that had been abandoned
by its owner and turned out to die, wan-
dered into the tower, and, in trying to eat
the vine, rang the bell.’ And the magistrate

_of the city, coming to see who had rung the

bell, found this old and starving horse. And
he caused the owner of the horse, in whose
service he had toiled and been worn out, to
be summoned before him, and decreed, that
as this poor horse had rung the “ Bell of
Justice,” he should have justice, and that
during the remainder of the horse’s life his
owner should provide for him proper food
and drink and stable,







bow PROYOKING!]

UST as Millie had brought out her beautiful new doll for a ride, it must begin to
snow. Happily, she has brought an umbrella with her. And now she will hasten
home, lest Dolly should get wet through and catch cold,



Ghe ©ross pox.

~ L was arainy day and all the children had to stay in the house. Ned
had planned to go fishing, and Johnny wanted to set up a wind-mill he
had made. Susie wanted to gather her flower-seeds, and Pet was
anxious to hunt for her white kitten in the barns. Soall were disap-
pointed, and, before the night, had become cross and peevish and
snappish. Mamma called all to her, and talked very gravely. They were
quiet for a while after it. In half an hour Ned broughta small box and showed
his mother. He hadcuit a little hole in the top, just large enough to let a cent
through, and under it were the words “cross box.”

“Look, mamma,” he said, “supposing whenever any of us speak cross we
make ourselves pay a cent fora fine? Susie and Johnny and Pet are so cross,
it would be a good thing. We'll try whocan keep out of the box the longest.”

Mamma laughed, and said it might be a very good plan if they all agreed
to it; but if they did agree they must do as they promised.

“T’ll agree,” said Susie, “I’m not going to be cross any more.”

“And I,” said Johnny.

“And J,” added Pet.

“What shall we do with all the money?” asked Susie.

“We'll buy a magic lantern,” replied Ned.

“No, we'll buy a whole lot of candy,” said Johnny.

“No,” added Susie, ‘‘we’ll send it for a bed in thechildren’s hospital.”

“TI tell you,” said Ned, angrily, ‘if you don’t do as I want to, I’ll pitch the
box out of the window.” ;

“Where's your penny, Ned?” asked mamma.

Ned looked very foolish, but brought the first penny and droppedit into
. the box.

Mamma thought the box really did some good. The children learned to
watch against getting angry, and little lips would be shut tight to keep the ugly
words from coming through. When school began, they were so busy that the
box was forgotten. Weeks later mamma was putting a closet in order on Sat-
urday.

‘‘Here’s the cross box,” she said.

“I’m going tosee how much money there is,” cried Ned _ _‘“‘Seventeen cents.
That’s enough to buy lemons and nuts, and play peanut stand. Let’s do it.”

“Oh,” said Susie, ‘there goes poor little lame Jimmy. I think it would be
nice to give it to him,”





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“J say,’ whimpered Pet.
“I wont!” whined Jonnny.

oy

No one knows what Ned was going to say, ina very crabbed voice, for just
then he clapped one hand on his mouth and with the other held up a warning

finger.

“Look out,” he half whispered, ‘‘or there'll be more cents in the cross-box

for Jimmy.”

—=
—

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\Ohat ©ould the fOarmer Bo?

SHERE was an old farmer who
had acow,
' Moo, moo, moo!
Ca She used to stand on the pump
aS and bow,
And what could the farmer do?
Moo, moo, moo, moo,
Moo, moo, moo!
She used to stand on the pump and bow,
And what could the farmer do?




There was an old farmer who owned some
sheep,
Baa, baa, baa!
They used to play cribbage when he was
asleep,
And laugh at the farmer’s ma.
Baa, baa, baa, baa!
Moa, moo, moo!
He owned a cow and he owned some sheep,
And what could the poor man do?

There was an old farmer who owned a pig,
‘Whoof, whoof, whoof!

He used to dress up in the farmer's wig,
And dance on the pig-pen roof.

Whoof, whoof! Baa, baa!
Moo moo, moo!

He owned a pig, some sheep, and a eow,
And what could the poor man do?

There was an old farmer who owned a hen,
Cuk-a-ca-doo, ca-doo!

She used to lay eggs for the three hired men,
And some for thé weasel, too.

Cuk-a-ca-doo! Whoof, whoof!
Baa, baa! Moo!

He owned a hen, pig, sheep, and a cow,
And what could the poor man do?

There was an old farmer who had a duck,
Quack, quack, quack!

She waddled under a two-horse truck
For four long miles andjback.

Quack, quack! Cuk-a-ca-doo!
Whoof! Baa! Moo!

With a duck, hen, pig, a sheep, and a cow,
Pray what could the poor man do?

There was an old farmer who owned a cat,
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!

She used to waltz with a gray old rat
By night in the farmer’s mow,

Mee-ow! Quack! Cuk-a-ca-doo!
Whoof! Baa! moo!

With a cat, duck, hen, pig, sheep and a cow.
Pray what could the poor man do?

oper

H7



@\n Inquiring [@)\ind.

MtN inquiring mind, they say, is a great blessing. Benedict was

blessed with more than the usual amount of curiosity gener-

ion ally attributed to the young Americans of every generation.
A | iv] say “blessed,” but Iam not sure but those who knew him

OSs would have said ‘‘cursed,” for it led him into all sorts of

mischief and trouble.

Pn From his earliest lisp his life was to those around him one huge




interrogation point—he must know the whys and wherefores of every-

thing. From the time he cried for the moon and could not be made to

understand why he could not have it, his purpose seemed formed to devote
all his energies to scientific research.

At a very tender age he had ruined his sister’s large wax doll in the vain
attempt to discover the philosophy of its ‘crying’ and “going to sleep,” had
smashed the best mirror to see how his reflection got between the glass and the
wooden back, had amputated the cat’s tail to see if another would grow and if
she really had nine, had helped a brood of chickens prematurely from their
shell, and the kittens to get their eyes open at a very early period of their
existence, and had carried out other devices fully as original.

He soon became a terror to his brothers and sisters, and to all his young
playmates. He never kept a toy fora day himself, nor allowed them to do
so. They must all be sacrificed to his propensity for finding out the mechan-
ism of everything.

On this account he never could be left at home alone, and must accompany
his parents everywhere, much to the annoyance of their friends. But his fond
parents would say that their Allan wes so ingenious, he was sure to be a great
philosopher or inventor some day. Had they tried, they at first might have
directed his “ingenuity” in the proper channel, but they feared to restrain it,
lest they should nip his future philosophical experimentsin the bud. But when
he ruined his father’s fine gold chronometer to see ‘‘what made the wheels go
‘round,” and his mother’s new sewing machine for the same purpose—the bud
nipped him.

But the halcyon time in Allen’s existence was the week between the winter
holidays. This was usually spent at some of the homes of numerous uncles
and aunts, or else at his grandparents’. There different surroundings opened
a new field to him, and the numerous holiday toys proved fresh food for
thought and mischief. But one year at his grandfather’s he came to grief,



which nearly terminated his earthly career, and certainly aided in shortening’
his philosophical one. His visit was almost over, to the secret delight of nota
few. He had already opened the old-fashioned bellows which hung near the
fire-place, to see where the wind came from, and how it got there, had alter-
nately fastened chairs to the weights of the ancient clock in the hall and taken
the weights. entirely off to note the different effects; and when a housemaid had
unwisely told him that the old manin the clock would get after him if he didn't
leave it alone, he was found one morning fearlessly stirring the works up witha
poker to “Jet the old man out.”

The week had nearly exhausted his resources, when a happy thought
struck him in the shape of Uncle John’s powder-horn on the mantel. He won-
dered if it would go off like a gun if he threw it in the fire. He tried it. The
horn didn’t go off, but he did. The report that was heard was louder than a
gun—groans and screams aroused the whole house.

He lay embalmed in lint and salve for two weeks, the burden of his con-
versation being that he would never meddle with another thing as long as he
lived. This closed the experimental career of the Benedict family’s great phi-
losopher and inventor, for when he arrived at the prime of life his only gift to
his country had been a troop of young Benedicts, in whom he had perpetrated
as much love for research as he himself had ever possessed.

WEHEA























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