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SOME MOTHER'S CHILD.
T home or away, in the alley or street,
Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet A girl that is thoughtless, or boy that is wild, My heart echoes softly, “'T is some mother's child."
And when I see those o'er whom long years have
rolled, Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are
cold, Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled, A voice whispers sadly, “Ah! some mother's child.”
No matter how far from the right she hath strayed;
No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
That head hath been pillowed on tenderest breast; That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been
pressed; That soul hath been prayed for in tones sweet and
mild; For her sake deal gently with "some mother's child."
Francis L. Keeler.
LONE in the dreary, pitiless street,
With my torn old dress and bare cold feet,
Just over the way there's a flood of light,
Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down
No father, no mother, no sister, not one
Perhaps 't is a dream; but, sometimes, when I lie
And a host of white-robed, nameless things
And tells me of such unbounded love,
HE art of being happy lies in the power of extract
ing happiness from common things. If we pitch our expectations high; if we are arrogant in our pretensions; if we will not be happy except when our self-love is gratified, our pride stimulated, our vanity fed, or a fierce excitement kindled; then we shall have but little satisfaction out of this life! The whole globe is a museum to those who have eyes to see.
Rare plays are unfolded before every man who can read the drama of life intelligently. Not go to the theatres ? Wicked to see plays ? Every street is a theatre. One cannot open his eyes without seeing unconscious players. There are Othellos, and Hamlets, and Leahs, and Falstaffs, Ophelias, Rosalinds, and Juliets all about us. Midsummer-night dreams are performing in our heavens. Happy? A walk up and down Fulton street is as good as a play. The children, the nurses, the maidens, the mothers, the wealthy everybodies, the queer men, the unconscious buffoons, the drolls, the earnest nonsense, and the whimsical earnestness of men; the shop windows, the cars, the horses, the carriages. Bless us; there is not half time enough to enjoy all that is to be seen in these things ! Or, if the mood takes you, go in and talk with the people, choosing, of course, fitting times and seasons.
Be cheerful yourself, and good-natured and respectful, and every man has a secret for you worth knowing. There is a schoolmaster waiting for you behind
Every shopman has a look of life different from yours. Human nature puts on as many kinds of foliage as trees do, and is far better worth studying. Anger is not alike in any two men; nor pride, nor vanity, nor love. Every fool is a special fool, and there is no duplicate. What are trades and all kinds of business but laboratories where the ethereal thought is transmitted into some visible shape of matter? Men are cutting, sawing, filing, fitting, joining, polishing. But every article is so much mind condensed in matter. Work is incarnation. Nobody knows a city who only drives along its streets. There are vaults under
streets, cellars under houses, attics above, shops behind. At every step men are found tucked away in some queer work, doing unexpected things, themselves odd and full of entertaining knowledge.
It is kindly sympathy with human life that enables one to secure happiness. Pride is like an unsilvered glass, through which all sights pass, leaving no impression. But sympathy, like a mirror, catches everything that lives. The whole world makes pictures for a mirror-heart. The best of all is that a kind heart and a keen eye are never within the sheriff's reach. He may sequester your goods; but he cannot shut up the world or confiscate human life. As long as these are left, one may defy poverty, neglect of friends, and even to a degree misfortune and sickness, and still find hours brimful every day of innocent and nourishing enjoyment.-H. W. Beecher.
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.
LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
He said to his friend, “If the British march