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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 what inroads dishonor hath made;
No matter what element cankered the pearl
Though tarnished and sullied, she is "some mother's

girl.”

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin
No matter how low in his standard of joy -
Though guilty and loathsome, he is "some mother's

boy."

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.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

LONE in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress and bare cold feet,
All day I've wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering, nowhere to go.
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ?
Is it because I'm nobody's child ?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty and all things bright;
Beautiful children in robes so fair,
Are carolling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down
In its terrible blackness all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,
On the cold, hard pavement alone to die? —
When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mammas have tucked them up safely in bed,
No dear mother upon me smiled;
Why is it, I wonder ? I'm nobody's child.

No father, no mother, no sister, not one
In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run
When I wander too near them; 't is wondrous to see
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!

Perhaps 't is a dream; but, sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,
Watching for hours some large, bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things
Come fluttering o'er in gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair
Caresses gently my tangled hair,
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird –
The sweetest voice that was ever heard –
Calls me many a dear pet name
Till my heart and spirit are all aflame,

And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above;
And then with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their soft, sweet blue eyes;
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night,
I am going up to that world of light,
And away from the hunger and storm so wild;
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. —Anon.

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THE

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 door.

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:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal light -
One if by land, and two if by sea ;
And I on the opposite shore will be,

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