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O God! O God! how could I sit close by,
And neither scream nor cry?

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,

I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb,
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled,
And the day brightened, and his time had come
Till-Nan!--all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn't tell-

At last there came a groaning deep and great-
Saint Paul's struck "eight"-

I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell!

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SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY.

In an old churchyard stood a stone,
Weather marked and stained,
The hand of time had crumbled it,
So only part remained.

Upon one side I could just trace,

66

'In memory of our mother!"

An epitaph which spoke of "home"

Was chiseled on the other.

I'd gazed on monuments of fame
High towering to the skies:

I'd seen the sculptured marble stone
Where a great hero lies:

But by this epitaph I paused,
And read it o'er and o'er,

For I had never seen inscribed
Such words as these before:

"She always made home happy!" What
A noble record left;

A legacy of memory sweet

To those she left bereft;
And what a testimony given

By those who knew her best,

Engraven on this plain, rude stone
That marked their mother's rest.

It was a humble resting-place,
I know that they were poor,

But they had seen their mother sink
And patiently endure;

They had marked her cheerful spirit,
When bearing, one by one,

Her many burdens up the hill,
Till all her work was done.

So when was stilled her weary head,
Folded her hands so white,
And she was carried from the home
She'd always made so bright,
Her children raised a monument
That money could not buy,
As witness of a noble life
Whose record is on high.

A noble life; but written not
In any book of fame:
Among the list of noted ones
None ever saw her name;
For only her own household knew
The victories she had won-
And none but they could testify
How well her work was done.

A CONFLICT OF TRAINS.

HOW A WINE-COLORED SILK TRAIL BLIGHTED LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Young Radspinner and Lilian Deusenbury had long been lovers. They were engaged to be married. The day was set, and, waiting for the day to come, time moved as slowly as an accommodation train on a Western railroad. One evening, just a week before the time fixed for the nuptials, young Radspinner and Lilian were out, strolling up and down the railroad track, enjoying the calm and peaceful sunset. Lilian wore her wine-colored silk, and her proud young lover had told her a hundred times that it made her look sweet enough to drink. A tender speech was interrupted by the appalling screech of a steam-whistle just around the curve.

The limited mail was coming at the rate of sixty-five miles an hour. There was not a moment to lose. Young Radspinner caught the beautiful arm of his betrothed and tried to drag her from the track. Her dress caught upon a spike and held her fast. She tried to kick it loose. She screamed and kicked, but the spike would not let go. The train was bearing down upon them like a demon. They could almost

feel its hot breath upon their cheeks. Young Radspinner stooped over and seized the folds of the handsome dress in his hands, intending to rip it from the spike and rescue from death the one fair woman beneath the sun. She stopped him with a cry of alarm:

"Don't tear my dress!"

"You must be released from this," he yelled; "the train is upon us!"

"It's my wine-colored silk; I wouldn't have it torn for the world."

His love for her rose above everything else, and renewing his hold upon the garment, he exclaimed:

"Blame your wine-colored silk!”

"Don't you dare to tear it" she cried, endeavoring to loosen his grasp. The locomotive screamed again, this time right in their ears. The brave girl pushed her lover off the track, and shouted, above the rattle of the train: "Leave me, George. Leave me and save yourself. I had hoped to live for you, for I love you devotedly, and I am sure we would have been very, very happy, but I would die a thousand deaths rather than tear my wine-colored” The locomotive struck her amidships, and strung her along the track for a mile and a-half. George hunted and hunted until his eyes grew weary, but he could not find enough of the winecolored silk to make him a neck-tie.

TO-MORROW.-W. F. Fox.

Loud chilling winds may hoarsely blow
From off the distant mountain,
And winter, on his wings of snow,
May hush the crystal fountain,
Sere, withered leaves, on every hand,
May tell of earth in sorrow,
Again will spring-time warm the land
And bring a glad to-morrow.

The storm may gather loud and fast,
Sweeping o'er the angry sky;

Rough winds may rock the stubborn mast,
And the waves pile mountain high;

Darkness may deepen in her gloom,

Nor stars relieve her sorrow,

Light will come trembling from her tomb
In golden-haired to-morrow.

The sun may chase the far-off cloud,
And leave the world in sadness,

Still will her smile break through the shroud
And fill the air with gladness;
The day may lose her golden light,
Her tears the night may borrow,
Yet with her parting, last good-night,
She brings us fair to-morrow.

The thoughts that burn like altar-fires,
With incense pure and holy—

Whose flames reach high in proud desires,-
The riches of the lowly,

May lose the fervor of their glow,

Nor pleasure longer borrow,

Their music may forget to flow,

"Twill swell again to-morrow.

The hopes, the loves of days gone by,
May fade in joyous seeming,
The light that filled the radiant eye
May lose its early beaming.
Care's silver threads may gather o'er
The brow oppressed by sorrow,
Still brighter joys seem yet in store,
And promise much to-morrow.

The victory that crowns our life
May waver at its dawning,
Love may be wounded in the strife,
And tears may cloud our morning,
But, with each fresh returning day,
Hope wings away our sorrow,
Sheds o'er the heart her blissful ray
And whispers of to-morrow.

THE THREE SONS.-JOHN MOULTRIE.

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould;

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish

years.

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air.

I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency.
But that which others most admire is the thought which fills
his mind;

The food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere doth find:

Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about

the next;

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray,

And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which

he will say.

Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years

like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be;
How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on
my knee.

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender
feeling,

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,

Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and
hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may

prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love! And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

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