activities in which to forget herself. She is often, in consequence, the most uncomfortable, restless, irritable, and misunderstood member of a family.

"Everything is done for you,' she is told, and yet you are not happy.' Sometimes she hears she is ungrateful, and grows self-conscious under an accusation she does not know how to deny. Those who have reared her have never understood that something besides that of their own planting has grown up in the girl whom they have watched and shielded for years. They also fail to see that a full nature denied all normal outlets must grow to be the turbulent nature, unless wisely guided in right channels. The young daughter will not understand. The mother must. She must realize that self-absorption and restlessness do not necessarily indicate an evil nature so much as a strong nature balked by being denied opportunity for expression.

"We are apt to think that until women, our own especially, are invited to express sentiment and affection, or until they are presented with an opportunity for the exercise of their deepest instincts and emotions, these instincts and emotions ought not to exist, forgetting the great spiritual forces that play into all human souls, and which, unexpressed in one direction, must breed storm and confusion, restlessness and discontent, or break into new outlets for themselves.

"Then why not permit the daughter at home some of the privileges and opportunities she would have in the house of her husband-a certain authority, some one domain in which she would reign supreme? Why not expect and demand less from her to you as an individual, and give her more in the way of those very opportunities for activity which you and nature have been helping her to be ready for?

"A mother, in all her experience, never needs so much unselfishness, so much wisdom, knowledge, and prudence, as when her daughters are full grown and still under her control."

The happiest girls I know, or some of them, are those who have combined, several girls together, with an elderly or middle-aged friend to act as housekeeper and chaperone, and have made for themselves a spinster-home, in which they have entire freedom to work and rest as they will. They go to their own roof-tree from this retreat, with a feeling of holiday gladness, and are friends with the dear home people in a new sense.

Returning Spring.

Says Carlyle, "From a small window one may see the infinite." hepaticas have shown me all the handiwork of spring.

My pot of

"The restitution of all things;" that is nature's spring song, and no wonder that it is dear to man. All the lost things torn from us by autumn winds and frost have come again; not new things, but those we loved last year. We cannot miss one lovely line, nor fragile bit of color; the faint fragrance has not changed its delicate refreshment, but lures us with the selfsame woodland sweetness. High hopes of dearer things, lost to his sight, cheer man's heart as he notes this.

Happy are they who, in the time of nature's revival, turn toward country homes. Nothing more refreshing comes into a tired man's way than his first visit to his country place after the tide has turned and the stir of spring is in the air. The newly upturned sod sends up an odor that God surely meant should be grateful to his senses; the sense of preparation, the look of restoration are delightful to his weary brain. If his dog welcomes him, and his horse is in good condition, he feels himself far richer than he did yesterday, when he rushed from his office to his club. The uncovering of the strawberries and the asparagus is an event of importance; the violet frames are worth any Fifth avenue florist's gorgeous display; the hotbeds are full of promise, and a brood of young chicks, irrespective of their strain, is full of charm.

But he loves spring best who has hibernated in some solitary hillside farm, with nothing but the daily routine of feeding his cattle, the arrival of the weekly newspaper, and the Saturday visit to the country store to vary a life in which the body ages from disuse, and the mind grows dull from lack of contact with the world. To such a one the sight of the first bluebird perched on the top of the pump, where it has gone in search of a chilly drink, is a positive thrill of delight. Not long will it be before wholesome activity and work which is useful to his fellowmen will be within his reach, and the cattle, aimlessly chewing the scattered cornstalks in the barnyard, cropping the young grass. A man like this may not, with spiritually enlightened eyes, watch with admiring wonder the ephemeral beauty of the woods, coloring as their life-blood stirs in their hearts, but he is apt to look long and happily over the scene that has been so wearily asleep, and to take off his hat that the wind may blow across his forehead. And his voice has a ring of good cheer as he returns to the house and calls out, "Mother, I've seen a bluebird!" It always strikes me with a pleasant recognition of what the husband thinks his wife's highest title when he calls her "Mother."-Evening Post.

A Child's Service.

What if the little Jewish lad,

That summer day, had failed to go
Down to the lake, because he had

So small a store of loaves to show?

The more he agonized, the more

The burden of his spirit weighed; And piece by piece went all his store, When Saint Chrysostom prayed.

O golden-mouthed, let this thine alms.
Rouse us to shame, who daily bow
Within our secret places now,

With outstretched yet with empty palms! We supplicate indeed; but has

Our faith brought answering works to aid? Have words by deeds been proven, as

When Saint Chrysostom prayed?

-Margaret I. Preston.

Heaven.

'Tis a time of war and conflict,
A time to strike with might,
A time when peace herself must arm,
And take the sword and fight.

In the light of blazing fires,

In the sound of booming drums,

To her waning hour, with war and woe,
The latest century comes.

Earth, dyed in blood, and ghastly
With crimes that shame the sun,
Looks up and finds her sentence
The old imperious one
By the god of battles written

In days of God's right hand,
Not peace, but war is needed,
To save Jehovah's land.

Yet, sweet upon our discords,
The thought of heaven falls,
Soft wafts the breath of heaven
Down from the jasper walls;

There stand victorious ever

The saints beyond the flood,
There never sounds of evil
Or clash of strifes intrude.

Sweet fields beyond the river
All dressed in living green,
Sweet country of the blessed,
Where life is all serene.
To that thrice-joyous heaven

Our longing eyes are turned,
Where all earth's grief is ended,

And all earth's tasks are learned.

I Knew Thou Wert Coming.

I knew Thou wert coming, O Lord Divine,
I felt in the sunlight a softened shine,
And a murmur of welcome I thought I heard,
In the ripple of brooks and the chirp of bird;
And the bursting buds and the springing grass
Seemed to be waiting to see Thee pass;

And the sky, and the sea, and the throbbing sod,
Pulsed and thrilled to the touch of God.

I knew Thou wert coming, O Love Divine,
To gather the world's heart up to Thine;
I know the bonds of the rock-hewn grave
Were riven that, living, Thy life might save.
But, blind and wayward, I could not see
Thou wert coming to dwell with me, e'en me;
And my heart, o'erburdened with care and sin,
Had no fair chambers to take Thee in:

Not one clean spot for Thy foot to tread.
Not one pure pillow to rest Thy head;

There was nothing to offer, no bread, no wine,
No oil of joy in this heart of mine: