And there, in the hush of remembered hours, our failing souls grow strong,
And gird themselves anew for the fray, the battle of right and wrong.
Behind us ever the hallowed thought, as pure as a rose in bloom,
Of the happiest place in all the earth, the mother's darling room.

We've not forgotten the fragrant sheaves of the lilacs at the door,
Nor the ladder of sunbeams lying prone on the shining morning floor.
We've not forgotten the robin's tap at the ever friendly pane,
Nor the lilt of the little brook outside, trolling its gay refrain.
How it haunts us yet, in the tender hour of the sunset's fading blush,
The vesper song, so silvery clear, of the hidden hermit thrush!

All sweetest of sound and scent is blent, when, pure as a rose in bloom,
We think of the spot loved best in life, the mother's darling room.

Holding us close to the best in life, keeping us back from sin.
Folding us yet to her faithful breast, oft as a prize we win,
The mother who left us here alone to battle with care and strife
Is the guardian angel who leads us on to the fruit of the tree of life.
Her smile from the heights we hope to gain is an ever-beckoning lure;
We catch her look when our pulses faint, nerving us to endure.
Others may dwell where once she dwelt, and the home be ours no more,
But the thought of her is a sacred spell, never its magic o'er.
We're truer and stronger and braver yet, that, pure as a rose in bloom,
Back of all struggle, a heart of peace, is the mother's darling room.

Sage! Thyme! Sweet-Marjoram !

"Sage! thyme ! sweet-marjoram !"

Down the crowded street,

O'er the trampling feet

Of the myriad throngs of men,

'Neath the brilliant sky,

Rings out the cry.

I hear it now and then,

Vibrant and clear,

As far and near

O'er the noises all

The vender's call,

"Sage! thyme ! sweet-marjoram !''

Tell the neighbors, Lish, as you drive to-night, That Polly, my Polly, is coming home, That's why the place looks alive with light,

That's why I've put on my silver comb And my best black silk, and have set the table With honey and chicken and yellow cream, And have gathered roses and ferns and heather, And made her room like a fairy's dream.

Polly, my Polly! I've watched all day,

Doing my work in a happy maze,-
I've traveled down from that great hot town,
And counted the mile-stones, glad to gaze
On the dear old birches all a-quiver,

And the fields with the daisies gold and white, And the tangle of green on the edge of the river. I've laughed to see them with Polly's sight.

Down the hollow and up the rise,

The old stage coach has rumbled along,
Climbing our hills that melt in the skies,
Skirting our brooks so swift and strong.
Polly, my Polly, home from college,
Coming back to her Dad and me!
Lish, as you drive, just tell the neighbors,
They'll all be glad as glad can be.

Father, here, quick with the lantern, please,
The stage is turning in at our lane,

I feel the blood growing weak at my knees,
I'm dizzy with joy, 'tis love's sweet pain.
Oh! here is my girl, she flies to mother,

Straight as ever a bird to her nest,

Darling, my Polly, 'twas lonesome without you, Welcome to them that love you best.

CHAPTER XLIX.

What to Do, and How to Do It.

UCH reading of the best manual of etiquette in the world, never yet, by itself, made any woman familiar with social forms, or gave any man ease of manner in company. Good manners constantly practiced at home, refinement of thought and speech, courtesy, consideration for others, common sense, and association with polite people, will make in Her Majesty's palace, or to wait in the courts of kings. Here are a few Don'ts, and a few Dos:

any of us fit to stand

Don't slam a door.

Don't interrupt conversation.

Don't forget to lift your hat to a lady in the street, to your wife, your mother, or your daughter, to women in an elevator, to women anywhere indoors.

Don't eat with your knife.

Don't use slang, or profanity.

Don't stare at strangers.

Don't fidget in church, or consult your watch when the sermon begins to weary you.

Don't use double negatives.

Don't misplace your pronouns. It is not right to say, "Aunt Lucy has

invited Emily and I to dinner to-morrow," though hosts of people do put it in that

way.

Don't look over the shoulder of a fellow passenger and read his morning

paper.

Don't push or crowd rudely anywhere.

Don't think first how a proceeding will affect yourself.

Do be kind and amiable in the family.

Do be punctual at meals.

Do attend social meetings where your presence will give an additional pleasure.

Do promptly and in good condition return a borrowed article.

Do introduce people who may be mutually agreeable acquaintances.

Do make welcome strangers to your pew, and practice hospitality in your home life.

Do praise your wife or your husband.

Do take pains to have your dress attractive, and your usual demeanor genial.
Do listen with patience to an oft-told tale.

Do restrain yourself when you feel an inclination to set somebody right when the case is of an anecdote in which details are trivial and unimportant.

Do hesitate before you accuse any one else of being inconsistent.

Do acknowledge invitations promptly, accepting or declining at once.

Do keep punctiliously an engagement once you have made it.

Do pay attention in society to the older people.

Do rise and give a seat in a public conveyance to a woman, a mother carrying an infant, or an elderly gentleman.

Mrs. Sherwood tells us that the young married woman who comes to New York, or any other large city, often passes years of loneliness before she has made her acquaintances. She is properly introduced, we will say by her mother-in-law or some other friend, and then, after a round of visits in which she has but, perhaps, imperfectly apprehended the positions and names of her new acquaintances, she has a long illness, or she is called into mourning, or the cares of the nursery surround her, and she is shut out from society until it has forgotten her; and when she is ready to emerge, it is difficult for her to find her place again in the visiting-book. If she is energetic and clever, she surmounts this difficulty by giving a series of receptions, or engaging in charities, or working on some committee, making herself of use to society in some way; and thus picks up her dropped stitches. But some young women are without the courage and tact to do such a thing; they wait, expecting that society will find them out, and, taking them up, will do all the work and leave them to accept or refuse civilities as they please. Society never does this; it has too much on its hands; a few conspicuously beautiful and gifted people may occasionally receive such an ovation, but it is not for the rank and file.

There is no necessity for calling after a tea or general reception if one has attended the festivity, or has left or sent a card on that day.

For reception days a lady wears a plain, dark, rich dress, taking care, however, never to be overdressed at home. She rises when her visitors enter, and is careful to seat her friends so that she can have a word with each. If this is impossible, she keeps her eye on the recent arrivals to be sure to speak to every one. She is to be forgiven if she pays more attention to the aged, to some distinguished stranger, or to some one who has the still higher claim of misfortune, or to one of a modest and shrinking temperament, than to one young, gay, fashionable, and rich. If she neglects these fortunate visitors they will not