One thing is as another good,

Each thing is but a part of one;

Until the law is understood

The evil for the good is done.

When wisdom comes, her song shall be
One clear and never-ending strain

Of truth and love, of justice free,
Nor shall her singing be in vain.

The time is coming, brothers, men,
And women, sisters, one and all;
Ye all shall stand as equals then,

Though ye be great, or ye be small.

There is no "small!" there is no "great!"
Ye all are on one highway vast;
Ye all shall reach the selfsame gate-
What matter then if first or last?

What is the good we fain would grasp;
The good which withers, fades and dies;

O sisters! brothers! loose your clasp,
A deathless good in wisdom lies.

Μ'

LIZZIE WALKER.

ISS LIZZIE WALKER was born and reared in Hartford, Ky., where she received her education with the exception of two-and-a-half years spent from home in an institution for the education of girls in the Mississippi Valley, there she received the honors of the school, a gold medal for "excellence in scholarship." Miss Walker is the daughter of Hon. E. Dudley Walker, a lawyer of Western Kentucky. She has written but little as yet. Her productions are characterized by a purity of thought and tenderness of feeling. It is believed that her earlier efforts are but the budding of a rich fruitage which awaits her in her chosen field. S. E. H.

THOUGHTS.

WHERE rests the wind that's tangled my hair,
Made pink my cheek by its frolicsome air,
And kissed my lips so debonair,
Where rests the wind, I wonder, where?

Where go the clouds so rapturously fair,
That capture hearts, and souls ensnare,
They are going, I can declare,

But where go the clouds, I wonder, where?

Where hide the stars away from the glare

Of the sun's bold smile and hot burning stare;
They, too, have a refuge, a home, a lair,
Yet where hide the stars, I wonder, where?

LONESOME-like an' sorter dreary,
Winds a-sighin', soundin' weary;
Leaves a-fallin' everywhere,
Sadness come' on in the air.

Birds so quiet, quit their singin',
'Pears like every day keeps bringin'
Longer hours for to fill,

Heap o' time that's hard to kill,
Things seem mighty plain to say,
Life is passin' fast away.
Makes a feller kinder blue,
Sets him thinkin', wonderin', too,
'Bout this fleetin' thing, called life,
'Bout the death that ends the strife,
'Bout the friends that's come and went,

'Bout the days already spent,

'Bout the absent, 'bout the dead,

How they look, the words they said.
Winds a-sighin', soundin' weary,
Lonesome-like an' sorter dreary.

SINGLE POEMS.

THE FOOL'S PRAYER.

THE royal feast was done. The King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer! "

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,

Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well meaning hands are thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have keptWho knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say

Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders-oh, in shame

Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;

Men crown the knave and scorge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

THE COAST-GUARD'S STORY.

OUT on the isle of Mona,

Mona with rocks so red,

For the sins of the wreckers who prayed there

once,

So the tradition said,

There lived a sturdy coast-guard,

Watching the whole night long;

And he sang to the sea, to the sea sang he, This was his simple song:

"Only over the sea,

Only over the sea!

505

"Or did she give my ring?

How could such vileness be?

Man, with the truth at your black false heart, Declare it now to me!"—

The dead man smiled with an awful calm, And not a word said he.

"If she be false! O God,

Thou who the truth canst tell."

The coast-guard swayed like a tree up-torn, And on his knees he fell.

He grasped the fingers stiff,

And loosed them one by one;

The dead man's hand was a faithful hand, Its work was nearly done.

A letter, held till now,

Dropped from the open palm;

The case was sealed with the coast-guard's nameHe read in dream-like calm.

"Love," so it ran, "I am writing,

Writing our last good-bye;

I send the ring by a trusty hand,
For they say I must die, must die.

"Do not be broken-hearted,

Lover so true, so dear;

The pain is nothing,-I think of you, And I know that you fain were here. "But you must hold your post, dear,

Must not be ruined for me;
Before my letter can reach you, love,
I shall see you across the sea.

"Only a little while, dear,

You will be free, be free!

We two shall meet on the golden street, In the city that knows no sea.

Love, true love!

Be happy, not sad, for me."

The letter dropt from his palsied hand,
Two men lay stretched on the shifting strand
Like brothers lay, in a close embrace,
The cold sea-spray on each pale, pale face.
But the one to whom living meant only pain,
Was the one to be laden with life again.

Many a year has vanished;

Gray is the coast-guard now,

With a shadowy smile in his tender eyes, Strength on his patient brow.

Still at his work he paces,

Watching the whole night long;

And the birds, his companions, asleep on high, Hear not his passionate song.

"Only over the sea

Only over the sea!

There my love doth dwell, she that loves me well, Waiting and looking for me."

SARAH WILLIAMS.

A THANKSGIVING SONG.

COME, uncles and cousins; come, nieces and aunts; Come, nephews and brothers-no won'ts and no cant's;

Put business, and shopping, and school-books away; The year has rolled round-it is Thanksgiving day.

Come home from the college, ye ringlet-haired youth,

Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate and Ruth;

From the anvil, the counter, the farm, come away; Home, home with you all-it is Thanksgiving day.

The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed;

The cooks and the mothers have all done their best;

No Caliph of Bagdad e'er saw such display,
Or dreamed of a treat like our Thanksgiving day.

Pies, puddings and custards; pigs, oysters and nuts,

Come forward and seize them, without ifs and buts; Bring none of your slim little appetites here-Thanksgiving day comes only once in a year.

Thrice welcome the day in its annual round!
What treasures of love in its bosom are found!
New England's high holiday, ancient and dear,
'Twould be twice as welcome, if twice in a year.

Now children revisit the darling old place,
And brother and sister, long parted, embrace;
The family circle's united once more,

And the same voices shout at the old cottage door.

The grandfather smiles on the innocent mirth,
And blesses the Power that has guarded his hearth;
He remembers no trouble, he feels no decay,
But thinks his whole life has been Thanksgiving
day.

Then praise for the past and the present we sing,
And, trustful, await what the future may bring;
Let doubt and repining be banished away,
And the whole of our lives be a Thanksgiving day.
HENRY Ware.