SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

THE woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of a winter's day; The streets were white with a recent snow, And the woman's feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Jostled aside by the careless throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,"
Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep;
Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her,
So weak and timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop
The gayest boy of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low, 'I'll help you across, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm
He guided the trembling feet along,

Proud that his own were young and strong;
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged, and poor and slow;
And some one, some time, may lend a hand
To help my mother-you understand?-
If ever she's old and poor and gray,
And her own dear boy so far away."

"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was: "God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."

MARY D. BRINE.

THE DRUNKARD'S RAGGIT WEAN.

A WEE bit raggit laddie gangs wan'rin through the street,

Wadin' 'mang the snaw wi' his wee hackit feet, Shiverin' i' the cauld blast, greetin' wi' the pain; Wha's the puir wee callan? he's a drunkard's raggit wean.

He stands at ilka door, an' he keeks wi' wistful' e'e, To see the crowd aroun' the fire a' laughin' loud wi' glee,

But he daurna venture ben, though his heart be e'er sae fain,

For he maunna play wi' ither bairns, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Oh, see the wee bit bairnie, his heart is unco' fou, The sleet is blawin' cauld, and he's droukit through and through,

He's peerin' for his mither, an' he wun'ers whaur she's gane,

But oh! his mither she forgets her puir wee raggit

wean.

He ken's nae faither's love, an' he kens nae mither's care,

To sooth his wee bit sorrows, or kame his tautit

hair,

To kiss him when he waukens, or smooth his bed at e'en.

An' oh! he fears his faither's face, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Oh pity the wee laddie, sae guileless an' sae young, The oath that lea's the faither's lip 'll settle on his tongue;

An' sinfu' words his mither speaks his infant lips 'll stain,

For oh! there's nane to guide the bairn, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Then surely we micht try an' turn that sinfu' mither's heart,

An' try to get his faither to act a faither's part, An' mak' them lea' the drunkard's cup, an' never taste again,

An' cherish wi' a parent's care, their puir wee raggit wean.

JAMES P. CRAWFORD,

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

I LIVE for those who love me,
Whose hearts are kind and true;
For the Heaven that smiles above me,
And awaits my spirit too;

For all human ties that bind me,
For the task by God assigned me,
For the bright hopes yet to find me,
And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story
Who suffered for my sake;

To emulate their glory,

And follow in their wake:

Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages,
The heroic of all ages,

Whose deeds crowd History's pages,
And Time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion

With all that is divine, To feel there is a union

'Twixt Nature's heart and mine;

To profit by affliction,

Reap truth from fields of fiction,
Grow wiser from conviction,

And fulfil God's grand design.

I live to hail that season

By gifted ones foretold,

When men shall live by reason,
And not alone by gold,

When man to man united,
And every wrong thing righted,
The whole world shall be lighted
As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me,

For those who know me true,

For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too;

For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance,

For the future in the distance,

And the good that I can do.

If he keeps the face of the Saviour forever and alway in sight,

His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving is sure to be right.

And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown,

He shall hear the voice of the Master; it shall say to him, "Well done!"

And the white-winged angels of Heaven, to bear him thence, shall come down;

And God shall give him gold for his hire-not coin, but a glowing crown!

ANSON G. CHESTER.

G. LINNÆUS BANKS.

THE TAPESTRY-WEAVERS.

I.

LET us take to our hearts a lesson -no braver lesson can be,

From the ways of the tapestry-weavers on the other side of the sea.

Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care,-

The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver:

He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever.

It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned,

That he sees his real handiwork- that his marvelous skill is learned.

Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost!

No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost,

A SONG.

A SONG for the girl I love

God love her!

A SONG for the eyes of tender shine,
And the fragrant mouth that melts on mine,
The shimmering tresses uncontrolled
That clasp her neck with tendril gold;
The blossom mouth and the dainty chin,
And the little dimples out and in
The girl I love-

God love her!

A song for the girl I loved

God love her!

A song for the eyes of faded light,
And the cheek whose red rose waned to white;
The quiet brow with its shadow and gleam,
And the dark hair drooped in a long, deep dream;
The small hands crossed for their churchyard rest,
And the lilies dead on her sweet dead breast.
The girl I loved -

God love her!

FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.

KNEE DEEP.

THEY are calling "knee deep! knee deep!" to-night in the marsh below,

Down by the bank, where the rank swordgrass and calamus grow;

Like an army of silversmiths, forging bells for the northern sprites,

And, keeping time to a rhyme, they work thro' the

summer nights.

Steadily up from their swampy forge, the sparks of the fireflies rise

In the pool where the wading lilies make love

through half-shut eyes

To the whippoorwill who scolds, like a shrew, at the fluffy owl!

While the nighthawk shuffles by, like a monk in a velvet cowl,

And the bat weaves inky weft, thro' the white starbeams that peep

Down through the cypress boughs, where the frogs all sing knee deep."

I have known a song to lead a failing elderly man like me

Back thro' the gates of the years, to the scenes that used to be,

When the world was fenced from Heaven by one rose hedge, and thro'

This bourne the blessed angels looked, and the asphodel odors blew.

So these syllables of the song, from the singers among the reeds,

Have made me to walk again, knee deep, in the clover meads,

And I see the storm king riding the summer clouds in state,

With his chariot whip of livid flame, and his thunder billingsgate;

And I watch the strong tawny tide, through the flags like a lion creep,

Where the frighted inhabitants cling to the rushes, and sing "knee deep."

Knee deep I bend in the rippled creek, with buttercup blooms o'erblown,

Like the gold on beauty's billowy breast, its color half-hid, half-shown;

Knee deep in the saffron marigold flowers, that prank the meadows fair

Like a procession of Saxon children, blue-eyed and with yellow hair;

Knee deep in the whortle berries, sunbrowned in

the sun I stand,