"Is it night?" she whispered, waking (for her spirit seemed to hover

Lost between the next world's sunrise and the bedtime cares of this),

And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling as he bent above her,

Answered: "Yes."

"Are the children in ?" she asked him. Could he tell her? All the treasures

Of their household lay in silence many years beneath the snow;

But her heart was with them living, back among her toils and pleasures

Long ago.

And again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet old summer weather.

"Where is little Charley, father? Frank and Robert-have they come?"

<< They are safe," the old man faltered-"all the children are together,

Safe at home."

Then he murmured gentle soothings, but his grief grew strong and stronger,

Till it choked and stilled him as he held and kissed her wrinkled hand,

For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fondest words no longer

Understand.

Still the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies and

broken verses,

Nursery prattle-all the language of a mother's lov

ing heeds,

While the midnight round the mourner, left to sorrow's bitter mercies,

Wrapped its weeds.

There was stillness on the pillow-and the old man listened lonely

Till they led him from the chamber, with the burden on his breast,

For the wife of seventy years, his manhood's early love and only,

Lay at rest.

Fare-you-well," he sobbed, "my Sarah; you will meet the babes before me;

"Tis a little while, for neither can the parting long

abide,

And you'll come and call me soon, I know-and Heaven will restore me

It was even so. The springtime in the steps of win

ter treading,

Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old man

closed his eyes,

And they buried him by Sarah-and they had their "diamond wedding"

In the skies.

THERON BROWN.

CHARACTER OF LUCILE.

Contributed by Silas S. Neff, President of the Neff College of Oratory Philadelphia.

She turned,

Smiled, and passed up the twilight.

He faintly discerned Her form now and then, on the flat, lurid sky, Rise and sink and recede through the mists; by

and by

The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more.
Nor shall we; for her mission accomplished, is o'er.
The mission of genius on earth! to uplift,

Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift,
The world, in spite of the world's dull endeavor
To degrade and drag down and oppose it forever.
The mission of genius! to watch and to wait,
To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate.
The mission of genius on earth! to give birth
To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth.
The mission of woman: permitted to bruise
The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse,
Through the sorrow and sin of earth's registered
curse,

The blessing which mitigates all-born to nurse
And to soothe and to solace, to help and to heal
The sick world that leans on her:-This was Lucile.

A power hid in pathos; a fire veiled in cloud,
Yet still burning outward; a branch which, tho' bow'd
By the bird in its passage, springs upward again ;—

Through all symbols I search for her sweetness; in

vain

Judge her love by her life, for our life is but love
In act. Pure was hers; and the dear God above,
Who knows what His creatures have need of, for life,
And whose love includes all love, through much
patient strife,

Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given

In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native Heaven
More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream
Wore away; and love sighed into rest, like a stream
That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the
shore

Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore.

With its little wild wailing, no stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course,

But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose
And set without influence somewhere. Who knows
What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No
life

Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.
The spirits of just men, made perfect on high,
The army of martyrs who stand 'round the Throne,
And gaze into the face that makes glorious their

own,

Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow,

Honest work for the day, honest hope for the mor

Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary,

The heart they have saddened, the life they leave

dreary?

The sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the spirit Answer, "He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit." OWEN MEREDITH.

NOT ASHAMED OF RIDICULE.

SHALL never forget a lesson which I received when quite a young lad at an academy in BAmong my school-fellows were Hartly and Jemson, They were somewhat older than myself, and the lat ter I looked up to as sort of leader in matters of opinion as of sport. He was not at heart malicious, but he had a foolish ambition of being thought witty and sarcastic, and he made himself feared by a besetting habit of turning things into ridicule, so that he seemed continually on the lookout for matters of derision.

Hartly was a new scholar, and little was known of him among the boys. One morning as we were on our way to school he was seen driving a cow along the road toward a neighboring field. A group of boys, among whom was Jemson, met him as he was passing. The opportunity was not to be lost by Jemson. "Halloa!" he exclaimed; "what's the price of milk? I say, Jonathan, what do you fodder on? What will you take for all the gold on her