"All my trust on Thee is stayed;" Does the rhythm of the song Softly falling on my heart,

Make its pulses firm and strong? Or is this Thy perfect peace,

Now descending while I sing, That my soul may sleep to-night "'Neath the shadow of Thy wing"?

"Thou of life the fountain art;"
If I slumber on Thy breast,
If I sing myself to sleep,

Sleep and death alike are rest.
Through the shadows ever past,
Through the shadows yet to be,
Let the ladder of my song
"Rise to all eternity.”

Note by note in silver bass,
May my soul in love ascend,

Till I reach the highest round
In Thy kingdom without end.
Not impatiently I sing,

Though I lift my hands and cry "Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly."

PRAYER.

ORE things are wrought by prayer

MORE
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let

thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so, the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

TENNYSON.

I

"SCALLYWAG."

Contributed by the author, Miss Caroline B. Le Row, Brooklyn, N. Y.

AM a scallywag-that is the truth of it.

Wouldn't believe it! Just look at me, then!
Kind of you, mister, to speak in that way to me,
But I don't belong with respectable men.
Quite a good coat and a face that looks honest?
Yes, but the coat was a present I got,

Give by the warden what keeps the State Prison,
Found in the cellar among an odd lot.

And as for the face-I've no wish to deceive you; "Tisn't my fault, I can't help it, you see. S'pose it's the look that I had when a boy, sir, Thought I'd a lost it,-'taint no good to me.

Now there's that chap who I left in the prison,

Him as give me the coat when my time was served

out,

He said 'twant no sense for a square lookin' feller To go back on himself and be knocking about.

P'raps after all I haint jest got the rights of it,
But it seems as if life was a hard row to hoe.
You see the fact is that I git clean discouraged;
Luck's all dead agin me,-I can't get no show.
What did I call myself? You ought to know, sir.
What is the name that such duffers as you
Give to the fellers the world's turned its back on?
You're an exception? There may be a few.

"Scallywag," sir, and it isn't the wust name, 'Cordin' to my views, that's under the sun; For a wag is next door to a wit, I believe, sir, And some think the angels in heaven like fun. The "scally's "just "scaly," no more and no less. sir;

It's hard on the fishes, and why it should be Hitched onto us fellers and made so convenient

For broken-down wretches I'm sure I can't see.

Ha, ha! You're a laughin'! That's my way of doin'

When things all go wrong what's the use of a growl?

I've had troubles in my time, I know all about 'em, But a smile is a long ways ahead of a frown.

And it seems sort of funny when I've faced the

music,

And tried to cheer up those who've whined on the

way,

That when I'm out at elbows and down at the mouth, sir,

Not a man Jack among 'em has one word to

say.

It's curious, kinder, when I've been so willin'

To shoulder the load of each man in the crowd, That nobody's ready to lend me a hand, sir,

And don't take no notice I'm under a cloud. I s'pose it's all right if a feller could see it, But it comes kinder tough though, and sometimes I think

If good folks had feelin' for other folks' troubles There'd be something to keep them from taking to drink.

But Lor! After that, sir, 'taint no use a talkin'; It's all up with a man when the liquor goes down;

But the comfort I get from a little black bottle

Can't be found nowhere else, sir, all over the town. It's made me the scallywag you are a talkin' to,

For drink leads to doin' sech rascally things, That the fust thing you know you're shut up in a buildin'

That's got what you'd like to have, sir, and that's wings.

Of course I'm a hopeless case, just as I told you,

There can't be no chance for a loafer like me, But I hate to see fellers as might have some show, sir Jest go the devil, as I did, you see, kind sir. If you'd please take the trouble to speak to 'em And help 'em to keep in the regular way 'Twould give me a lift, sir, at least in my feelin's And do me more good than I know how to say.

TEACHING A SUNDAY-SCHOOL CLASS.

From "Puck." Permission of Keppler & Schwarzmann, Publishers, N. Y.

WH

HY, dear me, if it isn't almost three o'clock ! I've got to start right off to Sunday-school! I have a class, you know! You'll come along, too, won't you, George? You must come! You need it sadly enough, goodness knows!"

This was Eva. Eva is sort of a seventh cousin of mine, with a charming home just out of town, and I was Sundaying there. Eva's papa has just gone in pretty vehemently on an iron mine up in Michigan; and, you see, I'm nursing Eva along, so to speak, till I see what that mine is going to do. So I said: "Why, I assure you, nothing could give me greater pleasure."

So we went; and I, with the accustomed modesty of my profession (the law), slunk into a back seat with the intention of quietly twirling my thumbs and otherwise utilizing the time.