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nomena; we may equally stretch forward thousands of years; and, although we cannot comprehend what may be the condition of astronomical science at that remote period, of one thing we are certain—the past, the present, and the future constitute but one unbroken chain of observations condensing all time, to the astronomer, into one mighty " Now."

O. M. MITCHELL.

THE WHIRLING WHEEL.
Permission of The Outlook, New York.

OH!

[! the regular round is a kind of a grind !

We rise in the morning only to find
That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the

same,
And Thursday's a change in nothing but name;
A Friday and Saturday wind up the week;
On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek.

So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel !
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.

And although the dull round is a kind of a grind,
It has compensations that we may find.
Famine and slaughter and sieges no more
Are likely to leave their cards at the door.
Let others delight in adventurous lives-
We read their sore trials at home to our wives.

So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.

The regular round, though a kind of a grind,
Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind
The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds;
There's a tight little roof o'er the ringleted heads;
The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun,
And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done

So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel !
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.

Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind,
But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen

behind. The star who struts central may show no more art Than the sturdy “first citizen ” filling his part. When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed, The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd.

So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel !
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.

When the great mill has stopped, and the work is

complete, And the workers receive the reward that is meet,

Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best? We but know that the worker who's aided the rest, Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to

night, Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right.

So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Shall work out our weal.

TUDOR JENKS.

SAVED BY A BOY.

Abridged.
Permission of the Author.

A

BOOKKEEPER in a certain large city one day

asked for a week's leave of absence, and taking a considerable sum of money belonging to the firm that employed him, he went to another city, determining to sail for South America a few days later. Under an assumed name he engaged a room in a poor lodging-house; for though there was little risk of his act being discovered until he was out of his native country (for he was greatly trusted by his employers), yet his guilt made him anxious to destroy all traces of himself after he had committed the theft.

For a whole day he was happy; he now had enough money to do what he had long desired to go to a foreign country and make certain investments which should in time bring him great wealth

It was early spring, and even in that wretched and noisy neighborhood there was a flowery sweetness in the air. The bookkeeper thought how pleasant it must be in the country lane where his mother lived.

“I'll make her rich yet,” and he took from his pocket the papers and bank-notes belonging to his employers. Here was a good, big sum of money, and he fairly laughed aloud. Suddenly there was a rustling in the room. He sprang to his feet, crushing the papers and money into his pocket, and glared round him.

Standing in the doorway was a little, thin-faced boy. He had hold of a big kettle, which seemed heavier than he could well carry.

“What do you want ?" demanded the bookkeeper, relieved that it was only a child. want?”

“I seed a fire in your stove,” calmly said the boy; “ there ain't no fire nowhere else. I want to heat this 'ere kittle.”

The bookkeeper had made a fire that he might destroy certain papers belonging to the firm. He looked at the boy, and he thought he himself might once have appeared like this when his mother was very poor and he was not well fed.

“What do you want hot water for ?” he asked.
“Mother,” answered the boy.
“Your mother! Did she send you here?”
“ She's sick."

The boy had put the kettle over the fire and was watching it, not at all abashed, but cool and quiet.

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Then he turned his eyes on the man, and the bookkeeper smiled at the quaint little chap.

“How old are you ?” he asked.
“ Six.”
“What's your name?”
“George."

George! that's a pretty good sort of name; George Washington was a fine fellow.”

“I ain't George Washington; I'm George Smithso's mother.”

“Where's your father?"
“ Dunno.”
• Is he out?”
“ Dead.”

The bookkeeper started, and looked a little more curiously at the boy.

“My father is dead, too,” he said. “Who takes care of your mother ?”

"I do," said the boy. “The water's bilin'."

He took the kettle from the fire and staggered with it out of the room, setting it down in the entry outside till he closed the door.

The bookkeeper listened to his retreating steps, * And, like him, again, I take care of my mother,” he murmured. “Queer little shaver, that, I wonder—" Here there came a knock on the door ; it was opened, and there again was George Smith and his kettle.

“May I heat this 'ere kittle?" he said, and went and put it on the fire and watched it.

What a shabby-looking child it was! how poor and frail !

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