THE SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. "How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view."

EVERY one has doubtless had these thrilling lines to flash through his memory as he gazed upon the "scenes of his childhood." And what a sweet, solemn thought it brings over us, to look upon the fields of our past enjoyment-the scenes of our childhood! True, Time the tomb-builder, may have brought changes; but these only serve to make the spot more endearing. You gaze upon the old buildings-the roof that you used to know so well, is now all covered with moss. The steps that your infant feet trod have gone to decay. The entire building has underIt gone so many changes that you say, don't look like it used to." The old well, too, has changed its look. Yet, it is there. The old "moss-covered bucket" still hangs in the well! What an enchanting scene! There have been changes, but no change short of death, can blot from memory's page the impressions of youth. You think of the days that you have spent there in glee -then you were young, a boy. But now you are a man, drawing nearer and nearer every day to the brink of the grave.

You sit down, and go over

(to yourself), the old family register. There's little Nell, that played with you here in former days, that has long since been consigned to the tomb. Little Willie too, lies there by her side. Grandpa, who used to call us around his knee and tell us stories to make the winter's night seem shorter, has left us long ago. I recollect his death well;

I see the room now in which I took my last gaze at his aged face. My aunt too is gone. She died the year after grandpa did. All the things, bitter mingled with sweets, come, link by link, to form memory's chain. Everything that you see, that was of old, has eonnected with it a history. too, of fond remembrance. has a silent enchantment-not for it as at present-but for the sake of by gone days. You visit the old family burialground. It is hallowed by rustic silence

A history, Each scene

Heap not the heavy marble on my head, To shut away the sunshine and the dew;

Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave,

And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay

Than I; but, trust me, thou can'st never find

One who will love and serve thee night and day

With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my rest will blossom just as blue;

Nor miss my tears; even nature's self forgets,

But while I live be true.

-FRED HARRINGTON.

THE NEW WOMAN.

SHE talked with great intensity of each man's base propensity, and spoke with volubility of woman's higher plane;

She dwelt on domesticity with mental elasticity, and said that such felicity was really quite in vain.

With gestures oratorical and phrases

metaphorical, she voiced the powers numerical that woman had untold.

And spoke with zeal dramatical of voting systematical, and ballot-boxes spherical, and votes not bought with gold.

She said in each vicinity the doctors of divinity would come from femininity; in bloomers they would be ; And matrons with rapidity would lose all their timidity, and no more asininity in congress would we see. And while with such audacity she showed her great capacity, and talked with great didacity, her husband learned to sweep; And while with such agility she dwelt

on her utility with such intense pugnacity, he puts the twins to sleep. -NEW YORK SUN.

OLD JINGLES.

THE following time-honored jingles regarding marriages and births, quoted from an interesting collection, entitled "Old Superstitions," are always of in

terest:

Marry Monday for wealth,
Marry Tuesday for health,

Marry Wednesday the best day of all.
Marry Thursday for crosses,
Marry Friday for losses,

Marry Saturday no luck at all.

Born on a Monday,
Fair of face;
Born on a Tuesday,

Full of God's grace; Born on Wednesday, Merry and glad ; Born on a Thursday,

Sour and sad;
Born on a Friday,

Godly given;
Born of a Saturday,
Work for a living;
Born of a Sunday,

Never shall want;
So there's the week
And the end on't.

Monday's child is fair of face; Tuesday's child is full of grace; Wednesday's child is merry and glad; Thursday's child is sour and sad; Friday's child is loving and giving; Saturday's child must work for a living; But the child that is born on a Sabbath day

Has a shining journey down life's way. -NEW YORK LEDGER.

A BUSINESS LETTER. "MARRIAGE is daily becoming a more commercial affair."-A Society paper.

DEAR FRED-Your favor of the 3d,
Has had my very best attention,
But yet I cannot, in a word,
Accept you on the terms you men-

tion;

In vain an ancient name you show,
In vain for intellect are noted,
Blue blood and brains, you surely know,
At nominal amounts are quoted,
And then, I see you're weak enough,
To offer love sincere, unstudied "-
Why, sir, with such Quixotic stuff

The market's absolutely flooded!
But every day this fact confirms-
The time is over for romances,
And whether we can come to terms
Depends alone on your finances.
So, would you think me overbold

If I, with deference, requested

A statement of what funds you hold ? In what securities invested?

For, candidly, in such affairs

A speedy bid your only chance is, A boom in Yankee millionaires

May soon result in marked advances; With you I'd willingly be wed,

To like you well enough I'm able, But first submit your bank book, Fred, To your (perhaps) devoted Mabel. -PUNCH.

THE PENITENT'S PRAYER.
GO SIN NO MORE.

O, GRACIOUS Lord! stretch forth Thy hand,

And lead me from the path of sin, I pray Thee, give my poor heart

strength,

And let Thy glory shine within. O, cleanse my weak, polluted soul, And from its sins, Lord, set it free; Thou knowest how I need Thy helpI am not what I ought to be.

O, give me power to love Thee more, And bid my worldly sins depart ; Speak words of promise to my soul,

And give religion to my heart. I know, dear Lord, Thy blessed Son Died on the cross for such as meO, help me, give me strength to pray---I am not what I ought to be.

Tear from my heart the bolts that lock
Its fastened doors, inclosing sin,
And let Thy sweet redeeming love
Like beams of glory shine therein,
I look to thee with pitying eye,

And plead for grace on bended knee;
Have mercy on my sinful soul-
I am not what I ought to be.

Dear Lord, wipe from my soul my shame,

My every thought and act control;
Grant me forgiveness for my sin.
Have mercy Lord, upon my soul,
I am unworthy of Thy love-
I am unfit Thy child to be;
O, take me, sinner as I am,
And make me what I ought to be.
-WILL S. HAYS.

THE BUSY MAN.

IF you would get a favor done
By some obliging friend,
And want a promise, safe and sure,
On which you can depend,
Don't go to him who always has

Much leisure time to plan,
But if you want your favor done,
Just ask the busy man.

The man with leisure never has
A moment he can spare.
He's always "putting off," until
His friends are in despair.
But he whose every waking hour
Is crowded full of work
Forgets the art of wasting time;
He cannot stop to shirk.

So, when you want a favor done,
And want it right away,
Go to the man who constantly
Works thirty hours a day.
He'll find a moment, sure, somewhere
That has no other use,

And fix you, while the idle man
Is framing an excuse.

-WILLIAM H. HILLS. WHO knows? God knows: and what he knows is well and best. The darkness hideth not from him, but glows [rose of east or west, Clear as the morning or the evening -CHRISTINA ROSETTI.