"Do your duty," says the sun

High in heaven;

To the dutiful, when tasks are done, Crowns are given:

Crowns of power and crowns of fame,
Crowns of life:

In glory burns the victor's name,
After strife.

Do your duty, never swerve—

Smooth or rough

Until God, whom we all serve,

Says, "Enough."

LUELLA CLARK.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

O forth to the battle of life, my boy,

Go while it is called to-day;

For the years go out, and the years come in,
Regardless of those who may lose or win-
Of those who may work or play.

And the troops march steadily on, my boy,

To the army gone before;

You may hear the sound of their falling feet,

Going down to the river where the two worlds meet: They go to return no more.

There is room for you in the ranks, my boy,

And duty, too, assigned.

Step into the front with a cheerful grace—

Be quick, or another may take your place,
And you may be left behind.

There is work to do by the way, my boy,
That you never can tread again;
Work for the loftiest, lowliest men-
Work for the plough, adz, spindle, and pen;
Work for the hands and the brain.

Then go to the battle of life, my boy,
In the beautiful days of youth;
Put on the helmet, breastplate, and shield,
And the sword that the feeblest arm may wield
In the cause of right and truth.

WANTED, A BOY.

ANTED, a boy!' Well, how glad I am
To know that I was the first to see
The daily paper-so early too-
Few boys are up-'tis lucky for me."
You hurry away through quiet streets,
Breathlessly reaching the office door
Where a boy was wanted, and lo! you find

It thronged and besieged by at least a score.
'Wanted, a boy!" So the place was gone;
You did not get it? Well, never mind.
The world is large, and a vacant place
Is somewhere in it for you to find

Perhaps by long and devious ways,
With perils to face, and battles to win,
Obstacles great to be overcome,

Before you reach it, and enter in.
Philosophy surely wanted a boy,

While Franklin worked at a printer's case; Mechanics, when, low in the darkened mine, By an engine, Stephenson found his place; Nature, while Linnæus, crushed and tried As a cobbler, toiled out his sunless youth; Freedom, ere Washington reached her arms From childhood, up by the way of truth. "Wanted, a boy!" 't is written above Coveted places of highest renown; But the ladder of labor must ever be trod By boyish feet, ere the sign comes down. There are humble names half hidden now

On the school day roll, 'mong many a score, That yet will shine as the lights of fame,

Till boys are wanted on earth no more.

The forum is echoing burning words

Of orators destined to pass away; You will be wanted Instead of them soon, Men of the future are boys to day. The watchmen standing on Zion's walls, Faithfully doing the Master's will, Are falling asleep as the years go by;— Wanted, a boy each place to fill.

MARY B. REESE

THE PET LAMB.

'HE dew was falling fast; the stars began to blink;

I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink :"

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.

No other sheep were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.

'Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight: they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps she did stay.

Towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face;
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might
sing-

"What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?

peers;

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears?

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain

This birch is standing by; its cov rt thou canst gain ; For rain and mountain storms-the like thou need'st not fear :

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,

And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:

O, blessed day for thee. Then whither wouldst thou roam?

A faithful nurse thou hast: the dam that did thee yean, Upon the mountain tops, no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plow. My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;

The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe; our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again."

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad, line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

For she looked with such a look, and she spoke with such a tone,

@

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SCULPTOR BOY.

HISEL in hand, stood a sculptor boy, With his marble block before him; And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision;

In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone— He had caught that angel vision.

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us, Waiting the hour, when, at God's command, Our life-dream passes o'er us.

Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision;

Its heavenly beauty shall be our own—
Our lives, that angel vision.

W. C. DOANE,

Left her stand

In the broad daylight,

Ran clear up here

In a terrible fright.

"Tell the doctor

To please come quick,
There's a man," she said,
"That's awful sick.
A poor old man

Got hurt by a cart;
Nobody'd come

And I hadn't the heart
To stand like the rest

And only stare.

So I had to come,

And I wouldn't care

If the boys stole everything I had;
I'd rather be poor
Than be so bad."

I'll tell you what
My mamma said
That very night
When she put me to bed.

A beautiful angel

With shiny wings,

One of the kind

That always sings,

Will come some time
And find little Nan,

Who forgot herself
And for sick folks ran;

He'll take her hand
And say to her, "Come

And go with me."

And he'll show her his home,
Where no one is selfish

And loves his ease,

But every one tries
All the rest to please.

I tell you what

I'd like to go,
And a good many boys
And girls that I know;
And we're going to try

Very hard to do
All that is right,

And to tell what's true;
Now, don't you think

That if we do
An angel will come
And take us too?

G. W. THOMAS.

LITTLE NAN."

A SEQUEL. ITTLE Nan Gordon,

With the red hair, Ran back to her stand, You know where,

And told the sick man : "The doctor will come, Quick as he can,

And take you home."

But what a surprise
There met her eyes;

None cared for poor Nan

While she cared for the man.

While she was gone

Some awful bad boys Stole her apples, gum-drops, Money and toys; Turned over her stand,

In the broad daylight, And left what they left, In a terrible plight; Stamped on her basket,

And did what boys can

All that they could

To injure poor Nan,

Who cried at her loss,

But still was real glad That she did what was good, If others were bad.

But an angel stood by,

With a smile on his face

And a tear in his eye,

Who whispered, quite softly,

"I'H make it all right

With Nan bye-and-bye."

The very next morning,
When Nan got there-
Down by the post-office,
You know where-
Big, red apples,

Two for a cent,
Gum-drops and candies,

Rose peppermint—

Lots of things she hadn't before,

Of such as she did have

Twice as much more;
A nice new table,

A nice money-drawer,
For the money stolen
Twice as much more;

New baskets and candy-jars,
Clean and bright,

All ready for Nan
In the broad daylight.

And the angel stood by,
With a stick in his hand,
Keeping bad boys
Away from the stand.

Then he kissed little Nan,
With the red hair,

And gave her the things

That he'd fixed for her there. So twice glad was Nan

That she went to get help For the sick old man.

Moral.

'Tisn't always true what folks frequently say,
That children must wait till the judgment day
Before their good actions will draw any pay;
But this is the point-Nan did what she could,
What made her real glad was she was real good;
To have angel's help you needn't wait till you die,
Do good when you can, the angel stands by.
A. W. DODGE.

U

THE FAIRIES.

P the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n't go a hunting

For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home-
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam ;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs
All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses:
Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,
To sup with the queen

Of the gay northern lights.
They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring

To dig one up in spite,

He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

climbed up to the giant's house. Jack-how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swift

ness.

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there. and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded.

Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the ani

HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree.

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top-for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, -I look into my youngest Christmas recollections. All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with!

"A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe: like Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree: and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany.

But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk-the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack

have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch; but what was that against it?

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly-all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation! Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string.

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world!

A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow's son-and God is good!

CHARLES DICKENS.