SIT at the Wheel of Life to spin;

And yet no spinner am I;

I stand at the Gate to enter in,

And yet poor sinner am I.

The threads seem tangled and which to choose

Who'll guide me as I spin?

The Gate is shut and hard to loose

Who'll open and let me in?

Oh! how the beautiful web to flower

With beautiful tints who'll tell?
Oh! where shall I find Omnipotent Power
To break this sinful spell?

The fabric I weave must ever endure,
For fadeless threads I spin:

If the Gate swings open my heart is sure,
There is Life Eternal within!

Some days at the Loom the threads fly fast,
And slowly they creep some days;
Like the years of Life, some winging past,
And some on wheels of delays!

The warp and the woof are sometimes blurred
By the spinner's tears who spins!

The sea of the soul is sometimes stirred
By Euroclydons of sins!

But slow or fast, in the dark or sun,
The web in the Loom still grows;
And rapid or slow Life's race is run,
And the hour-glass sand still flows.
My hand that holds the shuttle of Life
Must hurry it through and through,
My heart that strives in bitt rest strife
Must carry its burdens too.

The human soul must weave its web,
And the human hand must do.
Eternity guides the silvery thread

And weaves it through and through.
And the delicate fabric woven now
Will be a robe immortal:

And the journey we go will lead the soul
Within the City's portal.

And the wondrous web I try to fill
With a beautiful golden filling;
In trial's hour my heart holds still

And my soul is strong and willing.
I sigh sometimes when threads do break,
Life's threads will snap asunder!
And the human heart has many an ache,
For the human hands will blunder!

I sit at the Wheel of Life and spin,
And yet no spinner am I.

I stand at the gate to enter in

And yet poor

sinner am I.

An unseen Spinner is guiding my hands,
And choosing the thread I spin :

An unseen Friend beside me stands

My heart grows glad at the Loom of Life,
The shuttle doth cheerfully go;

I feel an end of the weary strife-
Life-waters have musical flow.

Will my fabric suit the Spinner on high?
Will it cover my deathless soul?
Shall I enter the City beyond the sky,
And be crowned at Life's fair goal?

One day the woof will all be run,
The warp will all be filled;
One day the journey will all be done,
And the noisy wheel be stilled!
Life's dusty Loom shall silent stand,

Life's busy shuttle stay,

The Pilgrim shall enter the Heavenly Land,
And the Spinner have resting day.

REV. WILLIAM J. LEE.

GARFIELD AT THE WHEEL.

The following stirring lyric records an incident during the war charac teristic of Garfield's decision and force of character. An unusually violent rainstorm broke out, and the "Sandy" River rose to such a height that steamboatmen pronounced it impossible to ascend it with supplies. The troops were almost out of rations, and Garfield had gone down the river to its mouth and ordered the captain of a small steamer which had

been in the quartermaster's service to take a load of supplies and start up the river. The captain declared that it was impossible. Then Garfield ordered the captain and crew on board, stationed an army officer on deck to see that they did their duty, and himself took the wheel. The water was sixty feet deep, the tree-tops along the banks were nearly submerged, and the steamer was whirled about as if she were a ski. At nightfall the captain of the boat begged permission to tie up, declaring that it would be madness to try to stem such a current in the dark; but Garfield kept at the wheel, and finally, in a sudden bend of the river, the boat was driven with a full head of steam into the quicksands of the bank. All efforts to get her off were futile. Finally, Garfield himself steered a small boat across the river, made fast a line, and by rigging a windlass with rails, succeeded in getting her afloat. The perilous journey occupied nearly two days and nights, during which Garfield was away from the wheel only eight hours.

HERE'S sadness in the Union camp,

THER

Supplies are running low;

Small gains for many a weary tramp
The forage wagons show;

Yet in their leader, stanch and brave,
Firm faith the soldiers feel,
Quick-witted, cool and strong to save-
They've Garfield at the wheel!

And yet, to-day, those valiant ones
Have missed their noble chief;
From rank to rank the whisper runs
"He goes to bring relief;

Ere long each well-filled haversack
Shall plenteous stores reveal—
Courage! we soon shall see him back,
We've Garfield at the wheel !"

Tis death the swollen stream to trust!"
The trembling sailors cry;

"At duty's call, embark we must!"

The General makes reply.

Wild currents vex the laboring barge,
And quicksands clog her keel,

But safe to port she brings her charge-
'Twas Garfield at the wheel!

What though athwart our peaceful skies
Portentous shapes are thrown,
Disgraceful arts corruption plies,

And Faction's blast is blown;
Victorious o'er the raging tides
The good ship "Commonweal"
Full-freighted into harbor glides
With Garfield at the wheel!

THE DUTCHMAN'S SNAKE.

[EAR the town of Reading, in Berks County, Penn

NEA sylvania, there formerly lived a well-to-do Dutch

farmer named Peter Van Riper. His only son was a strapping lad of seventeen, also named Peter, and upon old Peter and young Peter devolved the principal cares of the old man's farm, now and then assisted by an ancient Dutchman named Jake Sweighoffer, who lived in the neighborhood and went out to work by the day.

One warm day in haying time this trio were hard at work in a meadow near the farm-house, when suddenly Peter the elder dropped his scythe and called out: "Oh! mine gracious, Peter! Peter!"

"What's de matter, fader?" answered the son, straightening up and looking at his sire.