Just then, as I turned the garment,

That no rent should be left behind,
My eye caught an odd little bungle
Of mending and patchwork combined.

My heart grew suddenly tender,
And something blinded my eyes,
With one of those sweet intuitions
That sometimes make us so wise.

Dear child! She wanted to help me,
I knew 'twas the best she could do;
But, oh, what a botch she had made it-
The gray mismatching the blue.

Then a sweet voice broke the silence,
And the dear Lord said to me
"Art thou tenderer for the little child
Than I am tender for thee?"

Then straightway I knew His meaning,
So full of compassion and love,
And my faith came back to its Refuge
Like the glad returning dove.

For I thought, when the Master-Builder
Comes down His temple to view,
To see what rents must be mended
And what must be builded anew,

Perhaps as he looks o'er the building

He will bring my work to the light,

And seeing the marring and bungling,
And how far it all is from right,

He will feel as I felt for my darling,
And will say, as I said for her,
"Dear child! She wanted to help me,
And love for me was the spur."

So my thoughts are never more gloomy
My faith no longer is dim,

And my heart is strong and restful

And my eyes are turned toward Him.

Mrs. Herrick Johnson.

THE LONG WAIT

Bill Nye, when a young man, once made an engagement with a lady friend of his to take her driving of a Sunday afternoon. The appointed day came, but at the livery stable all the horses were taken out save one old, shaky, exceedingly bony horse.

Mr. Nye hired the nag and drove to his friend's residence. The lady let him wait nearly an hour before she was ready, and then on viewing the disreputable outfit, flatly refused to accompany Mr. Nye.

"Why," she exclaimed sneeringly, "that horse may die of age any moment."

"Madam," Mr. Nye replied, "when I arrived that horse was a prancing young steed."

Harper's Weekly.

TRANSFIGURED

To careless eyes she is not fair:
This verdict careless lips declare,
And wonder why, against the charm
Of beauty, vivid, rich and warm
The face they deem so cold and dull
To him should be so beautiful.

Are they too dull to see aright?
Hath he a quicker, keener sight?
Or is it that indifference

Than love hath clearer, truer sense?
Now, is he right or wrong? Oh, say,
Doth he behold her face, or they?
Her eyes into his own eyes shine
With strange illumining; a sign
Is on her brow; a palimpsest
To his own gaze alone confessed;
On him, in gravely gracious mood,
She smiles her soul's beatitude.

This is the face she turns to him,
Oh, say not 'tis a lover's whim
That finds it fair; nor are they dull.
Who say she is not beautiful.
For strangest of all mysteries,

They never see the face he sees-
That face no artist's skill can limn
The love-fair face she turns to him.

Carlotta Perry.

IMMORTALITY

Critics pronounce this one of the daintiest productions of its kind in existence.

Two caterpillars crawling on a leaf,

By some strange accident in contact came; Their conversation, passing all belief,

Was that same argument, the very same,

That has been "proed and conned" from man to man, Yea, ever since this wondrous world began.

The ugly creatures,

Deaf and dumb and blind,

Devoid of features

That adorn mankind,

Were vain enough, in dull and wordy strife,
To speculate upon a future life.

The first was optimistic, full of hope;

The second, quite dyspeptic, seemed to mope.
Said number one, "I'm sure of our salvation."
Said number two, "I'm sure of our damnation;
Our ugly forms alone would seal our fates
And bar our entrance through the golden gates.
Suppose that death should take us unawares,
How would we climb the golden stairs?
If maidens shun us as they pass us by,
Would angels bid us welcome in the sky?
I wonder what great crimes we have committed,
That leave us so forlorn and so unpitied.
Perhaps we've been ungrateful, unforgiving;

'Tis plain to me that life's not worth the living."

"Come, come, cheer up," the jovial worm replied, "Let's take a look upon the other side;

Suppose we cannot fly like moths or millers,

Are we to blame for being caterpillars?

Will that same God that doomed us crawl the earth,

A prey to every bird that's given birth,

Forgive our captor as he eats and sings,

And damn poor us because we have not wings?
If we can't skim the air like owl or bat,

A worm will turn for a' that."

They argued through the summer; autumn nigh,
The ugly things composed themselves to die;
And so to make their funeral quite complete,
Each wrapped him in his little winding sheet.
The tangled web encompassed them full soon,
Each for his coffin made him a cocoon;

All through the winter's chilling blast they lay
Dead to the world, aye, dead as human clay.

Lo, spring comes forth with all her warmth and love;
She brings sweet justice from the realms above;
She breaks the chrysalis, she resurrects the dead;
Two butterflies ascend, encircling her head.

And so this emblem shall forever be

A sign of immortality.

Joseph Jefferson.

Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and

you weep alone.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.