Imagens das páginas

Sarah K. Bolton's poem: "The Inevitable."

Geo. D. Prentice, poem, “The Closing Year"; prose, “Where the Rainbow Never Fades," and "Death."

Little, Brown & Co., Boston: Edwin Arnold's poems, “Death in Arabia" (first line "He who died at Azan sends”), in "Pearls of the Faith,” “Good Night! Not Good Bye.” Collected poems. F. W. Bourdillon's poems, "The Night Hath a Thousand Eyes," "Upon the Valley's Lap.” Miss Sarah C. Woolsey's poem, "Begin Again,” (pen name “Susan Coolidge").

James Jeffrey Roche's poem, "The V-A-S-E.”
Holman F. Day, Lewiston, Me.: "With Love from Mother."
Mrs. M. L. Dickinson: "Love in the Home," in "Success."

Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, hold copyrights on: J. G. Holland's poem, “Gradatim," H. C. Bunner's "Hide and Seek,” Josephine Daskam's “Motherhood" (in Century 'Magazine), and give special permission for their use.

Ben King's Verse, "Nothing to Do But Work," "Jane Jones," "Her Little Boy.” Forbes & Co., Chicago, Ill.

Youth's Companion: Arthur Macy, “The Flag.” Lulu Linton, "Watch the Corners," "The Fun in Life.” Sarah K. Bolton, “The Inevitable.”

Sam Walter Foss: "He Worried About It," "Hullo," "The Volunteer Organist,” in “Back Country Poems." Lothrop, Lee & Shepard, Boston.

Walt Whitman: "O Captain! My Captain.” Complete poems, etc. Edgar S. Werner & Co., New York City.

Mrs. Ellen M. H. Gates: "Beautiful Hands," "Your Mission," "Sleep Sweet," in "Treasures of Kurium." G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

Alfred J. Waterhouse: "To the Man Who Fails.”
Edwin Carlile Litsey: "Dreams Ahead.”

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard: Charles Follen Adams, “Leedle Yawcob Strauss"; James Creelman's "McKinley's Dying Prayer," in "On the Great Highway.”

The authors whose works are not connected with the publication of the above-named firms, are duly credited so far as is known with their respective articles.

It has been a much greater task to learn the names and rights of authors and publishers than one would readily imagine, and if errors have crept in, it is not the wilful fault of





Oh, let me lay my head tonight upon your breast,
And close my eyes against the light. I fain would rest;
I'm weary, and the world looks sad; this worldly strife
Turns me to you; and, oh, I'm glad to be your wife!
Though friends may fail or turn aside, yet I have you
And in your love I may abide, for you are true-
My only solace in each grief and in despair,
Your tenderness is my relief; it soothes each care.
If joys of life could alienate this poor weak heart
From yours, then may no pleasure great enough to part
Our sympathies fall to my lot. I'd e'er remain
Bereft of friends, though true or not, just to retain
Your true regard, your presence bright thro' care and strife;
And, oh, I thank my God tonight, I am your wife!


In the afternoon of his last day on earth the President began to realize that his life was slipping away, and that the efforts of science could not save him. He asked Dr. Rixey to bring the surgeons in. One by one the surgeons entered and approached the bedside. When they were gathered about him, the President opened his eyes and said:

"It is useless, gentlemen; I think we ought to have prayer."

The dying man crossed his hands on his breast and halfclosed his eyes. There was a beautiful smile on his countenance. The surgeons bowed their heads. Tears streamed from the eyes of the white-clad nurses on either side of the bed. The yellow radiance of the sun shone softly in the room.

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," said the President, in a clear, steady voice.

The lips of the surgeons moved.

"Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done"

The sobbing of a nurse disturbed the still air. The President opened his eyes and closed them again.

“Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven."

A long sigh. The sands of life were running swiftly. The sunlight died out, and raindrops dashed against the windows.

"Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Another silence. The surgeons looked at the dying face and the friendly lips.

**For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen." “Amen," whispered the surgeons.

James Creelman, in "On the Great Highway.


Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which sought through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.


Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. I gaze on the moon, as I trace the drear wild, And feel that my parent now thinks of her child; She looks on that moon from our own cottage door, Through woodbines whose fragrance shall cheer me no more. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again; The birds singing gaily, that came at my call, Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all. If I return home overburdened with care, The heart's dearest solace I'm sure to meet there; The bliss I experience whenever I come, Makes no other place seem like that of sweet home. Farewell, peaceful cottage! farewell, happy home; Forever I'm doomed a poor exile to roam; This poor aching heart must be laid in the tomb, Ere it cease to regret the endearments of home.

John Howard Payne.


Pluck wins! It always wins! though days be slow
And nights be dark 'twixt days that come and go.
Still pluck will win; its average is sure:
He gains the prize who will the most endure;
Who faces issues; he who never shirks;
Who waits and watches, and who always works.


Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half.

Who never failed, he never strove or sought.
Who never wept is stranger to a laugh,
And he who never doubted never thought.

Rev. J. B. Goode.


Two Irishmen fresh from Ireland had just landed in New York and engaged a room in the top story of a hotel. Mike, being very sleepy, threw himself on the bed and was soon fast asleep. The sights were so new and strange to Pat that he sat at the window looking out. Soon an alarm of fire was rung in, and a fire engine rushed by, throwing up sparks of fire and clouds of smoke. This greatly excited Pat, who called his comrade to get up and come to the window; but Mike was fast asleep. Another engine soon followed the first, spouting smoke and fire like the former. This was too much for poor Pat, who rushed excitedly to the bedside, and shaking his friend, called loudly:

“Mike, Mike, wake up! They are moving Hell, and two loads have gone by already."


The other day I received a letter from the little blueeyed girl, now grown to womanhood, who, in the days long gone by, waited at the gate for my daily home coming. How I am thrilled when I think of those meetings! Looking way down the road, she would recognize her papa, and how she would run to meet me; rushing into my arms, putting

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