PRESIDENT TUCKER'S LETTER

President William J. Tucker of Dartmouth College tells the following story on himself:

Some years ago he passed several weeks in a Maine country town. The next season he received a letter from his boarding mistress asking him to return. In reply he stated he should be glad to pass another summer vacation with her, but should require some changes.

"First," said the college president, "your maid Mary is persona non grata. Secondly, I think the sanitary conditions would be improved about your house if the pigsty could be moved a little farther from the house."

President Tucker was reassured when he received the following in reply: "Mary has went. We hain't had no hogs since you were here last summer. Be sure and come."

DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL

De Massa ob de sheepfol'

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin,
Look out in de gloomerin' medder,
Whar de long night rain begin—
So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"

"Oh," den says de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Dey's some dey's black an' thin,
An' some dey's po' ol' wedders,
But de res' dey's all brung in;
But de res' dey's all brung in."

Den de massa ob de sheepfol'

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' medders, Whar de long night rain beginSo he le' down de ba's o' de sheepfol' Cellin' sof", "Come in, come in"; Callin' sof", "Come in, come in.'

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' medders,
T'ro de col' night rain an' win',
An' up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf,
Whar de sleet fa's piercin' thin,
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gedderin' in.
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gedderin' in.

OUR MOTHER

How oft some passing word will tend
In visions to recall

Our truest, dearest, fondest friend-
That earliest friend of all.

Who tended on our childish years,
Those years that pass as hours.
When all earth's dewy, trembling tears,
Lie hid within her flowers.

Thou star that shines in darkest night, When most we need thy aid,

Nor changes but to beam more bright When others coldly fade.

Oh, Mother! round thy hallowed name
Such blissful memory springs,

The heart in all but years the same,
With reverent worship clings.

Thy voice was first to greet us, when
Bright fortune smiling o'er us,
And thine hand that's readiest then
To lift the veil before us.

Or if dark clouds close round our head
And care steals o'er the brow,

While hope's fair flowers fall crushed and dead
Unchanged still art thou.

AN ANCIENT TOAST

It was a grand day in the old chivalric time, the wine circling around the board in a noble hall, and the sculptured walls rang with sentiment and song. The lady of each knightly heart was pledged by name, and many a syllable significant of loveliness had been uttered, until it came to St. Leon's turn, when, lifting the sparkling cup on high

"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep-graven on a grateful heart,
Till memory is dead;

"To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions shall have passed,

So holy 'tis, and true;

To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you!"

Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fiery, flashing eye;

And Stanley said: "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that name the reverence due,
And gently said-"My mother!"

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE

This book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,—

With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree:

My mother's hand this Bible clasped;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who leaned God's word to hear.

Her angel face-I see it yet!

What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give
That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,

It taught me how to die.

George P. Morris.

DARBY AND JOAN

Darby, dear, we are old and gray,
Fifty years since our wedding day,
Shadow and sun for every one,

As the years roll on;

Darby, dear, when the world went wry,
Hard and sorrowful then was I.-

Ah, lad, how you cheered me then,

"Things will be better, sweet wife, again!" Always the same, Darby, my own.

Always the same to your old wife Joan.