When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel, And mightier far for woe than for weal.

Were it not well, in this brief little journey
On over the isthmus, down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
Forever and aye in dust at his side?

Look at the roses saluting each other;

Look at the herds all at peace on the plain;
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,
And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain-
Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.

Is it worth while that we battle to humble
Some poor fellow down into the dust?
God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble
All of us together, like leaves in a gust,
Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.

Joaquin Miller.

THE BROOKSIDE

I wandered by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill.-
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper.
Nor chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm tree,

I watched the long, long shade;
And as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,-no, he came not,—
The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat, one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred.—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind.-

A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer-nearer,—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

R. M. (Milnes) Lord Houghton.

WHO, THEN, IS FREE?

Who, then, is free? The wise man

Who can govern himself.

cản

Horace.

JUST BE GLAD

Oh! heart of mine, we shouldn't worry so!

What we have missed of calm, we couldn't have, you

know!

What we have met of stormy pain.

And of sorrow's driving rain,

We can better meet again,

If they blow.

We have erred in that dark hour, we have known;
When the tears fell with the showers, all alone,
Were not shine and shadow blent

As the gracious Master meant?
Let us temper our content
With His own.

For we know not every morrow can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow we have had,
Let us fold away our fears
And put by our foolish tears,

And through all the coming years,

Just be glad.

James Whitcomb Riley.

HAVE YOU WRITTEN TO MOTHER?

Pray, may I ask you, worthy lad,
Whose smile no care can smother,
Though busy life throbs round about,
Have you written home to mother?

You are fast forgetting, aren't you, quite,
How fast the weeks went flying:
And that a little blotted sheet
Unanswered still is lying?

Don't you remember how she stood,
With wistful glance at parting?
Don't you remember how the tears
Were in her soft eyes starting?

Have you forgotten how her arm
Stole round you to caress you?
Have you forgotten those low words:
"Good-by, my son; God bless you?"

Oh! do not wrong her patient love;
Save God's, there is no other
So faithful through all mists of sin;
Fear not to write to mother.

Tell her how hard it is to walk
As walked the Master, lowly;
Tell her how hard it is to keep
A man's life pure and holy.

Tell her to keep the lamp of prayer,
A light, a beacon burning:

Whose beams shall reach you far away.
Shall lure your soul returning.

Tell her you love her dearly still,
For fear some sad tomorrow
Shall bear away the listening soul.
And leave you lost in sorrow.

And then, through bitter, falling tears,
And sighs you may not smother,
You will remember when too late

You did not write to mother.

Jane Ronalson, in Banner of Gold.

DEATH OF LITTLE NELL

She was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put near me something that has loved the light-and had the sky above it always." Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed-was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless forever.

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. This was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this hange. Yes. The old fireside had smiled on that same weet face, it had passed like a dream through haunts of