A hero in his mother's eyes:
A young Apollo in his own,
To imitate the ways of men
In fashionable sins; and then;-

And then, at last, to be a man;

To fall in love, to woo, to wed;
With seething brain to scheme and plan;
To gather gold, or toil for bread;
To sue for fame, with tongue or pen;
To gain or lose the prize; and then;-

And then in gray and wrinkled eld,

To mourn the speed of life's decline;
To praise the scenes his youth beheld,
And dwell in memory of Lang Syne;
To dream awhile with darkened ken,
Then drop into his grave; and then;—
John G. Saxe.

HE PUT HIM OFF, ALL RIGHT

"Now, see here, porter," said he briskly, "I want you to put me off at Syracuse. You know we get in there about six o'clock in the morning, and I may oversleep myself. But it is important that I should get out. Here's a fivedollar gold piece. Now, I may wake up hard. Don't mind if I kick. Pay no attention if I'm ugly. I want you to put me off the train no matter how hard I fight. Understand?" "Yes, sah," answered the sturdy Nubian. "It shall be did, sah!"

The next morning the coin-giver was awakened by a stentorian voice calling: "Rochester!"

"Rochester!" he exclaimed, sitting up.

porter?"

"Where's the

Hastily slipping on his trousers, he went in search of the negro, and found him in the porter's closet, huddled up, with his head in a bandage, his clothes torn, and his arm in a sling.

"Well," says the drummer, "you are a sight. Why didn't you put me off at Syracuse?"

"Wha-at!" gasped the porter, jumping up, as his eyes bulged from his head. "Was you de gemman dat giv' me a five-dollah gold piece?"

"Of course I was, you idiot!"

"Well, den, befoah de Lawd, who was dat gemman I put off at Syracuse?"

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs,

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would you know the spell-a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide:

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,—
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory flows with a lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Eliza Cook.

NOBODY KNOWS BUT MOTHER

Nobody knows of the work it makes
To keep the home together,
Nobody knows of the steps it takes,
Nobody knows—but mother.

Nobody listens to childish woes,

Which kisses only smother;
Nobody's pained by naughty blows,
Nobody-only mother.

Nobody knows of the sleepless care
Bestowed on baby brother;
Nobody knows of the tender prayer,
Nobody-only mother.

Nobody knows of the lessons taught
Of loving one another;

Nobody knows of the patience sought,
Nobody-only mother.

Nobody knows of the anxious fears,
Lest darlings may not weather
The storm of life in after years,
Nobody knows—but mother.

Nobody kneels at the throne above
To thank the Heavenly Father

For that sweetest gift-a mother's love;
Nobody can-but mother.

The Fireside.

SOMEBODY

Somebody did a golden deed;
Somebody proved a friend in need;
Somebody sang a beautiful song:

Somebody smiled the whole day long;

Somebody thought, "'Tis sweet to live
Somebody said, "I'm glad to give";
Somebody fought a valiant fight;
Somebody lived to shield the right;
Was that "somebody" you?

THE INEVITABLE

I like the man who faces what he must
With step triumphant and a heart of cheer:
Who fights the daily battle without fear;
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust
That God is God; that somehow, true and just
His plans work out for mortals; not a tear

Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,
Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crust
Than living in dishonor; envies not,

Nor loses faith in man; but does his best

Nor ever mourns over his humbler lot,

But with a smile and words of hope, gives zest

To every toiler; he alone is great,

Who by a life heroic conquers fate.

Sarah K. Bolton, in the Youths Companion.

LITTLE THINGS

"Little words are the sweetest to hear; little charities fly farthest, and stay longest on the wing; little lakes are the stillest; little hearts are the fullest, and little farms are the best tilled. Little books are read the most, and little songs the dearest loved. And when Nature would make anything especially rare and beautiful, she makes it little; little pearls, little diamonds, little dews. Agar's is a model prayer; but then it is a little one; and the burden of the petition is for but little. The Sermon on the Mount is little, but the last dedication discourse was an hour long. Life is made up of littles; death is what remains of them all. Day is made up of little beams, and night is glorious with little stars."