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sure; and he was only induced to lay it up at night by his delight at the idea of coming up in the morning and surprising me by playing on it before I got up. In the morning at daylight I was called to his bedside. The next day, I followed him to his grave! You cannot guess how golden and lovely his long hair (never cut) looked in the coffin. Pickie was five years old last March. So much grace and wit and poetry were rarely or never blended in so young a child, and to us his form and features were the perfection of beauty. We can never have another child, and life cannot be long enough to efface, though it will temper this sorrow. It differs in kind as well as degree from all that we have hitherto experienced.


The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more

And he worried about it.
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-

And he worried about it.
It will surely give out, so the scientists said
In all scientifical books he had read,
And the whole boundless universe then will be dead-

And he worried about it.

And some day the earth will fall into the sun

And he worried about it.
Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-

And he worried about it.
"When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,
Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-

And he worried about it.

And the earth will become much too small for the race

And he worried about it.
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space

And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick

Nor room for one's thoughts to wander about-

And he worried about it.

And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow


And he worried about it-
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida-

And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens.
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-

And he worried about it.

And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt

And he worried about it
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out-

And he worried about it.
Just then the ice age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will tand stiff with arms outstretched in

As if vainly beseeching a general thaw-

And he worried about it.

His wife took in washing-half a dollar a day

He didn't worry about it,
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay

He didn't worry about it.

While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stove, and he just let her rub-
He didn't worry about it.

Sam Walter Foss.


After this manner therefore pray ye:

Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. 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; for Thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, forever. Amen.

Matthew vi: 9-13.


It cannot be that the earth is man's only abiding place. It cannot be that our life is a mere bubble cast up by eternity to float a moment on its waves and then sink into nothingness. Else why is it that the glorious aspirations which leap like angels from the temple of our heart are forever wandering unsatisfied? Why is it that all the stars that hold their festival around the midnight throne are set above the grasp of our limited faculties, forever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And, finally, why is it that bright forms of human beauty presented to our view are taken from us, leaving the thousand streams of our affections to flow back in Alpine torrents upon our hearts? There is realm where the rainbow never fades; where the stars will be

spread out before us like islands that slumber in the ocean, and where the beautiful beings which now pass before us like shadows will stay in our presence forever.

George D. Prentice in Man's Higher Destiny."


Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the Valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the Valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldier knew

Someone had blundered;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die;
Into the Valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered;
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right thro' the line they broke,
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke

Shattered and sundered;
Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made,

All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred! Alfred Tennyson.

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