It makes a man feel curious, it makes the teardrops start,
An' you sort o' feel a flutter in the region of the heart:
You can look up and meet his eyes; you don't know what

to say

When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way.

Oh, the world's a curious compound, with its honey and its gall,

With its cares and bitter crosses, but a good world, after all. An' a good God must have made it-leastways, that is what I say,

When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort o' way. James Whitcomb Riley.

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR

Along the village streets, where maples lean
Together like old friends about the way,
A faithful pair oft and anon were seen—

He and his nag, both growing old and gray:
What secrets lurked within that old soul's breast:
Of mother-love, of throb of pains and ills.
All safely kept beneath that buttoned vest,
Receptacle of powders and of pills.
Thrice happy he when some fond mother's eyes
Grew moist with love unspeakable to find
Snugged to her breast her babe whose paradise
Within her soul and bosom were entwined.
How oft he held the wrist to mark the slow
Pulsations of the feebly-fluttering heart,
While his kind words, soft murmuring and low,

Essayed to calm the mourner's pain and smart.

He was to all a father, brother, friend;

Their joys were his, their sorrows were his own. He sleeps in peace where yonder willows bend

Above the violets that kiss the stone.

Horace S. Keller, in N. Y. Sun.

JUNE

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grasses and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings: He sings to the wide world, and she to her nestIn the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? James Russell Lowell, in "Vision of Sir Launfal."

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home-
Lead thou me on!

Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene-one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will; remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.
Cardinal (John Henry) Newman.

LAST WORDS OF WILLIAM MCKINLEY

"Goodby, all. It is God's way. His will be done.” The late President McKinley's physician, Dr. Rixey, tells us that after his distinguished patient could no longer speak an audible word, he could distinguish his lips uttering in whispers the words of the hymn, "Nearer, My God, to Thee."

C. H. Grosvenor in "William McKinley, His Life and Work.'

THE BIBLE MY MOTHER GAVE ME

Give me that grand old Volume, the gift of a mother's love, Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight

above.

Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's

gold.

When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage

home,

And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished

tome.

As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent

mien,

God's word fell from her trembling lips like a presence felt and seen.

Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page,
Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age;
Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod,
Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.

Men who in mind were God-like, and have left on its blazoned scroll

Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul;

"Who through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of

ease,

Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.

I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook.

Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book

How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time,

It was handed down as an heirloom in almost every clime.

How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days, The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.

How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough,

It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.

He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break,

Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake;

How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame,

But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comforts came.

That housed in caves and caverns-how it stirs our Scottish blood!

The Covenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood:

And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls

Thro' cobwebbed aisle and checkered pane, a halo on the

walls!

That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, Till forth from heathen kingdoms and isles beyond the sea, The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.