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So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered

boards, As one of the greatest gems of art and the king of all other

hoards, As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment

Call. The guide that will lead to the shining shore where the Father waits for all.

From a Very Old Scrapbook.


If all who hate would love us,

And all our loves were true,
The stars that swing above us

Would brighten in the blue;
If cruel words were kisses,

And every scowl a smile,
A better world than this is,

Would hardly be worth while.
If purses would not tighten

To meet a brother's need,
The load we bear would lighten

Above the grave of greed.

If those who whine would whistle,

And those who languish laugh,
The rose would rout the thistle,

The grain outrun the chaff;
If hearts were only jolly,

If grieving were forgot,
And tears of melancholy

Were things that now are not;

Then love would kneel to duty,

And all the world would seem
A bridal bower of beauty,

A dream within a dream.
If men would cease to worry,

And women cease to sigh,
And all be glad to bury

Whatever has to die;
If neighbor spake to neighbor,

As love demands of all,
The rust would eat the sabre,

The spear stay on the wall;
Then every day would glisten,

And every eye would shine,
And God would pause to listen,

And life would be divine.
James Newton Matthews, in Washington Star.


Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said:

“This is my own, my native land!" Whose heart hath ne'er witnin him burned. As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power and pelf.
The wretch, concentred all in self.

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott, in Lay of the Last Minstrel."


For several years before his death, Mr. Daniel S. Ford, the proprietor, editor and builder of the Youths Companion, because of delicate health, did his work and managed his mammoth business from a little room in his home in one of the beautiful parks of Boston. When loving hands cleared the plain but convenient desk, there was found, in a conspicuous place, much worn with frequent handling, the following poem. If the author had intended to describe Mr. Ford's daily words and actions, she could not have done so in more appropriate language.

The bread that bringeth strength I want to give,
The water pure that bids the thirsty live:
I want to help the fainting day by day;
I'm sure I shall not pass again this way.
I want to give the oil of joy for tears,
The faith to conquer crowding doubts and fears.
Beauty for ashes may I give alway:
I'm sure I shall not pass again this way.
I want to give good measure running o'er,
And into angry hearts I want to pour
The answer soft that turneth wrath away;
I'm sure I shall not pass again this way.
I want to give to others hope and faith,
I want to do all that the Master saith;
I want to live aright from day to day;
I'm sure I shall not pass again this way.

Ellen H. Underwood.

YOUR MISSION (This was President Lincoln's favorite song, one which he encored when sung at a Sunday School convention in Washington in 1804.)

If you cannot on the ocean

Sail among the swiftest fleet
Rocking on the highest billows,

Laughing at the storms you meet,
You can stand among the sailors,

Anchored yet within the bay.
You can lend a hand to help them

As they launch their boats away.

If you are too weak to journey

Up the mountain, steep and high,
You can stand within the valley

While the multitudes go by:
You can chant in happy measure

As they slowly pass along-
Though they may forget the singer.

They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver

Ever ready at command:
If you cannot toward the needy

Reach an ever-helping hand,
You can succor the afflicted,

O'er the erring you can weep;
With the Saviour's true disciples

You a tireless watch may keep.
If you cannot in the harvest

Garner up the richest sheaves,
Many a grain, both ripe and golden,

Oft the careless reaper leaves;

Go and glean among the briers

Growing rank against the wall
For it may be that their shadow

Hides the heaviest wheat of all.

If you cannot in the conflict

Prove yourself a soldier true,
If where fire and smoke are thickest

There's no work for you to do,
When the battlefield is silent,

You can go with careful tread-
You can bear away the wounded,

You can cover up the dead.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting

For some greater work to do;
Fortune is a lazy goddess-

She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard;

Do not fear to do or dare-
If you want a field of labor
You can find it anywhere.

Mrs. Ellen M. H. Gates.


Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do that day which must be done, whether you like it or not. Being forced to work, and forced to do your best, will breed in you temperance and self-control, diligence and strength of will, cheerfulness and content, and a hundred virtues which the idle never know.

Charles Kingsley.

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