With the years there came a wedding-
How your fond heart swelled with pride
When the lord of all the county

Chose your baby for his bride!
Watch that stately carriage coming,
And the form reclining there-
Would you think that brilliant lady
Could be our own little Clare?
Then the last, a blue-eyed youngster-
I can hear him prattling now-
Such a strong and sturdy fellow,

With his broad and honest brow.
How he used to love his mother!
Ah! I see your trembling lip:
He is far off on the water,
Captain of a royal ship.

See the bronze upon his forehead,
Hear the voice of stern command-
That's the boy who clung so fondly
To his mother's gentle hand!

Ah! my wife, we've lost the babies,
Ours so long and ours alone;

Now transformed to these great people,-
Stately men and woman grown.
Seldom do we even see them;
Yes, a bitter tear-drop starts,
And we sit here in the firelight,
Lonely hearth and lonely hearts.
All their lives seem full without us;
They'll stop long enough one day
Just to lay us in the churchyard,-
Then they'll each go on their way.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.-JANE TAYLOR,

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er,
In the depth of his cell with his stone-covered floor,
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,

Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain,
But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers
We know not; indeed, 'tis no business of ours.
Perhaps it was only by patience and care,
At last, that he brought his invention to bear.
In youth 'twas projected, but years stole away,
And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;
But success is secure, unless energy fails;

And at length he produced THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.

"What were they?" you ask. You shall presently see;
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea;
Oh, no; for such properties wondrous had they,
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,
Together with articles, small or immense,

From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.
Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,
And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,
And naught so reluctant but in it must go:
All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.
As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf,
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,

With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown,
The hero rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of almshouses, amply endowed

By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,

Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest;
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,
And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

Again, he performed an experiment rare;

A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare,
Climbed into his scale; in the other was laid
The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed;

When he found, with surprise, that the whole of his brother
Weighed less, by some pounds, than this bit of the other.

By further experiments (no matter how),

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plow;
A sword with gilt trappings rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail;
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,
Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear;
A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,
Ten counselors' wigs, full of powder and curl,

All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence,
Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense:
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,
Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;

Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice
One pearl to outweigh―'twas THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE.

Last of all the whole world was bowled in at the grate
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff,
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!
When balanced in air it ascended on high,
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell,
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

MORAL.

Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails,
We pray you to try The Philosopher's Scales:
But if they are lost in the ruins around,
Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found :-
Let judgment and conscience in circles be cut,

To which strings of thought may be carefully put:

Let these be made even with caution extreme,

And impartiality use for a beam:

Then bring those good actions which pride overrates,
And tear up your motives to serve for the weights.

THE UNPAID SEAMSTRESS.-A NOTE OF WARNING. "Error is wrought by want of thought, As well as of the heart."

She was but an average American girl. But on this last day of girlhood, when her face beamed with love and her tears and smiles seemed frolicking with each other, she was very pretty and sweet.

The house was full of kinsfolk, and bustle and merriment and life-long mates, who came with good wishes, good byes and bridal gifts.

And on that morning came a lone woman; thin and pale, weary and worn she was. Very quietly she lay down her heavy bundle.

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I could not leave Mamie, last night, to bring them," she said gently.

"Oh, I knew you'd come; you never disappoint anybody," said the happy girl opening the bundle. "How beautifully you have made them! Kate, Louise, see how nicely Mrs. Allen sews."

"I speak for your needle when I get married!" cried one.

LLLL

"And I!" laughed the other.

Mrs. Allen heeded not, scarcely heard. All about her brought back so vividly the little while ago when she too stood between the old life and the new, and her whole soul quivered with happiness; when she too leaned, with a full love and trust, on one-good, kind, and true. Then she heard that shrill whistle of the proud locomotive; saw it bound down the deep, dark gorge; heard those shrieks and moans and groans. Then she thought of that grave, flower-covered now, where, with a breaking heart, she had laid that broken body, thanking God her own beloved would suffer no more, and thence came forth to suffer alone. Then came a sweet thought of that dear little girl who, in that hour of bitter sorrow, was her joy; for whom she lived on then, and for whom (since in the panic, her means had all been lost) she had labored. As thoughts of her-her stimulant, her idol, her all -came upon her, she roused herself to hear:

"I am very much pleased with your work, Mrs. Allen, and I am sorry, but, really, money slips through one's fingers so at such a time, I haven't any to pay you. Come around to-morrow, and mother will pay you, and give you some flowers and goodies for Mamie."

In a dazed way, Mrs. Allen, half sick and heart-sick, turned to go, but could not, and said falteringly :

"Mamie is sick, and I did hope to get something for her." "It is too bad! Please go into the store and ask father to pay you. Tell him I sent you."

Mrs. Allen went to the store and asked for the father. He was not in; no one knew where he was. With a slow step, for the heavy heart she took back weighed her down more than the bundle she brought out, she turned to her home. Bewildered by her hopelessness and need of food, life seemed a burden she could bear no longer, and as she crossed her threshold she sank down. But a sweet voice called:

"Mamma, dear mamma, what have you brought me to eat?" Love winged her tired feet and she went to a neighbor near,—one who had always been kind to and thoughtful for her. She had never begged, and now she would but borrow. The neighbor had gone to get a present for the bride. She went down to the road, looked up and down, then deliber

ately turned back, asked for pencil and paper and wrote it all. The neighbor came in late. It had not been easy to find anything the like of which had not been selected by some one; the teapot was smoking and she was chilled, and the family impatient. So tea was over and toilets commenced as quickly as possible.

The church and the home were dressed with flowers; the bride never looked so well; the presents were a very medley of rich and simple, useful and useless, delicate and common, but by their number a flattery and a charm. And life and light and joy was in all and over all.

The morning of so bright a night found all the town weary and duli and lazy. Over late breakfasts they reviewed the last evening. Half-envious criticisms of dress, sarcastic imitation of manners, just and unjust, took the place of the honeyed praises and sweet smiles of the last night.

And the heavens, too, were changed. Where shone the crescent moon and the brilliant stars now were cloud masses charged with snow. Slowly and calmly the storm com. menced, heavy and thick it grew. The fierce wind came up and caught the little flakes and hurled them and whirled them about. All the day long, all the night long, earth and air and sky were snow; and nought could be heard but the howling winds.

Much of the dull day and all the night the neighbor had slept, and with bright eyes and rested body, looked out on the clear, broad, unbroken expanse-pure, clean, white, and dazzling in the sunbeams,-looked across to Mrs. Allen's cottage, and at breakfast said to her husband:

"As soon as the snow-ploughs have been along, I wish you would send John over to dig Mrs. Allen's path."

"Certainly, certainly. No woman could dig through this snow."

"She just looked sick-a-bed when she was afther writin' her letter to yez," spoke the girl.

"Writing a letter to me! When?"

"When ye's afther buyin' yer prisent."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Faith, ma'am, I put it on the rack, where ye's always tells me to."

"Go get it."