With the years there came a wedding- Chose your baby for his bride! With his broad and honest brow. See the bronze upon his forehead, Ah! my wife, we've lost the babies, Now transformed to these great people,- THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.-JANE TAYLOR, A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er, Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain, And at length he produced THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. "What were they?" you ask. You shall presently see; From mountains or planets to atoms of sense. The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire, One time he put in Alexander the Great, With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight; A long row of almshouses, amply endowed By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed Again, he performed an experiment rare; A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, When he found, with surprise, that the whole of his brother By further experiments (no matter how), He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plow; When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale; All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence, Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice Last of all the whole world was bowled in at the grate MORAL. Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails, 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, 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. 66 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." |