For He hears the voices that cry to Him
And near His love shall draw:

With help and comfort He waits for us,

The Light and the Life and the Law.

CELIA THAXTER.

SURELY there

JOB, XXVIII.

URELY there is a vein for the silver, and a place for gold where they fine it.

Iron is taken out of the earth, and brass is molten out of the stone.

He setteth an end to darkness, and searcheth out all perfection: the stones of darkness, and the shadow of death.

The flood breaketh out from the inhabitant; even the waters forgotten of the foot: they are dried up, they are gone away from men.

As for the earth, out of it cometh bread: and under it is turned up as it were fire.

The stones of it are the place of sapphires: and it hath dust of gold.

There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye hath not seen: The lion's whelps have not trodden it, nor the fierce lion passed by it.

He putteth forth his hand upon the rock; he overturneth the mountains by the roots.

He cutteth out rivers among the rocks; and his eye seeth every precious thing.

He bindeth the floods from overflowing; and the thing that is hid bringeth he forth to light.

But where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding?

Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found in the land of the living.

The depth saith, It is not in me: and the sea saith, It is not with me.

It cannot be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weighed for the price thereof.

It cannot be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire.

The gold and the crystal cannot equal it: and the exchange of it shall not be for jewels or fine gold.

No mention shall be made of coral, or of pearls: for the price of wisdom is above rubies.

The topaz of Ethiopia shall not equal it, neither shall it be valued with pure gold.

Whence then cometh wisdom? and where is the place of understanding?

Seeing it is hid from the eyes of all living, and kept close from the fowls of the air.

Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.

God understandeth the way thereof, and he knoweth the place thereof.

For he looketh to the ends of the earth, and seeth under the whole heaven;

To make the weight for the winds; and he weigheth the waters by measure.

When he made a decree for the rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder.

Then did he see it, and declare it; he prepared it, yea, and searched it out.

And unto man he said, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understand ing. BIBLE

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

I

upon

the hill and hear

STAND
The unseen spirits of the air
Playing, on harps of branches bare,
The dirge of the departing year.

A gray gloom veils the crescent moon
That hangs above the pine-tree's crest,
And voices full of life's unrest
Among the darkling shadows croon.

Beneath my feet the wintry sea

Moans out its sorrow to the shore For something missed forevermore That only is in memory.

It is a time for saddest thought:

The year in which dear hopes have died
Drifts outward with the ebbing tide
As drifted she of Camelot;

Drifts out into the mighty sea

From whence no breezes earthward blow; What lands are there we may not know; We only say, Eternity!

Old Year, your time has come to die!

Your hands have mingled smiles and tears, And reared, like all your kindred years, Stones by the graves where dead hopes lie. Good-bye, Old Year! The wind's low wail Is like a last, long, dying breath. The earth seems face to face with death, And shudders, frightened, sad and pale.

Hark! through the frosty air is heard
A silvery peal, and every cloud
Throws off its semblance of a shroud
And with the music's joy is stirred.
A silver blossom in the sky

The moon is, and it seems to shine
From the black branches of the pine
Where wailing winds to silence die.
As die the dirges for the dead,

As fade the clouds along the sky,
So thoughts of sorrow turn and fly
And hope uplifts again her head.
Oh, New Year, welcome! It may be
Your hands are full of gifts to crown
Our hearts with gladness, and to drown.
The voice of yearning memory.

God grant it! but come good or ill—
The joys we ask, or bitter fate—
We know God is compassionate,
And we will trust His goodness still.

EBEN E. REXFORD.

LITTLE ROCKET'S CHRISTMAS.

you

how the Christmas came

ILL tell how the Christrust

To Rocket-no, you never met him,
That is, you never knew his name,
Although 'tis possible you've let him
Display his skill upon your shoes;
A bootblack-Arab, if you choose.
Has inspiration dropped to zero
When such material makes a hero?

A father once he had, no doubt,
A mother on the Island staying,
Which left him free to knock about
And gratify a taste for straying
Through crowded streets. 'Twas there he found
Companionship and grew renowned.

An ash-box served him for a bed-
As good, at least, as Moses' rushes-
And for his daily meat and bread,

He earned them with his box and brushes.

'Twas Christmas eve, and all the day
The snow had fallen fine and fast;
In banks and drifted heaps it lay
Along the streets. A piercing blast
Blew cuttingly. The storm was past,
And now the stars looked coldly down
Upon the snow-enshrouded town.
Ah, well it is if Christmas brings
Good will and peace which poet sings!
How full are all the streets to-night
With happy faces, flushed and bright!
The matron in her silks and furs,
The pompous banker, fat and sleek,
The idle, well-fed loiterers,

The merchant trim, the churchman meek,
Forgetful now of hate and spite,
For all the world is glad to-night!
All, did I say? Ah, no, not all,
For sorrow throws on some its pall;
And here, within the broad, fair city,
The Christmas time no beauty brings
To those who plead in vain for pity,