But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence,
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley,
Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley-
Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the Valley like Virgins,
Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar between mountains,

And God and His angels are there;
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer'

FATHER RYAN.

THIS SIDE AND THAT.

HE rich man sat in his father's seat

THE

Purple an' linen, an' a' thing fine!
The puir man lay at his gate i' the street,
Sairs an' tatters, an' weary pine!

To the rich man's table ilk dainty comes;
Mony a morsel gaed frae't, or fell;

The puir man fain wad hae dined on the crumbs,
But whether he got them I canna tell.

Servants prood, saft-fitit an' stoot,

Stan' by the rich man's curtained doors;
Maisterless dogs 'at rin aboot

Cam to the puir man an' lickit his sores.

The rich man deed, an' they buried him gran';
In linen fine his body they wrap;

But the angels tuik up the beggar-man,
An' laid him doon in Abraham's lap.

The guid upo' this side, the ill upo' that—
Sic was the rich man's waesome fa';

But his brithers they eat, an' they drink, an' they chat,

An' care na a strae for their father ha'.

The trowth's the trowth, think what ye will;
Ah! some they kenna what they wad be at;
But the beggar-man thought he did no that ill;
Wi' the dogs o' this side, the angels o' that.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE WONDERS OF GENEALOGY.

"THE

HE child is father to the man." Hence the child would be paternal grandfather to the man's child. But the latter child being also father to the man, would be, therefore his own paternal grandfather. Hence this latter child would have two paternal grandfathers, both children, of which he himself was one. Now, this rule being universal, the other child would likewise be his own grandfather, and hence great-great-grandfather to the before-mentioned child. But these two children

were each father to the man—a state of affairs which can be accounted for only on the ground that one of them was a step father. That is, they both married the same wife. It is presumable that the one who was great-great-grandfather of the other married her first, for if not, the other would have married one of his direct females ancestors before she was married. This borders on the improbable. It is, then, only left to assume that the child married his great-great-grandmother, after the death of his great-greatgrandfather. This brings us to the startling conclusion that the child is step-great-great-grandfather to himself. So was it when the world began? If so, this is a convincing argument on the side of evolution.-Yale Record.

MY

In faith, and hope, and charity;
For I have written the things I see,
The things that have been and shall be,
Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong;
Because I am in love with Love,
And the sole thing I hate is Hate;
For Hate is death; and Love is life,
A peace, a splendor from above;
And Hate a never-ending strife,
A smoke, a blackness from the abyss
Where unclean serpents coil and hiss!
Love is the Holy Ghost within ·
Hate the unpardonable sin!
Who preaches otherwise than this
Betrays his Master with a kiss.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

9:

K

NO KISS.

ISS me, Will," sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,

Holding up her dainty mouth,

Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made-
“I'm too old—I don't kiss girls."

Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,

Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?”

'Rite is seventeen to-day,

With her birthday ring she toys

For a moment, then replies:

"I'm too old—I don't kiss boys."

THE LISPING LOVER.

H! thtay one moment, love implorth,
Ere yet we break thith happy thpell!
For to the thoul my thoul adorth
It ith tho hard to thay farewell.

And yet how thad to be tho weak,
To think forever, night or day.
The thententheth my heart would thpeak
Thethe lipth can never truly thay.

How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel,
With nervouthneth my blith to mar,
And dream each moment that I feel
The boot-toe of thy thtern papa.

Or yet to fanthy that I hear

A thudden order to decamp, Ath dithagreeably thevere

Ath-"Get out, you infernal thcamp!"

Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee,

To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth, Though any moment I may be

Turning a thomerthet down the thtairth!