'Clear out!" ejaculated the young man, between his teeth in a savage tone; and, as the boy cleared out, he turned to his sweetheart for the continuation of her answer.

“As lasting as eternity! I have always cared more for you than for anybody else. All our folks think you are just splen did; and mother says you are as good as

"Pop corn-fresh this morning!"

The young man arose hastily and lifted the boy several seats down the aisle, and the girl fell to crying in her handkerchief. The young man resumed his seat, and sat in a moody silence until the train stopped at his station, when in company with the young lady, he alighted; while the boy went on with his business, in utter ignorance of the fact that he had, perhaps, broken up a most interesting and happy courtship.

LITTLE NELLIE IN THE PRISON.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

The eyes of a child are sweeter than any hymn we have sung,
And wiser than any sermon is the lisp of a childish tongue!
Hugh Falcon learned this happy truth one day;
('Twas a fair noontide in the month of May)—
When, as the chaplain of the convicts' jail,
He passed its glowering archway, sad and pale,
Bearing his tender daughter on his arm.
A five years' darling she! The dewy charm
Of Eden star-dawns glistened in her eyes,
Her dimpled cheeks were rich with sunny dyes.

"Papa!" the child that morn, while still abed,
Drawing him close toward her, shyly said:
"Papa! oh, wont you let your Nellie

go

To see those naughty men that plague you so,
Down in the ugly prison by the wood?
Papa, I'll beg and pray them to be good."

"What, you, my child?" he said, with half a sigh.
"Why not, papa? I'll beg them so to try."

The chaplain, with a father's gentlest grace,
Kissed the small ruffled brow, the pleading face;

"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings still,
Praise is perfected," thought he; thus his will
Blended with hers, and through those gates of sin,
Black even at noontide, sire and child passed in.

Fancy the foulness of the sulphurous lake,
Wherefrom a lily's snow-white leaves should break,
Flushed by the shadow of an unseen rose!
So, at the iron gate's loud clang and close,
Shone the drear twilight of that place defiled,
Touched by the flower-like sweetness of the child!

O'er many a dismal vault, and stony floor,
The chaplain walked from ponderous door to door.
Till now beneath a stair-way's dizzy flight
He stood, and looked up the far-circling height;
But risen of late from fever's torture-bed,

How could he trust his faltering limbs and head?

Just then, he saw, next to the mildewed wall,
A man in prisoner's raiment, gaunt and tall,
Of sullen aspect, and wan, downcast face,
Gloomed in the midnight of some deep disgrace;
He shrank as one who yearned to fade away,
Like a vague shadow on the stone-work gray,
Or die beyond it, like a viewless wind;
His seemed a spirit faithless, passionless, blind
To all fair hopes which light the hearts of men,-
A dull, dead soul, never to wake again!

The chaplain paused, half doubting what to do,
When little Nellie raised her eyes of blue,
And, nowise daunted by the downward stir
Of shaggy brows that glowered askance at her,
Said, putting by her wealth of sunny hair,-
“Sir, will you kindly take me up the stair?
Papa is tired, and I'm too small to climb.”
Frankly her eyes in his gazed all the time,
And something to her childhood's instinct known
So worked within her, that her arms were thrown
About his neck. She left her sire's embrace
Near that sad convict heart to take her place,
Sparkling and trustful!-more she did not speak;
But her quick fingers patted his swart cheek
Caressingly,-in time to some old tune

Hummed by her nurse, in summer's drowsy noon i

Perforce he turned his wild, uncertain gaze

Down on the child! Then stole a tremulous haze
Across his eyes, but rounded not to tears;
Wherethrough he saw faint glimmerings of lost years
And perished loves! A cabin by a rill

Rose through the twilight on a happy hill;
And there were lithe child-figures at their play
That flashed and faded in the dusky ray;
And near the porch a gracious wife who smiled,
Pure as young Eve in Eden, unbeguiled!

Subdued, yet thrilled, 'twas beautiful to see
With what deep reverence, and how tenderly,
He clasped the infant frame so slight and fair,
And safely bore her up the darkening stair!
The landing reached, in her arch, childish ease,
Our Nellie clasped his neck and whispered:
"Please,

Wont you be good, sir? For I like you so,
And you are such a big, strong man, you know~"
With pleading eyes, her sweet face sidewise set.
Then suddenly his furrowed cheek grew wet
With sacred tears-in whose divine eclipse
Upon her nestling head he pressed his lips
As softly as a dreamy west-wind's sigh,-
What time a something, undefined but high,
As 'twere a new soul, struggled to the dawn

Through his raised eyelids. Thence, the gloom withdrawn
Of brooding vengeance and unholy pain,

He felt no more the captive's galling chain;

But only knew a little child had come

To smite despair, his taunting demon, dumb;

A child whose marvelous innocence enticed

All white thoughts back, that from the heart of Christ
Fly dove-like earthward, past our clouded ken,
Child-like to bless, or lives of child-like men!

Thus he went his way,

An altered man from that thrice blessed day;
His soul turned ever to the soft refrain

Of words once uttered in a sacred fane:

"The little children, let them come to me;
Of such as these my realm of heaven must be;"
But most he loved of one dear child to tell,

The child whose trust had saved him, tender Nell!

WHAT TIME IS IT?

What time is it?

Time to do well;

Time to live better;
Give up that grudge;
Answer that letter;

Speak that kind word, to sweeten a sorrow;
Do that good deed you would leave till to-morrow.
Time to try hard

In that new situation;
Time to build up on

A solid foundation.

Giving up needlessly changing and drifting;
Leaving the quicksands that ever are shifting.

What time is it?

Time to be thrifty;

Farmers take warning-
Plough in the springtime;
Sow in the morning;

Spring rain is coming, zephyrs are blowing;
Heaven will attend to the quickening and growing
Time to count cost;

Lessen expenses;

Time to look well

To the gates and the fences:

Making and mending, as good workers should;
Shutting out evil and keeping the good.

What time is it?

Time to be earnest,

Laying up treasure;

Time to be thoughtful,

Choosing true pleasure;

Loving stern justice—of truth being fond;
Making your word just as good as your bond.
Time to be happy,

Doing your best;
Time to be trustful,

Leaving the rest;

Knowing in whatever country or clime,
Ne'er can we call back one minute of time.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.-CHAS. H. FOWLER, D. D. LL. D.

An extract from an oration delivered at the Centennial Exposition, Philadel phia, August 29, 1876, at tae request and by the appointment of his Excellency, Hon. J. L. Beveridge, Governor of the State of Illinois.

One name from Illinois comes up in all minds, embalmed in all hearts, that must have the supreme place in this story of our glory and of our nation's honor; that name is Abraham Lincoln.

The analysis of Mr. Lincoln's character is difficult on ac count of its symmetry. Its comprehension is to us impossible on account of its immensity, for a man can be comprehended only by his peers. Though we may not get its altitude, nor measure its girth, nor fathom its depths, nor estimate its richness, we may stretch our little selves up against it, and get somewhat of the impress of its purity, the inspiration of its heroism, and the impulse of its power. It was centered about a few strong points. His moral sense, his reason, and his common sense, were the three fixed points through which the perfect circle of his character was drawn-the sacred trinity of his great manhood. Had he lacked either of these he would have failed, and we would have been buried in the ruins of the Republic. Without the first, he would have been a villain; without the second, a bigot or a fool; without the third, a fanatic or a dreamer. With them all, he was Abraham Lincoln.

He was the representative character of this age. He incarnated the ideal Republic. No other man ever so fully embodied the purposes, the affections, and the power of the people. He came up among us. He was one of us. His birth, his education, his habits, his motives, his feelings, and his ambitions, were all our own. Had he been born among hereditary aristocrats he would not have been our President. But born in the cabin, and reared in the field and in the forest, he became the Great Commoner. The classics of the schools might have polished him, but they would have separated him from us. But trained in the common school of adversity, his calloused palms never slipped from the poor man's hand. A child of the people, he was as accessible in the White House as he had been in the cabin.