An' I couldn't help reflectin'-"He is steady like, an' cooi, An' that wheel may be a folly, but it didn't bring a fool."

III.

I was on my stoop a-restin', on a hazy autumn day,

Rather drowsy from a dinner that had just been stowed away, An' regrettin'-when old Baker's an' my homestead jined

in one,

That he wasn't to furnish daughter, an' I wasn't to furnish

son,

So's to have my name continued, 'stead of lettin' it go down, When Josiah Baker junior came a drivin' home from town. An' a little ways behind him came that wheel scamp, ridin' hard,

An' they both to once alighted, an' come walkin' through the yard;

When, as fate was bound to have it, also came my daughter

Belle,

From a visit in some neighbor's, lookin' very sweet and well; An' they stood there all together,—that 'ere strange, dissimilar three,

An' remained in one position-lookin' steady down at me.
Then Josiah spoke up loudly, in a kind o' sudden pet,
"If this gal an' I's to marry, it is time the day was set;
For this one-wheel feller's always round here courtin', on

the fly,

An' they say she rides out with him, in the night-time, on the sly.

Father'll give us board an' victuals, you can give her land an' dower,

Wherefore, if she wants to have me, please to set the day an' hour."

Then the wheel scamp spoke up quiet, but as if the words

he meant,

"I would like to wed your daughter, an' have come for your

consent.

She is very dear to me, sir, when we walk or when we ride, And, I think, is not unwilling to become my cherished bride. I can give her love and honor, and I ask of you no dower; Wherefore, please bestow your blessing; we have set the day and hour."

Then I might have told my daughter that she now could have the floor,

An' remarked that on this question there should be just one speech more;

But I rendered my decision in a flame of righteous rage,
An' I shouted, "You'd no business for to court or to engage!
This 'ere gal has long been spoke for; an' you'll please to
clamber on

Your old hind-wheel of a buggy, an' forevermore be gone!"

Then he picked up Belle quite sudden, an' made swiftly for the gate,

An' I formed a move to stop 'em, but was most perplexin'

late;

He had fixed a small side-saddle on his everlastin' wheel, So that she could ride behind him (clingin' round him a good deal);

An' straight down the Beebe turnpike, like a pair o' birds they flew

Towards a preacher's who had married almost every one he

knew.

"Stop 'em! head 'em! chase 'em! catch 'em!" I commanded, very vexed;

"They'll be hustlin' off our daughters on a streak o' lightnin', next!"

An' we took Josiah's wagon, an' his old gray spavined mare, An' proceeded for to chase 'em, with no extra time to spare; An' Josiah whipped an' shouted, it was such a dismal pinch, An' kept just so far behind 'em, but we couldn't gain an inch!

Down the turnpike road we rattled; an' some fellows loudly cried,

"Go it, Baker, or you'll lose her! ten to one upon the bride!" An' I fumed an' yelled an' whistled, an' commanded them

to halt,

An' the fact we couldn't catch 'em wasn't Josiah Baker's

fault;

But he murmured, "I am makin' father's mare into a wreck, Just to see my gal a-huggin' round another feller's neck!”

An' they rushed into that preacher's maybe twenty rods

ahead,

An' before I reached the altar all their marriage-vows was said;

An' I smashed in wildly, just as they was lettin' go o' han's, An' remarked, in tones of sternness, "I hereby forbid the banns!"

While Josiah Baker junior close behind me meekly came, Sayin', "Were my father present, he would doubtless do the same!"

But they turned to me a-smilin', an' she hangin' on his arm, An' he said, "I beg your pardon; let Josiah have the farm. We've accomplished the sweet object for which we so long have striven,

And, as usual in such cases, are prepared to be forgiven." An' the whole thing seemed so funny, when I thought of it

awhile,

That I looked 'em both all over, an' then blessed 'em with a smile.

Then Josiah Baker junior took his spavined mare for home, An' 'twas difficult decidin' which indulged the most in foam; An' he said, "I'll drive alone, sir, if the same you do not mind;

An' your son an' daughter Wheeler maybe'll take you up behind."

An' he yelled, while disappearin', with a large smile on his mouth,

"I kin git a gal whose father jines my father on the south!"

IV.

I was workin' in my wood-house on a snowy winter day,
An' reflectin' on a letter that had lately come our way,
How that Belle had every blessin' that a married gal could
need,

An' had bought her two twin daughters a small-sized velocipede,

When the thought came stealin' through me, "Well, so far

as I can see,

In the line of love an' lovin', what's to be is apt to be."

SUNSET.-DWIGHT WILLIAMS.

The golden gates of day in quiet close

After the king has passed, and fold on fold
His crimson banners are together rolled,

And laid away. The valley of repose
Is hid to which the stately monarch goes;

He spreads his couch beyond the mountains old,
Wrapped in the drapery of living gold,

And leaves the night to us, which darker grows.
At such a time, how beauty as a queen
Lingers among the arches of the west,
And nations look enchanted on the scene

And praise the vesper star upon her breast;
Age seeks its pillow, childhood falls asleep—
Hush! hush, O world! a night-long silence keep.

LIFE'S JOURNEY.-ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

As we speed out of youth's sunny station
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms-
And sinks into tunnels of night.

And the hearts that were brave in the morning
Are filled with repining and fears,
As they pause at the City of Sorrow
Or pass through the Valley of Tears.
But the path for this perilous railway,
The Hand of the Master has made,
With all its discomforts and dangers,
We need not be sad or afraid.
Roads leading from dark into darkness;
Roads plunging from gloom to despair,
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight
To fields that are blooming and fair.

Tho' the rocks and their shadows surround us,
Tho' we catch not one gleam of the day,
Above us fair cities are laughing-

And dipping white feet in some bay;

And always, eternal, forever,

Down over the hills in the west, The last final end of our jarney,

There lies the great Station of Rest.

"Tis the grand central point of all railways
All roads cluster here where they end,
"Tis the final resort of all tourists,

All rival lines meet here, and blend;
All tickets, or mile-books, or passes,
If stolen, or begged for, or bought,
On whatever road or division,

Will bring you at last to this spot.
If you pause at the City of Trouble,
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward,
And sweep down the track of the years.
Wherever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your aim or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing
To the beautiful Station of Rest.

THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.-RUTH COOPER.

I wish to tell in humble rhyme

A simple story, sadly true,

And hearts inured to woe will say,

Your story is not strange or new.

And you with homes of peace and love,
Secure from rum's most awful blight,
I wonder that you feel for me

The pity that you show to-night.

You have not met the look of scorn

When your faint heart was sick within, While cruel taunts were at you hurled, Who sought to save your own from sin.

But I, I am a drunkard's wife;

I feel the wrong, I bear the blow;
On my poor trembling heart is laid
The burdens of another's woe,-

Another's, whose fond love was pledged
To shield me from the storms of life.
Alas! two blissful years alone,
Was I a cherished, happy wife.

Two years, enough to make the pain,
The bitter pain, more hard to bear,

The night of sorrow more intense
Because the morning was so fair.

Together, we a home had built;

'Twas not a mansion grandly fair; But love and trust with hovering wing, Sweet birds of heaven, had lighted there.

The happy, happy days flew by,

With brighter, happier days to come,— Oh, rest and joy! Oh, heart's content! Oh, heaven below, thy name is home!

Such riches mine? Yes, they were mine,That blissful home; that dear retreat; And yet, to-night, I've not a spot

On which to rest my weary feet.