The mighty Angel's final trump shall call Ye who have watched The ebbing tide of life drift further out, All that was dear of earth was shrouded up As back o'er memory's track, there distant comes Hark to The skeptic's cruel mocking whisper-" Death Thy dream of love. Here all thy severed ties That still shall slumber on to mock thy tears, And from all being lost forever!" Back! Despairing fiend! 'Tis false! Nay, come not near Thy drowsy venom creeping o'er the heart, Were worse than death. Avaunt! The shuddering soul Abhors the very thought; and, as she treads With finite step a thousand avenues That lead into the realm of mystery She grasps the infinite. Her mortal power. Look up, Thou mourner at the tomb. The dead shall live Of spring, bursts from the cold, dark ground, so shall The lonely tomb, at voice Omnipotent, To live forever. Jesus is thy hope, Thy consolation. Lo, beside thee at The weeping grave He stands and says, "I am MY LOVER.-FLORENCE M'CURDY. I stand in the doorway and wait for his coming The birds are astir and the golden bees humming, The fields are abloom with the sweet-scented clover, The drowsy, gay black bird his sweet song is singing; The cattle are lowing, the roses are blushing, THE TROLL-MAN.-CAROLINE M. HEWING A DANISH LEGEND. "Ho, skipper on the sea-shore! The voice was old and feeble; Come down from Elleshoi mound. "I have no boat, good Troll-man, "Come hither," said the Troll-man, "To-morrow night at midnight "The miller in the village "The church-bells ring so often, The little Troll-man vanished; Some laughed at him, some shuddered; At last a neighbor's lad Said, "Take me with you, skipper, And I'll fear nothing bad." At midnight boy and skipper All anchored found the wreck; "The wind is fair!" he shouted; The skipper sought the cabin; Oh, wondrous change! The skipper The wreck was swiftly nearing "Go, sailors," said the Troll-man; "At midnight come on board. "In three days more be ready Just where you found the wreck. Another cargo waits you; You'll find me on the deck." The skipper took the Troll-folk Once more to Noroway. "Now," said the little Troll-man, "You will have earned your pay." "A sack of coals for master, Of shavings for his man; These are the Troll-folk's presents; Next morning when the skipper THE STORY OF LITTLE MOSES.* EUGENE J. HALL. There was but a sparse congregation. The preacher "gave out" the opening hymn with a doleful drawl, which the choir sang to the accompaniment of a wheezy old melodeon. He then offered a characteristic prayer. The choir sang another hymn, after which he arose, advanced to the pulpit, opened the big Bible, apparently at random, glanced at it attentively for a few moments, closed it, stepped to the right and raising his eyes and touching the tips of his fingers together, he said in a husky falsetto voice: 66 6 She took for him an ark of bulrushes.' He paused for several moments, then repeated the text. He walked to the left, gazed with a stare of astonishment at his auditors for several moments and then asked: "Who was Moses?" He paused again, then repeated the question. The people present looked questioningly at each other as if each had given up the conundrum. He returned to the right of the pulpit and placing one hand upon the cushion, leaned forward as if about to take the congregation into his confidence, and said: "Moses was a che-i-ld-a little che-i-ld-little Moses -Moses." He drew a red bandanna handkerchief from his coattail pocket, wiped his mouth, laid his brilliant-colored handkerchief upon the pulpit and resumed his position at the left. Then continued: "Who was his motha? Motha-motha. Oh, what a word-Oh, what a word-motha-motha. Who was the motha of the che-i-ld-the little che-i-ld-little MosesMoses?" *This specimen of exaggerated pulpit oratory is taken from "Jacqueminot, a Romance of the Mississippi,'' by permission. Among Mr. Hall's contributions to this Series is his very popular heroic poem "Kate Shelly," to be found in No. 21. |