THE OLD HOUSE ON THE HILLSIDE.

H. ELLIOTT MC BRIDE.

To-night the scenes of boyhood years come thronging to my gaze;

The firelight's ruddy glow recalls the happy golden days.
I see the school-house in the vale, the rippling brook below,
The village church within the grove, as in the long ago;

The house upon the hillside green, where I so often played;
The swinging vine, the mossy bank, the shady rurai glade.
I see the ancient chestnut tree, the walnut in the lane,
The meadows green, the orchard slope, the fields of waving
grain.

I see the sun go down again behind yon rugged hill;

I hear the rumbling tick-tack sound come up from Harley's mill.

The night-hawk flies athwart the sky, and sweeping down

the vale,

I hear him voice, as years ago, his sad and solemn wail.

The katydids have tuned their harps-the night is coming on;
The sunlight lingered on yon tree, but now 'tis faded-gone;
The shadows deepen in the wood, the hillside trees enclose,
And silently all nature sinks into a calm repose.

I see again that old brown house, its weather-beaten door,
The window facing to the east, the sunlight on the floor.
I see the tall, old-fashioned clock that all the sunny day
So slowly swung its pendulum, and ticked the hours away.
I see my mother's "corner" now, beside the cheerful fire,
And there's the book from which I sought some knowledge
to acquire.

My mother! ah, she's gone unto the Father's house on high,
The mansion of the faithful ones, the home beyond the sky.

Again it is the Sabbath morn, and down unto my ear
Is borne the church-bell's solemn call, so sweetly sad and

clear;

My little Bible in my hand, the summons I obey,
And up the quiet country road I hasten on my way.

I see the school-house, quaint and old, that nestled in the

vale;

The long, low seats, the teacher's desk, the dinted water-pail.

I see the master, kind old man, so ready to advise;
He seemed a father and a friend, although so stern and wise.

And when the snows of winter came, and ice was on the hill, The boys around were gathered there, although the air was chill.

With sleds in tow, they sought "the slide" so high, so smooth and steep,

And then, with merry shouts of joy, adown the hill they'd sweep.

Away across the meadow-land, beyond the rumbling mill,
There was a pretty rural glade, so quiet, cool and still;
The hillside boys would gather there upon a summer day,
And in debate and speech and song would while the hours

away.

The hillside house has passed away,-the trees, the vines, the lane,

All, all are gone, forever gone; I seek them now in vain. With saddened heart I view the spot, the spot so dear to me, When life was one long summer day, so joyous, bright and free. -Golden Days.

Imparting in its glad embrace
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace. J. G. Whittier.

For on her cheeks the glow is spread

That tints the morning hills with red. Bryant.

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free-
Such sweet neglect much taketh me.

Ben. Jonson.

Doth more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick.

One fleeting moment of delight
I sunned me in her cheering sight,

Joanna Baillie.

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.
Allen Cunningham.

As if the soul that moment caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.

Thomas Moore.

But, oh, the change! the winds grow high,
Impending tempests charge the sky;

Matthew Prior.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;

Sir Walter Raleigh.

But when awhile the wanton maid
With my restless heart had played;

Then high she held her comely head,
"I cannot heed it now," she said.

Cowley.

Jean Ing low.

"I loved thee once, I'll love no more;
Thou art not what thou wast before."

Sir Robert Ayton.

A heart that stirs is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight is hard to blind.

Charles Lamb.

Ye know where morn exultant springs,
And evening folds her drooping wings.

Thomas Hilhouse.

The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Has lost its charm by being caught. Byron

A GRAIN OF TRUTH.-GEORGE M. VICKERS.
The luxury derived in doing good

Is oft the only recompense men get
For kindly deeds; e'en toil of years is paid
Too oft with ingrate acts, and motives pure
As angel thoughts are powerless to stay
Suspicion's tongue: but, oh, 'tis sweet to know
Our duty has been done 'twixt man and man,
To feel we have been loyal to ourselves;
To know one voice at least proclaims us true,~
The whispered voice of God, within our hearts'

JIM: A HERO.-ROBERT OVERTON.*

A CURATE'S STORY.

I started from home one Sunday evening, uncertain on what subject to preach that night to the congregation I was to address. The winter had not yet passed, and the wind blew cold and keen. The doors of churches and chapels were already open, but none save well-dressed people were entering. I passed a large Fine-Art Museum, which on week-days was crowded with bona-fide working men and their families, but being Sunday it was now, of course, shut up; while the gin-palaces, being, equally of course, open, were doing a roaring trade. I could see through the bright windows of these gaudy hell-traps, fashionably-attired men, young and old, intelligent mechanics, ragged beggar-men. I could see women-dare I call them such ?--with evil eyes made bright, and painted cheeks made hot, with the light and warmth of wine.

What goodly souls, in very truth, are wrecked amid the dangers of this wicked London life! And suddenly I thought to myself, "I will speak to the people to-night about the Life of Christ; I will preach to-night of the Perfect Life."

I felt strangely dejected as I thought of the terrible distance which separates us all from that truly "higher life;" when I thought how far short fall the best of lives when compared with the life of him who lived not for himself. These mournful thoughts were still with me as I ascended the pulpit. The parish where my church was situated was a very poor one, but not so the congregation. Poor people have been frightened away from religion by its intense respectability. So, as I gazed around my dear brethren," everybody was looking comfortable and self-satisfied. When we knelt for the

*A very superior prose reading by Mr. Overton, entitled "The Three Parsons," will be found in No. 25 of this Series "Me and Bill," (on which is founded the author's popular nautical drama, “Hearts of Oak,") is in No. 26, and "Turning the Points," in No. 27. Each of these presents a peculiar blending of quaint bumor, strong pathos and stirring dramatic effect.

General Confession, there was quite a loud rustling of silk and satin from the female " dearly beloved" behind me, and they said they were miserable sinners so sweetly and so nicely. There were no nasty, dirty laboring men present; oh, no!-no threadbare coats, no tattered dresses. But stay, I am saying too much; for just as I was about to announce my text I saw in a draughty seat near the porch a live London arab,—a boy in rags and tatters, a boy with thin, pale, dirty face and dirty hands, with wild unkempt hair and nervous, restless eyes. How he came there I know not, save that God sent him.

Passionately in earnest did I feel that night, full was my heart, and involuntary were the tears which flooded my eyes, as we went through the scenes of the one Life of absolute unselfishness.

Turning over my diary I see almost the very words I used as I brought my sermon to a close; will you forgive me, if I reproduce them here?

"Have I moved one single soul here to live in future above self, nearer to the life we have studied? Have I inspired one heart with the resolution, in however humble and quiet a sphere, to emulate the great example; or even to accomplish, if God see fit to give the opportunity, some high and holy deed-some great, grand act of heroism which shall elevate the life-history of him who achieves it closer to the sublime life on earth of the Hero of heroes, the Man of men?"

A loud rustle of clothes followed the last word; it was the congregation "waking up from the sermon." I did not think I had reached the heart of one man or woman there.

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Before leaving the church I made inquiries of the pew opener" as to the ragged boy I had noticed; I only discovered that he was at present a crossing-sweeper, and that he said his name was Jim.

"Fire! fire!" Loud through the deserted midnight streets rang the sudden alarm.

"Fire! fire! fire!"-and past the vicarage house dashed the engine. I threw a cape over my shoulders