Number four I take up with reluctance, with a deep and inward-drawn breath,

For I dread the great outburst of sorrow, overlaid by the black bands of death;

And although I find I am weeping as I read every sobbing word o'er,

Yet it is with sweet satisfaction as I never read letter

before.

It begins how can I rehearse it, the scene when the little one died?

When "it seemed as if heaven descended, and the pearly gates were thrown wide,

And a high and holy anointing to our glorified darling was given

As she held by the hand her dear father, and begged him to meet her in heaven.

"Oh, the wonderful change in our household since that sorrowful hallowed night,

When the cold, proud, skeptical father looked down on his child, still and white;

When he who had once defied heaven, denying that God reigned above,

Was brought to believe in His goodness, through the power of infinite love!

"He who sneered at all forms of religion stood abashed at the logic and power,

The unanswerable wisdom and knowledge of a child in death's trying hour;

And he said, 'Such intelligent goodness could never have sprung from the sod-'

And now he believes in the Bible, and trusts in the one

and true God."

Number five-but why proceed farther? it's the very

same thing o'er and o'er

How a dear little hand leads or beckons to the beautiful

evergreen shore;

How the wonderful power of goodness, to innocent childhood that's given,

La designed by a merciful Father to turn us to Him and to heaven.-MRS. HARRIET WARD HODSON.

THE SOUTH WIND.

(EXTRACT FROM HIAWATHA.)

HAWONDASEE, fat and lazy,

Had his dwelling far to southward,

In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine,
In the never-ending summer.

He it was who sent the wood-birds,
Sent the robin, the Opechee,

Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa,

Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow,
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward,
Sent the melons and tobacco,

And the grapes in purple clusters.

From his pipe the smoke ascending
Filled the sky with haze and vapor,
Filled the air with dreamy softness,
Gave a twinkle to the water,

Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,
Brought the tender Indian Summer

To the melancholy north-land,

In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.

Listless, careless Shawondasee!
In his life he had one shadow,
In his heart one sorrow had he.
Once as he was gazing northward,
Far away upon a prairie

He beheld a maiden standing,
Saw a tall and slender maiden
All alone upon a prairie;

Brightest green were all her garments,
And her hair was like the sunshine.

Day by day he gazed upon her, Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him Grew more hot with love and longing For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her; Yes, too indolent and easy To pursue her and persuade her. So he only gazed upon her, Only sat and sighed with passion For the maiden of the prairie.

Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses

Changed and covered o'er with whitene
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes.
"Ah! my brother from the North-land,
From the kingdom of Wabasso,
From the land of the White Rabbit!
You have stolen the maiden from me,
You have laid your hand upon her,
You have wooed and won my maiden,
With your stories of the North-land!"

Thus the wretched Shawondasee
Breathed into the air his sorrow;
And the South-wind o'er the prairie
Wandered warm with sighs of passion,
With the sighs of Shawondasee,

Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,
Full of thistle-down the prairie,

And the maid with hair like sunshine
Vanished from his sight forever;
Nevermore did Shawondasee
See the maid with yellow tresses!

Poor, deluded Shawondasee!

"T was no woman that you gazed at,
"T was no maiden that you sighed for,
'T was the prairie dandelion

That through all the dreamy summer
You had gazed at with such longing,
You had sighed for with such passion,
And had puffed away forever,

Blown into the air with sighing.

Ah! deluded Shawondasee!

H. W. LONGFELLOW

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

TEADY, boys, steady!

STEAD

Keep your arms ready,

God only knows whom we may meet here.

Do n't let me be taken

I'd rather awaken

To-morrow in-no matter where,

Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there.

1.20

Step slowly!

Speak lowly!

The rocks may have life;
Lay me down in the hollow;
We are out of the strife.

By heaven! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood,
No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is a pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on you, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began
To whimper and cry, like a girl in her teens,
By George! I do n't know what the devil it means.
Well! well! I am rough, 't is a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!

I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;
And, boys, that you love me I certainly know.
But wasn't it grand,

When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand
But we stood-did we not ?-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock.
Did you mind the loud cry,

When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them determined to die—
Oh, wasn't it grand?

God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight;
No time was there given for prayers or for flight.
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and

sand.

Huzza!

Great heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like

a grave;

A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!