I saw the whole of her trouble's trace
In the lines that marred her dear old face;
"Mother! I shouted, "your sorrows is done!
You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,
Come over the hill from the poor-house!

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,
An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.
An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,
An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;
An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,
An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,
To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,
An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;
An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,
In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,
Who often said, as I have heard,

That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;
(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,
For all of 'em owe me more or less);

But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man
In always a-doin' the best he can ;

That whether on the big book, a blot
Get's over a fellow's name or not,
Whenever he does a deed that's white,
It's credited to him fair and right.
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;
However they may settle my case,
Wherever they may fix my place,
My good old Christian mother, you'll see,
Will be sure to stand right up for me,

With over the hill from the poor-house.
WILL CARLETON.

PSALM XC.

LORD, thou hast been our dwelling place in all gen

erations. Before the mountains were brought

forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.

Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a a watch in the night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth.

For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are we troubled. Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

Who knoweth the power of thine anger? even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath. So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

Return, O LORD, how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants. O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days. Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto thy children. And let the beauty of the

LORD our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.

PEACE IN GOD.

BIBLE

"Let my soul calm itself in Thee: I say, let the great sea of my soul, tha swelleth with waves, calm itself in Thee."-St. Augustine.

L

IFE'S mystery-deep, restless as the ocean—
Hath surged and rolled for ages, to and fro;
Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion,
As in and out its hollow moanings flow;
Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea,
Let my soul calm itself, Oh Christ, in Thee!

Life's sorrows, with inexorable power,
Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain,
And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff
Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain.
Oh, when before that blast my hopes all flee,
Let my soul calm itself, Oh Christ, in Thee!

Between the mysteries of life and death

Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining. We ask, and Thou art silent; but we gaze,

And our charmed hearts forget their drear com plaining

No crushing fate; no stony destiny

Thou Lamb that hast been slain, we rest in Thee.

The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,

The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands,

From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores,

Whose echo dashes on life's wave-worn strand; This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea

Grows calm, grows bright, Oh risen Lord, in Thee.

Thy pierced hand guides the mysterious w.eels,

Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of

power;

And when the dark enigma presseth sore

Thy patient voice saith: "Watch with me one hour." As sinks the moaning revel in the sea,

In silent peace, so sinks my soul in Thee.

MRS. H. B. STOWE.

I

BEECHER ON EGGS.

NEVER come upon a nest of eggs, secreted by the

hen most conscientiously, and unknown to the most searching housekeeper, without a sense of boyish delight, which would bring down on me the reproving looks and grave admonitions from all who have an awful sense of the proper dignity of ministers. But I have no doubt soda and acids come together with the very best of resolutions. They are determined to restrain themselves and not foam over. Yet the very first drop of water sets them off, and they make bubbles and throw them in each other's face at a furious rate, in spite of the efforts at self government. Now what is to be done about it? Were they not made so? And are not some people made so as to effervesce easily? Why they were made so is a question that should be addressed to another quarter. Wl, I was saying that the discovery of hidden eggs was always an excitement, and there have been times

when the excitement was prolonged and extreme. It chanced in this wise, and in the goodly State of Indiana.

No more neat, careful, exact, and scrupulous housekeeper ever was seen in the Hoosier State than our fair landlady, who had us in special charge during the absence of our proper head and queen, who sought health on the seaboard. An old-fashioned barn there was, huge in the middle, with a variety of sheds, lean-tos, stables, and carriage houses projecting on every side of it, as if the barn had settled a family of little barns all around. it. It was a family barn, beloved of hens and boys. For in its roomy interior and in the passages, bins, nooks and corners, all sorts of frolics might be carried on; while an occasional "peak" at the cracks would keep them informed when the old man was coming.

But hens, who have a secretive tendency, a modesty of the nest, find their paradise in such a voluminous barn. Here they may lay in silence, and proclaim it in vociferous cackle, bringing down the whole barnyard in chorus, and waking echoes in the neighboring hen yards; and yet the searcher finds nothing!

"That pesky hen! she lays every day, and yet we are none the better for her eggs. I wonder where she hides! If Harry was half as smart as his father, I know that he could find that nest."

Again and again came the exultant cackle, and again and again we were without custards?

And so, one mellow autumn day, we wandered through the garden and strolled into the barn. It was not so full but that it had the sense of great space. It was festooned with cobwebs, and had all the tribes of spiders that hide in half lights We climbed the beams, we jumped down from far up on the hay, and finally, after sundry amusements, lay down by the side where the shrunk boards