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He's such a baby ho forgets,
And we are both such players;—

And there's a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,

For Harry rolls when he's asleep:
Oh dear! I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy; people passed

All muffled, homeward faring:
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"

I said at Jast despairing.
I tied a kerchief round her neck—

"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why, don't you know 'I" she smiling, said,

And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name;

My eyes astonished met it; "For," said the little one, " you see

I might sometimes forget it: And so I wear a little thing

That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure

I should get lost without it."


Through the weary day on his couch he lay,
With the life tide ebbing slowly away,
And the dew on his cold brow gathering fast,
As the pendulum numbered moments passed.
And I heard a sad voice whispering say,
"When the tide goes out he will pass away.
Pray for a soul's serene release!
That the weary spirit may rest in peace,
When the tide goes out."

When the tide goes out from the sea-girt lands,
It bears strange freight from the gleaming sands:
The white-winged ships that silent wait
For the foaming wave, and a wind that's late;
The treasures cast on a rocky shore,
From the stranded ships that shall sail no more:
And hopes that follow the shining seas,
Oh! the ocean shall win all these
When the tide goes out.

But of nil that drift from the shore to the sea,
Is the human soul to Eternity
Floating away from a silent shore,

For our parting spirit pray, oh! pray,
While the tide of life is ebbing away,
That the soul may pass o'er sunnier seas
Than clasped of old the Hesperides.
A bark whose sails by angel hands
Shall be furled on a strand of golden sands:
And the friends that stand on a silent shore
Knowing that we shall return no more,
Shall wish us joy of a voyage fair,
With calm, sweet skies'Una a favoring air,


The Connecticut editor who wrote the following, evidently knew what he was talking about:—

Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of" pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair-door and insinuatingly observes, " Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, " John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic " John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has bee.) made; and the mother is encouraged to add, " You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again.

Saddest, most solemn of all;—a soul,
Pausing where unknown waters roll.
Where shall the surging current tend,
Slowly drifting friend from friend,


When the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out.

And the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-bottle ejects its cork, and the " John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. And he pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.

HER Letter.—bret Harte.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,—

It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,

My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, " the belle of the season"

Is wasting an hour 011 you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;

I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits—on the stairs—for me yet.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles otf, as you read.

"And how do T like mv position?"

"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And isn't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
"And aren't it a change to the ditches

And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,—if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand^,—

If you saw poor dear mamma contrivmg
To look supernaturally grand,—


If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that —

You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting

In the glare of the grand chandelier,— In the bustle and glitter befitting

The " tinest soiree of the year,"— In the mists of a gauze de Chambery,

And the hum of the smallest of talk,— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry,"

And the dance that we had on "The Fork

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster

Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre

And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;

Of the dress of my queer ms-a-iis; And how I once went down the middle

With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping

From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that.ride,—that to me was the rarest;

Of—the something you said at the gate,— Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress

To " the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny

To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money,

That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that, Jnst to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,

The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

(Mamma says my taste still is low,) Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,—heigh-ho! And I'm to be " finished " by travel,—

Whatevers the meaning of that,— Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel

In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good night,—here's the end of my paper;

Good night,—if the longitude please,—
For maybe, while wasting my taper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,

And are poo.-, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there ih the ditches,

And you've struck it—on Poverty Flat.


When is the time for prayer?

With the first beams that light the morning sky Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,

Lift up thy thoughts on high;
Commend thy loved ones to His watchful care:
Morn is the time for prayer.

And in the noontide hour.

If worn by toil, or by sad cares oppressed, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour,

And He will give thee rest; Thy voice shall reach Him through the fields of air: Noon is the time for prayer.

When the bright sun hath set,

While eve's bright colors deck the skies;

When with the loved at home again thou'st met,
Then let thy prayers arise

For those who in thy joys and sorrows share:

Eve is the time for prayer.

And when the stars come forth—

When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given, And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth

To pure bright dreams of heaven,
Kneel to thy God—ask strength, life's ills to bear:
Night is the time for prayer.

When is the time for prayer?

In every hour, while life is spared to thee;
In crowds or solitude, in joy or care,

Thy thoughts should heavenward flee!
At home, at morn and eve, with loved ones there,
Bend thou the knee in prayer.


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