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Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor;

The wheels redouble their din:
The hoppers clutter, and the engines roar,

And the flour o'erflows the bin.

But with the morning's pearly sheen,

This ghastly hubbub wanes,
And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen

Through the meal-dulled window-panes'
She opens the sash, and her words resound

In tones of unearthly power—
"Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground;

Come hither and take your flour!"

Thereon strange hazy lights appear,

A-flitting all through the pile,
And a deep, melodious, choral cheer

Ascends through the roof the while;
But a moment more, and you gaze and hark,

And wonder and wait in vain;
For suddenly all again is dark,

And all is hushed again.

It stands in the desolate Winterthal,

At the base of Ilsberg hill;
It stands as though it would rather fall,—

The long deserted mill.
Its engines, coated with moss and mould,

Bide silent all the day;
Its mildewed walls and windows old

Are crumbling fast away.

SOME MOTHER'S Child.—francis L. Kesxs*

At home or away, in the alley or street,
Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet
A girl that is thoughtless, or a boy that is wild,
My heart echoes softly, " Tis some mother's child."

And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled.
Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cot
Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled,
A voice whispers sadly, " Ah! some mother's child."

No matter how far from the right she hath strayed;
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made:
No matter what elements cankered the pearl—
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl.

so*

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin:
No matter how low is his standard of joy ;—
Though guilty and loathsome, he is some mother's boy.

That head hath been pillowed on some tender breast;
That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed;
That soul hath been prayed for, in tones sweet and mild:
For Iter sake deal gently with—some mother's child.

Let others write of battles fought,

Of bloody, ghastly fields,
Where honor greets the man who wins,
And death, the man who yields;

Against himself, and wins.

He is a hero staunch and brave

Who fights an unseen foe,
And puts at last beneath his feet

His passions base and low;
Who stands erect in manhood's might

Undaunted, undismayed,—
The bravest man who drew a sword

In foray, or in raid.

It calls for something more than brawn

Or muscle to o'ercome
An enemy who marcheth not

With banner, plume, and drum—
A foe forever lurking nigh,

With silent, stealthy tread;
Forever near your board by day,

All honor, then, to that brave heart I

Though poor or rich he be,
Who struggles with his better part—

Who conquers and is free.
He may not wear a hero's crown,

Or fill a hero's grave,
But truth will place his name among

The bravest of the brave.

TRUE HEROISM.

But I will write of him who fights
And vanquishes his sins,

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THE BABY'S FIRST TOOTH—Danrury News Man.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones had just finished their breakfast. Mr. Jones had pushed back his chair and was looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones sat at the table, holding the infant Jones and mechanically working her forefinger in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child on its back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open its mouth, and immediately gasped " Ephraim!" Mr. Jones, who was yet on his knees with his head under the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharply on the side of the lounge as he did so, and getting on his feet, inquired what was the matter. "O Ephraim," said she, the tears rolling down her checks and the smiles coursing up. "Why,what is it, Aramathea?" said the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing his head where it had come in contact with the lounge. "Baby!" she gasi ed. Mr. Jones turned pale and commenced to sweat. "Baby! O—O—O Ephraim! Baby has—baby has got—a little toothey, oh! oh!" "No !" screamed Mr. Jones, spreading his legs apart, dropping his chin and staring at the struggling heir with all his might. "I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Jones, with a slight evidence of hysteria. "Oh, it can't be!" protested Mr. Jones, preparing to swear if it wasn't. "Come here and see for yourself," said Mrs. Jones. "Open its 'ittle mousywousy for its own muzzer; that's a toody-woody; that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump o' sugar." Thus conjured, the heir opened its mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust in his finger, and that gentleman having convinced himself by the most unmistakable evidence that a tooth was there, immediately kicked his hat across the room, buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much feeling that he could lick the individual who would dare to intimate that he was not the happiest man on the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a hearty smack on the mouth and snatched up the heir, while that lady rushed tremblingly fort h after Mrs. Simmons, who lived next door. In a moment Mrs. Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out of a gun, and right behind her came Miss Simmons at a speed that indicated that she had been ejected from two guns. Mrs. Simmons at once snatcn* ed the heir from the arms of Mr. Jones and hurried it to the window, where she made a careful and critical examination of its mouth, while Mrs. Jones held its head and Mr. Jones danced up and down the room, and snapped his fingers to show how calm he was. It having been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that the tooth was a sound one, and also that the strongest hopes for its future could be entertained on account of its coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Jones got out the necessary material and Mr. Jones at once pro" ceeded to write seven different letters to as many persons, unfolding to them the event of the morning and inviting them to come on as soon as possible.

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