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hin out iv the doori to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round, —an' there shtands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame across inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her!

"Ah, ha! "says the ould fox, " I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowd where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin' for him at the door, he says, " Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, "Sure an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he.

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.

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IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND?

These lines were written after hearing the following touching incident related by a minister: A mother, who was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for a moment, when little Mary, with childish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to the floor, spilling the contents. The mother struck the child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sickened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. u I was always in your way, mother; you had no room for little Mary! And will I be in the angels' way? Will they have room for me?" The brokenhearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be too great, could she have saved her child.

Is there room among the angels

For the spirit of your child?
Will they take your little Mary

In their loving arms so mild?
Will they ever love me fondly,

As my story-books have said?
Will they find a home for Mary—

Mary, numbered with the dead?
Tell me truly, darling mother!

Is there room for such as me?
Will I gain the home of spirits,

And the shining angels see?

I have sorely tried you, mother,

Been to you a constant care,
And you will not miss me, mother,

When I dwell among the fair;
For you have no room for Mary;

She was ever in your way;
And she fears the good will shun her!

Will they, darling mother, say?
Tell me—tell me truly—mother,

Ere life's closing hour doth come,
Do you think that they will keep me,

In the shining angels' home?

I was not so wayward, mother,

Not so very—very bad,
But that tender love would nourish,

And make Mary's heart so glad!
Oh! I yearned for pure affection,

In this world of bitter woe;
And I long for bliss immortal,

In the land where I must go!
Tell me once again, dear mother,

Ere you take the parting kiss,
Will the angels bid me welcome,

To that land of rerfect bliss?

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THE BLACKSMITH OF RAGENBACH. Frank Murray.

In a little German village,

On the waters of the lihine;
Gay and joyous in their pastimes,

In the pleasant vintage time;
Were a group of happv peasants,

For the day released from toil,
Thanking God for all His goodness

In the product of their soil;

When a cry rung through the welkin,

And appeared upon the scene,
A panting dog with crest erect,

Foaming mouth and savage mien;
He is mad, was shrieked in chorus,

In dismay they all fell back,
All—except one towering figure,

Twas the smith of liagenbach.

God had given this man His image,

Nature stamped him as complete,
Now it was incumbent on him,

To perform a greater feat
Than Horatius at the bridge,

When he stood on Tiber's bank,
For behind him were his townsfolk,

Who, appalled with terror, sank

From the most appalling danger,—

That which makes the bravest quail,—
While they all were grouped together,

Shaking limbs and visage pale.
For a moment cowered the beast,

Snapping to the left and right,
While the blacksmith stood before him

In the power of his might.

"One must die to save the many,

Let it then my duty be,
I've the power, fear not, neighbors;

From this peril you'll be free."
As the lightning from the storm-cloud

Leaps to earth with sudden crash,
So upon the rabid monster

Did this man and hero dash.

In the death-grip then they struggled,
Man and dog with scarce a sound,

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Till from out the fearful conflict
Rose the man from off the ground;

Gashed and gory from the struggle,
But the beast lay stiff and dead;

There he stood while people gathered
And rained blessings on his head.

"Friends," he said, " from one great peril

With God's help I've set you free,
But my task is not yet ended,

There is danger now in me.
Yet secure from harm you shall be,

None need fear before I die:
That my sufferings may be shortened,

Ask of Him who rules on high."

Then unto his forge he straightway

Walked erect with rapid step,
While the people followed after,

Some with shouts while others wept,
And with nerve as steady as when

He had plied his trade for gain,
He selected without faltering

From his store, the heaviest chain.

To his anvil first he bound it,

Next his limb he shackled fast,
Then he said unto his townsfolk,

"All your danger now is past.
Place within my reach, I pray you,

Food and wafer for a time;
Until God shall ease my sufferings

By His gracious will divine.

Long he suffered, but at last

Came a summons from on high,
Then his soul with angel escort,

Sought its home beyond the sky;
And the people of that village,

Those whom he had died to save,
Still with grateful hearts assemble,

And with flowers bedeck his grave.

THE BETTER LAND.

A father and mother, with their two children, once lived on an uncultivated island far out in the ocean, where they had been cast by a shipwreck. Roots and herbs served them for sustenance, a spring supplied them with drink, and they were sheltered in a cavern in the rocks.

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The children could not remember how they came to this island; they knew nothing of the main land, and bread, milk, fruit, and all else that could be procured in it for their nourishment and enjoyment, were to them wholly unknown.

Having no definite knowledge of a better land, or mode of living, they were contented with the miserable shelter, the fare and enjoyments the poor island supplied, and when their parents spoke to them of the beautiful groves, rivulets and gardens the main land abounded in they thought they were not half so enjoyable as the sandy beach, stunted shrubs and naked rocks among which they spent all their hours.

Their appetite was never satisfied, for the roots and herbs they subsisted on were far from their cave and were hard to get; but though it required all the time that could be spared from their sleeping hours to search and dig for their pitiful subsistence, yet they took no pleasure in anticipating with their parents their deliverance from so poor a habitation, and so mean and precarious a living.

The terrific storms that raged around its shores, and the sultry sun that burned the sand and rocks when there was a calm,did not seem to them less enjoyable, than the refreshing dews, cool shades, and moderate temperature of their parents' land; and the beautiful flowers, golden fruits and mellow toned birds their father told them about did not possess so much interest for them as the smooth stones on their beech, and the hoarse screams of the sea birds that flew about their small and bleak world.

At last a skiff with four black-a-moors in it landed one day on the island.

The parents rejoiced at this, hoping that now their deliverance was near, and while the boat was approaching, they had again told their children of the beauties and joys -vith which their native land abounded, Bo that their minds would forget the scenes of their childish cares in anticipation of new and more exciting pleasures in the land to which they were going. But the boat was too small to take more than one besides its crew, and the black-a-moors said they would only take the father with them, but would soon return for the rest and take them one by one.

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