hin out iv the door, 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 acrass 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. 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 On her death-bed, while way. Two weeks after, little Mary sickened and died. delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. "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 As my story-books have said? Is there room for such as me? I have sorely tried you, mother, And she fears the good will shun her! I was not so wayward, mother, But that tender love would nourish, In the land where I must go! THE BLACKSMITH OF RAGENBACH. FRANK MURRAY. In a little German village, On the waters of the Rhine; When a cry rung through the welkin, God had given this man His image, When he stood on Tiber's bank, From the most appalling danger,— "One must die to save the many, I've the power, fear not, neighbors; As the lightning from the storm-cloud Did this man and hero dash. In the death-grip then they struggled, Till from out the fearful conflict Rose the man from off the ground; "Friends," he said, "from one great peril Then unto his forge he straightway To his anvil first he bound it, Long he suffered, but at last Came a summons from on high, Those whom he had died to save, 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. 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 with which their native land abounded, so 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. |