THE BELFRY OF GHENT.-ROBERT MAGUIRE. Hast thou ever known the feeling In the light of by-gone days; Once I stood with soul enchanted, Of the ancient town of Ghent. Toilsome was the steep ascending, To the things we seek to find. From that noble height of vision, Sing the hearts that throbbed and beat; Tell the days of ancient heroes, Let me gather leaves and flowers *The grave of St. Columba is shown at Ghent. Chime, ye merry ringing changes, THE CHIMES. "We speak of days long, long ago; "We have told the birth of princes; We have rung the last farewell; When our bells shall chime no more." Yes, the day is hast'ning onward, When all earthly tongues shall cease; Tell the virtues of the past. Still I saw the waking vision, Read the memories of old," Till the changes chimed the vesper, And the hour of evening tolled. Thus I mused, and thought, and pondered, Lost in deep astonishment, On the well-remembered belfry Of the ancient town of Ghent. *The clocks in Belgium usually strike the time twice-at the half-hour and the hour. MULLIGAN'S GOSPEL.-ANNIE HERBERT. I've a rare bit of news for you, Mary Malone, Like a dove without wings, nestling downy and tender, And the hard life so pitiless, rough, and defiled, It is strange to our eyes, but perhaps you have seen So this little one came—but it never seemed right There were children enough, heaven knows! in that Babel, Cadets for the Tombs from the bold whiskey rabble, Choked out from the love that is heaven's own light, Rank sons of the soil, cropping out for a fight, Over to Mulligan's. There was many a banquet in Mulligan Hall, Over to Mulligan's. It was twelve months or more from the time she was born, As I sat at my window one sunshiny morn, "Jist come over," the voice of Tim Mulligan said, "I belave in me sowl that me baby is dead!" He had held a wild revel late into the night, And the wee, frightened dove plumed her pinions for flight; This the man saw at last, with a sudden dismay; "God forgive me!" he cried, "sure she'd niver be stayin' Wid the cursin' an' drink when me lips shud be prayin'!" And the priest came and went, little dreaming that day Then the sweetest, the saddest, the tenderest sight, Now a thing the most wonderful, Mary Malone, And he looks like a man, from his head to his feet; Though his clothes are but coarse, they are comely and trim, And no man dares to say, "Here's a health to you, Tim!" He will soon rent a cottage, and live like the best; And the gossips do say, with wise lifting of fingers, It is all for sweet charity's sake that he lingers In the row where God's peace settled down in his breast, When a soft, weary wing fluttered home from the nest, Over to Mulligan's. -Christian Union. PLEASURES OF PICNIC-ING. This is the season of the year when picnics are most frequent. For real solid enjoyment we, for our part, much prefer a well conducted funeral to an ordinary picnic. You generally reach the grounds about eleven o'clock, and the exercises begin with climbing a hill, up which you are compelled to carry two heavy lunch baskets. When you reach the summit you are positively certain the thermometer must be nearly six hundred and fifty in the shade. You throw yourself on the grass, and in a few moments a brigade of black ants begin to crawl down the back of your neck, while a phalanx of ticks charge up your trouser leg. And just as you jump up, your oldest boy, who has been out in the woods, where he stirred up a yellow-jacket's nest, comes in with his head and face swelled to the size of a water-bucket, conveying the information that your other boy, William Henry, is up a tree and can't get down. After laboring to release William Henry the thermometer seems to have gone up two hundred more degrees, and you will take a swim in the creek. While you are in the water young Jones strolls out with Miss Smith, and unconscious of your presence, they sit down close to your clothes, and engage in conversation for three quarters of an hour, while you lie down in the shallow stream, afraid to budge and nearly killed with the hot sun. When they leave, you emerge and find that some wicked boy from the neighboring village has run off with your shirt and socks. You fix up as well as you can, and when you get back with the party they are eating dinner from a cloth laid on the ground. A spider is spinning a cobweb from the pickle-jar to the little end of the cold ham; straddle-bugs are frolicking around over the pound-cake, caterpillars are exploring the bread plate, grasshoppers are jumping into the butter, where they stick fast, the bees are so thick around the sugar-bowl that you are afraid to go near it, and there are enough ants in the pie to walk completely off with it. You take a seat, however, determined to try to eat something, but you get up suddenly-all at once as it were, for you have set down on a brier. Then William Henry, who has quaffed an unreasonable quantity of lemonade, gets the colic, and his mother goes into hysterics because she thinks he is poisoned with pokeberries. You lay him under an umbrella, and proceed to climb a tree in order to fix a swing for the girls. After skinning your hands, tearing your trousers and ruining your coat, you get to the top, tie the rope and undertake to come down on it. You do come down with velocity and your fingers are rubbed entirely raw. Just then it begins to rain furiously, and the whole party stampedes to the depot for shelter. When the shower slackens you go back to the ground to get the rope, and just as you get up in the tree the owner of the place comes along with a gun and a dog, and threatens to blow your brains out and eat you up if you don't leave immedi |