DISTANCE THE ENCHANTRESS.

The sails we see on the ocean
Are as white as white can be,
But never one in the harbor

As white as the sails at sea.

And the clouds that crown the mountain
With purple and gold delight,
Turn to cold gray mist and vapor
Before we can reach its height.

Stately and fair the vessel

That comes not near our beach;
Lofty and grand the mountain

Whose height we may never reach;

Oh, Distance, thou dear enchantress,
Still hold in thy magic veil
The glory of far-off mountains,
The gleam of the far-off sail.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart, as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair:
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain—
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay-
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep.
Over my heart in the days that are flown
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures—
Faithful, unselfish and patient like yours,
None like a mother can charm away pain,
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;

Let it drop over my forehead tonight,

Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more

Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep-
Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song.

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep-

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.
Florence Percy (pen name); Elizabeth Akers Allen.

THE FUN IN LIFE.

A sense of humor is more valuable for a busy woman than all the latest inventions for making housekeeping easy. The patent dish-washer, the self-feeding and selfshaking range, the washing-machine, the bread-mixer and the egg-beater all put together will not help "mother" through Saturday morning so well as the ability to laugh long and heartily.

Unfortunately, there is no school where this accomplishment can be learned. The giggling girl is not so sure to grow up a laughing woman. She may regard herself and her own affairs with a portentous seriousness Egotism is fatal to a true sense of humor. So is a lack of imagination. So is that morbid conscientiousness which is our least desirable inheritance from Puritanism.

That family is fortunate indeed where the mother is first to see a joke and to lead the mirth. In too many homes her sole share in merriment is her dismal "I'm sure I don't see what you're laughing about!" The mother, an invalid for years, who could answer an inquiry about her health with a quizzical smile and a quick “Sick abed, and worse up!" was not a burden but a joy to the children who found her room "the jolliest place in the house."

A nonsense rhyme, a droll conundrum, a lively repartee, a story of misadventure may all serve as sauce for a dull day. The appetite for fun may be coaxed to grow by what it feeds on, until the mature woman, laden with responsibilities, can smile at her own small trials and help others to follow her example. She will learn first not to cry over spilt milk, and later will master an even more useful accomplishment, and will laugh over it. Youths Companion, 1903.

A BIT OF NEWSPAPER VERSE.

She took up one of the magazines and glanced through it casually, but somehow it did not appeal to the old lady, and so she laid it down again. There was a volume of poems, richly bound in vellum, on the table by her side, and for a little while the story of its gallant knights and lovely maidens bewitched her. But soon the weight of the book began to tire her feeble hands.

After that, quite as a last resort, she took up the evening paper and glanced through it, just to while away