ARCHIE'S MOTHER.

255

Which the good old pastor handled with a thrill of exultation, Wishing that in filthy lucre might have come his whole donation!

Morning came at last in splendor; but the Elder, wrapped in gloom,

Knelt amid decaying produce and the ruins of his home;
And his piety had never till that morning been so bright,
For he prayed for those who brought him to that unexpected
plight.

But some worldly thoughts intruded, for he wondered o'er and

o'er,

If they'd buy that day at auction what they gave the night be

fore?

And his fervent prayer concluded with the natural exclamation, "Take me to Thyself in mercy, Lord, before my next donation.”

ARCHIE'S MOTHER.

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.

"Archie's wife? Yes, dear, but where's Archie?
My first kiss is waiting for him,

For since his good-by that sad morning,

Past the years my tears have made dim,

No kiss has lain over his kisses,

No love has come into my life.
But he who has had his caresses?
I ask you this-you, his wife.

"He's not here to welcome his mother,

What's wrong? Is my dear son ill?
You came? Yes, dear, but remember,
Archie's place none other can fill.
"Twas business detained him, I reckon.
Well, well, I won't let it annoy:
No doubt he is climbing the ladder
Of fame he dreamed of as a boy.

"You are a sweet girl. I don't blame you
For taking first place in his heart.

It has seemed to me-don't be offended,
I'm his mother, and know every part
Of his nature, and somehow his letters
Have been rather downcast of late,
He is writing so often for money,

And hints at things sad to relate.
"I thought you were childish and giddy,
Extravagant, too, I confess;

But I see no reason to chide you
For extravagance in your dress.
Your pretty pink frock is quite tidy,

Your collar as white as the snow;
But if you don't spend them for laces,
Where is it the dollars all go?

"The carriage? Oh, well, never mind it,
We'll walk if it isn't far;

I'm quite numb and weary with sitting
So long in the dusty car.

Thanks, dear. Archie's arm would be stronger.

To think I shall see him to-day,

My tall, handsome son! How is baby?

Are his eyes blue like yours, or gray?

"Not overly strong? It's a mercy
I came to you now; for I know
All about the needs of a baby,

And the food that will make him grow.
My Archie was puny and sickly
For years, the most of the time
I kept the breath of life in him,

By doses of brandy and wine.

"Yes, brandy and wine are great blessings
To mothers, in many a way;
Without them I couldn't have raised him
To love us and bless us to-day.

And the little rogue learned to like them:
Why, he'd take the bitterest pill

With only a swallow of porter

To wash it down.

Dear, are you ill?

ARCHIE'S MOTHER.

You're not going to lose your baby :
Just give me a plenty of time,
And he shall be strong and rosy.
I'll cure him as I cured mine!
"You'd rather he'd die!' Alice Dutton,

I'm surprised, nay shocked, I confess.
Are you Christian or Pagan, I wonder,
That you dare stand here and express
Such heathenish views! Will the Father
Work miracles, think, for your son?
Will He take your sick boy and cure him,
Till your part is faithfully done?

""Tis a shame on your son to suggest it, A shame on your darling and mine! Why, six generations of Duttons

Have proved themselves stronger than wine, Not once disgracing their manhood.

Don't mention it, Alice, I pray ;

Your boy is the last of the lineage—

Do you think him less noble than they? "Disgrace is unknown to a Dutton

In all their ancestral line.

Do you fear that their blue blood is tarnished
And weakened by mixture with thine?
Nay, child, your grave apprehensions
Are shadowless as the wind;

Don't weep so, dear, Archie's mother
Never meant to be unkind.

"You are like a fair, gentle daughter,
Your face is so tender and sweet.
You are like-But where are we going?
Why turn down that terrible street?
This house? Why, child, 'tis a hovel!

See that drunken man stretched in the way!
Don't show me rum's wretchedness, Alice,
I'm worn out with travel to-day.

"You surely don't seek your companions
Among those so wretchedly low?

257

Loud the organ tones came swelling all the crowded aisles along;

Gladdest praise their music thrilling in a burst of wordless song. Oft the chink of falling money sounded soft the notes between, But the plate seemed slow in filling-little silver could be seen. Hands in pockets lingered sadly, faces looked unwilling, cold; Gifts from slow, unwilling fingers o'er the plate's rich velvet rolled.

"It's Thanksgiving, dear," a mother whispered to her questioning son;

"We must give to the new organ, all our pennies, every one.

"Then it will be ours, all paid for, and will sweeter music send In thanksgiving up to heaven, with the angels' praise to blend." Slowly passed the plate of off'rings, while a child-voice whispered low:

"I put in my every penny; mamma, will the organ know

"That I gave the yellow penny Uncle Charlie sent to me?" "Yes, dear," whispered soft the mother, "God your gift will surely see."

"Give, oh, give!" the music pleaded. "Give, that loud I may

rejoice! "

Then thro' all the waiting stillness, piped a shrill, indignant

voice :

"Mamma, do you think the organ saw that rich old Deacon Cox
Only gave one little penny when they passed the music-box?"
Quick the little voice was quiet, but a flush of honest shame
From awakened hearts uprising, over many faces came.
And the deacon, slowly rising, as the organ died away,
Said, "I humbly here acknowledge to a wicked heart to-day,
Friends and brothers; but my sinning I will alter as I live,
And the half of what is lacking here to-day, I freely give;
"That our glorious new organ may give praise to God on high,
With no debt of earth upon it that our gold can satisfy."
Then arose another brother, and another still, and more,
Giving with a lavish spending as they never gave before.
Till the plate was overflowing and the organ debt secure;
Then they took a contribution for Thanksgiving and the poor.
And as outward with the music a glad stream of people flows,
Soft a childish voice cries, "Mamma, I am sure the organ
knows!"

OLD ACE.

FRED EMERSON BROOKS.

Can any pleasure in life compare
With a charming drive in the balmy air?
A buggy light with shimmering wheel;
Springs whose resistance you barely feel;
A spirited horse of royal breed,
With just a little more style and speed
Than any you meet, and it matters not
If his gait be pace or a swinging trot.

The tassel sways on the graceful whip;
You grasp the reins with a tighter grip;
Your horse is off for a splendid dash
And needs no touch of the urging lash.
You feel the puff of the startled air;
It floats his mane and it lifts your hair!
The hoof marks time in its measured beat,
For the swelling nostril that scorns defeat!