A HANDFUL OF EARTH,

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A HANDFUL OF EARTH.

CELIA THAXTER.

HERE is a problem, a wonder for all to see:

Look at this marvellous thing I hold in my hand! This is a magic surprising, a mystery,

Strange as a miracle, harder to understand.

What is it? only a handful of earth; to your touch

A dry rough powder you trample beneath your feet; Dark and lifeless; but think for a moment how much

It hides and holds that is beautiful, bitter or sweet.

Think of the glory of color! The red of the rose,

Green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass; Yellow, as bright as the sun, where the daffodil blows, Purple where violets nod as the breezes pass.

Think of the manifold power of the oak and the vine;
Nut and fruit and cluster; and ears of corn;
Of the anchored water-lily, a thing divine!

Unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn.

Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree,
Color and shape and character, fragrance, too;
That the timber which builds the house, the ship for the sea,
Out of this powder its strength and its toughness drew.

That the cocoa among the palms should suck its milk
From this dry dust, while dates from the self-same soil
Summer their sweet, rich fruits; that our shining silk
The mulberry-leaves should yield to the worm's slow toil.

Who shall compass or fathom God's thought profound?
We can but praise, for we may not understand;

But there's no more beautiful riddle, the whole world round,
Than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

It might have been!

When life is young,

And hopes are bright, and hearts are strong
To battle with the heartless throng,

When youth and age are far between,
Who heeds the words so sadly sung ?-
It might have been!

It might have been! When life is fair,
Youth stands beside the boundless sea
That ebbs and flows unceasingly,
And dreams of name and golden fame;
And who shall limit the To-be

That's dawning there?

It might have been! When life is bright,
And love is in its golden prime,

Youth recks not of the coming night,
Nor dreams that there may be a time
When love will fail, or change, or die
Eternally!

It might have been ! When Time grows gray,
And spring-tide's hopes have passed away,
Old age looks back on by-gone years-
Their many wants, and doubts, and fears-
And through the mist a way is seen:
The Might-have-been!

It might have been! When age is sad,
Weary of waiting for the fame

That after all is but a name,

When life has lost the charm it had,

True knowledge makes regret more keen—
It might have been!

It might have been! When youth is dead,
And love that was so false has fled,

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS.

When all the mockeries of the past
Have lost their tinsel rays at last,
The one true love is clearly seen,
That might have been!

It might have been! Ah, me! ah, me!
And who shall tell the misery

Of knowing all that life has lost?
By thinking of the countless cost,
Poor comfort can the sad heart glean!
It might have been !

It might have been!-nay, rather rest,
Believing what has been was best!
The life whose sun has not yet set
Can find no room for vain regret,
And only folly crowns as queen
Its Might-have-been!

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS.

MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE.

"PLAY us a tune," cried the children, "Something merry and sweet, Like birds that sing in the summer, Or nodding o' the wheat,

Dancing across the meadows

While the warm sun burns and glows,

Till we fancy we smell in winter

The breath of a sweet June rose."

"Play us a tune," said the mother,
"Something tender and low,

Like a thought that comes in the autumn,
When the leaves are ready to go,

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When the fire on the hearth is lighted,
And we know not which is best,
The long, bright evenings coming,

Or the long, bright days at rest."

And the dear little artist bending
Over the swaying bow,

Drew tones so merry and gladsome,
And tones so soft and low,

That we scarce could tell who listened,
Which song had the sweetest words,
The one that sang of the fireside
Or the one that sang of the birds.

TOMMY'S PRAYER.

IN a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame;
He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born,
Dragging out his weak existence well-nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago

Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled

SO.

He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care,
But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night, Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright;

Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love-
For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

'Twas a quiet, summer evening; and the alley, too, was still;
Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,
Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inward from the street,
Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and
sweet.

TOMMY'S PRAYER.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came

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Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; "So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?"

"My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy-sing me something, anything." Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, "I can't stay here very long, But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory song.'"

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;

But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,
And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their
Friend.

Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word
As it fell from "Singing Jessie" - was it true, what he had heard?
And so anxiously he asked her: "Is there really such a place?"
And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

"Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky,
And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die."
"Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,
When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and he's up in heaven above?"
So the little ragged maiden, who had heard at Sunday-school
All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule,
Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray,
Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away
Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,
Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;
And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,
For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.