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LIFE

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! We've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather,

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning, choose thine own time:

Say not "good-night," but in some brighter clime

Bid me "good-morning."

Mrs. A. L. Barbauld.

LINCOLN'S HEART

"You are wounded, my boy, and the field is your tent, And what can I do at the last for you?" "Yes, wounded am I, and my strength is spent Will you write me a letter and see me through?" And the tall man ruffled some papers there To write a letter in sun-dimmed air.

"What now shall I sign it?" "Twill give her joy,
Whatever your name, my friend, may be,
If you sign it just 'from the heart of your boy,'
And put your name there, so she may see

Who wrote so kindly this letter for me."
"A. Lincoln" was written there, tremblingly.

The bleeding lad, from the hand unknown

The letter took. "What? A. Lincoln!' Not he?

Will you take my hand-I'm all alone

And see me through, since he you be?" And the Heart of the Nation in that retreat Held the little pulse till it ceased to beat.

The sun through the trees like an oriel shone,
Like a gate of Heaven reflected there,
And a bird's heart song and a ringdove's moan
Fell on the tides of the amber air!

Both closed their eyes: both hearts in prayer
Went up the steps of the silent stair.

And he, the boy, still holding the hand
Of the heart he loved, no more returned;
But far in the south an iris spanned

The singing forests where sun-rifts burned.
And the Commoner closed in the amber air
Two eyes and crossed two hands as in prayer.
And our Lincoln learned life's lesson there.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

IF WE KNEW

If we knew the cares and crosses
Crowding round our neighbor's way;

If we knew the little losses,

Sorely grievous day by day,

Would we then so often chide him

For the lack of thrift and gain

Casting o'er his life a shadow,

Leaving on his heart a stain.

If we knew the silent story

Quivering through the heart of pain,
Would our womanhood dare doom them
Back to haunts of guilt again?
Life hath many a tangled crossing,
Joy hath many a break of woe,
And the cheeks tear-washed seem whitest,
This the blessed angels know.

Let us reach into our bosoms
For the key to other lives,
And with love to erring nature,
Cherish good that still survives;
So that when our disrobed spirits
Soar to realms of light again,
We may say, dear Father, judge us
As we judged our fellowmen.

MAKING AMENDS

How Mark Twain Made a Visit in Sections

Forest Street, the literary corner of Hartford, is a most friendly place. The fortunate members of that charmed circle hobnob together in a most friendly manner at all times and at all seasons. When Harriet Beecher Stowe was alive, Mark Twain, who lived near her, had a way of running in to converse with her and her daughter, often in a somewhat neglige costume, greatly to the distress of Mrs...Clemens.

One morning, as he returned from the Stowes sans necktie, Mrs. Clemens met him at the door with the exclamation: "There, Sam, you have been over to the Stowes again without a necktie. It's really disgraceful the way you

"We measured the riotous baby" MEASURING THE BABY: Emma Alice Brown. (See page 356)

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"A man for his surpassing beauty excelling the children of men.'

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