The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag—but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion.

Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought!

George D. Prentice.

THE MYSTERIES.

The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh like dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of Life.

Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery Death.

At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and

14

clasped in tender burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was the mystery to which the mysteries, Life and Death, bow down-the mystery of Love.

James Hunt Cook.

WITH LOVE-FROM MOTHER.

There's a letter on the bottom of the pile,

Its envelope a faded yellow brown,

It has traveled to the city many a mile,

And the postmark names a little unknown town.

But the hurried man of business pushes all the others by,

And on the scrawly characters he turns a glistening eye,
He forgets the cares of commerce and his anxious schemes for gain,
The while he reads what mother writes from up in Maine.

There are quirks and scratchy quavers of the pen
Where it struggled in the fingers old and bent.
There are places that he has to read again

And ponder on to find what mother meant.

There are letters on his table that enclose some bouncing checks;
There are letters giving promises of profits on his "specs."

But he tosses all the litter by, forgets the golden rain,
Until he reads what mother writes from up in Maine.

At last he finds "with love-we all are well,"
And softly lays the homely letter down,
And dashes at his headlong tasks pellmell,
Once more the busy, anxious man of town.

But whenever in his duties as the rushing moments fly
That faded little envelope smiles up to meet his eye,
He turns again to labor with a stronger, truer brain,
From thinking on what mother wrote from up in Maine.

Through all the day he dictates brisk replies,
To his amanuensis at his side,—

The curt and stern demand, and business lies,-
The doubting man cajoled, and threat defied.

And then at dusk when all are gone he drops his worldly mask
And takes his pen and lovingly performs a welcome task;
For never shall the clicking type or shortened scrawl profane
The message to the dear old home up there in Maine.

Holman F. Day, in Lewiston Journal.

TRIBUTE TO THE FLAG.

I have seen the glories of art and architecture and of river and mountain. I have seen the sunset on the Jungfrau and the moon rise over Mount Blanc. But the fairest vision on which these eyes ever rested was the flag of my country in a foreign port. Beautiful as a flower to those who love it, terrible as a meteor to those who hate, it is the symbol of the power and the glory and the honor of fifty millions of Americans.”

Senator Geo. F. Hoar.

THE SIMPLE FAITH
Before me, even as behind,

God is, and all is well.

John G. Whittier.

I WOULD, DEAR JESUS.

I would, dear Jesus, I could break
The hedge that creeds and hearsay make,
And, like the first disciples, be

In person led and taught by thee.

I read thy words, so strong, so sweet;
I seek the footprints of thy feet;
But men so mystify the trace,
I long to see thee face to face.

Wouldst thou not let me at thy side,
In thee, in thee so sure confide?
Like John, upon thy breast recline,
And feel thy heart make mine divine?

Hon. John D. Long, ex-Gov. of Mass.

THE FLAG.

Here comes The Flag!

Hail it!

Who dares to drag

Or trail it?

Give it hurrahs,—

Three for the stars,

Three for the bars.
Uncover your head to it!
The soldiers who tread to it
Shout at the sight of it,
The justice and right of it,
The unsullied white of it,
The blue and the red of it,
And tyranny's dread of it!

Here comes The Flag!

Cheer it!

Valley and crag

Shall hear it.

Fathers shall bless it,

Children caress it.

All shall maintain it,

No one shall stain it.

Cheers for the sailors that fought on the wave for it,
Cheers for the soldiers that always were brave for it,
Tears for the men that went down to the grave for it.
Here comes The Flag!

Arthur Macy, in Youth's Companion.

THE DEPARTURE.

And on her lover's arm she leant,

And round her waist she felt it fold,

And far across the hills they went

In that new world which is the old;
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
And deep into the dying day

The happy princess followed him.

"I'd sleep another hundred years,

O love, for such another kiss;"

"O wake forever, love," she hears,

"O love, 'twas such as this and this."

And o'er them many a sliding star

And many a merry wind was borne,
And, streamed thro' many a golden bar,
The twilight melted into morn.