THE SONGS THAT MOTHER SUNG.

Go, sing the songs you cherish well,

Each ode and simple lay;

Go, chord the notes till bosoms swell,

With strains that deftly play.
All, all are yours to sacred keep,
Your choicest treasures 'mong;
But give to me till memory sleeps,
The songs that mother sung.

When life's dark paean's plaintive round,
Fall cross the weary way,

To drown, in sighing, mournful sound,
The dirge of dismal day,

Then softly back lost strains will steal,
From cradle anthems rung,

To drown the woes that sorrows feel,
In songs that mother sung.

And when the ebb of eventide,

Afar across the strand,

Sets out to where the billows ride,

Beyond life's shifting sand,
Then softly back above the roar,

Of mad, mad waters flung,

Oh! back, bring back, to me once more,
The songs my mother sung.

Author unknown.

ALMOST HOME.

county, connects two

A little winding railway in a southern widely parallel systems known as the C. & G. The trains are small

and meek when compared with the long aggregations of cars with which they connect at G.

But to the old man who sat today in one of the cramped uncomfortable coaches, defects were not apparent. For forty years, little cars like these had passed his door. Along this same road he and Mary had taken their wedding trip. How proud he was of her when they returned, and he had taken her home, where his father and his father's father had lived before him. There they had lived and labored together, going on Saturdays to the village, and on Sundays to the little church; and there Tom had been born.

It seemed hard to realize that all this was long ago; for so much had happened since then. No lusty boy would come rushing to meet him today; the rocking chair where she used to sit would be very still. The old man choked a little and wiped his eyes with his cotton handkerchief.

He had not known what all this meant to him until he had left it. He had been lonely and Tom had persuaded him to go live with him. But it was all so strange in this new place, so little like he had pictured it. He said nothing. They were kind to him and he must not seem ungrateful. He would not admit, even to himself, that he wished to go back, but he grew so silent, white and still, that his son watching his wistful face was touched.

"Father," said he, "am I not your son? Tell me." And the old man answered humbly: "Tom, I am old-and getting childish, but I want to go back. I've never lived anywhere else before and --and she's there, Tom."

So today he was going home; back to the hills and trees; back to his old house and graves; back where she had left him to wait until she had called him; and the journey was almost done.

The sunshine crept across the car, and the noise of voices grew lower and lower. Somehow it was evening, and he was coming home down the long lanes between the fields. Over the hills

came the tinkle of bells as the cattle came home to the milking; here, running to meet him, was little Tom, the red stains of berries still marking his face and fingers; and there by the gate, the lovelight as strong in her eyes as on the day they were married, stood Mary, the wife of his youth.

"I am late," he said, "and tired.”

"Come," she said, "you can rest now; it is only a step more," and-a long, quavering sigh of relief-and-he was at home. The little rough train went jolting along and reached his station at last. But when the conductor shook him he did not answer.

E. Crayton McCants.

THE BRIGHT SIDE.

There is many a rest in the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it,
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it!
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,

And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth,
The grass is green and the flowers are bright,
Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted!
There was never a night without a day,
Or an evening without a morning,
And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem, in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jewelled crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure:
It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayers to Heaven;
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling,

And to do God's will with a ready heart
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate, slender threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then blame Heaven for the tangled ends,
And sit, and grieve, and wonder.

M. A. Kidder.

"I SHOULD LIKE TO DIE," SAID WILLIE.

"I should like to die," said Willie, "if my papa could die, too; But he says he isn't ready-'cause he's got so much to do; But my little sister Nellie says that I must surely die,

And she and mamma-then she stopped because it made me cry.

"I remember that she told me once, while sitting on her knee That the angels never weary watching over her and me; And if I was only good-Nellie told me so before

That they let us into heaven when they see us at the door.
I shall know no more of sorrow, I shall know no more of sin-
I shall see mamma and Nellie, for I know they'll let me in—
But I'll have to tell the angel when I meet him at the door
That he must excuse my papa, because he couldn't leave the store.

"I know I shall be happy, and shall always want to stay

I should like to hear the singing-I should love the endless day;
I would like to look at Jesus-I'd love him more and more,

And I'd gather water-lilies for the angel at the door.
Nellie says that it may be I shall soon be called away-
If papa was only ready I should like to go today;
But if I go before him to that world of light and joy,
I guess he'll want to come to heaven to see his little boy."
Author Unknown.

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot,-
The gap that struck our school-boy trail,-
The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A penciled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan,
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green,—
The broken millstone at the mill,-
Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.