other things like that; then I got a stummick, and it's got in it a pickle, a piece of pie, two sticks of peppermint candy, and my dinner."

MY GUEST.

The day is fixed that there shall come to me
A strange mysterious guest;

The time I do not know, he keeps the date,
So all I have to do is work and wait,

And keep me at my best,

And do my common duties patiently.

I've often wondered if that day would break

Brighter than other days?

That I might know, or wrapped in some strange gloom,
And if he'd find me waiting in my room,

Or busy with life's ways;

With weary hands, and closing eyes that ached.

For many years I've know that he would come,
And so I've watched for him,

And sometimes even said, "He will come soon,"
Yet mornings pass, followed by afternoon,

With twilight dusk and dim,

And silent night-times, when the world is dumb.

But he will come, and find me here or there,
It does not matter where,

For when he comes, I know that he will take,
In his, these very hands of mine that ache
(They will be idle then),

Just folded, may be, with a silent prayer.

Yes, he whom I expect has been called Death,
And once he is my guest,

Nothing disturbs of what has been, or is;
I'll leave the world's loud company for his,
As that which seemeth best,

And none may hear the tender words he saith.

As we pass out, my royal guest and I,

As noiseless as he came,

For naught will do, but I must go with him,

And leave the house I've lived in, closed and dim.

I've known I should not need it by-and-by!

And so I sleep and wake, I toil and rest,
Knowing when he shall come

My Elder Brother will have sent for me,
Bidding him say that they especially
Have need of me at home,

And so, I shall go gladly with my guest.

New York Observer.

THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES.

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one,

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes

And the heart but one,

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When its love is done.

Francis W. Bourdillon.

IF YOU'VE ANYTHING GOOD TO SAY.

If you've anything good to say of a man,
Don't wait till he's laid to rest,

For the eulogy spoken when hearts are broken
Is an empty thing at best.

Ah! the blighted flower now drooping lonely
Would perfume the mountain-side,
If the sun's glad ray had but shone today
And the pretty bud espied.

If you've any alms to give to the poor,
Don't wait till you hear the cry
Of wan distress in this wilderness,
Lest the one forsaken die.

Oh, harken to poverty's sad lament!

Be swift her wants to allay;

Don't spurn God's poor from the favored door,
As you hope for mercy one day.

Don't wait for another to bear the burden
Of sorrow's irksome load;

Let your hand extend to a stricken friend
As he totters adown life's road.

And if you've anything good to say of a man,
Don't wait till he's laid at rest;

For the eulogy spoken when hearts are broken
Is an empty thing at best.

Author unknown.

MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS.

"They charge me with poverty, because I never desired to become rich dishonestly; they accuse me of blindness, because I

have lost my eyes in the service of liberty; they tax me with cowardice, and while I had the use of my eyes and my sword I never feared the boldest among them; finally, I am upbraided with deformity, while no one was more handsome in the age of beauty. I do not even complain of my want of sight; in the night with which I am surrounded the light of the Divine presence shines with a more brilliant lustre. God looks down upon me with tenderness and compassion, because I can now see none but Himself. Misfortune should protect me from insult, and render me sacred; not because I am deprived of the light of heaven, but because I am under the shadow of the Divine wings which have enveloped me with this darkness."

John Milton's Letter to a Foreign Friend.

LIFE'S SEESAW.

"Gin ye find a heart that's weary,
And that needs a brither's hand,
Dinna thou turn from it, dearie;
Thou maun help they fellow man.
Thou, too, hast a hidden heart-ache,
Sacred from all mortal ken,

And because of thine own grief's sake
Thou maun feel for ither men.

"In this world o' seesaw, dearie,

Grief goes up and joy comes down,
Brows that catch the sunshine cheerie
May tomorrow wear a frown.
Bleak December, dull and dreary,

Follows on the heels o' May.
Give thy trust unstinted, dearie,

Thou mayst need a friend some day."

JENNIE KISSED ME.
Jennie kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief! who loves to get
Sweets into your lists, put that in!

Say I'm weary; say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm getting dull-but add

Jennie kissed me.

Leigh Hunt.

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 I am, 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.