'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so cozily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!-it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

T

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

ALKING of sects till late one eve,

Of various doctrines the saints believe, That night I stood in a troubled dream, By the side of a darkly flowing stream.

And a "Churchman" down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross the tide,
You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind;

And his long gown floated out behind,

As down to the stream his way he took,
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there,
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer;
And, though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked in that blissful spot,

Whether he belonged to the "Church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a somber hue was made.
"My coat and hat must all be gray-

I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly waded in.

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat;
A moment he silently sighed over that;
And then, as he gazed to the further shore,
The coat slipped off and was seen no more.

As he entered heaven his suit of gray
Went quietly sailing away, away;

And none of the angels questioned him
About the width of his beaver's brim.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms

Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven all round might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
As he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised as one by one

The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS.,

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness;

But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do?

The water has soaked them through and through."

And there on the river far and wide,

Away they went down the swollen tide;

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name
Down to the stream together came;

But, as they stopped at the river's brink,

I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end?"

"Thus, with a few drops on my brow."

"But I have been dipped, as you see me now.

"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you;
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

Then straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left-his friend to the right.
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.

And now, when the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian Church went down ;

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree,
The old or the new way, which it could be,
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud,
Came ever up from the moving crowd;
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new;
That is the false and this is the true"-
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak;
Modest the sisters walked and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,

A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men';
For have you not heard the words of Paul,
'Oh, let the women keep silence all'?"

I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met:
But all the brethren were talking yet,

And would talk on till the heaving tide
Carried them over side by side-

Side by side, for the way was one;
The toilsome journey of life was done;
And all who in Christ the Saviour died,
Came out alike on the other side.

No forms of crosses or books had they;
No gowns of silk or suits of gray;
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,

For all had put on Christ's righteousness.

-Anon.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

B

FRANCIS M. FINCH.

Y the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the roses, the Blue;

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch, impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;-
'Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the Summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;-
Wet with the rain, the Blue
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;-
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;-
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.

AN INTERESTING TRAVELING

M

COMPANION.

M. QUAD.

ANY men think a railroad journey is rendered really pleasant by the companionship of an unprotected female. She insisted on counting her bandbox and traveling bag as we got seated. She counted. There were just two. I counted and made no more nor less. Then she wanted her parasol put into the rack, her shawl folded up, and her bandbox counted again. I counted it. There was just exactly one bandbox of it. As we got started she wanted to know if I was sure that we were on the right road to Detroit. I was sure. Then she wanted her traveling bag counted. counted it once more. By this time she wanted the window up, and asked me if it was not a very hot day. I said it was. Then she felt for her money and found it was safe, though she was sure that she had lost it. While counting it she related how Mrs.

I