They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York,"

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother

Eyer,

And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir."

Said he "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile,
And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style;
Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing

Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing.

"We've got the biggest organ and the best-dressed choir in town,

We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old,— If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold."

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,

As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb.

They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm

chair,

And the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white

hair;

He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice both cracked and low,

But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.

Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's ap

probation,

To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;"

"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a

nudge,

"And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a

judge.

"It was the understandin', when we bargained for the

chorus,

That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singin' for us;

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

"We don't want any singin' except that what we've bought! The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;

And so we have decided—are you listenin', Brother Eyer? That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir."

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,
And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;
His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky

snow,

As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and

low :

"I've sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years, They've been my staff and comfort and calmed life's many

fears;

I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong;
But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back the

song.

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,

Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher, If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's

choir."

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,

And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.

The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot,
A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered

not.

Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart's

desires,

Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs !

MARION MOORE.

JAS. G. CLARK.

GONE art thou, Marion, Marion Moore,Gone like the bird in the autumn that singeth,

Gone like the flower by the way-side that springeth,

Gone like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth

Round the lone rock on the storm-beaten shore.

Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore,-
Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing,
Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing:
Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing;
Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore.

I will remember thee, Marion Moore,-
I shall remember, alas! to regret thee;
I will regret when all others forget thee;
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee
Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er.

Gone art thou, Marion, Marion Moore !-
Gone like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth,
Gone as the rill, to the ocean that floweth,
Gone as the day from the gray mountain goeth,
Darkness behind thee, but glory before.

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore,— Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow, Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow; O! to be happy with thee on the morrow, Who would not fly from this desolate shore?

"And John is a fogy

And acts like a brute,

To deny you a party
Or opera suit.

"A mean, ugly fellow-"

"Why, ma, I am sure
John never was stingy,
Although he was poor.

"He is always respectful
And clever to you;
So tender and patient,
Whatever I do.

"And now I remember,
He said he would go
To the Madisons' party-
How can you talk so?

"Poor, patient old fellow !
I'm going right back;

I'll tell him I'm sorry,

And then-I'll unpack."

The worldly-wise mother
Looked over at me:

I know how to manage
Matilda, you see."

THE MIRACLE OF CANA.

FRED EMERSON BROOKS.

THE water-pots were filled at God's behest;
Yet in the marriage wine no grape was pressed;
No tired feet the weary wine-press trod
To make this sacred vintage of our God;
As nature doth confess a power divine,
Each drop of moisture turned itself to wine.