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" I came here alone.” “Nay, I stood by your side.” “I will dwell on her lips.” “In her heart I will hide." The Smile wreathed her lips, falling slightly apart, The Sigh sank in sadness down into her heart. This was ages ago; how long I forget; But the Smile and the Sigh strive for mastery yet.

G. T. JOHNSON.

GOD'S ANVIL.

PAINS furnace heat within me quivers,

AIN furnace heat within

God's breath upon the flame doth blow,
And all my heart in anguish shivers,

And trembles at the fiery glow;
And yet I whisper: As God will !
And in His hottest fire hold still.
He comes and lays my heart, all heated,

On the hard anvil, minded so
Into His own fair shape to beat it

With His great hammer, blow on blow;
And yet I whisper: As God will !
And at His heaviest blows hold still.
He takes my softened heart and beats it;

The sparks fly off at every blow;
He turns it o'er and o'er and heats it,

And lets it cool, and makes it glow;
And yet I whisper: As God will !
And in His mighty hand hold still.
Why should I murmur? For the sorrow

Thus only longer-lived would be ;
Its end may come, and will to-morrow,

When God has done His work in me;

So I say, trusting: As God will!
And, trusting to the end, hold still.

He kindles for my profit purely

Affliction's glowing, fiery brand,
And all His heaviest blows are surely

Inflicted by a master hand ;
So I say, praying: As God will!
And hope in Him, and suffer still.

BISHOP DOANE.

SELF-CULTURE.

MAK

SOW.

AKE the best of yourself. Watch, and plant, and

Cultivate! Cultivate ! Falter not, faint not! Press onward! Persevere ! Perhaps you cannot bear such lordly fruit, nor yet such rare, rich flowers as others; but what of that? Bear the best you can. 'Tis all God asks.

Your flowers may only be the daisies and buttercups of life—the little words and smiles and handshakes and helpful looks; but we love these flowers full well. We may stop to look at a tulip's gorgeous colors, and admire the creamy whiteness of a noble lily; but it is to the little flowers we turn with tenderest thought. We watch for snowdrops with longing eyes, and scent the fragrance of the violet with a keen delight. So let your life grow sweet scented with all pleasant thoughts and gentle words and kindly deeds.

HER LADDIE'S PICTURE.

Good 100D master, turn your face this way;

And let your pallet lie, I pray. Men say

that you are keen and wise, That you can paint the bird that flies, And catch the shadow from the

sun, And paint the day ere it be done. I've heard so much that you could do, O’er many a mile I've come to you, Past mountain ridge and rippling stream I've come, as led by some fair dream, To show you these and beg that you Will paint my grandson ; please, sir, do. Ah, when they told me he was dead I could not rest me in

my

bed.
See, here are eggs and butter too,
Sage and parsley, thyme and rue.
And in this basket you will find
A fresh-made cheese and honey. Mind,
These are his clothes, his little skirts
Just three

years
old he was.

It hurts
Me much to see this little dress-
He wore it last. What say you? Yes,
'Tis blue with band of scarlet braid.
I recollect his mother made
It, just one month before she died.
His shoes, you see, are yellow hide.
How proud he was to see his feet
In shoes so pretty! See how neat

I made this cap of red and blue,
To match the dress! This collar, too,
Is lace from off my wedding gown.
'Tis old, you see, and getting brown.
His curling hair, so long and bright,
Resembled corn silk in the light.
His little hands so pink and soft-
O, sir, 'tis true I've seen him oft
Clasp them tight and bend his head
Until it touched his trundle-bed ;
In baby lisp then say the prayer
That angels listen to and share.
You'll paint him, please ? Don't say me nay.
He was so good, so sweet, and gay;
He was the last one of my race;
In his I saw my husband's face.
Why look you sad and turn away
From his dear clothes ? What do you say?
Have I no picture of his face?
O painter great, were this the case
I would not beg you for
To comfort thus my stricken heart.
They say you are so wise and good-
That magic guides your pencil's mood.
Pray give me back my laddie's face,
And I will bless the hands that trace
His sweet blue eyes. Must I sit down?
Indeed I will. I've come to town
To get his picture, then go home
Where I was born no more to roam.

your art

Master, days have passed, a score,
Since first I crossed your open door,

And since your promise to restore
My laddie to these eyes once more.
You draw the curtain ? God be praised !
There kneels my laddie! Am I dazed,
Or is that mine, that wrinkled hand
Resting on the golden strand
Of my kneeling laddie's hair
While his face is hid in prayer-
Kneeling in the same blue dress
And yellow shoes? O God, I bless-
But, sir, I do not see his

eyes”
I beg your pardon. My surprise
Is great. It is so like
My bonny lad. Does it not strike
You that his eyes are hid ?
But oh, he did as he was bid,
And hid his face behind his hand
As he his lisping prayer began.
That head pressed close up to my knee
I feel him near.

Almost I see
Beneath the hand those eyes I love
That smile on me from realins above.

MARY BEALE BRAINERD.

THE TEAR OF REPENTANCE.

The Peri are mythologically represented as descendants of fallen angels, excluded from Paradise until, through some holy deed, their penance is accomplished. In this instance a Peri is described as having twice appeared at the Gate of Heaven, bearing the first time a drop of blood from the heart of an expiring warrior ; the second time a farewell sigh from the lips of a dying lover. In each case she is refused admission—the

gift not being
deemed sufficiently worthy—the

angel bids her seek again and this time she bears to Heaven a tear of repentance from the eye

of

& hardened sinner.

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