"There are long, plain spaces, without a break, What it costs respectable pôor to gô,

That in life are hard to bear;
And many a weary tear is dropped
As we fashion the heel with care.

"But the saddest, happiest time is that
We count, and yet would shun,
When our heavenly Father breaks the thread
And says our work is done."

The children came to say good night,
With tears in their bright young eyes,
While in grandma's lap, with broken thread,
The finished stocking lies.

"AN

FOUND DEAD.

ANONYMOUS.

N unknown man, respectably dressed," That was all that the record said: Wondering pity might guess the rest:

One thing was sure, the man was dead.

And dead, because he'd no heart to live;
His courage had faltered and failed the test.
How little the all we now can give,

A nameless sod to cover his breast!
"Respectably dressed," the thoughtless read
The sentence over, and idly say,
"What was it then, since it was not need,
Which made him thus fling his life away?"

"Respectably dressed?" How little they know Who never have been for money pressed,

happy

Day after day, "respectably dressed!" The beggars on sidewalks suffer less,

They herd all together, clan and clan; Alike and equal in wretchedness,

No room for pride between man and man. Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt,

More often something is gained instead ; Nothing to fear but bodily hurt,

Nothing to hope for save daily bread.

But respectable poor have all to lose;

For the world to know, means loss and
shame.

They'd rather die, if they had to choose;
They cling as for life to place and name.

Cling, and pretend, and conceal, and hide;
Never an hour but its terror bears;
Terror which slinks like guilt to one side,
And often a guiltier conscience wears.
"Respectably dressed" to the last; ay, last!

Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat; Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and past;

What wonder that any death looks sweet.

"An unknown man respectably dressed,"
That was all that the record said.
When will the question let us rest,

Is it fault of ours that the man was dead?
HELEN JACKSON.

wear, and yet I do not rewe

en.

bar any
cons pering

ен спеков

thet

"SWEET BY-AND-BY."

HYMN AND RECITATION.
Recite:

HERE are faces we fondly recall,

That have vanished away from this vale,
Like the leaves of the forest that fall,
That float from our gaze on the gale;
There are forms that have gladdened our sight
That are mouldering under the sod;
There are loved ones that walk in the light,
The glory and splendor of God.

Sing:

In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,

We shall meet on that beautiful shore."
Recite:

There's the form of a beautiful child
That comes at the set of the sun;

There's a face that once met me and smiled
When my day's weary labor was done.

I see her, in dreams, at the door,

Again, where the green ivy clings; I list to her voice while once more She sweetly and joyously sings:

Sing:

"There's a land that is fairer than day,
And in dreams we may see it afar:
For the Father waits over the way,
To prepare us a dwelling-place there.
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore."

Recite.

Like a lily that blooms by the way,
That brightens the path where we roam,
She came to my presence one day,
The sunshine and joy of my home.
Like a lily that withers and dies,
She drooped on a calm summer-night,
And, closing her beautiful eyes,
She peacefully passed from my sight.
Sing:

"In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore."
Recite:

I know on that beautiful shore

She is waiting and watching to-day;
I know she will greet me once more,
No matter what others may say.

I shall lay down my burden of woe
When I enter the valley she trod;
She will sing me the song that she sang long

ago,

While I stand in the presence of God:
Sing:

"To our beautiful Father above

We will offer the tribute of praise
For the glorious gift of his love

And the blessings that hallow our days.
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and-by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by-and-by, by-and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore."
EUGENE J. HALL.

LOSS.

HERE is no subject of thought more melancholy, more wonderful, than the way in which God permits so often his best gifts to be trodden under foot of men, his richest treasures to be wasted by the moth, and the mightiest influences of his Spirit, given but once in the world's history, to be quenched and shortened by miseries of chance and guilt. I do not wonder at what men suffer, but I wonder often at what they lose. We may see how good rises out of pain and evil; but the dead, naked, eyeless loss, what good comes of that? The fruit struck to the earth before its ripeness; the glowing life and goodly purpose dissolved away in sudden death; the words, half spoken, choked upon the lips with clay forever; or, stranger than all, the whole majesty of humanity raised to its fullness, and every gift and power necessary for a given purpose, at a given moment, centered in one man, and all this perfected blessing permitted to be refused, perverted, crushed, cast aside by those who need it most; the city which is not set upon a hill, the candle that giveth light to none that are in the house; these are the heaviest mysteries of this strange world, and, it seems to me, those that mark its curse the most.

8

JOHN RUSKIN.