Tell him to sind us a bit of his money,

For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake,
And-shure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey,
I' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake.

I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin'. Oh, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me!

Dead! Patrick O'Conner! Oh God, it's some ither.
Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by,
And the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin' mother,
It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dhry.

Dead! dead! Oh God, am I crazy?

Shure it's brakin' my heart ye are, tellin' me so,
And what en the warld will I do wid poor Daisy?
Oh, what can I do? and where can I go?

This room is so dark I'm not seein' yer honor;
I think I'll go home. . . . And a sob, hard and dry,
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,
But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.

13.-APOSTROPHE TO WATER.
A. W. ARRINGTON.

Where is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all His children? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in Heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it: And down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar, the chorus sweeping the march of God: there He brews it, that beverage of life, the healthgiving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty—gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze

around the midnight moon; sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail-shower; folding its bright snow-curtains softly about the wintry world; and weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all chequered over with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depths; no drunken shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair. Speak on, my friends: would you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?

14.-HANNAH, THE MOTHER.
ANONYMOUS.

"The Master has come over Jordan,"
Said Hannah, the mother, one day;
"Is healing the people who throng Him,
With a touch of His finger, they say.
And now I shall carry the children,-
Little Rachel and Samuel and John;
I shall carry the baby Esther,

"

For the Lord to look upon.'
The father looked at her kindly;

But he shook his head and smiled,
"Now, who but a doting mother
Would think of a thing so wild?
If the children were tortured by demons,
Or dying of fever, 'twere well;
Or had they the taint of the leper,
Like many in Israel."

"Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan ;
I feel such a burden of care:

If I carry it to the Master,

Perhaps I shall leave it there.
If He lay His hand on the children,
My heart will be lighter, I know;
For a blessing forever and ever
Will follow them as they go."

So over the hills of Judah,

Along by the vine-rows green,
With Esther asleep on her bosom,

And Rachel her brothers between;

'Mong the people who hung on His teaching.
Or waited His touch and His word;
Through the row of proud Pharisees list'ning,-
She pressed to the feet of the Lord.

"Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master,"
Said Peter, "with children like these?
Seest not how, from morning till evening,
He teacheth, and healeth disease?"
Then Christ said, "Forbid not the children;
Permit them to come unto me;'

"

And He took in His arms little Esther,
And Rachel He set on His knee.

. And the heavy heart of the mother
Was lifted all earth-care above,
As He laid His hands on the brothers,
And blessed them with tenderest love;
As He said of the babes in His bosom,
"Of such are the kingdom of heaven;"
And strength for all duty and trial,
That hour to her spirit was given.

15.-TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

GERALD MASSEY.

High hopes that burned like stars sublime,
Go down i' the heavens of freedom,
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the wilderness to-day--
The promised land to-morrow!
Our birds of song are silent now,
There are no flowers blooming,
Yet life holds in the frozen bough,

And freedom's spring is coming;
And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow:
And our good bark, aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow!

Through all the long, long night of years
The people's cry ascendeth,

And earth is wet with blood and tears:

But our meek sufferance endeth!

The few shall not forever sway

The many moil in sorrow;

The powers of hell are strong to-day,
But Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes
With smiling futures glisten!

For, lo! our day bursts up the skies;
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world rolls freedom's radiant way,
And ripens with her sorrow;

Keep heart! who bear the Cross to-day,
Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth, flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire

Our yearning opes the portal;
And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow-
We'll sow the golden grain to-day,
The harvest reap to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call-
O chivalry of labor!

Triumph and toil are twins, and ay

Joy suns the clouds of sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow!

16. STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY.

A. A. PROCTER.

Strive: yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day

Will not fade when you think to grasp it,

And melt in your hand away;

But another and holier treasure,

You would now perchance disdain,

Will come when your toil is over,

And pay you for all your pain.

Wait: yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now

Will not come with its radiance vanished,

And a shadow upon its brow;

Yet, far through the misty future,

With a crown of starry light,

An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight,

Pray: though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears,
May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not that you long for,
But choicer, will come one day;
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.

17-OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

WILLIAM KNOX.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her, and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.