Here, too, a little child

Stood by the drift, now blackened and defiled;

And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, Scraped the dark crust away.

Checking my hurried pace,

To watch the busy hands and earnest face, I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight, That underneath, 't was white.

Then, through a broken pane,

A woman's voice summoned him in again, With softened mother-tones, that half excused

The unclean words she used.

And as I lingered near,

His baby accents fell upon my ear: "See, I can make the snow again for you, All clean and white and new!"

Ah! surely God knows best.

Our sight is short; faith trusts to him the rest.

Sometimes, we know, he gives to human hands

To work out his commands.

Perhaps he holds apart,

By baby fingers, in that mother's heart,
One fair, clean spot that yet may spread
and grow,
Till all be white as snow.

WILLIAM C. GANNETT.

[U. S. A.]

LISTENING FOR GOD.

I HEAR it often in the dark,
I hear it in the light,
Where is the voice that calls to me
With such a quiet might?
It seems but echo to my thought,
And yet beyond the stars;
It seems a heart-beat in a hush,
And yet the planet jars.

O, may it be that far within
My inmost soul there lies
A spirit-sky, that opens with

Those voices of surprise?
And can it be, by night and day,
That firmament serene

Is just the heaven where God himself,
The Father, dwells unseen?

O God within, so close to me

That every thought is plain, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign! Thy heaven is mine,—my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences

With music and with song.

They send me challenges to right,
And loud rebuke my ill;
They ring my bells of victory,
They breathe my "Peace, be still!"
They ever seem to say, "My child,
Why seek me so all day?

Now journey inward to thyself,
And listen by the way.'

MARY G. BRAINERD.

[U. S. A.]

GOD KNOWETH.

I KNOW not what shall befall me,
God hangs a mist o'er my eyes,
And so, each step of my onward path,
He makes new scenes to rise,
And every joy he sends me comes
As a sweet and glad surprise.

I see not a step before me,
As I tread on another year;
But the past is still in God's keeping,
The future his mercy shall clear,
And what looks dark in the distance
May brighten as I draw near.

For perhaps the dreaded future

Has less bitter than I think;
The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink,
Or, if Marah must be Marah,

He will stand beside its brink.

It may be he keeps waiting
Till the coming of my feet
Some gift of such rare blessedness,
Some joy so strangely sweet,
That my lips shall only tremble
With the thanks they cannot speak.

O restful, blissful ignorance!

'Tis blessed not to know,
It holds me in those mighty arms
Which will not let me go,
And hushes my soul to rest

On the bosom which loves me so!

So I go on not knowing;.

I would not if I might;

God,

I pray because I must; There is no meaning in my prayer But thankfulness and trust.

I would not have thee otherwise
Than what thou ever art:
Be still thyself, and then I know
We cannot live apart.

But still thy love will beckon me,
And still thy strength will come,
In many ways to bear me up

And bring me to my home.

And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, And not the words I say;

Wilt hear the thanks among the words
That only seem to pray;

As if thou wert not always good,
As if thy loving care
Could ever miss me in the midst
Of this thy temple fair.

For, if I ever doubted thee,
How could I any more!

above,

Darkens with storms or melts in hues

of love;

Shakespeare consoles
My heart with true philosophies; a balm
Of spiritual dews from humbler song
or psalm

Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls!

And more than all, o'er shattered
wrecks of Fate,

The relics of a happier time and state,
My nobler life

Shines on unquenched! O deathless
love that lies

In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes!

Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife!

ISA CRAIG KNOX.

BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A STILLNESS crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare;
Upon the silent hills looked forth

The many-windowed House of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed;

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare;
The great trees grew i' the avenue,
Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim
The alders sickened all the air;

The days hold on their wonted pace,
And men to court and camp repair,
Their part to fill, of good or ill,
While women keep the House of Quair.

And one is clad in widow's weeds,
And one is maiden-like and fair,
And day by day they seek the paths
About the lonely fields of Quair.

To see the trout leap in the streams,
The maiden loves in pensive dreams
The summer clouds reflected there,
To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair.
Within, in pall-black velvet clad,
Sits stately in her oaken chair-
A stately dame of ancient name-
The mother of the House of Quair.

Her daughter broiders by her side,
And listens to her frequent plaint,
With heavy drooping golden hair,

"Ill fare the brides that come to Quai "For more than one hath lived in pine,

And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair. "Alas! and ere thy father died I had not in his heart a share, And now-may God forfend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair." She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.