With hair unusually combed, sat poor M'Farland near,
Alternately perusing Greek, and wrestling with a tear.
A homely little girl of six, for some old kindness' sake,
Was sobbing in the corner there as if her heart would break.
The books looked worn and wretched-like, almost as if they
knew,

And seemed to be a-whispering their titles to my view.
His rod and gun were in their place; and high, where all
might see,

Gleamed jauntily the boating-cup he won last year from me. I lifted up the solemn sheet. That honest, earnest face Showed signs of culture and of toil that death could not erase. As western skies at twilight mark where late the sun has been,

Brown's face revealed the mind and soul that once had burned within.

He looked so grandly helpless there, upon that lonely bed! Oh, Jack! these manly foes are foes no more when they are dead!

"Old boy," I sobbed, " 'twas half my fault. This heart makes late amends."

I took the white cold hands in mine,-and Brown and I were friends.

THE WRONG MAN.

The Hon. Demshire Hornet had a very unpleasant experience lately. Mark Twain was advertised to lecture in but for some reason failed to get around. In the emergency the lecture committee decided to employ Mr. Hornet to deliver his celebrated lecture on temperance, but so late in the day was this arrangement made that no bills announcing it could be circulated, and the audience assembled, expecting the celebrated Innocent. Nobody in the town knew Mark, or had even heard him lecture, but they had got the notion that he was funny, and went there prepared to laugh. Even those on the platform, except the chairman, did not know Mr. Hornet from Mark Twain, and so when he was introduced thought nothing of the name, as they knew Mark Twain was a nom de plume, and supposed his real name was Hornet. The denouement is thus told: Mr. Hornet first remarked: "Intemperance is the curse of

the country." The audience burst into a laugh. He knew it could not be at his remark, and thought his clothes must be awry, and he asked the chairman in a whisper if he was all right, and got "yes" for an answer. Then he said: "Rum slays more than disease!”—a louder laugh. He couldn't understand it, but went on: "It breaks up happy homes!"— still louder mirth. "It is carrying young men down to death and hell!"—a perfect roar, and applause. Mr. Hornet began to get excited. He thought they were guying, but he proceeded: "We must crush the serpent!"—a tremendous howl of laughter. The men on the platform, except the chairman, squirmed as they laughed. Hornet couldn't stand it. “What I'm saying is gospel truth!" he cried. The audience fairly bellowed with mirth. Hornet turned to a man on the stage and said: "Do you see anything very ridiculous in my remarks or behavior?" "Yes, ha, ha-it's intensely funny-ha, ha, ha! Go on!" replied the roaring man. "This is an insult!" cried Hornet, wildly dancing about. More laughter, and cries of "Go on, Twain !" And then the chairman got the idea of the thing, and rose and explained the situation, and the men on the stage suddenly quit laughing, and the audience looked at each other in a mighty sheepish way, and they quit laughing, too. And then Mr. Hornet, being thoroughly mad, told them he had never before got into a town so entirely populated by fools and idiots, and having said that, he left the hall. And the assemblage then voted to censure Twain and the chairman, and dispersed amidst deep gloom.

HUMAN LIFE.-MRS. J. M. WINTON.

UUUUU*

After a while-a busy brain
Will rest from all its care and pain.
After a while-earth's rush will cease,
And a weary heart find sweet release.

After a while-a vanished face-
An empty seat-a vacant place.

After a while-a man forgot

A crumbled headstone-unknown spot.

SUMMER EVE.-WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

I am musing amid the clover,
And watching the waning day;
Watching and waiting as over
The lowlands the shadows play;
The hillside reposes in glory,
Emerald and crimson and gold,
And meadows are hearing the story
Rivulets sang them of old.

I stand in the fading sunlight
Where gloweth the genial day,
As steps of the coming twilight
Are threading their quiet way;
Lone flowers the winds are caressing,
As gently they wander by;
And stars are coming with blessing
From depths of a holier sky.

Encrimsoned the clouds are reposing,
Fair islands of love and light,
And their beauty is calmly closing,
Awaiting the dream of night;
And slowly as the day is dying
In the folding arms of even,
The pine-tops are wildly sighing
To the playful breaths of heaven.

The wild bee has turned from his roaming,
And the jay where stillness reigns;
The thrush has no song for the gloaming,
And only the dove complains;
Lone shadows steal over the valleys,
With pencilling rays between;
And nymphs from the forest alleys
Retire with the parting beam.

The scarlet and green of the grasses
Are hid in the sombre gray;

Through the gloom of the wild morasses
The fire-fly lights his way;

Cool mists up the mountain are stealing,
Veiling the oaks in their haze,
And sounds in the woods are revealing
Measures of solitude's ways.

The dews in the meadows are gleaming,
As light softly dyes the west;
And over the streamlets is teeming
The quiet of peace and rest.

From haunts of the silent and holy,
From caves of the night and gloom,
With spiritual steppings and slowly,
The shadows of evening come.

Of nature my spirit grows fonder
As I gaze o'er her flowery sod,
As I pause by her streams and ponder
The wonderful things of God.
Nor vainly her shades I've awaited
To list to the voice of night;
My musings with her are mated,
With her there's a calm delight.

Through many an eve of summer
I've roamed o'er the fruitful earth;
I've worshiped her as a mother
For all of her beauteous birth;
I love her when dayspring blesses,
When her hill-tops hail the sun;
When wrapped in her ebon tresses
As toils of the day are done.

Her mystical shades I've pondered,
Through the forest's moon-lit way,
As the night bird's flute-notes wandered
In ecstasy's varied play.

The gray rocks were there, the mountain,
The purl of the winding stream;
And I lingered beside the fountain,
Forgetful of life's sad dream.

Her mountains and cliffs are holy,
The solitudes charm her vales;
She has sooth for the sad and lowly
When darkness o'er life prevails;
She has music forever dying

O'er crags of the bounding sea;
And her woodlands are ever sighing
In silvery chords to me.

But darkness has come to the valley,
Gently as bird to her nest;

And strains of the song and the sally
Are hushed in earth's hour of rest;
I've mused o'er the slope and the meadow
To learn the wisdom of night;

To seek through the vista of shadow
Life's lesson to read aright.

O day! there is naught in thy dreaming
So sweet as the star-lit hour!
No moments of thine so teeming
With love and its silent power!
But brighter than love's emotion
Night teaches a faith oft told;
That asketh a holier devotion
Whilst reading her page of gold.
I have watched the day to its ending
In beauty and floods of gold;

A light and serenity blending

That numbers must leave untold;
I have watched as the night's soft mantle
Enfolded the dying rays;

The Lord is here in his temple,

And silence is prayer and praise.

THE POOR LITTLE BOY'S HYMN.

A friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the upper room of a tenement-house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself through the hole, and found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a bull's-eye in place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old.

"My boy, what are you doing here?"

"Hush! don't tell anybody, please, sir.”

"But what are you doing here?"

"Hush! please don't tell anybody, sir; I'm a-hiding."

"What are you hiding from?"

"Don't tell anybody, please, sir."

"Where's your mother?”