In the leaves that blow and perish

In the space of a single hour,—
As the loves that most we cherish
Die like the frailest flower,--
In the living things whose living
Withers or e'er they bloom,
He reads of the great thanksgiving,
Which breathes from the open tomb.
The bright Spring leaves returning
To the stem whence Autumn's fell,
And the heat of Summer burning,
To change at the Winter's spell,
The year that again repasses,

The grain that again revives,
Are signs on the darkened glasses
That bar and bound our lives.

I know how the glass must darken
To my vision more and more,
When the weak ear strains to hearken,
When the faint eye glazes o'er;
But the glass shall melt and shiver,
Once kissed by the fighting breath,

And the light beyond the river
Shine full in the face of death.

Strong-set in a strong affection,
We look to the golden prime,
When a mightier resurrection

Shall burst on the doubts of time;
And the thoughts of all the sages,
Like the waves of the fretful main,
At the base of the Rock of Ages
Shall foam and fume in vain.

THE POTATO. -THOMAS MOORE.

I'm a careless potato, and care not a pin
How into existence I came;

If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in,
To me 'tis exactly the same.

The bean and the pea may more loftily tower,
But I care not a button for them;

Defiance I nod with my beautiful flower
When the earth is hoed up to my stem.

WHAT A LITTLE BOY THINKS ABOUT THINGS.

JOHN PAUL.

I am a little boy about so many years old; I don't know whether I'm a good little boy, but I'm afraid not, for I sometimes do wicked things, and once I cut sister's kitten's tail off with the chopping knife, and told her a big dog came along and bit it off and swallowed it down before kitty could say Jack Robinson, and sister said she was sorry, and it must have been a very naughty dog, but mother did not believe me and said she was afraid I had told a lie, and I'm afraid I had.

So then she asked me if I knew where liars went to and I said yes, they went to New York and wrote for the newspapers; she said no-but to a lake of fire and brimstone, and she asked me if I would like to go there, and I said no, for I didn't think there would be much skating or sliding on that lake, and the boys couldn't snowball either, on shore, and she said it was more than that, just as though that wasn't bad enough, for I don't think they can play base-ball nuther.

Then she asked me if I wouldn't like to be a nangel and have a harp, and I said no, I'd rather be a stage driver and have a big drum, for I couldn't play on t'other thing. So I shouldn't like to be a nangel, for their wings must be in the way when they go swimming, and play tag, and leap frog, and besides it must be hard to fly when one ain't accustomed to it. But it would be jolly to be a stage driver and have a great long whip and touch up the leaders, and say “g'lang there, what are ye doin' on !" I should like that much better'n flyin'; and then mother said there was a dreadful stage of sin, and Bob hollered and said that he "guessed I was on it," and then she whipped us and sent us to bed without any supper, but I didn't care for any supper, for they hadn't nothin' but bread and butter and tea,-and Bob and I got up and he lifted me in at the pantry window, and we got a mince-pie and a whole hat-full of doughnuts, and they thought it was the cook that stole 'em, and sent her away the next day, and Bob said he was glad of it, for she didn't make good pies, and the doughnuts wasn't fried enough.

Sometimes I do swear, for I said "by golly" the other day, and sister heard me, and she told mother, and mother said I was a bad boy and would bring her gray hairs to the grave, and she whipped me, but I don't think it did her gray hairs any good, and it hurt me, and when I got up stairs I said "goff darn it," but I said it so she didn't hear me, and when she asked me if I didn't think I was very wicked, I said I was afraid I was, and was sorry for it, and wouldn't do so any more, and then she said I was a good little boy, and told me about George Washington who cut down the apple-tree, and was caught at it, and said he did it with his little hatchet, just as though I hadn't heard all about it before, and didn't always think he was a big stupid for cutting wood when they had a hired man about the house, and dullin' his little hatchet, and besides it would have been a great deal jollier to let the trees be so as he could have stole apples off in the fall.

I don't care if he was the father of his country, he wasn't smart, and I bet you the boys in our school would cheat him out of his eye-teeth swoppin' jack-knives, and I could lick him and hardly try, and I don't think he was very healthy either, for I never see a good boy that wasn't always sick and had the mumps and measles, and the scarlet fever, and wasn't a-coughing all the while, and hadn't to take castor oil and tar water, and couldn't eat cherries, and didn't have to have his head patted till the hair was rubbed off by everybody that came to see his mother, and be asked how old he was, and what he'd been studying at school, and how far he'd got, and lots of other conundrums, and have to say his catechism.

No, I shouldn't like to be a good little boy, I'd just as lieve be a nangel and be done with it; I don't think I ever shall be a good little boy, and other people don't think so too, for [ wasn't never called a good little boy but once, and that was when my Uncle John asked me where I stood in my class, and I told him it was next to the head, and he said that was right, and he gave me a quarter, and when he asked me how many boys were in the class, I said there was only two, myself and a little girl, and then he wanted me to give him back his quarter and I wouldn't, and he ran after me and stumbled over a chair, and he broke his cane, and hurt him.

self, and he's been lame ever since, and I'm glad of it, for he isn't my father, and hasn't any right to lick me, for I get enough of that at home; and the quarter wasn't a good one either.

I don't like Uncle John, and I guess he knows it, for he says I ain't like any of the family, and he says he expects I'll go to sea and be a pirate instead of a respectable member of society, and I should not wonder, for I'd rather be a pirate than a soap-boiler like him, and I don't care if he is rich, it's a nasty business; and I shan't have to be a pirate either, for one can make lots of money without that; and they are always talking to me about being rich and respectable, and going to Congress and being President and all that sort of thing, but I don't want to be President; but there's Bob callin' me, and we're goin' birds-nestin', for I know where there's a yaller bird's nest chuck full of eggs; mother says it's cruel and the little birds don't like it, that I wouldn't like to have my eggs stole if I was a bird, and I don't think I should, but I ain't a bird, you know, and that makes a difference.

FLYING JIM'S LAST LEAP.-EMMA DUNNING BANKS.

The hero of this tale had been once a trapeze performer, much famed for his daring leaps in the circus ring. Later in life he had fallen into evil ways, and was now a fugitive from justice, closely pursued by officers of the law.

Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridg et's willing hands,

Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair

Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;

Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,

Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.

His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed

his knees,

Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves.

Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door;

Parched lips, humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er;

Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start

Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart.

"Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick.

Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick."

Then the man with dragging footsteps, hopeless, wishing himself dead,

Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook,

Bubbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook. Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink;

Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink;

Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped,

In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped;

Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt,

Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want.

Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again

Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?"

"Look, poor man,

here's food and drink. Now thank our

God before you take."

Paused she mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake

With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling

down

O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; That "our God" unsealed a fountain, his whole life had never known,

When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his

own.

"Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee

one ask.

"I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy bible task,