And she, as e'er relenting, sighed: "Oh, Heaven only knows Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose!"

The sun was high and summer sounds were teeming in the air; The clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling woodnotes rare,

From field and copse and meadow; and through the open door Sweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore.

Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien, Whose little life has problems among the branches green. She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong,

She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song.

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky;

Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why,

And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, Heaven only knows Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied,

She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide;

For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and Toom,

And not to drink the sunshine and wild-flower's sweet perfume.

And oft the maidens cried, when the Brier-Rose went by, "You cannot kuit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie." But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head: “But I can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said.

And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play:

"Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how do you do to-day ?" Then she shook her tiny fist; to her cheeks the color flew: "However much you coax me, I'll never dance with you."

Thus flew the years light-winged over Brier-Rose's head, Till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed. And all the parish wondered: "The Lord Almighty knows Whatever will become of that naughty Brier-Rose!"

And while they wondered came the spring a-dancing o'er the hills;

Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills,

With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air,

And the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere.

And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey,

The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray;

Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon,

As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the

moon.

It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled
Adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled,
Now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing,
Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing.

But in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep incline The waters plunged, and wreathed in foam the dark boughs of the pine,

The lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beain

A-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream.

And yet-methinks I hear it now-wild voices in the night, A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light, And wandering gusts of dampness, and round us far and nigh, A throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky.

The dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red,

As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped.

And terror smote us: for we heard the mighty tree-tops

sway,

And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray.

Now, lads," the sheriff shouted, "you are strong, like Norway's rock:

A hundred crowns I give to him who breaks the lumber

lock!

For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil

Our homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil."

We looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor would Brave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should.

But at out feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake, And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake.

"Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd.

"Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!" in anxious tones and loud.

But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard.

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood,

We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood.
We heard a little snatch of a merry little song,

And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng.

An angry murmur rose from the people round about.

Fling her into the river!" we heard the matrons shout; "Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knows

Why ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose."

Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smile

Across her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile;

And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock : "Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "I think I'll break the lock."

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old:

"Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold."

And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung!

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding

spray;

From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play. And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist:

A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist.

In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill,

A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still. For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound,

And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground.

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky

steep.

We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep;

We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore
And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more.

Ah, little naughty Brier-Rose, thou couldst nor weave nor

spin;

Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin; For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave.

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth,

When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth,

Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, "Heaven knows Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

-St. Nicholas.

MY VESPER SONG.

Filled with weariness and pain,
Scarcely strong enough to pray,
In this twilight hour I sit,

Sit and sing my doubts away.
O'er my broken purposes,

Ere the coming shadows roll,
Let me build a bridge of song:
"Jesus, lover of my soul,

"Let me to thy bosom fly!"

How the words my thoughts repeat;

To thy bosom, Lord, I come,

Though unfit to kiss thy feet.

Once I gathered sheaves for thee,
Dreaming I could hold them fast;

Now I can but faintly sing,

"Oh, receive my soul at last."

I am weary of my fears,

Like a child when night comes on;
In the shadow, Lord, I sing,

"Leave, oh leave me not alone."
Through the tears I still must shed,
Through the evil yet to be,
Though I falter while I sing,

"Still support and comfort me."
"All my trust on thee is stayed,"
Does the rhythm of the song,

Softly falling on my heart,

Make its pulses firm and strong?
Or is this thy perfect peace,
Now descending while I sing,
That my soul may sleep to-night
"'Neath the shadow of thy wing?"
"Thou of life the fountain art;"
If I slumber on thy breast,
If I sing myself to sleep,

Sleep and death alike are rest.
Through the shadows overpast,
Through the shadows yet to be,
Let the ladder of my song
"Rise to all eternity."

Note by note, in silver bars,

May my soul in love ascend,
Till I reach the highest round,
In thy kingdom without end.
Not impatiently I sing,

Though I lift my hands and cry,
"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly."

THE HOME OF PEACE.-THOMAS MOORE.

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble might hope for it here!"
It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye;
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,

Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!”