he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive behind time.

It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is " behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "behind time."

Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being behind time. FREEMAN HUNT.

A MIRACLE.

AN Irish priest on miracles a sermon one day preached; And on his way home from the church, before his home he reached,

Was overtaken by a man whose name was Patrick Kent, Who wished a miracle explained: he didn't know what one

meant.

"A miracle, is it?" said the priest.

plain,

"You want me to ex

So when I say a miracle, you'll know just what I mane? Well, thin, walk on forninst me now: come, hurry and be

quick."

The man walked on: the priest walked up, and gave Pat quite a kick.

"Och!" roared the sufferer, feeling sore, "an' sure phy did ye that?"

"An' did ye fale it?" asked the priest. "Begor I did,"

WEAVING THE WEB.

"THIS morn I will weave my web,” she said,
As she stood by her loom in the rosy light,
And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear,
Followed afar the swallow's flight.

“As soon as the day's first tasks are done,
While yet I am fresh and strong," said she,
"I will hasten to weave the beautiful web
Whose pattern is known to none but me.

"I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair;

And ah! how the colors will glow!" she said. "So fadeless and strong will I weave my web, That perhaps it will live after I am dead." But the morning hours sped on apace;

The air grew sweet with the breath of June; And young Love, hid by the waiting loom, Tangled the threads as he hummed a tune.

"Ah! life is so rich and full," she cried, "And morn is short though the days are long! This noon I will weave my beautiful web,

I will weave it carefully, fine, and strong." But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky; The burden and heat of the day she bore; And hither and thither she came and went, While the loom stood still as it stood before.

"Ah! life is too busy at noon," she said:

66

'My web must wait till the eventide, Till the common work of the day is done,

And my heart grows calm in the silence wide." So one by one the hours passed on,

Till the creeping shadows had longer grown; Till the house was still, and the breezes slept, And her singing birds to their nests had flown.

"And now I will weave my web," she said,
As she turned to her loom ere set of sun,
And laid her hand on the shining threads
To set them in order one by one.

But hand was tired, and heart was weak:
"I am not as strong as I was," sighed she;
"And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rare
Are not so bright, or so fair to see.

"I must wait, I think, till another morn;

I must go to my rest with my work undone;
It is growing too dark to weave," she cried,
As lower and lower sank the sun.

She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still;
The weaver slept in twilight gray.

Dear heart, will she weave her beautiful web
In the golden light of a longer day?

THE GREAT FUTURE.

Look at it, senators of the South. Just think of the great future which these thirty-eight American States have before them. Precious and glorious as is their history in the past, it dwarfs and pales before the great hope that opens before them. Think of imperial New York, with the commerce which brings the wealth of all nations to her gates. Think of mighty Pennsylvania, with her mines and her factories. Think of Massachusetts, home of the scholar and the workman. Think of the great North-west, with its million farms, its million homes, in each of which liberty dwells a perpetual guest. Think of that great coast, where, on the shores of a more pacific sea, men of our own blood and kindred are in the near future to build States and institutions, compared with which any thing the East has seen is poor and mean. The streets of a wealthier New York, the halls of a more learned Harvard, the homes of a more cultured Boston, the workshops of a busier Philadelphia, shall grow up on the shore of that vast ocean, across which the American people gaze at the monuments of the oldest civilization of the past.

Where will you be, men of the South? What shall be the place of your States in this glorious race? Do you wish to be left behind, sucking your thumbs, nursing your wrath, stirring the dregs of an effete and rotten past, cherishing the

memory of ancient wrong and crime, studying the American Constitution to see how much of slavery there is left in it? Will you bring up your young men to share in the imperial glory, and beauty, and hope, which the future has for these great American States, or bring them up half ruffian and half assassin? Do not understand that I charge they are that now. But I say that the policy you are tolerating will bring them to that. Virginia and Georgia, and Alabama and Texas, are far more richly endowed with opportunity than any States of the North. The States of the South have their great history of the times of their settlement, of the days of the Revolution, of the administration of the Government in the early days of the Constitution. They have their rich lands, their mighty streams, their lofty mountains, their vast and fertile fields, their willing laborers, their brave and restless people. Why will they not embrace and welcome the one thing needed to place them far in advance of the other American States; and that is the great doctrine of justice and of the constitution, which shall secure to every man, white or black, dwelling upon their soil, his manhood, his honor, his freedom, his equal suffrage as an American citizen?

GEORGE F. HOAR.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE COCK hath crowned from yonder stile,
That brave old chanticleer

Who ringeth our Christmas in, the while
Gay lads and fair lasses the hours beguile
With frolic and good cheer:

He croweth plainly to far and near,
"Christmas comes but once a year."

And whilst the cock is growing shrill,
The parish bells are chiming,

An old man cometh by the mill
Far over the fields this way until
I can plainly hear him rhyming,

"Roam the world over, wherever I call,
'Tis merry in kitchen, 'tis merry in hall."

Now he crosseth the white-clover patch,

Now he is over the stile,

Comes through the gate without lifting a latch;
Under my window his music I catch,-
"Little friends, listen a while:

--

Roam the world over, wherever I call,
'Tis merry in cabin, 'tis merry in hall."

This visitor strange, in the dead of the night,
When all our wee folks were in bed,
Wore a suit of red velvet embroidered in white,
Coat, waistcoat, and breeches with buckles so bright,
And a funny cocked hat on his head.
His locks are white as the new-flaked snow,
His cheeks are ruddy and cold;

He is full in the face, and full down below;
His shoes have a wonderful breadth of toe,
And such very big clasps of gold!.

He is fresh from the land where the north winds blow,
Apparently out on a spree;

For he carries the stick of Old Rosin the Bow,
A stick that was cut where the evergreens grow,
While fairies danced under the tree:

And he sings, "The world over, wherever I call,
'Tis merry in cabin, 'tis merry in hall."

He carries a hobby-horse slung on his back,
A bushel of toys in his pockets,

Cakes, candies, and sugar-plums all in a sack,
Drums, trumpets, and rattles, a long whip to crack,
And dolls whose eyes move in their sockets.
There are jewels and linens of costliest thread,
Bandanas of every variety;

Moire antique, tissue, and velvet brocade,
From the faintest of pink to deepest of red,
In style for the best of society.

The old man calleth full and clear,
"Ho! Christmas comes but once a year!
Maidens and masters may slumber on,

But they'll look in their stockings when the old man
gone.