If the world's a "vale of tears,"
Smile till rainbows span it;
Breathe the love that life endears-
Clear from clouds to fan it.
Of your gladness lend a gleam
Unto souls that shiver;

Show them how dark sorrow's stream
Blends with hope's bright river.

THE GOLDEN SIDE.

THERE'S many a rest on the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it;
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it.
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,

And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, The grass is green and the flowers are bright, Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted.
There was never a night without a day,
Nor an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jewelled crown
Or the miser's hoarded treasure;
It may be the love of a little child,
Or the mother's prayer to Heaven,
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling,
And to do God's will with a ready heart,
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate silver threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then Heav'n blame for the tangled ends,
And sit and grieve and wonder.

MAXIMUS.

I HOLD him great who for love's sake
Can give with generous, earnest will;
Yet he who takes for love's sweet sake,
I think I hold more generous still.

I bow before the noble mind

That freely some great wrong forgives;
Yet nobler is the one forgiven,

Who bears that burden well and lives.

It may be hard to gain and still

To keep a lowly, steadfast heart;

Yet he who loses has to fill

A harder and a truer part.

Glorious it is to wear the crown

Of a deserved and pure success;
He who knows how to fail has won
A crown whose lustre is no less.

Great may he be who can command
And rule with just and tender sway;

Yet is diviner wisdom taught

Better by him who can obey.

Blessed are those who die for God,

And earn the martyr's crown of light;

Yet he who lives for God may be

A greater conqueror in his sight.

THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.

THE work of the sun is slow,

But as sure as heaven, we know;
So we'll not forget,

When the skies are wet,

There's green grass under the snow.

When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,

There are April showers,
And buds and flowers,

And green grass under the snow.

We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait,

In the face of fate,

For the green grass under the snow.

ANNIE A. PRESTON.

RAIN IN THE HEART.

"Into each life some rain must fall."

IF this were all oh! if this were all,
That into each life some rain must fall,

There were fewer sobs in the poet's rhyme,

There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time.

But tempests of woe dash over the soul-
Since winds of anguish we cannot control;
And shock after shock are we called to bear,
Till the lips are white with the heart's despair.

The shores of time with wrecks are strewn,
Unto the ear comes ever a moan —
Wrecks of hope that set sail with glee,
Wrecks of love sinking silently.

Many are hid from the human eye;

Only God knoweth how deep they lie;
Only God heard when arose the prayer,
"Help me to bear-oh! help me to bear."

"Into each life some rain must fall."
If this were all-oh! if this were all;
Yet there's a refuge from storm and blast -
Gloria Patri we 'll reach at last.

Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry,
The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie;
Days of sunshine are given to all,

Though "into each life some rain must fall."

"GIVE THANKS FOR WHAT?"

"LET earth give thanks," the deacon said, And then the Proclamation read.

"Give thanks fer what, an' what about?" Asked Simon Soggs when church was out; "Give thanks fer what? I don't see why, The rust got in an' spiled my rye,

And hay wa'n't half a crop, and corn
All wilted down and looked forlorn.
The bugs just gobbled my pertaters
The what you call 'em-lineaters,
And gracious! when you come to wheat,
There's more than all the world can eat;
Onless a war should interfere,

Crops won't bring half a price this year;
I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!"

"Good for the poor!" exclaimed the deacon.

"Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon Soggs; "Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs?

Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five
Uv my best cows, that was alive
Afore the smashin' railroad come
And made it awful troublesome ?

Fer that haystack the lightnin' struck

And burnt to ashes?. -thunderin' luck! -
Fer ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs.

The deacon said, "You 've got yer hogs!"

"Give thanks? And Jane and baby sick? I e'enmost wonder if Öle Nick

Ain't running things!"

The deacon said, Simon, your people might be dead!"

"Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. "Jest look at what a fix we 're in!

The country's rushin' to the dogs

At race-horse speed!" said Simon Soggs.
"Rotten all through, in every State;
Why, ef we don't repudiate,

We'll have to build, for big and small,
A poorhouse that 'll hold us all!
Down South the crooked whiskey-still
Is running like the Devil's mill.

The nigger skulks in night's disguise,
And hooks a chicken as he flies.
Up North there 's murder everywhere,
And awful doings, I declare.

Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel

To think how office-holders steal!

The taxes paid by you and me

Is four times bigger 'n they should be.
The Fed'ral Gover'ment 's all askew ;
The ballot's sech a mockery, too!
Some votes too little, some too much,
Some not at all—it beats the Dutch!

And now no man knows what to do,
Or how is how or who is who.
Deacon, corruption's sure to kill!
This glorious Union' never will,
I'll bet a Continental cent,

Elect another President!

Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know!"

The deacon answered, sad and low,
"Simon, it fills me with surprise
Ye don't see where yer duty lies;
Kneel right straight down in all the muss,
And thank God that it ain't no wuss!"

The American Queen.

COMPENSATION.

SHE folded up the worn and mended frock,
And smoothed it tenderly upon her knee,
Then through the soft web of a wee red sock
She wove the bright wool, musing thoughtfully:
"Can this be all? The outside world so fair,
I hunger for its green and pleasant ways;
A cripple prisoned in her restless chair

Looks from her window with a wistful gaze.

"The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet,
The paths forbidden are both green and wide;
O God! there is no boon to helpless feet

So altogether sweet as paths denied.
Home is most fair; bright all my household fires,
And children are a gift without alloy;

But who would bound the field of their desires
By the prim hedges of mere fireside joy?

"I can but weave a faint thread to and fro,
Making a frail woof in my baby's sock;
Into the world's sweet tumult I would go,

At its strong gates my trembling hand would knock.”
Just then the children came, the father too;

Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom;

"Dear heart," he whispered, as he nearer drew,

66

How sweet it is within this little room!

"God puts my strongest comfort here to draw

When thirst is great and common wells are dry.

Your pure desire is my unerring law,

Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I?
Home is the pasture where my soul may feed,
This room a paradise has grown to be;
And only where these patient feet shall lead
Can it be home to these dear ones and me."