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The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him mind—the Godlike gift of intellect-is debased, destroyed, all is dark-a fearful, chaotic labyrinth, rayless, cheerless, hopeless!
A LITTLE GOOSE.
ELIZA S. TURNER.
[In a simple, descriptive vein.]
The chill November day was done,
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The seared old leaves were flying,
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four or over;
No hat or cloak her small soft arms
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
She crushed within her wee, cold hands
And one hand round her treasures,
"Tell me your street and number, pet;
But what's your mother's name?
And what's the street? now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear,
The street-I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Oh! dear, I ought to be at home
And there's a bar between, to keep
The sky grew stormy, people passed,
I spied a ribbon round her neck.
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?" "Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked, And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street and name!
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure I might get lost without it."
THE OLD PROFESSOR.
[Give with tenderness.]
The old professor taught no more,
To recitation, one March night,
"And let me hear these boys recite." As we passed out we heard him say,
'Pray, leave me here awhile alone, Here in my old place let me stay,
Just as I did in years long flown."
Our tutor smiled, and bowed assent,
Rose courteous from his high-backed chair, And down the darkening stairs he went, Leaving the old professor there.
From out the shadows faces seemed
"These are my boys," he murmured then;
"And is it, then, so long ago
This chapter in my life was told?
And have I really grown so old?
My book once more is in my hand,
And seek their hearts to understand."
They found him there, with open book,
There used to be when fellows went
We saw him in the college walk
[Give in a tender manner, pausing before speaking the last word of the
After the shower the tranquil sun;
After the snow the emerald leaves;
After the clouds the violet sky;
After the storm the lull of waves;
After the knell the wedding bells;
After the burden the blissful meed;
GOD BLESS OUR SCHOOL.
About the room the Christmas greens
Were fitting mottoes wrought with care,
It glittered in the morning sun
As beautiful at noontide hour,
Like Truth that ne'er grows old.
What though the storms were fierce without,
Once to my side a fair young child
Pure thoughts were there I knew. "Teacher," said she, "I wonder so If it can really be,
That God, who lives hign up above,
And bless our school?"