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chance.

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!

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A LITTLE GOOSE.

ELIZA S. TURNER.

[In a simple, descriptive vein.]

The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring,
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas lamps flaring.

And hopelessly and aimlessly

The seared old leaves were flying,
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying,

And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four or over;

No hat or cloak her small soft arms
Or wind-blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;

She crushed within her wee, cold hands
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasures,
While she slipped in mine the other,
Half scared, half confidential, said

"Oh! please, I want my mother."

"Tell me your street and number, pet;
Don't cry, I'll take you to it,"
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget-
The organ made me do it."

"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,
Or new-not like the others?"
"I guess you mean my trundle bed-
Mine and my little brother's.

Oh! dear, I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers;
He's such a baby, he forgets,

And we are both such players.

And there's a bar between, to keep
From pitching on each other;
For Harry rolls when he's asleep-
Oh! dear, I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy, people passed,
All muffled, homeward faring;
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"

I said at last, despairing.

1

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!
My eyes, astonished, met it.
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might some time forget it.

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,
But lingered round the college walks
Stories of him we boys told o'er

Before the fire, in evening talks.
I'll ne'er forget how he came in

To recitation, one March night, And asked our tutor to begin,

"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 To look on him in his old place, Fresh faces that with radiance beamedRadiance of boyish hope and grace: And faces that had lost their youth,

Although in years they still were young; And faces o'er whose love and truth

The funeral anthem had been sung.
"These are my boys," he murmured then;
"My boys, as in the years long past;
Though some are angels, others men,
Still as my boys I hold them fast.
There's one don't know his lesson now,
That one of me is making fun,
And that one's cheating-ah! I see-
I see and love them every one.

*

"And is it, then, so long ago

This chapter in my life was told?
Did all of them thus come and go,

And have I really grown so old?
No! here are my old pains and joys,

My book once more is in my hand,
Once more I hear these very boys,
And seek their hearts to understand."
*

*

They found him there, with open book,
And eyes closed with a calm content;
The same old sweetness in his look

There used to be when fellows went
To ask him questions and to talk,

When recitations were all o'er;
We saw him in the college walk
And in his former place no more.

AFTER.

GEORGE COOPER.

[Give in a tender manner, pausing before speaking the last word of the last stanza.]

After the shower the tranquil sun;

After the snow the emerald leaves;
Silver stars when the day is done;

After the harvest golden sheaves.

After the clouds the violet sky;

After the storm the lull of waves;
Quiet woods when the winds go by;
After the battle, peaceful graves.
After the knell the wedding bells;
After the bud the radiant rose;
Joyful greetings from sad farewells;
After our weeping sweet repose.

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As beautiful at noontide hour,

Like Truth that ne'er grows old.

What though the storms were fierce without,

With low hung clouds of gloom,

A halo crowned those sacred words,

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