foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to agin. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!"

THE IDEAL AND THE REAL.-I. EDGAR JONES.

"I have seen," said the maid, "often seen in my dreams, The man that my image of bravery seems;

A form like a statue, a face like a god's;

A hero that battles, nor thinks of the odds;

But moves in the strength of his majesty's might,
And conquers or dies in his struggle for right;
His lofty emotions marked out on his face,

And his form like Apollo's for beauty and grace."

'Do you see,' said her comrade, " that figure forlorn,
With weather-worn garments all tattered and torn-
Its rough matted hair, and the marks on its face
That labor, nor love, nor a life can efface-
Grim poverty's stamp on its features engraved?
Yet there stands the hero who rescued and saved
A score of brave men, who are living to-day,
And morning and night for their rescuer pray.
"It was one year ago, in the midst of the night,
When mad waves were rolling in tumult and fright,
As they followed each other-a murderous band-
And thundered, and dashed on the sea-sodden sand;
White silvery summits sprang high in the air,
Like tigers, enraged, springing up from their lair,
While the wind drove in gusts o'er the tempest-tossed sea,
And shrieked like a fiend in demoniac glee.

Far out a brave ship, with a shud 'er and shock,
Was driven like a bolt on yon tracherous rock,
And reduced in an hour to a terror-tied wreck;
While the sea in mad anger swept over her deck,
And bore some poor sailor with glee to its lair
As he clung to a rope with the grasp of despair,
And prayed for the help that was hourly denied
As he struggled in anguish, grew weary, and died.
"We stood on the shore, in the wind's horrid breath,
And witnessed their fate; but 'twere toying with death
To row to their rescue; and though we were brave,
We shrank from the grasp of a watery grave.

But Apsalom Smith walked erect to his boat,
In spite of remonstrance; and getting afloat-
With a word to his wife, and a hero's good-bye-
Pulled out through the breakers to do or to die.

"As he plunged in the valleys, or hung on the brink,
It seemed his frail bark could but instantly sink;
But, with thoughts that his God and himself only knew,
He finally triumphed and rescued the crew;

All those that were left of the terrified band

Were, thanks to his courage, brought safe to the land. He's rough and unlettered, but not on God's ground Can truer or worthier hero be found."

The maiden, with meek and admiring surprise,
Looked on, while the tears trickled fast from her eyes,
And reverently bowed with a worshipful grace
To the poorly-clad form and the weather-worn face,
Convinced that some heroes who win in the strife
Are called and ordained from the lowliest life,
To brand with heaven's scorn the poor impotent plan
That builds up a hero on models of man.

DAILY DYING.

The maple does not shed its leaves
In one tempestuous scarlet rain,
But softly, when the south wind grieves,
Slow, wandering over wood and plain,
One by one they waver through
The Indian summer's hazy blue,
And drop at last on the forest mold,
Coral, and ruby, and burning gold.

Our death is gradual like these;
We die with every waning day;
There is no waft of sorrow's breeze
But bears some heart-leaf slow away!
Up and on to the vast To Be,
Our life is going eternally!

Less of life than we had last year

Throbs in your veins, and throbs in mine,
But the way to heaven is growing clear,
And the gates of the city fairer shine,
And the day that our latest treasures flee,
Wide they will open for you and me.

MORNING.-EDWARD EVERETT.

As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state.

FATHER MOLLOY.-SAMUEL LOVER.

THE DYING CONFESSION OF PADDY M'CABE.

Paddy McCabe was dying one day,

And Father Molloy he came to confess him;

Paddy prayed hard he would make no delay,

But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him

"First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy,

"For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy."

"Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin' I fear

"Twould trouble you such a long story to hear,

For you've ten long miles o'er the mountain to go,
While the road I've to travel 's much longer, you know?
So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle;
To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;
And the docthor gave ordhers to keep me so quiet-
"Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it-

And your Reverence has towld us unless we tell all 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all: So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy, And therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.” “Well, I'll read from a book,” says Father Molloy, “The manifold sins that humanity's heir to ; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'l. just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the Father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar― 'Oh, murdher!" says Paddy, "don't read any more;

66

For if you keep readin', by all that is thrue,

Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue;
Besides, to be troubled my conscience begins,

That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins.
So you'd better suppose I committed them all-

For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small,
Or if they're a dozen, or if they're four-score,

'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore: So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy,

And therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly,

And promise me also that, if you should live,

You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly." "I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan,

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Except that big vagabone, Micky Malone;

And him I will murdher if ever I can-”

"Tut, tut!" says the priest, "you're a very bad man;
For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,
You'll ne'er go to heaven, and that is my sentence."
"Pooh!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case,
With your Reverence and heaven I'm content to make pace;
But with heaven and your Reverence I wondher-och hone,
You would think of comparin' that blackguard, Malone.
But since I'm hard pressed and that I must forgive,

I forgive-if I die; but as sure as I live

That ugly blackguard I will surely desthrey

So now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy !*

That friends, like flowers, spring and bloom, Like flowers they wither, droop, and fall; We lay them gently in the tomb

Which time holds open for us all, And turn away in grief, to find

There's naught but memory left behind.

This little flaxen curl I hold,

Carries me back full many a day
To boyhood, when, both free and bold,
I cared for naught save fun and play.
As standing up one day in school,
Beside a rosy, blue-eyed girl,
I, quite unmindful of the rule,
Whispering asked her for a curl.

She shook her head; and then, in strife,
I severed this one with my knife.

In leaf torn from my spelling-book
I wrapt the trophy up with care;
She laughed at all the pains I took,

And blushing, looked most wondrous fair. I kept the ringlet for my own,

And half in earnest, half in play, Promised when we were older grown,

To give her one of mine in pay.

From that time forth there seemed to be
No flower so fair as Mary Lee.

The next few years flew swiftly by;
And then a day of sadness came,
Which severed every home-loved tie
And sent me forth to win a name.
'Twas then at gentle Mary's side
I sought to win her loving heart:
She promised me to be my bride,
And as we were about to part
She shook her curling tresses down,
And I cut out this ringlet brown.

With both fair locks together laid,
I started onward into life;
And when at length a home I made,
Sweet Mary Lee became my wife.
With blessings all unknown before,
Our Heavenly Father strewed our way:
For fifty happy years or more,

We watched each other turning gray.
Our children's children gathering round,
With perfect love our hearth-stone crowned.