Wherewith to bless the wandering poor;
For he was not wise in worldly lore,
The poor were Christ's, he knew no more.
'Twas very little that Ben could do,

But he pegged his prayers in many a shoe,
And only himself and the dear Lord knew.
Meanwhile he must cobble with all his might
Till-the Lord knew when-it would all be right,
For he worked by faith, and not by sight.
One night a cry from the window came-
Ben Hazzard was sleepy and tired and lame-
"Ben Hazzard, open," it seemed to say,
"Give shelter and food, I humbly pray."
Ben Hazzard lifted his woolly head
To listen. ""Tis awful cold," he said,
And his old bones shook in his ragged bed,
66 But the wanderer must be comforted."
Out from his straw he painfully crept,
And over the frosty floor he stept,

While under the door the snow-wreaths swept.
"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he cried,
As he opened the door, and held it wide.
A milk-white kitten was all he spied;
Trembling and crying there at his feet,
Ready to die in the bitter sleet.

Ben Hazzard, amazed, stared up and down;
The candles were out in all the town;
The stout house-doors were carefully shut,
Safe bolted were all but old Ben's hut.
"I thought that somebody called," he said;
"Some dream or other got into my head;
Come then, poor pussy, and share my bed."
But first he sought for a rusty cup,

And gave his guest a generous sup.

Then out from the storm, the wind, and the sleet,

Puss joyfully lay at old Ben's feet.

Truly, it was a terrible storm,

Ben feared he should nevermore be warm.

But just as he began to be dozy,

And puss was purring soft and cozy,

A voice called faintly before his door:

"Ben Hazzard, Ben Hazzard, help, I implore!
Give drink, and a crust from out your store."
Ben Hazzard opened his sleepy eyes,

And his full-moon face showed great surprise.
Out from his bed he stumbled again,
Teeth chattering with neuralgic pain,
Caught at the door in the frozen rain.
"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he said,
66 With such as I have, thou shalt be fed."

Only a little black dog he saw
Whining and shaking a broken paw.

"Well, well," cried Ben Hazzard, "I must have dreamed, But verily like a voice it seemed.

Poor creature," he added, with husky tone,

His feet so cold they seemed like stone,

"Thou shalt have the whole of my marrow bone."

He went to the cupboard, and took from the shelf
The bone he had saved for his very self.

Then, after binding the broken paw,

Half dead with cold, went back to his straw:
Under the ancient blue bed-quilt he crept;
His conscience was white, again he slept;
But again a voice called, both loud and clear:
"Ben Hazzard, for Christ's sweet sake, come here!"
Once more he stood at the open door,
And looked abroad, as he looked before,
This time full sure 'twas a voice he heard;
But all that he saw was a storm-tossed bird,
With weary pinion and beaten crest,
And a red blood-stain on his snowy breast.
"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he said,
Tenderly raising the drooping head,
And tearing his tattered robe apart,

Laid the cold bird on his own warm heart.
The sunrise flashed on the snowy thatch,
As an angel lifted the wooden latch;
Ben woke in a flood of golden light,

And knew the voice that had called all night.
And steadfastly gazing, without a word,
Beheld the messenger from the Lord.
He said to Ben, with a wondrous smile,
The three guests sleeping all the while,
"Thrice happy is he that blesseth the poor;
The humblest creatures that sought thy door,
For Christ's sweet sake thou hast comforted."
'Nay, 'twas not much," Ben humbly said,
With a rueful shake of his old gray head.

66

"Who giveth all of his scanty store

In Christ's dear name, car do no more.

Behold, the Master who waiteth for thee,

Saith: Giving to them, thou hast given to me.'

Then, with Heaven's light white on his face, "Amen,

I come in the name of the Lord," said Ben.

66 Frozen to death," the watchman said,

When at last he found him in his bed,

With a smile on his face so strange and bright,
He wondered what old Ben saw that night.

Ben's lips were silent, and never told,

He had gone up higher to find his gold.

BELSHAZZAR SMITH'S CURE FOR SOMNAMBULISM,

Belshazzar Smith had a very bad and very dangerous habit of walking in his sleep. His family feared that, during some one of his somnambulistic saunterings, he would charge out of the window and kill himself; so they persuaded him to sleep with his little brother William, and tie one end of a rope around his body and the other around the wrist of little William. The very first night after this arrangement was made, Belshazzar dreamed that a burglar was pursuing him with a dagger. So he crept over to William's side of the bed, stepped over William's slumbering form, jumped out on the floor, and slid under the bed. He stayed there awhile fast asleep, and then, his nightmare having changed, he emerged upon the other side of the bed, and got under the covers in his old place. The rope, it will be observed, was beneath the bed, and it was pulled taut, too. Early in the morning, Belshazzar, about half awake, scrouged over against William. To his surprise the movement jerked William clear out of bed. Belshazzar leaped out to ascertain the cause of this phenomenon, and at the same time his brother disappeared under the bed. Belshazzar, hardly yet awake, was scared, and he dived beneath his bedstead; as he did so, he heard William skirmishing across the blankets above his head. Once more he rushed out, just in time to perceive William glide over the other side. Belshazzar just then became sufficiently conscious to feel the rope pulling him. He comprehended the situation at once, and disengaged himself. And perhaps little William was not mad. He was in the hospital undergoing repairs for about three weeks, and when he came out had a strange desire to sleep alone. Belshazzar anchors himself now to an anvil.

RUSTIC COURTSHIP.

The night was dark when Sam set out
To court old Jones' daughter;

He kinder felt as if he must,

And kinder hadn't oughter.

His heart against his waistcoat throbbed,
His feelings had a tussle,

Which nearly conquered him despite
Six feet of bone and muscle.

The candle in the window shone
With a most doleful glimmer,
And Sam he felt his courage ooze,
And through his fingers simmer.
Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,
Take courage, shaking doubter,
Go on, and pop the question right,
For you can't live without her."

But still, as he drew near the house.
His knees got in a tremble,

The beating of his heart ne'er beat
His efforts to dissemble.

Says he "

Now, Sam, don't be a goose,
And let the female wimmin

Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so,
And set your heart a-swimmin'.”

So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,
His courage also raising,
And in a moment he sat inside,
Cid Jones' crops a-praising.
He tried awhile to talk the farm
In words half dull, half witty,
Not knowing that old Jones well knew
His only thought was-Kitty.

At last the old folks went to bed-
The Joneses were but human;
Old Jones was something of a man,
And Mrs. Jones-a woman.
And Kitty she the pitcher took,
And started for the cellar;

It wasn't often that she had
So promising a feller.

And somehow when she came up stairs,
And Sam had drank his cider,

There seemed a difference in the chairs,
And Sam was close beside her;

His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,
Her head dropped on his shoulder,

And Sam-well, he had changed his tune And grown a trifle bolder.

But this, if you live long enough,

You surely will discover,

There's nothing in this world of ours
Except the loved and lover.
The morning sky was growing gray
As Sam the farm was leaving,
His face was surely not the face
Of one half grieved, or grieving.

And Kitty she walked smiling back,
With blushing face, and slowly;
There's something in the humblest love
That makes it pure and holy.
And did he marry her you ask;
She stands there with the ladle
A-skimming of the morning's milk-
That's Sam who rocks the cradle.

GRANDMOTHER GRAY.-MARY KEELEY BOUTELLE.

Faded and fair, in an old arm-chair,
Sunset gilding her thin white hair,

Silently knitting, sits Grandmother Gray:
While I on my elbows beside her lean,
And tell what wonderful things I mean
To have, and to do, if I can, some day;
You can talk so to Grandmother Gray-
She doesn't laugh, nor send you away.

I see as I look from the window seat,
A house over yonder, across the street,
With a fine French roof and a frescoed hall;
The deep bay windows are full of flowers;
They've a clock of bronze that chimes the hours,
And a fountain-I hear it tinkle and fall
When the doors are open: "I mean," I say,
"To live in a house like that some day."

66

66

Money will buy it," says Grandmother Gray.

There's a low barouche, all green and gold,
And a pair of horses as black as jet,

I've seen drive by-and before I'm old

A turnout like that I hope to get.

How they prance and shine in their harness gay!
What fun 'twould be if they ran away!"

66

"Money will buy it," says Grandmother Gray.

"To-morrow, I know, a great ship sails
Out of port and across the sea;
Oh, to feel in my face the ocean gales,
And the salt waves dancing under me!