In the old far lands of legend and lay

I long to roam-and I shall, some day."

Money will do it," says Grandmother Gray.

"And when you are old, like me," says she,

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And getting and going are done with, dear,
What then do you think the one thing will be
You will wish and need to content you here?"
'Oh, when in my chair I have to stay,

Love, you see, will content me," I say.

That money won't buy," says Grandmother Gray.

“And, sure enough, if there's nothing worth
All your care, when the years are past,
But love in heaven, and love on earth,
Why not begin where you'll end at last?
Begin to lay up treasure to-day,-
Treasure that nothing can take away,
Bless the Lord!" says Grandmother Gray.

AN APPEAL FOR PROHIBITION.-JOHN B. GOUGH.

I heard a young man in a railway carriage tell his own story, while conversing on the Maine Law. Said he: "My father was a drunkard for years; my mother was a strongminded, energetic woman; and with the help of the boys, she managed to keep the farm free from debt. When my father signed the pledge, that which pleased her most, next to him having signed it, was that she could tell him there was not a debt nor a mortgage on the farm. My father used to drive into the city, about eight miles distant, twice a week; and I recollect my mother saying to me: 'I wish you would try and persuade your father not to go any more. We don't need that which he earns; and George, I am afraid of temptations and old associates.' 'Oh,' said I, 'don't think of it; father's all right. One evening we had a heavy load, and were going toward home, when my father stopped at one of his old places of resort, and gave me the whip and the reins. I hitched the horses, tied up the reins, and went in afterward. The landlord said: 'I am glad to see you; how do you do? You are quite a stranger. How long is it since the temperance whim got hold of you?'

'Oh, about two years,' said my father. 'Well,' said the landlord, 'you see we are getting on here very well,' and they chatted together for some time. By and by he asked my father to have something to drink. 'Oh, but I have got a little temperance bitters here,' said the landlord, ' that temperance men use, and they acknowledge that it is purifying to the blood, especially in warm weather. Just try a little.' And he poured out a glass and offered it. I stepped up and said: 'Don't give my father that.' To which he replied: 'Weli, boys arn't boys hardly nowadays; they are got to be men amazing early. If I had a boy like you I think I should take him down a little. What do you think, Mr. Meyers? Do you bring that boy to take care of you? Do you want a guardian? That stirred the old man's pride, and he told me to go and look after the horses. He sat and drank till ten o'clock; and every time the landlord gave him a drink, I said: 'Don't give it to him.' At last my father rose up against me--he was drunk. When he got up on the wagon, I drove. My heart was very heavy, and I thought of my mother. Oh, how will she feel this? When we got about two miles from home, my father said: 'I will drive.' 'No,' said I, 'let me drive.' He snatched the reins from me, fell from the wagon, and before I could check the horses the forward wheel crushed his head in the road. I was till midnight getting his dead body on the wagon. I carried him to my mother, and she never smiled from that day to the day of her death. Four months after that she died, and we buried her. Now," said the man, after he had finished his story, "that man killed my father-he was my father's murderer."

There is not a publican but can take your brother, your father, your son, into his dram-shop to-night and make him drunk in spite of your entreaties and prayers, and kick him out at midnight, and you may find his dead body in the gutter. All you have to do is to take the body and bury it and say nothing about it; for you have no redress, no protection. Now, protection is what we want. Come and help us. Hurrah for prohibition'

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.-BRET HARTE.

"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please;

And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise her never

to tease,

Nor speak tiil you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense; for how would you know

What she told me to say, if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?

"And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know just where to sit;

For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit:

We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would

be like you

To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very

last screw.

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Suppose you try!

Oh!

I won't tell. You're afraid to! you're afraid they would think it was mean! Well, then, there's the album: that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean.

For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross.

There's her picture. You know it?

ain't as good-looking, of course. "This is ME. It's the best of 'em all. never have thought

It's like her; but she

Now, tell me, you'd

That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought;

For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man

where I sat,—

That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that.

"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this.

There's all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz.

But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me!

Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee,

"Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night,

Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright

You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say.

Pa says you're poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are they?

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red;

But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.

But there! I must go: sister's coming! But I wish I could wait, just to see

If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way she used to kiss Lee."

THE FARMER'S WIFE.

The farmer came in from the field one day;
His languid steps and his weary way,

His beaded brow, his sinewy hand,

All showed his work for the good of his land:
For he sows, sows, sows,

For he hoes, hoes, hoes,

And he mows, mows, mows,
All for the good of the land.

By the kitchen fire stood his patient wife,
Light of his home and joy of his life,
With face all aglow, and busy hand

Preparing the meal for her household band:
For she must boil, boil, boil,

And she must broil, broil, broil,
And she must toil, toil, toil,

All for the good of the home.

The bright sun shines when the farmer goes out,
The birds sing sweet, songs, lambs frisk about;
The brook babbles softly in the glen

While he works so bravely for the good of the men:
For he sows, sows, sows,

For he mows, mows, mows,
And he hoes, hoes, hoes,

All for the good of the land.

How briskly the wife steps about within,
The dishes to wash, the milk to skim;

The fire goes out, the flies buzz about;

For the dear ones at home her heart is kept stout.
There are pies to make, make, make,
There is bread to bake, bake, bake,
And steps to take, take, take,

All for the sake of the home.

When the day is o'er and evening has come,
The creatures are fed, the milking done,

He takes his rest 'neath the old shade tree,
From the labor of the land his thoughts are free;
Though he sows, sows, sows,

And he hoes, hoes, hoes,

And he mows, mows, mows,

He rests from the work of the land.

But the faithful wife from sun to sun,
Takes her burden up that 's never done;
There is no rest, there is no play,

For the good of her house she must work away;
For to mend the frock, frock, frock,

For to knit the sock, sock, sock,
And the cradle to rock, rock, rock,
All for the good of the home.

When autumn is here with its chilling blast,
The farmer gathers his crops at last;
His barns are full, his fields are bare;
For the good of the land he ne'er hath care.
While it blows, blows, blows,

And it snows, snows, snows,
Till the winter goes, goes, goes,

He rests from the work of the land.

But the willing wife, till life's closing day,
Is the children's guide, the husband's stay:
From day to day she has done her best,
Until death alone can give her rest;

For after the test, test, test,

Comes the rest, rest, rest,

With the blest, blest, blest,

In the Father's heavenly home.

HIDDEN BRIGHTNESS.

There's not a hearth, however rude,
But hath some little flower

To brighten up its solitude,
And scent the evening hour;
There's not a heart, however cast
By grief and sorrow down,

But hath some memory of the past
To love, and call its own!