87 NUMBER FIFTEEN. O God! O God! how could I sit close by, As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled, And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, At last there came a groaning deep and great- I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell! SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY. In an old churchyard stood a stone, Upon one side I could just trace, In memory of our mother!" I'd gazed on monuments of fame For I had never seen inscribed "She always made home happy!" What A legacy of memory sweet By those who knew her best, It was a humble resting-place, I know that they were poor, But they had seen their mother sink They had marked her cheerful spirit, } Her many burdens up the hill, So when was stilled her weary head, And she was carried from the home A noble life; but written not A CONFLICT OF TRAINS. HOW A WINE-COLORED SILK TRAIL BLIGHTED LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Young Radspinner and Lilian Deusenbury had long been lovers. They were engaged to be married. The day was set, and, waiting for the day to come, time moved as slowly as an accommodation train on a Western railroad. One evening, just a week before the time fixed for the nuptials, young Radspinner and Lilian were out, strolling up and down the railroad track, enjoying the calm and peaceful sunset. Lilian wore her wine-colored silk, and her proud young lover had told her a hundred times that it made her look sweet enough to drink. A tender speech was interrupted by the appalling screech of a steam-whistle just around the curve. The limited mail was coming at the rate of sixty-five miles an hour. There was not a moment to lose. Young Radspinner caught the beautiful arm of his betrothed and tried. to drag her from the track. Her dress caught upon a spike and held her fast. She tried to kick it loose. She screamed and kicked, but the spike would not let go. The train war bearing down upon them like a demon. They could alm feel its hot breath upon their cheeks. Young Radspinner stooped over and seized the folds of the handsome dress in his hands, intending to rip it from the spike and rescue from death the one fair woman beneath the sun. She stopped him with a cry of alarm: "Don't tear my dress!" "You must be released from this,” he yelled; “the train is upon us!" "It's my wine-colored silk; I wouldn't have it torn for the world." His love for her rose above everything else, and renewing his hold upon the garment, he exclaimed: "Blame your wine-colored silk!" "Don't you dare to tear it "" she cried, endeavoring to loosen his grasp. The locomotive screamed again, this time right in their ears. The brave girl pushed her lover off the track, and shouted, above the rattle of the train : “Leave me, George. Leave me and save yourself. I had hoped to live for you, for I love you devotedly, and I am sure we would have been very, very happy, but I would die a thousand deaths rather than tear my wine-colored- The locomotive struck her amidships, and strung her along the track for a mile and a-half. George hunted and hunted until his eyes grew weary, but he could not find enough of the winecolored silk to make him a neck-tie. TO-MORROW.-W. F. Fox. Loud chilling winds may hoarsely blow Again will spring-time warm the land The storm may gather loud and fast, Rough winds may rock the stubborn mast, Nor stars relieve her sorrow, Light will come trembling from her tomb The sun may chase the far-off cloud, Still will her smile break through the shroud The thoughts that burn like altar-fires, Whose flames reach high in proud desires,― May lose the fervor of their glow, Nor pleasure longer borrow, Their music may forget to flow, "Twill swell again to-morrow. The hopes, the loves of days gone by, The victory that crowns our life THE THREE SONS.-JOHN MOULTRIE. I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould; They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair, I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me, The food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere doth find: Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love! And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, d comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him! |