Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

Waiting for the Dawn. BV r IRENE INGE COLLIER, CHAPTER IX. The days went by in dreamy monotony in the large, old house by the sea, where Eloise sat and listened to the low, sad voice of the waves, and the cheerier music of the mocking birds in the lemon trees, and watched the white clouds sail across the summer sky. The old negro house keeper was kind and attentive. Too attentive, for Eloise felt often that she had rather be alone than to have the queer, black faces and inquisi tive eyes of her two devoted servitors following ther everywhere. The agent never intruded; he rode over one day to accompany a large trunk, which he said Mr. Bertram had notified him would arrive at the station tor his young relutive, Mrs. Eloies Clevis, which was the name Eu gene had intimated he washed Eloise to assume during her retreat. The old negro woman, Maum Teeny, had a curiosity to see inside the trunk, only equalled by that which induced her son Nib to keep awake till nearly midnight, sit ting on the piazza just outside the low window that opened into Eloise’s room. By his side, on the floor, sat his mother, pipe in mouth, and talked, now to him and now for the benefit of Eloise. At last Eloise said, ‘You had better go now, and secure everything for the night, and then go to bed.’ ‘De only way we s’cures eberyt’ing is to turn loose Czar. He’s our gun and pistol and all,’ said Neb. ‘We unties him er nights and says, ‘Watch ’em, Czar,’ and I’d like to see de man, ’oman or boy dat’ll come inside dis yard.’ ‘Czar is a grand dog,’ Eloise said. ‘Such brown, curly Lair, and big, brown, intelligent eyes as he has got! Where did you get him ?’ ‘Mars’ Bertram sent him from New Orleans to mind his grounds and fruit. He’s got bis wal- nables in de bank in Mobile.’ Czar’s good as a dozen men, when we turn him loose at night.’ ‘Go and loose him then, it is growing late.’ When she was alone, Eloise took the key that had been enclosed to her, and opened the trunk. On the top lay what she wished most—music, and exercises for the voice. Then she lifted out several handsome, fashionably made suits, in linen, percale, soft woolen aud silk. The trim mings were in excellent taste and the material of the dresses was of good quality. There was also plenty ot linen underwear, with delicate ruffles acl embroideries. Boxes were opened and found to contain dainty collars, cuffs,gloves . and handkerchiefs. At the very bottom of the trunk she found a small, exquisite work-box, of carved sandal wood, containing satin-lined com partments, gold thimble, scissors, and other ap purtenances. In one little compartment which closed with satin-lined lid and silver knob, she found a roll of bank bills, with these words on a slip of paper: ‘For you, dear Eloise. When you want more, check on your devoted Eugene.’ She pushed the bills from her with a shud der. It almost seemed as if they were the price of dishonor. ‘Money,’ she said. ‘Money from him ! I can not use it. True, I eat his bread; his roof shel ters me; I must wear clothes he has given me, but I will not increase the obligation. And for these I shall lepay him. I will not rest till I do. I will give back every cent he has expended on me. I would feel forever humiliated unless I did. No, I will not use his money, unless ne cessity compels me, and then it shall be for a boyhood friend of mine, telling me that being in delicate health and fond of solitude, you, his favorite cousin, were coming to Ocean View, on bis recomendation of the charms of the place, to spend the summer.’ Eloise colored vividly, and then grew pale and was silent, a startled look on her face. Half a mile from the house, on a lonely beach, to be addressed by a stranger and called that unfamil- liar name,and to have the humiliating conscious ness that she was here under false colors thus practically brought before her, no wonder she changed color and looked shy and confused. Dr. Grayson saw it and once more apologized for his intrusion: ‘I have startled you by my abrupt appearance. Finding when I called that you had gone for a stroll, I took the liberty of following you, for, as my time is pretty well taken up profession ally, I thought I might not have an opportunity soon, again, of paying my respects to the friend and relative of my friend.’ Eloise had already recovered her composure. Bowing her head with sweet dignity, she said: ‘Thank you, Dr. Grayson, for telling me of the kindness and interest my—my—’ she could not address Eugene as her cousin. •Your cousin, madam,’ he said, not noticing her embarrassment, ‘spoke of your ill health.’ ‘Y’es, I have been teaching now for more than a year, and have been very closely oonfined.’ ‘Are you already better? you have a good color this afternoon.’ ‘The air agrees with me I think.’ ‘It is the best tcnic in the world, worth more than all the physio in the pbarmacopiro. You must take exercise—not remain indoors.’ ‘It is pleasant to banish medicine, and yonr perscription, I will assure you, shall be readily used. I am never contented idle, and action you know, is a panacea to care.’ ‘Mrs. Clevis,’—ignoring her last last remark. —‘Euaene asked me to tell you he wouM send an agreeable companion, and a nurse should you need one.’ ‘I hope I may not, but would like a com.pan ion with whom I could converse.’ ‘That is the kind I think he will send if vou wish one, and should you become ill before Eu gene sends one, I know of a woman ia poor cir cumstances, who would answer well. She lives some distance from here, is a middle-aged lady, reliable and efficient in all cases.’ •I am obliged for your interest in my health. Probably I Lave had the same person recom- ended. She lives some miles from here, and I heard, nursed some of the Bertram family through a severe illness.’ ‘I perhaps refer to the same lady.’ ‘A Mrs. Abbott?’ ‘Yes, that is the one, but if Eugene has one all ready to send as a companion for your lone liness, Mrs. Abbott would not answer.’ ‘Perhaps I had better wait till I see the com panion he has chosen.’ ‘Eugene told me to request you to address him if you desired a lady sent.’ •I will write; I have heard nothing from Mr. Bertram since I came.’ ‘That reminds me, I have a letter from him to you in my pockpt. The agent who attends to his business knew of my coming in this direc tion to see a patient, and solicited me to deliver it to you,’ handing the letter to her. She glanced at the address. ‘Mrs. Clevis, I wish I could promise you a visit at an early day from my wife, but she has been in miserable health for sometime, and is not able, though she wishes to meet you. I will see that a few of our friends call.’ Accept my thanks for your intended kind- gfe*-/-Urpose.^at^^^^^ c/3 j-^Jbealth^.nd.r^ ‘Indeed,’ said Eloise, thinking it was the bells that always tolled as the boats passed the Poto mac, by Mount Vernon, that was what uncle Bob had heard, and told the rest of the servants it was on this lovely bay. ‘They would not do so for any inferior officer, it must be a reef. I have heard so often they abounded on the coist of Florida.’ The moan of the waves was all she could hear. Murmering 1 ' a snatoh from Lurline, she clos ed the piano and retired, and not long did the ‘watcher for the dawn’ lay awake. Her stroll had made her tired. (TO ni continued.) Old Petro the Harp Player. One day we were retmg ourselves on a shady bench in the park, ’tiding with us a large pho tograph of the Cathedal at Milan, to which we had taken a fancy in ar morning ramble, when our attention was atracteu to an old Italian harp-player who was musing a small group of children a little brond us. As he ceased playing and receivedihe two or three pennies he had worked so hid to gain, shouldered his harp and was trudgp-wearily past, we called him to us, and unco'ting the photograph ask ed him if he had eveieen that in his own coun try. Never shall I >rget the look that came into his wan, thin fftr&g he bent quickly for ward and, crossing hiself, exclaimed, ‘II Bel lo Duomo ! II Bello Ipmo ! Si, senor, si senor. II Bello Donmo !’ His eyes fairly glished an$ his lips twiched nervously as he gazedfcon it with a fascination, such as a long lost tisue might exert over its owner, while he sotirepeated to himself, ‘II Bello Duomo.’ A fpwords then sufficed to draw from him his sip Born in Rome, he R gone with his parents in early boyhood to lan, and until his thir tieth year had dwel uder the shadow of that grand triumph of arc|;ecture. He had played in front of its por» and sunned himself on its marble steps; h iad begged pennies from the passing toaristi ad blessings from the long robed friars; he .1 coined strange fancies and thoughts from e sculptured stones and woven for himself m r a legend of their origin; on Sunday he had od within its walls with hushed breath and : d souls as the Ave Maria rose on the air heav ith incense, or the good priest held the sacri ni on high for adoration. He had witnessed ; y a bride in her spotless white robe take up her the solemn vows of a wife, and he had seei my a black-robed proces sion file through the ned doors. He had seen sovereign and begg ueel before the holy al tars, the wretched last and the sweet faced nun, the swarthy ba and the humble barfoot ed monk, aud he lu icuself brought his child ish offerings and them on the shrine, and kissed with revorei is the sacred images. Then, as the yea ew on, he sold in front of its doors the can beads which his father made and the goo iest blessed, and in time he succeeded to his er’s trade, and at last be came a guide to the i Cathedral itself. There he conducted party r party through the state ly pile, pointed out trandeur of its portals and columns and the bies of its altars, led f them out upon the roof Explained the statues and curiously carved cpgs where every known leaf and flower is eled in the white stone: had shown them distant peaks of Mont Blanc and Monte l, and the Jong range of Alps to the far nom ^led the eye oversmil “OSS US, AND I'LL SS TO SLEEP,” That is a sad song to my ears. I cannot bear will relate- ** awakens a saii mei nory, which I I had a brother, a handsome, lovable, merrv boy, the pet and pride of the family, and a fa- vonte in the community. Nature had endow ed him richly and culture had developed his ad mirable qualities. His voice was soft and mu- sica 1 in accompaniments to the guitar, upon which he had learned to play. When he was twelve years old—it was his Charlie, Henry, Mabel and Alice knew how to handle oars, and the boat put out for the distant mainland, while Mary rang the bell with all her might. For a moment the waves seemed to en- gnlph the little folks, but they kept the boat righted, and seemed to laugh at the winds as their paddles sported with foam and wave. The mother watched her darlings till a gigan tic wave seemed to swallow them, then ascended to the crest of the light house to await results. It was a fateful New Year’s Eve for the tenants of bquambo. They did not know how it would end. At last lights gleamed along the beach; they vmoil frv foil »V. „ birthday—? lie 332? brotherh™? his TTVa tel1 > «***»* mother that the and the^ity’folgyThatX^with"tlm.TZl , "* ^ " *" a day of unalloyed pleasure. There were our precious freight had reaohed it in *•<■ »•*«. foth g ro„ ‘state,; i “?• Th *- * dis - andanother brother, the fourth one being at his adopted home in a distant state, but even from him I carried birthday presents entrusted to my care, and a telegram received that morning con veying congratulations and well wishes to little Will, the favorite brother. In the forenoon the family were alone, each ' cry: .. . and shouts of triumph came ttrorn the shore. Suddenly a cry .came up from the very foot of , 6 light house, and the courageous mother leaning over the railing, saw a boat flung high upon the rocks by the waves. ° She hastened below to be greeted with the member vieing with the others in making the time nierry, aud little Wiil, wearing his hand some new suit I had presented, and the watch and chain sent by our absent brother, was over flowing with happiness, though sometimes we would bring a deeper blush to his rosy cheeks by teasing him about his newly acquired evi dences of growing to be a man. The afternoon passed over a delightful party of visiting friends and night and a prayer from father at the fire side around which we were gathered, closed the pleasures of the day. I was talking to father and mother in the sit-! tiDg room, when little Will, opening the door, drew out his watch and announced that it was but half an Hour before my train time. We joked him with the charge that he only came in to parade his watch, and that we doubted the cor rectness of its time, which he scouted as being a slander on a perfect time piece. ‘Well, before I go,’ said I, ‘get your guitar and sing me a song.’ He complied, and after singing a humorous ballad, sang, and it was the first time I had ever heard the song, ‘Kiss me and I’ll go to sleep, ‘ Papa is safe ! safe at home !' It was a happy New Year’s Eve at Squambo after all, for the sailor was on board the unfor- tunate ship. All had been saved in boats from the shore, and the people were blessing the brave children of Squambo Light. I know that my readers love to hear about such brive boys and girls, add feel that on New Year s Eve they will think of the denizens of the old light hosse, and wish them a happy time. For they are there still, ready to succor and to save. God bless the brave little folks of Squambo ! MOBCEAUX. “Funny Bones” for the Youus to Pick Folks Little Tommie C—was brought up in the country by a good old Methodist grandmother. The preacher of their district was on the order He sang it very sweetly, ah, more sweetly to innards five^Bihh^ ^’ “ bilD S ed the J «... as I tented,, U, than I h.vs 6,6, provides for my comfort away from] men t to your kindness I see you think, but ishes to make my cage attractive, fashionable visiting I could not now endure. how well ue him. He wishes that be may keep me here. This moment he is doubtless hanging over Anna, breathing in her ear vows he used to pour into mine; speaking of me with a sneer and a curl of the lip; throwing out some false insinuation concerning my flight to screen himself—insinuation that all will be lieve because he is the dignified, solid, moneyed Mr. Bertram—the shrewd business man, the in fluential citizen. All will believe except two—I know Carrie’s true, noble heart. She will not listen to a slander of one she loves; nor will the brother who resembles her in soul—frank, straightforward Sydney. Ob, Sydney! I could not bear to lose your respect—to fall in your es timation. The thought of your love is precious tome, though I may never see you again; the sight of this bright pledge of your devotion to the poor exile and alien will bring a gleam of hope in her darkest moments.’ She pressed to her lips Sydney's beautiful ring, that flashed in the moonbeams. ‘1 never knew the beauty of goodness, sincer ity and simple truth, till I met these two, Car rie and Sydney—noble sister and brother. God spare me these two friends, to cling to amid the wrecks of so many of my early hopes. They and my brother are all the world to me. Dear brother, thinking this moment, perhaps, of me, wondering if all is well with me, if I have grown into more mature womanhood, I who was such a slender slip of a girl when he saw me last. Alas! if he should see me now he would find other changes than that of growth. He would see the shadow that secret care has left in my eyes; he would hear a discord in the laugh he used to say was so musical and ringing; he would see that the day of my life is early overcast, and that tor me there is nothing but to hope and to wait—to wait for the shadows to lift—to wait for the dawD.’ One lovely afternoon, five days after her arri val, Eloise was strolling along the beach, where on one side stretched the calm, blue bay, away into the infinite ocean, and on the other rose that grand old house, a fit home for romance, with its walls of dull, red brick, made a dark, greenish gray by mould and parasitic growth, and mantled in places with ivy and with wild, blossoming vines. A magnificent place it had once been, but now the trees were untrimmed and hung with moss, the walks were grass grown, the terraces were unshorn, the flowers straggled up through weeds, the fountain that had once fallen in a silvery stream over the backs of two marble swans, now trickled a wast ed thread of water among choking weeds and shrubs, while the hedge of white japonicas was outgrown and untrimmed. The boat house had nearly fallen to decay, as had the once gaily painted but now dingy skiff that rocked within it. But the decay and dilapidation only enhanced the picturesqueness of the place, and gave the have the look of some old oastle on the Rhine, embalmed in romantic legends of the feudal days. Eloise felt the charm and for a time gave her self to the calm enjoyment of the beautiful. Here, at least, she could be free from the fret ting finger of those who understood not her grief. Here, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot," she might turn her thoughts to things beyond this day of passion and strife and un rest. Looking out towards the glorious sunset that glowed far over the calm expanse of water, she sang: ‘The past forget, the future spare, Sweet spirit, hear my prayer.’ A step behind her broke upon the sweet, rich music of her voice. She turned, startled, and saw a tall gentleman approaching. He lifted his hat respectfully, while his eyes ran over her figure in surprise and admiration. Then he gracefully introduced himself: ‘Pardon my intrusion. I am Dr. Grayson. Mr. Bertram may have spoken to you of me. ~ T presume, are Mrs. Glivis. I received a from Eugene (Mr. Bertram I mean) an old fashionable visiting I am really a recluse.’ She knew it was a falsehood and had to al most force the story through her lips. ‘I w ill leave you to read your letter. I have a sick man that I must see before night. I will call again. Should you need me, send instant ly and I will come immediately.’ ‘Thanks, Dr. Grayson.’ ‘I must bid you good evening.’ ‘Good evening, Doctor., He walked hurriedly away. Her laugh, so strange, rang on his ear with a harsh sound—as she turned the letter over and over. •Eloise Clevis—no Mrs. Clevis—what a decep tion. A pretty name though.’ Counting back she found the same stage driv er that, under the shadows of night had taken her away, had on his following trip carried the letter to be mailed. ‘I wonder if I could see to read.’ Tearing off the envelope she found that the slantine penmanship could be read, and for a time was absorbed in the sheet of paper. Sud denly she folded it, as though she could read no more. ‘He describes well my flight, how it affected the villagers, Carrie, my dear friend, her con sternation and grief, her indignation at him, Miss Albers’s insulting remarks to him, and then that he was accused but had somewhat quieted all down. He writes so lightly of Syd ney, though he must know I esteem him as an invaluable friend. He never could make me lose confidence in Sydney Farman. Surely it is not jealousy. I know it is not, for Sidney would not betray all that occurred at our last in terview—yet Eugene is such a snake in the grass, his suave persuasion may obtain from Sid that which he had no idea of telling. Glad I warned him. He did not allude to Anna, knowing she was not one I loved Only my friends he speaks sneeringly of.’ She placed the letter in her pocket and walk ed slowly through the gathering gloom to the house. Having finished her light tea, she went to the parlor and opened the piano, and soon the large room echoed with the music that floated far away on the night air, and drew the negroes, who had come up from the quarters to draw ra tions. It was the first time they had heard the grand piano since Bertram’s sister played on it, in days before the family were scattered. Eloise was so absorbed that she did not hear nor heed the many listeners who had gathered in the hall. From -Chopin she wandered to pieces of later date, which pleased her audience, for their feet patted audibly upon the floor, one dethron ed fiddler of the plantation actually essayed to pat upon his knees, keeping time. He grew so lo'ud that a looker-on would have been on the qui vive for an old fashioned jig dance. She grew tired of such music soon, her hands glided from lively airs to sweet strains from Mozart’s, Handel’s and Gottsohalk’s melodies. The wierd, solemn airs entranced her, softened her heart to the outer world, surely sweet music savors of heavenly joys. One after another of the servants left the house, bowing or dropping a courtesy, with a ‘thank’ee Mistis.’ On glided the white fingers. Aunt Dinah and Mary, the house maid, and Neb, the ever-present, were still near her. Mary had closed the house silently, fearful of jarring the melodies of the great composer that penetrated throughout the building. A loud grunt from aunt Dinah, a yawn from Mary told Eloise it was time to cease. A clear, ringing sound was heard, and Eloise started. ‘Is it the evening chimes, Vesper bells?’ ‘No marm, it’s a boat what’s passin’ ’ ‘Was not that twelve bells’ Auntie.’ ‘Yes ’um—I nebber counted dem.’ ‘I wonder why they ring so many, I thought they only rang the watches on-’ ‘I’se hear uncle Bob say he ax um one time, and de white men tole’ him somebody died here, and dey tolled for him.’ my heard it sung since. A week from that day I received a note from mother saying little Will was ill. He had while riding into the country on business for father been exposed to a cold rain, and had contracted severe cold. The following day a note inform ed me that he was worse, and I went to see him. The doctor told me he had pneumonia aDd was exceedingly ill. But when I approached his bedside, a smile of gratified expection wreath ed his face, and he would have raised himself to greet me, out I leaned over the bedside to catch his whispered welcome. ■ 'Did he sutler ?’ ‘Yes, but would soon be better.’ •He doesn’t complain, mother said, ‘you know he never complains at anything.’ He pointed me to underneath his pillow and smiled the word of God” in her neighborhood. When Tommie was about seven years old, he was hear ing this preacher, one Sabbath, for the first time. • Tne latter was in one of his most animat ed moods, and as he would bring his fist down upon the Bible, and stamp upon the pulpit floor with a mighty force, little Tommie with staring eyes and trembling limbs would dodge behind his grandmother, and in a loud whisper excitedly ask; ‘Granny, is he going to hit me ? »V hat is the matter with that man, grannv? Is he crazy ? etc.’ When the family returned home, and, at the dinner-table were speaking of the sermon, Tommie listened impatiently, and then ended the discussion by saying : ‘Well, you may say what you please, but I don’t belie* and there the Sureh, and over there the old refectory wfctill preserved Da Vinci’s incomparable frAh ! those were glorious days in Bello M And then when he went home and showtich harvest he had glean ed from foreign how the light came into the eyes of thtyoung wife who chose to share his lot. p. the iong Italian even ings when thei meal was over, and Nita joined him loor, just in sight of the beautiful buildilh was to them a mine of wealth, he woulc gently the sweet chords of the harp, wh clear, rich voice would softly caroi theltalian songs; or they would sit gazing deep blue sky, which only Italy know.build airy castles, such as Spain never d.f, and people them with a thousand ITncthe joyous future. But one day all wated, and Nita lay as in a trance, smitten w deadly fever which is the curse of Italy Another day anwas dead, and as the stricken husband from the silent grave he turned his baver upon Milan. He could no longer Sere she was not amid the old familiar Bind with only his harp in his hand—thauemento of the past— he wandered fortlhe vast world. Once, only, he turned sined a distant hill-top to take one last Icie cathedral, towering in its regal splen^e the city, and seem ing to rear itself hument to all the earth. Every city in Itnost, knew the form of the sad and Vaveler, and the harp went with him bringing food and sometimes a sheltis head, though more often the blue skyg only covering when amid the myriadhe fancied he could discern angel eyefo down upon him, or slept to dream of ^es on his lips and the moisture of a swefi hovering over him, and woke to find Idews of night upon his face. Then a»rew poorer amid the contending lactioBe strife that sprang up on her ancient sOm soldi became more difficult to obtaipie harp failed some times to bring hila crust of bread, he turned his face not hut not toward Milan. He had never seeijf since he first left its portals, and he coio back now. Through Pisa and Genoa hijd along the coast of bed Marseilles, and hrough France into then back again, and at last he reached the deep sea unti from there he w; Germany and Aui over to Great B America. Still the harp \ old together, ui instrument ‘gave voice wavered am him, and they grew inger the cherished rtain sound,’ but its n, as did its master’s. Still it gained liii*y pittance and com forted his lonely .and now not many more years lay ball, a few more days of weary wanderu» e would go to join the fair Nita who ^ D g for him in the home among the d» s . His head drooped as he drew near tb| his story, and the tears fell from hiflti^j e y 6 s and coursed down over his sea», ronZ ed cheeks. ‘Ah Cara Nita, Bella Duomo. ‘Would Monsieur let me 1« picture once more ?’ ‘Yes, indeed, and h< a ve it and welcome.’ But no, he had iM 0 beep it, and he would not carry tiC. He would take one last look at it Mrth again upon his weary pilgrimage bi d more hopeful for that sight of the ' him, and he wou reward monsieur ful exile. Poor Petro! -M£ayer be answered at the throne of gi y 0 ur own hopes be realized in the ■ting with the beau- e. that man has got religion; if he has, it's, his fiats and his feet /’ ynr-w -t H ' rb6r. k te?r^'.“ d .i!::i“ e xnr 1 ing at the top ot his voice. ‘I & battle cry ot fleadom,’ answered t. another yell, and went ahead with l Oar ‘boys and girls' may have seen * ly articles of furniture, but what of one candlestick that was wortl^/ fLaiiuibavion i*)i tUo t.aOtTiiaAUi cITul uxobuh >• " commanded by God to build. It was of solid after being for sometime unconscious, and ut terly unable to talk, regained reason, and could faintly speak. But vitality, the flame that fed the bouyant. life had wasted almost to extin- guishment and the doctor told us there was ing landscapes, ofj •’ >|lley and green hill- nQ hope. How we hovered about the bedside aaAjil- I map beneath thcjce was the Amphitheatre 0 e f° re ! We hid from his eyes our tears, and - - • - - tried to answer cheerfully his ever cheerful whispers. Nine o’clock at night, he pointed to his watch and asked me the time. When I answered him he whispered: ‘ ’Tis just half an hour to your train time.’ My utterance was broken by the memory of that other time when he had remarked the same thing, as I told him I should not leave him that night. He asfced me to read to him from a book an extract which he admired. During the reading mother had seated herself on the bed by his side, and was chafing his hands and forehead. When I had conoluded, he bowed his thanks. A moment later, when all the family—all except our absent brother—were by the bedside, he turned toward mother and lifting his little wast ed arms until they encircled her neck, whisper ed to her, audibly to us all, ‘Kiss me and I’ll go to Sleep,' and with these words, his last, still musical to our ears, and our mother's kiss still warm upon his dear lips he fell asleep—to wake to us no more. New Year’s Eye at Squambo. BT T. C. HARBAUGH. ■to still so dear to blessed virgin to taess to the sorrow- tiful Nita on the d Girls whose opii mgjj things is al ways valuable, say collar and too litt day, to suit their ’s too much shirt in the present A great many of my young readers do not know where Squambo is. It is not a city, for large places would not own such a queer name, nor is it a Yankee village as its cognomen would suggest; but a tall, dark-looking light house, around whose titauio base the waves lash them selves into fury. Squambo’s light has been bles sed many times by storm-tossed sailors, who thought of the children that nightly lit the great revolving lamps to warn them of breakers and danger. It was New Year’s Eve, and the light-keeper’s grand-children, five in number, were enjoying themselves in one of the queer-shaped rooms of the old light-tower. The lamps had been lighted by their busy fingers, and the beacon was flash ing over the stormy waters. The old man sat in his arm-chair telling stories to the little ones, whose father was away to sea. They were not listening with much interest to the old man, for their papa had promised to be at home on New Year’s Day, and they had grown impatient and uneasy. All at once the mother rushed into the room. Her face was white, and instantly the old light- keeper broke his story. The children started up and looked at their mother. *A vessel has struck the sharp rooks!' she said. ‘ I hear the cry of distress and the boom of can non above the roar of the wind.’ ‘ It may be papa’s ship !’ These terrible words blanched the cheeks of every one, and the old light-keeper managed to rise. Ring the bell, mother. Let them know that we hear them !’ ‘ I will ring it, mother!’ cried a little girl of ten as she flew up the steps towards the belfry. The wind is loudest between us and the shore, and the men there cannot hear the dis tressed. Is the water mad ?' * It is white with foam,’ replied the mother. ‘ But a boat can live in it!’ said the oldest lad, a ruddy boy of sixteen, ‘News must be carried ashore, and we can do it ’ ‘ You, children ?’ * Yes; we are strong, and papa may be on the rocks.' The sailor’s wife gazed proudly upon her chil dren, and took them in her arms and kissed them. She knew something which she dared not communicate. Her husband was in the ill-fated ship, for she had heard his signal above the roaring of the storm. Her children were strong and courageous. They launched the boat, and four pair of oars drove it oat into the maddened sea. and the finest gold, five feet high, three feat and a half wide across the top, was richly and beau tifully embossed, and hud r seven branches to hold the lights. Little Bessie’s grandfather was dead. A few days after she was rummaging in one of the bureau drawers, and suddenly cried out; ‘There, now, grandpa has gone to heaven without his spectacles !' A sabbath school teacher asked his pet scholar why they took Stephen outside the walls of the city to stone him to death. The little fellow scratched his head silently for a moment as if trying to solve the problem, then suddenly brigtitenicg up, replied; “So they could git a better crack at him.’ Do the boys know how often a sparrow feeds its young in one hour? Thirty-six times. So says a naturalist, and makes the calculation that at the rate of fourteen hours a day, during tne long spring and summer days, two parent birds will teed to their young 3,400 caterpillars in one week. So, boys, don’t kill the dear little birds that rid us of so many insects most des tructive to vegetation. ‘My mamma is heap richer than yours,’said little Susie to her friend Annie; ‘for we buy berries every day, and your folks don’t have ’em but once a week." ‘I don’t care,’ replied Annie, ‘when we do buy ’em, we put our own sugar in them, and don’t borrow it from our neighbors who are poorer than we are.’ An abbey in Ireland exhibits two skulls of Shakspeare—one of him when he was a little boy, and one when he was a man.—M. Louise Crossiey. A Mother’s Touch. I remember duriDg the war hearing of a moth er who went to the army. She got a despatch that her boy had been mortally wounded and she started to him at once. She managed to get through the lines some way, though there was an order from the War Department that no wo man should be admitted unless she was sent down as a nurse. She got into the wilderness where _ her son was, and after a great deal of searching, found the hospital he was in. She went to the surgeon to get permission to see him. She told him what she wanted, and he said: ‘We have only just got him otf asleep, and I am afraid that if we should wake him up and let you see him, the excitement would be bad for him; you had better wait until he wakes up, and then we can break the news to him gently.’ She said, ‘ He may never wake up, and I want to see my boy.’ She knew that no one could nurse him as she could. At last the surgeon consented to let her see him, but warned her not to wake him. So the mother crawled up to that cot, but the moment she got near enough she could not keep her hands off him. She touched him and he knew the touch, and cried, ‘ Oh, mother, have you come ?’ Yes, tnere was a loving heart back of that hand; that mother had compassion for her boy. It was that that made him know that it was his mother’s hand that touched him. So, sinner, if the Son of God touches you, He will help and bless you. — Moody. Quiddities. For the ladies—A tea party without scandal is like a knife without a handle. Words without deeds are like the husks without the seeds. Features without grace are like a cloak without a face. A land without the laws is like a cat without her claws. Life without cheer is like a cellar without beer. A master without a cane is like a rider without the rein. Marriage with* out means is like a horse without his beans. A man without a wife is like a fork without a knife. A quarrel without fighting is like der without lightning.