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Self-Sufficing. 1 know a lake among the hills, Serene and bright and full and free, Unfed by any mountain rills, And with no outlet to the sea. And yet I marvel if there be Frond any where through all the land; bo gold-and-jewel rinun’d a cup, As Nature with her Hebe hand Here brims, and kneeling, offers up. Its molten surface gives the sky In softest sapphire beauty back; And when the storm comes scudding by, Dark with its stress of thunder-rack— Although its blue be tinged with black, The tempest has no power to dash Tire ciearny swell against the shore, Nor with defiant onset, lush The ripple to a sullen roar. From seoret sources stored away Beneath its own sweet water, flows The unseen strength, that day by day Keeps it in such supreme repose As never shallow current shows: Its edges flash with tender green, That lures from far the hungry herds, And in ils stooping copse are .-een The nests of thousand brooding birds. Oh* for a nature like the lako’s, A-gleam amid our summer hills ! That gives, ungrudged its own, nor takes; That ever keeps its calm, and stills Its heart, self-centred, even when ills Impend with drift of tempest-foam; That woos the weary, and above All other, weaves a nested home For every wandering wing of love ! ^Margaret F. Preston , in Woman’s Journal. A LITTLE SURPRISE. It was a chilly November night when the train got into Hampden. Hampden was one of those new, un¬ finished places which required the brightest of sunlight, the greenest frame of quivering leaves, to make them at all presentable. And in the gray, uncompromising medium of the November dusk, Hampden looked dreary enough, with the dark chim¬ neys of the new silk mill rising out of the hemlock woods, the staring Queen Anne depot, the church, which bore a strong family resemblance to a child’s wooden toy, and the stone quarry to the left, which reminded the thought¬ ful looker-on of a gigantic fortifica¬ tion in an unfinished state. “Humph!” said Mrs. Nedley, as she looked around her. “A queer place!” Her niece, Phebe, was there to meet her, with a box-wagon and a white¬ nosed old horse. “Folks can’t always choose where they’re to live,” said Phebe, who was always in a state of antagonism to Mrs. Nedley. “And Hampden is good enough for me!” “How is Philip?” said Mrs. Nedley. “Philip is well,” said Phebe, as she helped the depot-boy to hoist Aunt Nedley’s trunk into the wagon. Philip Barrow was Mrs. Nedley’s favorite nephew. She had paid his bills at school, superintended his for¬ tunes, and finally purchased for him a share in the new silk mills. “He’s all I’ve got,” said Mrs. Ned¬ ley, “except Phebe, and Phebe and I never did hitch horses together. And I want him to succeed in the world.” But within a few days a new claim¬ ant had arisen to Aunt Nedley’s pro¬ tection and tender consideration. “To-be-sure she is no relation to me,” said Mrs. Nedley. “But her mother was my clearest friend, and I think I will adopt her ‘for my own. f H And it was scarcely an hour from the time in which she learned that Silvia Grey was an orphan, that she wrote a kind letter to the girl, invit¬ ing her to come to the East for a visit. “If you like it, my dear, there need be no occasion for your ever going back,” she wrote. “We are both alone. Let us be companions to one another.” She had waited and waited, and no reply had arrived; and while she wait¬ ed, a plan had developed itself in her mind. “If she is her mother’s daughter, she can’t help being pretty,” said Mrs, Nedley. “Phil is a handsome lad. She shall marry Phil!” And this explains Mr3. Nedley’s presence at Hampden. “I suppose you are still, keeping house for Philip?” said she to Phebe, as they drove along in the chill twi¬ light. “No,” said Phebe, skillfully guiding the old horse down a steep place in the road. “He boards, eh?” said Mrs. Nedley. “No, he don’t board,” answered Phebe. “His wife keeps house for him.” “What?” said Mrs. Nedley. “He is married,” announced Phebe, very much in the tone in which she might have said “It is a cold evening,” or “The train is late.” “Philip married!” repeated the old lady—“married! Stop, Phebe—don’t drive a step further ! Turn around at once. Take me to the station, I’ll return to Concord.” “Ain't you going to see Philip?” asked Phebe. “Not if he is married,” answered Mrs. Nedley, in a choked voice. “He’s got a proper nice wife,” pleaded Phebe. “You’ll like her.” “No, I shan’t!” said Mrs. Nedley. “Philip—married ! Phebe, if you don’t turn around, I’ll get out and walk !” Mrs. Nedley’s will was like adamant, and Phebe Barrow was forced to suc¬ cumb to it. And so it happened that Phebe and the -white-nosed pony arrived, solitary and alone, at the little cottage of the mill superintendent half an hour after ward. Phil came out into the porch, carry¬ ing a lamp in his hand. Mrs. Phil ran after him with a pink apron tied around her trim waist, and her brown fringe of hair blowing back from her forehead. “Where’s my aunt ?” said Phil, as Phebe jumped out. “Didn’t she come?” “She came,” said Phebe, curtly; “but she’s gone back again.” “Gone back again?” “Yes. She didn’t like it because you’ve got married, so she’s gone back by the eight-six train.” “Oh, Phil I” cried Mrs. Barrow, who was a round, cherry-checked little woman, with soft, hazel eyes and a mouth like a red rosebud, “what shall we do? Why didn’t you consult her before you married me?” Phil Barrow broke into a great laugh. “My dear,” said he, “it wasn’t her consent I wanted; it was yours.” “Oh! But, Phil, she has done so much for you.” “She’s a good soul, but she’s eccent¬ ric,” said the mill superintendent. “Go in, Phebe, and get your tea.” “I’m sure I can’t eat a mouthful,” said Mrs. Phil, despairingly. “And the biscuits I mixed myself; and the fried chicken; and the White Moun¬ tain cake— Oh, Phil! oh, Phil I” “Don’t fret, dear !” said Phil “My Aunt Nedley has missed a very good supper; that I can tell her !” “But I’ve blighted your future !” said Mrs. Banow, tragically seizing the sugar-tongs. “We’ll go to Concord to-morrow, and see the old lady,” soothed PhiL “She must surrender if she sees you, wifey 1” Phebe chuckled grimly. “That’s all very well,” said she; “but you forget that an old lady and a young man don’t look at a girl with the same eyes.” “Hold your tongue, Phebe!” said the mill superintendent, “Where’s the use of always croaking?” And then Mrs. Phil began to laugh, and Phebe, who, after her crabbed fashion, was fond of iier pretty young sister-in-law, laughed also, And, after all, the dainty little supper was eaten and enjoyed, even though Aunt Nedley’s face was steadfastly turned toward Concord. Her own fireside had never seemed so solitary and dreary as it did upon that November night. The maids, gossiping in the kitchen, were called up to re-kindle the dead fire. The tea, smoky and half-cold, was served, and Mrs. Nedley was just resolving to go to bed. when Betsey brought a letter. “Postman, mum, he left it a week ago,” said she. “It had fell down back of the letter-box.” “Ah,” said Mrs. Nedley, fitting on her spectacles and scrutinizing the seal and directions, “from Silvia Grey. Now I shall have some one to love in Philip’s place !” But she had not read three lines before she flung the letter indignantly on the sulking fire. “Married!” she exclaimed. “That child! Is everybody crazy to get married, I wonder? And she hopes I’ll excuse her, but her husband thinks— Folly and nonsense! What is her husband to me ? Betsey, my chamber candle!” “Bless me, ma’am!” said Betsey. “What has happened?” “Everything!” exclaimed Mrs. Ned¬ ley. “Don’t let me be called before eight o’clock to-morrow morning, I almost wish that I could go to sleep and sleep forever!” And Mrs. Nedley, in the silence and solitude of her own room, fell to think¬ ing to what institution she could leave her money. She was sitting at her luncheon the next day, with the cockatoo on one side of her and the poodle on the other, when Betsey opened the door. “Please, ma’am,” said Betsey, “com¬ pany—” “Betsey,” said Mrs. Nedley, severe¬ ly, “I told you I was not at home to anybody to-day!” “Please, ma’am,” giggled Betsey, “he would come in !” “Who would come in?” said Mrs. Nedley. “It's me, Aunt Nedley,” said Philip Barrow, “and my wife, Don’t be vexed!” The tall young mill superintendent came in, with his pretty wife leaning on his arm. “Won’t you kiss me, Aunt Nedley,” said Mrs. Phil, putting up the rose¬ bud lips—“for my mother’s sake?” “Eh?” said Mrs. Nedley. “Didn’t you get my letter?” said Philip’s wife. “Letter!” Mrs. Nedley was more convinced than ever that she was asleep and dreaming. “I wrote you all about it,” said Mrs. Phil. “Don’t you know ? I am Silvia Grey. I met Philip when he came out to Denver to look at the new mill-ma¬ chinery, and he would be married im¬ mediately. He said he was sure you would forgive him. Will you forgive him, Aunt Nedley ?” “Yes, my dear, I will,” said Mrs. Nedley, her face brightening up like tho fall moon peeping through mist wreaths, “But why didn’t they tell me you were Silvia Grey?” “Philip wanted to surprise you,” said Silvia, hanging her head. “Well* he has surprised ine,” said Mrs. Ned ley. She wont back to Hampden with the mill superintendent and his wife, and slept in the pretty pink-and-white bed¬ room which Silvia had prepared for her with so much pains; and she prais¬ ed Silvia’o chicken-salad and prune pies, and she even condescended to ap¬ prove of Phebe’s half-completed silk counterpane; for life was ali couleur de rose for L»er now. It is a great thing for a woman of Mrs. Ned ley’s age to have her own way !—Helen Forrest Graves . Reading Everything. “He has rer»d everything” is a fre¬ quent remark made when a scholarly man is under discussion. How ab¬ surd such a statement is will appear when the fact in mentioned that in the Congressional Library at Washington there are over 600,000 volumes. If they were placed side by side they would fill a shell fifty miles long. If a man started to read this collection at the rate of one volume a day, it would take him 1650 years to get through, and while the malt would be at work on this vast library the printers would be turning out more than 15,000 new books a year. From these figures it will be seen that it is idle to think of reading everything, or even to read all the best books. The greatest readers among our distinguished men have had their favorite books, which they read and reread. Certain books in our language are called classics. They are models of style and full of ideas and illustrations. Modern writers go to these old authors and get lumps of solid gold which they proceed to beat out very thin. Why should we take the gold leaf article when we can go to the original mines and get solid nug¬ gets? The old novels are the best. The old poet3 have not been equalled. Too many of our new books are writ¬ ten hastily to sell. They are of an in¬ ferior quality and can not profit us in any way. A man, therefore, need not be ashamed to say that he has not read the last new book. When forty new books appear every day it is impossible to read them all .—Atlanta Constitu¬ tion. Almost an Editor. The other day the man who draws ashes away from two or three news¬ paper offices dumped a load on Gar¬ field avenue, beyond the pavement. In no time at all a score of Polack women and children were pawing over the load in search of treasures, and one child came across a large piece of old roller composition. He washed off the ashes in a mud puddle near by, but had only taken one bite when along came a Polack laborer and “held him up” for the stuff. He broke a bite, smacked his lips and started for home with the prize wrapped up in an old coat. Although press rollers are composed of nothing worse than glue and molas¬ ses, ft is quite probable that ere this the Polack has been taken with a “spell” and sent for a doctor. If the doctor has been puzzled over the com¬ plaint this will give him an eye-open¬ er, and if the Polack has bemoaned his greenness in picking up taffy he may be consoled by the thought that “the path of the roller leads to the editorial sanctum ,”—Detroit Free Press.