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AT EVENING.
Upon the hills the sunt-et glories lie,
1'he amaranth, the crimson and the gold,
Beside the sinuous brook that ripples by,
The dark, deep ferns their feathery grace
unfold.
The ll'tle yellow blossom of the field,
That »hone a Jewel In the splendid day,
Holds one small dewdrop In Its bosom sealed,
And by to-morrow will have passed away.
The village windows gleam with gorgeous
light,
And in the east a purple cloud hangs low.
A few browa birds sing out their hymn to
night,
Od shadowy boughs—then spread their
wings and go.
Along the road the men that sow and reap
With heavy footsteps stir the whitened
dust,
And up the sky—illimitable steep—
The moon climbs slowly to her sacred trust.
Oh, grand, strange trust I to be a light to
iboBe
Who lie all night, impatient for the morn,
When the lresh fragrance rises from the rose.
And the sweet dew begems the sharpest
thorn.
The stars, those sleepless eyes, peer through
the chinks,
That line the shrouding darkness of night’s
walls,
Each thirsty flower its draught of dampness
drinks,
And here and there a perfumed petal falls.
Then from the East a salt y breath comes up,
To cool the heated bosom of the worlJ,
It lays its lip upon the lily’s cup,
Whose white, solt edge its kiss leaves all
empearled.
And upward, to the splendor ol the stars,
The fragrant moisture rises 1 ke a vail,
Night shuts its gates and dr- ps the heavy
bars,
And somewhere morning waits, supreme
and paie.
I *•’ *
I Getting Into Society.
/“I tell you, Jack, the farm is not
ytour vocation. I become more and
ignore convinced of the fact every day
And less contented with the life we are
leading.”
Breakfast was over and we stood on
the farm house portico, arm in arm.
On the sill of the door sat baby scream
ing with delight, as she fed a pair of
pet pigeons from her dimpled hands.
Our breakfast had been a delicious
one—coffee clear as amber, bread like
enow, and steak done to a turn.
All about us was a green tangle of
sweet briar and wild honeysuckle, the
sun was just rising above the moun
tain peaks and the morning air was
sweet and fresh and filled with exqui
site woodland odors, and musical with
the songs of birds. We could catch a
glimpse of the barn and poultry yards
from where we stood, and hear the
plaintive lowing of the kine and
dream-like tinkle of their bells.
I felt a vague sort of conviction that
Jack had but little sympathy with my
spirit of discontent, yet I was deter
mined to carry my point, if possible.
“You are dissatisfied with your lot—
I see that plainly, Nell,” said Jack, a
trifle sadly.
“Oh, nonsense!” I put in, “not with
my lot nor with you, only with the
farm^ Jack, I’m tired to deith with
this prosy, hum-drum life, and I hate
to see you delving and toiling like a
slave from one year’s end to auotner.
You were born for something better,
Jack—something grander aud nobler.
Fancy a man of your abilities growing
grain and digging potatoes and raising
stock to his life’s end.”
“But, my dear,” suggested Jack,
“we must live and have bread and but
ter.”
“To be sure, Jack, but why not earn
it in a more genteel fashion ?”
“Honest labor is al^pys genteel.”
‘Oh, pshaw! you don’t understand
me, Jack. I mean that you have
capacities for something better. You
only cling to the old farm to please
your father, when you could do a hun
dred fold better elsewhere. And, be
sides, where is our society in this
place, Jack ? What chances are there
for our children as they &row up?”
Jack laughed as he glanced down at
baby who was struggling furiously to
get a pigeon’s head in her mouth.
“Ah, Nell, that is looking so far
ahead,” he said, “and you forget that
I have lived here all my life.”
“Oh, no, I don’t forget. And what
have you done, Jack ?”
“Led an upright life aDd married
you in the end.”
“But you didn’t pick me up among
the clover blossoms, Jack,don’t forget
that. You found me in town, and
Jack,dear, I am anxious to get bad to
my native element. I’m tired of this.
You can get on ever so nicely in town
Jack ; and there we can get into so-
clety.”
“I’m not over fond of society, Nell.”
“Oh, but you should be for my sake,
Jack; I’m fond of it. I hate to live
like a hermit. Why, Jack, if we dtsire
to give a little party to-morrow we
ooi*ld not for lack of guests.”
“Dear me, Nell, why I could muB-
ter scores.”
“Of a certain sort, yes, but I don’t!
want them, Jack. I’m a little pecu
liar iu my notions. I want no society
but the best; the—the—sort of socie y
one gets in town.”
“Fashionable society, Nell.”
“Well, then, why not? You have
mean 1 , Jack, aud I flatter myself that
we are fitted to move in any circles.
Why should we bury ourselves iu
this wilderness,”
“Our means are not inexhaustible.”
“I’m aware of that, Jack, but we
have enough for a start and Vanbor-
ough (flers you a place iu the bank.”
“At a limited salary.”
“Oh, yes; but you can work your
way up, Jack ; right to the topmost
round of the ladder. Do let’s go, Jack !
I’ve lived here to please you ever since
our marriage; I think you can afford
to please me a little now.”
Jack sighed as he looked out upon
his ripening grainfields, but he drew
me close to his heart aud kissed me
“That’s true,” he said, “you can’t
be expected to care for the farm as I
do, Nell. I promised to make you
happy when you consented to be my
wife, and I’ll try to keep my word.
You shall have it all your own way,
Nell.”
i The continuous dropping of water
wears away the solid stone. I had
conquered my husband at last, and
the oesire of my heart was about to be
accomplished.
When Jack once made up his mind
to do a thing he did it with all his
might. The matter was soon settled.
Cherry Hill, as we called the farm,
was sold at a great sacrifice, and one
sunny morning we turned our backs
upon the breezy mountain summits
and golden grain fields, and journeyed
cityward.
“Im afraid you’ve made a big mis
take,” said Jack’s father, as he bade
us good-bye ; “you’d better have stuck
to the old farm. You remember the
old saying about rolling stones.”
“I don’t believe in old sayings, sir,”
I answered, loftily, “I think I can ap
preciate my husband’s abilities better
than any one else can.”
“All right, I hope you won’t find
yourself mistaken, my dear. Good
bye to both of you. Whatever you do,
care well for the little one. I’m afraid
she won’t like the chauge. If you hap
pen to tire of town and fashion, don’t
forget that a welcome always awaits
you at home.”
Jack’s heart was too full for utter
ance.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, “but we
shall not get tired.”
Our new home in Penryth was a
stylish residence in a fashionable block.
We established ourselves in the princi
pal hotel, and then set about the task
of furnishing the house.
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Vanbor-
ougb, the bankei’s wife, dropping in
for an early call, “don’t dream of such
a thing as ingrain carpet. Get Brus
sels. You’ll find it much cheaper in
the end, and besides it is so much
more stylish.”
We harkened to our friend’s advice,
and laid our rooms with Brussels, aud
the cost ran up into the hundreds.
Then furniture was got to match, Mrs.
Vanborough and several olher friends
aiding us iu our selection, and all sorts
of pretty, costly bric-a-brac, aud real
lace curtaius, aud a new cottage pi mo.
My old instrument was too plain and
clumsy for us now.
There is a curious sort of excitement
in spending money, which seems to
drive the most sober and eoonomiz-ng
people desperate when they once set
at it. Jack had been one of tne most
careful of men, counting the cost of
everything as he went, and saving
every stray penny.
Ouce into the vortex of city life, his
prudence was speedily changed into a
sort of recklessness. He actually
seemed to delight in seeing his money
go.
“We’ve got snug quarters here,
Nell, by George! No one in town
can outshine us, not even Vanborough
himself. It has lightened our purse a
good deal, I’ll admit, but what good
comes of having moi ey if you can’t
enjoy it?”
“We must try and save a little now,
Jack, since we are fixed so nicely,”
said I.
“Pshaw, ohlld ! Who ever heard of
a banker’s clerk saving anythiug ? If
we make both ends meet, it will be
more than I look for.”
“My dear, I suppose you want to
give some sort of a party now. It is
customary you know. I’ll help you
to order your refreshments, and Cect*
jia will write out your invitations for
you.”
I mentioned the matter to Jack, and
he entered into the spirit of the affair
with great exoltement.
“To be sure, little wife, have a party
by ail means. Don’t spare exppimi |
either, my dear. Aud I shall take it
upon myself to order your costume. I
wait you to look as grand as a little
empress.”
“But, Jack, we are spending a great
deal of money.”
‘ Oh, well, never mind. It will go
anyhow. You’ve always wanted to
get into good society, Nell, and you
are fairly in it now. Let’s make the
most of it while we’ve got it.”
My Heart aciied a tittle, and in the
midst of all the flarfc and flatter of
preparation I was conscious of a vague
feeling of regret whenever I recall the
quiet months of my early wifehood,
spent at Cherry Hill. With the fool
ish inconsistency of my sex, I sat
down aud cried over the consumma
tion of the very hopes which I had
cherished so long.
But, despite my tears, our reception
went on, and it turned out to be a great
success.
“By George,” said Jack, “this sort
of thing is jollier than the old farm, I
see now, little wife, that you are right,
always right.”
The winter that followed was ex
ceedingly gay. We were Invited
everywhere and our house was con
stantly filltd with guests. Balls, soi
rees, kettle-drums and the opera
seemed to engross every hour.
When spring came our last surplus
dollar had been expended, and we
were solely dependent on Jack’s
monthly salary.
The warm weather, came on and the
baby soon fell ill. I hoped day by day
that Jack would say something about
going back to his father’s for the sum
mer, but he did not even hint at such
a thing.
Our fashionable friends fluttered oft
like summer swallows and we were
left almost alone.
“Couldn’t you manage to make a
little trip to the seashore, my dear ?”
Mrs. Vanborough had suggested, and
Jack caught at the idea with eager
ness.
“We might, Nell, I think we can.
I’ll try and borrow a few hundred
somewhere.”
“Oh, Jack, no, no,” I sobbed out
in my remorse and despair. “I won’t
go to the seashore. You see how ill
baby is. Oh , Jack, ask your father
tj let us return home.”
I said no more. The long bright
burning days wore on, and our bills
ran up higher and higher, and the
baby’s little breath seemed to grow
weaker and weaker, and poor Jack
himself began to look dreadfully worn,
And one afternoon he was pent home
m a carriage, quite unconscious,
stricken down with a sudden fever.
• I put my pride aside then and wrote
a letter to Jack's father.
“Jack aud baby are both ill,” I
said, “and we are sick and tired of
this life. Pray forgive us, and let us
come home.”
The very next day the dear old gen
tleman arrived, but the bailiffs and
officers of the law were before him.
The rumor that we intended to leave
town had got out and our creditors
rushed iu anxious to secure the lion’s
share of our effects. The Brussels
carpets, the handsome furniture and
costly bric-a-brac, all went under the
hammer at a disastrously low figure.
“Never mind,” said my father-in-
law, not a shadow of reproach on his
kind old face, “let them tquabble over
it if they will. We must get our sick
ones homes.”
So we got Jack into the carriage,
and with hia poor hot head upon my
knee, and baby in my arms, I turned
my back upon the scene of my short
lived triumph.
“We are going back to Cherry
Hill,” said the old gentleman, as iu
the dusk of the golden day we drove
through the dewey stillness of the
mountain ravine.
“The old home has been waiting
for you all these months. I was pretty
sure you’d oome back.”
The door stood wide open. We car
ried poor Jack in and laid him down
in the broad breezy room that had been
our bridal ohamber.
He opened his eyes and drew a deep
quiverin' breath, as the mountain
breeze touched his throbbing head.
“Nell, where are you?” he said,
“ surely this must be my home.”
“ I am here. Jack,” I answered*
through my tears, “and this is home,
dear old Cherry Hill.”
“Thank God !” he murmured and
fell back on the pillows and I saw
great tears triokling slowly from be
neath his closed eyelids.
I rose softly, and fell on my knees
beside Jack’s low pillow.
“Oh, Jack,” I Bobbed, “I have been
so wicked. Forgive me, Jack, forgive
me. 1 am so glad to be at home
a.vftiu.”
“You didn't mean it Jack,” I whis
pered. * Y>)u only pretended to enjoy
If, iill to please me.”
H^ smiled at me with his grave,
fond eyes.
“And, oh, Jack, our money is all
gone and—”
He silenced me with a kiss.
“No matter, little woman; the lesson
we have learned has been cheaply
bought. We shall not care to leave
the safe old mountain nest in search
of fashion and society again.”
I could not answer.
Scraps.
The biggest thing on ice—The
profit.
Beauties often die old maids. They
set such a value on themselves that
they don’t find a purchaser before the
market is closed.
Rector—“Those pigs of yours are in
a fine condition, Jarvis.” Jarvis:
“Ye 1 , sir, they be. Ah, sur if we
was all on us ad fit to die as them are,
we’d do.”
“What made you Bteal that water
proof cloak ?” demanded the judge.
The culprit whispered, “I was trying
to lay up something for a rainy day.”
Sentiment.
SanrUe.
Th*. colors of t>e morning spread
O’er all the eastern sky,
Pale green, and gold, and tea-rose red,
And purple of porphyry ;
The wet grass glistens like silver thread,
And the still Btars fade and die.
The day begins her wistful chase
For the fleeing night to seek,
And the oriole sings his song of grace—
The most brilliant qualities become
useless when tboy are not sustained by
force of character.
But my heart Is weary and weak,
For the thought of one dear absent face,
And a longing I cannot speak.
Some Day.
I hear a song, a song so sweet,
I’ll try all vainly to repeat
Its melody, and, lalllng, say,
“I’ll sing It, ir God wills, some day 1”
Some day, when Journeying is done,
When earth Is lost and heaven Is won,
And I pass through the gates, and He,
The King, In beauty, welcomes me.
It may be that 1 shall not know
The way when oomes my time to go,
But In my Father's hand I’ll lay,
My own, and He wi 1 show the way.
“Some day,” I say, and, patient, wait
The opening of the Jasper gate,
Come soon or late that time will be
1 he dawn of endless rest for me.
Eben E. Rexeord.
; Who is wise? He that is teachable.
Who is migbty? He that conquers
himself. Who is rich? He that is
contented. Who is honored? He
that honoreth others.
A Swedish Poem.
It matte)s little where I was born,
If my parents were rich or poor;
Whether they shrank at the cold world’s
scorn.
Or walked In the pride of wealth secure,
But whether I live an honest man,
And hold my Integrity firm in my dutch,
I tell you, my brother, plain as I am,
It matters much I
It matters little how long I stay,
In a world of sorrow, sin and care;
Whether in youth I’m called away,
O* Mve till my bones and pate are bare;
But whether I do tne best 1 that can,
To soften the weight of adversity’s touch
On the laded cheek of my fellow man,
it matters much!
It matters little where be my grave,
On land or on the sea ;
By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the augel Death comes down.
And marks my brow with his loving touch,
As one that shall wear the victor’s crown,
It matters much!
Some Good Ones,
“Guess we’re all right now 1” puffed
the old gentleman as, mopping the
perspiration from his forehead, he
reached the steamboat landing with
his wife just in time to be too late ;
“guess we’re all right.” “Guess we’re
all right, do you?” rejoined she, catch
ing a glimpse of the steamer as it dis
appeared around a bend in the river ;
“guess we’re all right 1 Well,"I guess
we’re all left.” And they were.
Sing a song of Egypt,
Pocket lull of bonds;
Four and twenty big guns
With shall thoreat responds,
When the Are was opened
i he forts were knocked awry ;
Wasn’t that a pretty mess
For Pasha Arabl ?
The Khedive was out in Ramleh,
Shaking In his shoes;
The ships were in the harbor,
• Waiting for the news.
Arabl retreated
And left the conquered town;
In came the Bedouins
And burned the city down.
The advantage: A conservative
member of the house of commons, who
talks much on foreign allairs, but not
wisely, was passing last week through
Palace yard, when a man ran against
him. “Do you kno sv, sir, who I am ?”
said the member : “I am Mr. , M.
P.” “What,” irreverently answered
the man, “are you Mr. , the great
est fool in the house of commons?”
“You are drunk,»’ exclaimed the M, P.
“Even if I am,” replied the man, “I
have this advantage over you—I shall
be sober to-morrow, whereas you will
remain the fool you are to-day.”
Au exchange says that the hen’s
eggs six hundred years old found at
8t. Elio, France, remind it of a circus
clown’sjokeB. Yes; but the eggs had
some chio in them once.
There is an cld adage that if enough
rope Is given to a fool he will hang
himself with it, but it appears that
ever since the world began there la a
scarcity of rope.
“Is there much water In the cistern,
Biddy ?” inquired a gentleman of his
Irish servant. ‘ It is full on the bot
tom, sir, but there’s none at the top,”
said Biddy.
“I i,ay, when does this train leave?”
* ‘What are you asking me for ? Go to
the conductor; I’m the engineer.”
“I know you’re the engineer; but you
might give a cl vi I answer.” “Yes, but
I’m not a civil engineer.”
A lady in court, being asked her
age, replied that she didn’t know;
she couldn’t remember the exact hour
when she was born, and could only
depend on hearsay. Hearsay is not
evidence, and ihe matter was ruled
out.
A gentleman while traveling on a
Hudson River steamer, one day at
dinner was making away with a large
pudding close by, when he was told by
a servant that it was a des ert. “It
matters not to me,” said he, “ t would
eat it if it were a wilderness.”
A friend told a good story the other
day. Wheh in the country last week
she picked a sunflower in the garden
and brought it into the house. Meet
ing the landlady on the doorstep, she
stopped to nave a word with her, re
marking, as she pointed to the sun
flower, “These are called rosthetie
now, you know.” “Do tell,” replied
the landlady; “I never heard them
called a lything but sunflowers.” My
friend succeeded in concealing hei
laughter, and rushed otf as soon as
she could politely do so to tell one
of the boarders, a lady of apparent
culture from the city. She repeated the
story when, to her utter astonishment,
the lady said : “I always called them
that too 1”
Jonathan Edwards’ Frankness.
One of Jonathan Edwards* contem
poraries, the Rev. Dr. B., in an ad
joining town, discarded the severest ol
the Calvinistic dogmas. A notorious
scamp in the town, much affected in a
revival, went to the doctor and sa
him, in the religious parlanc
time, “I realize that I am the c
sinners.” “Glad to hear it 1” replied
the dominie, “your neighbors hav«
long realized it 1” “I feel,” persisted
the whining penitent, “that I am will
ing to be damned for the glory of God.’
“Well,” responded the hard-heartei
preacher, “I don’t know anybody
around here that would have tht
slightest objection 1”
One of Jonathan Edwards’ daugh
ters, who had some spirit of her own
had also a proposal of marriage. Th<
youth was referred to her father
“No,” said the stern individual, “you
can’t have my daughter.” “But 1
love her and she loves me,” pleadec
the young man. “Can’t have her !’
said the father. “I am well to do, anc
can support her,” explained the appli-
cant. “Can’t have her 1” persisted th<
old man. “May I ask,” meekly in
quired the suitor, “if you have hear<
anything against my
“No 1” thundered the obstinsf ^
by this time aroused; “I haven’
heard anything against you; I thin]
you are a promising young man, f
that’* why you oan’t have her. Sh.
got a very bad temper and yo
wouldn’t be happy with her!” Th
lover, amazed, said, “Why, Mr. Ed
wards I I thought Emily was ;
Christian. She is a Christian, isn’
she ?” “Certainly she is,” growled
conscientious parent, “but, ;
man, when you grow older yo
able to understand that there’s
folks that the graoe of God ca
with that you can’t 1”
. .. , ...
The draped polonaise is much
for white mull over-dresses. Th$
ice is first fitted like a baeq
trimmed along its edges with
b^pldery in two rows,
and the other
over a ribbon,
ed in length
and in front