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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