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UNHETURN1NG.
Three things never come again:
Snow may vanish from the plat 1
Blossoms from the devry sod,
Verdure from the broken clod,
■Water from the river’s bed,
Forests from the mountain’s head,
Night may brighten into day,
Noon in midnight fade away.
Yet the snow shall come once more
When the winter tempests roar.
Blossoms each returning spring
In her laden arms shall bring.
Grass be green where ploughshares run,
Rivers flash in autumn’ssun,
Time shall bid the forests grow,
Noon and midnight come and go,
But though a!] thy soul complain,
Three things shall not come again.
Never to the bow that bends
Comes the arrow that it sends;
Spent in space, its airy flight
Vanishes like lost delight.
When with rapid aim it sprang
From the bowstring’s shivering twang
Straight to brain or heart it fled,
Once for all its course was sped.
No wild wail upon its track
Brings the barb of vengeance back.
Hold thy hand before it go;
. Pause beside the bonded bow;
Hurtled once across the plain,
No spent arrow comes again.
Never comes the chance that passed:
That one moment was its last,
Though thy life upon it hung,
Though thy deith beneath it swung
If thy future all the way
Now in darkness goes astray,
When the instant born of fate
Passes through the golden gate;
When the hour, but not the man,
Comes and goes from Nature’s plan;
Never more its countenance
Beams upon thy slow advance.
Never more that time shall be
Burden bearer unto thee.
Weep and search o’er land and main,
Lost chance never comes again.
Never shall thy spoken word
Be again unsaid, unheard.
Well its work the utterance wrought,
Woe or weal, whate’er it brought;
Once for all the rune is read,
Once for all the judgment said.
Though it pierced a poisoned spear
Through the soul thou boldest dear,
Though it quiver fierce and deep,
Through some stainless spirit’s sleep;
Idle, vain, the flying string
That a passing rage might bring.
Speech shall give it fangs of steel,
Utterance all its barb reveal. j
Give thy tears of blood and fire; 1
Pray with pangs of mad desire;
Offer life, and soul, and all,
That one sentence to recall.
j Wrestle with its fatal wrath,
Chase with flying feet its path.
Rue it all thy lingering days,
Hide it deep with love and praise;
Once for all thy word is sped,
None invade it but tho dead.
All thy travail will be vain—
Spoken words come not again!
'-Bose Terry Cooke , in Boston Transcript.
JULIET’S PICTURES.
BY HELEN FOKREST GRAVES.
“I’ve been here a whole week, and
not a single order has come,” said Juliet
Jay, disconsolately. “I am sure I don't
know why. There must be plenty of
people in a city like this who appreciate
art. And the sign: ‘Miss .'ay, Photo¬
graphs Artistically Enlarged and Col¬
ored,’ is big and bright enough, I am
certaiu. how I Oh, dear! at this rate,"l hardly
see am going to pay my way!”
There was a large family of Jays in the
old red brick house in Garley Court.
The grocery-store occupied the first
floor; there was a dancing-school above,
with sundry rooms dedicated to the use
of the terpsichorean professor and his
family. And on the third floor dwelt
Mrs. Jay, who took in dressmaking and
plain sewing, and trimmed hats (when
she could get any to trim), and in this
atmosphere of needles and thread five
little girls had grown up.
Susan bad married the eldest son of
the grocer down stairs—rather a fail in
life, as Mrs. Jay, whose father’s cousin
had been a clergyman, considered it;
but Mr. Pretzel was very good and kind
to Susy, and allowed the Jay family to
have their groceries at wholesale prices,
After this, Marian Was apprenticed to
Madam Colquhoun, the modiste, Kitty
-and Sophy were yet school-girls, and
Juliet had boldly struck out into the lino
of art.
“I’m so sick of this everlasting stitch,
stitch, stitch!” said she. “The very
sight of a needle sends a cold chill
through me. And I do love, so dearly,
to draw and paint. Mother, do say that
I may!”
“I suppose you'll do as you’ve a m’nd
to, anyhow,” said Mrs. Jay, mournfully,
“My o-irls all do ”
“Uh, mother!” cried Juliet. “Iflmay
only try, you’ll see that I’ll be a great
artist yet. 7 ’
But the more Juliet Jay painted the
less sanguine she be ante of her powers.
A glimpse into the great world of art
convinced her that divine fire must burn
in any torch that was to be carried into
these grand aisles.
“But . T I can only , do , my , best,” said .,
Juliet, courageously “It I can’t be fa
mous, 111 color photographs a3 con
scieutiouslyas lean.”
She borrowed a hundred dollars from
Mrs. Pretzel the grocer s w.fe, to fur
msh her little studio and pay a month’s
rent in advance, and then she sat down
to await the revelations of the future^
A”, dls f 0Ura S ln S ' vork ‘. And ’ f
Jul.et t r had not made up her mmd not to
be e asily rebulled, she might have de
spatred. without So many turning people their went heads; by the
sign so
many only glanced at the little glass
ca=e screwed beside the door-post,
which contained three of her very best
specimens of photograph coloring, and
one neatly-tinted pictuie, enlarged from
gestn a dim ely old disposed daguerreotype, which was sug
beside it
One or two persons came in during the
week to ask her prices, but they all
seemed to consider that she was too
dear ‘
“I can’t work without profit,” cried
Juliet, in an agony of despair, “Do
these people think that I have opened
my studio merely to accommodate
them?”
“You’d better have taken up the dress¬
making, said Mrs. Jay, in mournful,
minor accents.
“I think,” said Marian, soberly, “that
Jul et is aspiring too high.
While Kitty and Sophy, who had had
new jerseys promised them out of .mliet’s
first paying order, began to whisper to¬
gether, and wonder, in their innocent
little hearts, when the long-expected
customer would come. And it was the
longing looks of these poor little damsels
that most went to .Juliet's heart.
ber, One dusty, overclouded day in Septem¬
however, a mud-besplashed country
shouldered wagon stopped at the door, a tall, broad
and tying man old of horse about thirty got out,
inelegant an by means of an
studio. rope halter, came into the
“Are you the young lady that enlarges
and colors photogiaphs:” said he.
And Jul et murmured a timid assent.
“Can you do anything with this?” said
he, producing an ancient daguerreotype
of an elderly lady in a mountainous bon¬
net and a pa : r of glistening spectacles,
that altogether obscured the eyes of the
p cturo.
“1 can try,” said Juliet. “Please let
me know which of these specimens you
desire it to resemble in size and style.”
The broad-shouldered young man after
some hesitation, picked out a pattern.
“What will it cost,” sa d he—“that
size and in a frame like that?” indicat¬
ing two different pictures that hung on
the wall.
“Ten dollars,” said Juliet,
studying his face to see if it would be
too much.
“Agreed!” said the young man.
“And how soon can you have it finished?
I want it right away.”
“1 couldn t possibly promise it before
this day .week,” said Juliet, after men
tally reviewing all the possibilities and
probabilities of the situation.”
“Oh. well, that’ll do.” sa d the swart
faced giant. “Then I’ll call a week from
from to-day. Jly name is Appleby, and
live at Sheldon Plains, just across on
tko Jersey shore.”
Juliet could scarcely wait for the
studio door to close before she was at
"ork with her colors and biu-hes.
She ate her lunch of bread and cheese,
and c0 ' d coffee, when the bell struck
twelve; and at n ght, when she came
back from work, Sophy and Kitty
danced about with joy at the good t d
ings she brought.
The picture was duly finished, paid
paid for and carried away. The chil
dren had their jerseys; Juliet bought a
black ribbon now for her mother’s Sun
day bonnet, a rubber toy for Mrs. Pret
zel’s Daby, aud a tiny volume of “Every
Day Devotious” for gentle Mariau.
On the following Monday the mud-
wagon again made its ap
pearancc at the studio door.
“Oh dear!” cried Juliet, apprenens
lvcl . “I hope the picture all right1”
y- is
“Yes,” the young man answered,
‘‘Inat picture gave every satisfaction,
-^ there n( * now, A- is un t so Maria, much who pleased is with visiting it
that she wants you to come out there and
paint her portrait.-’
“Can’t she here?:’said Juliet. ....
come
“Bless you, no!” said Mr. Appleby,
, jaugh.ng. “bhe never crossed the river
111 ier She s atraid of ferry-boats
and steam-cars, and travels oulv by
horse and wagon. But if you don t
m ‘“ d the journey, she’l pay you well,
and m y m °ther will be glad to make you
at hom< :‘ Perhaps you’ve got a sister or
a cousm that would llke a breath of
country air, and that would be sort of
jjpet for you.”
pj i q thought of sideache Marian, and who weari- com
a nc( so muc h of
ness in the evenings, and instantly ac
cepted don’t the amt proposition.
know whether I can mint a
por t r ait or not, <’ she thought. “But at
j east j can trv »
So Martin Appleby came to the ferry
to meet the two girls, tho next after
noon . and Marian and Juliet went out
t0 the farm on the , Ter sey meadows,
where the red apples wcre j ust begiu
n i n g to fall, and the gianes hung in
pu , p | e f es t oons a i 0 ng the stone fences.
.. Aunt Manila” was a fat old woman,
whose face resembIed no thi ng more than
a summer sqHaS h. with three beech-nuts
stuck in it, by way of features. Mrs.
Apple by was a plump, comfortable
matron, who called everybodv “mv
dear ,”and kept house as her good Dutch
ances tors had done before her, and
Konest Martin was the flower of them all.
1 he picture took some time longer than
they had calculated, but neither Juliet
nor Marian grudged the delay.
“Marian is enjoying this country air
so much,” said Juliet.
“Juliet is so absorbed in her art,”
reasoned Marian.
And by the time that Aun f Manila’s
portrait was finished, they were all like
one happy family.
“I didn’t s’pose as city folks could be
so nice,” said Aunt Marilla. “I al’ays
reckoned they was sot up beyond every¬
thing.”
“I do like the farm so much,” said
Marian, who was helping Mrs. Appleby
to “make over” the one silk gown that
she had had for ten years.
“that “Ialwayss’posed,”said there Mrs. Appleby,
was an end of the gown,
because it takes so much material to fix
a fashionable dress in these times, and I
never had but twelve yards of silk. But
Miss Marian she says, says she: ‘ Why
don’t you take your satin cloak and
combine the two? It’s what evetybody
is doing nowadays, and long cloaks ain’t
worn any more.’ And sure enough*
there’s eight good wide yards of satin in
the cloak, and I shall have a first class
dress and satin enough left for one o’
these visiles, as they call ’em, into the
bargain. I declare, economy is wealth,
and it’s Miss Marian that has proved it
to me.”
“There ain’t many girls like Miss
Marian Jay,” said Martin, with an ap¬
proving nod of the head.
And Juliet, glancing suddenly up from
her work, caught his eye, and colored
scarlet. It was as if thought leaped to
thought in their two minds, and each
read the secret of the other’s heart.
“He loves her!” thought Juliet.
“!-he thinks I am looking beyond my
station,” was his idea; “and perhaps
she’s right.” that
Juliet did not rest well night. She
cried herself to sleep in the pretty little
bed-room which looked out over the
winding blue Hackensack Liver,
“J am a selfish, hateful, mean-spirited
creature,” she thought. “I was vain
enough to think that he cared fur me,
and I am vindictive enough to feel a
pang—yes, countless pangs—because lie
lias discovered that Marian is a thousand
times fairer and sweeter than I am! I
will discipline myself. I will conquer
these mean grovelings of my base
nature 1”
She finished the picture the next day,
and put it in tho frame, Aunt Marilla
was delighted with the reproduction of
the summer-squash face with the beech¬
nut features. Perhaps it was not exactly
a m'racle of art, but with it represented a
comely old lady’s face, an excellent
copy of the gold neck-chain and the lace
collar, with enough should resemblance to in¬
sure that there be no mistake in
identifying it: and the good old soul
cheerfully paid for it a goonly price.
“You are going "homo?” said Martin.
“But you will leave Miss Marian here a
few days longer. I think my mother
never would get that dress done without
her heln?”
4 ‘Oh," ves,” said Juliet,trying to smile,
‘‘Marian shall stay. And you needn’t
take the trouble to drive me to the ferry¬
boat, Mr. Appleby. I can just as well
walk to Siplev’s Cross Hoads, and take
the horse-cars there.”
“You can,but I don’t think you will,”
sa’d Martin, quietly. “To speak the
truth, Miss Juliet, I want a good long
talk with you.”
“Oh!” said Juliet. ^
But they had gone some distance,
however, before they began to speak.
“Miss Juliet, I’ve made up my mind
to do a very presumptuous thing,” said
he. “To ask you to marry me."
“Me!” cried Juliet, starting so that
she nearly dropped the basket of big
blue plums, that she was carrying home
to her mother, out of her lap. “You
don’t mean me—you mean Marian!”
“But I do mean you,” said he sturdily.
“Miss Marian is very sweet and lovely,
but I don’t think she cares for me, and I
certainly don't care for her. Don’t
blush extraordinary so, my darling. the Is there anything
very in fact of my lov¬
ing you?” happened that Martin
So it Juliet and
became affianced on the way to the ferry¬
boat. And Juliet ran into the little red
brick house in Gurley Court with cheeks
all roses, and eves that sparkled like
stars of happy light. mother!” she
“Oh, mother, cried, as
she emptied the blue plums into Mrs.
Jay’s lap, “what do you think? I’ve
promised and to marry farm Mr. Appleby, the and flats. go
live on a on Jersey
And Marian is to live with us, because
the air agrees with her, and you are all
to come and stay with me whenever you
please. And I am so happy—oh, so very
happy!” And Mrs. Pretzel agreed, with
even
the rest of the Jays, that .lul et’s art had
done something solid and substantial for
her; while Sophy and Kitty were over*
joyed. “We pick real daisies in the fields
can
now,” said Kitty.
“\Ye can have somewhere to spend the
holidays this year,” said Sophy.
And Miss Jay did not require her
studio after that first quarter, for which
she Night. had paid in advance .—Saturday
A Romantic Story.
A remarkable incident, the particulars
of which are vouched for, is reported in
Dublin. Just eight years ago a young
Dublin engineer and the daughter of a
wealthy farmer, who was also largely en¬
gaged married. in the Dublin provision trade,
were The bride had managed
and the provision business for her family,
was described as an am’able and
lovely girl. After the marriage the wed-*
ding party went to Glendalough, and a
most enjoyable day almost up to the hour
of returning was spent, the company
being a large occurred one, when some misunder¬
standing between the newly
wedded pair. The bridegroom left the
company in anger and walked the eight
miles back to the city in time to take an
evening that period steamer until to Thursday Liverpool, and from
in last week
he was never heard of. The latter felt
her desertion keenly, but she stuck to
her business. Her father meantime died,
and she was left in charge of great re¬
sponsibilities. believed The have wanderer was for¬
gotten or to died and some
time since another succeeded in obtain¬
arranged ing her affections. for early day, The wedding was
an and in\ Rations
had been issued, when the long-missing
husband put in an appearance in the
city. He had been all these years in
New Zealand, and he had made money,
wh ch he had come home to share with
his wife, who, “strangelyenough.” adds
the correspondent, “felt all her old love
fer him revive. He was very nearly be¬
ing late, but his timel.v arrival saved a
vast amount of after misery to all con¬
cerned. ”—London Glole.
Spelling His Name.
Here is a story that makes one think
of the old conundrum: “How do you
pronounce b, a, c-k, a, c-h, el”
The late Mr. Ottiwell Wood was once
summoned as a witness in court. AVhen
he was called and sworn the judge, not
catching his name, asked him to spell it.
“O, double t, i double u, e double 1,
double u, double o, d,” sai l Mr. Wood.
Mr. Justice Dusenhury, an excellent
judge, but not nimble-witted, after one
or two futile struggles, laid down his
pen in despair, I saying: heard. “Most May extra¬ I
ordinary name ever Mr.-er,
trouble you to write it for me,
Witness?”— Youth's Companion.
A fool may have his coat embroidered
with gold, but it is a fool’s coat still v