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Passed her right by. How little he knows,
When he prays for white robes his people to clad,
That one of Christ's lambs wanders naked and sad.

Hundreds of children, by baptism given
To the good Shepherd who waiteth in heaven,
Sunday-school children who often rehearse
Suffer the children"—that dear little verse
All passed on their way; not one of them knew,
That she was one of Christ's little ones, too.
Not long ere the little girl passed from sight,
Into an alley—where even the light
Was ashamed to be found, and just gave one peep
In the early dawn when the rich were asleep;
Then up' a rude staircase the tired feet sped,
And she threw herself down on an old straw bed.

Down her pale cheeks fell the tears, one by one,
As she said to herself: “Why, what have I done
That I'am a beggar, with my clothes all torn,
My feet so cold, so weary, so worn,
Tramping the streets from morning till night,
For a few little pennies to buy me a bite ?"
But the childish grief was soon forgot,
For that sad little one, though she knew it not,
With tears in her eyes had fallen asleep,
And angels were watching, Christ's foundling to keep.
Yes, angels had come up those old back stairs,
And over Christ's little one watched unawares.

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Sweet is the sleep of children, I ween,

,
In their warm little cribs, their faces just seen,
When nestled above the clothes tucked so tight,
With a kiss on the cheek of a mother's Good

night.”
But prettier far looked that dear little head,
When angels pillowed the old straw bed.
The morning gray through the dingy glass
Stole its faint rays—the night had passed.
The beggar girl woke: “Oh, mother dear!
Do you know somebody's been here?

Two smiling ones; they were dressed in white,
And round their heads they wore wreaths of light!

“They came in this room and they didn't seem hurt,
When their dresses swept through the sand and dirt;
And they passed not by like the ladies in town,
Holding their clothes lest they'd touch my gown.
And, mother, they bade me not beg to-day,
They are coming to-night to take me away.
They live in a place where the streets are all gold,
Where the children's feet never ache with the cold.
And they have to cross a river so wide,
For the city is built on the other side.
On their wings they'll carry me all the way,
So I'll not be tired, you know, to-day!

“ They told me we'd pass through a pearly gate,
But I thought outside I'd have to wait,
For, mother, my clothes are all tattered and thin,
And I could not think they would let me in!
But the smiling ones said that a dress of white
Would be waiting for me when they came to-night.”
And the little one waited, but not in vain,
For, true to their promise, the angels came.
Through the dark alley they softly stepped,
While weary workers soundly slept,
And they took from those haunts of woe and sin,
One of Christ's little ones home to Him.

OLD DOBBIN,

WILL L. KEESE.

I

SEE old Dobbin through the fence. How weak he looks

and old !

His hair is falling off in spots; he feels the damp and cold. He hangs his head, his step is slow. 'Tis plain enough to see His thirty years are more to him than fifty are to me,

I call to mind the colt he was, and how I broke him in.
Whew! how he kicked and pranced and plunged. 'Twas

doubtful which would win; But I was young as well as he, and would not be denied, And since, he's been as safe a nag as man would wish to ride.

He never lacked in spirit, nor in steadiness, nor speed.
Many's the time his willing feet have answered urgent need;
When every moment was a gain to fleeting human breath,
He knew what precious minutes meant and so defeated death.

Then, in my happy courting days, he knew the very night That I would swing the stable door and greet him with de

light. He knew the girl I loved was waiting far away and fair. He seemed to say: “ 'Twill not be long before I take you

there!

Then on my wedding-day he stood with others at the church. No doubt he thought for just that once I left him in the

lurch. One face, one form, that day of days, was all that I could see. I did not think of Dobbin, then, whate'er he thought of me. And when the years had brought their grief, and I learned

joy's reverse, He drew the little ones and me behind the gloomy hearse. I can not say that he divined how lonely was my lot; But since he has not been the same; I know that I have not !

And so, through gladness and through grief, old Dobbin has

been near. No wonder that he looks so old when I have grown so sere. I know full well that fifty years is youth to many men. 'Tis not the years, but that my heart has reached threescore

and ten.

So, while I live, his failing life shall naught but comfort know; Old Dobbin, for his faithful love, shall ne'er feel rein or blow. The best of oats, the sweetest hay, the field to wander free, Shall all be his,

,-a poor return for all he's been to me!

WHAT VACATION IS.

H. C. DODGE.

T'S planning for a month ahead, and purchasing with care

Gray flannel shirts and blazer coats and scarfs and things Then with a racket and a bag and lots of fine cigars You say good-bye, and off you rush to catch the boat or cars.

to wear;

a

It's stepping in a boarding-house and feeling rather strange
While with the older boarders furtive glances you exchange;
But soon you get acquainted, and a maiden you select
With whom to flirt and fall in love-in case she don't object.

It's playing tennis with the girls, and lots of silly talk,
And taking with your chosen one a lovely moonlight walk,
And rowing with her on the lake, and hunting flowers wild,
And dancing with her at the hops, and being more beguiled.
It's feeling like a millionaire and spending money free-
Without a thought of afterward—for anything you see.
It's getting rid of business cares and troubles of the town
And putting on your happy face a healthy hue of brown.
It's being just in Paradise that hasn't any end,
With oh! the sweetest angel you devotedly attend,
And falling heads and ears in love—then suddenly you know
But one more day of bliss is left ere back in town you'll go.
It's spending the last evening in a silent sorrow sweet,
Alone with her, and promising to write and often meet.
Too soon the awful moment comes when you and she must

part, And woefully you board the cars—broken in purse and heart.

It's feeling simply wretched when you strike the dusty town To bear again the burdens that you for a while laid down; And for a week you dream about the Paradise you've lost, Till all at once you realize the fortune it has cost.

It's going without dinners, and all other pleasures, too,
And trying hard to borrow so you're able to pull through
While paying for your summer fun that brought you into debt,
And writing her long letters—that she hasn't answered yet.

BERURIA.

ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH BY ELSIE M. WILBOR.

T

HE sun was setting o'er Mount Zion's top.

It was the Sabbath day. Beruria,

The wife of Rabbi Meir, wept bitterly
Beside two bodies pale and cold in death.
For God, who with a breath can snap in twain
The branch to which we desperately cling,
Had robbed her of her boys, two lovely lads,
And twins of ten. With sobs and laughter, crazed,
She made the walls ring out with sounds of grief,
And bathed with tears their still and lifeless forms.

But suddenly she paused, struck by a thought:
Their father! oh, their father soon would come!
When he returns with smiles and hears such sobs,
How if he guesses that, above his roof,
The dark death-angel has outspread his wings,
And that his boys for an eternal night
Have fall'n asleep and have not said farewell,
While he was teaching from God's Holy Word!

Beruria, then, in one long, last embrace,
Clasped close the golden heads of her two boys,
And, murm’ring low, she knelt and on the bed

lere once within her arms when new-born babes
They twittered, like young birds, their evening song,
She laid her two sons down, with breaking heart.
And o'er their marble brows a white sheet spread;
Then, praying, sat to wait that dread return.

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