Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead,

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,

With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,

And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with applebloom;

And now, when the cows came back at night,

The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain;

And the old man's tremulous, palsied

arm

Could never lean on a son's again.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb:

And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.

LIZZIE G. PARKER,

[U. s. A.] WAITING.

FOR a foot that will not come,

For a song that will not sound, I hearken, wait and moan alway, And weary months go round.

Never again in the world

Shall that lost footstep be; Nor sea, nor bird, nor reedy wind Can match that song to me.

But in the chants of heaven,

And down the golden street, My heart shall single out that song And know that touch of feet.

UNKNOWN.

THE SECRET OF DEATH.

"SHE is dead!" they said to him. "Come

away;

Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face

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"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear? "Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall? "Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

And drew on her white feet her white

silk shoes;

choose;

And over her bosom they crossed her hands, "Come away," they said, "God under

stands!"

way?

"The utmost wonder is this, I hear, And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear.

"And am your angel, who was your bride, And know that, though dead, I have never died."

JOHN A. DORGAN.

[U. s. A.]

FATE.

THESE withered hands are weak,

But they shall do my bidding, though so frail;

These lips are thin and white, but shall

not fail

The appointed words to speak.

Thy sneer I can forgive,

Because I know the strength of destiny; Until my task is done, I cannot die; And then, I would not live.

MARY BOLLES BRANCH.

[U. s. A.]

THE PETRIFIED FERN.

IN a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low;

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night, and crowned it,

But no foot of man e'er trod that way;

Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Stately forests waved their giant branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy ava

lanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

Nature revelled in graud mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its wild sweet

way,

No one came to note it day by day. Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion

Of the deep, strong currents of the

ocean;

Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

O, the long, long centuries since that day!

O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost,

Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless ! Lost! There came a thought. ful man

Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there

ran

Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings leafage, fibres clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls

away,

Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

UNKNOWN.

UNSEEN.

Ar the spring of an arch in the great north tower,

High up on the wall, is an angel's

head;

And beneath it is carved a lily flower, With delicate wings at the side outspread.

They say that the sculptor wrought from

the face

Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride,

And when he had added the last sad grace

To the features, he dropped his chisel and died.

And the worshippers throng to the shrine below,

And the sight-seers come with their curious eyes,

But deep in the shadow, where none may know

Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies.

Yet at early morn on a midsummer's day,

When the sun is far to the north, for the space

Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray Through an amber pane on the angel's face.

Some craving for an unknown good, That in the spirit fluttered,

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Our footsteps sought the humble house Unmarked by cross or towering steeple, Where for their First-day gathering came God's plain and simple people?

The air was soft, the sky was large,

The grass as gay with golden flowers

As if the last night's sky had fallen
On earth in starry showers.

And, as we walked, the apple-trees
Shed their late bloom for every comer;
Our souls drank deep of joy and peace,
For it was youth and summer.

Yet through the doorway, rude and low,
The plain-robed folk we followed after,
Our steps, like theirs, demure and slow,
Our lips as free from laughter.

We sat apart, but still were near
As souls may draw unto each other

it seems

That he blesses the work of the dead

man's hand

With a ray of the golden light that

streams

On the lost that are found in the deathless land.

HARRIET 0. NELSON.

[U. s. A.]

THE QUIET MEETING.

DEAR friend of old, whom memory links With sunny hour and summer weather, Do you with me remember yet

That Sabbath morn together,

When straying from our wonted ways, From prayer and song and priestly teacher,

Those kind, sweet helps by which the Lord

Stoops to his yearning creature,

And led by some faint sense of need Which each in each perceived unuttered,

A nobler love to brother.

How deep the common silence was;

How pure and sweet those woman faces, Which patience, gentleness, and peace. Had stamped with heavenly graces.

Nonoise of prayer came through the hush, No praise sang through the portals lowly,

Save merry bird-songs from without,
And even those seemed holy.

Then daily toil was glorified,

And love was something rarer, finer; The whole earth, sanctified through Christ,

And human life, diviner.

And when at length, by lips of age,
The silent hour was fitly broken,
Our hearts found echo in the words
From wise experience spoken.

Then at the elder's clasp of hand

We rose and met beneath the portal; Some earthly dust our lives had lost, And something gained immortal.

Since then, when sermon, psalm, and rite, And solemn organ's tuneful pealing,