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Yea, yea! a look the fainting heart may break, Or make it whole,

And just one word, if said for love's sweet sake, May save a soul!

MAY RILEY SMITH.

READ THIS, BOYS.

Do waust Arst be good and true;

you want some day to be great, boys?

Would you rise to high estate, boys?
Then you musn't mind what you do.
So long as it's honest and right, boys,
You should do it, and do it well;
You should do it as in God's sight, boys,
For you know He can always tell.

Stand up for the small and the weak, boys,
And help them whene'er you can;
It is for this that we seek, boys,

In a well-bred gentleman.

Don't mind if your jacket be old, boys,
For a new one you'll get some day;
'Tis foolish to grumble and scold, boys,
And it is not a pleasant way.

Don't rail at the aged and poor, boys,
For you may be old some day;
If alms they ask at your door, boys,
Don't drive them in wrath away;

For their poverty's hard to bear, boys,

You should cheer them whene'er you can.

And let each of you have a care, boys,
That you act as a gentleman.

And always stand up for the right, boys,
Though you may stand with the few;
For right is not always might, boys,
Though it may be good and true.
And this is the way to be great, boys,
'Tis a way that you all should heed;
And the way to a high estate, boys,
Is by many a noble deed.

DUTY

AILY living seemeth weary

DAIL

DATo the one who never works;

Duty always seemeth dreary

To the one who duty shirks.

Only after hardest striving

Cometh sweet and perfect rest
Life is found to be worth living
To the one who does his b st.

C. M. SHELDON,

NEW YEAR'S RESOLVE.

S the dead year is clasped by a dead December, So let your dead sins with your dead days lie. A new life is yours, and a new hope! Remember We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.

Stand out in the sunlight of promise, forgetting
Whatever your past held of sorrow or wrong;
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.

Have

Did

you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining;

you faint in the race? well, take breath for the next; Did the clouds drive you back but see yonder their lining;

Were you tempted and fell? let it serve for a text. As each year hurries by let it join that procession Of skeleton shapes that march down to the past, While you take your place in the line of progression, With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast

I tell you the future can hold no terrors

For any sad soul while the stars revolve,

If he will but stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.

It is never too late to begin rebuilding,

Though all into ruins your life seems hurled; For look! how the light of the new year is gilding The worn, wan face of the bruised old world! ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

THE A

TWO PICTURES FROM LIFE.

HE dram-seller's wife wears fine silken robes,
Her laces are costly and rare,

And jewels most precious flash dazzling light
From her fingers so soft and fair;

The dram-drinker's wife looks careworn and pale,
And scanty and faded her dress,

For rags are her laces, salt tears are her gems,
As she toils in her wretchedness.

The dram-seller lives in a beautiful house,
Its splendors his neighbors' surpass,
His table is loaded with delicate food,
And sparkling with silver and glass;
The dram-drinker's home is a squalid, bare place,
There is nothing of comfort within;

Oft his table is spread with naught but a crust,
His children look hungry and thin.

The dram-seller's children are tenderly raised,
And shielded from want and its cares,

While every advantage which wealth can procure,
And every indulgence is theirs ;

The dram-drinker's children know little of joy, Their birthright is shame and disgrace,

The pitiful story of each little life

May be read in each sad little face.

The dram-seller's wealth increases each day,
Men call him benevolent and just,
They greet him with pride and ask him to filt
Positions of honor and trust;

his life.

The dram-drinker's purse grows lighter each day,
More degraded and wretched
Men sneer at his name, and say,

'Twould be better for children

66

were he dead, and wife."

O'er the dram-seller's grave a monument stands,
A massive square column of stone,

Inscribed with the name and the many good deeds,
And the virtues of him that is gone;

The dram-drinker's grave is unnoticed, unmarked,
In a lonely green corner 'tis made.
Disgraced, almost friendless in life, in his death
With the outcast and poor he is laid.

From the dram-seller's grave a solemn voice sounds,
Lead not in the dram-drinker's path

Thy brother, nor tempt him to walk in the way
That calls down omnipotent wrath;

By the drunkard's lone grave memory brings from her

store

Words found in the volume divine,

Woe! woe! shall be his who follows strong drink,
And tarries all day at his wine!

TRUE HEROISM.

ET others write of battles fought
On bloody, ghastly fields,

Where honor greets the man who wins,

And death the man who yields;
But I will write of him who fights
And vanquishes his sins,
Who struggles on through weary years
Against himself, and wins.

He is a hero staunch and bold

Who fights an unseen foe,

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