BE KIND TO THE ERRING.

A very choice diversion, too,
If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it and abuse it.

I wish-a common wish, indeed-
My purse was something fatter,
That I might cheer the child of need,
And not my pride to flatter;
That I might make oppression reel,
As gold can only make it,

And break the tyrant's rod of steel,
As gold can only break it.

I wish that sympathy and love,
And every human passion
That has its origin above,

Would come and keep in fashion;
That scorn, and jealousy, and hate,
And every base emotion,

Were buried fifty fathoms deep
Beneath the waves of ocean!

I wish that friends were always true,
And motives always pure;

I wish the good were not so few,
I wish the bad were fewer;
I wish that persons ne'er forgot
To heed their pious teaching.
I wish that practising was not
So different from preaching.

I wish that modest worth might be
Appraised with truth and candor;
I wish that innocence were free

From treachery and slander;

I wish that men their vows would mind,
That women ne'er were rovers ;

I wish that wives were always kind,
And husbands always lovers.

I wish-in fine-that joy and mirth,
And every good ideal,

May come erewhile throughout the earth

To be the glorious real;

Till God shall every creature bless

With His supremest blessing,

And hope be lost in happiness,
And wishing be possession.

187

BE KIND TO THE ERRING.

Be kind to the erring, the humble, the meek;
'Tis the coward alone would trample the weak.
Ye know not how deeply the past they deplore;
In charity cover their sins evermore.

Be kind to the erring, the lowly, the sad;
Oft circumstance ruleth, who chain driveth mad.
Ah! boast not thy virtue, but con thy heart o'er:
Communion with self crusheth pride evermore.

Commune with thyself; think how reckless thou art,
Enriching thine coffers to wither thine heart;
Take warning by thousands on yonder dark shore-
Remember, thy soul must exist evermore.

Cherish good for itself, nor remember thy gain ;
Such motives are sordidly selfish and vain.
In deeds blessing all, and with hearts gushing o'er,
Flowing on to the ocean of love evermore.

Religion is naught, all pretensions are vain ;

If works are still wanting, ah! where is thy gain?
As bark cast away on some desolate shore,
As wreck on the deep, thou art gone evermore.

Thy days fleet away like a meteor's gleam;
Flashing bright for a moment, they fade as a dream;
Yea, dream though it be, yet on far-distant shore,
Shall in thunders re-echo the past evermore.

As flowers dost thou blossom, mere thing of a day-
As breath of the flower thou wilt vanish away;

Let love be thy motto this weary life o'er,

Then in sunshine of love wilt thou bask evermore.

SIX LITTLE FEET ON THE FENDER.

In

my heart there liveth a picture

Of a kitchen rude and old,

Where the firelight tripped o'er the rafter,

And reddened the roof's brown mould,

Gilding the steam of the kettle,

That hymned on the foot-worn hearth,
Throughout all the livelong evening,

Its measure of drowsy mirth.

Because of the three light shadows

That frescoed that rude old room-
Because of the voices echoed

Up 'mid the rafters' gloom-
Because of the feet on the fender,

Six restless, white little feet-
The thoughts of that dear old kitchen
Are to me so fresh and sweet.

When the first dash at the window
Told of the coming rain,

Oh, where are the fair young faces
That crowded against the pane?
While bits of firelight stealing
Their dimpled cheeks between,
Went struggling out in darkness,
In shreds of silver sheen.

Two of the feet grew weary,

One dreary, dismal day,

And we tied them with snow-white ribbons,

Leaving them by the way;

There was fresh clay on the fender,

That weary, wintry night,

For the four little feet had tracked it

From the grave on the bright hill's height.

Children, how often do you 'spect me to stop in my dressing to extort you? I didn't mean to preach no more sermons this week; but you do behave so awful bad, I must.

Now, first, don't you know speakin' saucy is a sin? Don't you know it? It makes us hateful, an' it makes us cross, an' it makes nursey tell ma. It ain't right for Chrisshen chil'ren to do such things. It don't never say in our Bible-lesson that folks can call peoples "nassy mean uglies" just for pullin' hair. An' it don't say that a good Chrisshen child can say, "Pshaw for you!" for havin' not to make quite so much noise, which you, my beloved brethren, Tom, said just now to nursey.

Now, we must be good an' perlite, if we want to do right, an' have things Chrissmas, an' if we want to be loved on earth an' in heaven. (No, Sir! that ain't talkin' big, an' I do know what I mean, too.) I say we must be perlite. It's natural for nursey to rub noses the wrong way when she washes faces, an' to comb hair funny-she was born so. An' all we can do is to be patient an' wait till we get big, an' have chil'ren of our own.

But what I say—what I mean, what I-what I—(now, you, Sammy, give Kitty back her dolly right away, or I'll come down to you!) What I mean is, that we all ought to be good and perlite. It's wicked to be saucy. We ought to love one another. We ought to help each other all we can. An' nudgin' is wicked, an' scroogin' is wicked, an' squirtin' on your brothers an' sisters with a squirt is wicked, when nursey says you mussent. An' makin' faces ain't the way to do. No more ain't bullyin', nor

mockin', nor any of those things. I go in for bein' pleasant an' kind, an' havin' fun fair-only, my beloved hearers, I can't do it all alone. If we'd all be good Chrisshen chil'ren, things would go better, an' there wouldn't be such a racket.

Now, you've been pretty good about listenin', so I'll stop.

Beloved hearers, I'm done. I'll kiss everybody but Tom when I get down; an' I'll kiss Tom, if he says he won't never interrupt me no more when I'm preachin'.

THE NEW BABY.—A BOY'S SOLILOQUY.—Anon.

"Yes, there's another of 'em up stairs now; I knowed it, cause pa told me I must be quiet and sit down in the corner with my book, and musn't play ball, nor ask Willie Smart to come in and help me put my new puzzle together. Then there's a cross nurse who is always scolding me for getting in her way, no difference where I get. Besides, Miss Gadall was here to-day, and she took me on her knee, and patted me on the back just like cook does when I'm choking, and said my nose was another degree out of joint; but I know better, for this is the third time she has told me so, and it's no more out of joint now than it ever was. a hateful, goggle-eyed old maid-that's what she is.

She's

"I saw it too. It's got a little, round, red head without any hair, with great deep wrinkles instead of eyes, and when it cries it opens its mouth as wide as though it meant to swallow itself. Pa helped me up on the side of the bed and told me to kiss my dear, pretty little sister; and when I wouldn't, and called it a horrid, ugly little thing, he said I was a naughty little boy, and then the nurse shook me and said I ought to be ashamed. I didn't get to kiss my ma at all—I knew better than to try it; for once, when another baby came, I climbed on the bed, and putting my arms around her neck, hugged and kissed her, but all the time I had my knee right on the baby's head; so I was whipped and put in my crib without any supper, because I didn't know it was there.

"Little Jennie thinks it's nice to have a new sister; but then she was the baby before, and don't know anything about it. I can remember, long, long ago, ma used to call me her 'sweet little darling,' and pa dandled me on his foot, and said 'I was a fine fellow,' and Aunt Susan declared I was a 'perfect little angel;' but then Tom came, and all my toys were given to him, 'cause he was the baby, and I was cuffed and scolded by everybody 'cept grandma, and she's good to me yet, though there's been two new ones since.

AGED THREE DAYS.

191

"I wonder where all the babies come from.-Ma says the Lord sends them. I wish he wouldn't send any more to our house; we've got more'n enough now. It might be nice for them if they could stay little always; but they have to grow big after a while, and then they ain't no better off than the rest of folks. I rather think if I was a baby, I'd ask the Lord not to send me where I'd grow any bigger, and then I'd have nothing to do but to lay on my back and chew my toes, and have folks say I was the darlingest, cunningest little creature they ever laid eyes on.' That's the way babies are always treated, and it's a deal better than being told one is a good-for-nothing, mischievous little rascal, or a troublesome, careless boy-that it is."

AGED THREE DAYS.-By W. Stanley Waterloo.

Funny thing a baby is,

With its little wrinkled phiz,
Scarce a hair upon its head,
Mottled, purple, white and red,
From the cunning little nose
To the tiny puckered toes;
Winking at the naughty light
Injuring its tender sight,
Beating with its chubby fists,
Entering the crowded lists.
Little struggler in the strife
On the battle-field of life.
Truly, very certain 'tis
Funny thing a baby is.
But the passing days will bring
Changes unto everything.
Nature no distinction shows,
And the baby daily grows.
Scanty hair is getting longer,
Little limbs becoming stronger.
Parents watch with longing eyes
Baby freaks with glad surprise.
Thus in loving rivalry,

Eager each the choice to be,
Long before the child can walk,
In that wondrous baby-talk-

"Ooty, gogen, da, da, da,

Will it come to pa or ma?
'Tis no matter; that will quite
Depend upon its appetite!
Charming little mystery,

Worthy of a history.

Maybe it will come to pass

That the little unformed mass

Has a mighty mission here

On this tossed and troubled sphere

If a boy, perhaps 'twill be

Greater man than you or me.
Maybe'll be to Congress sent;
Maybe make a President.