"and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of many. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. "It's his father I think of," said she; "he 's longing to see poor Jamesy."

Connor groaned.

"Keep up if you can, my man," said the captain; "I wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill, also, very suddenly; she grew worse fast. In the morning she called me to her. 'Tell Connor I died thinking of him,' she said, ' and tell him to meet me.' And my man, God help you, she never said anything more - in an hour she was gone."

Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself; looking at the captain with his eyes dry as two stones. Then he turned to his friends:

"I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log.

They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There at last, he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him; he had been summoned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellow workmen.

“Better, Connor?" asked the old man.

"A dale," said Connor. "It's aisy now; I'll be with her soon. And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing-God is good; He would n't let me bring Nora over to me, but he's takin' me over to her and Jamesy over the river; do n't you see it, and her standin' on the other side to welcome me?”

And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora - Heaven only knows- and so died. -Anonymous.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor-lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;'
But for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

-Lord Tennyson.

THE EMPTY NEST

A home in a quiet country place,

Under the shadow of branches wide;

And a fair young mother with thoughtful face,
Sewing a seam by the window side.

The sunshine stretches across the floor,
The bright motes dance in its golden way,

And in and out, at the open door,

The children run in their busy play.

Guiding her needle with careless skill,

Her fingers fashion the garment white;

But weaving a fabric daintier still,

Her swift thoughts follow the needle's flight.

Her heart lies hushed in her deep content,
Her lips are humming an old love lay;
And still, with its music softly blent,
She hears what the eager children say:

"We found it under the apple-tree,-
A poor little empty yellowbird's nest;
See, it is round as a cup could be,

And lined with down from the mother's breast.

"This is a leaf, all withered and dry, That once was a canopy overhead; Does n't it almost make you cry

To look at the dear little empty bed?

"All the birdies have flown away;

But birds must fly or they would n't have wings; And the mother knew they would go some day, When she used to cuddle the downy things.

"Do you think she is lonesome? Why, there's a tear! And here is another - that makes two.

Why do you hug us, and look so queer?
If we were birdies we would n't leave you."

Deep in the mother's listening heart

Drops the prattle with sudden sting;

For lips may quiver, and tears may start,

But birds must fly or they would n't have wings.

-Emily Huntington Miller.

THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL

Have you not heard the poets tell

How came the dainty Babie Bell

Into this world of ours?

The gates of heaven were left ajar;
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,

She saw this planet, like a star,

Hung in the glistening depths of even,

Its bridges running to and fro,

O'er which the white-winged angels go,
Bearing the holy dead to heaven.

She touched a bridge of flowers,- those feet,
So light they did not bend the bells

Of the celestial asphodels!

They fell like dew upon the flowers,

Then all the air grew strangely sweet

And thus came dainty Babie Bell
Into this world of ours.

She came and brought delicious May;
The swallows built beneath the eaves;
Like sunlight in and out the leaves,
The robins went the livelong day;
The lily swung its noiseless bell,

And o'er the porch the trembling vine
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine.
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell!
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds,
And opening spring-tide flowers,
When the dainty Babie Bell

Came to this world of ours!

O Babie, dainty Babie Bell,
How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay!
Those deep and tender twilight eyes,
So full of meaning, pure and bright,
As if she yet stood in the light
Of those oped gates of Paradise.
And so we loved her more and more;

Ah, never in our hearts before
Was love so lovely born:

We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen

The land beyond the morn.

And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When Babie came from Paradise),—
For love of him who smote our lives,
And woke the chords of joy and pain,

We said, Dear Christ- our hearts bent down,
Like violets after rain.

And now the orchards which were white

And red with blossoms when she came,

Were rich in autumn's mellow prime.
The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,

The grapes hung purpling in the grange;
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Babie Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew,

And in her features we could trace,
In softened curves, her mother's face!
Her angel-nature ripened too.
We thought her lovely when she came,
But she was holy, saintly now:
Around her pale angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame.
God's hand had taken away the seal
That held the portals of her speech;
And oft she said a few strange words
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.
She never was a child to us,
We never held her being's key,
We could not teach her holy things;
She was Christ's self in purity.

It came upon us by degrees:
We saw its shadow ere it fell,

The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Babie Bell;

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,
And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.

We cried aloud in our belief:
"Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief."
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;
Her heart was folded deep in ours.

Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell!