And quietly watched us go.

So parson he comes in his nightgown,
And says that as grass is man;

And earth had trust of the pinch of dust
That was Alexandrina Ann.

I was trying to guess the riddle

I never could answer pat

What the Wisdom and Love as is planning above

Could mean by a life like that;

And I'd got my foot on the doorstep,

When, scaring my mournful dream,

Shrill, wild and clear, there tore on my ear
The sound of a manyac scream,

The scream of a raving manyac,
But, Father of death and life!

I listened and knew, the madness through,
The voice of my childless wife.

One moment I clutched and staggered,
Then down on my bended knee,
And up to the sky my wrestling cry
Went up for my wife and me.

I went to her room, and found her;
She sat on the floor, poor soul!

Two burning streaks on her death-pale cheeks,
And eyes that were gleeds of coal.

And now she would shriek and shudder,
And now she would laugh aloud,

And now for awhile, with an awful smile,
She'd sew at a little shroud.

Dear Lord! through the day and darkness,
Dear Lord! through the endless night,

I sat at her side, while she shrieked and cried,
And I thought it would ne'er be light.
And still, through the blackness, thronging
With shapes that was dread to see,
My shuddering cry to the God on high
Went up for my girl and me.

At last, through the winder, morning
Came glimmering cold and pale;
And, faint but clear, to my straining ear
Was carried a feeble wail.

I went to the door in wonder,
And there, in the dawning day,

All swaddled and bound in a bundle round,
A sweet little baby lay.

It lay on the frosty doorstep,

A peart little two-months' child;
Dumfounded and slow, I raised it so,
And it looked in my face and smiled.
And so, as I kissed and loved it,
I grajuly growed aware

As the Father in bliss had sent us this,
The answer to wrestling prayer.

In wonder and joy and worship,
With tears that were soft and blest,
I carried the mite, and, still and light,
I laid it on Mary's breast.

I didn't know how she'd take it,
She goes on an artful tack:

"The little 'un cried for her mother's side,
And the hangels has sent her back!"

My God! I shall ne'er forget it,

Though spared for a hundred years,―
The soft delight on her features white,
The rush of her blissful tears.

The eyes that was hard and vacant
Grew wonderful sweet and mild,

As she cries, "Come rest on your mammy's breast,
My own little hangel child!"

And so from that hour my darling
Grew happy and strong and well;
And the joy that I felt as to God I knelt
Is what I can noways tell.

There's parties as sneers and tells you
There's nothing but clouds up there;
I answers 'em so: "There's a God, I know,
And a Father that heareth prayer."

And what if my Mary fancies
The babe is a child of light,-

Our own little dear sent back to us here!
And mayn't she be somewheres right?
Here, Mary, my darling, Mary!

A friend has come in to town;

Don't mind for her nose nor changing her clo'en, But bring us the hangel down.

GRANT.-MELVILLE W. FULLER.

General Ulysses S. Grant, the foremost military commander of the age, and twice President of the United States, was born April 27, 1822 and died July 23, 1885. The following beautiful tribute to his memory was written by the present (1889) Chief Justice of the United States.

Let drum to trumpet speak

The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
The cannon to the heavens from each redoubt,
Each lowly valley and each lofty peak,
As to his rest the great commander goes
Into the pleasant land and earned repose.

The great commander, when

Is heard no more the sound of war's alarms,
The bugle's stirring note, the clang of arms,
Depreciation's tongue would whisper then-
Only good fortune gave to him success.

When was there greatness fortune did not bless!

Not in his battles won,

Though long the well-fought fields may keep their name
The gallant soldier finds the meed of fame,

But in the wide world's sense of duty done;

His life no struggle for ambition's prize,

Simply the duty done that next him lies.

And as with him of old,

Immortal Captain of triumphant Rome,

Whose eagles made the rounded globe their home,
How the grand soul of true heroic mould
Despised resentment and such meaner things,
That peace might gather all beneath her wings!

No lamentations here,

The weary hero lays him down to rest
As tired infant at the mother's breast,
Without a care, without a thought of fear,
Walking to greet upon the other shore
The glorious host of comrades gone before.

Earth to its kindred earth;

The spirit to the fellowship of souls!
As slowly time the mighty scroll unrolls
Of waiting ages yet to have their birth.
Fame, faithful to the faithful, writes on high
His name as one that was not born to die.

THE PILOT'S BRIDE.-GEORGE M. VICKERS.*

Written expressly for this Collection.

"Deep locked in the ocean the secret lies
Of many a ship that ne'er will rise,

Yet 'tis easier far the world's wrecks to find
Than to guess one thought in a woman's mind.'
Thus spoke Clyde Howe as he paced the deck
Of the pilot schooner Nancy.
"Neck
And neck I've been racing for Molly's love,
With the owner's son on the cliff above;
Sometimes she gives him a glance, a smile,
Then I get the same-if I wait awhile;
The fact is I'm tired, and want to know
Which one of us two's to be Molly's beau."

Up on a headland bold and high,

Clean cut and backed by the deep blue sky,
Rested the mansion of Humphrey Lee,

Massive and grim as a fort could be;
And many's the skipper who sailing by

Has looked through his glass and wondered why
No flag, no sentry, nor gun was seen,

But only its magazine round and green,

Which, though to the sailors bomb-proof appeared,
Proved only a moss-topped spring when neared.

Thus many from habit, and some in sport,
Oft spoke of the place as Humphrey's Fort.

On the gray stone flags of his portico
Old Humphrey Lee walked to and fro;
At times he would pause and look off to sea,
Then turn and gaze at a shrub or tree,
Or cross to the wall at the headland brink,
Lean over the chasm and seem to think.
Far down the red rocks of the sheer abyss
Where ever the wild waves seethe and hiss
Old Humphrey long peered; then turned away,
When right in his path stood, laughing gay,
His son, young Vivian, tall and fair;

Handsome of form, and of haughty air.

*Author of "Buzzard's Point,' "The Cobbler of Lyun," "Tribulations of Biddy Malone," "The Potter's Field," "Little Fritz," and other favorite readings in previous Numbers. Also the beautiful Temperance Melodrama, "Two Lives," in No. 8; and the very amusing Farce, "The Public Worrier, in" No. 27.

The young man laughed till his cheeks were red,
He held his sides and then gasping said:

"Why, father, I've just been watching the race
"Twixt the frowns and smiles on your changing face;
And, asking your pardon, I'm forced to say

That by odds the dark frowns have won the day!"
'Aye, frowns, and too many, and smiles too few,
Where all might be smiles, were it not for you."
Then old Humphrey continued, more sad than stern
"Vivian, my son, try some good to learn;

Be manly, and tell me both frank and true,
What is Molly, the fisherman's child, to you?"

"Well, really, I've thought not the matter o'er,
Since Molly's but one of a score or more
Of the people I speak to or friendly greet
When we pass in the roads or village street."
Then old Humphrey took Vivian's proffered arm,
And remarked that his question implied no harm,
"But," said he, "this morning I came to know
That the young woman's coming quite soon to sew;
She will stay for a week to help make and mend,
Though aunt Leah will treat her as guest and friend"
"I see," laughed his son. And the sunset bright
Flooded Humphrey's grim fort in a golden light.

Tis night, and the yellow May moon looks down
On the restless sea and the little town;

It shows on its face, in silhouette,

Two forms by the headland wall; and yet
An observer might easily reckon three,

Though the bended form's but a withered tree.
'Tis a lovely scene, and the ocean's roar

Blends sweet with the tale that's told once more.
"Molly," plead Vivian, “you soon must go;
I love you, then answer me yes or no."
"I cannot. I love not," said Molly, "but when
The harvest moon shines, I will tell you then."

The trim schooner Nancy at anchor lay,
Her white sails furled and her crew away,
Away with mothers, with sisters and wives,

For pilots and sailors lead risky lives;

And though long or short, when the cruise is o'er,
Jack drops his anchor and skips ashore.