it had been officially announced, that "he was not arrayed." Then, when the feelings of the congregation had been harrowed up sufficiently, and our sympathies all aroused for poor Solomon, whose numerous wives allowed him to go about in such a fashion, even in that climate, the choir altogether, in a most cool and composed manner, informed us that the idea they intended to convey was that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed “like one of these." These what? So long a time had elapsed since they sung of the lilies that the thread was entirely lost, and by "these" one naturally concluded that the choir was designated. Arrayed like one of these? We should think not, indeed! Solomon in a Prince Albert or a cutaway coat? Solomon with an eye-glass and a moustache, his hair cut Pompadour? No, most decidedly, Solomon in the very zenith of his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Despite the experience of the morning, the hope still remained that in the evening a sacred song might be sung in a manner that might not excite our risibilities, or leave the impression that we had been listening to a case of blackmail. But again off started the nimble soprano with the very laudable though startling announcement, "I will wash." Straightway the alto, not to be outdone, declared she would wash; and the tenor, finding it to be the thing, warbled forth he would wash; then the deep-chested basso, as though calling up all his fortitude for the plunge, bellowed forth the stern resolve that he also would wash; next, a short interlude on the organ, strongly suggestive of the escaping of steam or splash of the waves, after which the choir, individually and collectively, asserted the firm, unshaken resolve that they would wash.

At last they solved the problem by stating that they proposed to "wash their hands in innocency, so will the altar of the Lord be compassed."

-Good Housekeeping.

CHRISTMAS A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.*

LOUIS EISENBEIS.

'Twas Christmas Eve, I fell asleep, despite a Christmas drum, And lo! I dreamed of Christmas day a hundred years to

come.

I saw a stately mansion rise, before my wondering eye,
Of marvelous symmetry and form, some twenty stories high;
It had no stairs, but up and down, on what, I could not see,
They came and went as quick as thought, and just as silently.
As now, so then, the drifting snow was falling thick and
fast,

And just as cold, and fierce, and bleak, shrieked out the wintry blast;

Within, mid floods of dazzling light upon the velvet floor, I saw a merry, laughing group I ne'er had seen before.

Reclining in a cozy chair, an old man, blithe and gay, Said “Children, let us merry be, to-day is Christmas day; We'll catch the mammoth turkey hen, up in her roost so high, And have a luscious Christmas feast, with yellow pumpkin pie;

And John may go, if through the drift of snow he now can

pass,

And bring some golden pippins from the garden under glass;

We'll start the parlor fountain, with its jets of silvery spray, And though 'tis snowy Christmas, it shall be as flowery

May;

Although 'tis near the hour of noon, there's yet sufficient time,

We'll send for aunts and uncles, by the new pneumatic, line.".

And the old man, blithe and gay, puts his finger on a knob
And there came a little message, like a momentary throb:
"We'll be with you in a moment, but before we start to go,
We will tarry in Chicago for a friend from Mexico.
And we'll wait for Cousin Sue, ere we start upon the trip,
She just left Rio Janeiro in an airy-flying ship;

And we'll all come up together, reaching you we think in

time,

On the safe and rapid transit of the new pneumatic line."

So, before the turkey hen was taken out the oven door, They were there from sunny Rio, San Francisco, Baltimore--*By permission of the Author.

For you need but take your seat, and in but a moment's time,

You are where you wish to be by this new pneumatic line. So they all sat down to dine, on that merry Christmas day, Age and childhood blend together, in a gleeful Christmas

play.

On went my dream, sweet music's strains came faintly to my ear;

I stood entranced, was mute with awe, the notes, now far,

now near,

Now high, now low, unearthly most, o'erwhelming to my soul,

Now softer than Eolian harp, now like the thunder roll. From whence the enchanting music came, my dream did not reveal,

I only heard the music roll, and o'er my spirit steal;

I saw no human hand, nor touch, nor organ grand and tall, To me 'twas like a Christmas chant which angel lips let fall. "Glory to God in the highest, peace, good-will to men," Was the echoing chorus wafted o'er forest, moor and fen.

Again I saw, in my strange dream, the old man blithe and gay Gather his happy household near, he had somewhat to say: Be seated now, I pray," said he, "our Great Grandfather Clive

66

Will talk to you a little while, as when he was alive; He'll tell you of the old, old ways, of ancient Christmas time,

He lived a hundred years ago, in eighteen eighty-nine." Now in my dream I saw the group begin to smile and laugh As the kind old man, so blithe and gay, brought out the phonograph;

With reverent mien, he placed it on the Persian marble stand,

And gently touched the strange device, with nervous, trembling hand.

A silence still as death itself awaits the mystic sign,

To hear our Great Grandfather Clive, who lived in eightynine.

Slow the awaking marvel moves, and this is what he said: "We seem to have a deal of rain, 'twill raise the price of

bread;

The wheat was bad, the corn is poor, potatoes in the ground Were spoiled by heavy rains and floods, and very few are

sound.

But pasture seems quite good, I think 'twill help keep down

expense,

My butter I shall try to sell at least for fifty cents.

Sometimes I mix in politics, at least to some extent,
I helped elect Ben. Harrison to be our President.
About the women's right to vote, I don't know what to say,
I'm pretty sure they'll bring it round, they always have
their way.

A merry Christmas to you all, this eighteen eighty-nine!"
And so our Great Grandfather Clive spoke of the olden time.
And now the old man blithe and gay, despite our listening

ears,

Puts by the curious phonograph for another hundred years; And so the visions of my dream may not be overlone, About that merry Christmas day, a hundred years to come.

RIGHT LIVING.

Deeper than all sense of seeing
Lies the secret source of being,
And the soul, with truth agreeing,

Learns to live in thoughts and deeds.
For the life is more than raiment,
And the earth is pledged for payment
Unto man for all his needs.

Nature is our common mother,
Every living man our brother;
Therefore let us serve each other,
Not to meet the law's behests,
But because through cheerful giving
He shall learn the art of living,
And to live and serve is best.

Life is more than what man fancies,
Not a game of idle chances,

But it steadily advances

Up the rugged heights of time,
Till each complex world of trouble,
Every sad hope's broken bubble,

Hath a meaning most sublime.

More of practice, less profession,
More of firmness, less concession,
More of freedom, less oppression,

In the church and in the state;
More of life and less of fashion,
More of love and less of passion:
These will make us good and great.

When true hearts, divinely gifted,
From the chaff of error sifted,
On their crosses are uplifted,

Shall the world most clearly see
That earth's greatest time of trial
Calls for holy self-denial,

Calls on men to do and be.

But forever and forever
Let it be the soul's endeavor
Love from hatred to dissever;
And in whatsoe'er we do,
Won by truth's eternal beauty
To our highest sense of duty,
Evermore be firm and true.

PETER ADAIR.-ROBERT OVERTON.*

Peter Adair was a native of Slushington-in-the-Mud, but had left the village when a boy to go to sea. He had served his Queen well and faithfully for many years, and had acquired the dignity of a petty officer, being pensioned off while still a few years short of fifty. He had come back to live and die in his native place, and had bought the very house in which he was born, a little way out of the village, had furnished it comfortably throughout and had erected a huge flagstaff in the garden. that he might study the wind (to what purpose nobody knew). Peter Adair was well-off, for besides his pension he had a snug little annuity, and having nothing to trouble him ("no wife," as Stodge feelingly observed), what wonder he was one of the happiest men in the place?

One night he and his friends had something of unusual interest to discuss. The "clargyman" had opened a new school in connection with the church, and had pensioned off widow Canem, the keeper of the "Dame's School," and had engaged a schoolmistress from unknown. parts, who was shortly to make her appearance and begin her duties.

*Author of "The Three Parsons," "Me and Bill," "Juberlo Tom," and other sharacter sketches, in previous Numbers of this Series.