I think they took me for a queen; for all the time of meetin', They stared at me, and at the close, such smilin' and a-speakin'!

Each one seemed bound to shake my hand, and there was Deacon Weaver,

He pushed so hard to speak to me, he smashed his bran new beaver;

I laughed right out in meetin', till I couldn't see for tears, But I tell you, it was socialer than I had seen for years.

But only think! one week from that, though John some what upbraided,

I wore my clean-washed gingham frock, 'twas just a little faded;

I took my seat inside the pew, and listened to the sermon, While next me sat the banker's wife, a-twistin' and a-squir min'.

I wondered what the matter was, she looked so pale and

sickly;

When meetin' broke, I turned to speak, but my! she got off

quickly.

I then struck down the crowded aisle, to shake hands with the sexshun,

And everybody turned their backs, or looked the wrong di

rection.

It struck me most amazin' queer that no one 'peared to know

me;

How they forgot my face so soon, I'd like some one to show

me;

But then I just remember now, my dear first husband's sayin':

"A peacock gits a heap of praise for feathers he's displayin'." And so, says I, that must be it; but it kinder seems distress

in',

To make religion frown or smile, accordin' to your dressin'. It makes me think of Lazarus at the rich man's wealthy quar. ter,

And the rich man, once in purple robes, a-beggin' coolin' wa

ter.

'Tis vexin' to my righteous soul, a-seein' sich behavin', For wrappin' souls in shinin' silk, isn't the same as savin'. No! dressin' never makes a saint, no more than six makes seven,

For Satan even tries to dress like angels do in heaven.

If dressin' in the latest style is what the church is needin', Then what's the use of preachin', or of havin' Bible readin'?

The church would be a dressin' show, and meetin's prove a

failur',

And the cheapest way to git to heaven, would be to cheat the tailor.

It's pride and money, dress and show, that's killin' up the meetin'

If they don't want us poor folks there, just let 'em quit a speakin',

And every time they see our face pretend they never knew

us,

But look above, or back, or down, or anywhere, but to us.

I want to see 'em shakin' hands as if they knowed each other, And not as if they thought they'd ketch the small-pox from their brother.

I like a good old-fashioned shake, that sets the soul a-blazin', That makes the poor man think he's rich, and sets em all to praisin,'

That warms and melts 'em into one, by livin' coals of prayer,
So none shall think they're better, cause they have good
clothes to wear,

And whether in sunshine or in storm, in plenty or in losses,
They all would help each other 'long, and bear each other's

crosses.

For 'taint no use to sing and pray, or have protracted meetin',
Unless you wear a lovin' smile, and show a kindly greetin'.
For souls cannot be floated on toward the golden throne
By sailin' in a bubble, on a sea of sweet Cologne.

A PROTOTYPE.

The church was still, as the parson read
That dear old tale of the Prodigal Son,

And many a worshiper's eyes were dim

When the cracked voice ceased and the lesson was done.

But I caught a glimpse through the open door

Of a figure, ragged, slouching, cold.

I knew not why, but my thoughts recurred
To the son of the story,—that story old.

As later I passed the vestry door

I heard re-echoed that joyful cry;
The parson had clasped the wanderer
As he cried aloud, "Safe home, my boy!"

THE

UNIVERSITY

JO

MICHIGAN

LIBRARIES

THE SUNBEAM'S MISSION.-I. EDGAr Jones.

Long time ago, when this old world was young,
A sunbeam from God's lighthouse blithely sprung
Out into space, and searched through earth and sky
For homely things to gild and glorify;

It brightened up the days serene and fair,
It danced with other sunbeams frolics rare,
It paled within the noon sun's steady glare.

But testing all effects and searching round,
Its best results in strangest things it found.
It made a diamond of a tear of pain,
Transforming griefs into prismatic rain;
It formed in dusty mills red golden bars,
Transformed rude boats into illumined cars,
And made of raindrops brilliant falling stars.

Far out at sea it glowed, deep, rich and warm,
In heart of spray cast up by wind and storm;
High up on mountains touched the pale, dead snow
With swift enchantment into warmest glow;
It made of mists strange forms with gilded wings;
In gloomy caves-where silent darkness clings-
Its golden fingers searched for hidden things.

But, better still, one day a cloud it met-
A sombre pall with surface black as jet-
And straightway o'er its velvet surface traced,
With threads of gold and crimson interlaced,
Such grand designs as earth had never known,
Such rich effects of color and of tone,
It seemed a copy of God's very throne.

Its darkling fleeces turned to molten gold,

Its deep recesses,-lined and crimson scrolled,—
Its billowy banks, with marvels richly spread,

Of priceless gems upon a priceless bed

Of curve and color, joined with matchless grace,
Until the awe-struck soul could plainly trace
Heaven's splendors mirrored on the sky's broad face.

And so throughout succeeding days and years
Sunbeams love best to glow in falling tears;
To change to gold the chill, swift-falling rain;
To forge gold bars in dark abodes of pain,

And, finding those in gloom, to visit such

With kindly light, with magic skill and touch
Transforming ills which haunt them over much.
Then, best of all, when veiled in darkling clouds,
Which seem to wrap the world in ebon shrouds,
The sunbeams love its blackness to transform
To dreamlike beauty, rich and glad and warm;
God's promise in its grandeur glorified,

While light from heaven's gold streets, a radiant tide,
Sifts through the blessings to its earthly side.
And so the heaven-light's richest work appears
On darkest clouds, enshrined in hearts of tears;
Love's pattern woven into lives and years.

ZE MODERNE ENGLISH.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.

[COPYRIGHT, 1891.]

CHARACTERS.

MARQUIS DE TROUVILLE, an old man with a new language.

RALPH RANDOMм, a young man with an old habit and a new complication in lan.

guages.

TOM FENCHURCH, a young man with a new engagement irrespective of languages
MRS. RANDOM, a mother with new troubles regarding an old language.
Evvy, her daughter, a young lady with a new idea of an old language.
MARIE DE TROUVILLE, another young lady with a newer idea of an old language.
SCENE.-A handsomely furnished drawing-room; sofa, center.
The characters are all in evening dress.

Enter Evvy and Ralph.

RALPH. You see now, sister, that I am in no end of a scrape.

Evvy. You certainly have done your best to get into trouble.

RALPH. Trouble! The word does not express it. How am I to get out of it?

Evvy. How like a man that is!-to do his very best to sow the seeds of discomfort, and then helplessly inquire how he is to escape reaping the whirlwind!

RALPH. You are a woman,-you have resources a man would never dream of.

*Author of "The Day Before the Wedding," "Did You ever see a Ghost," "The Top Landing," "A pair of Gloves," "A Bonnet for my Wife," and about a dozen other Comedies, Farces, &c., in previous Numbers of this Series. The leading peculiarity of Mr. Meyers' Dramas lies in their sparkling dialogue, quick action and easy adaptability to place. For a synopsis of these and other new Plays, included in our List, send for Catalogue.

Evvy. Mamma is a woman, why not go to her?

RALPH. Mother? She would never forgive me. Besides, you are in something of my predicament yourself. Evvy. I? I am in no trouble that I know of.

RALPH. You are in love, which amounts to the same thing. Evvy. In which case you are in double trouble, being in love and a scrape at the same time.

RALPH. But you will be a good sister and help me out. Evvy. That depends. What sort of a wedding present are you going to give me?

RALPH. Anything from a canary bird to a brown-stone house.

Evvy. Thanks! we'd better average it and call it a framed engraving. But am I sure that I understand the case? From college you went abroad. Mamma gave you a letter to her old friend, the Marquis de Trouville, in a province of France.

RALPH. Whom I found destitute of the English language and wild to learn it. I offered to teach it to him, and gave him lessons for six months.

Evvy. And how did you teach it to him, you wretch?

RALPH. It was all a piece of fun. He knew me to be fresh from college and consequently a master of my native tongue. Evvy. He forgot college athletics, I presume. You taught him all the slang you knew, and he thinks it the most polite English there is.

RALPH. I tell you I did it for fun.

Evvy. Not knowing there was a daughter in the case. RALPH. I knew there was a daughter, but she was away from home at the time. When the Marquis left me he went to her, and for three more months he taught her as I had taught him.

Evvy. All the slang phrases he had imbibed from you. Then you met Mademoiselle Marie and fell in love at once. RALPH. She is divine

Evvy. Of course. I am divine to Tom, I hope. The upshot of it was, that you proposed, were accepted, and the Marquis has brought his daughter to the America he admires so vastly, and they are now in their rooms above preparing for Mrs. Montgomery's ball.

RALPH. Mother has not met them yet; she was dressing when they arrived a half hour ago. What will she do when she hears them talk?