The poor, the rich, but all for heart or flesh
In need of saving power.

Among that crowd
A trembling woman stands, irresolute.
Back in her mountain home the tidings came,
That no one coming unto Him was turned
Away, whate'er the malady might be.
Had He not raised the widow's son at Nain,
And healed the slave of the centurion?
And, for a woman clothed about with sin,
Reproached the Pharisee, as He forgave
Her all, and bade her "Go in peace and sin
No more?"

Up from her bed of weary pain,

Weak from so many years of suffering,
A new hope taking life in spite of past
Discouragements, she comes at last so near
The Healer. Can she tell Him all e'en now?
She fears the crowd! She fears to stay the Christ!
What is her woe to Him, and yet, oh yet

She cannot turn away! I will but touch
His garment's hem, she whispers low, and so,
With new-born strength, and heart all quivering,
She comes to Him, her hope. With timid hand,
Outstretched, she touches but His robe, when lo,
Her faith hath made her whole!

But hark! He speaks!

"Who touched Me?" she can hear the Master say. Affrighted lest she may have done amiss

(And yet she dare not but confess her guilt,

If guilt it be), forgetting time or place,
Remembering only what her Christ had done,
Low at His feet she falls, and humbly there
Pours out the story of her troubled life.

Did He rebuke her boldness? Does He now
When to His side a sin-sick sinner comes?
Methinks I see to-day His look of love
Bestowed upon that tired, anxious face,
Uplifted pleadingly before His gaze.
See how He claims her even as His own!
Not with reproach, but with great tenderness;
"Daughter, be of good comfort, go in peace,"
And then, as if to crown still more her faith

And love, He says, "Thy faith hath made thee whole!"

IT'S MY NATURE.

An aged colored man rose to a standing position and a point of order the other night with a tremulous voice and a feeble mien, and combated a sentiment adverse to the crushing out of old King Alcohol. Said he :

"You 'mind me, my bredern an' my sistern, of a nannecot I wonse heerd when I was nigh about a pickaninny. Dar was a sh't ho'n kalf a ramblin' ob hisself down a shady lane, when wot should he see but a snaik a lying on the ground wid a big rock on his hed.

"Says Mr. Kalf: "Says Mr. Snaik:

off my hed.'

'Wot's de matter ob you?'

'Please, Mr. Kalf, to take dis stone

"Dunno,' says Mr. Kalf, ''spec you'll bite me.' "Deed, no,' says Mr. Snaik; 'you take de stone off an' sure I'll nebber bite you.'

"So Mr. Kalf he knocked de stone off Mr. Snaik's hed. "Which way you gwine, Mr. Kalf?' says Mr. Snaik, "Down dis way,' said Mr. Kalf.

"So dey started off togedder.

"Bine by, Mr. Snaik says: 'Mr. Kalf, guess I'll bite you.' "Why,' said Mr. Kalf, 'you said you wouldn't bite if I turned you loose.'

"I know dat,' says Mr. Snaik, 'but I kan't help it; it's my nature.'

"Well, says Mr. Kalf, 'we'll leave that queschun to de fust niggah we meet.'

"Well, de fust niggah they met was a fox.

"Mr. Fox,' says Mr. Kalf, 'I took a stone offen Mr. Snaik's hed awhile back, an' he promised he wouldn't bite me; an' now he wants to bite anyhow.'

"Well,' says Mr. Fox, 'de only way I can arborate de matter is to see de 'rig'nal persishuns ob de parties.' "So dey went back, an' Mr. Snaik laid hisself down and Mr. Kalf put de stone on his hed.

"Now,' says Mr. Fox, 'dat am de 'rig'nal persishuns ob de 'sputants, am it??

THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

"Dey boff said it was.

"Well,' said Mr. Fox, 'Mr. Kalf, you just go 'bout yo' bis'ness and Mr. Snaik wont bite you.'

"Dass it, my bredern, dass it. You mus' put de stone on de hed an' gwine about yo' bis'ness, an' de Snaik wont bite you."

APOSTROPHE TO THE MISSISSIPPI.
MRS. A. M. WILCOX.

How ceaseless is thy flow, O sire of streams,
Onward forever to the far-off sea!

I gaze on thee and back return the dreams
Thy presence glorified, when life was free;
Free from corroding care, and thought and toil,
Glad in its freedom from belief in sin;
From disappointment and that sore turmoil
Which bred the canker of distrust within.

Like thee, my life with rushing flood sweeps on,
But not like thee with current strong and deep,
Though shady nook and placid ebb were won
By turgid breasting of some rocky steep,
Yet out beyond the surging and the rush
Lies the great ocean of Infinite Love,
Beyond grief's icy winter's restful hush,

With heavens like thine own summer skies above.

Thy shores are thronged with old-time memories,
Thy restless ripples toss like flying feet

Of those whose lives like frightened argosies,
With golden prow and white, wide-flowing sheet,
Cut time's deep wave, and passed eternal shores
Into the harbor where no storms can come.
Soft chimes of voices distant sweetness pours,
Back to oncoming shallops, in the mists and foam.
So! Let thy current sweep with lithesome hum,
Let thy broad breast bear out these waifs to sea,
While time's still broader sweep o'er which we come
Tides us along into eternity.

Roll, deeper roll, as that wide gulf appears,

In whose deep breast thy rushing waves shall sleep.
Whirl on, O Time! The music of the spheres
Surges with grander harmony as on we sweep.

THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT.*

LETITIA VIRGINIA DOUGLAS.

In the grim old light-house tower, with his daughter, lived "Old Grey,'

Keeper was he of the beacon that illumined Starhead Bay; ""Twas a baddish spot as ever rocked a boat, on windy night," So were wont to say the sailors who depended on the light. Surly graybeard was the father; his repute had traveled far; And his daughter's was as widespread,-she was called the "Light-house Star;"

So the gallant "tars" had named her, for her brilliant beauty bore

Likeness to a star that glimmered, flashing, on that lonely shore.

Margot's beauty was a wonder,-ill did she seem formed for work!

And her surly, silent father watched his daughter like a Turk. In his half-fierce, half-fond fashion-oft by softer mood be

guiled

He did seem to love his daughter, to adore his only child. Loved? aye loved in such a fashion as the desert lions do! He would brook that none should rob him-for her hand none dared to sue.

Yet Love laughs at bars and padlocks, and he breaks them like frail toy.

Margot had a secret lover, he a handsome sailor-boy!

They had met—no matter, reader, how to pass the meeting

came;

In their case, as in all others, the old story is the same! They had met not once but often; at the meeting lately past He had whispered; "Please God, darling, this farewell shall

be our last!

When I come back from this voyage, see once more old Starhead Light,

(Three short weeks from now expect me; keep your lamp aglow, that night,

With the green side turned to seaward; it shall serve for token, dear,

To assure me that my Margot feels her sailor lover near!) When I come back flushed with victory, conqueror in fortune's strife,

I shall face your father boldly and demand of him my wife!"

"Three long, weary weeks are drawing, thank God!" sighs she, "to a close,

And to-morrow night--"The secr t none but eager Margot knows! *Written expressly for this Collection,

Yet, a trifle, how a trifle may change joy to blank despair! "In the sighing of a woman there is sign of love or care," Whispered Grey, and eyed her sidelong, saw her changing color light,

Like a flame, her soft cheek burning, as she trimmed her lamp that night.

"Something's in the wind," he muttered, as he watched her all day long

Singing o'er her homely duties, "Love" the burden of her

song.

"One more night," she whispered lowly, "one more night my eager heart!

Then, ah! then my love will join me, and we twain no more will part."

Trifles turn the wheel of fortune, have done so since time began:

'Twas a trifle, but a trifle, caused the fall of yielding man,One taste of the tempting apple, pleading smile on woman's face,

And the dire result, accomplished, was the ruin of a race! 'Twas a scrap of written paper, 'twas a letter, one week old, Fluttering out at open window, that to Grey the secret told Of his daughter's stolen amour; but he showed it by no word, Though ye well may guess, who know him, that to fury him it stirred.

"Turn the green light out, my darling!" scoffed he low, and loud laughed he

With a mirth that made one shudder and a look not good

to see.

Sank the sun like ball of fire in the bosom of the bay,

And the wind rose, wild and gusty, at the closing of the day. Margot's yearning eyes strained seaward. "There will be wild work to-night!

But he's close to home by this time-it is time to set the light."

But when, toiling up the stairway, she had reached the tower door,

Throbbed her heart in sudden terror-Grey himself was there before!

Laughed he in her face his scorning; in his outstretched hand he held,

Close before her eyes the letter-then she knew her love was

knelled.

Writ as 'twere in words of fire, she could read his message

་

sweet:

"Twill be but a few short hours, dear my love, ere we shall meet!"