THE RUINED MERCHANT.

A cottage home with sloping lawn, and trellised vines and flowers,

And little feet to chase away the rosy-fingered hours;

A fair young face to part, at eve, the shadows in the door;-I picture thus a home I knew in happy days of yore.

Says one, a cherub thing of three, with childish heart elate, "Papa is tomin' let me do to meet 'im at te date!” Another takes the music up, and flings it on the air, "Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep on the stair?"

“O father! did you bring the books I've waited for so long, The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and mother's ‘angel song?' And did you see"-but something holds the questioning lips apart,

And something settles very still upon that joyous heart.

The quick-discerning wife bends down, with her white hand to

stay

The clouds from tangling with the curls that on his forehead

lay;

To ask, in gentle tones, "Beloved, by what rude tempest

tossed ?"

And list the hollow, "Beggared, lost,-all ruined, poor, and lost!"

"Nay, say not so, for I am here to share misfortune's hour,
And prove how better far than gold is love's unfailing dower.
Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far as wings can soar,
The bird of love will hover near, and only sing the more."

"All lost, papa? why here am I; and, father, see how tall;
I measure fully three feet four, upon the kitchen wall;
I'll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and have such lots of fun,
I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the oldest son."

"And I, papa, am almost five," says curly-headed Rose,
“And I can learn to sew; papa, and make all dolly's clothes.
But what is poor,'-to stay at home, and have no place to go?
Oh! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make us always so."

"I'se here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his father's knee He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby-boy of three. "And if we get too poor to live," says little Rose, “you know There is a better place, papa, a heaven where we can go.

"And God will come and take us there, dear father, if we pray, We needn't fear the road papa, he surely knows the way."

Then from the corner, staff in hand, the grandma rises slow, Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft fluttering to and fro:

Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of kindly hands, Counting in every little face, her life's declining sands; Reaches his side, and whispers low, "God's promises are sure; For every grievous wound, my son, he sends a ready cure."

The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly turns aside, The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the coming tear, to hide; Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kisses o'er and o'er That noble wife whose faithful heart he little knew before.

"May God forgive me! What is wealth to these more procious things,

Whose rich affection round my heart a ceaseless odor flings? I think he knew my sordid soul was getting proud and cold, And thus to save me, gave me these, and took away my gold.

"Dear ones, forgive me; nevermore will I forget the rod That brought me safely unto you, and led me back to God. I am not poor while these bright links of priceless love remain, And, Heaven helping, never more shall blindness hide the chain." Cora M. Eager.

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night,-
Her breathing soft and low,-

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers,
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied,-

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed;-she had
Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem,-may his tribe increase,—
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one ?" said Abou. 66 Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,.
And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd;
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt.

A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN COOKING.

ound fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, and tried to tell her how my mother made custard pie. Maria made the pie after my receipt. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every day for dinner, and you see I could not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was economical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy's funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself.

Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the cakes my. self. I got the flour, and the salt, and water, and, warned by the past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortenjug. I shortened with tallow from roast beef, because I

could not find any lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered: "Yeast! yeast, to be sure!" I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove, and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I didn't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then got a fire in the kitchen, and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle, The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the right flavor. I took one mouthful and it satisfied me; I lost my appetite at once. Maria would not let me put one on her plate. I think those cakes may be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and staid away three days after one was of fered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's system of cooking.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS!

An invocation to the New Year.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,—
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of palty strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold,
Ring out the thousand wars of old;
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man, and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

MAGDALENA.

Alfred Tenny

"The night is dreary and cold,

But the winds are mad with glee;

And the Storm-king, wild, aud cruel, and bold,

To-night holds jubilee.

Patter, pitiless rain,

From the clouds with passion gray;

Toll! mad winds, toll! for my lost soul
Is passing from earth away.

"Oh, blackest of nights! to you

All other nights are day;

For the sable wings of a hellish crew
Have shut all light away.

Leave me alone with death;
Dark spirits of sea and sky,
Ye goblin things, with sable wings,
1 do not fear to die!