Praying for water, all in vain

Though blood is round them thick as rain;
Some sobbing like weak women, some
Cursing the day they left their home;
Calling on mother, sister, wife,

To save them from the dreadful strife.

No loved hand wipes the anguished brow;
No kiss is on the hot lips now,

As groaning in deep agony,
Upon the battle-field they die.

But famished wolves a requiem howl,
And o'er the scene of slaughter prowl.
The vulture and her hideous brood,
Drawn by the sickening smell of blood;
And ere the victims cease to feel
Banquet upon their human meal.

Nor is this all. Who can relate
How many homes are desolate;
The widow's lonely grief express;
The sorrow of the fatherless;

Or know what bitter tears are shed

By aged mothers of the dead?

Oh! turn we from the saddening story-
This, this is what the world calls-Glory!

WAITING-AT THE CHURCH DOOR.*
MRS. ALEX. MC VEIGH MILLER.

A moment, scarcely more, I stood
In reverent silence, waiting there;
Nor dared profane with footsteps rude
The brooding hush of earnest prayer.

But in that moment's solemn space
How sad a fancy touched my soul,
And brought me, trembling, face to face
With fears beyond my weak control.

I thought, oh! if I stood to-night

From this chill earthly bondage free,
Were these the golden gates of light-

Would these closed doors swing wide for me?

*Written expressly for this Collection.

Would angels harp my welcome home,
Or that dear Lord, too oft forgot,
Reproachfully pronounce my doom:

66

Depart from me, I know you not."

Wild thought! my startled spirit swayed
By one sharp pulse of agony,
Wavered on doubting wings, afraid

Of that sad thought that came to me.

But softly fell the deep "Amen!"

And rose the voice of praise in song,
A moment's pause, a step, and then-
I stood among the singing throng.

From darkness into light-oh! heart,
So weary of life's glare and din,
Thus mayst thou hear, oh! not "Depart!"
But "Knock and ye shall enter in."

THE CHOIR'S WAY OF TELLING IT.

Attending services not long ago in an elegant church edifice, where they worship God with taste in a highly aesthetic manner, the choir began that scriptural poem which compares Solomon with the lilies of the field somewhat to the former's disadvantage. Although not possessing a great admiration for Solomon, nor considering him a suitable person to hold up as a shining example before the Young Men's Christian Association, still a pang of pity for him was felt when the choir, after expressing unbounded admiration for the lilies of the field, which it is doubtful if they ever observed very closely, began to tell the congregation, through the mouth of the soprano, that "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed." Straightway the soprano was re-inforced by the bass, who declared that Solomon was most decidedly and emphatically not arrayed,--was not arrayed. Then the alto ventured it as her opinion that Solomon was not arrayed; when the tenor, without a moment's hesitation, sung, as if

it had been officially announced, that "he was not array. ed." 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

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.