The grain not only falling, but the tender flowers, too, And with them tares and thistles are scattered through and through;

For the reaper reaps a harvest that is heavy for the blade, While the voice of the master calleth, "It must not be delayed!"

And thus is the mighty harvest in all our glorious land,The reaper blithe and happy, there is joy on every hand; For the toil is sweet to the faithful, reward will come at last,

So the reaper sings and labors until daylight hours are past.

I see the harvest over, and mountains of golden grain Await the thresher's pleasure, and it shall not wait in vain; For I hear the hum of engines and clatter of turning wheels-Let us wait a moment-linger-and see what this reveals.

You know what we see, good farmer, in fields now brown and bare;

Where the grain is kept from the thistles, from thistle and from tare;

And only the grain is wanted, the thistles are cast away, While the flowers that died and withered shall bloom another day.

I see another harvest in the grain fields of this life,
The wheat is bent and shaken with labor sore, and strife;
But the reaper cometh often, with footsteps soft as air;
He takes the grain and flowers, the thistle and the tare.

The harvest is ever ripening to the reaper's subtle breath,-
To the knife of this silent reaper, whose mystic name is

Death;

And we know not the hour of his coming, whether at night

or day,

Nor why he should spare the thistle and take our flowers

away.

In this living and mighty harvest we are grain or worthless chaff;

We cannot serve two masters,-God wants no work by half; And I pray, when the harvest is over, at the garnering of the wheat,

I, with the grain and flowers, may kneel at the Master's feet. -Good Housekeeping.

OLD LETTERS.-WILLIAM J. BENNERS, JR.
By permission of the Author.

Loud and wild the storm is howling,
But no thought it brings to me
Save a thankfulness in knowing
None I love are on the sea.
Closely shut within my chamber,
Where the fire is burning bright,
All these letters, long since written,
I will read and burn to-night:-

Piles of letters, old and yellow,

With my name upon them all;
Good for nothing, less than nothing,

Is each scarce remembered scrawl;
Yet old mem'ries rise before me,
Half of pleasure, half of pain,
And fair scenes almost forgotten
Brighten into life again.

Here a dainty school-girl's letter
Still retains its faint perfume;
But the little hand that wrote it
Moulders in a foreign tomb.
On a lonely, lonely island,

There with strangers by her side
Is the grave o'erhung with cypress
Where they laid her when she died.

Here's a letter torn and faded

Till its words can scarce be read;

But I carefully refold it

For its writer too is dead.

Mid the smoke and din of battle,
In his youthful prime he fell,
And the trumpet peals of victory,
Were for him a funeral knell.

Close beside it lies another

In an awkward, girlish hand,
Desperately sentimental;

Ah! I now can understand
Just how silly two such lovers

As we then were must have been

She about a year my junior,

I a youngster just sixteen!

In strange contrast comes another,
Written clear and gracefully;
Saddened, shuddering, I quickly
Drop the veil on memory;
Once I almost thought a halo
C'rcled, angel-like, her brow;
Would to God the grass were growing
Thick and high above her now!

Falling from another letter

Is a shining tress of hair;
Quick my thoughts flash o'er the ocean
Where its sister ringlets are.
Very dear is she who wears them,
Truest, kindest, best of friends;
May all good attend her pathway
Till her earthly journey ends!

Back the mists of years are rolling,
As these relics of the past,
With a wondrous fascination,
Have their spells around me cast.
Crowds of tender recollections

Fill my eyes with unshed tears;
Dimmer grows the weary Present-
Dimmer-till it disappears.

From the shadows in the distance
Vanished scenes are drawing nigh;
Clad in forms of matchless beauty
Sweet remembrances float by.
Loving eyes are gazing on me,
Loving lips are pressed to mine,
Loving voices softly whisper

To my spirit thoughts divine.

Hark! the clocks are striking midnight;
Cold and dead my fire lies;

Passed the storm, the clouds are breaking
Calmly from the moonlit skies;
Still unburned, I lay the letters
In their casket once again,
Gently close the lid upon them,

Lock it-let them there remain.

A SCHOOL EPISODE.-EMMA SHAW.

Long years ago (how youth to-day
Would stand and stare if taught that way!)
In rural "deestricks" 'twas laid down
That meeting travelers through the town,
Boys from their heads their hats should take
And reverently their "manners" make;
Each little maid, her part to do,
Made "kurchies" wonderful to view.

It chanced that on a certain day
His yearly visit came to pay,
A school official yclept "trustee,"-
His form e'en now I seem to see,
In somber coat of homespun brown
And fine buff waistcoat bought in town;
Besides, yes, it was surely so,
He wore a wig, this ancient beau;
Else I'd no story have to tell
Of what that article befell;

He made his call,-no matter where,
Since you, I'm sure, were never there;
He heard the scholars spell and read,
Talked long and learned of their need
The Rule of Three to practise well,
And the nine parts of speech to tell,
Then as a final flourish, "Now,"
He said, "I'll make a proper bow;
Look, one and all."

Alas to tell!
His wig came loose and off it fell,
Displaying to the general view
A pate that shone like billiard cue;
He stared a breath, with scarlet face,
His headgear seized and quit the place.

Upon the school a stillness fell,
Until an urchin broke the spell,-
A tow-haired child, the smallest there,
Who, running toward his teacher's chair
With hand upraised, piped shrilly out,
His freckled face expressing doubt
And direst wonder: "Schoolma'am, we
Can't take our hairs off clean like he!"

STAR-GAZING.

It was at Spirit Lake, at the very limit of the pier. They were all alone. There was no moon, but the stars were big and bright and so full of self-conceit that they looked at themselves in the water and winked. Far out a boat slid noiselessly along. In a nearer boat a fair tenor voice carelessly half-hummed, half-sang a common love song. From the hotel came now and then the twang of the strings of the orchestra of mandolins. On such a night as this did Dido stand upon the wild sea bank and wave her love to come again to Carthage. On such a night as this did Jessica-but a truce to the bard! It was the sort of night on which a man could make love to his own wife-and those two, Edouard and Alicia, had not yet bespoken their tender vows.

"Do you know anything about the stars?" inquired Edouard in a voice like the murmur of the wind in summer trees.

"A little," answered Alicia, tenderly. "I know some of the constellations,-the Great Bear-the

"Yes," interrupted Edouard, "I know all about the big bear and I can find the north star; but right over there is a group. Do you know the name of that?" And Edouard threw his arm across Alicia's shoulder and pointed to a cluster of shining worlds in the east.

Alicia leaned toward him. I don't know what that is," she breathed, as one who did not care.

"And there is another constellation just over our heads!"

Edouard passed his arm around her neck, and placing his hand under her chin so tilted it that it would be easy for her to see. And then to Alicia's eyes the heavens became one grand carnival of constellations. Shooting-stars chased each other athwart the firmament, comets played riotous games among the planets--and finally there came a soft and radiant blur which hid them all. Edouard had kissed Alicia.