Ah! richer than gold or silver, With heavenly store forever Its weight from our hearts He lifts. For thorns He gives us roses, Bright smiles for earth's cold frowns; THE WORLD.-ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. The world is a queer old fellow, You had better conceal any trouble you feel, No matter how heavy your burden Don't tell about it, pray; He will only grow colder and shrug his shoulder And hurriedly walk away. But carefully cover your sorrow, And the world will be your friend. If only you'll bury your woes and be merry To lighten your burden because He never will share it; but silently bear it The world is a vain old fellow; You must laugh at his sallies of wit. No matter how brutal, remonstrance is futile, Down paths where all mortal feet go, Why, life holds more savor to keep in his favor, For he's an unmerciful foe. TSAR OLEG.-J. J. KENNEALY. Tsar Oleg was riding through holy Kieff, With the bright, flashing trooping spear and shield, And his loving people bent low where he passed, As the wind sweeps over the full-ripe field. When with staff upheld in the swaying throng, The royal soothsayer stood in the way, And he cried: "Beware! Death shall smite thee, O King, From the milk-white steed thou bestridest to-day!" Tsar Oleg, he pondered and mused awhile, And anon he alit from his gallant steed: "An' if this must be, I will ride thee no more, Go, lead him, ye grooms, to some green sunny mead." When a herald came out of the Grecian bounds, Till he girdled the Bosphorus-gazing walls, And in triumph to holy Kieff he returned, When he sudden remembered the warning voice And he bade the soothsayer before him stand: "How prances the faithful and baleful steed? Will he neigh, will he leap to the trumpet still?" "Oh, my liege, nevermore; for these seven years' wind Hath his bones all bleached on yon green hill." Up rose Tsar Oleg and called for his horse, And he followed the seer to that south sloping lea; He went, gyved and guarded, that soothsayer gray, And yet with a steady, proud step walked he. And the King saw the bones of his milk-white steed, And he set his hoof on the hollow skull, While his nobles stood round him with bated breath, And he asked, with scorning: "Thou prophet of ills, Comes hurt from a carcass, or death from death?" And he spake to his guards: "Let the false prophet die!" FRENCH ACCOUNT OF ADAM'S FALL. up-he sees une belle deVoila de la chance! "Bon Monsieur Adam, he vake moiselle aslip in ze garden. jour, Madame Iv." Madame Iv, she vake; she hole her fan before to her face. Adam put on his eyeglass to admire ze tableau, and zey make von promenade. Madame Iv, she feel hungry. She see appel on ze arbre. Serpent se prone sur l'arbre-make one walk on ze tree. "Monsieur le Serpent," say Iv, " vill vous not have ze bonté to peek me some appel? j'ais faim." "Certainement, Madame Iv, charmes de vous voir." "Hola, mon ami, ar-r-retez vous?" says Adam-"stop! stop! que songezvous faire? Was madness is zees? You must not pick ze appel!" Ze snake, he take one pinch of shnuff, he say: "Au, Monsieur Adam, do you not know how zere is nossing proheebet ze ladies? Madame Iv, permit me to offer you some of zeese fruit defendu―zeese forbidden fruit." Iv, she make one courtesy-ze snake, he fill her parasol wiz ze appel. He says: "Eritis sicut Deus. Monsieur Adam, he will eat ze appel, he will become like one Dieu; know ze good and ze eveel-but you, Madame Iv, cannot become more of a goddess than you are now." An' zat feenish Madame Iv. "NEARER TO THEE."-I. EDGAR JONES. 66 Nearer my Tones that were triumph peals shrined in a song, "Nearer my God to Thee," thrilled on the air, "Nearer my God to Thee," thrilled on the breeze, Mixed with the tropic flower's balm-laden breath; "Neater my God to Thee," echoed a street "Nearer my God to Thee," rose from a room "Nearer my God to Thee," triumph or prayer, Winging its way every hour on the air, O'er the whole world from a numberless throng, AS JACOB SERVED FOR RACHEL. 'Twas the love that lightened service! That yearning lips and waiting hearts As Jacob served for Rachel Beneath the Syrian sky, Like golden sands that swiftly drop, Chill fell the dews upon him, Fierce smote the sultry sun; But what were cold or heat to him, Sweet Rachel, with the secret To hold a brave man leal; To keep him through the changeful years, Her own in woe and weal; So that in age and exile, The death damp on his face, Her name to the dark valley lent And "There I buried Rachel," He said of that lone spot In Ephrath, near to Bethlehem, For God had taken from him The brightness and the zest, |