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Ah! richer than gold or silver,

And wealth and rank above,
In the sight of the dear Lord Jesus

Is a child's unsullied love.
With heavenly store forever

Doth He repay our gifts,
And when we take our burden

Its weight from our hearts He lifts.
For thorns He gives us roses,

Bright smiles for earth's cold frowns; For moans the harp's glad music,

And for crosses golden crowns!

The world is a queer old fellow,

As you journey along by his side
You had better conceal any trouble you feel,

If you want to tickle his pride.
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

He'll cling to you close to the end.
Don't ask him to lift one finger

To lighten your burden because
He never will share it; but silently bear it

And he will be loud with applause.
The world is a vain old fellow;

You must laugh at his sallies of wit.
No matter how brutal, remonstrance is futile,

And frowns will not change him one whit.
And since you must journey together

Down paths where all mortal feet go, Why, life holds more savor to keep in his favor,

For he's an uninerciful foe.


Tsar Oleg was riding through holy Kieff,

With the bright, flashiny 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,

And for tribute refused blew a challenge of war, Tsar Oleg leaped on a berry-brown steed,

And led his hosts to the southward afar.
Till he girdled the Bosphorus-gazing walls,

And made the Cæsars bow down to fate,
And, departing, he said: “Be forever a mark!”

And he fixed his shield on the city's gate.
And in triumph to holy Kieff he returned,

With hostages, plunder, and martial spoils, And he said in his heart: “We have fought, we have won,

We will rest now, in glory, from warlike toils."
When he sudden remembered the warning voice

That smote his ears as he rode to war,
And he bade the soothsayer before him stand:

“How twinkles, O prophet, my fateful star? “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,

Where the tops of the deep grass rose and fell, And the silver shod hoofs and the bridle of gold,

And the golden stirrups, he knew them well; 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!”

“ The fates know me royal,” he thought in his pride, When lo! from the skull sprang an adder fanged,

And stilled with its venom his heart's high tide.


Monsieur Adam, he vake up-he sees une belle demoiselle aslip in ze garden. Voila de la chance! “ Bon 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 defenduforbidden 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 my God to Thee,” rose on the air, Each note an ecstasy, joyous and rare, Tones that were triumph peals shrined in a song, Breathing of victory gained over wrong; Out on the listening air, mocking at fear, Ringing its clarion cry, fearless and clear, Up from a soul redeemed, noble and free, “Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.” * Nearer

my God to Thee,” thrilled on the air, Each note an agony linked with a prayer, Out on a sinking ship, land out of sight, Borne by the wailing winds into the night; White-maned and angry waves howling in scorn, Wild shrieks of belpless hearts over them borne! Still rang one trusting voice high o'er the sea, “Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.” “ Nearer my God to Thee,” thrilled on the breeze, Far in a heathen land, 'neath the palm trees, Rising in soulful notes, earnest and calm, Trust and tranquillity winging the psalm ; Fierce faces round about, fever and death Mixed with the tropic flower's balm-laden breath; One lonely child of God bending the knee, Saying with uplifted face, “Nearer to Thee.” “Neater my God to Thee," echoed a street Worn by the night tread of murderer's feet, Up from a cellar, dark, noisome with slime, Out o'er a motley crowd hideous with crime; Curses and oaths obscene fouling the ear, Still rose the trustful notes, trembling but clear; Poverty, suffering, singing their plea, “Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.” “Nearer my God to Thee,” rose from a room Where a man, old and blind, sat in the gloom, While his poor hands caressed, there on the bed, One who was once his bride, silent and dead. Worn were the wrinkled hands folded in sleep, Closed were the patient eyes, slumbering deep. “Called to her home,” he said, “ waiting for me;" * Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee."

"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,
Blending their smiles and their sighs in its song;
Priceless the memories, sweet and profound,
Linked like a chaplet of pearls by its sound.
Grant its petition till all the world be
" Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee."


'Twas the love that lightened service!

The old, old story sweet
That yearning lips and waiting hearts

In melody repeat.
As Jacob served for Rachel

Beneath the Syrian sky,
Like golden sands that swiftly drop,

The toiling years went by.
Chill fell the dews upon him,

Fierce smote the sultry sun;
But what were cold or heat to him,

Till that dear wife was won!
The angels whispered in his ear,

"Be patient and be strong!”
And the thought of her he waited for

Was ever like a song.
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

Its own peculiar grace.
And “There I buried Rachel,”

He said of that lone spot
In Ephrath, near to Bethlehem,

Where the wife he loved was not;
For God had taken from him

The brightness and the zest,


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