Yet in spite of the storm, his heart had grown warm Lit up his brown face now and then; The smile was there still, and continued until He found himself facing the small village store. Each comfortably resting his head on his hands; But they rose in affright, and their faces grew white When the farmer burst in and poured forth his commands. "Just fetch me a sack, or a bag, and mind It's the largest and strongest that you can find. Do I want 'em mixed? I'd like to mix you! So back o'er the road he went with his load, Arriving once more at the old cottage door, He peered through the window, and saw with delight That good Widow Clare still slept in her chair, Unconscious of what was transpiring that night. He never quite knew just how he got through Nor how he was able to reach the small table And noiselessly lay down the burdensome sack; But in less than a minute, every single thing in it Was spread out before him in tempting array. The turnips kept still, as they seldom will, And not even a potato rolled off and away. The old cat looked wise, and puffed up twice her size, She resumed her deep thinking, and her gray eyes were blinking, When at last from the room the strange visitor went. And now, once again, he pressed close to the pane, A plid-plid-plodding; While still in her chair Sat old Widow Clare A nid-nid-nodding. -Christian Union. THE FIRST CLOUD. They stood at the altar one short year ago; Oh! has all her wifely devotion been wasted? And left its dark trail on the flowers of affection. Oh, well may there be in her bosom a pain, A grief that she vainly endeavors to smother; To-night he has told her, in language quite plain, She can't cook his meals half as well as his mother! HOME. There is something in the word home, that wakes the kindliest feelings of the heart. It is not merely friends and kindred who render that place so dear; but the very hills and rocks and rivulets throw a charm around the place of one's nativity. It is no wonder that the loftiest harps have been tuned to sing of "home, sweet home." The rose that bloomed in the garden where one has wandered in early years a thoughtless child, careless in innocence, is lovely in its bloom, and lovelier in its decay. No songs are sweet like those we heard among the boughs that shade a parent's dwelling, when the morning or the evening hour found us gay as the birds that warbled over us. No waters are bright like the clear silver streams that wind among the flower-decked knolls, where, in childhood, we have often strayed to pluck the violet or the lily, or to twine a garland for some loved schoolmate. We may wander away and mingle in the "world's fierce strife," and form new associations and friendships, and fancy we have almost forgotten the land of our birth; but at some evening hour, as we listen perchance to the autumn winds, the remembrance of other days comes over the soul, and fancy bears us back to childhood's scenes. We roam again the old familiar haunts, and press the hands of companions long since cold in grave, and listen to the voices we shall hear on earth no more. It is then a feeling of melancholy steals over us, which, like Ossian's music, is pleasant, though mournful to the soul. the The African, torn from his willow-braided hut, and borne away to the land of strangers and of toil, weeps as he thinks of home, and sighs and pines for the cocoaland beyond the waters of the sea. Years may have passed over him; strifes and toil may have crushed his Сни spirits; all his kindred may have found graves upon the corals of the ocean; yet, were he free, how soon would he seek the shores and skies of his boyhood dreams? The New England mariner, amid the icebergs of the Northern seas, or breathing the spicy gales of the evergreen isles, or coasting along the shores of the Pacific, though the hand of time may have blanched his raven locks, and care have plowed deep furrows on his brow, and his heart have been chilled by the storms of the ocean, till the fountains of his love have almost ceased to gush with the heavenly current; yet, upon some summer's evening, as he looks out upon the sun sinking behind the western wave, he will think of home; his heart will yearn for the loved of other days, and his tears flow like the summer rain. How, after long years of absence, docs the heart of the wanderer beat, and his eyes fill, as he catches a glimpse of the hills of his nativity; and when he has pressed the lip of a brother or sister, how soon does he hasten to see if the garden, and the orchard, and the stream look as in days gone by! We may find climes as beautiful, and skies as bright, and friends as devoted; but that will not usurp the place of home. GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY! I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit, Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you, Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high; But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie— You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent, Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie, Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt, I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt; P. S. (pooty short.)-Vell, he dold Becky to go avay enough dimes, enner how. I dinks he vas an uckly fellow. Vell, berhaps that serfs Becky choost right for daking bresents from von fellow, vhile she vas vinking her nose by anoder vellow. TRUNDLE-BED TREASURES.-MRS. HATTIE F. BELL. Long fringes drooping o'er dark blue eyes, Rosy lips full of kisses now, And golden locks on the baby brow, And snug and warm 'neath the snowy spread Six little feet that are tired of play, They have wandered so long and so far to-day, Sends up a prayer to Our Father above, As she thinks of the world with its pride and strife, |