For there, with its wild white face to the pane, I saw as plain as life,

An awful Something a-peering in, in the likeness of my wife!

It beckoned to me with its phantom hand, and I felt that my hour was nigh,

And I soon must join my Sally again in the better home on high,

When, ah, the door flew open, and there, oh there, IT stood on the floor!

And a sudden mist come over me, and I recollect no more.

When I come to myself I was lying down on our bit of a sofy there,

And the neighbors was gathered about me then with a pitying, startled air;

I felt quite dazed and misty at fust, and I swooned agen almost

When the terrible truth come back to me-the open door and the ghost!

They tried to soothe me, the women did, and said I must bear it well,

But there'd been a sad mistake, and they'd got some happy news to tell;

Then I heerd a sudden sob and a cry, that come from behind the rest,

And my Sally was kneeling by my side, with her head upon

DIY

breast!

Her story was simple. With care and skill she'd begun to

mend apace,

So was moved to the conwalescent ward for another to take

her place;

But in the hurry her name, yer see, was left up over the bed,

So that when the other poor creetur sunk they thought it was Sal was dead!

*

*

*

*

*

I'm a roughish sort myself, I am, but I leave yer to understand

What my feelings was as we sat that night a-talking hand in hand,

With the light of my life brought suddenly back, when all seemed shadder and gall,

And my heart aglow with passionate thanks to the merciful Giver of all.

But I'd had enough of yer London courts, and we both was

shaky and queer;

So I wrote for a crib as was advertised by the good old master here.

And here's the lodge, with Sally herself a waiting to open the gate

Hi, Sal! yer may cook them bloaters now; I'll be in directly, mate!

WHEN THE HOUSE IS ALONE BY ITSELF. MARY KYLE DALLAS

When the house is alone by itself inexperienced persons may believe that it behaves exactly as it does when there are people in it; but that is a delusion, as you will discover, if you are ever left alone in it at midnight, sitting up for the rest of the family.

At this hour the deceitful house will believe that every one has gone to bed, and will not think it necessary to keep up the delusion of being wrapped in peace and silence; at this hour its true disposition will reveal itself.

To catch it at its best, pretend to retire, put out the gas or the lamp, and go up-stairs. Afterward, come down softly, light no more than one lamp, go into the empty parlor and seat yourself at a table, with something to read. No sooner have you done so than you will hear a little chip, chip, chip, along the top of the room—a small sound but persistent. It is evidently the wallpaper coming off, and you decide, after some tribulation, that if it does come off, you can't help it, and go on with your book. By the way, it is all sham; you are not reading; you never read at such times; but as you sit with your book in your hand you begin to be quite sure that some one is coming down stairs. Squeak-squeaksqueak! What folly! There is nobody up there to come down; but there-no, it is on the basement stairs. Somebody is coming up.

Squeak-snap! Well, if it is a robber you might as well face him. You get the poker and stand with your back against the wall. Nobody comes up. Finally, you decide that you are a goose, put the poker down, get a magazine and try to read.

There, that's the door. You heard the lock turn. They are coming home. You run to the door, lift the vestibule curtain and peep out. Nobody there! But as you linger the door-lock gives a click that makes you jump. By daylight neither lock nor stairs make any of these noises unless they are touched or trodden on. You go back to the parlor in a hurry, with a feeling that the next thing you know something may catch you by the back-hair, and try to remember where you left off. Now, it is the table that snaps and cracks as if all the Rochester knocks were hidden in its mahogany. You do not lean on it heavily; and you have leaned on it heavily without this result; but it fidgets you, and you take a rocking-chair and put the book on your knee. Your eyes wander up and down the page, and you grow dreamy, when apparently the book-case fires off a pistol. At least, a loud, fierce crack comes from the heart of that piece of furniture; so loud, so fierce that you jump to your feet, trembling!

You cannot stand the parlor any more. You go upstairs. No sooner do you get there than it seems to you that somebody is walking on the roof. If the house is a detached one, and the thing is impossible, that makes it all the more mysterious. Nothing ever moaned in the chimney before, but something moans now. There is a ghostly step in the bath-room. You find out afterward that it is the faucet dripping, but you do not dare to look at that time. And it is evident that there is something up the chimney, you would not like to ask what.

If you have gas, it bobs up and down in a phantom dance. If you have a lamp, it goes out in a blue explo

sion. If you have a candle, a shroud plainly enwraps the wick and falls towards you."

The shutters shake as if a hand clutched them, and finally a doleful cat begins to moan down cellar. You do not keep a cat, and this finishes you. You pretend to read no longer; and as you sit with a towel over your head and face, and hear something under the surbase go "shew, shew, shew," like a little saw, you do not wonder. at the old ghost stories.

Ten minutes afterwards the bell rings; the belated ones come home; the lights are lit; perhaps something must be got out to eat. People talk and tell where they have been, and ask if you are lonesome. And not a stair creaks. No step is heard on the roof; no click at the front door. Neither book-case nor table cracks. The house has on its company manners, only you have found out how it behaves when it is all alone.

THE OLD AND THE NEW.-MARY MCGUIRE

The old year and the new! With faltering feet
I stand between the two, waiting to greet
The fair new year, whose broad unwritten page
Stretches beyond my sight; the wisest sage
May tell me naught; no line the future shows-
Which more of shade or light—God only knows.

The happy bells ring cheerily and sweet;
Gifts are exchanged to-day, for it is meet
That hearts make glad and loving words of cheer
And smiles of welcome greet the glad new year.

Half tearfully I turn to gaze once more
On bygone days; each page is written o'er

With lines crossed and recrossed. Ah! very dear
To me the record of the sweet dead year,

Its mingled joy and pain; along the way

Are strewn crushed buds of hope all ashen gray—
In the dim corridors I seem to see

Faces that no new year will bring to me.

Then back to Him I give my precious years-

Here bright with golden gleams-there stained with tears—
Knowing that where I've erred He will forgive;

Praying that He will teach me how to live
Nearer to him and Truth in this new year

n which I enter half with hope, half fear.

-Every Other Saturday.

BABY IN CHURCH.

Aunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty thing,
Of Hamburg and ribbon and lace.

And mamma had said, as she settled it round
Our beautiful baby's face,

Where the dimples play and the laughter lies
Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes;

"If the day is pleasant and baby is good,
She may go to church and wear her new hood."

Then Ben, aged six, began to tell,

In elder-brotherly way,

How very, very good she must be

If she went to church next day.

He told of the church, the choir, and the crowd,
And the man up in front who talked so loud;
But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing,
But just sit as quiet as anything.

And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May,

When the fruit-buds burst into flowers,
(There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree
So fair as this blossom of ours,)
All in her white dress, dainty and new,
Our baby sat in the family pew.
The grand, sweet music, reverent air,

The solemn hush, and the voice of prayer

Filled all her baby soul with awe,

As she sat in her little place,

And the holy look that the angels wear

Seemed pictured upon her face.

And the sweet words uttered so long ago
Come into my mind with a rhythmic flow;
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven," said He,
And I knew that He spake of such as she.