geration on the whole and that their tails are never more than twenty feet long. (Sandy whistles.)

"Before I leave this subject altogether, my freends, I may just add that there's been a considerable diversity o' opeenion about the length o' these animals' tails, so that the question has come to be regarded as a 'sair pint.' One man ye see says one thing and another another, and I've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter myself, and after examining one authority and another, and putting one against the other, I have come to the conclusion that these foxes tails on an average are seldom more than ten feet long! (Sandy whistles.)

"Sandy Macdonald! I'll no tak' another inch off thae foxes tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth out your heid!"

D'

LITTLE BESSIE.

Hug me closer, closer, mother,

Put your arms around me tight;
I am cold and tired, mother,

And I feel so strange to-night;
Something hurts me here, dear mother,
Like a stone upon my breast;
Oh! I wonder, wonder, mother,
Why it is I cannot rest.

All the day, while you were working,
As I lay upon my bed,

I was trying to be patient,

And to think of what you said:
How the kind and blessed Jesus
Loves his lambs to watch and keep;
And I wished he'd come and take me
In his arms, that I might sleep.
Just before the lamp was lighted,

Just before the children came,
While the room was very quiet,

I heard some one call my name.
All at once the window opened-
In a field were lambs and sheep:

Some from out a brook were drinking,
Some were lying fast asleep.

But I could not see the Savior,
Though I strained my eyes to see,
And I wondered, if he saw me,
If he'd speak to such as me.
In a moment I was looking
On a world so bright and fair,
Which was full of little children,
And they seemed so happy there.
They were singing, Oh, how sweetly!
Sweeter songs I never heard;
They were singing sweeter, mother,
Than can sing our yellow-bird.
And while I my breath was holding,
One so bright upon me smiled;
And I knew it must be Jesus,

When he said, "Come here, my child.

"Come up here, my little Bessie,
Come up here and live with me,
Where the children never suffer,
But are happier than you see."
Then I thought of all you told me
Of that bright and happy land;
I was going when you called me,―
When you came and kissed my hand.
And at first I felt so sorry

You had called me; I would go-
Oh! to sleep, and never suffer-
Mother, don't be crying so!
Hug me closer, closer, mother,

Put your arms around me tight;
Oh, how much I love you, mother,
But I feel so strange to-night!
And the mother pressed her closer
To her overburdened breast;
On the heart so near to breaking,
Lay the heart so near its rest.
In the solemn hour of midnight,
In the darkness calm and deep,
Lying on her mother's bosom,
Little Bessie fell asleep!

THE VACANT CHAIR.

Thee need not close the shutters yet; and, David, if thes will,

I've something I would say to thee, while all the house is

still,

Thee knows 'tis easier to talk in this calm, quiet light,
Of things that in our busy days we hide away from sight.

And home is wondrous sweet to me, this simple home of

ours,

As well I know it is to thee, in all these twilight hours; But, since the shadow on it fell, does it appear to thee They are more sacred than of old, for so it seems to me?

And, David, since beside our board has stood Ruth's vacant

chair,

I never yet have clasped my hands and bowed my head in prayer

But I have felt the yearning strong to see the vanished face, And, scarce, I fear, with thankfulness have joined the silent

grace.

While often, at the evening meal, with all our children round,

I still have pictured to myself a low and silent mound,
Blue with the early violets or white with winter snow,
And felt a tender pity for the form there lying low.

Though morning may have cast a halo round the vacant chair,

The sunlight only threw for me a silent shadow there.
And, David, I have watched the stars when thee has been

asleep;

For well thee knows I could not bear to have thee see me weep.

And yet I never have rebelled,--thee knows I speak the truth,-

Though some have said I grieve too much for our sweet daughter Ruth.

But, with the strongest yearning, I can always look above, And feel the Father does not chide the changeless human

love.

I cannot put it into words, I know I need not try;

For thee has understood it all,-borne with me patiently.

Thy cares and duties, it is true, are heavier than mine,
But of their deeper feelings men make slight outward sign.
And, David, thee has sometimes thought it strange that I
should care

To wreathe with flowers and evergreens our daughter's vacant chair.

Yet I so long to keep her gentle memory green and sweet
For all the children, though her name I seldom now repeat.
I cannot seem to speak it with a quiet, restful tone,
Though often, in their thoughtless way, they name the ab-
sent one;

And yet this morn I tried to tell them in a gentle way
Ruth would have counted eighteen years, had she been here
to-day,-

This bright Thanksgiving day; and then, to me all unaware, The children placed beside our board our daughter's vacant

chair,

And now thee sees it, twined with flowers, stand in the moonlight clear;

David, I could not draw it back, but left it standing there.

And it was strange, but, as I bowed my head in silent grace,
I saw our daughter sitting in her old accustomed place :
I did not start nor speak, but only felt a glad surprise
To see how wondrous fair she was in all her angel guise.

Her face was glad and glorified, as if the joy of heaven
An added charm to that sweet smile we loved below had

given.

I know 'twas but a passing fancy filled the vacant chair, For, when I turned, a ray of sunshine seemed to linger there.

But, David, in my heart I've kept that vision all day long, While it has seemed to lift me up and make my faith more strong.

For I have felt through all, in some mysterious way,
Ruth's silent presence may have filled her vacant chair to-

day.

And though I thought this early morn I never more could know

A truly thankful heart for all my blessings here below, Since in our home the vacant chair stood ever in my sight, Yet, David, that was wrong I know, I see it all to-night.

And I shall try to picture Ruth amid the angels now,
Not lying in that silent mound beneath the rain and snow,
As I perhaps too oft have done on winter nights of storm,
When all the others gathered round the fire so flushed and

warm.

And well I know one thought alone should make me reconciled,

That I may always call my own this sweet, pure, angel

child.

And, David, if thee will, I yet would twine the vacant chair, To keep the vision that I saw to-day still sweet and fair.

ADDRESS TO THE SUN.—OSSIAN.

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty,-the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold, and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone, who can be a companion of thy course?

The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks, and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.

When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But, to Ossian thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hairs flow on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west.

But thou art perhaps like me-for a season: thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark, and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds; when the mist is on the hills, the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.