Go on with your walk, good pastor,
You do not yourself deceive;
It has been a scriptural story

Since Adam first kissed Eve.
And never blush, little lassie,
The tale was written above,
No other so speaks of heaven
As the old, old story of love.

THE FADING LEAF.-GAIL HAMILTON.

"We all do fade as a leaf." The sad voice whispers through my soul, and a shiver creeps over from the church-yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into peace. I go out upon the October hills and question the genii of the woods. "How does a leaf fade?" Grandly, magnificently, imperially, so that the glory of its coming is eclipsed by the glory of its departing;-thus the forests make answer to-day. The tender bud of April opens its bosom to the wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and the clear sky of June it gathers greenness and strength. Through all the summer its manifold lips are opened to every passing breeze, and great draughts of health course through its delicate veins, and meander down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the tiny flower, and the maturing fruit, bearing life to the present, and treasuring up promise for the future.

Then its work is done, and it goes to its burial,—not mournfully, not reluctantly, but joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes wear no funereal look. It robes itself in splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. First there is a flash of crimson in the low lands, then a glimmer of yellow on the hill-side, then, rushing on, exultant, reckless, rioting in color, grove vies with grove, till the woods are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams through the pale gold tresses of the maple, serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a saint; there it

lingers in bold dalliance with the dusky orange of the walnut. The fierce heart of the tropics beats in the blood-red branches that surge against deep solemn walls of cypress and juniper. Yonder, a sober, but not sombre, russet tones down the flaunting vermilion. The intense glow of scarlet struggles for supremacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, and the numberless tints of year-long green come in everywhere to enliven, and soothe, and subdue, and harmonize. So the leaf fades,-brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing,-as a bride adorned for her husband, as a king goes to his coronation.

But the frosts come whiter and whiter. The nights grow longer and longer. Ice glitters in the morning light, and the clouds shiver with snow. The forests lose their flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giving air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold upon the protecting tree. A strong wind comes and loosens its last clasp, and bears it tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a rustle, and all is over, no, not all, its work is not yet done. It sinks upon the protecting earth, and, Antæus-like, gathers strength from the touch, and begins new life. It joins hands with myriads of its mates, and takes up again its work of benevolence. No longer sensitive itself to frosts and snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail little anemones, and the delicate spring beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors of our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in that fond embrace, they sleep securely till the spring sun wakens them to the smile of blue skies, and the song of dancing brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drinking the gentle dews, cradling a thousand tender lives in theirs, and springing again in new forms, an eternal cycle of life and death "forever spent, renewed forever."

We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" is written on all things;

and passing away is passing on from strength to strength, from glory to glory. Spring has its growth, summer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in-gathering. The spring of eager preparation waxes into the summer of noble work; mellowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, the golden-brown haze of October, when the soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, awaiting the welcome command, "Come up higher," where mortality shall be swallowed up in life. Let him alone fear who does not fade as the leaf,-him whose spring is gathering no strength, whose summer is maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall have no vintage.

MIKE MCGAFFATY'S DOG.-MARK MELVILLE.
Michael McGaffaty-faith, what a name-
Was an Irishman born, and an Irishman bred;
His brogue was as broad as his brawny frame,
And his hands were as thick as his carroty head.
Mike had a wife who was Erin's true child,

Red-headed, big-fisted, and ugly was she;
Her features were fierce, and her nature not wild,
And she was as stupid as stupid could be.
And Mike had a dog, a bristling young terrier,
Quick at a fight, and not slow at a bone;

In the family circle none could be merrier,

But he'd howl like a dervish when left all alone.

Mike lived in a hovel, untidy and small,

One room for two persons is found not too big:
Two persons, I said? Now, faith, that's not all,
For the cosiest corner was kept for the pig.

Now, with Mike and his wife, and the pig and the dog,
While none disagreed all was quiet and right;
But a quarrel arose 'twixt the cur and the hog,

And one night they set to and indulged in a fight.
Then Biddy loud stormed, and louder Mike swore,
The pig squealed and grunted, the dog yelled like mad;
So to make everything quiet and peaceful once more,
Mike turned out the dog and then quiet was had.

But the dog was unused to the cold and the snow,
Did not take his ejectment quite in good part;
Not a step from the door would the ugly cur go,

But sat there and howled till the hut seemed to start.
Again Biddy loud stormed, and louder Mike swore,
While the pig sweetly slept, quite free from all care;
And Mike must get up from his slumbers once more,
To stop the wronged terrier's musical air.

He rushed to the doorway in anger and wrath,
Ne'er stopping for clothing, as quickly he bowled;
There sat the scared terrier right in his path,
Awakening the echoes as loudly he howled.
The door was banged to, leaving Biddy alone,
The howling was hushed and stillness restored;
Bolt upright sat Biddy, now Michael was gone,
While "in slumbers of midnight" the pig loudly snored.
So long was he gone that his spouse was alarmed,

She moved from her bed and peeped out at the door;
For rather than have her McGaffaty harmed,

She'd endure this dog's howling and that of ten more.
The moon glistens brightly on hillocks of snow,

And there, in a deep drift, stands Mike and the cur;
O'er his half-naked form the chilling winds blow,
Like a statue the dog stands, not daring to stir.

In wonder she gazes on human and brute,

Such a sight never met mortal eyes, I declare; From Mike's ears and his nose long icicles stood, While a small drift of snow rises white in his hair. In the heart of fair Biddy fierce anger is brewing,

And her shrilly pitched voice of panic doth smack; "Mike! Mike! you big blackguard, what now be ye doing, Sweating there in the cowld wid no coat to yer back?" Mike turned at the voice of his blooming young daisy While in shivering accents he answered in haste, "Whist, Biddy! my darling, now can't yer be aisy, Don't yer see what I'm doing? I'm frazing the baste." ""Tis frazing the baste is it?" answered fair Biddy, As into the hut she indignantly burst;

"If yez stay there much longer you'll leave me a widdy, For in frazing the brute you will fraze yerself first.”

THE TEMPERANCE ECHO.-EDWARD CARSWELL.

"Twas a lovely night at Grimsby Camp;
The sun hung like a signal lamp
Behind a cloud of white and gold,
While its reflections, bright and bold,
Upon the painted lake were seen
In crimson, yellow, white, and green.
The camp fires just begun to show,
And here and there their orange glow
Was seen, amid the shadowy gloom
Fast settling o'er the grove, and soon
To deepen into shades of night
And hide the beauty from our sight.

As there, not very far from shore
I lay, while resting from the oar,
By soft and gentle breezes fanned,
I thought no tale of fairy-land
Was ever told to wondering child
Surpassing this in beauty wild.
Familiar sounds came from the shore,
Yet never sounded so before.
The children, laughing at the well,
The ringing of the chapel bell,
The mother (baby on her knee),
Singing "Nearer, my God, to thee,"
Each note seemed little wings to take
And flutter miles out, o'er the lake.
But hold! no poet need to try
(At least not such a one as I)
Description; painter ne'er had power
To paint the beauties of that hour.

"Who mixed those tints,-the soft deep grays?
Who scumbled in the distant haze;

The red sun and its golden ray

The deep clear shadows in the bay,

The purple woods, the gold-edged cloud-
Who painted these?" I said aloud.

A spirit seemed to answer: "Hush!

"Twas God's own hand that held the brush,"

And every tint, and shade, and line,

Said. "He who made it is divine."