The train-boy was staring, the stranger not caring,
Puffed softly away on his lovely cigar.

The conductor wild staring, came panting and swearing,
Rushed rapid and tearing up the aisle of the car;
"Oh! just let me go for the vicious old loafer
Who insists upon smoking that filthy cigar!"
The stranger entreated, the porter retreated,
The conductor conceited, continued the war;
The stranger implored, but the officer roared,
Put out, or get out with your nickel cigar.

66

64 Don't you see that the rules, made expressly for fools, My sympathy cools, being boss of the car;

By the demons of war, I insist on the law

That will keep you from smoking that wretched cigar." From the eye of the wight sprang lightning as bright As ever flashed white from cannon or cloud, "Don't you see, you vile stokers, that rule is for smokers Who insist upon smoking their tobacco aloud.

"And since you refuse my pleadings profuse,

You may do as you choose, but you cannot debar My right to the pleasure to smoke without measure, Since I smoke to myself when I smoke in the car."

A GLANCE BACKWARD.-MARY E. BLANCHARD,
"Dead," did you say? I had not heard-
Your turn to deal. I knew her well
Before her marriage, when she drew
Hearts after her, as ladies do
In whom we see divinely blent,
Beauty and grace to ravishment,
That holds the soul as in a spell.

She had such dainty ways, and when-
Hearts trumps? I pass-and when her eyes

Met yours, you felt no longer wise,

But stupid and ashamed and mean,
So spiritual and serene,

So full of gentle dignity
And lily loveliness was she

In her pure life's sufficiencies.

I mind me how, one autumn day,
Just when the leaves were turning red,
I met her near the bridge where drones
The brook along its path of stones;
And shadows in the willows high
Slide through the leafy canopy
And o'er the sylvan way are shed.

She bore a pitcher, old and quaint,
And, dimpling to the colored rim,
The water sparkled in the sun;
When, passing, in her girlish fun,
She laughed a happy laugh and free,
And bade me drink to Memory,
Her eyes with mockery abrim.

"I drained," you say, "the Circe's cup?"
Not I; nor do I care to hear

The taunting jest while-how this smoke
Weakens the sight and makes one choke
And sicken-air! ah! that will do;
I'm better. Oft upon my view
Rises that scene in outline clear.

And through my mind there sounds the rill
Flooding with ripples gold and brown;

The slimy dam, where, in his blue

And burnished coat, forever new,

The dragon fly, a monitor,

Cuts the sun current with a whir,
Beating his fierce wings up and down.
And while the willows with their prone
Thick branches sing a low refrain,
I see a Rachel, young and sweet,
Spilling a nectar at my feet,-
A holy water which, to-day,
Could wash my darkest sin away,
Were I to feel its touch again.

She tossed her curls, and with a nod
Tripped lightly past the shallow pool;
And I-I went my course; you know
'Twas nearly thirty years ago--
I've lost a point-and now she lies
Beside her child, where foreign skies-
"I loved her?" I? Don't be a fool!

WAITING ON THE LORD.--REV. OLIVER CRANE

I am waiting, humbly waiting
At the footstool of my Lord;
Nor is faith in Him abating,

Though my plea be long ignored;
For his word of truth is plighted,
What is wrong shall all be righted,
Hope in him shall not be blighted-
I am waiting on His word.
I am trusting, firmly trusting,
Until faith gives place to sight;
Satan by his lures disgusting

Renders life a constant fight:
But my Lord will not evade me,
Sure hath His assurance made me,
He in every strait will aid me-
I am trusting in His might.

I am toiling, weary toiling,
In the sunshine and the rain;
And though sin, my efforts failing,
Often pierces me with pain,
Jesus bids me toil untiring,
He my soul with zeal is firing,
He my courage is inspiring,
I am toiling not in vain.

I am bringing, freely bringing

All my wants to him in prayer;
Till I, songs at midnight singing,
Find Him chasing all despair;
For He sees my burdened longing,
Sees temptations round me thronging,
Sees me suffer bitter wronging-
I am bringing Him my care.
I am drifting, gently drifting
On the current of His will;
He my course for me is shifting,
He my bark is steering still:
His design shall be perfected,
By His providence directed,
By His mighty arm protected,
I am drifting safe from ill.

I am leaning, calmly leaning

On His surety in alarm;
All His purposes have meaning,
Every promise has a charm;
All were meant in love to cheer me.
He has promised still to hear me,
Promised always to be near me―
I am leaning on His arm.

I am nearing, slowing nearing
Now the time of my release;
I with Him no harm am fearing,
For His guard shall never cease:
He through all my way attends me,
He from every foe defends me,
He in danger succor sends me--

I am nearing home in peace.

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.-FELICIA HEMANS. Marguerite was the queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king, her husband, she there gave birth to son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Infor mation being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words so wrought upon their spirits that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.

The Moslem spears were gleaming

Round Damietta's towers,

Though a Christian banner from her wall,

Waved free its lily-flowers.

Ay, proudly did the banner wave,

As Queen of earth and air;

But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds,

In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon,

Their kingly chieftain lay,

And low on many an Eastern field

Their knighthood's best array.

'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,

The wine-cup round to send,

For each that touched it silently,

Then missed a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigil

On the beleagured wall,

And dark their slumber, dark with dreams

Of slow defeat and fall.

Yet a few hearts of chivalry

Rose high to breast the storm, And one-of all the loftiest thereThrilled in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child,

With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,

As the Virgin Mother's mild.

Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe,

Midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange, wild bower was thine, young Queen:
Fair Marguerite of France!"

A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,

Deep in the Saracenic gloom

Of the warrior citadel;

And there midst arms the couch was spread,

And with banners curtained o'er,

For the daughter of the minstrel-land,

The gay Provencal shore!

For the bright Queen of St. Louis,

The star of court and hall!—

But the deep strength of the gentle heart

Wakes to the tempest's call!

Her lord was in the Paynim's hold,

His soul with grief oppressed,

Yet calmly lay she desolate,

With her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city,
Voices of wrath and fear-

"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain,
We will not perish here!

Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautiful-
We stay not here to die!"

They bore those fearful tidings

To the sad Queen where she layThey told a tale of wavering hearts, Of treason and dismay: