The bells a peal are ringing,-hark!

Go straight, and what they tell you, mark.
If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest,
If 'No,' why,—do as you think best."

The bells rung out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb!
And thus she heard their burden go,
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,—and they rang for her bridal.
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek,
She lost her beauty plump and sleek;
For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,
And backed his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds, as well as words,
That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks, and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling..
To all, his calm reply was this,-
"I fear you've read the bells amiss.
If they have led you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
Just go, and mark well what they say."

Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough the chimes went so,--
"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"
"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about!"
She had forgot that as fools think,

The bell is ever sure to clink.

DINNA CHIDE THE MITHER.-M. E. SANGSTER

Ah! dinna chide the mither!

Ye may not hae her lang;

Her voice, abune your baby rest,

Sae saftly crooned the sang;

She thocht ye ne'er a burden,

She greeted ye wi' joy,

An' heart an' hand in carin' ye
Foun' still their dear employ.

Her han' has lost its cunnin',

It's tremblin' now and slow,

But her heart is leal an' lovin',
As it was lang ago!

An' though her strength may wither
An' faint her pulses beat,
Nane will be like the mither,
Sae steadfast, true, an' sweet!

Ye maun revere the mither,
Feeble an' auld an' gray;
The shinin' ones are helpin' her
Adoon her evenin' way!
Her bairns wha wait her yonder,
Her gude mon gone before;
She wearies--can ye wonder!—
To win to that braw shore!

Ah! dinna chide the mither!
O lip, be slow to say

A word to vex the gentle heart
Wha watched your childhood's day;
Ay, rin to heed the tender voice
Wha crooned the cradle sang,
An' dinna chide the mither, sin'
Ye may na hae her lang!

THE BIG SHOE.-MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

Not stinted in space

For bestowing the throng;
Since the sun can himself
Hardly manage to go,
In a day and a night,

From the heel to the toe.

On the arch of the instep

She builds up her throne,
And, with seas rolling under,
She sits there alone;
With her heel at the foot

Of the Himmalehs planted,
And her toe in the icebergs,
Unchilled and undaunted.

Yet though justly of all
Her fine family proud,
Tis no light undertaking
To rule such a crowd;
Not to mention the trouble
Of seeing them fed,

And dispensing with justice
The broth and the bread.

Some will seize upon one,
Some are left with the other,
And so the whole household
Gets into a pother.

But the rigid old Dame

Has a summary way
Of her own, when she finds

There is mischief to pay.

She just takes up the rod,

As she lays down the spoon, And makes their rebellious backs

Tingle right soon:

Then she bids them, while yet

The sore smarting they feel,

To lie down and go to sleep,

Under her heel!

Only once was she posed,-
When the little boy Sam,

Who had always before

Been as meek as a lamb,

Refused to take tea,

As his mother had bid,
And returned saucy answers,
Because he was chid.

Not content even then,

He cut loose from the throne,
And set about making

A shoe of his own;
Which succeeded so well,

And was filled up so fast,
That the world, in amazement,
Confessed at the last-

Looking on at the work

With a gasp and a stare-
That 'twas hard to tell which
Would be best of the pair.

Side by side they are standing
Together to-day;

Side by side may they keep

Their strong foothold for aye:

And beneath the broad sea,

Whose blue depths intervene,

May the finishing string

Lie, unbroken between!

THE LUCKY HORSESHOE.-JAMES T. FIELDS.

A farmer traveling with his load
Picked up a horseshoe in the road,
And nailed it fast to his barn door,
That luck might down upon him pour,
That every blessing known in life
Might crown his homestead and his wife,
And never any kind of harm
Descend upon his growing farm.

But dire ill-fortune soon began
To visit the astounded man.
His hens declined to lay their eggs;
His bacon tumbled from the pegs;
And rats devoured the fallen legs;
His corn, that never failed before,
Mildewed and rotted on the floor;

His grass refused to end in hay;
His cattle died, or went astray;

In short, all moved the crooked way.

Next Spring a great drought baked the sod, And roasted every pea in pod;

The beans declared they could not grow

So long as Nature acted so;

Redundant insects reared their brood
To starve for lack of juicy food;
The staves from barrel sides went off
As if they had the hooping-cough,
And nothing of the useful kind
To hold together felt inclined:
In short, it was no use to try
While all the land was in a fry.

One morn, demoralized with grief,
The farmer clamored for relief;
And prayed right hard to understand
What witchcraft now possessed his land;
Why house and farm in misery grew
Since he nailed up that "lucky" shoe.
While thus dismayed o'er matters wrong
An old man chanced to trudge along,
To whom he told with wormwood tears,
How his affairs were in arrears,
And what a desperate state of things
A picked-up horseshoe sometimes brings.
The stranger asked to see the shoe,
The farmer brought it into view;
But when the old man raised his head,
He laughed outright, and quickly said
"No wonder skies upon you frown-
You've nailed the horseshoe upside down;
Just turn it round, and soon you'll see
How you and Fortune will agree.”
The farmer turned the horseshoe round,
And showers began to swell the ground;
The sunshine laughed among his grain,
And heaps on heaps piled up the wain;
The loft his hay could barely hold,
His cattle did as they were told;
His fruit trees needed sturdy props