And the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.

When the last feeble step has been taken
And the gates of the city appear,
And the beautiful songs of the angels
Float out on my listening ear;
When all that now seems so mysterious
Will be plain and clear as the day;
Yes, the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.

Though now I am footsore and weary,
I shall rest when I'm safely at home.

I know I'll receive a glad welcome,

For the Savior himself has said "Come." So when I am weary in body

And sinking in spirit, I say,

"All the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way." Cooling fountains are there for the thirsty; There are cordials for those who are faint; There are robes that are whiter and purer Than any that fancy can paint;

Then I'll try to press hopefully onward,

Thinking often through each weary day, "The toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way."

FROM HAND TO MOUTH.

"From hand to mouth," he gaily said,
And pressed her dainty finger tips,
Which salutation quickly led

To one upon her perfect lips,
As fair as roses in the South,
"From hand to mouth."

So she was won, and so was he.

'Twas something like a year ago,
And now they both are one, you see,
Although which one I hardly know.
They're living somewhere in the South
From hand to mouth.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Oh, what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is it that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffel gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and July,

'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon,

'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still! Young Harry was a lusty drover,

And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover! His voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling; And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candlelight. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage;

But she, poor woman! housed alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day;

Then at her door the canty dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh, then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, "Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her, whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,

Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said,

When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;

And vowed that she should be detected,-
That he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,

And to the fields his road would take; And there at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
He hears a noise,-he's all awake,-
Again?-on tiptoe down the hill
He softly creeps,-'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:

He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take,
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, “I've caught you then, at last!”
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God who is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm,—
"God! who art never out of hearing,
Oh, may he nevermore be warm!"
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray:
Young Harry heard what she had said;
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday bought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

"Twas all in vain, a useless matter,

And blankets were about him pinned; Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter, Like a loose casement in the wind.

And Harry's flesh it fell away;

And all who see him say 'tis plain,
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,
Abed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."

Abed or up, by night or day,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gil!!

WHAT THE LITTLE GIRL SAID.

"Ma's up-stairs changing her dress," said the frecklefaced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

"Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a selfsatisfied view of herself in the mirror. Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."

"Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymnbook leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen."

"Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly