hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick-you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house-he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes."

66

Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you."

"Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do."

Just then the freckle-faced little girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.

THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.-DE WITT CLINTON LOCKWOOD.

Old Widow Clare,

In a low-backed chair,
Sat nid-nid-nodding;
While over the road

Came Farmer McCrode

A plid-plid-plodding.

It was cold and snowing, and the wind was blowing
At the rate of a hundred miles an hour;

While the farmer was fretting and his countenance getting
Each moment more angry, forbidding and sour.

"She pays me no rent, although I have sent
To her time and again for the money;
And now we shall see what she'll say to me,

For the thing has long ceased to be funny.”

Thus he muttered aloud, while the snow like a shroud
Enveloped his burly old figure completely;

And 'twas dark, but not late, when he entered the gate
Of the tenant he was going to astonish so neatly.

Disdaining to knock, he groped for the lock,

And had already planted one foot on the sill,

When, just by a chance, he happened to glance

Through the window, and his heart for a moment stood still.

He saw a woman nodding in a low old-fashioned chair;
Her face was sad and wrinkled, while silvered was her hair.
A large and well-thumbed Bible on her lap half-opened lay,
And a cat was softly purring in a sympathetic way.
A scanty pile of fagots, in the fireplace burning low,
Lit up the room at intervals, and cast a mellow glow
O'er the kindly, aged face, like the nimbus we are told
Which used to hover round the foreheads of the martyred
saints of old.

And the landlord drew up closer, that he might the better look

On the plainly lettered pages of the unfamiliar Book; And the verse he dwelt the longest on, then read it through again,

Was, "Blessed are the merciful, for mercy they'll obtain."

Now why he forebore to push open the door

The farmer could offer no clear explanation;

Yet in spite of the storm, his heart had grown warm
As he stood gazing in with a strange fascination.
Then after a while a queer sort of smile

Lit up his brown face now and then;
And when, at the last, he turned round and passed
Out into the snow-covered highway again,

The smile was there still, and continued until

He found himself facing the small village store.
Though business was dull, the room was quite full
Of hard-working men whose days' labors were o'er,
And all lazily sat round the stove for a chat,

Each comfortably resting his head on his hands; But they rose in affright, and their faces grew white When the farmer burst in and poured forth his commands.

"Just fetch me a sack, or a bag, and mind

It's the largest and strongest that you can find.
Now put in some 'taters-a peck will do;
A package of flour, and some turnips, too;
A piece of pork, wrapped good and strong,
A nice smoked ham (don't be so long!);
Now throw in a couple of pounds of tea-
No, I won't be stingy, make it three.
Say, you over there, just stop your staring—
Do you think I'm a lunatic out for an airing?
Some pepper and salt, and sugar, too;

Do I want 'em mixed? I'd like to mix you!

Some crackers and cheese, dried peaches and snuff;

An' I reckon as how you hev got 'bout enough.
Just gimme a lift-there, that is all right;
Charge 'em to me; and now-good-night!"

So back o'er the road he went with his load,

Tossed, like a ship in a storm, to and fro;

But the heart of the farmer was very much warmer, And that makes a great deal of difference, you know.

Arriving once more at the old cottage door,

He peered through the window, and saw with delight That good Widow Clare still slept in her chair,

Unconscious of what was transpiring that night.

He never quite knew just how he got through
That low, narrow door with the load on his back,

Nor how he was able to reach the small table
And noiselessly lay down the burdensome sack;
But in less than a minute, every single thing in it
Was spread out before him in tempting array.
The turnips kept still, as they seldom will,

And not even a potato rolled off and away.

The old cat looked wise, and puffed up twice her size,
But, seeing no harm to her mistress was meant,
She resumed her deep thinking, and her gray eyes were
blinking,

When at last from the room the strange visitor went.

And now, once again, he pressed close to the pane,
And endeavored to picture the widow's surprise;
While it wasn't the snow, as you and I know,
That he brushed once or twice from his eyes.
Then Farmer McCrode
Went back o'er the road
A plid-plid-plodding;

While still in her chair

Sat old Widow Clare

A nid-nid-nodding.

-Christian Union.

THE FIRST CLOUD.

They stood at the altar one short year ago;
He vowed from the troubles of life to defend her,
To have her and hold her for weal or for woe-
She spoke the responses in accents most tender.
To-night, in the gloom, they are sitting apart,

Oh! has all her wifely devotion been wasted?
She mopes there in silence, a pain at her heart;
The lamps are unlighted, his supper untasted.
Their sky, erst all cloudless, is now overcast;

For joy there is sorrow, for gladness dejection; The serpent has entered their Eden at last,

And left its dark trail on the flowers of affection.

Oh, well may there be in her bosom a pain,

A grief that she vainly endeavors to smother; To-night he has told her, in language quite plain,

She can't cook his meals half as well as his mother!

HOME.

There is something in the word home, that wakes the kindliest feelings of the heart. It is not merely friends and kindred who render that place so dear; but the very hills and rocks and rivulets throw a charm around the place of one's nativity. It is no wonder that the loftiest harps have been tuned to sing of "home, sweet home." The rose that bloomed in the garden where one has wandered in early years a thoughtless child, careless in innocence, is lovely in its bloom, and lovelier in its decay.

No songs are sweet like those we heard among the boughs that shade a parent's dwelling, when the morning or the evening hour found us gay as the birds that warbled over us. No waters are bright like the clear silver streams that wind among the flower-decked knolls, where, in childhood, we have often strayed to pluck the violet or the lily, or to twine a garland for some loved schoolmate.

We may wander away and mingle in the "world's fierce strife," and form new associations and friendships, and fancy we have almost forgotten the land of our birth; but at some evening hour, as we listen perchance to the autumn winds, the remembrance of other days comes over the soul, and fancy bears us back to childhood's s scenes. We roam again the old familiar haunts, and press the hands of companions long since cold in the grave, and listen to the voices we shall hear on earth no more. It is then a feeling of melancholy steals over us, which, like Ossian's music, is pleasant, though mournful to the soul.

The African, torn from his willow-braided hut, and borne away to the land of strangers and of toil, weeps as he thinks of home, and sighs and pines for the cocoaland beyond the waters of the sea. Years may have passed over him; strifes and toil may have crushed his