spirits; all his kindred may have found graves upon the corals of the ocean; yet, were he free, how soon would he seek the shores and skies of his boyhood dreams?

The New England mariner, amid the icebergs of the Northern seas, or breathing the spicy gales of the evergreen isles, or coasting along the shores of the Pacific, though the hand of time may have blanched his raven locks, and care have plowed deep furrows on his brow, and his heart have been chilled by the storms of the ocean, till the fountains of his love have almost ceased to gush with the heavenly current; yet, upon some summer's evening, as he looks out upon the sun sinking behind the western wave, he will think of home; his heart will yearn for the loved of other days, and his tears flow like the summer rain.

How, after long years of absence, does the heart of the wanderer beat, and his eyes fill, as he catches a glimpse of the hills of his nativity; and when he has pressed the lip of a brother or sister, how soon does he hasten to see if the garden, and the orchard, and the stream look as in days gone by! We may find climes as beautiful, and skies as bright, and friends as devoted; but that will not usurp the place of home.

GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY!

I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit,
My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git;
Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit-
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you,
Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue
Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue-
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high;
I liked you so better as gogonut bie;

But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie-
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent,
Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent;
All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent-
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

When first I found oudt you vas such a big lie,
I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die;
Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry-
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt,

I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt; Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt― Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

P. S. (pooty short.)—Vell, he dold Becky to go avay enough dimes, enner how. I dinks he vas an uckly fellow. Vell, berhaps that serfs Becky choost right for daking bresents from von fellow, vhile she vas vinking her nose by anoder vellow.

TRUNDLE-BED TREASURES.-MRS. HATTIE F. BELL.

Three little faces, so round and fair,
Six little arms all dimpled and bare,

Long fringes drooping o'er dark blue eyes,
Where a world of sunshine and mischief lies.

Rosy lips full of kisses now,

And golden locks on the baby brow,

And snug and warm 'neath the snowy spread
Are six little feet in the trundle-bed.

Six little feet that are tired of play,

They have wandered so long and so far to-day,
Down where spring first opens her hand
And scatters her gold coins over the land;
Those great yellow dandelions-you and I know
How we gathered our aprons full long ago;
They were better than gold we thought for true,
We since have found out they're more plentiful too.
Six little feet and a mother's love

Sends up a prayer to Our Father above,

As she thinks of the world with its pride and strife, And then of the path they must wander through life. "Oh, God, wilt Thou keep them and lead them I pray, Along with Thy lambs in the straight narrow way."

'Tis a mother's prayer, and tears are shed For the six little feet in the trundle-bed.

Months go by and the days have fled,

And there's more room now in the trundle-bed;
For one little form has been laid to rest,
And two little hands crossed over the breast.
There were burning unshed tears that night
In eyes that had been so hopeful and bright,
And in all our hearts a fear and dread,
And but four little feet in the trundle-bed.
Four little feet-and then-and then-
The darksome shadow was there again.
An angel came through the twilight dim,
And took a cherub back with him,
And sad hearts murmured at setting sun,
"O God, Thy will-Thy will be done."
One baby brow-one sunny head-
And-but two little feet in the trundle-bed.
Long years have passed since that sad day,
And the sunny head is frosted with gray;
That little sinless baby brow

Is full of cares and wrinkles now.

The two little feet have grown, I ween,

And when they walk they totter and lean,

But the old man keeps 'neath its time-worn spread, As a sacred relic-his trundle-bed.

—Arthur's Home Magazine.

A YEAR'S WOOING.

Twas autumn when first they stood on the bridge;
Ripe pears on the pear tree, ripe corn on the ridge;
The swallows flew swiftly far up in the blue,
And speeding still southward, were lost to the view.
Said he, "Can you love me as I can love you?"
She said, quite demurely, "Already I do!"

'Twas winter when next they met on the bridge;
The pear trees were brown, and white was the ridge;
The swallows were feathering their nests in Algiers,
She looked in his face and burst into tears!

His nose it was pinched, and his lips they were blue, Said she: "I can't love you!" Said he: "Nor I you!"

"Twas spring time when next they stood on the bridge,
And white was the pear tree and green was the ridge;
The swallows had thoughts of a speedy return;
And the midges were dancing a-down the brown burn.
He said: "Pretty maiden, let by-gones go by—
Can you love me again?" She said: "I can try."
'Twas summer when next they stood on the bridge;
There were pears on the pear tree, tall corn on the ridge;
The swallows wheeled round them, far up in the blue,
Then swooped down and snapped up a midgelet or two.
Said he: Lest some trifle should come in the way,
And part us again, will you mention the day?"
She stood, looking down the fast-flowing rill,
Then answered, demurely: "As soon as you will."

THE STATION-MASTER'S STORY.-GEORGE R. SIMS.

Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough;

I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough.

This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light;

I was never fit for the signals after one awful night.

I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain

Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer,

And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.

I was on at the box down yonder-that's where we turn the mails,

And specials, and fast expresses, on to the centre rails;
The side's for the other traffic-the luggage and local slows.
It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic
grows.

I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray;

But I've worked the points half-sleeping-and once I slept outright,

Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.

Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate

Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late;

And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. I could see the bloody wreckage-I could see the mangled slain

And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain.

That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought

Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought.

That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping

child,

My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled,

That Johnny had made his mind up-he'd be a pointsman,

too.

"He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box

with you."

I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look;

Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave,

For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve.

But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep,

She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep

It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will,

You'll have no worry," said Alice, "if things go well or ill. There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"

My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I,

"I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by."

Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market

town;

She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown.