night; And hearts have broken For harsh words spoken, That sor- row can ne'er set right. crea cen do. Ped We have careful thought for the stran ger, And smiles for the sometime Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) And, with a look made of all sweet accord, An Ideal Home. there is a breath of summer and There a tired man comes home I know a room where sunshine lingers, and mignonette in the air, whenever I think of it. and throws off overcoat and hat without looking to see what becomes of them. There is a broad table in the light, strewn with papers and magazines, women's work, with a litter of rose leaves dropping over them from a central vase. There is a wide sofa of the days of the Georges, fresh covered in chintz, with ferns and harebells for patterns, and a tired man goes down there with a great ruffled pillow under his shoulders, and opens parcels and letters, dropping them on the floor, as the most natural place for them. A girl has been painting, and her water-colors and papers lie on a side table, just as she left them to rush for an impromptu ride. I have never been able to discover any disarrangement of the household economy by this flight. Somebody left a shawl on a chair. There will be nothing said about it at breakfast next morning. There are no laws here against playing with the curtain tassels; no regulations as to how often the snowy curtains may be put up, or left down. They do not last the season out, crisp and speckless, as the neighbors' do across the way, but the only consequence is, they are oftener new and clean. There is nothing very fine about this house, but things are renewed oftener and look brighter than they do in other houses. The chairs have no particular places, and anybody feels at liberty to draw the sofa out when it pleases him. There is no primness about the place. If there is grass on the lawn, it is meant to be walked on, and the geraniums are fondled and petted and caressed as if they were children. Do you know there is a magnetism in green leaves and growing flowers derived from the earth's heart, that makes it good to handle and feel them? This house is known as the place where one dares to breakfast. There is no ceremony of waiting. Coffee and cakes are put where they will be hot; the table is cleared to suit the housekeeper's convenience, and a small one set for the late comer. Nobody lies awake at night till the light ceases to shine under your chamber door, if you want to sit up and read a volume through. There is an unwritten law of convenience for the household which regulates better than any Code Napoleonic. And the benefit of allowing people to be a law unto themselves is, that they are much better-natured about it, when they do obey. There is indulgence and repose in this lovely home, and, a great deal of time for things which most people cut short. Living with Our Children. REV. HENRY C. POTTER, d. d. There is not one of us who does not think sometimes regretfully and tenderly of his own childhood. As you look at your children amid their festivities, does it not sometimes occur to you to envy their simple and innocent pleasure which they have in innocent and simple things? How the little faces glow with a surprised delight which you feel can never be yours again. There is sadness in the thought, and there is danger in the fact, as well. There is such a thing as becoming cold-hearted as we grow older, and of ceasing to care very greatly about anything. We have had our disappointments, it may be. The venture of love that we made, exhales to-day the perfume of myrrh rather than of rose leaves. There has been not a little bitterness in our cup, and perhaps some great grief has left us with that stunned and benumbed feeling from which the heart is so slow to recover. But what is it, then, that melts and softens us when nothing else will? "And Jesus took a little child and set him in the midst of them." It was the hardness of unbrotherly ambition and human selfishness that Christ thus softened. But not less potent is the child to |