for the benefit of those who haven't any, that they may be obtained from me any day between three and four o'clock; the ordinary little ones at fifteen cents, and special ones with red backs at twenty-five cents each."

NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE.

Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a cross.
That raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer, to Thee!

Though like a wanderer,

The sun gone down,

Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I'll be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

Then let the way appear,
Steps up to heaven;
All that Thou sendest me

In mercy given;

Angels to beckon me

Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee!

Then with my waking thoughts
Bright with Thy praise,

Out of my stony griefs,

Bethel I'll raise

So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

Or if on joyful wing,
Cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon and stars forgot,
Upward I fly;

Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

Sarah Flowers Adams. Music by Dr. Lowell Mason.

AMERICA.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride;

From every mountain side,
Let freedom ring.

My native country thee,
Land of the noble free,-

Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake,
Let all that breathe partake,
Let rocks their silence break-
The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God! to Thee,
Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing;

Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light;
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our King!

S. F. Smith, LL.D.

THE MYSTERIES.

The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh like dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of Life.

Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery of Death.

At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in tender burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they It was the mystery to which the mysteries Life and Death bow down--the mystery of Love James Hunt Cook.

two were one.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand-
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form
And Winter with his aged locks-and breathe

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far windharp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,

Gone from the earth forever.

For memory and for tears.

'Tis a time Within the deep,

Still chambers of the heart a specter dim,

Whose tunes are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have pass'd away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. The year
Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man, and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry where thronged
The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er
The battle plain where sword and spear and shield
Flash'd in the light of midday, and the strength
Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass,

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above