Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,

And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry

And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

Oh, the days gone by! Oh, the days gone by!
The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye;
The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring-
The simple, soul-reposing glad belief in everything—
When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh,
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.

James Whitcomb Riley.

THE DREAMS AHEAD.

What would we do in this world of ours,
Were it not for the dreams ahead?
For thorns are mixed with the blooming flowers,
No matter which path we tread.

And each of us has his golden goal,
Stretching far into the years;

And ever he climbs with a hopeful soul,
With alternate smiles and tears.

That dream ahead is what holds him up
Through the storms of a ceaseless fight;

When his lips are pressed to the wormwood's cup,
And clouds shut out the light.

To some it's a dream of high estate

To some it's a dream of wealth;

To some it's a dream of a truce with Fate
In a constant search for health.

To some it's a dream of home and wife;
To some it's a crown above;

The dreams ahead are what make each life-
The dreams-and faith-and love!

Edwin Carlisle Litsey.

SAND WILL DO IT.

I observed a locomotive in the railroad yards one day, It was waiting in the roundhouse where the locomotives

stay;

It was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully manned,

And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand.

It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the wheels are apt to slip;

And when they reach a slippery spot their tactics they command,

And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprinkle it with sand.

It's about the way with travel along life's slippery track: If your load is rather heavy you're always slipping back; So, if a common locomotive you completely understand, You'll provide yourself in starting with a good supply of sand.

If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy grade,

If those who've gone before you have the rails quite slippery made,

If you ever reach the summit of the upper table land, You'll find you'll have to do it with a liberal use of sand.

If you strike some frigid weather and discover to your cost,

That you're liable to slip up on a heavy coat of frost, Then some prompt decided action will be called into demand,

And you'll slip 'way to the bottom if you haven't any sand.

You can get to any station that is on life's schedule seen If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambition's strong machine,

And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed that's grand,

If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of sand. In Richmond (Ind.) Register.

LOOK UP!

Look up! and not down;

Out! and not in;

Forward! and not back;

And lend a hand.

Edward Everett Hale's motto for The Lend-a-Hand Society.

AWAY.

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away!

With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you oh you, who the wildest yearn
For the old time step and the glad return-
Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows

Of his warrior strength to his country's foesMild and gentle, as he was brave,

When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things; where the violets grew
Pure as the eyes they were likened to,
The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed;
When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.
Think of him still as the same, I say;
He is not dead—he is just-away!

James Whitcomb Riley.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"

For the soul is dead that slumbers
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!
Heart within and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,