HEART THROBS I AM YOUR WIFE. I fain would rest; this worldly strife Oh, let me lay my head tonight upon your breast, MCKINLEY'S DYING PRAYER. In the afternoon of his last day on earth the President began to realize that his life was slipping away, and that the efforts of science could not save him. He asked Dr. Rixey to bring the surgeons in. One by one the surgeons entered and approached the bedside. When they were gathered about him, the President opened his eyes and said: "It is useless, gentlemen; I think we ought to have prayer." The dying man crossed his hands on his breast and half-closed his eyes. There was a beautiful smile on his countenance. The surgeons bowed their heads. Tears streamed from the eyes of the white-clad nurses on either side of the bed. The yellow radiance of the sun shone softly in the room. "Our Father, which art in Heaven," said the President, in a clear, steady voice. The lips of the surgeons moved. "Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done—” The sobbing of a nurse disturbed the still air. The President opened his eyes and closed them again. "Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven.” A long sigh. The sands of life were running swiftly. The sunlight died out, and raindrops dashed against the windows. "Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." Another silence. The surgeons looked at the dying face and the friendly lips. "For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen." "Amen," whispered the surgeons. James Creelman, in "On the Great Highway." HOME, SWEET HOME. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Home, home, sweet, sweet home, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. I gaze on the moon, as I trace the drear wild, more. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; If I return home overburdened with care, The heart's dearest solace I'm sure to meet there; Makes no other place seem like that of sweet home. Farewell, peaceful cottage! farewell, happy home; PLUCK WINS. Pluck wins! It always wins! though days be slow He gains the prize who will the most endure: Who waits and watches, and who always works. WHO NE'ER HAS SUFFERED. Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half. Rev. J. B. Goode. PAT'S FIRST NIGHT IN TOWN. Two Irishmen fresh from Ireland had just landed in New York and engaged a room in the top story of a hotel. Mike, being very sleepy, threw himself on the bed and was soon fast asleep. The sights were so new and strange to Pat that he sat at the window looking out. Soon an alarm of fire was rung in, and a fire engine rushed by, throwing up sparks of fire and clouds of smoke. This greatly excited Pat, who called to his comrade to get up and come to the window; but Mike was fast asleep. Another engine soon followed the first, spouting smoke and fire like the former. This was too much for poor |