WHICH SHALL IT BE?

The following poem is founded upon an incident where a rich

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love;

Perhaps for her 'twould better be,”

for the child, if one of the seven were given to him.

Asleep ;" so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby slept;
Her damp curls lay, like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white;
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her."
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair.

I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek
A tear undried; ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robby's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one,-
Could he be spared? "Nay, he who gave
Bids us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer.”.

He lifted up a curl, that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee;"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one morè, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,—
So like his father: "No, John, no;
I cannot, will not, let him go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away ;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed;
Happy, in truth, that not one face
We missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting then to ONE in heaven.

LEARNING TO PRAY,

NEELING, fair in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to pray; His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden, And his heart brimful of glee.

"I want to laugh. Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I've had such fun to-day I hardly can say my prayers.

I don't feel just like praying;

I want to be out-doors playing,

And run, all undressed, down stairs.

"I can see the flowers in the garden-bed,
Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red;
And Sammy is swinging, I guess,
Oh! everything is so fine out there,
I want to put it all in the prayer,—

Do you mean I can do it by 'Yes?'

"When I say, 'Now I lay me-word for word,

It seems to me as if nobody heard.

Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right?

He gave me my mamma,

And papa, and Sammy

O mamma! you nodded I might."

Clasping his hands and hiding his face,
Unconsciously yearning for help and grace,
The little one now began;

His mother's nod and sanction sweet
Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet,
And his words like music ran:

"Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and my two white mice,

I wish I could keep right on;

I thank you, too, for every day-
Only I'm most too glad to pray,
Dear God, I think I'm done.

"Now, mamma, rock me-just a minute--
And sing the hymn with 'darling' in it.
I wish I could say my prayers!
When I get big, I know I can.
Oh! won't it be nice to be a man
And stay all night down stairs!"

The mother, singing, clasped him tight,
Kissing and cooing her fond “Good-night,”
And treasured his every word.

For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard.

MARY E. Dodge.

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW

T stands in a sunny meadow,

The house so mossy and brown, With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,

And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms around it,—
The trees a century old;

And the winds go chanting through them,

And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,
The roses bloom on the hill,

And beside the brook in the pasture
The herds go feeding at will.

Within, in the wide old kitchen,

The old folks sit in the sun,

That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
Till the day is almost done.

Their children have gone and left them:
They sit in the sun alone!
And the old wife's ears are failing

As she harks to the well-known tone
That won her heart in her girlhood,

That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal,—

How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning's rosy light.

O, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;

And the sunshine still is golden,

But it falls on a silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter-time,

Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time's prime.
And looking forth from the window,
She thinks how the trees have grown
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.
Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure,
And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim or old.

They sat in peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done,
And then, at its close, an angel
Stole over the threshold stone.
He folded their hands together,-

He touched their eyelids with balm,
And their last breath floated outward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm!
Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen, mystical read
That leads to the Beautiful City,
Whose builder and maker is God.

Perhaps in that miracle country

They will give her lost youth back,
And the flowers of the vanished spring-time
Will bloom in the spirit's track.

One draught from the living waters
Shall call back his manhood's prime
And eternal years shall measure

The love that outlasted time.

But the shapes that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair,—

Made holy to us by the kisses

The angel had printed there,

We will hide away 'neath the willows,
When the day is low in the west,
Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.
And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father's house in the skies.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

CONDUCT AT HOME.

'HE angry word suppressed, the taunting
thought;

Subduing and subdued, the petty strife,
Which clouds the color of domestic life;

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs

From the large aggregate of little things;
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of home depend.

HANNAH MORE.