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"ACROSS THE LOT."

Do you remember, when we came from school
(You leading me, although not much the older),
How I would skip across the meadow cool,

Saucily calling backward, o'er my shoulder,
"Do as you please, - come on with me or not,
But I am going home across the lot"?

Away I danced, and you, though left alone,
Pursued the way, with face serene and smiling,
Singing beside the road with low, sweet tone,
And still one thought your tender heart beguiling;
Wild though I was, you knew that I would wait
To meet and greet you at the garden-gate.

There with a bunch of flowers would I stand,

Or fresh-plucked apples, with their ripeness blushing,
Or with a glass of water in my hand,

Just brought from where the hillside spring was gushing,
Saying, as you bent down to quench your thirst,

Now, aren't you glad that I am home the first?"

I am dying, sister start not! Well I know
That day by day my little strength is failing;
Strive not to hold me back, for I must go;

God's mighty love o'er my weak will prevailing
Frees you from care and me from pain accurst:
'Tis only that I shall be home the first.

And as of old, sweet sister, I will stand,

Until you come, beside the heavenly portal,
Keeping the fadeless wreath within my hand
With which to crown you for your life immortal.
Others will call me dead: believe them not

I only have gone home “

across the lot."

C. S.

PART XI.

With a Story to Tell.

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make clear faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose,
May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crowned at last with those

Who live and speak for aye.

LOWELL.

PART XI.

With a Story to Tell.

LITTLE PHIL.

"MAKE me a headboard, mister, smooth and painted. You see, Our ma she died last winter, and sister and Jack and me

Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new graves about, And Bud cried out, 'We've lost her,' when Jack gave a little

shout.

We have worked and saved all winter-been hungry, sometimes

I own

But we hid this much from father, under the old door-stone:
He never goes there to see her; he hated her; scolded Jack
When he heard us talking about her and wishing that she'd
come back.

But up in the garret we whisper, and have a good time to cry,
For our beautiful mother who kissed us, and was n't afraid to die.
Put on that she was forty, in November she went away,
That she was the best of mothers, and we have n't forgot to pray;
And we mean to do as she taught us—be loving and true and
square,

To work and read

to love her, till we go to her up there. Let the board be white, like mothe (the small chin quivered

here,

And the lad coughed something under and conquered a rebel tear).

Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar and thirty cents The rest he's got for coal and flour, and partly to pay the rents. Blushing the while all over, and dropping the honest eyes: "What is the price of headboards, with writing, and handsome size?"

"Three dollars!" A young roe wounded just falls with a moan; and he,

With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down on his tattered knee.

"Three dollars! and we shall lose her; next winter the rain and the snow

But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled the head of

tow

Close up to the great heart's shelter, and womanly tears fell

fast

"Dear boy, you shall never lose her; oh, cling to your sacred past! Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, and the board

shall be

The best that this shop can furnish; then come here and live with me."

When the orphans loaded their treasure on the rugged old cart next day,

The surprise of a footboard varnish, with all that their love

could say;

And "Edith St. John, Our Mother,” — Baby Jack gave his little shout,

And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her doll about; But Phil grew white, and trembled, and close to the boss he crept; Kissing him like a woman, shivered, and laughed, and wept. "Do you think, my benefactor, in heaven that she 'll be glad?' "Not as glad as you are, Philip — but finish this job, my lad.” MRS. HELEN RICH.

BILLY'S ROSE.

BILLY's dead and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell;
There's a tale I know about them were I poet I would tell;
Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air
Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there.

In that vile and filthy alley, long ago, one winter's day,
Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay;
While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom,
Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb.

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child,

Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and her worn, wan features smiled,

Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar,
Lisped about by tiny gossips playing at their mothers' door.

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told
How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold,
Where, when all the pain was over, where, when all the tears
were shed,

He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love; How he'd built for little children great big playgrounds up

above,

Where they sang, and played at hop-scotch and at horses all the day,

And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.

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