I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep-
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

Alice Cary.

AT HOME.

The rain is sobbing on the wold;

The house is dark, the hearth is cold:
And stretching drear and ashy grey

Beyond the cedars, lies the bay.

To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury; and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable; and wealthy, not rich; to study hard; think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasion, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. is to be my symphony.

This

Wm. Henry Channing.

WHILE WE MAY.

The hands are such dear hands;

They are so full; they turn at our demands

So often; they reach out

With trifles scarcely thought about

So many times; they do

So many things for me, for you-
If their fond wills mistake,

We may well bend, not break.

They are such fond, frail lips

That speak to us. Pray if love strips
Them of discretion many times,

Or if they speak too slow or quick, such crimes

We may pass by; for we may see

Days not far off when those small words may be Held not as slow, or quick, or out of place, but dear, Because the lips are no more here.

They are such dear, familiar feet that go
Along the path with ours-feet fast or slow,
And trying to keep pace-if they mistake
Or tread upon some flower that we would take
Upon our breast, or bruise some reed,
Or crush poor hope until it bleed,

We may be mute,

Nor turning quickly to impute

Grave fault; for they and we

Have such a little way to go-can be
Together such a little while along the way,
We will be patient while we may.

So many little faults we find,

We see them! For not blind

To love, we see them, but if you and I
Perhaps remember them some by and by,
They will not be

Faults then-grave faults-to you and me.
But just odd ways-mistakes, or even less,
Remembrances to bless.

Days change so many things—yes, hours,
We see so differently in suns and showers.
Mistaken words tonight

May be so cherished by tomorrow's light;
We may be patient, for we know

There's such a little way to see and go.

Frances B. Willard, in The Independent.

THE UNFINISHED PRAYER.

"Now I lay me say it, darling.”
"Lay me," lisped the tiny lips
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending,
O'er her folded finger tips.

"Down to sleep," "To seep," she murmured;

And the curly head bent low.

"I pray the Lord," I gently added-
"You can say it all, I know."

"Pay de Lord," the words came faintly

Fainter still, "my soul to teep."

Then the tired head fairly nodded,

And my child was fast asleep.

But the dewy eyes half opened
When I clasped her to my breast,
And the dear voice gently whispered-
"Mamma, Dod knows all de yest."

Oh! the trusting, sweet confiding
Of the child-heart! Would that I
Thus might trust my Heavenly Father,
He who hears my feeblest cry!

Col. Thos. H. Ayars.

THE ANSWERED PRAYER.

The way is dark and the road is long;
Help me, dear Lord, for I cannot see!
Give me a light to guide me on;

Teach me with patience to follow Thee!

My prayer Thou hast answered, O Lord, in Thy might
And my sadness is drearier still today,

For my little lad with the golden hair,
With eyes so blue and a face so fair,

Has gone before me to light the way.

I can see him journeying up the height
Over that narrow path and straight,
Which all must tread toward that mystic bourne;
Leaving his dear ones to sigh and mourn

He journeys alone toward the pearly gate.