More than yesterday, a dream
Of sweet things; and so I smile
O'er regrets of otherwhile,

And she says, and twists a curl:
"I am mamma's baby dirl!"
And, the while I bless my lot,
Whispers: "Mamma had fordot !"

I had not forgot, ah, no!
Memory will sometime go

Down the ways we used to tread.
Ways with wondrous blossoms spread;
It is not that we regret

These old ways we don't forget,
It is just that laughter rang,
Just that lilting wild birds sang
O'er those ways of yesteryear

That still makes their mem'ry dear;

But I'm happier today

Than I was down any way

That my young feet used to tread;

Skies are bluer overhead,

And today's birds sing more clear
Than did birds of yesteryear;
I have got you by my side,
Bonny-haired and wonder-eyed,
You who clamber to my knee,
You whose laugh is full of glee,
And I'm happy; happy? Yes!
Glad for ev'ry sweet caress,
For each dimpling smile and curl!
Thankful for my "baby dirl."

J. M. Lewis, in Houston Post.

HE WORRIED ABOUT IT.

The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more-
And he worried about it.

It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-
And he worried about it.

It will surely give out, so the scientists said
In all scientifical books he had read,

And the whole boundless universe then will be dead-
And he worried about it.

And some day the earth will fall into the sun-
And he worried about it—

Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-
And he worried about it.

"When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,
Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-
And he worried about it.

And the earth will become much too small for the race-
And he worried about it-

When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space-
And he worried about it.

The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thoughts to wander about-

And he worried about it.

And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torriderAnd he worried about it

Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida

And he worried about it.

Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines.
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-
And he worried about it.

And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt-
And he worried about it-

Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.

Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.

His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it-

His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay-
He didn't worry about it.

While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stove, and he just let her rub-
He didn't worry about it.

Sam Walter Foss.

A JUNE MORNING.

Oh! have you not seen on some morning in June,
When the flowers were in tears and the forest in tune,
When the billows of morn broke bright on the air,
On the breast of the brightest, some star clinging there?
Some Sentinel star not ready to set,

Forgetting to wane and watching there yet?

How you gazed on that vision of beauty the while,
How it wavered till torn by the light of God's smile,
How it passed through the portals of pearl like a bride,
How it paled as it passed and the morning star died.
The sky was all blushes; the lark was all bliss,

And the prayer of your heart was "Be my ending like this."

So my beautiful dove passed away from life's even;
So the blush of her being was blended with Heaven;
So the bird of my bosom fluttered up in the dawn,
A window was open, my darling was gone.

A truant from tears, from time and from sin,
For the Angel on watch took the wanderer in.

And when I shall hear the new song that she sings
I shall know her again notwithstanding her wings.
By those eyes full of Heaven; by the light of her hair,
And the smile she wore here she will surely wear there.

Bayard Taylor.

HORACE GREELEY'S SORROW.

We publish below a pathetic letter written by Mr. Greeley on the death of his little boy. Notwithstanding the fact that more than thirty years have passed since the words were written, they will awaken sympathy in many a heart that has known a similar grief:

My Friend: The loss of my boy makes a great change in my feelings, plans and prospects. The joy of my life was comprehended in his, and I do not now feel that any personal object can strongly move me henceforth. I had thought of buying a country place, but it was for him. I had begun to love flowers and beautiful objects, because he liked them. Now, all that deeply concerns me

is the evidence that we shall live hereafter, and especially that we shall live with and know those we loved here. I mean to act my part while life is spared me, but I no longer covet length of days. If I felt sure on the point of identifying and being with our loved ones in the world to come, I would prefer not to live long. As it is, I am resigned to whatever may be divinely ordered. We had but few hours to prepare for our loss. He went to bed as hearty and happy as ever. At 5 a. m. he died. His mother had bought him a fiddle the day before, which delighted him beyond measure; and he was only induced to lay it up at night by his delight at the idea of coming up in the morning and surprising me by playing on it before I got up. In the morning at daylight I was called to his bedside. The next day, I followed him to his grave! You cannot guess how golden and lovely his long hair (never cut) looked in the coffin. Pickie was 5 years old last March. So much grace and wit and poetry were rarely or never blended in so young a child, and to us his form and features were the perfection of beauty. We can never have another child; and life cannot be long enough to efface, though it will temper this sorrow. It differs in kind as well as degree from all that we have hitherto experienced.

Horace Greeley.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said;
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.