ENDURANCE.-ELIZABETH AKERS.

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!
I question much if any pain or ache

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh.
Death chooses his own time; till that is worn,
All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife;
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel,
Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life;
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal
That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,
This, also, can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way,

And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape-we weep and pray— But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still, Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, But that it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life-
We hold it closer, dearer than our own-
Anon it faints and falls in deadly strife,

Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and alone;
But ah! we do not die with those we mourn-
This, also, can be borne.

Behold, we live through all things-famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain! all grief and misery,

All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst
On soul and body-but we cannot die,
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn;
Lo! all things can be borne.

KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY.

Two brown heads with tossing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,

Bare feet, white and wet with dew,

Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;
Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of willow fringed its mossy banks;
Half in thought, and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They had cheeks like cherries red;
He was taller-'most a head;
She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro

As she loitered, half in play,

Chattering to Willie Grey.

"Pretty Katie," Willie said

And there came a dash of red

Through the brownness of his cheek"Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will,

Katie's basket up the hill."

Close beside the little brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Washing with its silver hands
Late and early at the sands,
Is a cottage, where to-day
Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and lo!
Swings a basket to and fro-
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone,
This is long and deep and wide,
And has-rockers at the side.

THE OLD FORSAKEN SCHOOL HOUSE.
JOHN H. YATES.

They've left the school-house, Charley, where years ago we

sat

And shot our paper bullets at the master's time-worn hat; The hook is gone on which it hung, and the master sleepeth

now

Where school-boy tricks can never cast a shadow o'er his brow.

They've built a new, imposing one-the pride of all the town, And laughing lads and lasses go its broad sieps up and down;

A tower crowns its summit with a new, a monster bell, That youthful ears, in distant homes, may hear its music swell.

I'm sitting in the old one, with its battered, hingeless door The windows are all broken, and the stones lie on the floor I, alone, of all the boys who romped and studied here, Remain to see it battered up and left so lone and drear.

I'm sitting on the same old bench where we sat side by side And carved our names upon the desk, when not by master eyed;

Since then a dozen boys have sought their great skill to dis

play,

And, like the foot-prints on the sand, our names have passed

away.

"Twas here we learned to conjugate "amo, amas, amat," While glances from the lasses made our hearts go pit-a-pat; 'Twas here we fell in love, you know, with girls who looked us through

Yours with her piercing eyes of black, and mine with eyes of blue.

Our sweethearts-pretty girls were they-to us how very

dear

Bow down your head with me, my boy, and shed for them a tear;

With them the earthly school is out; each lovely maid now stands

Before the one Great Master, in the "house not made with hands."

You tell me you are far out West; a lawyer, deep in laws, With Joe, who sat behind us here, and tickled us with

straws;

Look out for number one, my boys; may wealth come at your touch;

But with your long, strong legal straws don't tickle men too much.

Here, to the right, sat Jimmy Jones

you must remember

JimHe's teaching now, and punishing, as master punished him; What an unlucky lad he was! his sky was dark with woes; Whoever did the sinning it was Jim who got the blows.

Those days are all gone by, my boys; life's hill we're going down,

With here and there a silver hair amid the school-boy brown; But memory can never die, so we'll talk o'er the joys

We shared together, in this house, when you and I were boys.

Though ruthless hands may tear it down-this old house lone and drear,

They'll not destroy the characters that started out from here; Time's angry waves may sweep the shore and wash out all beside:

Bright as the stars that shine above, they shall for aye abide.

I've seen the new house, Charley: 'tis the pride of all the town,

And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps up and down;

But you or I, my dear old friend, can't love it half as well As this condemned, forsaken one, with cracked and tongueless bell.

THE KING AND THE LOCUSTS.

A STORY WITHOUT AN END.

There was a certain king, who, like many other kings, was very fond of hearing stories told. To this amusement he gave up all his time; but yet he was never satisfied. All the exertions of all his courtiers were in vain. The more he heard, the more he wanted to hear. At last he made a proclamation, that if any man would tell him a story that should last forever, he would make him his heir, and give him the princess, his daughter, in marriage; but if any one should pretend that he had such a story, but should fail — that is, if the story did come to an end-he was to have his head chopped off.

For such a rich prize as a beautiful princess and a kingdom, many candidates appeared; and dreadfully long stories some of them told. Some lasted a week, some a month, some six months: poor fellows, they all spun them out as long as they possibly could, you may be sure; but all in vain ; sooner or later they all came to an end; and, one after another, the unlucky story-tellers had their heads chopped off,

At last came a man who said that he had a story which would last for ever, if his Majesty would be pleased to give him a trial.

He was warned of his danger: they told him how many others had tried, and lost their heads; but he said he was not afraid, and so he was brought before the king. He was a man of a very composed and deliberate manner of speaking; and, after making all requisite stipulations for time for his eating, drinking, and sleeping, he thus began his story:

"O king! there was once a king who was a great tyrant; and, desiring to increase his riches, he seized upon all the corn and grain in his kingdom, and put it into an immense granary, which he built on purpose, as high as a mountain.

"This he did for several years, till the granary was quite full up to the top. He then stopped up doors and windows, and closed it up fast on all sides.

"But the bricklayers had, by accident, left a very small hole near the top of the granary. And there came a flight