The night sets in on a world of snow,
While the air grows sharp and chill,
And the warning roar of a fearful blow

Is heard on the distant hill:

And the Norther! See, on the mountain-peak,

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!
He shouts on the plain, Ho-ho! ho-ho!

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,
And growls with a savage will.

Such a night as this to be found abroad
In the drifts and the freezing air!
Sits a shivering dog in a field by the road,
With the snow in his shaggy hair;
He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls;
He lifts his head, and moans and howls;
Then, crouching low from the cutting sleet,
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet;
Pray, what does the dog do there?

A farmer came from the village plain,
But he lost the traveled way;

And for hours he trod with might and main
A path for his horse and sleigh;
But colder still the cold winds blew,
And deeper still the deep drifts grew;

And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
At last in her struggles floundered down,
Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,
She plunged in the drifting snow,

While her master urged, till his breath grew short,
With a word and a gentle blow:

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;
His hands were numb, and had lost their might;
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,
And strove to shelter himself till day,

With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,
To rouse up his dying steed;

And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain
For help in his master's need;

For awhile he strives with a wistful cry,
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,

And whines when he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,"Tis the hour of midnight, past;

The old trees writhe and bend no more

In the whirl of the rushing blast;
The silent moon, with her peaceful light,
Looks down on the hills with snow all white;
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,
Of the blasted pine and the ghostly stump,
Afar on the plain are cast.

But, cold and dead, by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town,-
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown,-

In the wide snow desert, far and grand,

With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand;
The dog with his nose on his master's feet,

And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet,
Where she lay when she floundered down.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.-A. A. HOPKINS.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen

The saddest are these-" It might have been."-WHITTIER.

There's a dolorous cheat in the words so sweet,
For their sadness is hardly real;

Or the sadness they tell, as my heart knows well,
Is at most but a sad ideal.

We may picture the vanishing yesterday
In the rarest of tints, or in sombre gray;

'Twas a glad, glad time since it left us here,

And there's never a cause for a sigh or tear;

It might have been worse, and the good we sought

Might have proved with the saddest of sorrows fraught.

When the poet had sung with his silver tongue

Of a fanciful sorrow fleeting,

Had he never a line for the joys divine

That are ever our lives completing?

We may breathe of the shadows our days have known Should our breathings forever the shades bemoan; Should we sigh when we tell of the dim twilight? There might have been darkness of darkest night, And we might have been left in the gloom to grope, With never a gleam from the star of hope.

In the struggle and strife of this wearing life,
When we long for a rest worth winning,
Let us think of the woe that our souls might know
In an idleness dark with sinning.

When we sail our bark over stormy waves
Without finding the harbor our heart most craves,
And we think had we sailed on another track,
We should never have wished to be sailing back;
Let us think, though the waters are hardly fair,
That we might have found utterest shipwreck there.

There are troubles and tears in the round of years,
When there might have been peace and laughter;
But the peace might have led to a deeper dread
And a greater disquiet after;

And the laughter outringing so clear and glad,
Might have ended in tears of all tears most sad;
For the current of pleasure more closely flows
By the river of sorrow than human knows,
And we never may tell, as they onward wend,
When the sweet with the bitter may interblend.

There were wonderful dreams with their glad'ning gleams
That were full of delight and beauty;

There are wearying ways in the long to-days,

That are part of our path of duty;

And the way might have brightened with blossoms sweet,
And there might have been roses beneath our feet;-
Ah, yes, but the way of the "might have been
Might have led us, perchance, to the wilds of sin;
While the path of the present, though rough indeed,
To a beautiful country at last may lead.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN?

'Way back from the echoing ages comes that sad and mournful strain, "it might have been." What might have been? Who sorrows to-night as they look backward and wish life had been different? Who mourns over some early folly and borrows trouble day after day from those unhappy words? Is it you, child of the world? Is it you, lone wanderer? Is there, I ask, a land of " might have been "? If so,

where can it be found? I have often heard of it, but I never succeeded in ascertaining its precise situation. Somewhere in the past, no doubt. I really should like to visit such a land. What a multitude of “mights" must lie there together, what aspirations, what noble deeds never destined to have been performed! Yet from whitened lips comes the whisper, "It might have been." No, dear hearers, it could not be, because you, or some one else, would not allow it. Year by year we hear the words, day after day; they have been the subject of many a discourse and essay. We hear and read them, wondering who indulges in the " might have been" delusion, instead of striving with the present and saying," it shall be." It is useless to mourn over the past, for it does not brighten it, and the moments thus wasted will in future cause more thoughts as to what "might have been."

It is good for every heart to commune with self to a certain extent, but when hours are spent in useless repining it ceases to be beneficial. Many, thinking they have failed in nearly every great task they wished to accomplish, will also think it is useless to undertake anything more. "It might have been," if perseverance had not been lacking, but as it was, it could never have been.

Let us

Let

Let not such thoughts possess dominion over us. have a fairy picture of what is to be, drawn in gorgeous colors; let us spare neither time, pains, pencil, nor paint. our hearts be in the work, and with unfaltering trust look upon the map of the future, perceiving the destined goal we are to reach, after much labor. Turn not to the right or left ; look not behind us lest we become mere drones. Leave the land of “might have been" for weary ones to people; as for us, we must build a city in the land of To Be. A city to at tract strangers, where beauties of mind shall not be forgotten in dress beauty; where life shall not be devoted entirely to self and sensual gratification; where love shall erect a fortress and defend our city from intruders. And how shall love deal with enemies? It shall, by its kind teachings and gentle influence, win them to our cause. Every day we shall witness the increase of numbers, and with light hearts and pleasant countenances move among our little band, distributing peace and good will. My land is the land of To Be.

If

Away with past regrets, for if my present opportunities are improved I shall have enough to occupy my mind. we mourn for the past, we shall waste valuable time, and the future will find us with drooping heads mourning over these wasted moments. Let not "it might have been" be inscribed over our tombstone when we die, to prove that our life was a failure. Rather let it be, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant: enter thou upon the heritage of the just."

THE LOST HEIR.-THOMAS HOOD.

"Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.

One day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.

She turned her east, she turned her west,
Staring like Pythoness possessed,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man,-
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.

At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,

As wild as ocean birds,

Or female Ranter moved to preach,
She "gave her sorrow words":

* O Lord! oh, dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?