THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

THE Sound of midnight chimes
Floats o'er the deepening gloom,
And tells the light of other times
Is passing to the tomb.

Those smiling summer hours,
Where is their radiance now?
Are golden beams that once were ours
For ever buried low?

Oh not for nought the bright,
The sunny hours were given;
They held to us a kindly light,
To show the path to heaven.

And they are not extinct,
Though sleeping silently:
The Past is with the Future linked,
Time with Eternity.

And when no longer days

Or hours are given to men,
In condemnation or in praise,
They all will live again.

Happy are they who have

A home prepared on high,

Where they will pass eternity,
Whose years can never die.

T

W. W.

FRAGMENTS FOR SPARE MOMENTS.

WE sleep, but the loom of life never stops; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up to-morrow.

HE who is false to present duty breaks a thread in the loom, and will find the flaw when he may have forgotten its cause.

ANY feeling that takes a man away from his home is a traitor to the household.

THE mother's heart is the child's school-room.