I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it; But I can not take it from him; if you want to, go and do it."

Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to infold him,

And he looked so hurt and humbled that I knew some one had told him.

Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal;

But every word he uttered was pre-eminently local.

The sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it.

'Twas a grief to see him hedge it, 't was a pain to hear him word it;

But that sentence seemed to scare him, and was always uncompleted.

As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally

brighten,

But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to

whiten;

He would look off to the eastward with a listful, weary sighing,

And 't was whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was dying.

VI.

The coffin lay 'mid garlands smiling sad as if they

knew us;

The patient face within it preached a final sermon

to us:

42

Our parson had gone touring on a trip he'd long been

earning,

In that Wonder-land whence tickets are not issued for

returning.

Oh, tender, good heart-shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half-parted,

Told of scenery that burst on you just the minute that you started!

Could you preach once more among us, you might wander without fearing;

You could give us tales of glory we would never tire of hearing.-WILL CARLETON.

DOWN

DAISY'S FAITH.

OWN in de b'ight deen meadow,
De pitty daisies' home-
Daisies dat are my namesakes,

Mamma has let me tome.

S'e said dat s'e tould see me
From her yoom window dere;

Besides, I know our Fader

Will teep me in His tare.

Oh! see how many daisies—
Daisies so white an' fair-
I'll make a weaf for mamma,
To wear upon her hair;
An' den s'e'll loot so pity-

My darlin' own mamma!—
An' tiss her 'ittle Daisy,

An' s'ow it to papa.

One, two, fee, sits, an' 'leven,
Hundred an' eight an' nine;
I b'ieve dat's mos' enough now,
To make it pitty fine.
I would n't be af'aid here,
Mamma and Dod tan see,
I know dey would let nossin'
Tome near dat tould hurt me.

De bweeze is soft an' toolin',
An' tosses up my turls;
I dess it tomes from heaven
To play wis 'ittle dirls.
De birdies sin' so sweetly;

To me dey seem to say:
"Don't be af'aid, dear Daisy,
Dod teeps oo all de day."

I'll make a ball for baby
Soon as dis weaf is done,
An' den I'll fow it at her-

Oh, my! my fead's all don'!
Well, den, I'll tate dis wibbon
Off of my old st'aw hat;
I sint mamma would let me;
I'll-oh, dear me! what's dat?

I sought I did hear somesin
Move in dat bus' tose by:
I'm not at all afʼaid, dough;
Oh! no, indeed; not I!
Mamma-why? s'e's not lookin',

S'e's f'om de window don;
Den may be Dod is tired, too,

"Tause I 'taid here so lon'.

I dess I'll yun a 'ittle,

I b'ieve Dod wants me to;
He tant tate too much t'ouble,
I sint I'd better do,
An' tate my pitty f'owers,
An' 'tay wis mamma dear,
Dod is 'way up in heaven-
I would like some one near.

My daisies! dey are fallin';
My han's are s'atin' so;
Oh, dear! de weaf is boten!
Don't tare! I want to do.
I know dere's somesin' live dere:
See, now! dere's two bid eyes
A lootin yight stwaight at me-
Dod's 'way up in de sties.

Tan He tate tare of Daisy?
I see a deat, blat head
A tomin' foo de bus'es;

But den I'm not af'aid:
Only-I want my mamma-
I dess dat is a bear;
Bears eat up 'ittle chillens!
I wis' dat Dod was here!

Ow! ow! I tant help steamin';
Oh, dear! I so af'aid!
Tome, mamma! Oh! tome twitly

To help oor ittle maid.
Dod has fordot oor Daisy;

Dat bear is tomin' fastWhy! 't is our dear old Yover

Tome home f'om town at last.

O Yover! dear ole dordy,

What made oo f'wight-well, no,
I'm not af'aid-for, Yover,

Dod tares for me, oo know;
He would let nossin' hurt me-
Dere's mamma lootin', too.
We'll mend dat weaf now, Yover,
Mamma will lite it so.

JOANNA H. MATHEWS

A

TIRED MOTHERS.

LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,

Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch; You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day

We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night, when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired kneeThis restless, curly head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;