used to look, on'y wi' her white face shinin' loike a star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw-tha's come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin'.

"That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I've talked so free to thee. If I'm near th' eend, I'd loike some one to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed grum an' surly. It wurna illwill, but a heavy heart."-FANNIE E. HODGSON.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

[NDER a spreading chestnut tree

UNDER

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from the threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave

she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

SWEE

TOM'S LITTLE STAR.

WEET MARY, pledged to Tom, was fair, and graceful, young and slim.

Tom loved her truly, and one dare

Be sworn that she loved him;
For, twisting bashfully the ring
That sealed the happy fiat,

She cooed: "When married in the spring,
Dear Tom, let's live so quiet!

"Let's have our pleasant little place,
Our books, a friend or two;

No noise, no crowd, but just your face
For me, and mine for you.

Won't that be nice?" "It is my own
Idea," said Tom, "so chary,
So deep and true, my love has grown,
I worship you, my Mary."

She was a tender, nestling thing,
A girl that loved her home,
A sort of dove with folded wing,
A bird not made to roam,
But gently rest her little claw
(The simile to carry)

Within a husband's stronger paw—

The very girl to marry.

Their courtship was a summer sen,
So smooth, so bright, so calm,
Till one day Mary, restlessly,
Endured Tom's circling arm,

And looked as if she thought or planned,

Her satin forehead wrinkled.

She beat a tattoo on his hand,

Her eyes were strange and twinkled.

She never heard Tom's fond remarks,
His "sweety-tweety dear,"

Or noticed once the little larks
He played to make her hear.
"What ails," he begged, "my petsy pet?
What ails my love, I wonder?"
"Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met
Professor Shakspeare Thunder."

"Thunder!" said Tom; "and who is he?"
"You goose! why, don't you know?"
"I don't. She never frowned at me,
Or called me 'goose.' And though,"
Thought Tom, "it may be playfulness,
It racks my constitution."

"Why, Thunder teaches with success Dramatic elocution."

"Oh! Ah! Indeed! and what is that? My notion is but faint."

"It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat.

Tom thought that "art" meant paint.
"You blundering boy! why, art is just
What makes one stare and wonder.
To understand high art you must
Hear Shakspeare read by Thunder."

Tom started at the turn of phrase;
It sounded like a swear.
Then Mary said, to his amaze,

With nasal groan and glare,

""To be or-r-not to be?'" And fain To act discreet yet gallant,

He asked, "Dear, have you any-pain?" "Oh, no, Tom; I have talent.

"Professor Thunder told me so; He sees it in my eve

He

says my tones and gestures show
My destiny is high."

Said Tom, for Mary's health afraid,
His ignorance revealing,

"Is talent, dear, that noise you made?"

'Why, no; that's Hamlet's feeling."

"He must have felt most dreadful bad."
"The character is mystic,"
Mary explained, “and very sad,
And very high artistic.

And you are not; you're commonplace;
These things are far above you."
"I'm only," spoke Tom's honest face,
"Artist enough-to love you."

From that time forth was Mary changed;

Her eyes stretched open wide;

Her smooth fair hair in friz arranged,

And parted on the side.

More and more strange she grew,

Incapable of taking

and quite

The slightest notice how each night
She set Tom's poor heart aching.

As once he left her at the door,

"A thousand times good-night,"