The Yellow Violet.

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the bluebird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mold,
And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, in 1794, and died in New York City, in 1878, from the effects of a sunstroke. He was a poet by nature; his "Thanatopsis," written before he was nineteen, bids fair to secure him a literary immortality. He was a careful observer of nature, "as any one may prove who will take a volume of his poems out into the woods and fields, and read the descriptions in the presence of what is described." In 1826 Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post, which position he retained until his death. His writings in that paper were often very anti-Catholic.

war'ble: song. the yellow violet: this flower is not properly a violet, but belongs to the lily family. russet: reddish or yellowish brown.-mold: fine, soft earth. -unapt: not likely.-ape: to mimic, as an ape does. - genial: cheerful.— painted tribes of light: the flowers.

At the Home of Martha and Mary.

At the time when our divine Lord was on earth, there lived at Bethany, near Jerusalem, two sisters, named Martha and Mary. Our Lord loved them and their brother Lazarus, and they, in turn, loved Him, and He was always welcome at their home.

At one of Our Savior's visits, Martha, being anxious to show her guest all possible hospitality, was busy with much serving, running to and fro, arranging the table, and apparently doing all the work, while her sister Mary was seated at the Master's feet, listening to His words.

After a while Martha grew weary, and seeing that her sister had no intention of helping her, she complained to Our Lord that all the labor fell on her. So she, in the language of the Evangelist, stood and said: " Lord, hast Thou no care that my sister hath left me alone to serve? Speak to her, therefore, that she help me."

She stood and said these words. We can imagine her, hot and tired with her household work, standing still for a moment, and somewhat ruffled in temper, asking Our Lord to come to her help. But, instead of doing so, He took Mary's part and warmly defended her, while He rebuked the elder sister.

"Martha, Martha," He said, the repetition of the name suggesting the tone of Our Lord's voice and the gentle look of reproach, "thou art careful and art troubled about many things. But one thing is necessary. Mary hath chosen the better part, which shall not be taken away from her."

This beautiful passage in the life of Our Lord is full of instruction for us all, for we learn by it, direct from the lips of our blessed Savior, that to do His will in all things, to live up to His teachings, is, above everything, the better part.

Heinrich Hofmann, the artist, has selected this incident as the subject of one of his most masterly creations. He shows our dear Lord in all His dignity and majesty, standing beneath a vine-crowned arbor. His right hand is extended toward Martha, as if remonstrating with her for her unreasonable complaint, while at His left, wrapt in the sweetness of His words, sits Mary. The doves drinking at the near-by basin, the sheep grazing on the distant hills, add to the beauty and peace and quiet of the scene.

Economy is praiseworthy; stinginess is not: it contracts the heart of a man and makes him miserable.

How a Good Priest served the State.

Pope Leo XII., on his accession to the Pontificate, was determined that the roads should be safe for the poor pilgrims who were visiting Rome for the Jubilee, and took such active measures, in concert with the neighboring States, that the system of brigandage was completely extinguished. The last act, however, of its destruction deserves recording.

A good old priest, the Abbate Pellegrini, Archpriest of Sezze, ventured alone to the mountains which formed the headquarters and stronghold of the banditti, unauthorized and uninvited. Without password besides the expression of his charity, without a pledge to give that his assurances would be confirmed, without any claim, from position, to the fulfillment of his promises, he walked boldly into the midst of the band and preached to them repentance and change of life.

They listened perhaps they knew that active measures were being planned for their extermination; more probably, the very simplicity of the feeble, unarmed peacemaker touched their rude natures, and they wavered. But they were among the most dreaded of their race, nay, the most unpardonable, for some of them had been the assassins of the Terracina students.