THE BABY IS DEAD.-EMMA ALICE BROWNE.

There is a white hatchment over the portal-a long streamer of snowy crape trails from the muffled bell-knob, like a film of ghostly morning mist. We know that an impalpable footstep has fallen on this threshold; that a shadowy hand has knocked at this shrouded door; that the dread visitant, who will not be denied nor turned away, has entered here. He has entered, and departed; but the veiled mourner, Sorrow, who treads solemnly after him, has stayed behind.

His ruthless hand has plucked the white bud of promise that gladdened the fair garland of household love-the bud that breathed the yet infolded perfume of sweet but undefined hopes, that coming years would ripen to fruition. His remorseless foot has fallen beside this hearthstone--and lo! the dread footprint has hollowed a little grave! The baby is dead.

The tiny image, white as sculptured Parian, lies yonder in its snowy casket, draped in spotless fabrics, and wreathed with funeral flowers. The mother bends with anguished eyes above the still, small effigy of her lost hope; but the baby is not there. Out of her arms, and out of her life, something has gone that will not return. The sealed lids will not uplift from happy sleep; the wondering eyes will search her face no more. The little restless hands lie still and pulseless, frozen into eternal quiet; their silken touches, vague and aimless as the kisses of the south wind, will steal into her bosom and soothe her weariness and lure her grief no more! She realizes this, with all the live, pulsating agony of newly-bereaved motherhood, as she leans above the dainty coffin, and slow, scalding tears, wrung from the very fibres of her bruised life, drop one by one on the unconscious face.

She folds a sprig of hyssop and a half-blown rosebud in the waxen hand, and sends them to the Father as a message and a token--the symbols of her grief and baby's innocence: "Lo! I surrender back to Thee the soul that Thou didst lend me; unsullied, as from Thy hands, I yield it up,

in faith and hope; but oh! I give the child with bitter tears-with breaking heart-with passionate, human woe unutterable!"

And the days lengthen, the nights fall, the years go on. She keeps the key of the baby's casket in her bosom-the memory of the rosebud face within her heart-and life, for her, is never again quite what it was ere baby died.

THE BACHELOR SALE.

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed it was coined into numbers;
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre,
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter.

It seemed that a law had been recently made,
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;
And, in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry.

The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use,
'Twas cruel injustice and horrid abuse-

And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from spilling,

Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling.

But the rulers determined their scheme to pursue,
So they set all the bachelors up at vendue.

A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow,
And to bawl out to all he might meet on his way,
“Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day.”

And presently all the old maids of the town,——
Each one in her very best bonnet and gown,--
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale,
Of every description all flocked to the sale.

The auctioneer, then, in his labor began;
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
"How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?"
In a twink, every maiden responded, "I-I!"

In short, at a hugely extravagant price,
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice,

And forty old maidens-some younger, some older--
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder,

GOD'S BEVERAGE.-JAS. S. WATKINS.

Not in the haunts of the wicked,
Not in the dens of the craven,
Not in the hot-house of Satan
Is God's best beverage given;
Not in the vale of corruption-
Not in the poisonous gases
Out from the simmering still, to
Laugh in the wine-bibber's glasses.
Not in the brewery, seething-
Not in its sickening fumes,
Brewed for the craven death-angel
Keeping the gates of the tombs;
Not in the stifling odors

Out from the stench of the mill
Where Satan is superintendent,
Grinding destruction at will.

But down in the beautiful valley,
The vale that we cherish so well,
Where the red deer playfully wanders
With its mate in the shadowy dell;
Way down in the rock-bound ravine,
Where pebbles are carelessly strewed,
Where fountains are all the day singing,
Is Heaven's best beverage brewed.
High up on the crest of the mountains,
Where granite rocks glitter like gold,
Where the storm-clouds gather relentless,
And the crash of the thunder is told;
And out on the turbulent waters,

Where the hurricane howls o'er the sea,
Is brewed there the best of all beverage-
The best for you, reader, and me.

'Tis brewed in the cataract sporting,
As it leaps from its perilous height;
'Tis seen in the gauze around Luna,
As she lights up the heavens at night;
'Tis seen in the glittering ice-gem,

When its brilliance, like jewels, doth seem, And, too, in the hail-shower dancing;

Cloud-hid from the morning sun's beam.
'Tis seen in the rain-drops descending,
As they weave the bright bow in the air,
Whose woof is the sunbeams of Heaven,
Each painting their bright colors there;

It dances along 'neath the curtains
All dark in the silence of night,
And kisses the vines of the bowers,
As a blessed life-water of light.
On its brink are no poisonous bubbles,
Its foam brings no murder or madness,
No blood stains its crystallized glasses;
No heart bends before it in sadness,
No widows and orphans are weeping
With tears of dark misery's gall;
Then tell me, dear reader, why change it
For the DEMON'S DRINK-KING ALCOHOL?

Into the invisible abyss that opened under.

I stood upon a speck of ground;
Before me fell a stormy ocean.
I was like a captive bound;
And around

A universe of sound

Troubled the heavens with ever-quivering motion.
Down, down forever--down, down forever,
Something falling, falling, falling,
Up, up forever-up, up forever,

Resting never,

Boiling up forever,

Steam-clouds shot up with thunder bursts appalling,

A tone that since the birth of man
Was never for a moment broken,
A word that since the world began,
And waters ran,

Hath spoken still to man,-
Of God and of Eternity hath spoken.

And in that vision, as it passed,

Was gathered terror, beauty, power; And still, when all has fled, too fast,

And I at last

Dream of the dreamy past,

My heart is full when lingering on that hour.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day;
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing, and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her—
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop-
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,

Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;
"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God, be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"