Or mother's twilight legend, told
Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,
Or fairy hobbling to the door,
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,
To bless the good child's gracious eyes,
The good child's wistful charities,
And crippled changeling's hunch to make
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? "T is well;
Nor would I any miracle

Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,
Or plague his painless countenance :
I would not any seer might place
His staff on my immortal's face,
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality.
No, Shunamite! I would not break
God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest :
No comfort like his mother's breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed
In fairest forms hath half her zest.
For Charlie's sake this bird 's caressed
That death left lonely in the nest ;
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,
As for its birthday, in its best;
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest
To Him who gave, and who did take,
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

MY CHILD.

GO TO THY REST.

Go to thy rest, fair child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
While yet so gentle, undefiled,
With blessings on thy head.

Fresh roses in thy hand,
Buds on thy pillow laid,

Haste from this dark and fearful land,
Where flowers so quickly fade.

Ere sin has seared the breast,
Or sorrow waked the tear,

Rise to thy throne of changeless rest,
In yon celestial sphere !

Because thy smile was fair,
Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy loving cradle-care
Was such a dear delight,

Shall love, with weak embrace,
Thy upward wing detain ?

No! gentle angel, seek thy place
Amid the cherub train.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

A WIDOW - she had only one! A puny and decrepit son;

But, day and night,

Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all
The Widow's Mite.

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,

And when the storm blew o'er, My husband, and my three brave sons, Lay corpses on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years A childless widow three;

I maun buy them now to sell again, They are dear fish to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door, What was 't upon her cheek? What was there rising in her breast,

That then she scarce could speak?