you what I'll do. The next time he says anything about the Sky Fugle degrees, I will take a wash-board and make him think there is one degree in Masonry that he has skipped. And now good-bye! You have comforted me greatly, and I will lay awake to-night until my husband comes from the Lodge with his pat hand, and I will make him think he has forgot his ante."

The lady went out to a grocery to buy some bar soap, and the prominent Mason resumed his business with a feeling that we are not all truly good and there is cheating going on all round.

THE MORNING PSALM.-MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

"Read us a psalm, my little one."
An untried day had just begun,
And, ere the city's rush and roar

Came passing through the closed home door,

The family was hushed to hear

The youngest child, in accents clear,

Read from the Book. A moment's space
The morning look died from each face,—
The sharp, keen look, that goes to meet
Opposing force, nor brooks defeat.

"I will lift up mine eyes," she read,
"Unto the hills." Who was afraid?
What had that psalm of pilgrim life
To do with all our modern strife?
"Behold, he that doth Israel keep
Shall neither slumber, nor shall sleep.
The Lord thy keeper is, and He
Thy shade on thy right hand shall be;
The sun by day shall not thee smite,
The moon shall hurt thee not by night."

And the child finished the old psalm;

And those who heard grew strong and calmn;
The music of the Hebrew words

Thrilled them like sweet remembered chords
And brought the heights of yesterday
Down to the lowlands of to-day,

And seemed to lend to common things
A mystery as of light and wings;
And each one felt in gladsome mood,
And life was beautiful and good.

Then forth, where duty's clarion call
Was heard, the household hastened all.
In crowded haunts of busy men
To toil with book, or speech, or pen,
To meet the day's demand with skill,
And bear and do and dare and will,
As they must who are in the strife
And strain and stress of modern life,
And would succeed, but who yet hold
Honor of higher worth than gold.
These are the days of peace we say,
Yet fiercest fights are fought to-day;

And those who formed that household band
Had need of strength that they might stand
In firmness and unruffled calm;—

But sweetly did their morning psalm
Amid the clamor, loud and long,
Like echo of a once-loved song,

Rise in their hearts and make them strong.

At close of day they met again

And each had known some touch of pain,
Some disappointment, loss or care,
Some place of stumbling, or some snare.
"And yet the psalm is true," said they,
"The Lord preserveth us alway.
His own were safe in days of yore,
And from this time, and evermore,
If skies be bright or skies be dim,
He keepeth all who trust in him."

AT THE OPERA.-GEORGE H. JESSOP.

Every seat in the house was filled,—
Somnambula, and a gala night.

Witnout, the frost-laden breezes chilled,-
Within, all warm and bright.

And I sat close to the stage, alone;

My place was good,-I had had my choice;

So I sat and drank in every tone

Of the rich soprano voice..

There was loud applause, and frequent applause,
And I applauded,-my heart was light;
And I little thought that musical pause
Should alter my fate that night.

But I looked across as the music ceased,
Across the crowds and the beauty rife,
And, throned in her box like a queen at a feast,
I met the eyes of my wife.

And I felt at that moment I loved her still.
She was pensive, but very fair to see,
And I could not credit the whispers of ill
That had sundered her and me.

Was it too late to undo the past,

To lay forever the ghost Remorse?
'Had not the judges pronounced too fast
The ominous word Divorce?

She was fair and petted and very young,
And wrong must ever come from the heart;
Her heart was mine; it was I was wrong
When I said: "It is best we part."

I turned again as the music swelled;
The stage was dim with mysterious light,
And the feeble candle "Amina" held
Was the brightest spot in sight.

And the light in my heart was burning low,
And life seemed utterly void and blank,—
The house scarce breathed a moment or so
As she stepped on the trembling plank.
'Twas a gruesome chasm to cross, I ween,

In her robe de nuit and disheveled locks:
But nothing to that which stretched between
Me and that distant box.

But I turned and looked as I framed the thought

Who says an impulse is never wise?

For, looking out of that box, I caught
My wife's soft, violet eyes.

I cannot tell what her glances said,
I cannot tell what my own replied,

But that moment spun a gossamer thread
Whereon I crossed to her side.

The fair "Somnambula" on her plank

Has doubtless crossed, but I cannot see:
For the wild applause spreads from rank to rank,
And it all seems meant for me.

For have I not crossed on a frailer plank,-
The gossamer bridge of a mutual glance?
And now my life is no longer blank,

And the future seems all romance.

I have crossed and reached her, my own, my wife,
And the air still peals with the wild "Brava!"
But the favorite opera of my life

Will be La Somnambula.

A BASKET OF FLOWERS.-SARAH B. STEBBINS. ABRIDGED FOR PUBLIC READING.

A few days afterward the Light of the Household went forth into the poor places of the neighborhood and brought in, one by one, shrinking children, with shabby garments and shy glances; little girls ungathered into schools, untaught of ignorant parents who were slaves of labor, to whom was preached no gospel of salvation from idleness, weakness or vice. These, allured in unwillingly at first, hard enough for a time to keep together, came at last into this quiet chamber as to a holy shrine, sat earnestly at the feet of a pale, patient teacher, and learned the ways of truth and right. Day by day-for a few minutes only sometimes, sometimes for hours, according to her fluctuating strength-she had them with her, and in the poor homes where they belonged the mothers listened with a sort of awe to the accounts of this pale lady, lying always on her couch, covered with the white, fleecy folds of her delicate work, and giving out to little rapt listeners thoughts that would abide with them all their lives.

After a while Christmas was drawing near, and one

day there was an interesting assemblage of these small scholars in a room where one of them lived, whose mother was a washerwoman, and upon tubs and buckets they were scated in a circle; and the subject of their meeting and consultation was, how to get a Christmas present for the Crippled Sister, and what it should be.

The leader of the meeting was a grave little damsel with quiet eyes, who seemed to take a natural precedence. Strange and various articles were proposed, to which many objections were raised, principally by the little President, who seemed to think her most important duty was to keep the intended expenditure within the limits of the probable amount, for which purpose she was obliged to do a good many sums out loud. The puzzle was growing deeper, and the likelihood of a decision seemed farther off than ever, when Nettie Blane said, in her soft voice: "I know what the lady loves more than anything else, and that's flowers! Why, just here a while ago, before it got so cold, I found a bunch of wild posies growing alongside the road as I was going to her house; they were just common things, but I picked them and took them to her, and you just ought to have seen her over them! Her face lit all up, she was so pleased, and do you know that for a minute she looked like she never was sick at all; and she kind of petted them with her fingers, and thanked me so nice that I never was so glad of doing anything in my life!"

"But flowers die so soon, and then she would never have nothin' to keep to make her feel that we'd bin thinkin' of her!"

An anxious shade fell over Nettie Blane's face, that, however, instantly brightened with a new thought.

"Oh, yes, she would," she said, "because she'd always remember! Don't you know, somehow, if you once get a thing, you've always got it, even if you don't see it? If I sell my shells, it don't much matter, really, because whenever I think about them, they'll always be in my