and passing away is passing on from strength to strength, from glory to glory. Spring has its growth, summer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in-gathering. The spring of eager preparation waxes into the summer of noble work; mellowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, the golden-brown haze of October, when the soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, awaiting the welcome command, "Come up higher," where mortality shall be swallowed up in life. Let him alone fear who does not fade as the leaf,-him whose spring is gathering no strength, whose summer is maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall have no vintage.

MIKE MCGAFFATY'S DOG.-MARK MELVILLE.
Michael McGaffaty-faith, what a name-
Was an Irishman born, and an Irishman bred;
His brogue was as broad as his brawny frame,
And his hands were as thick as his carroty head.
Mike had a wife who was Erin's true child,

Red-headed, big-fisted, and ugly was she;
Her features were fierce, and her nature not mild,
And she was as stupid as stupid could be.
And Mike had a dog, a bristling young terrier,
Quick at a fight, and not slow at a bone;

In the family circle none could be merrier,

But he'd howl like a dervish when left all alone.

Mike lived in a hovel, untidy and small,

One room for two persons is found not too big:
Two persons, I said? Now, faith, that's not all,

For the cosiest corner was kept for the pig.
Now, with Mike and his wife, and the pig and the dog,
While none disagreed all was quiet and right;
But a quarrel arose 'twixt the cur and the hog,
And one night they set to and indulged in a fight.
Then Biddy loud stormed, and louder Mike swore,

The pig squealed and grunted, the dog yelled like mad; So to make everything quiet and peaceful once more, Mike turned out the dog and then quiet was had.

But the dog was unused to the cold and the snow,
Did not take his ejectment quite in good part;
Not a step from the door would the ugly cur go,

But sat there and howled till the hut seemed to start.
Again Biddy loud stormed, and louder Mike swore,
While the pig sweetly slept, quite free from all care;
And Mike must get up from his slumbers once more,
To stop the wronged terrier's musical air.

He rushed to the doorway in anger and wrath,
Ne'er stopping for clothing, as quickly he bowled;
There sat the scared terrier right in his path,
Awakening the echoes as loudly he howled.
The door was banged to, leaving Biddy alone,
The howling was hushed and stillness restored;
Bolt upright sat Biddy, now Michael was gone,
While "in slumbers of midnight" the pig loudly snored.
So long was he gone that his spouse was alarmed,

She moved from her bed and peeped out at the door;
For rather than have her McGaffaty harmed,

She'd endure this dog's howling and that of ten more. The moon glistens brightly on hillocks of snow,

And there, in a deep drift, stands Mike and the cur; O'er his half-naked form the chilling winds blow, Like a statue the dog stands, not daring to stir.

In wonder she gazes on human and brute,

Such a sight never met mortal eyes, I declare; From Mike's ears and his nose long icicles stood, While a small drift of snow rises white in his hair. In the heart of fair Biddy fierce anger is brewing,

And her shrilly pitched voice of panic doth smack; "Mike! Mike! you big blackguard, what now be ye doing, Sweating there in the cowld wid no coat to yer back ?” Mike turned at the voice of his blooming young daisy While in shivering accents he answered in haste, “Whist, Biddy! my darling, now can't yer be aisy, Don't yer see what I'm doing? I'm frazing the baste." ""Tis frazing the baste is it?" answered fair Biddy, As into the hut she indignantly burst;

"If yez stay there much longer you'll leave me a widdy, For in frazing the brute you will fraze yerself first."

THE TEMPERANCE ECHO.-EDWARD CARSWELL.

'Twas a lovely night at Grimsby Camp;
The sun hung like a signal lamp
Behind a cloud of white and gold,
While its reflections, bright and bold,
Upon the painted lake were seen
In crimson, yellow, white, and green.
The camp fires just begun to show,
And here and there their orange glow
Was seen, amid the shadowy gloom
Fast settling o'er the grove, and soon
To deepen into shades of night
And hide the beauty from our sight.

As there, not very far from shore
I lay, while resting from the oar,
By soft and gentle breezes fanned,
I thought no tale of fairy-land
Was ever told to wondering child
Surpassing this in beauty wild.
Familiar sounds came from the shore,
Yet never sounded so before.
The children, laughing at the well,
The ringing of the chapel bell,
The mother (baby on her knee),
Singing "Nearer, my God, to thee,"
Each note seemed little wings to take
And flutter miles out, o'er the lake.

But hold! no poet need to try
(At least not such a one as I)
Description; painter ne'er had power
To paint the beauties of that hour.

"Who mixed those tints,-the soft deep grays?
Who scumbled in the distant haze;

The red sun and its golden ray

The deep clear shadows in the bay,

The purple woods, the gold-edged cloud-
Who painted these?" I said aloud.

A spirit seemed to answer: "Hush!

'Twas God's own hand that held the brush,"
And every tint, and shade, and line,
Said: "He who made it is divine."

Then, from the shore I heard a shout,
And saw some boats were putting out.
A fair young girl came on before,
Who pulled a swift and practiced oar;
The others followed in the wake
Of her, this lady of the lake.

"Fall in," she cried, " and you will see
We'll find the echo; follow me!"

It seems that somewhere up the shore,
From camp, perhaps a mile or more,
An echo in some coye or dell
By residents is known to dwell,—
A woman, for she has the knack
Of almost always answering back.
Well, on we went, with laughter loud,
And songs, and shoutings, such a crowd
Of parsons, speakers. poets, wits,
Enough to frighten into fits

A common echo; but this maid
We found at least was not afraid.
For very soon from shore we heard
Miss Echo mocking every word.

One asked: "Is drinking whisky wrong?"
"Wrong, wrong," came answer, clear and strong.
"Water's the drink when you are dry!"

When you are dry-dry," the quick reply.

“And when not dry, you need no drink !”

"No drink," cried echo; and I think

The answer this time from the shore

Came quicker than the one before.

"Shall temperance sometime win the day?"
"Win the day-day," we heard her say.
"And prohibition by and by?"

"By and by," the quick reply.

"Then our duty? tell us, pray!"

66

Pray-pray," was all we heard her say.

'But there is also work to do!"

"Work to do-do," so clear, that you
Had thought a human being spoke.
It seemed more than a passing joke,
For we, to stem this tide of sin,
Must work as if we meant to win.

And pray-believing firm and sure
That God is righteous, just, and pure,
And that he'll help us in the fight,
If we but use the means aright.
For e'en an echo, when we pause,
If rightly used, can aid our cause.

HEART VENTURES.

I stood and watched my ships go out,-
Each one by one unmooring free;
What time the quiet harbor filled
With flood-tide from the sea.

The first that sailed, her name was Joy;
She spread a smooth, white, ample sail
And eastward drove with bending spars
Before the singing gale.

Another sailed, her name was Hope;
No cargo in her hold she bore,
Thinking to find in western lands
Of merchandise a store.

The next that sailed, her name was Love;
She showed a red flag at the mast,
A flag as red as blood she showed

And she sped south right fast.

The last that sailed, her name was Faith;
She slowly took her passage forth;
Tacked and lay to; at last she steered
A straight course for the north.

My gallant ships they sailed away

Over the shimmering summer sea,
I stood and watched for many a day-
But one came back to me.

For Joy was caught by Pirate Pain,
Hope ran upon a hidden reef;

And Love took fire, and foundered fast
In whelming seas of grief.

Faith came at last, stormbeat and torn,
She recompensed me all my loss;

For as a cargo, safe she bore

A crown linked with a cross.