She is not wont to leave her friends so lonely
That come too seldom, as she gayly vows;
Yet they are here, and wait her pleasure only—
Where is the little mistress of the house?

She cannot be far off-perhaps but sleeping;

Doubtless at their low call she would arouse; Why do they summon her alone with weeping? Where is the little mistress of the house?

The portraits stare behind their veiling covers;
The dust is in the melancholy room,

Upon the air a ghastly silence hovers-
Within the threshold loneliness and gloom.

Cold, dark, and desolate the place without her,
Wanting her gentle smile as each allows;
She bears a sunbeam light and warmth about her—
Where is the little mistress of the house?

The curtains fall, undraped by her slight fingers,
Behind the wainscot gnaws a secret mouse,
Her treasures need her care, but still she lingers-
Where is the little mistress of the house?

Alas! there was a rumor and a whisper
Threading the busy town, this many days;

The youngest baby here, a tiny lisper,

Can falter forth the reason why she stays,

Why care and love, the tenderest and sincerest,
Have failed to shield and guard her fair young head
Why she has fled from all she loved the dearest-
For there has been a rumor, she is dead.

Throw wide the door! Within the gloomy portal,
Where her small feet fell light as falling snow,
They bear her in, the mortal made immortal!
She comes again, but heavenly and slow!

O empty shell! O beautiful frail prison!

Cold, white, and vacant, tenantless and dumb, From such poor clay as this has Christ arisen— For such as this He shall in glory come!

But in the calm indifference to our sorrow,

In the sharp anguish of her parting breath, In the dark gulf that hides her form to-morrow, Thou hast thy victory, Grave; thy sting, O Death!

Yet shall she walk so fair that we who knew her,
Would pale before the glory of her brows,
Nor in the radiant beauty dare to woo her
To be again the mistress of the house.

LESLIE WALTER

En the Hospital.

I LAY me down to sleep,

With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong all that is past;

I am ready not to do

At last, at last.

My half day's work is done,
And this is all my part-
I give a patient God
My patient heart,

And grasp His banner still,

Though all the blue be dim;

These stripes as well as stars
Lead after Him.

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.

Time and Eternity.

It is not Time that flies;

'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Life that dies;

'T is we, 't is we are dying. Time and eternity are one; Time is eternity begun.

Life changes, yet without decay; "T is we alone who pass away.

It is not Truth that flies;

'T is we, 't is we are flying.

It is not Faith that dies;

'T is we, 't is we are dying.

O ever-during Faith and Truth,

Whose youth is age, whose age is youth,
Twin stars of immortality,

Ye cannot perish from our sky.

It is not Hope that flies;

'T is we, 't is we are flying.

It is not Love that dies;

'T is we, 't is we are dying.

Twin streams that have in heaven your birth,

Ye glide in gentle joy through earth.

We fade, like flowers beside you sown;

Ye still are flowing, flowing on.

Yet we but die to live;

It is from death we 're flying;
Forever lives our life,

For us there is no dying.
We die but as the spring bud dies,
In summer's golden glow to rise.
These be our days of April bloom;
Our July is beyond the tomb.

HORATIUS BONAR.

My Ain Countree.

I AM far from my hame, an' I 'm weary often whiles
For the longed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome

smiles;

I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see

The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree.

The earth is fleck'd wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh an'

gay,

The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day the King

To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' heart running over we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony' an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee, When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast

For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs like

me,

An' he carries them himself to his ain countree.

He's faithfu' that hath promised, he 'll surely come again;
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to watch, an' ready aye to be
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait,
For the soun'ing o' his footsteps this side the gowden gate.
God gie his grace to ilka ane wha listens noo to me,
That we may a' gang in gladness to our ain countree.
MARY LEE DEMAREST.

The Petrified Fern.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibres tender,

Waving when the wind crept down so low.

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it;

Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it ;

But no foot of man e'er came that way;

Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main;

Stately forests waved their giant branches;
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain.
Nature revelled in grand mysteries;
But the little fern was not like these,
Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;
No one came to note it day by day.