Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends;
O'er me wave the willow--and long may it flourish---
Bedewed with the tears of wife, children, and friends.

MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN.

Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. And truly I think that they may well be called so-what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one to whom they look and trust for protection.

A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.

The kind voice of a mother has often been the means of reclaiming an erring one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity.

The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her.

Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will; aye, fitted to shine-not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven.

Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their minds seem to delight in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when

weary with care, and burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we can go, and there, in the midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and quietness.

Heaven! that land of quiet rest-toward which those, who, worn down and tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it--safe in the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, never more to be separated.

It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here on earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, if "faithful unto death," we shall meet again in Heaven, our eternal home, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly Father, and go no more out forever.

HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER-BRET HARTE.

"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea,-the lady you met on the train,

And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"

"Of course," he replied, " she would know me; there never was womankind yet

Forgot the effect she inspired; she excuses, but does not forget."

"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; the younger looked up with a smile,

"I sat by her side half an hour; what else was I doing the while!

"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,

And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from

your own to her eye?

"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look,

And I held up herself to herself-that was more than she got from her book."

UUU

"Young blood," laughed the elder; ing the mode of To-day;

But then we old fogies, at least, gave the lady some chance for delay.

There's my wife-(you must know,)-we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome;"

It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;

"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;

And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that day on the train."

"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express;

Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion that's less."

"But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half sighed.

"What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he replied.

"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but admit

That your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.

"Why, you do not, at best, know her name. And what if I try your ideal

With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real!

"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist-you shall follow-this way.

My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?

"My wife, Mr. Rapid-Eh, what! Why, he's gone,-yet he said he would come;'

How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crim son and dumb!"

-Atlantic Monthly.

THERE COME THE BOYS.

There come the boys! Oh, dear, the noise!
The whole house feels the racket;

Behold the knee of Harry's pants,
And weep o'er Bennie's jacket!

But never mind, if eyes keep bright,

And limbs grow straight and limber; We'd rather lose the tree's whole bark Than find unsound the timber.

Now hear the tops and marbles roll;
The floors-Oh, woe betide them!
And I must watch the banisters,

For I know boys who ride them.

Look well as you descend the stairs,
I often find them haunted
By ghostly toys that make no noise
Just when their noise is wanted.

The very chairs are tied in pairs,
And made to prance and caper;
What swords are whittled out of sticks,
What brave hats made of paper!

The dinner-bell peals loud and well,
To tell the milkman's coming;
And then the rush of "steam-car trains"
Sets all our ears a humming.

How oft I say, "What shall I do
To keep these children quiet?"

If I could find a good receipt,
I certainly should try it.

But what to do with these wild boys,
And all their din and clatter,

Is really quite a grave affair

No laughing, trifling matter.

"Boys will be boys"-but not for long;
Ah, could we bear about us

This thought-how very soon our boys
Will learn to do without us!

How soon but tall and deep-voiced men
Will gravely call us "Mother; "-
Or we be stretching empty hands
From this world to the other!

More gently we should chide the noise, And when night quells the racket, Stitch in but loving thoughts and prayers While mending pants and jacket.

TROUBLES OF A WIFE.-KITTY LINCOLN.

'Tis baking day, and I must makeLet's think it o'er and see

Two kinds of bread and three of cake,
(It all depends on me ;)

And cookies, doughnuts, pumpkin-pies,
And mince, and custard, too;-

I look around me in surprise,
And don't know what to do.

And here's the children, seven in all,
(They're rosy boys and girls,)—
Come, Harry, do stop teasing Poll,
And, Madge, don't shake your curls!
Just look around, about the stove,
See how the hairs are falling;—
There, I declare, as true as love,
The baby he is squalling!

And here's the brown loaf baked too hard, (The very mischief's in it,)

Come, Sammy, run and get some lard,

Don't wait a single minute.

Here, Watch, get out, you dirty dog,
You're always in the cooking;-
Oh! Richard, drive away the hog,
She's in the garden, rooting.

Now, I must roll the pie-crusts out,
Although my arms are aching;-
Madge, tell me what is baby 'bout,
Oh, what a fuss he's making!
To trouble me on baking day,
He really does delight in-

Can't seem to put him where he'll stay,-
And there, the boys are fighting.

I hear my eldest daughter say,
(With sidelong glance at me,)
"I saw Frank Jones the other day;
He's coming here to tea."

Confound your Frank, I quick reply,
Why did you e'er invite him.-

There's Sam, this minute, choking Watch,
I wish the dog would bite him.

'Mamma," cries Will, with eager eyes,

"Make everything so gooder,