IN

SIX LITTLE FEET ON THE FENDER.

In my heart there liveth a picture,

Of a kitchen rude and old,

Where the firelight tripped o'er the rafters, And reddened the roof's brown mould; Gilding the steam from the kettle

That hummed on the foot-worn hearth,
Throughout all the livelong evening
Its measure of drowsy mirth.

Because of the three light shadows
That frescoed that rude old room-
Because of the voices echoed,

Up 'mid the rafters' gloom-
Because of the feet on the fender,
Six restless, white little feet-
The thoughts of that dear old kitchen
Are to me so fresh and sweet.

When the first dash on the window
Told of the coming rain,
Oh! where are the fair young faces

That crowded against the pane?
While bits of firelight stealing
Their dimpled cheeks between,
Went struggling out in the darkness,
In shreds of silver sheen.

Two of the feet grew weary

One dreary, dismal day,

And we tied them with snow-white ribbons,

Leaving him there by the way.

There was fresh clay on the fender
That weary, wint❜ry night,

For the four little feet had tracked it

From his grave on the bright hill's height.
Oh! why, on this darksome evening,
This evening of rain and sleet,

Rest my feet all alone on the hearthstone?
Oh! where are those other feet?
Are they treading the pathway of virtue
That will bring us together above?
Or have they made steps that will dampen
A sister's tireless love?

Cornelia W. Laws.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

THIS book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start-
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped—

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,

Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill: Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who leaned God's word to hear!
Her angel face-I see it yet;

What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

George P. Morris.

A HOME PICTURE.

BEN FISHER had finished his hard day's work, And he sat at his cottage door;

His good wife, Kate, sat by his side,

And the moonlight danced on the floor:
The moonlight danced on the cottage floor,
Her beams were as clear and bright
As when he and Kate, twelve years before,
Talked love in the mellow light.

Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay,
And never a dram drank he;

So he loved at home with his wife to stay,
And they chatted right merrily:

Right merrily chatted they on, the while
Her babe slept on her breast;

While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile,
On his father's knee found rest.

Ben told her how fast his potatoes grew,
And the corn in the lower field;

And the wheat on the hill was grown to seed,
And promised a glorious yield:

A glorious yield in the harvest time,

And his orchard was doing fair;

His sheep and his stock were in the prime,
His farm all in good repair.

Kate said that her garden looked beautiful,

Her fowls and her calves were fat;

That the butter that Tommy that morning churned,
Would buy him a Sunday hat;

That Jenny for pa' a new shirt had made,
And 'twas done, too, by the rule;
That Neddy the garden could nicely spade,
And Ann was ahead at school.

Ben slowly passed his toil-worn hand.

Through his locks of grayish brown-
"I tell you, Kate, what I think," said he,
"We're the happiest folks in town."

"I know," said Kate, "that we all work hard-
Work and health go together, I've found;
For there's Mrs. Bell does not work at all,
And she's sick the whole year round.

"They're worth their thousands, so people say,
But I ne'er saw them happy yet;

'Twould not be me that would take their gold

And live in a constant fret.

My humble home has a light within

Mrs. Bell's gold could not buy, Six healthy children, a merry heart, And a husband's love-lit eye."

I fancied a tear was in Ben's eye

The moon shone brighter and clearer— I could not tell why the man should cry,

But he hitched up to Kate still nearer; He leaned his head on her shoulder there, And took her hand in his

I guess (though I looked at the moon just then) That he left on her lips a kiss.

Frances D. Gage.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.
BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore,

I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the pewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.