can imagine the scene. The poor dog crouching in the corner, looking wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going to that cupboard in hope, in expectation, may-be, to open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not half open or ajar-to open it for that poor dog.

"But when she got there, the cupboard was bare,

And so the poor dog had none.'

"When she got there! You see, dear brethren, what perseverance is. You see the beauty of persistence in doing right. She got there. There were no turnings and twistings, no slippings and slidings, no leaning to the right or faltering to the left. With glorious simplicity we are told she got there.' And how was her noble effort rewarded? The cupboard was bare.' It was bare! There were to be found neither apples nor oranges, nor cheese-cakes, nor penny buns, nor ginger-bread, nor crackers, nor nuts, nor lucifer matches. The cupboard was bare. Had there been a leg of mutton, a loin of lamb, a fillet of veal, even an ice from Gunter's, the case would have been very different, the incident would have been otherwise. But it was bare, my brethren-bare as a bald head. Many of you will probably say, with all the pride of wordly sophistry, 'The widow, no doubt, went out and bought a dog biscuit.' Ah,no! Far removed from these earthly ideas, these mundane desires, poor Mother Hubbard, the widow, whom many thoughtless worldlings would despise, in that she only owned one cupboard, perceived—or I might even say saw-at once the relentless logic of the situation, and yielded to it with all the heroism of that nature which had enabled her without deviation to reach the barren cupboard. She did not attempt, like the stiff-necked scoffers of

this generation, to war against the inevitable; she did not try, like the so-called men of science, to explain what she did not understand. She did nothing. The poor dog had none!' And then at this point our information ceases. But do we not know sufficient? Are we not cognizant of enough? Who would dare to pierce the veil that shrouds the ulterior fate of Old Mother Hubbard, her poor dog, the cupboard, or the bone that was not there? Must we imagine her still standing by the open cupboard door, depict to ourselves the dog, still drooping his disappointed tail on the floor, the sought-for bone remaining somewhere else? Ah, no! my brethren, we are not so permitted to try and read the future. Suffice it for us to try and glean from this beautiful story its many lessons; suffice it for us to apply them, to study them, as far as in us lies, and bearing in mind the natural frailty of our nature, to avoid being widows, to shun the patronymic of Hubbard, and have, if our means afford it, more than one cupboard in the house; and to keep stores in them all. And oh! dear friends, keeping in recollection what we have learned this day, let us avoid keeping dogs. They are fond of bones. But, brethren, if we do; if fate has ordained we should do anything of these things, let us then go, as Mother Hubbard did, straight, without curveting or prancing, to our cupboard, empty though it be; let us, like her, accept the inevitable with calm steadfastness; and should we, like her, ever be left with a hungry dog and an empty cupboard, may future chroniclers be able to write also of us in the beautiful words of our text: 'And so the poor dog had none.'"

ONE OF HIS NAMES.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

Never a boy had so many names;

They called him Jimmy, and Jim, and James,
Jeems and Jamie; and well he knew

Who it was that wanted him, too.

The boys in the street ran after him,

Shouting out loudly, "Jim, Hey, J-i-m-m¦ ̈

Until the echoes, little and big,

Seemed to be dancing a Jim Crow jig.

And little Mabel out in the hall
"Jim-my! Jim-my!" would sweetly call,
Until he answered, and let her know
Where she might find him; she loved him so.

Grandpapa, who was dignified,

And held his head with an air of pride,

Didn't believe in abridging names,

And made the most that he could of “ J-a-m-e-s."

But if Papa ever wanted him,

Crisp and curt was the summons “Jim!"
That would make the boy on his errands run
Much faster than if he had said "My son."

Biddy O'Flynn could never, it seems,
Call him anything else but "Jeems,"
And when the nurse, old Mrs. McVyse,
Called him "Jamie," it sounded nice.

But sweeter and dearer than all the rest,
Was the one pet name that he liked the best;
"Darling!"-he heard it whate'er he was at,
For none but his mother called him that.