I pray the Lord "-and the eyelids Droop low-" my soul to take."

Then I lift up the little one, clasping

Her close to my loving heart, And give her warm, good-night kisses Till the closed lids break apart, As the leaves do a folding flower; And the violets of her eyes Look up in their drowsy fashion, And smile at me angel-wise.

"Dood-night" she whispers me softly, And sleepy, with a kiss, That lingers with me in slumber,

And stirs my heart with bliss, As I think of the little one dreaming With her head against my breast, Till my sleep is full of rapture As her dreaming is of rest.

-EBEN E. REXFORD.

MY MUSICAL MAID. "She made a swan-like end, fading in music." IN the hush of the stars she was singing, With a voice that was drifting above; And my heart with the chorus was ringing,

Sweet attuned to the lay of her love. And I stole to the lattice with lightness Of a zephyr 'mid leaves of the glade ; And, beneath me—an angel in whiteness!

Beamed the face of my Musical Maid.

Ah! she sang of a ship, and a loverOf a beautiful, vanishing faceNe'er returning the dark billows over,

To a sweetheart's delicious embrace. And the music was touched with such meter,

That a tear from my eye would exhale;

For the notes quivered sweeter and

sweeter

From the throat of my sad nightingale.

And she trilled, and she crooned, and she warbled,

Like a lark that, imprisoned, will long For an ether, untrod and unmarbled, Where her mate flies to God with a

song.

Oh, she heard, and she smiled and awakened

All her dark, dreamful tresses for me; And I called her my own, unforsaken, Little darling of sweet minstrelsy. Lo! she saw, and her eyes were uplifted With a gray, solemn splendor to mine,

As her soul-light in silver was sifted Thro' their long, dreamy lashes divine.

Still she sang, and she hummed, and she whistled,

Till the voice of the lyre was mute; For the rhythm, thro' her spirit that mistled,

More sweet than the dream of the flute.

Still a-blushing, cadencing and chanting,

Till her lips of red rose were aglow From the warmth of a soul that was panting

For a chord which the seraphim know.

Ah, that voice! not the coo of the lisper

Half so soft as its purl and its stream; It was sweet as the drift of a whisper Down the vale of violet dream. It was blithesome, elastic, capriciousIn its depths was the home of a prayer!

It was rich, it was fragrant, delicious As the beamy blue braid in her hair.

It was mellow, melodious, magnetic, Like the song of the swan when it dies;

It was pretty, poetic, pathetic,

Like the light and the love in her eyes.

And I called her my charmful canary— Little bird that had stolen a tune From the lips of a musical fairy,

In the beautiful mist of the moon.

And I sighed-yea, I smiled and I sorrowed

At the close of the suave symphony;

atmosphere which every sensitive person can feel when introduced into the home circle and from which can quickly be inferred the ruling spirit of the home. There can be no doubt that the most effective training for children is the training of example, and this truth the mother needs constantly to bear in mind. How can the impatient, querulous, fault-finding mother teach patience and kindness and good temper? How can the vain mother, greatly absorbed in keeping up with the pomps and vanities of life, eager for place and show, teach her children the true principle of a happy life? How can the selfish mother teach generosity or kindness, or he discontented mother teach contentment?