No word of the fields awaiting
Laborers, earnest and true,
Of the master's work, that even
A woman's hand might do.

No word of the weary journey,
Of the pitfalls, dark and wide,
And thorns across the pathway,
Her hands might put aside.

So "time and the hour" went onward,
With the change the seasons bring;
And the white hands glittered with jewels,
But never wore a wedding ring.

White hands! like folded lilies;

Free from all toil and care

Then, kissed, caressed-and forsaken,
And clasped in dumb despair.

Through the cheerless hospital window,
Over the blank, white walls,

On a face its brightness warms not,
The pitying sunlight falls.

And over her heart-forever
From pain and passion stilled-
Those folded hands lay icy,

With drooping lilies filled.

IT'S ALL FOR BREAD AND BUTTER.

What a flurrying world to live in ;

O such a hubbub, such a splutter.

What is the matter with the folks?

MRS. C. M. PEAT.

Ans.-They're scrambling for their bread and butter.

At early morn the working class,

Baskets in hand, all in a flutter,
Rush to their various shops-what for?
Ans. To toil all day for bread and butter.

Next comes the clerks, so spruce and spry,

They dash ahead and spring the gutter; To stores and counting-rooms they hasteAns. To sell or write for bread and butter.

Then comes the noble "boss" along,

The price of stocks he seems to utter: What is his long head planning for? Ans. He's calculating bread and butter.

There run the children, what a swarm,

Scampering along with fun and splutter; With piles of books--what are they taught? Ans. To earn, we hope, their bread and butter.

The teachers with authority,

Just touch the bell; whist, not a mutter; Then comes the strain upon their nerves, Ans. To teach dull pates, for bread and butter.

The lawyers see, with bags so green,

Green as their clients; this don't utter ;

But listen to their eloquence !

36

Ans. While pleading" for their bread and butter.

Authors and editors, O my!

How hard they tug, with feverish flutter!
Is it for fame they're striving for?
Ans.-No; simply for their bread and butter.

The politicians spout and fume;

To gain one vote, see how they splutter!
What does their patriotism yield?

Ans. A rich return of bread and butter.

Here come news-urchins--what a set.
They look as if just out the gutter;
And such a yelling noise they make !
Ans. They're screeching for their bread and butter.

The market people stand or sit,

While town-folks pass them in a flutter
They take it coolly-while they sell
Ans. For bread, to us, their meat and butter.

On promenades, see belles and beaux ; Bright they sparkle, gay they flutter, They spin street yarns, this does not pay ! Ans.-They feast on papa's bread and butter,

;

[The speaker here must face the audience.

Ye laboring class, men, women too,
Your toil and care ye may not utter;
But this you have, good appetites

Ans. To relish most your bread and butter.

THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE,

"My Fred! I can't understand it "—
And his voice quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain—
"For Fred was so brave and loyal,
So true; but my eyes are dim,
And I cannot read the letter

The last I shall get from him.
Please read it, sir, while I listen-
In fancy I see him---dead;
My boy, shot down like a traitor,

My noble, my brave boy Fred."

"Dear father"-so ran the letter"To-morrow when twilight creeps Along the hills to the churchyard,

O'er the grave where mother sleeps, When the dusky shadows gather, They'll lay your boy in his grave, For nearly betraying the country He would give his life to save. And, father, I tell you truly, With almost my latest breath, That your boy is not a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death.

"You remembor Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain.
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again.
I carried all of his luggage,
With mine on the march that day;
I gave him my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry,
But I took his place, and I-
Father, I dropped asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die.

"The Colonel is kind and thoughtful, He has done the best he can,

And they will not bind or blind me-
I shall meet death like a man.
Kiss little Blossom; but, father,
Need you tell her how I fall?"
A sob from the shadowed corner,
Yes, Blossom had heard it all.
As she kissed the precious letter

She said with faltering breath, "Our Fred was never a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death,"

And a little sun-brown maiden,
In a shabby, time-worn dress,
Took her scat half an hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story

As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the tear drops
From the blue eyes brimming o'er,
And guarded her footsteps safely

Till she reached the White House door.

That turned with a look of wonder

On the little shy-faced child.
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.

"Tis a brave, young life," he murmured,
"And his country needs him yet.
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-bye.

If that young life is needed,

He shall die as heroes die."

THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN.

WEBSTER.

It is by promulgation of sound morals in the community, and, more especially, by the training and instruction of the young, that woman performs her part toward the preservation of a free government. It is generally admitted, that public liberty rests on the virtue and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madame de Staël in what manner he could most promote the