THE WELCOME.

Anither bairn cam hame,

Hame to mither an' me!

It was yestre 'en in the gloamin,
When scarce was light to see
The wee bit face o' the darlin',
Its greetin' cry was heard,
An' our crowded nestie made a place
To haud anither bird.

Sax little bonnie mouths,

Ah me! tak muckle to fill,
But to grudge the bit to the seventh,
For mither an' me were ill;

Sae nestle up closer, dearie,

Lie saft on the snawy breist,

Where fast life's fountain floweth,

When thy twa warm lips are preist.

The rich mon counteth his treasures,
By the shinin' gowd in 's hand,
By 's ships that sail on the sea,

By 's harvests that whiten the land;
The puir mon counteth his blessings
By the ring o' voices sweet,

By the hope that glints in bairnies' een,
By the sound o' bairnies' feet.

An' it's welcome hame my darlin',
Hame to mither an' me

An' it's never may ye fin' less o' love

Than the love ye brought wi' ye! Cauld's the blast o' the wild wind,

An' rough the world may be,

But warm's the hame o' the wee one,
In the hearts o' mither an' me!

This same home thought, but with an application all may make their own, is apparent in the following, also from The Bazar, which has wandered far as a waif:

OUR OWN.

If I had known in the morning

How wearily all the day

The words unkind would trouble my mind

That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex our own with look and tone
We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it well might be that never for me
The pain of the heart should cease!

How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night!

And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken,
That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest;

But oft for our own the bitter tone,

Though we love our own the best.
Ah! lips with the curve impatient,

Ah! brow with the shade of scorn,

'T were a cruel fate, were the night too late
To undo the work of the morn!

Mrs. Sangster knows the true pathos of life—as so many sweet singers do-but despite this, she has gone on as bravely as a brave woman could, with her chief trust in divine help, her chief comfort in divine hope. If sometimes the clouds were dark about her, she has found them growing brighter as looked at in imagination from

THE HEAVEN SIDE.

The sky was soft with tender blue,
As Heaven itself was shining through,
And far above our restless world
Its bannered peace was wide unfurled.

The distant mountains' purple line
Was bathed in splendor all divine,
And seemed the valley's cup to brim
With waves of beauty to the rim.

The very wind was soft and sweet,
That rocked the grass blades at our feet,

And gently did the zephyrs blow
Across the buckwheat's billowy snow;

When lo! a change. The tranquil sky
Grew dark. Black clouds come drifting by;

Like battled hosts in war's array,

Their vengeful ranks assault the day!

And grim and sullen, fold on fold,
They hide the summer's shining gold,
Till wood, and field, and wayside path
Are menaced in their stormy wrath.

Still o'er them soft the tender blue,

With Heaven's brightness gleaming through,

Was steadfast, radiant, undismayed,
Too lifted up to be afraid.

And while we shivered in the gray
Thick falling gloom that wrapped the day,
Lo! touched by spears of sunny light,
The clouds are edged with sparkling white.

And, looked on from the Heaven side,
They surely must be glorified,

And where God sees them floating fair,
Seem isles of peace in upper air.

For a year or two, Mrs. S. was employed as Associate Editor of Hearth & Home, and in that capacity she wrote much in the way of miscellaneous matter-stories, essays, and the like. Several of her poems, contributed to that journal, were generally copied, notably this:

BEFORE THE LEAVES FALL.

I wonder if oak and maple,

Willow and elm and all,

Are stirred at heart by the coming
Of the day their leaves must fall.
Do they think of the yellow whirlwind,
Or know of the crimson spray,

That shall be when chill November
Bears all their leaves aw..y?

Perhaps beside the water

The willow bends, serene

As when her young leaves glistened
In a mist of golden green;

But the brave old oak is flushing
To a wine-red dark and deep,
And maple and elm are blushing

The blush of a child asleep.

"If die we must," the leaflets
Seem one by one to say,

"We will wear the colors of gladness
Until we pass away.

No eyes shall see us falter;

And before we lay it down,
We'll wear, in the sight of all the earth,
The year's most kingly crown."

So, trees of the stately forest,

And trees of the trodden way,

You are kindling into glory
This soft autumnal day,

And we who gaze remember

That more than all they lost,

To hearts and trees together,

May come through the ripening frost.

The following, contributed to The Bazar, has become a seasonable tit-bit for editors, and is given place in their columns almost every recurring spring:

THE BUILDING OF THE NEST.

They'll come again to the apple tree-
Robin and all the rest-

When the orchard branches are fair to see

In the snow of the blossoms dressed,
And the prettiest thing in the world will be
The building of the nest.