corner of the universe in which to hide his shame.

You

will most successfully prove the honor of toil by illustrating in your own persons its alliance with a sober, righteous, and godly life. Be ye sure of this, that the man of toil, who works in a spirit of obedient, loving homage to God, does no less than cherubim and seraphim in their loftiest flights and holiest songs.

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND.

Alas! what errors are sometimes committed,
What blunders are made, what duties omitted,
What scandals arise, what mischief is wrought,
Through want of a moment's reflection and thought!
How many a fair reputation has flown

Through a stab in the dark from some person unknown;
Or some tale spread abroad with assiduous care,
When the story the strictest inspection would bear!
How often rage, malice, and envy are found;
How often contention and hatred abound
Where true love should exist, and harmony dwell,
Through a misunderstanding, alas! who can tell?

Mr. Ferdinand Plum was a grocer by trade;
By attention and tact he a fortune had made;
No tattler, nor maker of mischief was he,
But as honest a man as you'd e'er wish to see.
Of a chapel, close by, he was deacon, they say,
And his minister lived just over the way.

Mr. Plum was retiring to rest one night,
He had just undressed and put out the light,
And pulled back the blind

As he peeped from behind

('Tis a custom with many to do so, you'll find), When, glancing his eye,

He happened to spy

On the blinds on the opposite side-oh, fie!

Two shadows; each movement of course he could see, And the people were quarreling evidently.

"Well I never," said Plum, as he witnessed the strife,
"I declare 'tis the minister beating his wife!"

The minister held a thick stick in his hand,
And his wife ran away as he shook the brand,

Whilst her shrieks and cries were quite shocking to hear,
And the sounds came across most remarkably clear.

"Well, things are deceiving,
But-seeing's believing,'

Said Plum to himself, as he turned into bed;
Now, who would have thought

46

That man would have fought

And beaten his wife on her shoulders and head
With a great big stick,

At least three inches thick?

I am sure her shrieks quite filled me with dread.
I've a great mind to bring

The whole of the thing

Before the church members, but no, I have read
A proverb which says 'Least said soonest mended."
And thus Mr. Plum's mild soliloquy ended.

But, alas! Mr. Plum's eldest daughter, Miss Jane,
Saw the whole of the scene, and could not refrain
From telling Miss Spot, and Miss Spot told again
(Though of course in strict confidence) every one
Whom she happened to know, what the parson had done
So the news spread abroad, and soon reached the ear
Of the parson himself, and he traced it, I hear,

To the author, Miss Jane. Jane could not deny,
But at the same time she begged leave to defy
The parson to prove she had uttered a lie.

A church meeting was called: Mr. Plum made a speech.
He said, "Friends, pray listen awhile, I beseech.
What my daughter has said is most certainly true,
For I saw the whole scene on the same evening, too;
But, not wishing to make an unpleasantness rife,

I did not tell either my daughter or wife.

But of course as Miss Jane saw the whole of the act
I think it but right to attest to the fact.

"Tis remarkably strange!" the parson replied:
"It is plain Mr. Plum must something have spied;
Though the wife-beating story of course is denied;
And in that I can say I am grossly belied."
While he ransacks his brain, and ponders, and tries
To recall any scene that could ever give rise
To so monstrous a charge,-just then his wife cries,
"I have it, my love: you remember that night
When I had such a horrible, terrible fright.
We both were retiring that evening to rest,-
I was seated, my dear, and but partly undressed,
When a nasty large rat jumped close to my feet;
My shrieking was heard, I suppose, in the street;

You caught up the poker, and ran round the room, And at last knocked the rat, and so sealed its doom. Our shadows, my love, must have played on the blind; And this is the mystery solved, you will find."

MORAL.

Don't believe every tale that is handed about;
We have all enough faults and real failings, without
Being burdened with those of which there's a doubt.
If you study this tale, I think, too, you will find
That a light should be placed in the front, not behind:
For often strange shadows are seen on the blind.

TIRED MOTHERS.-MRS. ALBERT SMITII.

A little elbow leans upon your knee,-
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-
This restless curling head from off your breast,-
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,-
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more,

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,-
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!

THE EAGLE'S ROCK.

'Twas the Golden Eagle's Rock,

Craggy and wild and lone,

Where he sat in state, with his royal mate,

On his undisputed throne.

High on the dizzy steep

Did their blood-stained evrie lie,

Where the white bones told who had robb'd the fold When the shepherd was not by.

Well might the spoilers gloat

At ease in their fortress gray,

For never had man, since the world began,
Clambered its height half-way!

And the Golden Eagle stood

Eyeing the noon-day sun,

Till the clamoring cry of his nestlings nigh,
Charged him with work undone;

And his mighty wings are spread,

And he sweepeth down chasms wide;

And his fierce eyes gleam by the mountain stream, And he scours the hill's green side.

Then o'er a shady glen

Doth the bold marauder sail,

Where villagers gay hold a festal day
Down in their verdant vale.

Apart from a joyous group

A mother her darling bears;
With happy smiles at his baby wiles,
His innocent mirth she shares.

Then she sits on the velvet sward,
Shaded by trees at noon,

And rocks him to rest on her loving breast,
Singing a low, sweet tune.

Now on the soft green turf

That mother her babe doth lie, While over its head is a watcher dread, In that dark spot in the sky.

She kisses its cherub cheek,

And leaves it awhile; ah, woe!
For broader above, o'er her gentle dove,
That terrible spot doth grow.

Hushed was the peasants' mirth,

And the stoutest they stood aghast;

And the wail of despair, it rent the air,
As the eagle o'er them passed.

He has stolen the pretty child,

All in its rosy sleep;

And bears it in might, with ponderous flight,

Straight towards his castle-keep!

Whose is that up-turned face,

White as the mountain snow? Horror is there, and blank despair, Speechless and tearless woe;—

Pale are those bloodless lips;

But lo! in that mother's eye

There flasheth the light of love's great might,
Stronger than agony.

She darts from the wailing throng,
Her coming is like the wind;

The weeping loud of the noisy crowd
Dieth away behind.

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