THE GRACIOUS ANSWER.-HENRY N. COBB. The way is dark, my child! but leads to light. The day goes fast, my child! But is the night The way is long, my child! But it shall be And quick and straight Lead to heaven's gate The path is rough, my child! But oh! how sweet With me shalt rest The throng is great, my child! But at thy side Lead safe along The cross is heavy, child! Yet there was One My well-beloved. For him bear thine; and stand Receive a crown, My child! HEPSY'S AMBITION.-ESTELLE THOMSON. Some folks thought Hepsy had talent. Perhaps she had. At all events she was tired of such a humdrum life as she led, and longed to be doing something in the world that people might be aware of the fact that she lived. And then she wanted money, too. To be sure, she might sew. But she disliked close confinement to a sewing-room. She might secure a situation as governess or housekeeper. But that was too commonplace. Hepsy was ambitious. Why not be an authoress? People did make a living in that way. Who knew but she might become a poetess of renown? The very idea caused her heart to beat with unaccustomed rapidity, as she thought of herself flattered and admired for the charms of her mind. Yes, she would immediately commence a poem which should be no merely commonplace affair of rhyme and jingle, but a beautiful drawing out and blending in harmony of all the finest thoughts and fancies of her brain. She would begin her task right away while the inspiration was upon her. So she wheeled up an easy chair before the writing-desk, drew forth pen and paper, ran her fingers several times frantically through her hair, after the manner of literary characters, and-tried to think. She did hope no one would intrude. She must of course put all the minor responsibilities of worldly life entirely out of her mind. Well, she would call her poem-let's see! what would she call it? How surprised her friends would be when they read it! Wouldn't it be delightful, though, to create such a sensation! Oh, but about the title! Well, as this was the first, she would-she would-oh, yes! she knew now. She would dedicate it to some unknown friend. Ah, but that was such a brilliant idea! How nicely it would look written! And she wrote it "To my unknown friend." Now how should she begin? How did other famous authors usually begin? She really could not recall any fine poems just then. She took a volume of choice selections in poetry from the book-shelf, and ran her eye over the first line of some dozen different pieces. They didn't suit her. Well, she would not imitate any one else's style. It should be said of her production that it was entirely original. But what should she have for the first line? How hard it was to think! How brightly the sun shone in that window! She lowered the curtain. She wondered if it came as hard for all authors to get under literary inspiration? She wondered-what-magazine-she had better send her manuscript to? She wondered if the editor wouldn't happen to be a young man and good looking? She wondered if she had better spend her first money-for-a-pink sash-ora-blue one? She wondered-oh, dear! how late it was! Twelve o'clock already! She must make haste. She inked her fingers. That made her seem more like a poetess. Then she ran her fingers through her hair again, and-wrote: "I would not ask that round your path The loveliest flowers might bloom, And share earth's common doom." (Ting-a-ling-a-ling!) "Peggy, there's some one at the door." "Yes mum. If you plaze mum, here's a bookay the boy left, an' he sez as how Mr. Harry will be afther callin' on yez this afthernoon." "Oh, why couldn't Mr. Harry wait until he's invited? Let me see the bouquet. You say I'm out, Peggy, when the gentleman calls this afternoon." Yes, they are very sweet flowers-very sweet "But oh! the fairest fade at last, And share earth's common doom. "I would not ask that beauty rare Miss Hepsy! Miss Hepsy! there's a gintleman in the parlor as would be afther seein' yerself." "Oh, the bother! I wonder if my rats and mice sit straight? Tell him I'll be down soon, Peggy. Dear me, how provoking to have callers just at this time! I don't see why I didn't put my hair up in crimping-pins last night. It never was becoming, done plain. Well, I must be thinking all the while I am gone what will rhyme with gift. Let me see 'I would not ask that beauty rare Dear me! there's no use twisting that curl any more. I never can make my hair curl like other peoples', and I certainly cannot go down in this plight. Peggy! Peggy! Tell the gentleman I am engaged, and cannot possibly see him to-day. And mind, Peggy, that you ask him to call again." Now to my poem: "I would not ask that beauty rare "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe their woes, Go heal the wounded heart-" Isn't that beautiful? Won't people be affected? (Rap, rap, rap!) "Come in!" "If you please, ma'am, can you give me something to help my poor family? We're so cold and hungry! We're very poor indeed, ma'am, and if you will be so kind—” "Peggy, show this beggar to the door! I really cannot have my literary labors interrupted in this way." Those beggars are always such a nuisance! Now where was it I left off Oh, yes, yes! "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe-" "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe their woes, Go heal the wounded heart And wipe the tears of grief away When sorrow bids them start. "To shine in fashion's gilded hall, Is not the boon for which I'd call, "Miss Hepsy, here's a note from Miss Butterworth." 66 Well, let me read it. Oh! it's an invitation to attend the military ball this evening. But how can I go? My new silk isn't finished yet, and I've worn all my other dresses two or three times, and I could not think of going in any of them. Peggy, you may go and ask Miss Stitchem if she cannot possibly let me have my new silk this evening. But no-stop! I'll have to go and see about it myself.” Dear, dear! I don't see how other people write poetry. I am sure I cannot, and I may as well give it up first as last, although I do think mine would have been pretty good if I could only have finished it. THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.-JOHN H. YATES. I've just come in from the meadow, wife, where the grass is tall and green; I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new machine; Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath the rays of a scorching sun, Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done : I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over the farm, Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pain come in my arm. It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swingin' the old scythe then; Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men: I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at its speed and power; The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one short hour. John said that I hadn't seen the half: when he puts it into his wheat, I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat; Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and larn To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn. John kinder laughed when he said it; but I said to the hired men, "I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten, That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air, There's a difference in the work I done, and the work my boys now do; Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new; But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days, That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways. |