I sat by the dreary hearth alone;

I thought of the pleasant days of yore;
I said, "The staff of my life is gone,
The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,
Which next to her heart she used to wear-
Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes
When my own face was not there.

"It is set all around with rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled,
For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said "The thing is precious to me;

They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be

If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,

And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came,

Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding sheet t;
There stark she lay on her carven bed;
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand I held my breath;
I turned as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first as my touch fell there

It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

"Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow

O'er the heart of the dead-from the other side,And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse ?" I cried.

Opposite me, by the tapers' light,

The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse and all as white,
And neither of us moved.

"What do you here my friend?" The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.

"There is a portrait here," he began: "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours no doubt
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
A month ago," said my friend to me:
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered, "Let us see."

"Enough! let the dead decide;

And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,-
Where death is arraigned by love."

We found the portrait there in its place,
We opened it by the tapers' shine,
The gems were all unchanged; the face
Was-neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at last!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,
"Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest
Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept,-
For each ruby she my heart hath bled,
For each pearl my eyes have wept.

IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER.

I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this evening, and went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but I remember each article.

There are two worn shoes, a little chip-hat with part of the brim gone, some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip, and several toys.

Wife-poor thing-goes to that drawer every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the precious articles; but I dare not go.

Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine into our lives that his going away has been like covering our every-day existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever.

It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there. I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs.

I want some one to tease me for my knife; to ride on my shoulder; to lose my axe; to follow me to the gate when I go, and be there to meet me when I come; to call "goodnight" from the little bed, now empty. And wife, she misses him still more: there are no little feet to wash, no prayers to say; no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt toe; and she would give her own life, almost, to awake at midnight, and look across to the crib and see our boy there as he used to be.

So we preserve our relics; and when we are dead we hope that strangers will handle them tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them.

THE MAN WITH A COLD IN HIS HEAD.

By dabe is Jodes-Daddle Jodes. I ab the bost biserable bad udder the sud. I ab eterdally catchig cold; by doze is everlastigly plaguig be so that I dever cad talk plaid. I have tried every thig id the world to prevedt it, but the cold will

cub in spite of be. Subber ad widter, it is all the sabe. I breathe through by bouth frob Jaduary to Decebber, frob the begiddig to the edd of the year. I've tried Allopathy, Hydropathy, Hobeopathy, and Tobsodiadisb; every systeb of bedicid, but id vaid. All kides of teas, drobs, add old wibbed's dostrubs have bid tried; I've swallowed edough of theb to drowd be; bud's do use. Dothig udder heaved cad keep by feet warb,-dothig keep be frob catching cold.

I ab dot rich, I ab dot poor; but I rather'd be a beggar,—ad orgad grider's budkey,--the beadest thig you could dabe-adythig- rather thad be a bad with a stopped ub doze. I ab very fod of wibbed's society, but I dare dot go idto cubpady; people are too polite to evidce disgust, but everybody becubs udeasy whedever I vedture dear theb. I wad't to barry; but doboddy will have be with by doze-dever! dever! Oh! I ab idcodceivably udhappy!

Sub years ago I fell id love with a charbig girl. Her father was a bad of beads, ad she was the bost widdig little dabsel id the world. Ad she alode of all the world seebed dot to bide by bisfortude. Ad I loved her with a love of udibadgidable idtedsity; every atob of by beig adored her. I deterbid to seredade her. Accordigly I shut byself ub id by roob ad waited a log tibe, udtil by cold got albost edtirely well. At last, wud fide Autub dight, I vedtured forth, wrapped up to the eyes id cloaks, overcoats, shawls, ad what dot; od by feet I wore the thickest kide of gub shoes. A bad of busiciads wedt alog with be. "Twas after eleved o'clock whed we reached her residedce id a fashiodable ad retired street. After the bad had played a dubber of fide tudes, edough I thought to have waked her, I ordered theb to stob, so that I bight sig. I had studied several sogs, all bore or less sedibedtal ad beladcholy, udtil I thought I was perfect. But do sooder had I pulled the hadkerchief off by doze ad bouth thad I caught cold. I cobbedced,―

""Twas ted o'clock wud boodlight dight,”

it souded very badly, so I thought I would try

"Whed twilight dews are fallig fast:"

but that was albost as bad as the first. But I had cub there

to sig, ad sig I bust. So I sug at the top of by voice,

"Cub, oh cub with be,
The bood is beabig;
Cub, oh cub with be,
The stars are gleabig;.
Ad all aroud, above,
With beauty teabig;

ad so forth.

Boodlight hours are the best for love!
Tra la lala la,"

While I was goidg on with "tra la lala la," codgratulatig byself bedtally upod by success, a yug fellow livig id the house adjoidig by sweetheart threw up the widdow ad shouted," Blow your doze, you fool! blow your doze!" Ad all the bad of busiciads laughed log ad udfeeligly. Fadcy by feligs! Shakig by cledched fist at the yug scoudrel id the widdow, I adathebatized hib with the bost awful ibprecatiods I could thidk of, udmidful who bight hear or who bight dot. Of the iddecedt ad udfeelig busiciads, I took do further dotice thad to hurl theb their pay upod the groud. Thed barched hobe, ad retired to by apartbedt, frob which I did dot eberge for budths.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.-ELIZABETH AKERS.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,-

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!