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Will the simple, trusting faith
Shining in the childish breast
Always be so clear and bright?
Will God always know the rest,
Loving little Margery?

As the weary years go on,
And you are a child no more,
But a woman, trouble-worn,
Will it come-this faith of yours-
Blessing you, dear Margery?

If your sweetest love shall fail,
And your idol turn to dust,
Will you bow to meet the blow,
Owning all God's ways are just?
Can you, sorrowing Margery?

Should your life-path grow so dark
You can see no step ahead,
Will you lay your hand in His,
Trusting by him to be led

To the light, my Margery?

Will the woman, folding down
Peaceful hands across her breast,
Whisper, with her old belief,

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God, my Father, knows the rest,
He'll take tired Margery?"

True, my darling, life is long,

And its ways are dark and dim; But God knows the path you tread; I can leave you safe with Him, Always, little Margery.

He will keep your childish faith,
Through your weary woman years,
Shining ever strong and bright,
Never dimmed by saddest tears,
Trusting little Margery.

You have taught a lesson sweet
To a yearning, restless soul;
We pray in snatches, ask a part,
But God above us knows the whole,
And answers, baby Margery.

1

THE MIGHT OF LOVE.-ALICE CARY.

"There is work, good man, for you to-day!"
So the wife of Jamie cried,

"For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway,
Is beached, and her coal's to be got away
At the ebbing time of tide."

"And, lassie, would you have me start,
And make for Solway sands?
You know that I, for my poor part,
To help me, have nor horse nor cart-
I have only just my hands!"

"But, Jamie, be not, till ye try,
Of honest chances baulked;
For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy
That while the old ship's high and dry
Her master'll have her caulked."

And far and near the men were pressed,
As the wife saw in her dreams.
"Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the best,"
As he went under with the rest
To caulk the open seams.

And while the outward-flowing tide
Moaned like a dirge of woe,

The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried:
"Her hull is heeling toward the side
Where the men are at work below!"

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed,
Made for the Solway sands-
Men heaving men like coals aside,
For now it was the master cried:
"Run for your lives, all hands!"

Like dead leaves in the sudden swell
Of the storm, upon that shout,
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell,
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell-mell
The men came hurtling out!

Thank God, thank God, the peril's past!
"No! no!" with blanching lip,
The master cries. "One man, the last,
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast
Betwixt the sands and the ship!"

"Back, back, all hands! Get what you can-
Or pick, or oar, or stave."

This way and that they breathless ran,
And came and fell to, every man,

To dig him out of his grave!

"Too slow! too slow! the weight will kill!
Up, make your hawsers fast!"
Then every man took hold with a will-
A long pull and a strong pull-still
With never a stir o' the mast!

"Out with the cargo!" Then they go
At it with might and main.

"Back to the sands! too slow, too slow! He's dying, dying! yet, heave ho!

Heave ho! there, once again!"

And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood
A woman whose pale brow wore

Its love like a queenly crown; and the blood
Ran curdled and cold as she watched the flood
That was racing in to the shore.

On, on it trampled, stride by stride.
It was death to stand and wait:

And all that were free threw picks aside,
And came up dripping out o' th' tide,
And left the doomed to his fate.

But lo! the great sea trembling stånds;
Then, crawling under the ship,

As if for the sake of the two white hands
Reaching over the wild, wet sands,
Slackened that terrible grip.

"Come to me, Jamie! God grants the way,"
She cries, "for lovers to meet."

And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say,
And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray,
Laid him dead at her feet.

THE STATUE IN CLAY.

"Make me a statue," said the King,
"Of marble white as snow;
It must be pure enough to stand
Before my throne at my right hand,
The niche is waiting-go!"

The sculptor heard the King's command,
And went upon his way:

He had no marble, but he went,
With willing hands, and high intent,
To mould his thoughts in clay.

Day after day he wrought the clay,
But knew not what he wrought;
He sought the help of heart and brain,
But could not make the riddle plain,
It lay beyond his thought.

To-day the statue seemed to grow,
To-morrow it stood still;

The third day all was well again;
Thus, year by year, in joy and pain,
He wrought his Master's will.

At last his life-long work was done-
It was a happy day;

He took his statue to the King,
But trembled like a guilty thing,
Because it was but clay.

"Where is my statue?" asked the King.
"Here, Lord," the sculptor said.
"But I commanded marble." "True,
But lacking that, what could I do
But mould in clay instead?"
"Thou shalt not unrewarded go,
Since thou hast done thy best;
Thy statue shall acceptance win,
It shall be as it should have been,
For I will do the rest."

He touched the statue, and it changed;
The clay falls off, and lo!

A marble shape before him stands,
The perfect work of heavenly hands,
An angel pure as snow!

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, " peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,—

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." "Come to what?"

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"Ah! I see. Yes-yes. Um! Yes-yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and, when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,

"How do you spell it?" "Spell what?"

"Interview."

"Oh, my goodness! What do you want to spell it for?" "I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means." "Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you-if you

"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"I n, in, te r, ter, inter "-

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why, certainly!"

"Oh, that is what took me so long!"

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'Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?" "Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition." "Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as-as-intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,-I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes yes: they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"

"Ah, well-well-well-this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me

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