And clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,

The grapes hung purpling in the grange;
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Baby Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew,

And in her features we could trace,

In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too:

We thought her lovely when she came,
But she was holy, saintly now:-
Around her pale, angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame!

God's hand had taken away the seal

That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us,

We never held her being's key;

We could not teach her holy things:
She was Christ's self in purity.

It came upon us by degrees,
We saw its shadow ere it fell,-

The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Baby Bell.

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,

And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.

We cried aloud in our belief,
"Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief.”
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;'
Her heart was folded deep in ours.

Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

At last he came, the messenger,

The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell?

She only crossed her little hands,
She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair,

We wove the roses round her brow,-
White buds, the summer's drifted snow,-
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers!
And thus went dainty Baby Bell

Out of this world of ours!

AND THESE WORDS WERE CARVED OVER HIS MANTEL·

"I am an old man and have had many troubles, but most of them never happened."

When the world seems dark and you seem to see trouble ahead-read the above.

CLARIBEL'S PRAYER

The day with cold gray feet clung shivering to the hills, While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell,

But Waking Blue Eyes smiled, ""Tis ever as God wills;
He knoweth best; and be it rain or shine, 'tis well.
Praise God!" cried always little Claribel.

Then sank she on her knees, with eager, lifted hands;
Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell:
"O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands,
And make her free, whatever hearts rebel.
Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

"And Father,"-still arose another pleading prayer-
"Oh, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell,
Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid, streaming hair,
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well.
Amen! Praise God!" wept little Claribel.

"But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done, And up the crimson sky the shouts of Freedom swell,

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun

Than he whose golden hair I love so well.

Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

When gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night

The heavy air was thrilled with clangor of a bell. "Oh, shout!" the herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light;

"'Tis victory! Oh, what glorious news to tell!" "Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel.

"But, pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight? And in the fiery rain? Oh, fought he brave and well?" "Dear child," the herald cried, "there was no braver sight

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell." "Praise God!" cried trembling little Claribel.

"And rides he now with victor's plumes of red,

While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell?"

The herald dropped a tear. "Dear child," he softly said,

"Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell." "Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel.

"With victors wearing crowns, and bearing palms," he said.

A snow of sudden fear upon the rose-lips fell.

"Oh, sweetest herald, say my brother lives," she plead. "Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel.

Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel."

The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, While bitter mourning on the night-wind rose and fell. "O child," the herald wept," 'tis as the dear Lord wills: He knoweth best, and, be it life or death, 'tis well." "Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel.

Lynde Palmer.

REAL VICTORY

To forgive wrongs darker than death and night;
To suffer woes that hope thinks infinite;

To love and bear; to hope till hope creates

From her own wrecks the thing she contemplates;
Never to change, nor falter, nor repent,

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be

Good, brave and joyous, beautiful and free;

This above life, love, empire and victory.

Shelley.

Of speech unguarded

Man doth oft repent

But not of keeping silence.

King Robert of Jerusalem.