See to my fiat lux respond

This little slumbering fire-tipped wand,-
One touch,-it bursts in flame!

Steal me a portrait from the sun,—

One look, and lo! the picture done!
Are these old tricks, King Solomon,
We lying moderns claim?

Could you have spectroscoped a star?
If both those mothers at your bar,
The cruel and the mild,

The young and tender, old and tough,

Had said, "Divide,-you're right, though rough,"

Did old Judea know enough

To etherize the child?

These births of time our eyes have seen,

With but a few brief years between;

What wonder if the text,

For other ages doubtless true,
For coming years will never do,—
Whereof we all should like a few
If but to see what next.

If such things have been, such may be ;
Who would not like to live and see-
If Heaven may so ordain-
What waifs undreamed of, yet in store,
The waves that roll forevermore

On life's long beach may cast ashore

From out the mist-clad main ?

Will Earth to pagan dreams return
To find from misery's painted urn

That all save hope has flown,-
Of Book and Church and Priest bereft,
The Rock of Ages vainly cleft,
Life's compass gone, its anchor left,
Left,―lost,-in depths unknown?

Shall Faith the trodden path pursue
The crux ansata wearers knew
Who sleep with folded hands,
Where, like a naked, lidless eye,
The staring Nile rolls wondering by
Those mountain slopes that climb the sky
Above the drifting sands?

Or shall a nobler Faith return,
Its fanes a purer gospel learn,

With holier anthems ring,

And teach us that our transient creeds
Were but the perishable seeds

Of harvests sown for larger needs
That ripening years shall bring?

Well, let the present do its best,

We trust our Maker for the rest,

As on our way we plod;

Our souls, full dressed in fleshly suits,

Love air and sunshine, flowers and fruits,

The daisies better than their roots

Beneath the grassy sod.

Not bed-time yet! The full-blown flower
Of all the year-this evening hour-

With friendship's flame is bright;

Life still is sweet, the heavens are fair,
Though fields are brown and woods are bare,
And many a joy is left to share

Before we say Good-night!

And when, our cheerful evening past,

The nurse, long waiting, comes at last,
Ere on her lap we lie

In wearied nature's sweet repose,

At peace with all her waking foes,
Our lips shall murmur, ere they close,

Good-night! and not Good-by!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE INCONSISTENT SEX.

"DEAR baby spoke to-day," she cried,

66

'He said 'Mamma' as plain as plain could be;

And it was sweet his dimpled smile to see,

And sweet his gurgling baby laugh to hear. Come quick! Perhaps he will again. The dear! And, Oh! I am so happy!

"Baby is growing big so fast;

And Oh," the sudden tears gushed to her eyes—

66

He'll speak, and walk, and grow so big and wise;

And love another best, and woo, and wed,

And have no longer need of me," she said,

"And I am so unhappy!"

JOHN LANGDON HEATON.

“'SPACIALLY JIM."

I WAS mighty good-lookin' when I wus young,
Peert an' black-eyed an' slim,

With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,
'Spacially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he,

Chipper an' han'som' an' trim;

But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd,

'Spacially Jim.

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men,

An' I wouldn't take stock in him!

But they kep' on a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Spacially Jim.

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun'
('Spacially Jim !)

I made up my mind I'd settle down
An' take up with him.

So we wus married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim;

'Twas the only way, to git rid of 'em all,

'Spacially Jim.

BESSIE MORGAN.

AFEARED OF A GAL.

OH, darn it all !—afeared of her,
And such a mite of a gal;

Why, two of her size rolled into one
Won't ditto sister Sal!

Her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's,
And the sunshine's in her hair;
But I'd rather face a redskin's knife,
Or the grip of a grizzly bear.
Yet Sal says, "Why, she's such a dear,
She's just the one for you."

Oh, darn it all !—afeared of a gal,
And me just six feet two!

Though she ain't any size, while I'm

Considerable tall,

I'm nowhere when she speaks to me,

She makes me feel so small.

My face grows red, my tongue gets hitched;

The cussed thing won't go;

It riles me, 'cause it makes her think

I'm most tarnation slow.

And though folks say she's sweet on me,

I guess it can't be true.

Oh, darn it all!—afeared of a gal,

And me just six feet two!

My sakes! just s'pose if what the folks

Is saying should be so !