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The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place.

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,
"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes
you cry!"

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel;

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,

While close to his heaving breast The moistened brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay: Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!

CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

NOT ONE TO SPARE.

"WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be?" I looked at John

John looked at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet); And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak: "Tell me again what Robert said.” And then I, listening, bent my head. "This is his letter: 'I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.'
I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty and work and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this. "Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep;" so, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly the father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in a gentle way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her, not her!"
We stopped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed

Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him! !"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one

Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave,
Bid us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;

"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from our bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above

And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 't would better be,'

I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee,"

The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,

Trusty and truthful, good and glad

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Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows weak as a woman's,

And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; O, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!

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FAITH AND HOPE.

O, DON'T be sorrowful, darling!
Now, don't be sorrowful, pray;
For, taking the year together, my dear,
There is n't more night than day.
It's rainy weather, my loved one;

Time's wheels they heavily run ;

But taking the year together, my dear, There is n't more cloud than sun.

We're old folks now, companion,

Our heads they are growing gray;
But taking the year all round, my dear,
You always will find the May.
We've had our May, my darling,

And our roses, long ago;

And the time of the year is come, my dear, For the long dark nights, and the snow.

But God is God, my faithful,

Of night as well as of day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever he leads the way.

Ay, God of night, my darling!

Of the night of death so grim;

And the gate that from life leads out, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him.

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