II.

In rain or shine, through peace an' war,
It's still been, as appears,

A member of our family, for

Some five an' fifty years;

It's stood right there, through thick an' thin, An' kep' track of the sun,

An' raked its own opinions in

'Bout what we mortals done;
It's hed good watch o' young an' old
(An' looked so mild an' meek!)
Some anecdotes ther' would be told,
If our old clock could speak!
III.

It's stood aroun' at every meal,
Mid clash o' plate an' cup,
An' heard us our ide's reveal,
An' size the neighbors up;
It's traced our little bickerin's, too,
An seemed to sympathize,
A squintin' softly at us through
Them solemn key-hole eyes;
It's umpired many a lively game
O' social hide-an' seek;

'Twould score a number o' the same,
Providin' it could speak!

IV.

How our folks drove to town one day, An' lef' us chil'run free

With self-protectin' things to play,

"But let the ol' clock be;"

An' though we young 'uns (never still)
Hadn't thought o' that before

We now couldn't let it 'lone, until
It crashed down on the floor!
We tremblin' set it up again,

Half-runnin', with a squeak;
'Twas lucky for our jackets, then,
The critter couldn't speak!

V.

How ol' folks went to church, one night,

An' left us all-sly elves

If we'd conduct there-good an' right

A meetin' by ourselves;

But neighbor gals an' boys in teens
Walked in-an' first we knew,

We fell to playin' "Oats peas beans,"
"Snap up and catch 'em," too;

We scattered, when, by good ear-luck
She heard the big gate creak:

The ol' clock frowned an' ticked an' struck
But couldn't make out to speak!

VI.

Ah me! the facts 'twould just let fly,
Suppose it had the power!
Of courtin' chaps, when on the sly,
They turned it back an hour;
Of weddin's-holdin' tender yet,
The bride's last virgin grace;

Of fun'rals-where it peeped to get
A good look at The Face;

It knows the inside-out o' folks-
An' Nature's every freak;

I'd write a book, if I could coax
That wise ol' clock to speak!
VII.

Still straight as any gun it stan's
Ag'in the kitchen wall;

An' slowly waves its solemn han's
Outlivin' of us all!

I venerate some clocks I've seen,
As e'en a'most sublime:
They form revolvin' links between
Etarnity an' time.

An' when you come to take the pains
To strike a dreamy streak,
The figurative fact remains,

That all the clocks can speak.

WILL CARLETON. -Ladies' Home Journal, September, 1889.

My blessed wife! (and may her kind increase)
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
Thinking some better way to bless mankind;
To give them healthful bodies, strength and mind;
To have them loving, patient, thoughtful, kind;
To make men love their homes; firmer bind
The wife and husband; home to make so good
That nothing's wanted but the daily food.
Again she slept; then saw within her room
A clean, neat, cook-stove, and a fire in bloom,
Near which Saint Peter stood, with book of gold.
Exceeding neatness made Frou Percy bold,
And to the Saint within the room she said:
"What writest thou?" Saint Peter raised his head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord

He said: "The names of those who best do serve the Lord.

Deeds, and not words, the Heavenly Master

wants:

Hypocrisy will count not, nor loud vaunts. What canst thou do? What hast thou done for God?" "Not much, thou holy one; only by every road That dirt may be kept from us; from every nook I thrust it forth-then I'm an accomplished cook! 'Cleanliness,' O, Saint! we're told in the good book,

Is next to godliness-one must be clean to cook Food that will nourish body, mind and soul:

I labor Saint, that I may'do the whole!" "And is this all to write within the book?" "Yea, holy one, pray write me down a cook!" St. Peter vanished not, but with his holy key He opened wide the book. "Thy virtue pleases me! Deeds and not words thou givest to the Lord; Enter his palace gates; with one accord Shall mankind bless thee; thou savest more From sin and faithlessness than many saints before;

Body and mind and soul! the very trinity of man! To make all clean is noble; there are few who can, Even amongst the best, do more; all goodness strives

To banish taint, impurity, untidiness and pride; But to make clean without, keep the soul free from stain,

Embue the mind with purity, a constant guard mantain

'Gainst all polluting influences of body, mind and soul!

Sin is a moral filthiness! thou'rt right, cleanse well the whole;

Saint, preacher, missionary, sure art thou;
Naught is too good for thee; the angels bow
Before thy cleanly usefulness, and every man
Approaches nearer God; if clean, he can
Behold His brightness; if, while on earth,
Man gives not way to impious thoughts; if mirth
Instead of sulkiness cheers his clean table;
Saint, thou'st done much to humanize; thou'rt able
To open wide the gates of Paradise; there look!
See mankind worshiping the cleanly cook!"
"Nay, Saint; forgive, I cannot enter in,
Save with my husband; e'en Paradise without
him

Would not be perfect; ope again thy book;

I will go back to earth, and there will cook
Food fit for angels, better than erst the gods
On high Olympus feasted!" "Nay child, these

moods

Are needless; has he not freely shared with thee
All that thou art, and did? Why, then, he's free
To enter Paradise! read in this book:
'Safe is the man who's wife's the best of cooks.'"
PROF. SAMUEL R. PERCY, M. D.

SPRING'S IMMORTALITY.

THE buds awake, at touch of Spring,
From Winter's joyless dream;
From many a stone the ouzels sing

By yonder mossy stream.

The cuckoo's voice, from copse and vale,
Lingers, as if to meet

The music of the nightingale
Across the rising wheat:-

The nightingale, whom solitude

Has kept for ever young; Unaltered, since in studious mood,

Calm Milton mused and sung. Ah, strange it is, mine own, to know Spring's gladsome mystery

Was always in the long ago

Most sweet to such as we.

The fresh new leaves, the meek wild flowers
Bloomed when the South wind came;
And, while Spring's hand carressed the
bowers,

The throstle sang the same.
So, when relentless years ere long
Have stilled our love in death;
Unchanged will be the throstle's song,
Unchanged Spring's answering breath.
H. T. MACKENZIE BELL.

SUNSET ON PUGET SOUND. BROAD wave on wave of scarlet, fleck'd with gold, Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky, Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze, strong and cold. There white sails gleam, and soft cloudshadows lie,

And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales, in unchecked passion bold.

Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills, it lies-
One stretch of purpling, heaving gold; serene,
It laughs and dimples under sunset skies,
Toward which the chaste Olympics, snow-girt,
lean,

And, bathing in that flood of glory, make
Fit setting for that burnished ocean lake.
ELLA HIGGINSON.

-Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, Aug. 10,1889.