And yet how wondrous sweet The look with which he heard my passionate cry, "Touch not my lamb; for him, oh! let me die!" "A little while," He said, with smile and sigh, "Again to meet."

Hopeless I fell;

And when I rose, the light had burned so low,
So faint I could not see my darling go:
He had not bidden me farewell, but oh!
I felt farewell

More deeply, far,

Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame: Though could I but have heard him call my name"Dear mother!"--but in heaven 'twill be the same, There burns my star!

He will not take

Another lamb, I thought, for only one
Of the dear fold is spared, to be my sun,
My guide; my mourner when this life is done;
My heart would break.

Oh! with what thrill

I heard Him enter; but I did not know
(For it was dark) that He had robbed me so.
The idol of my soul-he could not go-
O heart, be still!

Came morning. Can I tell

How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept?
For waking tears were mine; I, sleeping, wept,
And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept.
Alas! Farewell:"

How often it is said!

I sit and think, and wonder too, sometime,
How it will seem, when, in that happier clime,
It never will ring out like funeral chime
Over the dead.

No tears! no tears!

Will there a day come that I shall not weep?
For I bedew my pillow in my sleep.

Yes, yes; thank God! no grief that clime shall keep,
No weary years.

Ay! it is well:

Well with my lambs, and with their earthly guide.
There, pleasant rivers wander they beside,
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide→
Ay! it is well,

Through the dreary day,

They often come from glorious light to me;
I cannot feel their touch, their faces see,
Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me-
Heaven is not far away.

CHRISTMAS EVE.-MISS H. A. FOSTER.

Three little stockings-two blue, and one red,
Hung up 'neath the mantle so neatly;
Two little boys rest in their low trundle-bed,
In her cradle the baby sleeps sweetly.

With foot on the rocker, and love in her eye,
A mother is quietly sitting;

She chants to slow measure an old lullaby-
Her hands the while busily knitting.

She stops now and then to replace, with a kiss,
Two dimpled arms under the cover;

She knows that, commissioned from regions of bliss,
'Round her baby the bright angels hover.

But the moments glide on; her singing is o'er;
With hands on her lap idly sinking,

And knitting-work fallen quite on to the floor,
She is thinking—so busily thinking.

Thought wings her away to the sunshiny past,
Where sweetest of mem'ries are hidden;

But round the low cot sweeps the wild wintry blast-
Sweeps away her fond visions, unbidden.

She looks round her room with dissatisfied gaze-
That humble room furnished so plainly;

"Alas for the hopes of my long ago days!

66

Why, still, do I cherish you vainly?

And this for our home; poor, wretched at best;
Though John calls it tidy and cosy ;

A home for our children-had fortune but blessed
Their infancy sparkling and rosy,

"My husband could banish the care which annoys;
I would dress in rich satins and laces;

We could look with such pride on our bright, noble boys And our daughter's rare beauty and graces.

"Instead of these three little stockings I see,
Each waiting its poor, penny treasure,

We could plant in our parlor a vast Christmas tree,
Which should bear costly fruits without measure."

Tis gone; the feverish longing is past—

Years of toil, hope, and love true and tender;
Exchanged is the low, humble cottage at last
For a long envied dwelling of splendor.

Those years fill his coffers, but stay not their flight,
For John and his wife have grown older;

Her eye has lost much of its olden love-light-
His heart become harder and colder.

Christmas Eve. In the splendor of parlor and hall
The mother sits, wearied and weeping;

Through thin, jewelled fingers, her burning tears fall,
While her late lonely vigil she's keeping.

She looks on the brilliant luxuriance there,
Fruition of Hope's early dreaming,

The Christmas tree laden with fruitage so rare,
Rich and ripe, 'midst its foliage gleaming.

But the hands which should gather-where are they tonight?

Ah, gold! the false hearted, alluring,

On the name of the daughter has fallen a blight,

Than beauty and grace more enduring.

There are tears for the fair one whose coming no more That desolate bosom will gladden;

There's an ache in the heart which wealth covers o'er, Which poverty could not so sadden.

There are tears for the wayward-the boys are so changed-
Money opens the door to temptation,-

From mother and home, by the wine-cup estranged,
They wander in wild dissipation.

Hark! is it the night-wind in fury unbound

Through leafless trees shrieking and sighing?
She listens her quick ear interprets the sound-
Down, wild, through the passage she's flying.

Her white hands unlock and throw open the door,
A terrible vision revealing!

Robbed-murdered-her husband lies covered with gore—
His heart's blood still flowing, congealing.

With a shriek of deep anguish and utter despair,

She falls.

*

* * Why my dear, what's the matter? Dreaming, wer'n't you? The children sleep well, I declare, Amid such commotion and clatter.

"Here, tuck in their stockings these candies and toys-
Only trifles-but true love goes with them!
God bless our sweet baby, and dear, darling boys
With health to enjoy what we give them!"

Mary smiles through her tears on that fond beaming face
Oh, John, we are blessed without measure!

Our own humble home is a dear happy place,
And love is its pure, priceless treasure!”

ONLY A BOY.

Only a boy, with his noise and fun,
The veriest mystery under the sun;
As brimful of mischief, and wit, and glee,
As ever a human frame can be,

And as hard to manage as-what? ah, me!
'Tis hard to tell,

Yet we loved him well.

Only a boy, with his fearful tread,
Who cannot be driven,-must be led.

Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats,
And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats,
Loses more kites, and tops, and bats,

Than would stock a store
For a year or more!

Only a boy, with his wild strange ways,
With his idle hours, or his busy days,
With his queer remarks and his odd replies,
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise,-

Often brilliant for one of his size

As a meteor hurled

From the planet world!

Only a boy, who will be a man,

If nature goes on with her first great plan-
If intemperance, or some fatal snare,
Conspire not to rob us of this our heir,
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care,
Our torment, our joy!
Only a boy,

THE "FAT CONTRIBUTOR" ON INSURANCE AGENTS.

I picked him out as an insurance man as quick as I saw him. There was no mistaking that glance of inventory with which he took in my age, occupation, parents long or short lived, age of great-grandfather, when he died, pulmonary complaint on my mother's side, summer complaint on my father's side, etc., etc. Before he ever spoke, he would sit looking at me for an hour at a time, with great tears in his benevolent eyes as big as soap bubbles, grieving because one so young, and yet so fair, wasn't insured. Then he would clasp his hands and gaze yearningly upon me as if to say-"Why will you not take out a policy?"

Oh, it was touching to hear that old man go on at the table and tell of the hundreds and hundreds of families whom he had rendered comfortable and happy, by inducing their husbands and fathers to get insured; and he did it out of pure goodness of heart, and love of humanity, too— that was the best of it. The satisfaction it afforded him was all the reward he wanted.

If, in a moment of weakness, I should yield to his persuasion and get insured, I shouldn't want to remain in this vicinity long. So anxious is he to have families reap the benefit of insurance, I should be afraid that well-meaning, but impetuous old man would contrive to get me killed, for the satisfaction of handing the insurance money over to my widow.

I was greatly touched by a story this venerable insurance man told about his search for a poor woman, who had a policy on her husband's life, (in a company represented,) in order to pay it to her, having heard casually that she wanted it. I think he was occupied some fifteen years in his hunt for that woman; and yet only one payment on the policy had ever been made. But it is so much the custom of life insurance companies to do this, that it is hardly necessary to mention that.

At length his efforts were rewarded. He found the poor woman, with six children, in a miserable garret, trying to earn a living for her family, by splitting up toothpicks at one cent a thousand. Lying in a corner was her brute of a husband