HE DOETH HIS ALMS TO BE SEEN OF MEN.

A poor little girl in a tattered gown
Wandering alone through the crowded town,
All weary and worn, on the curb sat down,
By the side of the way to rest;

Bedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown,
Her hands on her bosom pressed.

The night was approaching,-the winter's chill blast
That fell on the child as he hurried past,
Concealed the tears that were falling fast
From the poor little maiden's eye,-
The blinding snow on her pale cheek cast,
Unheeded her plaintive cry.

Now hurriedly passing along the street,
She catches the sound of approaching feet;
And wearily rises, as if to entreat
Some aid from the passer by;

But slowly and sadly resumes her seat,
Repelled by the glance of his eye.

He saw the wind tempest resistlessly hurl
The gathering snow-flakes, with many a whirl,
Upon her bare head, where each soft-shining curl
Was swept by the breath of the storm;
But what did he care for the little girl,-
His raiment was ample and warm!

He went to a charity meeting that night
And spoke, to the listeners' great delight,
Of how 'twas the duty of all to unite,
The suffering poor to relieve;

And held up his check for a thousand at sight,
So all of the crowd could perceive.

He handed the check to the treasurer, when
The audience applauded again and again,
But the angel who holds the recording pen
This sentence methinks did record:
"He doeth his alms to be seen of men,
Their praise is his only reward.”

The paper next morning had much to say
Of how the "good gentleman" did display
His generous spirit, in giving away

So much for the poor man's cause.

He smiled as he read his own praise that day
And thought of the night's applause.

TTT*

Near by, the same paper went on to repeat
A story they'd heard, of how, out on the street,
A watchman at dawning of morn on his beat,
A poor little child had found,-

With only the snow for a winding sheet,-
Frozen to death on the ground!

Ah! who can declare that when God shall unfold
Eternity's records, he will not hold

Him guilty of murder, who seeks with his gold,
In charity's name to buy

The praises of men, while out in the cold

He leaves a poor child to die.

NATIONS AND HUMANITY.-GEO. W. CURTIS.

It was not his olive valleys and orange groves which made the Greece of the Greek, it was not for his apple orchards or potato fields that the farmer of New England and New York left his plough in the furrow and marched to Bunker Hill, to Bennington, to Saratoga. A man's country is not a certain area of land, but it is a principle; and patriotism is loyalty to that principle. The secret sanctification of the soil and symbol of a country is the idea which they represent; and this idea the patriot worships through the name and the symbol.

So with passionate heroism, of which tradition is never weary of tenderly telling, Arnold von Winkelried gathers into his bosom the sheaf of foreign spears. So, Nathan Hale, disdaining no service that duty demands, perishes untimely with no other friend than God and the satisfied sense of duty. So, through all history from the beginning, a noble army of martyrs has fought fiercely, and fallen bravely, for that unseen mistress, their country. So, through all history to the end, that army must still march, and fight, and fall.

But countries and families are but nurseries and influences. A man is a father, a brother, a German, a Roman, an American; but beneath all these relations, he is a man. The end of his human destiny is not to be the best German, or the best Roman, or the best father; but the best man he can be.

History shows us that the association of men in various nations is made subservient to the gradual advance of the whole human race; and that all nations work together towards one grand result. So, to the philosophic eye, the race is but a vast caravan forever moving, but seeming often to encamp for centuries at some green oasis of ease, where luxury lures away heroism, as soft Capua enervated the hosts of Hannibal.

But still the march proceeds,-slowly, slowly over mountains, through valleys, along plains, marking its course with monumental splendors, with wars, plagues, crime,―advancing still, decorated with all the pomp of nature, lit by the constellations, cheered by the future, warned by the past. In that vast march, the van forgets the rear; the individual is lost; and yet the multitude is but many individuals. He faints, and falls, and dies; man is forgotten; but still mankind moves on, still worlds revolve, and the will of God is done in earth and heaven.

We of America, with our soil sanctified and our symbol glorified by the great ideas of liberty and religion,-love of freedom and love of God,—are in the foremost vanguard of this great caravan of humanity. To us rulers look, and learn justice, while they tremble; to us the nations look, and learn to hope, while they rejoice. Our heritage is all the love and heroism of liberty in the past; and all the great of the " Old World" are our teachers.

Our faith is in God and the right; and God himself is, we believe, our Guide and Leader. Though darkness sometimes shadows our national sky, though confusion comes from error, and success breeds corruption, yet will the storm pass in God's good time, and in clearer sky and purer atmosphere our national life grow stronger and nobler, sanctified more and more, consecrated to God and liberty by the martyrs who fall in the strife for the just and true.

And so with our individual hearts, strong in love for our principles, strong in faith in our God, shall the nation leave to coming generations a heritage of freedom, and law, and religion, and truth, more glorious than the world has known before; and our American banner be planted first and highest on heights as yet unwon in the great march of humanity.

84*

THE MODERN BELLE.

The daughter sits in the parlor,
And rocks in her easy-chair;
She is dressed in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;
She winks, and giggles, and simpers,
And simpers, and giggles, and winks;

And though she talks but little,

It's vastly more than she thinks.

Her father goes clad in russet-
All brown and seedy at that;
His coat is out at the elbows,
And he wears a shocking bad hat.
He is hoarding and saving his dollars,
So carefully, day by day,

While she on her whims and fancies
Is squandering them all away.

She lies in bed of a morning
Until the hour of noon,

Then comes down, snapping and snarling
Because she's called too soon.

Her hair is still in papers,

Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint

Remains of last night's blushes

Before she attempted to faint.

Her feet are so very little,
Her hands are so very white,
Her jewels so very heavy,

And her head so very light;
Her color is made of cosmetics-
Though this she'll never own;
Her body is mostly cotton,

And her heart is wholly stone.

She falls in love with a fellow

Who swells with a foreign air; He marries her for her money, She marries him for his hairOne of the very best matches; Both are well mated in life; She's got a fool for a husband, And he's got a fool for a wife.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.-JOHN G. WHITTIER. Conductor Bradley (always may his name Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came, Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,

Sank with the brake he grasped just where he stood To do the utmost that a brave man could,

And die, if needful, as a true man should.

Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,
Lost in the strength and glory of his years.

What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,
Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again:
'Put out the signals for the other train!"

No nobler utterance since the world began
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran,
Electric, through the sympathies of man.

Ah, me! how poor and noteless seem to this
The sick-bed drama of self-consciousness,—
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!

Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain!
Freighted with life, the downward-rushing train,
Following the wrecked one as wave follows wave,
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.
Others he saved, himself he could not save!

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died!

THE GUARD'S STORY.

We were on picket, sir, he and I,
Under the blue of a midnight sky

In the wilderness, where the night bird's song
Gives back an echo all night long.