His eyes were wide as bluebells-

His mouth like a flower unblown-
Two little bare feet, like funny white mice,
Peeped out from his snowy gown;
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture
That yet had a touch of pain,
When June rolls around with her roses,
We'll measure the boy again.

Ah me! in a darkened chamber,
With the sunshine shut away,
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain,
We measured the boy to-day;

And the little bare feet, that were dimpled
And sweet as a budding rose,

Lay side by side together,

In the hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow,
White as the risen dawn,

The fair little face lay smiling,

With the light of heaven thereon;

And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves
Dropped from a rose, lay still,

Never to snatch at the sunshine
That crept to the shrouded sill!
We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;

And out of the darkened chamber
We went with a childless moan-
To the height of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.

MINOT'S LEDGE.-FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

Like spectral hounds across the sky
The white clouds scud before the storm,
And naked in the howling night
The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.
The waves with slippery fingers clutch
The massive tower, and climb and fall,
And muttering growl with baffled rage
Their curses on the sturdy wall.
Up in the lonely tower he sits,
The keeper of the crimson light,-

H

Silent and awe-struck does he hear
The imprecations of the night.

The white spray beats against the panes
Like some wet ghost that down the air
Is hunted by a troop of fiends
And seeks a shelter anywhere.

He prays aloud—the lonely man—
For every soul that night at sea;
But more than all for that brave boy
Who used to gayly climb his knee,-
Young Charlie with his chestnut hair
And hazel eyes and laughing lip,—

66

May Heaven look down," the old man cries, "Upon my son, and on his ship."

While thus with pious heart he prays,

Far in the distance sounds a boom,-
He pauses, and again there rings
That sullen thunder through the room.
A ship upon the shoals to-night!
She cannot hold for one half-hour;
But clear the ropes and grappling-hooks,
And trust in the Almighty Power.

On the drenched gallery he stands
Striving to pierce the solid night;
Across the sea the red-eye throws
A steady crimson wake of light,
And where it falls upon the waves
He sees a human head float by,

With long drenched curls of chestnut hair,
And wild but fearless hazel eye.

Out with the hooks! One mighty fling!
Adown the wind the long rope curls.
Oh! will it catch? Ah, dread suspense!
While the wild ocean wilder whirls.
A steady pull- It tightens now!
Oh, his old heart will burst with joy,
As on the slippery rocks he pulls
The breathing body of his boy!

Still sweep the spectres through the sky,
Still scud the clouds before the storm,
Still naked in the howling night
The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.
Without, the world is wild with rage,
Unkenneled demons are abroad;
But with the father and the son
Within, there is the peace of God.

THE MAN WHO FELT SAD.

He entered the hardware store on Woodward avenue about 10 o'clock Saturday morning, and taking a seat by the stove, he beckoned to the proprietor and said:

"Sit down here-I want to speak with you."

He was a man who looked sad from the crown of his hat to the toes of his boots. There were deep care lines on his face, his eyes were red and anxious looking, and his tattered overcoat was drawn in at the waist by a wide leather belt. "Can we do anything for you to-day?" asked the merchant as he sat down.

The sad man slowly wiped his nose, slowly turned around, and slowly replied;

"Sir, it makes me feel sad when I reflect that we have all got to die!"

Yes-um," replied the merchant.

"Christopher Columbus is dead!" continued the sad man, and who feels bad about it--who sheds a tear over his loss? He is gone, and we shall never see him more! You and I must sooner or later follow him, and the world will go on just the same."

"Then you don't want anything to-day?" queried the merchant after a painful pause.

"-nd King James is dead!" exclaimed the sad man, wiping his nose again. "Is anybody weeping over his loss? Don't folks laugh and laugh, and don't the world go on just the same? Sir, it may not be a week before you and I will be called upon to rest from the labors of this life. Doesn't it make you feel sad when you think of it?"

'Of course, we've got to die," replied the merchant as he tossed a stray nail over among the eightpennys.

"Andrew Jackson is dead," continued the sad man, a tear falling on his hand. "Yes, Andrew has been gathered, and a good man has gone from among us. Were you acquainted

with him?"

"I believe not," was the answer.

“Well, he was a fine man, and many a night I have laid awake and cried to think that he would be seen among us no more forever. Yet do you hear any wailing and sobbing?

Does anybody seem to care a cent whether Andrew Jackson is dead or living? You or I may be the next to go, and the world will move on just the same as if we had never lived." "The world can't, of course, stop for the death of one man, no matter how great," said the merchant.

"That's what makes me sad-that's why I weep these tears!" answered the man, wringing his long, peaked nose with vigorous grief. "William Penn is also dead. Once in a great while I hear some one express sorrow, but as a general thing the world has forgotten William with the rest. Don't it make you feel sad when you reflect that you will never see him again? Don't it make you feel like crying when you think he has gone from among us?"

"I never have time to think of these things," answered the merchant, fondling the coal stove shaker.

"And Shakspeare's gone, too!" exclaimed the man, his chin quivering with agitation," we may sigh, and sigh, and wish, and wish, but poor Shaky will never be seen moving with us again! They have laid him away to sleep his long sleep, and a bright lamp has been extinguished forever."

"Well, did you want anything in the line of hardware?" asked the merchant as he rose up.

"Can you speak of hardware to me at such a time as this?" exclaimed the sad man. "Knowing my sad feelings, seeing these tears, and listening to my broken voice, can you have the heart to try and force hardware upon me?"

The merchant went over to his desk and the sad man wrung his nose again and went out.

-Detroit Free Press.

RESIGNATION.-H. W. LONGfellow.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying;
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,-the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;

For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.