ground away for awhile, scratched out and wrote in, and finally said he'd got the neatest thing that ever went upon white marble. It read:

IN MEMORY
of

HOMER CLINK,

who died

October 13, 1873,

Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days.

My husband was a noble man,
Of me he lots did think;

And I'll never see another man

Like my dear Homer Clink.

"Isn't that bully?" asked the man as he finished reading the inscription.

It's purty fair, but"But what, madam?"

-," replied the widow.

"Why, you see, he was good and kind, and was allus hum nights, and all that, but I may find another man just as good, you know. I have said that I wouldn't marry again, but I may change my mind, and I guess we'd better tinker up that verse a little. And besides, you didn't get anything on the bottom."

She went out and rambled among the tombstones, while the cutter ground away again, and just as she had become interested in a dog-fight he called her in and read the new inscription. The first part was as before, but his poetry read:

My husband is dead,

My poor Homer Clink,

And in the cold ground they have laid him;
He was always home nights,

Never got into fights,

But death came along and betrayed him.

I shall meet him on the other shore where all is lovely,
and where sickness never comes.

"There, how's that?" inquired the poet, a bland smile covering his face. "Seems to me as if that went right to the heart."

The woman took the paper, read the notice over four or five times, and finally said:

"I don't want to seem partickler about this, and I know I'm makin' a good deal of trouble. That would do for most any one else—its the real poetry, but I'd like suthin' kinder different, somehow. He was a noble man. He never gave e a cross word in his life-not one. He'd be out of bed at

daylight, start the fire, and I never got up till I heard him grinding the coffee. He was a good provider, he was. He never bought any damaged goods because he could get 'em cheap, and he never scrimped me on sugar and tea, as some folks do. I can't help but weep when I think of him!"

She sobbed away for awhile, and then brightened up and said:

"Of course, I'll meet him in heaven. It's all right. As I told you, I may never marry again, though I can't tell what I'll be driven to. Just try once more."

She sat down to an old almanac, and the cutter resumed his pen. He seemed to get the right idea at once, and it wasn't fifteen minutes before he had the third notice ground out. It read:

IN MEMORY
of

HOMER CLINK,

who died October 13, 1873,

Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days.

He was the kindest sort 'o man,

He was a good provider;

And when a friend asked him to drink
He always called for cider.

His wife she had a noble heart,
And though she may remarry;
Whene'er she thinks of Homer Clink
Her heart a sigh will carry.

"That's good-that just

tears coming to her eyes.

hits me!" exclaimed the widow, "I've got to go and do some trading, I'll be back in two hours. Put the inscription on handsome-like, and I shan't mind two dollars extra.

About noon her one-horse wagon backed up to the dealer's, and as the stone was loaded up the widow's face wore a quiet smile of satisfaction.

MORN.-MRS. J. L. GRAY.

Morn is the time to wake,

The eyelids to unclose,

Spring from the arms of sleep and break
The fetters of repose;

Walk at the dewy dawn abroad,

And hold sweet fellowship with God.

Morn is the time to pray;

How lovely and how sweet,

To send our earliest thoughts away,
Up to the mercy-seat!
Ambassadors, for us to claim
A blessing in our Master's name.
Morn is the time to sing;

How charming 'tis to hear
The mingling notes of Nature ring
In the delighted ear;

And with that swelling anthem raise
The soul's fresh matin-song of praise.
Morn is the time to sow

The seeds of heavenly truth,
While balmy breezes softly blow
Upon the soil of youth;

And look to thee, nor look in vain,
Our God, for sunshine and for rain!

Morn is the time to love;

As tendrils of the vine,

The young affections fondly rove
And seek them where to twine;
Around thyself, in thine embrace,
Lord, let them find their resting-place!
Morn is the time to shine,

When skies are clear and blue,
Reflect the rays of light divine,
As morning dew-drops do;
Like early stars be early bright,
And melt away like them in light.

Morn is the time to weep

O'er morning hours misspent ; Alas! how oft from peaceful sleep,

On folly madly bent,

We've left the straight and narrow road,

And wandered from our guardian God!'

Morn is the time to think,

While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of life, just balanced on the brink
Of dark eternity,

And ask our souls if they are meet
To stand before the judgment-seat.

Morn is the time to die,

Just at the dawn of day,

When stars are fading in the sky,
To fade like them away;

But lost in light more brilliant far,
Than ever merged the morning star.

Morn is the time to rise,

The resurrection morn,
Upspringing to the glorious skies
On new-found pinions borne,
To meet a Saviour's smile divine;-
Be such ecstatic rising mine!

NIGHT.-JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet when labors close,

To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose;

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are.

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,

But perished young, like things of earth!

Night is the time to watch;

Ön ocean's dark expanse,

To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,

That brings unto the homesick mind

All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours misspent,

To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent:

Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host,
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,

Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,-
So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,-
From sin and suffering cease;-

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends:-such death be mine.

THE MARCH OF MIND.-MILFORD BARD.*

"Look down, immortal Homer, from the skies,
And view another Greece in glory rise."

Wrapped in the mantle of imagination the traveler stands, In gloomy meditation, amid the ruins of ancient Greece. He looks down the tempestuous tide of time and views the wrecks of ages and of empires. He stands, with indescrib able emotions, upon the crumbling fragments of grandeur where the hall of wisdom once stood, and the thunders of eloquence were heard. There, arose the sun of science on Athens' lofty towers; and there, the sidereal orbs of learning illuminated the world.

It was in Greece that the human mind emerged from the night of mental darkness, and severed the galling chain of tyrannical ignorance. Liberty is the daughter of light; she came forth in all her glory in the gardens of Greece. She *Dr. John Lofland, who died in the year 1849.