They laughed a little, I am told;

But I had done my best;

And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown-I could but look-
She sits right front of me;
She never was no singin'-book,
An' never went to be;

But then she al'ays tried to do

The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head;

But when she tried this mornin', oh,

I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,
It e'en a'mos' came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs-he all broke down,

As one might well suppose;

He took one look at Sister Brown,

And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn-book through and through,

And laid it on the seat,

And then a pensive sigh he drew,

And looked completely beat.
And when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise;

But drawed his red bandanner out,
An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true,
For five-an'-thirty year;

I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;

But death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track;

And some day I to church will go,

And never more come back;
And when the folks get up to sing-
Whene'r that time shall be-

I do not want no patent thing
A-squealin' over me!

LEGEND SONG.

I.

DREAMY legends of the past, Somber-hued or pleasant, Though by sun or cloud o'ercast,

Plain you show the present! And the future you can see, For what was again shall be; Shadows far ahead you cast, Dreamy legends of the past!

II.

Stirring legends of to-day,

Draped in modern dresses, How you light the darksome way Of the past recesses! Showing, as the age goes on, What men were in days agone; For, with inconsistence strange, Times may change, but never change.

THE VESTAL.

INTO the bay-the great, wide, wealth-fringed bay,
Whose every tide sweeps hamlets to our shores—
Where king-slaves have their fetters struck away—
Whence can be read, on the new nation's doors,
"Leave hopelessness behind, who enters here!"
Harbor of hope!—invaded, without fear,
By ships of labor, sailed from rotting ports,
And toil whose plumage had been stol'n by courts—
Into that bay a virgin-guest comes nigh,
And holds her lamp unto the star-gemmed sky.
They sent her from that empire of the East,
Whose "king" hath dynasty the same as ours;
From the rich harvest, and the vineyard-feast;

From glistening domes, and ivy-mantled towers.
Peasants have toiled, throughout the sultry day,
The tributes of her ocean-march to pay;
The artisan has wrought, that she might rise
And smile into his western brother's eyes;
The thought-smith-he with busy heart and brain-
Helped feed her torch that gleams across the main.

She brings to us a century that is past;
The legend of a gift of long agone;

A favor that like diamonds shall last,

And gleam but brighter as the years gloom on.
They gave us gold when recompense was doubt;
Perish the greed that blots that memory out!
They gave us hope, when our own star had set;
May the brain soften that would shun the debt!
They gave us heroes, with a fame as bright
As mountain watch-fires on a winter's night.

Stand, Vestal, with thy virgin flame e'er clear,
And guard our future pilgrims to their rest
In the great city, where, year after year,

Their march shall feed our never-failing West,
Till those who hated greed, and hurried thence,
That honest toil hath here a recompense;
Say to the lawless-whoso'er they be-
That men must live obedient, to live free;
And sing for us, o'er the blue waves' expanse,
"With all our faults and thine, we love thee,

France!"

91

M

GRACE ADELE PIERCE.

ISS GRACE ADELE PIERCE was born in Randolph, a beautiful village in the western part of New York. The only child of devoted parents, her life has been passed in the loving atmosphere of a pleasant home, among the quiet surroundings of country life. The beauty of fertile fields and forest-covered hills ministered to the poetic spirit of the child, and fed the passionate love of nature that has always characterized her. Her education was obtained at Chamberlain Institute, a first-class seminary situated in her native town. As a student, she was marked for intelligent acquisition; the underlying principle was sought and mastered. At an early age she commenced the composition of poems and poetic dramas. When her poems were first offered to the public they were accepted and more were called for. Encouraged by this success, she tried her pen in prose essays. These met at once appreciation and response. Of late she has produced some charming stories for the young. All of her work bears the impress of her own fervent, sensitive nature. The tenderness of a warm, loving, earnest spirit, deeply imbued with religious devotion, breathes through her writings. The success she has achieved so early in her career as an author is unusual and full of promise. E. A. E.

INDUCTION TO AN ANTIQUE WEDDING SONG.

THE sheep are in the pasture, and the shepherd's gone away;

The sheep are in the pasture all this long, bright summer day;

And they alone must tarry,

For the shepherd's gone to marry,

And he'll not come back till morning; well-a-day, well-a-day!

The wedding bells are ringing,
The Troubadour is singing;
The orange blooms and daisies
Delight to frame her praises

Who walks with him she loveth best, to-day.

There is no thought of sorrow,
No thought of sad to-morrow;
For the wedding bells are ringing,
The Troubadour is singing,

And she doth walk with her best loved, to-day.

So while the sheep are waiting, and the shepherd's

far away,

Come, let us join our voices in a merry roundelay; Let us sing to merry pipes all the long, bright, summer's day.

While we alone must tarry,

While young Collin's gone to marry, Come, let us sing his praises, well-a-day, well-a-day!

LIKE TO SOME STORM-BELATED BIRD.
LIKE to some storm-belated bird that lingers
Far from its mates upon a winter's night,
Beating its tender wings in sad affright;
So stands she now with soft unclasping fingers,
And wistful eyes that, in their strainéd sight,
Peer far beyond the darkness of the night.

O wistful eyes! that, in your tender sadness,
So long have known the ministry of tears!
O gracious mouth! that to the heart endears
A mournful smile above all youthful gladness!
O weary heart! that never leaps with fears
Nor hopes for joy through all the coming years!
Would I might lift, one moment, thy dull burden,
And, with my heart's deep sympathy, atone
For all the sorrows thou hast ever known;
Would I might give thee some celestial guerdon,
Some gift of love from God's eternal throne,
To fill the dark hours when thou art alone.

WALKING VILLAGEWARD AT EVENING. LOUD, blust'ring winds across the pastures sweep, The meadows all are silent under snow; The voiceless streams no longer, in their flow, Break from the bondage of their icy sleep. Far from the drifting woodlands, shadowed deep, Smooth and untarnished on the vale below Mid-winter's beauty lies-the glist'ning snow, And all things seem their Sabbath peace to keep. How white it is, and beautiful-this earth! Yon far-off village seems enchanted quite, Silent between the chill earth and the stars. And yet, O Vale! how much of pain hath birth Within thy seeming quiet this fair nightHow much of tumult thy calm beauty mars!

BLIND EYES.

SO MUCH, SO much, we can not understand!
So much that leaves the heart unsatisfied!
Ofttimes we turn beneath God's chast'ning hand,
And, in the passion of our human pride,
Feel that our mighty Maker is unkind,
Because we can not see-our eyes are blind.