ately turned back, asked for pencil and paper and wrote it all. The neighbor came in late. It had not been easy to find anything the like of which had not been selected by some one; the teapot was smoking and she was chilled, and the family impatient. So tea was over and toilets commenced as quickly as possible.

The church and the home were dressed with flowers; the bride never looked so well; the presents were a very medley of rich and simple, useful and useless, delicate and common, but by their number a flattery and a charm. And life and light and joy was in all and over all.

The morning of so bright a night found all the town weary and dull and lazy. Over late breakfasts they reviewed the last evening. Half-envious criticisms of dress, sarcastic imitation of manners, just and unjust, took the place of the honeyed praises and sweet smiles of the last night.

And the heavens, too, were changed. Where shone the crescent moon and the brilliant stars now were cloud masses charged with snow. Slowly and calmly the storm com. menced, heavy and thick it grew. The fierce wind came up and caught the little flakes and hurled them and whirled them about. All the day long, all the night long, earth and air and sky were snow; and nought could be heard but the howling winds.

Much of the dull day and all the night the neighbor had slept, and with bright eyes and rested body, looked out on the clear, broad, unbroken expanse-pure, clean, white, and dazzling in the sunbeams,-looked across to Mrs. Allen's cottage, and at breakfast said to her husband:

"As soon as the snow-ploughs have been along, I wish you would send John over to dig Mrs. Allen's path."

Certainly, certainly. No woman could dig through this

snow."

She just looked sick-a-bed when she was afther writin' her letter to yez," spoke the girl.

"Writing a letter to me! When ?"

"When ye's afther buyin' yer prisent."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Faith, ma'am, I put it on the rack, where ye's always tells me to."

"Go get it."

She could scarcely read it through her tear-dimmed eyes. "No food, no fire-two days ago! And this fearful storm! Why haven't I seen to her? I might have known she wouldn't beg. Oh, I wish I had given her the money I spent on that thoughtless girl!"

The unfinished breakfast was left, and her husband, as anxious as she, with his man, both loaded with food and wood, tramped and shoveled a path through which she waded across with steaming coffee.

They found on the bed, with closed eyes, composed limbs, and hands folded across the breast, the loved Mamie. And by her the mother, turned to ice, kneeling, with clasped hands, up turned eyes, and tear-drops frozen upon her cheeks.

THE PUZZLED CENSUS-TAKER.-JOHN G. SAXE.

"NEIN" (pronounced NINE) is the German for "No."
"Got any boys?" the marshal said
To a lady from over the Rhine;
And the lady shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, "Nein!"

"Got any girls?" the marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

"But some are dead?" the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

"Husband, of course," the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, "Nein!”

"The devil you have!" the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;

And again she shook her flaxen head,

And civilly answered, “Nein!”

"Now, what do you mean by shaking your head,
And always answering Nine'?"

"Ich kann nicht Englisch!" civilly said

The lady from over the Rhine.

PAPA'S LETTER.

I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard,
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed.

"But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do.
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?
Tan't I wite a letter too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now."
"No, no, mamma; me wite letter.
Tan if'ou will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait
As his sweet eyes searched my face-
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said, “I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead."

66

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white,

And a stamp in sport I pasted

'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter,

Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee,
"Mamma's witing lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary-see!"

No one heard the little prattle,
As once more he climbed the stair,
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the entry stair.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened
Till he reached the office door.
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;

Is there room for any more?

แ "Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,
Papa lives with God, 'ou know,
Mamma sent me for a letter,
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,
Not to-day, my little man."

66

"Den I'll find anozzer office,

'Cause I must do if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening-
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure-
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
"Twas too late-a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,
Then the little face lay lifeless,
Covered o'er with golden hair.
Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured, -
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended-
"Papa's letter" was with God.

MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.-MATILDA C. EDWARDS.

Oh, there's many a lovely picture
On memory's silent wall,

There's many a cherished image
That I tenderly recall!

The sweet home of my childhood, With its singing brooks and birds, The friends who grew around me,

With their loving looks and words;
The flowers that decked the wildwood,
The roses fresh and sweet,
The blue-bells and the daisies
That blossomed at my feet-
All, all are very precious,
And often come to me,
Like breezes from that country
That shines beyond death's sea.
But the sweetest, dearest image
That fancy can create,

Is the image of my mother,
My mother at the gate.

There, there I see her standing,
With her face so pure and fair,
With the sunlight and the shadows
On her snowy cap and hair;
I can feel the soft, warm pressure
Of the hand that clasped my own;
I can see the look of fondness
That in her blue eyes shone;
I can hear her parting blessing
Through the lapse of weary years;
I can see, through all my sorrow,
Her own sad, silent tears,-
Ah! amid the darkest trials

That have mingled with my fate,
I have turned to that dear image,
My mother at the gate.

But she has crossed the river,
She is with the angels now,
She has laid aside earth's burdens,
And the crown is on her brow.
She is clothed in clean, white linen,
And she walks the streets of gold.
Oh! loved one, safe forever

Within the Saviour's fold,

No sorrowing thought can reach thee,
No grief is thine to-day;
God gives thee joy for mourning,
He wipes thy tears away!
Thou art waiting in that city
Where the holy angels wait,
And when I cross the river
I will see thee at the gate!