GOD'S BEVERAGE.-JAS. S. WATKINS.

Not in the haunts of the wicked,
Not in the dens of the craven,
Not in the hot-house of Satan
Is God's best beverage given;
Not in the vale of corruption-
Not in the poisonous gases
Out from the simmering still, to
Laugh in the wine-bibber's glasses.
Not in the brewery, seething-
Not in its sickening fumes,
Brewed for the craven death-angel
Keeping the gates of the tombs;
Not in the stifling odors

Out from the stench of the mill
Where Satan is superintendent,
Grinding destruction at will.
But down in the beautiful valley,
The vale that we cherish so well,
Where the red deer playfully wanders
With its mate in the shadowy dell;
Way down in the rock-bound ravine,
Where pebbles are carelessly strewed,
Where fountains are all the day singing,
Is Heaven's best beverage brewed.
High up on the crest of the mountains,
Where granite rocks glitter like gold,
Where the storm-clouds gather relentless,
And the crash of the thunder is told;
And out on the turbulent waters,

Where the hurricane howls o'er the sea,
Is brewed there the best of all beverage-
The best for you, reader, and me.

Tis brewed in the cataract sporting, As it leaps from its perilous height; 'Tis seen in the gauze around Luna,

As she lights up the heavens at night; 'Tis seen in the glittering ice-gem,

When its brilliance, like jewels, doth seem, And, too, in the hail-shower dancing;

Cloud-hid from the morning sun's beam.
Tis seen in the rain-drops descending,
As they weave the bright bow in the air,
Whose woof is the sunbeams of Heaven,
Each painting their bright colors there;

It dances along 'neath the curtains
All dark in the silence of night,
And kisses the vines of the bowers,
As a blessed life-water of light.
On its brink are no poisonous bubbles,
Its foam brings no murder or madness,
No blood stains its crystallized glasses;
No heart bends before it in sadness,
No widows and orphans are weeping
With tears of dark misery's gall;
Then tell me, dear reader, why change it
For the DEMON'S DRINK-KING ALCOHOL?

NIAGARA.

I stood within a vision's spell;

I saw, I heard. The liquid thunder Went pouring to its foaming hell,

And it fell.

Ever, ever fell

Into the invisible abyss that opened under.

I stood upon a speck of ground;
Before me fell a stormy ocean.

I was like a captive bound;
And around

A universe of sound

Troubled the heavens with ever-quivering motion,

Down, down forever-down, down forever,

Something falling, falling, falling, Up, up forever-up, up forever,

Resting never,

Boiling up forever,

Steam-clouds shot up with thunder bursts appalling

A tone that since the birth of man
Was never for a moment broken,
A word that since the world began,
And waters ran,

Hath spoken still to man,

Of God and of Eternity hath spoken.

And in that vision, as it passed,

Was gathered terror, beauty, power; And still, when all has fled, too fast, And I at last

Dream of the dreamy past,

My heart is full when lingering on that hour.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day;
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing, and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of " school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her-
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop

The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;
"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was," God, be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

BBBBB

THE STORY OF BISHOP POTTS.--MAX ADELER.

AS RELATED BY THIS BRILLIANT HUMORIST IN HIS MIRTH-PRO VOKING BOOK ENTITLED OUT OF THE HURLY-BURLY."

Bishop Potts, of Salt Lake City, was the husband of three wives and the father of fifteen interesting children. Early in the winter the bishop determined that his little ones should have a good time on Christmas, so he concluded to take a trip down to San Francisco to see what he could find in the shape of toys with which to gratify and amuse them. The good bishop packed his carpet-bag, embraced Mrs. Potts one by one and kissed each of her affectionately, and started upon his journey.

He was gone a little more than a week, when he came back with fifteen brass trumpets in his valise for his darlings. He got out of the train at Salt Lake, thinking how joyous it would be at home on Christmas morning when the fifteen trumpets should be in operation upon different tunes at the same moment. But just as he entered the dépôt he saw a group of women standing in the ladies' room, apparently waiting for him. As soon as he approached, the whole twenty of them rushed up, threw their arms about his neck and kissed him, exclaiming:

"O Theodore, we are so, so glad you have come back! Welcome home! Welcome, dear Theodore, to the bosom of your family!" and then the entire score of them fell upon his neck and cried over his shirt front and mussed him.

The bishop seemed surprised and embarrassed. Struggling to disengage himself, he blushed and said:

"Really, ladies, this kind of thing is well enough—it is interesting and all that; but there must be some kind of a --that is, an awkward sort of a-excuse me, ladies, but there seems to be, as it were, a slight misunderstanding about the --I am Bishop Potts."

"We know it, we know it, dear," they exclaimed, in chorus, "and we are glad to see you safe at home. We have all been very well while you were away, love."

"It gratifies me," remarked the bishop, "to learn that none of you have been a prey to disease. I am filled with serenity when I contemplate the fact; but really, I do not

understand why you should rush into this railway station and hug me because your livers are active and your digestion good. The precedent is bad; it is dangerous!"

"Oh, but we didn't!" they exclaimed, in chorus. "We came here to welcome you because you are our husband." "Pardon me, but there must be some little--that is to say, as it were, I should think not. Women, you have mistaken your man!"

"Oh no!" they shouted; "we were married to you while you were away!"

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'What!" exclaimed the bishop; "you don't mean to say that-"

"Yes, love. Our husband, William Brown, died on Monday, and on Thursday, Brigham had a vision in which he was directed to seal us to you; and so he performed the ceremony at once by proxy."

"Th-th-th-th-under!" observed the bishop.

"And we are all living with you now-we and the dear children."

"Children! children!" exclaimed Bishop Potts, turning pale; "you don't mean to say that there is a pack of children, too?"

"Yes, love, but only one hundred and twenty-five, not counting the eight twins and the triplet."

"Wha-wha- wha-what d'you say?" gasped the bishop, in a cold perspiration; "one hundred and twenty-five! One hundred and twenty-five children and twenty more wives! It is too much—it is awful!” and the bishop sat down and groaned, while the late Mrs. Brown, the bride, stood around in a semicircle and fanned him with her bonnets, all except the red-haired one, and she in her trepidation made a futile effort to fan him with the coal-scuttle.

But after a while the bishop became reconciled to his new alliance, knowing well that protests would be unavailing, so he walked home, holding several of the little hands of the bride, while the red-haired woman carried his umbrella and marched in front of the parade to remove obstructions and to scare off small boys.

When the bishop reached the house, he went around among the cradles which filled the back parlor and the two