And, as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea, -
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making

A prayer at home for me.

WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME AGAIN?

AN EPISODE OF THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR.

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In his wind-shaken tent the soldier sits,
Beside him flares an oil-lamp smokily,
Whose dim light glooms and flickers on the sheet
Of rustling paper that, with eager eyes
And heart, intent, he reads. Now with a smile
The faxen-bearded, sunburnt face lights up.
A smile that in the smiling breeds a pain
Within his yearning heart; the gentle hand
That those sweet loving words hath traced, will he
Ever again in his protecting clasp
Enfold it? Who can tell! He can but kiss,
With wild intensity, the page that hand
Hath touched. Each line, each word read and re-read.
At last there is no more. With swimming eyes
He looks, and drinks her name into his soul.
Yet see those lines with pencil widely ruled,
Where largely sprawl big letters helplessly;
What do they say, those baby characters,
So feebly huge:

“Loved Papa,
When will you come home again?

My own dear Papa!"
As he reads this the tent to him grows darker,
His strong hand trembles, and the hot tears burn
In his blue eyes, and blur the straggling words.
What need to see? The words are stamped upon
His heart, and his whole soul doth feel them there.
The wind on gusty wings speeds by, and lo!
With its wild voice, his child's sweet treble mingles
In accents faintly clear:
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again?

My own dear Papa !"

And now his head is bowed into his hands,
His brave heart for a moment seems to climb
Into his throat and choke him. Hark! what sound
Thus sharply leaps among, and slays the sad
Wind-voices of the autumn night, with shrill
And sudden blast? The bugle-call“ To arms !"
And startled sleepers, at its fierce appeal,
Half-dreaming, clutch their swords, and gasping wake;-
How many soon to sleep again-in death!
And on that father's heart the pealing cry
Strikes cold as ice, though soldier there's none braver,
For still above the bugle's thrilling breath
That pleading child-voice sweetly calls:
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again?

My own dear Papa !"
Across a rough hillside the light of dawn
Doth coldly creep, with ruthless touch revealing
All that by darkness had been hid, and there,
Among the stalwart forms that stiffening lie
Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they lie thickest,
There is one found, with flaxen hair and beard
Dark dyed with gore, a bullet in his heart!
A crumpled paper in his hand was clutched,
'Gainst the cold lips, the rigid hand did press
Some childish writing by his life-blood stained.
What are the words? One scarce can read them now:
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again?

My own dear Papa!"

SIC VITA.-HENRY KING.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood, -
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot!

THE DEAD STUDENT.-WILL CARLETON. It doesn't seem-now does it, Jack ?-as if poor Brown were

dead; 'Twas only yesterday at noon he had to take his bed. The day before he played first base, and ran M'Farland down; And then, to slip away so sly,'twas not at all like Brown. The story seems too big to take. 'Most any one will find It's sometimes hard to get a man well laid out in his mind. And Brown was just afire with life. "Twouldn't scare me, I

avow, To hear a whoop, and see the man go rushing past here now. Poor Brown! he's lying in his room, as white as drifted snow. I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago. A-rushing into Brownie's room seemed awkward-like and

queer : We haven't spoken back and forth for something like a year. We didn't pull together square a single night or day; Howe'er I went he soon contrived to find another way. He ran against me in my loves : we picked a dozen bones About that girl you used to like,-the one that married Jones, He worked against me in the class, before my very eyes. He opened up and scooped me square out of the Junior prize. In the last campus rush we came to strictly business blows, And from the eye he left undimmed I viewed his damaged

nose,

In fact, I came at last to feel--and own it with dismayThat life would be worth living for, if Brown were out the

way. But when I heard that he was dead, my feelings tacked; and

then I would have given half my life to get his back again. I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago. The room was neat beyond excuse,—the women made it so. Be sure he had no hand in that, and naught about it knew. To see the order lying round had made him very blue. A sweet bouquet of girlish flowers smiled in the face of Death. Straight through the open window came the morning's

fragrant breath. Close-caged, a small canary-bird, with glossy, yellow throat, Skipped drearily from perch to perch, and never sung a note.

With hair unusually combed, sat poor M'Farland near,
Alternately perusing Greek, and wrestling with a tear.
A homely little girl of six, for some old kindness' sake,
Was sobbing in the corner there as if her heart would break.
The books looked worn and wretched-like, almost as if they

knew, And seemed to be a-whispering their titles to my view. His rod and gun were in their place; and high, where all

might see, Gleamed jauntily the boating-cup he won last year from me. I lifted up the solemn sheet. That honest, earnest face Showed signs of culture and of toil that death could not erase. As western skies at twilight mark where late the sun has

been, Brown's face revealed the mind and soul that once had

burned within. He looked so grandly helpless there, upon that lonely bed ! Oh, Jack! these manly foes are foes no more when they are

dead! * Old boy,” I sobbed,“ 'twas half my fault. This heart makes

late amends." I took the white cold hands in mine,-and Brown and I were

friends.

THE WRONG MAN.

The Hon. Demshire Hornet had a very unpleasant experience lately. Mark Twain was advertised to lecture in

but for some reason failed to get around. In the emergency the lecture committee decided to employ Mr. Hornet to deliver his celebrated lecture on temperance, but so late in the day was this arrangement made that no bills announcing it could be circulated, and the audience assembled, expecting the celebrated Innocent. Nobody in the town knew Mark, or had even heard him lecture, but they had got the notion that he was funny, and went there prepared to laugh. Even those on the platform, except the chairman, did not know Mr. Hornet from Mark Twain, and so when he was introduced thought nothing of the name, as they knew Mark Twain was a nom de plume, and supposed his real name was Hornet. The denouement is thus told Mr. Hornet first remarked : Intemperance is the curse of the country." The audience burst into a laugh. He knew it could not be at his remark, and thought his clothes must be awry, and he asked the chairman in a whisper if he was all right, and got "yes" for an answer. Then he said : “Rum slays more than disease!"-a louder laugh. He couldn't understand it, but went on: “It breaks up happy homes !"still louder mirth. “It is carrying young men down to death and hell!"-a perfect roar, and applause. Mr. Hornet began to get excited. He thought they were guying, but he proceeded: “We must crush the serpent!”-a tremendous howl of laughter. The men on the platform, except the chairman, squirmed as they laughed. Hornet couldn't stand it. “What I'm saying is gospel truth!” he cried. The audience fairly bellowed with mirth. Hornet turned to a man on the stage and said: “Do you see anything very ridiculous in my remarks or behavior ?” “Yes, ha, ha—it's intensely funny-ha, ha, ha! Go on!" replied the roaring man. “This is an insult!” cried Hornet, wildly dancing about. More laughter, and cries of “Go on, Twain!” And then the chairman got the idea of the thing, and rose and explained the situation, and the men on the stage suddenly quit laughing, and the audience looked at each other in a mighty sheepish way, and they quit laughing, too. And then Mr. Hornet, being thoroughly mad, told them he had never before got into a town so entirely populated by fools and idiots, and having said that he left the hall. And the assemblage then voted to censure Twain and the chairman, and dispersed amidst deep gloom.

HUMAN LIFE.–Mrs. J. M. Winton.

After a while-a busy brain
Will rest from all its care and pain.
After a while--earth's rush will cease,
And a weary heart find sweet release.
After a while-a vanished face-
An empty seat--a vacant place.
After a while-a man forgot--
A crumbled headstone--unknown spot.

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