And there were faces gray with grief; Then women's faces, white with woe, That bore them o'er the frozen street. And there were ghosts of household joys, With constant curse, had ever come All these he saw,-heard what they said,- His soul moved onward with the crew COMFORT. "Boatman, boatman! my brain is wild, My poor little child, my sweet little child, "No holy choir to sing so low, Dropping his oars in the rainy sea, The pious boatman cried, "Not without Him who is life to thee, "His grace the same, and the same his power, "On the land and the water, all in all, To blight the leaves in their time to fall, CHARITY.-MRS. J. M. WINTON. Night kissed the young rose, and it bent softly to sleep. Stars shone, and pure dew-drops hung upon its bosom, and watched its sweet slumbers. Morning came with its dancing breezes, and they whispered to the young rose, and it awoke joyous and smiling. Lightly it swung to and fro, in all the loveliness of health and youthful innocence. Then came the ardent sun-god, sweeping from the east, and smote the young rose with its scorching rays, and it fainted. Deserted and almost heart-broken, it drooped to the dust in its loneliness and despair. Now the gentle breeze-which had been gamboling over the sea, pushing on the home-bound barque, sweeping over hill and dale, by the neat cottage and still brook, turning the old mill, fanning the brow of disease, and frisking with the curls of innocent childhood-came tripping along on her errand of mercy and love; and when she fondly bathed its head in cool, refreshing showers, the young rose revived, and looked and smiled in gratitude to the kind breeze, but she hurried quickly away, singing through the trees. Thus charity, like the breeze, gathers fragrance from the drooping flowers it refreshes, and unconsciously reaps a reward in the performance of its office of kindness, which steals on the heart like rich perfume, to bless and to cheer THE DEACON'S PRAYER.-WM. O. Stoddart. In the regular evening meeting That the church holds every week, One night a listening angel sat To hear them pray and speak. It puzzled the soul of the angel They were silent, but said to the angel, While doubt, with dull, vague, throbbing pain, You could see 'twas the regular meeting, From his place in front, near the pulpit, In his long-accustomed way, When the book was read, and the hymn was sun First came the long preamble, If Peter had opened so, He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had heard, Then a volume of information But not in the list of the latter Was mentioned the mocking breath Of the hypocrite prayer that is not a prayer, Then he prayed for the church; and the pastor; And the Sunday-school; and the choir; And the swarming hordes of India; And the perishing, vile Chinese; And the millions who bow to the Pope of Rome; And the outcast remnants of Judah, Of whose guilt he had much to tell ;He prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed, For everything out of hell. Now, if all of that burden had really Been weighing upon his soul, "Twould have sunk him through to the China side, Twas the regular evening meeting, WOODCHUCKS.-SCHOOL BOY. Woodchucks is a very curious animal. It is made of hair and eyes and has two front teeth, and can see a man with a gun when the eyes are shut and bolted. I have seen a dog shake a woodchuck till both were black in the face. A woodchuck can snivel up his nose, show his teeth, and look as homely as I can without trying. They sit on one end and eat with the other. A woodchuck can get home faster than a gun can shoot. He is round all over, except his feet which are black. When eat they retain the flavor of their nests and seem to have been cooked without being pared. A fat woodchuck, when eat properly, is no laughin' matter. They come under the head of “ domestic animals," and think there ain't no place like home when a dog goes for one of 'em. THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW.-ALFRED TENNYSON. Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry! Never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high, Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow,Shot through the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives! Hold it we might-and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. "Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!" Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence, the best of the brave: Cold were his brows when we kissed him-we laid him that night in his grave. "Every man die at his post!" and there hailed on our houses and halls, Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon balls, Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell, Striking the hospital wall, crashing through it, their shot and their shell. Death-for their spies were among us, their marksmer. were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke through the brain that could think for the rest; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet, Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round; Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, |