"Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd.

"Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!" in anxious tones and loud.

But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard.

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood,

We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood.
We heard a little snatch of a merry little song,

And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng.

An angry murmur rose from the people round about. 'Fling her into the river!" we heard the matrons shout; "Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knows

Why ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose."

Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smile

Across her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile;

And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock : "Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "I think I'll break the lock."

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old:

"Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold."

And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung!

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding

spray;

From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play. And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist:

A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist.

In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill,

A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still. For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound,

And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground.

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky

steep.

We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep;

We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore
And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more.

Ah, little naughty Brier-Rose, thou couldst nor weave nor spin;

Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin; For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave.

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth, When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth,

Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, "Heaven knows Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

-St. Nicholas.

MY VESPER SONG.

Filled with weariness and pain,
Scarcely strong enough to pray,
In this twilight hour I sit,

Sit and sing my doubts away.
O'er my broken purposes,

Ere the coming shadows roll,
Let me build a bridge of song:

Jesus, lover of my soul,

"Let me to thy bosom fly!"

How the words my thoughts repeat;

To thy bosom, Lord, I come,

Though unfit to kiss thy feet.

Once I gathered sheaves for thee,

Dreaming I could hold them fast;

Now I can but faintly sing,

"Oh, receive my soul at last."

I am weary of my fears,

Like a child when night comes on;
In the shadow, Lord, I sing,

"Leave, oh leave me not alone."
Through the tears I still must shed,
Through the evil yet to be,
Though I falter while I sing,

"Still support and comfort me."

"All my trust on thee is stayed,"
Does the rhythm of the song,

Softly falling on my heart,

Make its pulses firm and strong?
Or is this thy perfect peace,

Now descending while I sing,
That my soul may sleep to-night
"'Neath the shadow of thy wing?"

"Thou of life the fountain art;"
If I slumber on thy breast,
If I sing myself to sleep,

Sleep and death alike are rest.
Through the shadows overpast,
Through the shadows yet to be,
Let the ladder of my song
"Rise to all eternity."

Note by note, in silver bars,

May my soul in love ascend,
Till I reach the highest round,
In thy kingdom without end.
Not impatiently I sing,

Though I lift my hands and cry,
"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly."

THE HOME OF PEACE.-THOMAS MOORE.

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye;
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that sighed upon innocent lips,

Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"

BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY.

MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.

Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars, to where the engine was standing, and swinging himself up into the cab, said to the engineer:

"Frank, I want you to come back to the first passenger car, and see a little girl that I hardly know what to make of."

The engineer nodded, and without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt hat-taking these "dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something stowed away for all emergencies-and went back to the car as requested.

He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the kind-hearted conductor sat talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet.

Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but seemed to be neither timid nor confused.

"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached.

She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched little face, and said:

"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to his old home in Vermont. And he said if the conductors wouldn't let me ride 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I

must ask for the engineer and tell him that I am James Kendrick's little girl, and that he used to run on the M. & G. road."

The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry after the manner of children in general.

Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he brushed the tears from his own eyes, said:

66

'Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a merciful Providence guided you on board this train.” Then turning around to the group of passengers, he went

on:

"I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the time, so that I could not work and I got home-sick and discouraged. Could not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I didn't much care whether I lived or died. One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their monthly pay, there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an hour for the last month. I felt so blue that I sat down on a pile of railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands, and cried like a boy, out of sheer home-sickness and discouragement. Pretty soon some one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys were all good to me in their way: You've been having a rough time of it, and you must let me help you out.' I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it out to me. I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a hard time of it himself to pull through, from month to month, so I said, half ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed, I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.' 'Indeed you will take it, man,' said Jim, you will be all right in a few days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see the babies. It will do you good.' I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that