THE OLD MILL.

THE more modern civilization has rooted out many things that are still dear to the human heart, and among them is the old-fashioned "water mill." For nowadays, as some one has said, "There are more dams by a mill-site, but fewer mills, by a dam-site ! "

Yes, the ages of steam and electricity have made many revolutions, and among them the relegation of the old water mill to a thing of the past. Yet, who does not have almost sacred recollections of the old mill, the stream, the "deep tangled wildwood," and all about it? Who does not remember its whirl and splash, the big wheelsand the great Pacific ocean of your first view of waters! And the old miller and his white hat and dust-covered clothes; his boats and his long fishing poles. Yes, down the vistas of the past, these scenes all come back to you, and you almost want to go back and live life over again, as you remember them and how you used to go a-fishing at the old mill. And then the swimming! You never will forget that it was there you first learned to swim; and the times you had! How you ducked Johnny Jones, and saw Bill Smith fall off the old log, "over his head," and was fished out by the miller's son !

There were great events in the average boy's life, and at the old mill were many of them, for it was there that took place the great contests in swimming, marbles, cock-fights, and horse swaps. They didn't have baseball and bicycles then, but they had many other things there. It was there the gossip of the neighborhood was discussed. It was there the important notices of sales, elections, etc., were posted; and it was there the local politician got in his best work, just before the election. The miller, too, was an important individual, for he heard everything, knew "everybody" and was umpire at the games, and referee at the cock-fights and "horse disputes."

As a detective, information bureau, and weather prophet, he was the recognized leader; and what he didn't know

about the "changes in the moon," and how they affected the "craps," and the fishes biting," was not worth know

ing!

And then after the crops were laid by, what barbecues, picnics and fishfrys they had at the old mill! It was just the place for it, and the cool shade, crystal spring and long table, on the grounds, were always ready for it. The moon, and the "apple-jack" stills were always in order for a picnic and barbecue, but the fish-fry had to wait for the change in the moon, and for the miller to set his nets! And on such occasions, how the politicians would just “happen by" and what a "run of custom the mill would have from those not invited to the picnic or fishfry! One or two fiddlers, perched upon the improvised stand, furnished the music-and such dancing! How rosy would be the cheeks of the girls as they fanned with their sun-bonnets! How the musicians would call out: "First

"

couple to the right," 'Ladies chain," "Grand right and left," "Promenade all," etc.

After a while dinner would be announced (which meant a welcome for all), and amid such scenes, exercises and enjoyments, even a poor dinner would appear fit for the gods. But think of such dinners as they had, and with what mirth and zest were they enjoyed. It is needless to say they were all happy and still have pleasant recollections of the old mill.

"gathered by the river," whether it flowed by the throne of God, or not.

Here many were baptized in a very different spirit from the way the boys baptized Jonny Jones, and each other. Yes, it was the "baptizing grounds for all churches, races and colors, and right big times did the boys have when the colored preachers came with their long lists of candidates for baptism, and we never shall forget what a fool, that cheerful idiot, June Vann, made of himself, as an old colored woman arose from the water, shouting as she arose, "Glory! I see Glory!" by saying, "It was a terapin, fer I seed him myself!"

Yes, the dear old mill,-whose mind does not turn back to it, with almost sainted memories!

WIFE AND I.

SHE who sleeps upon my heart
Was the first to win it;
She who dreams upon my breast
Ever reigns within it ;
She who kisses oft my lips

Wakes their warmest blessing;
She who rests within my arms

Feels their closest pressing.
Other days than these shall come,
Days that shall be dreary;
Other hours may greet us yet,
Hours that shall be weary.
Still this heart shall be thy home,

Still this breast thy pillow;
Still these lips meet thine as soft

As billow meeteth billow.

Sleep, then, on my happy heart,
Since thy love hath won it;
Dream then on my loyal breast,
None but thou hast done it.
And whene'er our bloom shall change
With its weary weather,
May we in the selfsame grave
Sleep and dream together.

LIFE'S ONWARD CURRENT.

FOREVER onward is the marchFrom beastly hoof to handFrom savage to the seer and sageFrom Saurian types to man;

The father who strives for your comfort,
And toils on from day to day,
Although his steps ever grow slower,
And his dark locks are turning gray?

Does any one think of the due bills
He is called upon to pay—
Millinery bills, college bills, book bills?
There are some kind of bills every day.
Like a patient horse in a treadmill,

He works on from morn till night.
Does any one think he is tired?

Does any one make his home bright?

Is it right, because he looks troubled,
To say he's cross as a bear?
Kind words, little actions and kindness
Might vanish his burden of care.
'Tis for you he is ever so anxious;
He'll toil for you while he may live ;
In return he only asks kindness,
And such pay is easy to give.

The shadows deepen on the distant hills; The highest peak but touched with ling'ring light;

And down their purpling sides soft, misty clouds

Wrap all the valleys in a dusky night.

And far away the murmur of the sea, And moonlit waves, breaking in foamy line.

So Night-God's Angel, Night—with silvery wings,

Fills all the earth with loveliness divine.

-CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL.

DON'T FORGET THE RAINY DAY.

Boys, our youth too fast is fleeting,

Life's glad morning cannot last, And the moments swift retreating Warn us that 'will soon be past. There will come a sure declining,

And I would this to you say: While the sun is brightly shining, Don't forget the rainy day.

Sunshine cannot last forever,

Storms will come and winds wage
strife,

And as sure will dark clouds gather
On the horizon of life.

Let us, then, in youth remember

Life is not one long, bright May, Sure will come the dread December, Sure will come the rainy day.

As the busy bee doth gather

In bright days her winter store, So should we for life's bleak weather Garner ere the summer's o'er. Yes, ere life's bright spring doth leave us, Let us strive aside to lay Something that may shelter give us When shall come the rainy day.

FALLEN.

The iron voice from yonder spire has hush'd its hollow tone,

And midnight finds me lying here in silence and alone;

The still moon thro' my window sheds its soft light on the floor

Yet my heart and all its pulses seem so quietly to rest,

That I scarcely feel them beating in my

arms or in my breast;

And these rounded limbs are resting now so still upon the bed, That one would think to see me here

that I was lying dead.

What if 'twere so? What it I died

died as I am lying now,

With something like to virtue's calm upon this marble brow? What if I died to-night?

Ah! now this slothful heart begins to beat ; A fallen wretch like me, to pass from earth so sadly sweet!

Yet am I calm—as calm as clouds that

slowly float and form,

To give their tearful strength to some unpitying summer storm;

As calm as great Sahara, ere the simoon sweeps its waste,

Or as the wide sea, ere the white waves all its shores have laced.

Still, still I have no tears to shed; these

eyelids have no store

The fountain once within me is a foun

tain now no more.

The moon alone weeps for me now-the pale and thoughtful moon; She weeps for dying Mary, through all the night's sweet noon.

What if I died to-night, within these

gilded, wretched walls,

Upon whose crimson trappings no eye of virtue ever falls?

What would its soulless inmates do when they had found me here, With cheek too white for passion's smile, too cold for passion's tear?

Oh! one would come and from these arms unclasp the bauble bands, Another wrench the jewels off my fairer, whiter hands;

This splendid robe another's form would grace, oh! long before

The moonlight came again to sleep upon the floor.

And when they'd laid me down in earth where pauper graves are made, Beneath no bending willow's angelhaunted shade,

Who'd come and plant a flower o'er
poor Mary's friendless grave,
Or trim the tangled wild grass that no
Summer wind could wave?

Who'd raise a stone to mark it from the ruder graves around,

That the passing stranger's footsteps might respect the spot of ground? No stone would stand above me, no little waving tree,

No hand would plant a flower o'er a fallen wretch like me.

What if I died to-night? And when to-morrow's sun had crept

Where late the softer moon in virgin beauty slept,

They'dcome and find me here, oh!

who would weep to see me dead? Who'd bend the knee of sorrow by the pulseless wanton's bed?

There's one would come-my mother!

God bless the angel band That bore her, ere her daughter fell, to yonder quiet land!

Thank God for all the anthems that the gladden'd angels sung

When my mother went to Heaven, and I was pure and young.

And there's another, too, would comeA man upon whose brow My shame has wrought the winter snow to rest so heavy now; Yes, he would come, with manhood's tears all burning down his cheek, Had reason's kingdom stronger been where virtue grew so weak. My sisters and my brothers all, thank God! are far away;

They'll never know how died the one who mingled in their play—

They'll never know how wretchedly

their darling sister died— The one who smiled whene'er they smiled, who cried whene'er they cried.

I'm all alone to-night! How strange it is that I should be alone! This splendid chamber seems to want some Roue's wonted tone! Yon soulless mirror, with its smooth and all unvarnished face,

Sees not these jeweled arms to-night in their unchaste embrace.

Oh! I have fled the fever of that heated, crowded hall,

Where I might claim the richest and

the gayest of them all—

Where I could smile upon them, with that easy, wanton grace,

Which subdues the blood of virtue that would struggle in my face!

But I hate them all. I scorn them, as they scorn me on the street;

I could spurn away the pressure that my lips so often meet;

I could trample on the lucre that their passion never spares,

For they've robbed me of a heritage of greater price than theirs.

wears

They can never give me back again what I have thrown awayThe brightest jewel woman throughout her little day; The brightest and the only one, that from the cluster riven,

Shuts out forever woman's heart from all the hopes of Heaven.

What if I died to-night? What if I died as I am lying here? There's many a green leaf withers ere the Autumn comes to sear ! There's many a dewdrop shaken down ere yet the sunshine came, And many a spark hath died before it wakened into flame !

What if I died to-night, and left these wretched bonds of clay,

To seek beyond the hollow sphere a brighter, better day?

What if my soul passed out and sought that haven of the blest,

Would angels call me from above, and beckon me to come

And join them in their holy songs in that eternal home?

Would they clasp their hands in gladness when they saw my soul set free?

And point beside my mother to a place reserved for me?

Would they meet me as a sister, as one of precious worth,

Who had won a place in Heaven by her holiness on earth?

Oh! God, I would not have my soul to go out upon the air,

With all its weight of wretchedness, to wander where? Oh! where ?

-H. T. S.

THE BABY-WHAT IS IT?

A LONDON newspaper recently offered a prize for "The best definition of a baby."

The following is a selection from some of the best definitions submitted:

The bachelor's horror, the mother's treasure, and despotic tyrant of the most republican household.

A human flower untouched by the finger of care.

A tiny feather from the wing of love, dropped into the sacred lap of motherhood.

The morning caller, noonday crawler, midnight brawler.

The magic spell by which the gods transform a house into a home.

A stranger with unspeakable cheek, that enters a house without a stitch to his back, and is received with open arms by every one.

A bursting bud on the tree of life. The only precious possession that never excites envy.

The latest edition of humanity, of which every couple think they possess the finest copy.

A native of all countries who speaks the language of none.

The unconscious mediator between father and mother, and the focus of their hearts.

About twenty-two inches of coo and