Come to my heart, dear girl! Give me that sun-browned hand.

Fairer art thou to me than the fairest in the land.

Dear little womanly woman! Love shall be my share.

Love is better than witching eyes or sunny hair;

Love is better than beauty or wit, love is better than gold;

For love is not found in the marketplace; love is not bought and sold.

THANK GOD FOR SUNDAY.

SUNDAY, when all the world rests from its labors and the tired, care-worn opens his eyes, his first thought is, "Thank God for Sunday."

The poor laboring man toils from early Monday morning until Saturday night, that the wife and little ones that cluster around his humble hearth shall have a sufficiency of the staff of life. Next to the thought of his dear ones is that of the one day of rest ordained and set apart by the great God, and he toils on to that haven of rest, and, as the day approaches his soul is rekindled with life, as the foot-sore soldier is revived on his long march by the soulstirring music-and when, at last, the slow hours and days of incessant work have tolled off the weary work-days, a bright, happy, joyous feeling pervades his own and the hearts of those dependent upon him.

The mechanic, while toiling through the six days of labor, looks forward to Sunday with a relish quickened by the thought that on that day he may enjoy the quiet of his home and rest from his labors. The innermost recesses of his heart give thought and expression to "Thank God for Sunday." As he steps without the threshold of his workshop on Saturday evening his steps brisker, and his heart lighter, and a perfect happiness pervades his beingto-morrow is Sunday and he can rest and worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience, with the dear wife and children around him in an unbroken circle.

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"Thank God for Sunday" is the mental expression of the merchant and professional man as he quits his place of business Saturday night. The lawyer lays aside his books and briefs; the merchant closes the pages of his ledger and cash book; the physician leaves his office, but it is with the thought that his professional skill may be required on the morrow-for none are exempt from sickness on Sunday. Yet he feels that work is over-to-morrow will be Sunday.

All classes Thank God for Sunday" -all feel a higher, purer, better feeling pervading their hearts-all hearts are turned more nearly to God, and they feel that for all His love and kindness years of devotion would not remove the debt. All look forward to Sunday with more or less pleasure. The day seems brighter and purer than other days, there seems to be a peculiar charm about it that is irresistible, and all "Thank God for Sunday."

KISS ME, DARLING.

KISS me, darling, if you love me,
Thrill me with a sweet caress;
Happy-happy are the mortals,

Whom with lips you deign to bless,
Fold your soft white arms around me,
Press me closer-tighter-love;
Joys like this are sunbeams straying
From celestial lights above.

Kiss me, darling, if you love me.

Life can yield no sweeter joy; For your lips will bring to me, love, Happiness with no alloy.

Let others paint the joys of Heaven, Their highest aim or hope of bliss ; But for me, oh! kiss me, darling, Angels knew no joy like this.

Kiss me, darling, if you love me,
Press me closer to your breast;
O'er my face your soft hair shower,

In your arms let me find rest.
Lip to lip, with heart throbs mingling,
Faint in this maddening bliss;
Cling still closer-nearer-darling,
In a lingering, loving kiss.

THE OLD PLAY-GROUND.

I SAT an hour to-day, John,
Beside the old brook stream,
Where we were schoolboys in old time,
When manhood was a dream;
The brook is choked with fallen leaves,
The pond is dried away;

I scarce believe that you would know
The dear old place to-day.

The school-house is no more, John,
Beneath our locust trees,

The wild rose by the window side
No more waves in the breeze;
The scattered stones look desolate,
The scd they rested on
Has been ploughed up by stranger
hands,

Since you and I were gone.

The chestnut tree is dead, John;

And, what is sadder now,
The broken grapevine of our swing
Hangs on the withered bough;
I read our names upon the bark,
And found the pebbles rare
Laid up beneath the hollow side,
As we had piled them there.
Beneath the grass-grown bank, John,
I looked for our old spring
That bubbled down the alder path
Three paces from the swing;
The rushes grow upon the brink,
The pool is black and bare,
And not a foot, this many a day,
It seems, has trodden there.

I took the old blind road, John,
That wandered up the hill;
'Tis darker than it used to be,

And seems so lone and still.
The birds sing yet among the boughs

Where once the sweet grapes hung,
But not a voice of human kind
Where all our voices rung.

I sat me on the fence, John,
That lies as in old times,
The same half panel in the path
We used so oft to climb;
I thought how o'er the bars of life
Our playmates had passed on,
And left me counting on this spot
The faces that are gone.