THE RUNAWAY BOY.

WUNST I Sassed my pa, an' he
Won't stand that, an' he punished me-
Nen when he wuz gone that day,
I slipped out an' runned away.
I took all my copper cents,

An' climbed over our back fence
In the jimson weeds 'at growed
Ever'where all down the road.
Nen I got out there, an' nen

I runned some-an' runned again,
When I met a man 'at led

A big cow 'at shooked her head,
I went down a long, long lane,
Where wuz little pigs a-playin';
And a great big pig went "booh!"
An' jumped up, an' skeered me, too,
Nen I scampered past, an' they
Was somebody hollered “ "Hey!"
An' just looked ever'where,
An' they wuz nobody there.

*

*

I want to, but I'm afraid to try
To go back
* An' by an' by
Somepin' hurts my th'oat inside-
An' I want my ma-an' cried.
Nen a grea' big girl come through
Where's a gate, an' telled me who
Am I? an' ef I tell where

My home's at she'll show me there,
But I couldn't ist but tell
What's my name; an' he says "Well,
An' ist tooked me up an' says
"She know where I live, she guess."
Nen she telled me hug wite close
Round her neck!-an' on she goes
Skippin' up the street !
An' nen
Purty soon I'm home again.
An' ma, when she kissed me,
Kissed the big girl, too, an' she
Kissed me-ef I p'omise shore
I won't run away no more!

-JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

LET IT PASS.

BE not swift to take offence,
Let it pass, let it pass;
Anger is a foe to sense,

Let it pass, let it pass.
Brood not darkly o'er the wrong,
Which will disappear ere long;
Rather sing this cheery song,
Let it pass, let it pass.

Swift corrodes the purest mind,
Let it pass, let it pass,
As the unrecorded wind,
Let it pass, let it pass.
All the vulgar souls that live
May condemn without reprieve,
'Tis the noble who forgive,
Let it pass, let it pass.

If for good you've taken ill,
Let it pass; let it pass;
Oh! be kind and gentle still,
Let it pass, let it pass.

Time at last makes all things right
Let us not resent, but wait,
And our triumph shall be great,
Let it pass, let it pass.

COUNTING APPLE-SEEDS.

BESIDE the hearth one winter night
Made rosy by the great log's light,
That, flaming up the chimney dark,
Hit every cranny, every nook,
Upon the rug a little maid

Sat curled, in pose demure and staid.

In pensive mood, with dreamy eyes
She sits, while up the chimney flies
A thought with every fiery spark
Glinting and flashing through the dark,
Till with a sigh profound and deep
She moves, as one moves in her sleep.

A rosy apple in her hand

A weight of thought seems to demand.
She taps it with a finger light,
Then carefully she takes a bite.
Another bite, now one, now two-
The core is thus exposed to view.

Another sigh! what can it be,
My little maid, what aileth thee?
Ah! what is this? some incantation ?
Muttered with such reiteration?
Hark! as each seed her bright eyes see,
These are the words that come to me:

Who can say! But just behind
Sounds a voice so soft and kind:
Look again! Thou must indeed
Find for me another seed!"

Rosier her bright cheeks glow
In the firelight's ruddy glow.
Sure enough a culprit seed !
Finds she in the core indeed-
From thy lips I fain would hear
What the sixth one means, my
dear."
"Six he loves," she murmured low,
And the firelight's flickering glow
Two happy faces now disclose
With cheeks aglowing like the rose.
But here we'll let the curtain fall,
For the end is best of all.

SACRAMENTO UNION.

SOME COMFORT.

WHEN the snow is on the garden,
And the ice is on the walk,
And the monthly bill for fuel

Brings about a painful shock,
There's a pleasing consolation,

And we feel inclined to sing, For it's cheering to remember

That we're one day nearer Spring.

When we slip on icy pavement

And go down with fearful crash, Then arise in indignation,

Using language that is rash, It is soothing to remember

Spring is coming on the hop, With its mud to serve as cushion When the walker takes a drop. When the mercury is tumbling

And the northern breezes roar,
And we're howling at the scoundrel
Who neglects to shut the door,
It is helpful to remember,

Ere a chair at him we fling,
That the door he now leaves open
He'll be closing in the Spring.
When before the fire we shiver,
With a bad attack of chills,
And at intervals we're gulping
Down a lot of quinine pills,
It's some comfort to remember,
As we bolt the bitter stuff,
That the balmy Spring is coming

And we'll soon be warm enough.

Yes, the gentle Spring is coming,

With its flowers, birds, and bees, With sweet odors of the blossoms

Borne upon each passing breeze.
And though now the blasts of Winter
Rush and roar and sharply sting,
It is cheering to remember

That we're one day nearer Spring. -PITTSBURG CHRONICLE TELEGRAPH.

A RAILROADER'S PRAYER. A RAILROAD man is responsible for the following prayer:

"O Lord, now that I have flagged thee, lift my feet from off the road of life and plant them safely on deck of the train of salvation! Let me use the safety lamp known as prudence, make all couplings in the train with the strong links of thy love and let my lamp be the Bible. And, Heavenly Father, keep all switches closed that lead off on the sidings, especially those with a blind end! O Lord, if it be thy pleasure, have every semaphore block along the line to show the white light of hope that I may make the run of life without stopping. And, Lord, give us the Ten Commandments as a schedule, and when I have finished the run, and have on schedule time pulled into the great station of death, may Thou, the Superintendent of the Universe, say with a smile: "Well done, Thou good and faithful servant. Come and sign the pay roll and receive your check for eternal happiness."

-REHOBOTH SUNDAY HERALD. DREAMS OF THE ROYAL NOON.

I GAZE upon the river of my dream ; 'Tis noon-and I am on the upland

path,

Far in the temples of the russet dell With unseen druids for sweet com

pany,

Shuddering anon as by a careless step, I find my feet upon the yawning brink; And far below the image of the pool, Glassy, but that the last of autumn leaves

Have gathered thick upon its smiling brow.

There, in far reaches, see the glimmer

ing stream,

O golden mirror of my hopes and dreams!

Beyond, the hills, which in ascending scale

To mountains, grow in fearful terraces, Till o'er all else in cold, majestic peaks The giant monarch of the purple host Rears his bare brow, while o'er the billowy plain

The glory of the last autumnal haze Lies like a robe of airiest gossamer, And there a pile of stately, rough-hewn stone,

Lost in the semi-darkness of the haze Transfigured to the gaze, Aladdin's hall,

Or Kremlin seems, or Spain's Escurial.

A thousand things of minor relevance, Like sparks too soon extinguished, fall beside

The pathway of my tense and prisoned gaze

Without a recognition-royal dream Of noon in more than royal orient court,

Of noon upon the death-bed of the year. Oh, leaves that soon go whirling in the gale,

Torn from the sweet companionship of limbs

That bore you long with all of mother's

care,

Oh, waning days, oh, hills upon whose brow

The silver threads of Yule's untrodden

snow

Shall shortly lie-oh, river of my dream, Flash kind farewell athwart the noontide beam!

-Waverley Magazine.

POETRY.-Poetry is the interpreter of the soul, and translates all thought into one language. While we eat the fruit of autumn, it reminds us of the blossoms of spring; and when we inhale the odorous breath of May, it foretells the frosts of December. It makes the marble of the sculptor breathe, the canvas of the painter speak, and the anvil of the artisan ring a chime. It is the handmaid of religion; the rose in the wreath

of the bride, and the chaplet of the dead; the mirth and music of the marriage, and the awe and silence of the burial. It is the voice of peace, the song of love, and the sigh of sorrow. It sparkles in the smile of hope, and glitters in tears of regret. It is seen in the downcast eyes of modesty, or the ingenuous expression of manhood. It is heard in the shape of a dove, or felt in the down of a swan, it is the truly beautiful, and the beautiful truth.

RISE HIGHER.-When the birds are flying over, and the fowler lies in wait for them, if they fly low, at every discharge of the fowler's gun some fall, some are wounded, and some, swerving sideways plunge into the thicket and hide themselves. But you will find that immediately after the first discharge of the gun the flock rise and fly higher. And at the next discharge they rise and fly still higher. And not many times has the plunging shot thinned their number before they take so high a level that no longer the fowler aims at them because they are out of the reach of his shot. When troubles come upon you, fly higher, and if they strike you, fly still. And by and by you will rise so high in spiritual life, that your afflictions. will be set on things so entirely above that these troubles shall not be able to touch you. So long as the shot strikes you, so long hear the word of God saying to you, "Rise higher."

THE AUTUMN OF LIFE.-It is the solemn thought connected with middle life that life's last business is begun in earnest, and it is then, midway between the cradle and the grave, that a man begins to marvel that he let the days of youth go by so half enjoyed. It is the positive autumn feeling, it is the sensation of half sadness that we experience when the longest day of the year is passed and every day that follows is shorter, and the light fainter and feebler; shadows tell that Nature is hastening with gigantic footsteps to her winter grave. So does man look back upon his youth. When the first gray hairs become visible, when the un