her, feels that he has something to fight for, will help him fight; who will put her lips to his ear and whisper words of counsel, and her hand to his heart and impart new inspiration.

All through storm and sunshine, conflict and victory, through adverse and favorable winds-man needs a woman's love. The heart yearns for it. A sister's and a mother's love will hardly supply the need. Yet many seek nothing further than housework. Justly enough, half of these get nothing more. The other half, surprised above measure, obtain more than they sought. Their wives surprise them by giving a nobler idea of marriage, and disclosing a treasury of courage, sympathy and love.

ALONE IN THE GLOAMING.

ALONE in the gloaming! How solemn the hour

When the daylight fades away: Through shadowland gates, now standing ajar,

Flit phantoms, unknown to the day.

Alone in the gloaming; sadly, I gaze Through the vista of bygone years: Adown it its length, weird, appear silhouettes,

Which wring, from my heart, bit

ter tears.

The pleasures, the joy, beside the deep grief,

Which memory brings back to meAre few as the shells, strewn over the beach,

Compared with sands of the sea.

Alone in the gloaming, before me the world

So nun-like, in mantle of graySilently prays forgiveness of God,

For all evils done through the day.

Alone in the gloaming, the world must wait

Until smiles, sent down from heaven, By moon and by stars, this message relate

"Peace! all thy sins are forgiven !"

THE enduring popularity of "Dixie ” is not confined to any one section of the country. It is as well known in New England and the northwest as it is in "Dixie Land."

There have been many versions of "Dixie." But few have seen the original. Following are the lines of the song as it was originally written, taken from an old magazine :

I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten;
Look away, look away, look away,
Dixie land.

In Dixie land, whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin',

Look away, look away, look away,
Dixie land.

Den I wish I was in Dixie.

Hooray! hooray!

In Dixie land I'll took my stand,
To lib an' die in Dixie.
Away, away, away down South in
Dixie ;

Away, away, away down South in
Dixie.

Old missus marry " Will de weaber;"
William was a gay deceaber;

Look away, etc.

But when he put his arms around 'er He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder; Look away, etc.

Den I wish I was in Dixie, etc.

His face was as sharp as a butcher's cleaber,

But dat did not seem to greab 'er;
Look away, etc.

Old missus acted de foolish part,
And died for de man who broke her
heart;

Look away, etc.

Den I wish I was in Dixie, etc.

Now here's a health to de next old missus,

And all de gals dat want ter kiss us;
Look away, etc.

But if you want to drive away sorrow,
Come and hear dis nig to-morrow;
Look away, etc.

Den I wish I was in Dixie, etc.

Dar's buckwheat cakes and Ingen batter,

Makes you fat or a little fatter;
Look away, etc.

Den hoe it down and scratch your grabble,

To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble; Look away, etc.

Den I wish I was in Dixie, etc.

-From the NEW YORK TIMES. UNTO the editor's room he went,

bliss ;

with

stairs

up

strode

He

An interview, a word or two,

He

came

down

stairs

like

i sq -SYRACUSE POST.

WHAT A HORSE WOULD SAY IF HE COULD.

DON'T hitch me to an iron post or railing when the mercury is below freezing. I need skin on my tongue.

Don't leave me hitched in my stall at night with a big cob right where I must lie down. I am tied and can't select a smooth place.

Don't compel me to eat more salt than I want by mixing it in my oats. I know better than any other animal how much I need.

Don't think because I go free under the whip that I don't get tired. You would move up if under the whip.

Don't think because I am a horse that iron-weeds and briars won't hurt my mouth.

Don't whip me when I get scared at the street cars, or I will expect it next time, and may make trouble.

Don't trot me up hill, for I have to carry you and the buggy and myself too. Try it yourself some time. Run up hill with a big load.

Don't keep my stable very dark, for when I go out into the light my eyes are injured, especially if snow be on the ground.

It may

Don't say whoa, unless you mean it. Teach me to stop at that word. check me if the lines break and save a runaway and a smash-up.

Don't make me drink ice water nor put a frosty bit in my mouth. Warm the bit by holding it a half minute against my body.

Don't forget to file my teeth when they get jagged and I cannot chew my food. When I get lean it is a sign my teeth want filing.

Don't ask me to "back with blinds on, I am afraid to.

Don't run me down a steep hill for if anything should give way I might break your neck.

Don't put on my blind bridle so that it irritates my eye, nor so leave my forelock that it will be in my eyes.

-OUR DUMB ANIMALS.

WE MAY BE HAPPY YET.

YET take good heart, though tempests lower,

And thy bright hopes all fade away, Faith still exerts the gracious power, To gild with radiance each day ;

With harmony divine.

So, often in my waking dreams
I hear a melody that seems
Like fairy voices whispering
To me the song I never sing.

Sometimes when brooding o'er the years

My lavish youth has thrown away.
When all the glowing past appears
But as a mirage that my tears
Have crumbled to decay,

I thrill to find the ache and pain
Of my remorse is stilled again,
As forward bent and listening,
I hear the song I never sing.

A murmuring of rhythmic words,
Adrift on tunes whose currents flow
Melodious with the thrill of birds,
And far-off lowing of the herds
In lands of long ago.

And every sound the truant loves
Comes to me like the coo of doves,
When first in the blooming fields
of spring,

I heard the song I never sing,

The echoes of old voices wound

In limpid streams of laughter where The river Time runs bubble-crowned And giddy eddies ripple round

The lilies growing there.

Where roses, bending o'er the brink,

Drain their own kisses as they
drink.

And ivies climb and twine and cling
About the song I never sing.

An ocean surge of sound that falls

As though a tide of heavenly art
Had tempested the gleaming halls
And crested o'er the golden walls
In showers upon my heart.
Thus, with open arms and eyes
Uplifted toward the alien skies,
Forgetting every earthly thing,
I hear the song I never sing.
-JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

A GOOD PRAYER.

THY will be done. This is the

prayer of every Christian. It is a

lesson of a lifetime. It cannot be

learned too soon. So we must deep repeating it from day to day and from year to year. Every repetition ought to deepen the impression made upon the heart, that God's will, not ours, is the thing to be done. Many a time we say, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," when we don't really mean it or understand fully what it means. How cheerfully those parents said in their morning prayer, "Thy will be done." At evening time, when a loved one has been taken away, how hard to feel submission to the very thing they prayed for in the morning! "Thy will be done" is easily said when everything is bright and cheerful in all our relations in the world; but when the beautiful flower is taken to bloom in a better land, far from the disturbing winds and storms of this life, it is hard to say, The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." But to say it in faith shows the Christian spirit that is childlike. There is a trust in God's wisdom and goodness and love expressed in this that is most honoring to him, and full of solace to a bleeding heart.

CHEAP PLEASURES.

DID you ever study the cheapness of some pleasures?" asks a writer. Do you know how little it takes to make a multitude happy? Such trifles as a penny, a word, or a smile do the work. There are two or three boys passing along-give them each a chestnut, and how smiling they look, they will not be cross for some time. A poor widow lives in the neighborhood, who is the mother of a half-dozen children. Send them a half peck of sweet apples, and they will be happy. A child has lost his arrow-the world to him and he mourns sadly; help him to find it or make him another, and how quickly the sunshine will play over his sober face. A boy has as much as he can do to pile up a load of wood; assist him a few seconds, or speak a kind word to him, and he forgets his toil and works away without minding it. You employ a

man, pay him cheerfully, and speak a pleasant word to him, and he leaves your house with a contented heart, to lighten up his own hearth, with smiles and gladness. Pleasure is cheap. Who will not bestow it liberally? If there are smiles, sunshine and flowers about us, let us not grasp them with a miser's fist and lock them up in our hearts. No, rather let us take them and scatter them about us, in the cot of the widow, among the groups of children, in the crowded mart, where men of business congregate, in our families and elsewhere. We can make the wretched happy, the discontented cheerful, the afflicted resigned, at an exceedingly cheap rate. Who will refuse to do it.

Should she reach the last milestone first, John,

'Twill be comfort amid your woe, To know that while loving her here, John,

You kissed her and told her so.
GOD'S ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which
calls
[is just ;
The burial ground God's Acre! It
It consecrates each grave within its
walls,
[ing dust.
And breathes a benison o'er the sleep-
God's Acre ! Yes, that blessed name
imparts
[have sown
in the grave
garnered in
[their own.
no more

Comfort to those, who The seed, that they have their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise
again
Jangel's blast
At the great harvest, when the arch-
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff

and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth; [perfume And each bright blossom mingle its With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

[we sow; And spread the furrow for the seed This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
THE OLD LODGE ROOM.

YES, the old lodge room, and who does not remember it, whether he is a member of any lodge or not? In every town the Masons, the Odd Fellows and other orders have had their halls and buildings, and how curiously and mysteriously you viewed them when a boy? About Masonry, especially, you had heard so much of "riding the goat,"

climbing the greasy pole," and all that, that you had all kinds of weird