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Easter spirit, he gives away his winnings to somebody too poor to buy eggs for an Easter feast.

13. In a certain part of Oxfordshire, England, up to a recent period, there was a custom of throwing apples into the churchyard after evening service on Easter Sunday, those who had been married within the year being expected to throw three times as many as the rest. The chronicle fails to tell why the apples were thrown into the church-yard, and whether anybody took the pains afterward to gather them up; but the farmers and their wives and children finished the ceremony by adjourning to the house of the clergyman to eat bread and cheese and drink spiced ale.

14. The most beautiful "Easter way" that I know about is that which sends flowers to the sick and the sorrowful on the morning of Easter Sunday. This year there will be a great many varieties from which to choose, and nobody need refrain from the charming attention because he or she cannot buy expensive bouquets in conventional arrangements from the florists. A few of the first wild flowers, if you live in the country, or a dainty bunch of pussy-willows and grasses, will carry comfort wherever they go. And if your hyacinths and callas are in flower, your jonquils and crocuses laughing up to the sky, you will certainly want to take some of them to church, where they can help the happy people to praise God.

15. In many Sunday schools and households, children present their offerings, saved or earned perhaps by the self-denials of Lent, on the afternoon of Easter Sunday. One little girl has broken herself of the habit of procrastination and been rewarded therefor; her brother has learned to rise when first called in the morning; a little friend has sewed or gone on errands, or worked in some way to earn Easter money and give.

it to the Lord. We can give to the Lord only by denying ourselves and making others happy, and this is the true spirit in which we should leave Lent behind us and enter upon Easter, the feast of our ever-living King. That which we do to help the poor, the sick, the sorrowful, or the little children, He accepts as done unto Himself.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

XIX. TRUE NOBILITY.

CHARLES SWAIN (1803-1874), called "the Manchester Poet," was a native of Manchester, England. His best-known work is Dryburgh Abbey, written in 1832.

1. WHAT is noble? To inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree?
There must be some other merit
Higher yet than these for me!
Something greater far must enter
Into life's majestic span,

Fitted to create and center
True nobility in man!

2. What is noble? "Tis the finer

Portion of our mind and heart,
Linked to something still diviner
Than mere language can impart,
Ever prompting, ever seeking

Some improvement yet to plan
To uplift our fellow-being,

And, like man, to feel for man!

3. What is noble? Is the saber

Nobler than the humble spade?
There's a dignity in labor

Truer than e'er pomp arrayed!
He who seeks the mind's improvement,
Aids the world in aiding mind;
Every great commanding movement
Serves not one, but all mankind.

4. O'er the forge's heat and ashes,
O'er the engine's iron head,
Where the rapid shuttle flashes
And the spindle whirls its thread,
There is Labor lowly tending

Each requirement of the hour,
There is Genius still extending
Science and its world of power!

5. 'Mid the dust and speed and clamor
Of the loom-shed and the mill,
Midst the clink of wheel and hammer,
Great results are growing still!
Though too oft by Fashion's creatures
Work and workers may be blamed,
Commerce need not hide its features-
Industry is not ashamed.

6. What is noble? That which places
Truth in its enfranchised will,
Leaving steps, like angel traces,
That mankind may follow still!

E'en though Scorn's malignant glances
Prove him poorest of his clan,
He's the noble, who advances

Freedom and the cause of man!

CHARLES SWAIN.

XX. SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

THE Woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.

The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop –
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her agèd hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm,

He guides her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own are firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's agèd and poor and slow;

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

Anon.

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