And murmured, with a mild surprise

And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
"That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double quick;
I shouldn't wonder, I declare,

If brother Murray made the prayer!"

And this is all I have to say
About the parson's poor old bay,

The same that drew the one horse shay.

Moral for which this tale is told:

A horse can trot, for all he's old.

OURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT."

England's sun was setting o'er the hills so far away-
Filled the land with misty beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair-
He with step so slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and

white,

Struggled to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring tonight."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and damp and cold, "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die,

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely

white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-every word pierced her young

heart

Like a thousand gleaming arrows-like a deadly poisoned dart; "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shaddowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;

I have done my duty ever-tried to do it just and right—
Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thought.

ful brow,

And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die !" And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright

One low murmur scarcely spoken-" Curfew must not ring to-night."

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before;

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower where the bell swung to and fro; Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of lightUpward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell,

And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sudden light, And she springs and grasps it firmly-"Curfew shall not ring to night."

Out she swung-far out-the city seemed a tiny speck below; There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and

fro;

And the half deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), While he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral

knell;

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-" Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er-the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once

more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done

Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun

Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white, Tell the children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden beauty now; At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised and torn, And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity-lit his eyes with misty lightGo, your lover lives," cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to. night."

66

AN ILL KEPT SECRET.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

Spring has come, though nobody yet knows it-
Nobody but I and pert Miss Briar,

Briar Rose, and Miss Willow tree,

They are secret keepers but they show it,
For each blushes red as you pass by her,
Blushes guilty red for all to see.

And the Robin knows it also, bless him!

He came back as soon as he suspected,

And he hops and flicks and winks and chatters,

Till the veriest owl that flies would guess him
Full of secrets, which he fears suspected-

Secrets touching other people's matters.

And the tulip knows it, and the crocus,

For I heard them whispering to each other

In the drowsy darkness, where they hide them:
"Some one knocked. Who was it knocked and woke us?
Surely Mother Spring has come, my brother."
And they roused the daffodils beside them.

And the Winter guesses. Dark and grimly
Frowned his icy face, and fierce his growling
As an angry lion's, crouched to bite her,

As the dainty Spring so fair and trimly

Brushed by him, and fled before the howling

Winds and cold sleet which he flung to fright her

We all know it, and each glad tale-bearer

Speeds the happy news, too good for keeping.
Winter scowleth wrathfully and curses;

Robin gossips loud to each wayfarer;

Willow blushes, crocus can't help peeping,
And I tell the secret in these verses.

THE STORM.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.

The tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry
Fierce answers to the angry sky-

Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain

A ship is struggling, all in vain,

To live upon the stormy main—

Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,
Vain is it now to strive or dare;

A cry goes up of great despair

Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind and pelting rain

Beat on the nursery window pane

Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed,

Soft pillowed was the little head;

"The storm will wake the child," they said

Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows white
He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,
"Father, save those at sea to-night!"—
Miserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay
On a ship at anchor in the bay,

And on a little child at play

Gloria tibi Domine !

THE REQUITAL.

Loud roared the tempest,

Fast fell the sleet;

A little child angel

Passed down the street,

With trailing pinions

And weary feet.

The moon was hidden,
No stars were bright,
So she could not shelter
In heaven that night,
For the angels' ladders
Are rays of light.

She beat her wings

At each window pane,
And pleaded for shelter,

But all in vain.

"Listen," they said,