Lost to the world, of what, to him,
The import of its living age?

The past with all its shadows dim,
Was of his life the present page
Unfinished: thus it would remain-
No future could its void reclaim.

Throughout the city none were found
Who were to him by kinship bound;
To silent shores and distant climes,
Their restless feet had wandered on,
And saddened memory's doleful chimes
Alone were left for him to con.

He, mid the many, stood unknown,
With every hope forever flown.

His liberty had brought despair
To which the cell could not compare;
To its precincts he fain would turn,
Until his wretched life should end;
In its dark walls he could discern
His only home, his only friend;

And, till the hour of welcomed death,
He mourned the dungeon he had left.

MRS. JONES'S PUDDING.

They lived in, and the farmer was well-to-do, and all the household were economical, not thinking of meat every day, or anything like as often. The two daughters were named Reliance and Prudence; the sons Amos and James. Reliance was soon to be married to David Thomas, at the next farm.

"We'll have a hasty pudding for dinner to-day, mother," said farmer Jones to his wife, one morning at breakfast.

"Very well, Evan," replied Mrs. Jones, for his will was law.

So when it was time, she began to make the pudding. Her husband and sons were out at their work, in the spring sunshine; her daughters were making the beds up stairs.

"I mustn't forget the salt this time," cried Mrs. Jones to herself; "there was a fine fuss from all of 'em about the last one."

Mrs. Jones, good housewife though she was, was apt to forget to put salt in her hasty puddings, or not to put in enough of it. She put plenty in this time for they were all fond of salt. Then she went up to the linen room and began laying the winter clothing away in camphor

It was only a few moments before Reliance came into the kitchen, when, seeing the pudding cooking, and knowing that her mother was apt to forget to salt it, she put in a handful of salt and stirred it well, so that her father would have no occasion to find fault.

Soon after, Prudence passed through the kitchen on her way to the brewhouse. "Mother's sure to have forgot the salt," said she, and added a good handful.

Before long, Amos entered, and soon after, James came in. Each of them put in a handful more salt, as they had no more faith in their mother's remembering it than Reliance or Prudence had.

Just before dinner, Farmer Jones returned from the field and saw the pudding cooking.

"That pudding smells uncommon good," he said, "but," added the farmer, approaching the kettle, "I'll bet a sixpence the wife's forgot to salt it, as she always does. I used to depend on Reliance, till she got her head chock full of that young man of hern; no chance of her thinkin' on't now. As to Prudence-well, she don't meddle much in the cooking; so I'll put the salt in myself." And taking off the lid, he flung in a handful and a half, stirring the pudding briskly.

Twelve o'clock came, and they all sat down to the table. Mrs. Jones helped her husband to a good serving; for he loved it well, and had besides a sharp appetite. Just a spoonful he took, and leaped up.

"Who on earth salted this here pudding. ́ It— Farmer Jones stopped; he suddenly remembered that he had salted it himself. Just then there was a great noise in the stable.

"I should think that frisky colt's a-tryin' to kick in the barn door," said he, and rushed out.

The next to try the pudding was Amos. No sooner had he got it in his mouth, than he leaped up too, and went off to see what the colt could be doing.

And each one, James, Reliance, and Prudence, started away, in like manner, leaving Mrs. Jones in amazement. For each one, you see, silently took credit for the hard salting.

"Land o' mercy!" cried Mrs. Jones, swallowing dow. her first mouthful. "This comes o' my having put in all that there salt. What could I ha' been thinking of? But they used to say I'd a heavy hand at salting." The proof of the pudding is in the eating.

THE DRINKING-HOUSE OVER THE WAY.
M. L. NUTTING.

The room was cold and cheerless and bare,
With its rickety table and one broken chair
And its curtainless windows, with hardly a pane
To keep out the snow, the wind and the rain.

A cradle stood empty, pushed up to the wall,
And somehow that seemed the saddest of all;
In the old rusty stove the fire was dead;
There was ice on the floor at the foot of the bed.

And there, all alone, a pale woman was lying;
No need to look twice to see she was dying,-
Dying of want, of hunger and cold.

Shall I tell you her story-the story she told?

"No, ma'am, I'm no better; my cough is so bad.
It's wearing me out though, and that makes me glad;
For it's wearisome living when one's all alone,
And heaven, they tell me, is just like a home!

"Yes, ma'am, I've a husband; he's somewhere about,
I hoped he'd come in 'fore the fire went out;
But I guess he has gone where he's likely to stay-
I mean to the drinking-house over the way.

"'Twas not so always; I hope you wont think
Too hard of him, lady, it's only the drink.
I know he's kind-hearted, for oh, how he cried
For our poor little baby the morning it died!

"You see he took sudden, and grew very bad,
And we had no doctor-my poor little lad!
For his father had gone-never meaning to stay,
I am sure to the drinking-house over the way.

"And when he came back 'twas far in the night;
And I was so tired and sick with the fright
Of staying so long with my baby alone,

And it cutting my heart with its pitiful moan.

"He was cross with the drink, poor fellow! I know
It was that, not his baby, that bothered him so;
But he swore at the child, as panting it lay,
And went back to the drinking-house over the way.

"I heard the gate slam, and my heart seemed to freeze
Like ice in my bosom, and there on my knees,
By the side of the cradle, all shivering I stayed;
I wanted my mother, I cried and I prayed.

"Yes, it was easy,-his dying; he just grew more white
And his eyes opened wider to look for the light.
As his father came in 'twas just break of day,
Came in from the drinking-house over the way.

"Yes, ma'am, he was sober--at least, mostly I think;
He often stayed that way to wear off the drink.
I knew he was sorry for what he had done,
For he set a great store by our one little son.
"And straight did he go to the cradle-bed where
Our baby lay dead, so pretty and fair.

I wondered how I could have wished him to stay
Where there was a drinking-house over the way.

"He stood quiet awhile; did not understand,
You see, ma'am, till he touched the little cold hand;
Oh, then came the tears, and he shook like a leaf,
And said 'twas the drinking had made all the grief!

"Our neighbors were kind, and the minister came,
And he talked of my seeing my baby again,
And of the bright angels; I wondered if they
Could see into the drinking-house over the way!

"And I thought when my baby was put in the ground, And the man with his spade was shaping the mound, If somebody only would help me to save

My husband, who stood by my side at the grave.

"If only it were not so handy, the drink.

The men that make laws, ma'am, sure didn't think

Of the hearts they would break, of the souls they would slay When they licensed that drinking-house over the way!

"I've been sick ever since; it cannot be long-
Be pitiful, lady, to him when I'm gone;

He wants to do right, but you never would think
How weak a man grows when he's fond of the drink.

"And it's tempting him here, and it's tempting him thereFour places, I've counted, on this very square,

Where a man can get whisky by night and by day,
Not to reckon the drinking-house over the way.

"There's a verse in the Bible the minister read:
No drunkard shall enter the kingdom, it said;
And he is my husband, and I loved him so,
And where I am going I want he should go.

"Our baby and I will both want him there;
Don't you think the dear Saviour will hear my prayer?
And please, when I'm gone, ask some one to pray
For him at the drinking-house over the way!"

-Methodist Protestant.

ON THE ROAD TO DREAMTOWN.-EBEN E. REXFORD.
Come here, my sleepy darling, and climb upon my knee,
And lo! all in a moment, a trusted steed 'twill be
To bear you to that country where troubles are forgot,
And we'll set off for Dreamtown,

Trot,

Trot,

Trot!

O listen! Bells of Dreamland are ringing soft and low! What a pleasant, pleasant country it is through which we go; And little nodding travelers are seen in every spot,

All riding off to Dreamtown,

Trot,

Trot,

Trot!