Oh, how her face was glorified with glory not of earth as she listened, for he said, "I am the boy to whom you told the story of the picture. My work is with the poor. We shall meet again."

66

Lift me," she said.

"Ah," he whispered, "you lifted me."

His strong right arm lifted her up; together their eyes sought the picture. The first ray of the rising sun fell upon the face of the Christ, and when he gently lowered the dead face to the pillow he knew that she saw 'face to face."

MY FIRST RECITAL.-W. A. EATON.

I was seized with an ambition to appear in public once, I was young and not bad looking, nor by any means a dunce;

But I little knew the trouble my wild desire would cause,
Or the woes of those who try to win the "popular applause."

I had no voice for singing, so my fancy took its flight;
I would study elocution and in public would recite;
So I bought a recitation, and I read it right and day,
Until without a single break, I every word could say.

I bought a book on action, and studied ease and grace,
And practised well, before the glass, each tragical grimace,
For I was of a sombre turn and loved dramatic rhyme,
Of haunted towers, and lover's sighs, and deeds of horrid
crime.

J moved my eyebrows up and down, as tragic auters do,
And eat a pound of acid drops. and sticky jujubes, too;

I practised deep tones, very deep, and growled like any

bear,

Until my landlady would ask, "What is that noise up there?"

I joined a concert company, and had my name put down, And thought my first appearance was the talk of half the

town;

The piece I had selected was a splendid one to "go,"

I had heard it oft recited by a fellow that I know.

And when you hear the title, I am sure you'll say

good,"

"that's

Twas the most dramatic poem ever written by Tom Hood;

I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and give a little

scream

Now, can't you guess the title? It was "Eugene Aram's Dream"!

It's rather difficult because of the recurring rhyme,

But I thought I had quite mastered that and now could bide my time.

My name upon the programme gave me quite a sudden

start,

But I knew my words correctly, so I cheered my drooping heart.

Aad I practised more than ever in deep tones that tragic rhyme,

And related all the details of the usher's horrid crime. And at last the wished-for evening came, as evenings ever will,

For whatever we are doing time is never standing still.

The spacious hall was crowded with an audience most select,

And some most distinguished visitors whom we did not expect,

A real life Lord and Lady, and the Mayor of Blanktown, too,

With a fierce moustachioed Captain of the Royal Horse
Guards Blue,

The Vicar of the parish and Church wardens in a row,
With crowds of gushing ladies, each with her special beau,
And one, I must confess it, the adored one of my heart,
It was for her I tried to shine in this most tragic part.

There was carpet on the platform, and banners trailed the ground,

And a scented water fountain threw its perfumed spray around;

And plants of tropic beauty in pots were blooming there,
You scarcely could imagine a scene more wondrous fair.

I looked at my adored one, with the glorious hazel eyes,
And felt that her applause would be an all-sufficient prize.
First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by the choir,-
I always had a notion that sweet music could inspire,

And give a soldier courage; but the more I now reflect,
I am quite sure that the music had an opposite effect,
For although my head was burning I was trembling like a

leaf,

Then I thought the songs might soothe me, but the songs were all too brief

When I looked upon the programme, and had marked off every name,

It seemed as if my time t' appear like a flash of lightning

came.

I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't care,

But I felt my face was burning right away into my hair.
I stood just behind the platform, trying vainly to keep cool,
And whispering softly to myself, "Be calm; don't be a fool!”
When, smiling, our conductor round the corner popped his
head,

Come, look sharp, Mr. Whiffim, the platform waits!" he said.

Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly falling on my face, And stood before the audience, glaring wildly into space. When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have given the world

to say,

"Please don't stare at me so rudely! Oh, do look the other way!"

Where were all my tragic actions, which their feelings must have stirred?

And, O horror! more important, where, oh where, was the first word!

Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly stared I at the floor, Yes, the words were quite forgotten, I had known so well before.

And I saw my own adored one hide her face behind her

fan,

And a stout old lady murmured, "Dear me, what can ail the man?"

Then suddenly I remembered part of that most tragic rhyme,

And I waved my arms and shouted, "In the prime of summer time.

Why the audience laughed I know not, but they did, and 1

got mad,

It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was much too bad; Then I thought about my action, when "some moody turns

he took,"

And I tramped along the platform till the very rafters shook. Then I reached the thrilling portion where the ladies ought

to scream,

Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is nothing but a dream."

But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, alas! too true; How I wished the creaking platform would but break and let me through.

Oh! but for one drink of water, one to cool my burning

tongue.

Then I stooped to ft the body, then again I upward sprung; I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my shoulder held it

tight,

Then I plunged into the audience, scattering wildly left and right.

And I dropped that splendid rose-bush on a stout old lady's lap,

And the branches got entangled with the ribbons of her cap. Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a palm-branch high in air,

Wig and cap hung in the branches,-the old lady's head was bare.

Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere I turned and fled, And it struck the portly Rector, struck him on his shiny head. Then the fierce moustachioed captain seized me with an angry shout,

Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really, kicked me out

.Angelina, my adored one, passes me and does not bow,
Angelina goes out walking with another fellow now.
How I hate my wild ambition! I detest dramatic rhyme,
And the art of elocution I would punish as a crime.
For reciting may be pleasant if you don't aspire too high,
But before you say it's easy, do as I did-go and try.

A FAIR ENTHUSIAST.

The tossing, frothing, raging sea,
Together side by side,

They stood and gazed upon with awe;

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'Oh, aint that sweet?" she cried.

A story he narrated of

A sailor brave, who died

In saving others from the waves.
"How jolly nice!" she sighed.

He pointed to the red sunset,
So gorgeously outspread,
And asked her if it wasn't fine;
"Oh, yes, so cute!" she said.

He then proposed they write their names
With sticks upon the sand;

She clasped her hands and cried with glee:
"Oh, that will be just grand!"

SIMON GRUB'S DREAM.*

The text was this: "Inasmuch as ye

Have done it to these ye have done it to me."
Soon Simon slept, for 'twas sultry weather,

And the dream and the sermon went on together.

He dreamed that he died and stood at the gate
Of the outer court where the angels wait
For those who hear the glad “well done,”
And can enter the realms of the Holy One.

While Simon waited and wondered if he
Had forgotten the password, or lost the key,
A voice above him said, loud and clear,

"Do you know you must bring your witnesses here?"

"Of witnesses there are many," said he;

My brethren and neighbors will all speak for me." But the brethren and neighbors came not near,

And he heard only a whinny, familiar and clear;

And old Grayfoot, the horse, stood just at his right,
While around on the other side, just coming in sight,
Was a crowd of dumb creatures so forlorn and so poor
That the angel wept as he opened the door.

Then Simon grew pale, and trembling with fear
Said, "O why are not some of the brethren here?

Pray wait, pray wait, they'll surely come."

"Twas Grayfoot that spoke then, and Simon was dumb:

"On wintry nights I've stood in my stall

When the cold winds blew through the cracks in the wall Till every joint and sinew and bone

Seemed frozen and dead as the coldest stone.

"I've shivered the dreary time away

With only some wisps of the poorest hay;
Then put to work with shout and blow,

So hungry and faint I could scarcely go.”

Then old Brindle came, and with soft brown eyes
Fixed on her master in sad surprise,

Told a pitiful tale of starvation and cold,

And how he had sold her food for gold.

*Used by permission of the American Humane Education Society," owners of copyright.