her boy. She was struggling, battling, praying, that the life might be saved for which her fondness had woven such a beautiful crown of honor and glory. Her wish is granted, and as the years roll on the young man's brow is wreathed with power. But could that mother have beheld the crown darkening under the shadow of dissipation; seen her boy frequenting scenes where men were staking fortune, honor, eternity itself, for the love of gain, where the fatal glare of the wine-cup concealed from the doomed one the terminus of the road he was traveling, gladly would she have dashed her dreams to the earth, and saved herself from this, her dark Geth

semane.

Sometimes individual wishes seem blended into that of the mass. Perhaps the power is for evil, perhaps for good. Now nihilism sways the multitude, now infidelism, now Christianity. God grant the latter power may sway the world as long as the toilers last, till the crown of thorns is transfigured into an immortal one. Оссаsionally a figure is seen passing beyond his fellows, and, filled with unsatisfied longing, mounting higher and higher. Such toilers are our Miltons and Michael Angelos. Think you Paradise Lost has revealed to us one tithe of the grandeur beheld by the sightless eyes of the grand old poet; or that the brush of Michael Angelo ever transferred to canvas the perfection he strove to attain?

After all "it is in unfathomable seas where hope spreads her golden wings," and the seeker wandering “too far in a sea of glory, is left to the mercy of a rude stream that must forever hide him."

There is something strangely pathetic in the search of Ponce de Leon for the fountain of immortal youth, and the story of his failures. Turn which way we may, and we behold S'ibboleth stamped upon the saddened brow of speculator, politician, lover; and the charmed "h" is missing.

Yet oftentimes the crown the pursuer never attained still reflects its radiance upon the intellects, hearts and

homes of succeeding ages, making men better and higher. Pompey and Alexander wore crowns of regal splendor, but they lie crumbling among the ruins of Greece and Rome. Think you the little band of Puritans landing in Plymouth Bay over two hundred years ago, would have exchanged their wish of freedom for the most gorgeous pageant that ever filled the city of Rome? Those grand old Fathers of ours never grasped the crown of rest and peace nor do their posterity possess it yet. But its beauty, ever brightening, is leading on to where the wish becomes the crown. Columbus never attained his crown, though he followed it through poverty and disgrace; but what a signet it has left upon the brow of every American citizen. Martin Luther's crown was never worn on earth, but what must be the brightness of the heavenly one that rewards the revolutionizer of the world.

Strange, is it not, the eagerness with which mankind follows the attainment of his wishes? The object gained to-day is tasteless from possession, and another chase is begun. Yet this very restlessness has led men from barbarism to enlightenment, from idolatry to God; and the cry for more, more, that is ever leading us forward, will some day be crowned with the rest of the Millennial Day.

SMITH'S BARGAIN DAY.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.* Maria come to me one day last week and says, says she, "At Smith's, in town, the papers say they're sellin', jest to-day,

Shoe-laces at five cents the dozen pair. It is, Susanne,

The opertunity of your life. What do you say now, say, To hitchin' up the mare right off an' goin' down to Smith's, An' each o' us gettin' some, Susanne ?-say each a dozen pair?

*Written expressly for this Collection. Mr. Meyers has contributed to this Series: "Burton's Curtains," "The Drummer of Company C," "When Grandfather Went to Town," "From the Iron Gate," "Gabe's Christmas Eve," "The Sentinel of Metz," "The Curtsy, "Brother Ben,' "The Masque,” “ Jamie," "If I Should Die to-night," "Our Clumbus," etc.

It's the opertunity o' your life-five cents a dozen pair; They're long ones, too, the paper says, just like us women wear."

I had my peach preserves to do, an' Maria she had hers, But, oh, my! laces at five cenfs the dozen pair was sich An opertunity of our lives we couldn't afford to miss;

Besides, a penny saved is 'arned for them that isn't rich. Well, we let the peach preserves jest go. We hitched the old mare up,

An' half an hour seen us joggin' on the way to town; We wasn't goin' to have them laces all bought up before We'd got our pick of 'em, you know, so we tore the whole way down.

When we come to Smith's big store you orter seen the mob"Twas bargain day an' every one was buyin' this an' that; Says Maria to me, "Susanne, I think cheap things drives some folks daft

That woman's buyin' things she never come for. Where they at,

Them long shoe-laces for five cents a dozen pair?" We looked Around for them there laces an' we marveled at the girls An' women fightin' for this an' that, things they didn't need,

Fuzz-haired women buyin' straight bangs, an' straighthaired buyin' curls.

We laughed an' looked for the laces, an' up in a little place

We seen the cheapest veils you ever clapped your eyes

on, an'

Maria looks at me, kinder winks, an' says she, "My!
They're really goin' fer nothin'.

sanne?"

What do you say,

Su

We bought six veils apiece. Then we seen them cheap

kid gloves

A half a dollar a pair an' warranted not to slip a stitch. Says Maria," Well, I never! What do you say, Susanne?" We took a couple pairs, not more, for Maria an' me aint rich.

But we looked for them shoe-laces at five cents the dozen pair, We asked a large stout lady. Says she, "I come for thread But I'm buyin' cut-glass tumblers." Me an' Maria laughed, We thought it was too funny, for the woman'd lost her head. An' then we seen the summer silks-thirty cents a yard, Full width an' jest fresh opened. Maria gave a grin; Says she, "Susanne, they're give away; I never seen the like. To miss a chance like this, Susanne, I call a mortal sin."

Next counter was perfumery, "Jockey Club," it was,
At twenty cents a bottle. Maria, says she, "See,
It's worth a half a dollar, an' here's some 'Heliotrope.'"
Well, we took a little "Jockey Club," some o' the other, too.
Then we come across the stockin's-sich bargains, bless
your heart!

Maria grabbed a box. Says she, "Susanne, it's Providence. These is goin' fer a quarter, they're every bit as good

As them I bought last winter for thirty-seven cents." But you orter seen the bonnets! If they hadn't marked 'em down

To next to nothin'! An' sich things I never seen before. An apple-green with roses was marked five an' a half,

An' the lady said last month 'twas worth a full three dollars

more.

I liked the apple-green myself, Maria chose the brown;
"Twas six an' had been ten," says she, "Susanne, it's
more than down.

I couldn't sleep o' nights if I missed a chance like this."
So I took the apple-green, an' Maria took the brown.

Well, our arms was purty crowded; we had the veils, you know,

An' the gloves, an' the silk dresses, an' the perfumery, An' the stockin's, an' the bonnets, an' then we seen the shoes;

We took four pair o' them, two for her an' two for me.

Now," says Maria, "it's gittin' late, we'd better make for

home,"

“But,” said I, "where's the opertunity of our lives?" I

says

"Them laces at five cents the dozen pair, an' which

We came to get, Maria, this busiest o' days?"

Maria says,

"Come on," says she, "I say it's gittin' late. We've got a good ten miles to drive. I've got all that I want. Them laces? Well, Susanne," says she," they certainly was cheap,

But I've spent all that I orter, an' I aint extravagant."

AT BETHLEHEM.-N. W. RAND.

Let us sing of the Babe that was born to-day
Mid the mountains of old Judea,

With only the shepherds and wandering flocks
To welcome his coming there;

But the angels chorused it through the sky,
And the stars to behold Him ran,

And one in its rapture lingered nigh

To mark out the spot for man.

Oh sing of the Babe that was born to-day,
For the world had been wrapt in night,
And the burdened and weary had lost their way
And were groping in vain for light;

But it came, O joy! and with power to save;

It came by a manger given,

And it banished forever the gloom of the grave
And lighted the way to heaven.

Yes, sing of the Babe that was born to-day,
And earth take up the strain,

The wonderful strain of long ago,
That swept the star-lit plain.
"Glory to God," ye mountains, cry,

Till from their farthest shore

The deep-mouthed seas send back reply, "Glory forevermore!"

"And peace on earth-” aye! "Peace on earth!'
Above the clashing sword,

And shout, and groan, in din of death,
Still let that voice be heard.

Sing, angels, sing! Shine, radiant star!

Nor song nor radiance cease

Till o'er the final field of war

Shall wave the palms of peace!

O kingly head, that found no rest
Save in a manger low!

O sinless head, whereon was pressed
The world's thorn crown of woe!
Now wearest thou thy crown of light,
And brighter stars than gem
The amethystine arch of night
Adorn that diadem.

And circling ages dim it not;

When every glittering crown

And song of earth have been forgot,
And thrones have crumbled down,
One crown shall still resplendent gleam ̧
One throne feel no decay,

One song-the song at Bethlehem-
Shall never die away.

-Journal of Education.