Child must have sent him; and what was that verse you told me, mamma? 'Who-so-ever'

"Whosoever shall receive,'" repeated the mother, one of such children in My name, receiveth Me.' Dan," the boy looked up in wonder, for no one had ever spoken his name so sweetly before,-"you will not see the dear Christ to-night, nor ever, I think, upon earth; why, I will tell you some other time. But he loves and pities you, and sends you to me that I may teach you to be good, so that when you die you may go to his beautiful home in heaven. Will you try to learn?"

"Bet you a hundred dollars I will!" said Dan. "But you don't mean I kin stay in the house,—this splendid house with all them flowers an' things an' her?" pointing to the little daughter.

"I do mean it," said the lady; "you shall stay here as long as you are good."

Dan threw half a cartwheel, and then suddenly remembering he was not in the street, stood bolt upright.

"I'm so awful happy," he said, "I can't tell you. Somethin's stickin' in my throat." And then, after a short pause, he went on, with sparkling eyes: "I'll run arrants for you, an' I'll shine your boots, an' I'll dance for the pooty little lady, and I'll show you where you kin buy the cheapest pigs' feet in the hull market, an' apples, cent apiece."

The lady burst into a merry laugh, the brown-haired girl joined in, and then Dan lent a shrill treble to the chorus, and thus began for the little street-boy a new and happy life from that blessed Christmas night.

OVERDONE ECONOMY.-JOHN WOLCOT.

Economy's a very useful broom,

Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room
To catch each straggling pin to make a plum.
Too oft economy's an iron vise,

That squeezes e'en the little frames of mice,

That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper economy's a comely thing;
Good in a subject-better in a king;

Yet, pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling-
Most easily inclined to make folks mean;
Inclines them, too, toward villainy to lean,

To overreaching, perjury, and stealing;

E'en when the heart should only think of grief,
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,

And swallows up the affections, all so mild-
Witness the mother and her only child.

Poor Mistress Squeezehard had a luckless son,
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
In imitation of the ambitious great,
High from the gallery, ere the play begun,
He fell all plump into the pit,

Dead in a minute as a nit;

In short, he broke his pretty little neck,
Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild,

Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child, Afflicted every heart with grief around.

Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,

And moderated the hysteric blast,

She cast about her eyes in thought profound;
And being with a saving knowledge blest,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed:
"Sher, I am de moder of de hurt lad
Dat meet misfortune here so bad;

Sher, I must haf de shilling back, you know,
As leedle Moses haf not seen de show."

ONLY A DRUNKARD.

Only a drunkard, reeling around,

Out in the gloom of depravity's night; Seeking some sudden hole in the ground, Where he shall hide his shame from sight

Open your shutters and flash him a light!

Recall that other's impious word:

"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord?"

Eyes tear-blistered with tears unwept,

Tongues pledge-blistered with oaths unkept,

Soul so steeped in the dregs of hell

That his breath struggles up from a putrid well;
Wringing the filth of gutter and sink

From tattered sleeve, he stops to think
How he can get another drink.
Scarcely a trace of humanity there,
Scarcely a subject for faith and prayer!
Such is the picture that curses your light,
Out in his gloom of depravity's night.
Dare you that other's impious word:
"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord?”

Cold as the prayer on Pharisee's lip,
Yon church spire rears its burnished tip,
Pointing the way to heaven's portals;

But, alas! outvisioning passion-wrecked mortals.
You, who are safe 'neath the steeple so tall
Frescoed ceiling and painted wall,
Open your shutters and flash him a light
Out in the gloom of depravity's night!
Recall that other's impious word:
"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord?"

Reeling along with a plunge and a lurch,
He parts the tide as it ebbs from the church,
Even as Moses' trident cleft

The Red Sea's waves both right and left;
So that human tide, in horror and haste,
Shrinks from the miserable wretch aghast:
Many with sorrow, some with shame,
Few with the thought of a brother's claim.
Boldly the broad-hemmed Pharisee,
Vocal with gratitude loud and free:
"I thank thee, Lord, I am not as he."
Better that other's impious word:
"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord?"

On the very next corner the reeling wretch passes
There's a mingling of song and clashing of glasses;
The windows are open and flashing the light
That deepens the gloom in depravity's night.

From the easy-swung door there's a scent of good cheer,
Over it—“ Only pure liquors sold here.”

To the wretch's dimmed sense it were paradise gates, But, lacking the passport, beyond it he waits. Desperation at length lends his tremulous feet Strength to go in from the cold of the street.

Ere the landlord's frown can break into words,
Rude pity has touched the tenderer chords
Of a reveler's heart. An answering “chink”
Says, "Give the poor devil a generous drink."

Sprightly he turns to his "brother" again,
The magic elixir has made him a man.

From the pledge-blistered tongue, 'neath the bubbled-up nose, A song full of music and jollity flows,

As drink follows drink and the hours glide on.

Does one brother rise up or the other come down?
For they meet on a common rum-level at last,
And sip, time about, from goblet or glass.

The fires have burned out and the stupor again
Has mastered alike nerves, pulses and brain--
Out in the street, unable to stand,

He is lodged for the night by the landlord's white hand.

Only a drunkard, done reeling around,

Out in the gloom of depravity's night—
He has found a sudden hole in the ground;
Hid forever his shame from sight.

Did you open your window and flash him a light?
Society echoes that impious word :

"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord ?"

THE RUSTY SWORD.-GEORGE M. VICKERS.

In a little roadside cottage, half hid by shrubs and vines,
A woman, old and feeble,on a faded couch reclines;
Her face is sweet, but sorrow has left its imprint there,
And her voice tells not the burden that her God hath bid
her bear.

As I drink the limpid water from the homely, dripping gourd,

I note on the wall before me a naked, rusty sword.

I glance at the aged woman, and speaking she bows her head:

""Twas worn by a gallant soldier, for many a long year dead.

"One day, sir, I was looking where the road winds over

there,

Wishing the war was over and breathing a mother's prayer-
I saw a wagon coming, and soldiers, all moving slow;
They were bringing my boy home, wounded--ah! it's many
a year ago.

"I buried him there, by those willows-as you pass you can see his grave;

Oh, stranger, my child was a comfort, but his heart it was true and brave!"

Watching the pearls drop downward over her aged face,
I mount, and I ride in silence away from the lonely place.

But now I have reached the willows, and I leap to the shady ground;

I gather some wayside flowers to throw on his mossy mound.

I care not if Grant has led him, nor if he has fought with Lee;

I am an American soldier-and so was he.

ROVER IN CHURCH.

'Twas a Sunday morning in early May,
A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,

And all the village, old and young,

Had trooped to church when the church bell rung.

The windows were open, and breezes sweet

Fluttered the hymn-books from seat to seat.
Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch
Sang as softly as if in church.

Right in the midst of the minister's prayer
There came a knock at the door.

"Who's there,

I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought
As his careful ear the tapping caught.

Rap-rap, rap-rap,-a louder sound,

The boys on the back seat turned around.

What could it mean? for never before

Had any one knocked at the old church door.

Again the tapping, and now so loud

The minister paused, though his head was bowed.
Rapety-rap! This will never do;

The girls are peeping, and laughing too!

So the sexton tripped o'er the cracking floor,
Lifted the latch, and opened the door.

In there trotted a big black dog,
Big as a bear! With a solemn jog
Right up the center aisle he pattered;
People might stare, it little mattered.

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