THE KING'S DAUGHTER.-REBECCA PALFREY UTTER.

She wears no jewel upon hand or brow;

No badge by which she may be known of men;
But though she walks in plain attire now,

She is a daughter of the King, and when
Her Father calls her at his throne to wait
She will be clothed as doth befit her state.

Her Father sent her in his land to dwell,

Giving to her a work which must be done.
And since the King loves all his people well,
Therefore, she, too, cares for them every one.
Thus when she stoops to lift from want or sin
The brighter shines her royalty therein.

She walks erect through dangers manifold,
While many sink and fall on either hand.
She dreads not summer's heat nor winter's cold,
For both are subject to the King's command.
She need not be afraid of anything,

Because she is a daughter of the King.

Even when the angel comes that men call death,
And name with terror, it appalls not her.
She turns to look at him with quickened breath,
Thinking, It is the royal messenger.

Her heart rejoices that her Father calls
Her back to live within the palace walls.

For though the land she dwells in is most fair,
Set round with streams, like picture in its frame,

Yet often in her heart deep longings are

For that imperial palace whence she came.
Not perfect quite seems any earthly thing,
Because she is a daughter of the King.

HER FIRST BABY.

A woman got into a suburban car the other afternoon. She was carrying a sweet-faced baby, which was not more than six months old.

The car was detained at the corner where the woman

got on, and she shifted round nervously in her seat for a moment and then began to toss the baby about.

Here is a true description of what she did with that child while the car was going two hundred and fifty yards:

Held it upright on one knee for thirty seconds. Then shifted it to the other knee.

Pulled it up against her and hugged it twice.

Tossed it on her left shoulder and then shifted it to her right shoulder.

Held it up to the window, and then stood it up on her lap.

Made a cradle out of her arms and jumped it up and down six times.

Placed it on her left knee, then put it on her right knee. Laid it face down in her lap.

Hugged it to her bosom and patted it seven times.

Held it up to the window again, then pulled it over to her left shoulder, shifted it to her right shoulder, and wound up by dumping it into her lap.

Tossed it into the air a dozen times and hugged it four or five times.

Laid it on its back in her lap and then turned it so as to lie on its face.

Patted it for a minute and hummed "Hush-a-byebaby," although the child wasn't making a sound.

Put it on her knee and joggled her knee up and down, shook it in front of her, holding it out at arm's length, and then hugged it ecstatically three times.

Held it up to the window for the third time, and then, when the conductor came after her fare, laid it in a lump on the seat beside her.

Patted it some more, joggled it some more, tossed it some more, and flopped it face down again.

Held it out at arm's length and gazed at it rapturously. Talked gibberish to it and hugged it some more. And all this while the car was going two hundred and fifty yards. But, then, it was-her first.

TOM'S THANKSGIVING.-GEORGE M. VICKERS.
By permission of the Author.

The smoke rose straight from the chimney
Till lost in the autumn air,

And the trees round the little cottage

Stood motionless and bare;

But within there was life and bustle,

There was warmth in the kitchen stove, And the smile of a patient woman,

And the glow of a deathless love.

The cakes and pies on the dresser
Stood ranged in a tempting row,
And the table-cloth on a chair-back
Was smooth and as white as snow;
On the table, 'mid bags and baskets,
A big, fat turkey lay,

For Tom, our Tom, was coming
To spend Thanksgiving Day.

Yes, Tom had sent us a letter,

The first that had come for years,

And we read it all over and over

Till its lines were dimmed with tears:
The boy who had nigh disgraced us,
Whose mem'ry was dead to some,
The wayward, the lost, was coming;
Thank God, he was coming home.

To-day, as I think it over,

The old scene comes back again,
And I see their anxious faces

As plain as I saw them then;
I can see poor grief-bowed father
Standing by mother's side,
Both peering out through the window,
Trying their fears to hide.

I can see a manly horseman

Dismount at the cottage door,
And remember the kindly message
That from absent Tom he bore;
I remember how mother detected
The cheat, and then swooned away;

And forever I'll still remember

That sweet Thanksgiving Day.

CHRISTMAS.-WILLIAM SAWYER.

This night about our cheerful hearth we gather once again, A circle of true hearts, tried links in friendship's firmest

chain;

The blaze leaps up, the wine is bright, the laugh is quick and free,

And even home seems something more than home was wont to be.

The generous glow, the swelling heart, the eye to tears surprised,

The sudden pause that stills our joy, yet is but joy disguised,-These speak a presence at our hearth, unseen, but known and dear;

Yes, Christmas-blessed Christmas-has surely entered here! Warm welcome 'neath this roof-tree to that Presence of Delight!

All peaceful was his coming with the stars of yesternight; Not in grandeur, not with splendor, did he seek us as of

yore,

But, pilgrim-wise, in silence passing slow from door to door; Passing slow, and at each threshold pausing fondly as a friend,

While his eyes would flash with kindness, and with smiles his wrinkles blend;

And cheerily 'bove the howling of the nightwind rang his voice:

"I am Christmas! I am Christmas! Heed my greeting, and rejoice!"

Not for rank or station cared he, not a whit for high degree, But rather on the meek and low his lingering glance would

be.

From many homes, from many hearts no voice responsive

came,

On cheerless walls no holly hung, on cold hearths gleamed no flame:

But he turned not thence in anger; for the sad, the poor,

the lone,

He had truths of Christian wisdom, and words of kindly

tone,

And his glance could kindle gladness, and where'er he en

tered-straight

The wretched looked up brightly, and the hopeless grew

elate.

"I am Christmas!" On the mansion just darkened fell the

sound,

Where in silence very sadly were the great ones gathered round.

The stately mother heard it; but as mute was her despair As if she feared to wake the thing so coldly cradled there. The Spirit whispered tenderly, "The Christian's faith is this: That they, the loved, who leave us, are but gone before to bliss;

Though sad the parting, in this faith he bears him like a man,

And he welcomes Christmas bravely, as a Christian only can.” "I am Christmas!" Quoth the widow, by the embers crouching low,

"What have I to do with Christmas? Hark! how the rough winds blow;

Hark! how the waves are roaring; see the petrel wild with

glee;

I have a son, one only son, and he is on the sea,

And my heart is sick with fear for him." "Good heart,"

the Spirit said,

"Bid it take strength, poor mother, from the fountain of its

dread;

The mighty winds that make the wreck, the waves that round it foam,

Are the same winds and waves that bring the good ship swiftly home."

"I am Christmas!" From his reverie the ruined merchant sprang.

"Christmas! Ah! then my board was spread, my hall with laughter rang;

And I had friends about me, blithe friends-where, where are they?

I am alone-alone in want-and this is Christmas Day! Of all I loved and pampered, not one is with me now." 'Oh, wherefore," cried the Spirit," should this o'ercloud thy brow?

The rough wind tries the branches, and the wise, without

dismay,

Mark the foul and cankered blossoms that so quickly fall away."

"I am Christmas!" It was echoed in a noble soul's unrest, In the laughter, cold and hollow, that thrilled an aching

breast;