HOW LARRY SANG THE "AGNUS."

JEANNIE PENDLETON EWING.

Written expressly for this Collection.

Twas a poor old church in our village; its days were almost done,

And there wasn't a town in the Emerald Isle that hadn't a better one;

But our baby eyes had loved it for its walls all green with

moss,

Had stretched and laughed to see the sun that lighted its golden cross.

And then, there was Father Philip with his bowed and whitened head;

Never was priest more kind and true to the little flock he

led;

And Larry the grand cathedrals all grudged us Larry's voice, For he might have sung in the best of choirs, but this was

Larry's choice.

"You'll soon desert us, Larry," the Father used to say; "They'll jingle their gold, these tourist folk, and buy your voice away!

"Your Reverence, no;" says Larry, as firm as any stone; "Long as you're here to do your part, I'm here to do my own."

Larry was then a stripling, with a voice like a forest bird's, And Father Philip often said, as he taught him the Latin

words,

"You're young for the 'Agnus Dei'; you've never suffered pain;

The joyous anthems suit you best and those with a martial

strain."

One Sunday morn in the spring-time, the church was crowded full;

The folk flocked in as the bell rang out at the ringer's sturdy pull,

For the winter had been a wet one: the roads all muddy.

brown,

And the rain had dripped through the poor church roof on many a woman's gown.

So every soul was happy that the sun could smile once

more,

Could brighten the saints on the painted glass, and gleam across the floor;

Could shine on Father Philip in his robes, his humble "best," With the acolytes before him ranged, demure and neatly

dressed.

It was just as the folk were kneeling, there suddenly came

a sound

That brought the boldest to his feet and made him gaze

around;

And then, there was rush, and hurry, and frightened glance and cry,

And the Father gasped and crossed himself as the horror met his eye.

For oh, the wet of the winter, the crowd in the church that day,

Had strained too far the old "west wall"; and part began to sway,

To stagger and crumble outwards; till, quick as the lightning's flash,

The roof that covered the organ-loft fell through with a grinding crash!

Through all the dreadful panic it didn't take long to see That the folk who filled the church below were mostly safe and free ;

Only the luckless singers were caught in the tilted loft, Buried under a high piled stack that wasn't light nor soft.

A moment and Father Philip had hushed the buzzing hive. "Larry," he called, "come, speak a word and say you're all alive!"

“We're all alive,” cried Larry, "but there's danger round about;

We'll say our prayers and keep up heart until you help us out."

Then some one sobbed, half stifled, "Now bless the words

you say;

Pray for us, lad, to the Lamb of God who takes our sins away!

Then, as never before, he sang it! A voice to melt a stone; The skylark, caught in an ugly snare, had found an angel's tone!

"O Lamb of God who takest the sins of the world," he cried, "Have mercy-mercy on us, Lord!" while the eager people

tried,

Perched high on a rough-piled scaffold, to move the rafters crossed,

'Twas a deadly game of jackstraws,-one miss, and all were lost!

Qui tollis peccata mundi-the sins of all the world,

Have mercy-mercy on us, Lord!" through the choking dust that whirled :

Cheering the priest and people that labored side by side, Though his arms were pinned and his body fast, out stretched like the Crucified.

So, one by one we saved them; and Larry's turn was last, And just as we raised the crushing weight that caught and held him fast,

And the Father stooped to lift him-a cry rang sharp and shrill;

A heavy beam came thundering down, and Larry's voice was still!

Dead? oh, his hurts were cruel, but we carried him gently

out;

We chafed his hands till we felt the beat of his heart all brave and stout.

Dead, with his voice so melting, yet full of the pride of youth?

Just come to the church and hear him sing and then you'll know the truth!

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY.

In speaking of a person's faults,
Pray don't forget your own;
Remember, those with homes of glass
Should seldom throw a stone.
If we have nothing else to do
Than talk of those who sin,
"Tis better to commence at home,
And from that point begin.

We have no right to judge a man
Until he's fairly tried,

Should we not like his company,

We know the world is wide.

Some may have faults-and who have not?

The old as well as young;

Perhaps we may, for aught we know.

Have fifty to their one.

I'll tell you of a better plan,

And find it works full well

To try my own defects to cure
Ere others' faults I tell;

And though I sometimes hope to be
No worse than some I know,

A brother languishing in sore distress,

And I should turn and leave him comfortless, When I might be

A messenger of hope and happiness,

How could I ask to have what I denied,
In my own hour of bitterness supplied?

If I might share

A brother's load along the dusty way,
And I should turn and walk alone that day,
How could I dare-

When in the evening watch I knelt to pray-
To ask for help to bear my pain and loss,
If I had heeded not my brother's cross?

If I might sing

A little song to cheer a fainting heart-
And I should seal my lips and sit apart,
When I might bring

A bit of sunshine for life's ache and smart-
How could I hope to have my grief relieved,
If I kept silent when my brother grieved?

And so I know

That day is lost wherein I fail to lend
A helping hand to some wayfaring friend;
But if it show

▲ burden lightened by the cheer I send,
Then do I hold the golden hours well spent,
And lay me down to sleep in sweet content.

SISTER ERNESTINE'S BEAU.*

BELLE MARSHALL LOCKE.

Now who would ever think that one long yellow hair and a little mite of an ear-ring would cause a whole house to be upset, as this one is! I don't think anyone in the world would believe it, but it's so!

Not that I understand; oh, no! it's one of those things that we have to grow up, before we can have 'em explained. If you were ever a little girl, you'll know what I mean by that. When anything happens that makes people look queer, or cry, or you are sent out of the room, it's sure to be something you've said, or done, but you haven't the least idea what it is, and if you venture to ask, some one says, " You could not understand," or, "You'll know all about it when you grow up.”

Now isn't that nice! It makes me think of one time, when mamma was away and Nora put me to bed. She said she would read me to sleep; and she began a story all about a girl that got lost in the woods, and, when night came on, she could hear the wolves howl; and one grey wolf, with long, shiny teeth, chased her up a tree and sat right down at the foot of it, glaring up at her, with green eyes. Well, she hung on and hung on, until her hands were all bloody; and, if you'll believe it, that story stopped right there, and you'd got to wait another week, to see it she was eat up, or got away. I never found out, 'cause I was telling mamma about it, and she forbid Nora reading the rest of it to me.

But goodness! I forgot all about what I was going to tell you. My sister Ernestine's got a beau and she is going to get married in four weeks-or was going to, I don't know now whether she will, or not, 'cause she says there aint a man in the world fit to marry. I feel aw *Written expressly for this Collection. Mrs. Locke, a popular reader and elocutionist, has contributed a number of excellent articles to Garrett's “100 Choice Selections" Series; of which, "The Hiartville Shakspeare Club" a comedy for girls), "A Private Rehearsal" (a monologue for a lady), "Bessie's First Party, and "A Little Heroine," are in No. 35. For sale by booksellers.