The same dusty walls

Of cold gray stone;

The same cloisters, and belfry, and spire.

A stranger and alone
Among that brotherhood
The Monk Felix stood.
"Forty years," said a friar,
"Have I been prior

Of this convent in the wood;

But for that space,

Never have I beheld thy face!"

The heart of the Monk Felix fell;
And he answered with submissive tone,
"This morning after the hour of Prime
I left my cell,

And wandered forth alone,

Listening all the time

To the melodious singing
Of a beautiful white bird,
Until I heard

The bells of the convent ringing
Noon from their noisy towers.
It was as if I dreamed;

For what to me had seemed
Moments only, had been hours!"

"Years!" said a voice close by.
It was an aged monk who spoke,
From a bench of oak

Fastened against the wall;

He was the oldest monk of all.

For a whole century

Had he been there,

Serving God in prayer,

The meekest and humblest of his creatures. He remembered well the features

Of Felix, and he said,

Speaking distinct and slow:

"One hundred years ago,

When I was a novice in this place,

There was here a monk full of God's grace, Who bore the name

Of Felix, and this man must be the sam

And straightway

They brought forth to the light of day
A volume old and brown,

A huge tome, bound

In brass and wild boar's hide,

Wherein was written down

The names of all who had died

In the convent since it was edified.

And there they found,

Just as the old monk said,

That on a certain day and date,

One hundred years before,

Had gone forth from the convent-gate

The Monk Felix, and never more
Had entered that sacred door.

He had been counted among the dead!

And they knew, at last,

That such had been the power

Of that celestial and immortal song,

A hundred years had passed,

ม

And had not seemed so long as a single hour!

Longfellow.

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

never mind

WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop that "soldier" toy;
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since, father kind,
Who this night may
Mother's sob, my Willie dear;
Call aloud that he may hear
Who is God of Battles, say
"O, keep father safe this day
By the Alma river."

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nations, or of creeds,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work.

Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol;
Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot, where'er it be,

Where he stands - no other word—
Stands-God save the child's prayer heard
By the Alma river.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing through the town to-day,
That's for victory. Ah, no knells

For the many swept away,-
Hundreds-thousands! Let us weep,
We who heed not-just to keep
Reason steady in my brain,

Till the morning comes again,

Till the third dread morning tell

Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma river.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child,
Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
Yet thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries - Willie, mark-
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely by his side,
By the Alma river.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep,

God will keep us, O my boy;
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not dread to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes,child, say thy prayer
Once again, a different one;

Say, "O God, Thy will be done

By the Alma river."

Dinah Maria Mulock.

"HOW HUSBAND'S MOTHER DID IT."

If we were to suggest one thing which, above all other things combined, would most contribute to the happiness of the young housekeeper, it would be to learn how to cook as a husband's mother cooked. Mother used to make coffee so and so! Mother used to have such waffles! and mother knew just how thick or how thin to make a squashpie! And, O, if I could only taste of mother's biscuit! Such are the comments of the husband, when partaking of

their meals. It would only be a little more cruel for the husband to throw his fork across the table, or to dash the contents of his teacup in his wife's face. The experience of a contrite husband is good reading for those men whose daily sauce is "How mother did it." He says:

"I found fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard-pie, and tried to tell her how my mother made custard-pie. Maria made the pie after my receipt. It Tasted longer than any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every day for dinner; and you see I could not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was economical; but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy's funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself.

"Then there were some buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool could beat her at making those cakes; and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening and set the cakes myself. I got the flour and the salt and water, and, warned by the past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered. Yeast, yeast, to be sure. I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove and went to bed.

"In the morning I got up early and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I did n't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then I got a fire in the kitchen and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked me what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. I