There was a kingdom known as the mind, A kingdom vast, and fair, And the brave King Brain had the right to reign Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land It was filled with everything good and grand, But a savage monster came one day, From over a distant border; He made war on the king and usurped his sway, And set everything in disorder. He mounted the throne, which he made his own, And the kingdom was sunk in grief, There was sorrow and shame from the hour he cameIll Temper, the barbarous chief. He threw down the castles of Love and Peace, He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain, And planted thistles and tares. He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom Then bent on more havoc, away he rushed, And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed, And he even went on to the isthmus Soul, And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers Oh! to you is given this beautiful land Beware of Ill Temper, the barbarous chief, He will certainly bring your kingdom grief -ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Remember, my son, you have to work. Whether you handle a pick or a pen, a wheelbarrow or a set of books, digging ditches or editing a paper, ringing an auction bell or writing funny things, you must work. If you look around, you will see the men who are the most able to live the rest of their days without work, are the men who work the hardest. Don't be afraid of killing yourself with overwork. It is almost beyond your power to do that on the sunny side of thirty. Boys seldom die from overwork, but they do often die because they quit work at six P. M. and don't get home until two A. M. It is the interval between, that kills, my son. Work gives you an appetite for your meals; it gives peace to your slumbers; it gives you a perfect and grateful appreciation of a holiday. There are young men who do not work, but the world is not proud of them. It does not even know their names. It simply speaks of them as "old So-and-so's boys." Nobody likes them. The great, busy world does not know that they are here. Find out what you want to be and do, and take off your coat and make a dust in the world. The busier you are the less harm you are apt to get into, the sweeter will be your sleep, and your holidays will be brighter and happier. You will be better satisfied with yourself and the world, and the world will be better satisfied with you. -R. J. BURDETTE. It is better to say: "This one thing I do," than to say: "These forty things I dabble in." ARTHUR'S FIRST NIGHT AT RUGBY. PART I. Immediately after schoolhouse prayers, Tom led Arthur up to the dormitory and showed him his bed. It was in a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows, from which one could see the school near by. There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the farthest corner by the fireplace was occupied by the sixth-form boy who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other forms. The eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and they were all bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old janitor came round to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read. Within a few minutes, therefore, of their entry, all the other boys who slept in No. 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to one another in whispers; while the elder, among whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had never clearly crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could |