Drown sneers in smiles, kill hatred with a kiss,

And to the sandy waste bequeath the fame

That the flowers bloomed behind us whence we came.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

The Tapestry Weavers.

Let us take to our hearts a lesson

No braver lesson can be

From the ways of tapestry weavers,
On the other side of the sea.

Above their heads the pattern hangs;
They study it with care.

The while their fingers deftly move
Their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing besides
Of the patient, plodding weaver:
He works on the wrong side evermore;
He works for the right side ever.

It is only when the weaving stops,
And the web is loosed and turned,
That he sees his real handiwork,

That his marvelous skill is learned.

Oh, the sight of its delicate beauty!
How it pays him for all its cost!
For rarer, daintier work than his
Was never done by the frost.

Then the master giveth him golden hire,
And giveth him praise as well;

And how happy the heart of the weaver is
No tongue but his own can tell.

The years of a man are the looms of God,
Let down from the place of the Sun,
Wherein we are weaving ever,

Till the mystic web is done.

Weaving blindly, but weaving surely,
Each for himself, his fate,

We may not know how the right side looks;
We can only weave and wait.

But, looking above for the pattern,
No weaver hath need to fear.
Only let him look clear into Heaven;
The perfect Pattern is there.

If he keeps the face of the Savior
Always and ever in sight,

His toil shall be sweeter than noney;

His weaving is sure to be right.

High Noon.

A. G. CHEster.

Time's finger on the dial of my life

Points to high noon. And yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining! For the dark,

Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We can not count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric; we must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields,
And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past, the future, still more brief,
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams;
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn tomorrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lips
Be my reminder in temptation's hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes takes the acid of a sin

To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them. Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue! Sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years
Where lie forgotten pleasures. Looking forth,
Out to the western sky, still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself
Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon,

Three things I learned-three things of precious worth—
To guide and help me down the western slope.

I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save;
To pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent;
To toil for universal good, since thus,
And only thus, can good come to me;
To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have
To those who have not.

This alone is gain.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

What Is Life?

Ah, what is life?

'Tis but a passing touch upon the world;
A print upon the beaches of the earth
Next flowing wave will wash away; a mark
That something passed; a shadow on a wall,
While looking for the substance, shade departs;
A drop from the vast spirit-cloud of God
That rounds upon a stock, a stone, a leaf,
A moment, then exhales again to God.

ANNA KATHERINE GREEN.

Life an Image of God.

Throughout this beautiful and wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion, without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and fro. Swifter than a weaver's shuttle, it flies from birth to death, from death to birth; from the beginning seeks the en' and finds it not; for the

seeming end is only a dim beginning of a new out-going and endeavor after the end. As the ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath of the Summer's sun breathes upon it, melts and divides into drops, each of which reflects an image of the sun, so life, in the smile of God's love, divides itself into separate forms, each bearing in it, and reflecting, an image of God's love. -Longfellow.

Life Not What It Seems.

Life, my young friends, is not what it seems to be to you. Life is not a sailing under fair skies and across tranquil seas, until you shall drop your anchor in Fair Havens at the end. Life is not a yachting excursion through the many-islanded Mediterranean, or around the creeks and bays of our lovely shores. Life is not sailing up and down some romantic Clyde, or still more romantic Rhine. Life means being out on the open sea. Life means roughing it. Life means storm; means fog, and unsightly mud-banks, on which you may run and be stranded. Life means roaring reefs and sunken rocks. Life means (to change the metaphor) snares and traps set with devilish skill for unwary feet, all round about. "Sirs," says the preacher, says Paul, says God himself, "I perceive that this voyage is to mean trouble, distress and trial, do as we may and go as we may."

This was said, remember, while they were still in the harbor. "In any case, our voyage is to mean trouble, trial and hardship." And I say the same. Oh, it is unwelcome; it is irksome doctrine.

not think I believed it myself.

Time was when I do

Time was when life