to our unseen destiny; but to have lived so that one less orphan is called to choose between starvation and infamy, to have lived so that some eyes of those whom Fame shall never know are brightened and others suffused at the name of the beloved one-so that the few who knew him truly shall recognize him as a bright, warın, cheering presence, which was here for a season and left the world no worse for his stay in it-this, surely, is to have really lived and not wholly in vain.-HORACE GREELEY. We Live in Deeds.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest lives longest;
Lives in one hour more than years do some
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.
Life is but a means to an end-that end-
Beginning, mean and end to all things-God.

P. J. BAILEY.

"None of Us Liveth Unto Himself."

God has written upon the flower that sweetens the air, upon the breeze that rocks the flower on its stem, upon the rain-drops which swell the mighty river, upon the dew-drop that refreshes the smallest sprig of moss that rears its head in the desert, upon the ocean that rocks every swimmer in'its chambers, upon every penciled shell that sleeps in the caverns of the deep, as well as

upon the mighty sun which warms and cheers the millions of creatures that live in its light-upon all hath He "None of us liveth unto himself."-JOHN

written: TODD.

A Well-Spent Life.

Oh, happiest he, whose riper years retain
The hopes of youth, unsullied by a stain!
His eve of life in calm content shall glide,
Like the still streamlet to the ocean tide;
No gloomy cloud hangs o'er his tranquil day;
No meteor lures him from his home astray;
For him there glows with glittering beam on high
Love's changeless star that leads him to the sky.
Still, to the past he sometimes turns to trace
The mild expression of a mother's face,
And dreams, perchance, as oft in earlier years,
The low, sweet music of her voice he hears.
J. T. FIELDS.

"Good Morning" in Another Clime.

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.

Life! We've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear.

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.

Then steal away; give little warning;

Choose thine own time.

Say not "Good night," but in some brighter clime

Bid me

"Good morning.”

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

The Loom of Life.

All day, all night, I can hear the jar
Of the Loom of Life; and near and far
It thrills with its deep and muffled sound,
As the tireless wheels go always round.

Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom

In the light of day and the midnight's gloom.
The wheels are turning early and late,

And the woof is wound in the warp of fate.

Click, clack!

Click, clack!

There's a thread of love wove in. And another of wrong and sin. What a checkered thing will this life be When we see it unrolled in eternity!

Time, with a face like mystery

And hands as busy as hands can be,
Sits at the loom with its warp outspread,
To catch in its meshes each glancing thread.

When shall this wonderful web be done?
In a thousand years, perhaps—or one—
Or tomorrow. Who knoweth? Not you nor I.
But the wheels turn on, and the shuttles fly.

Ah, sad-eyed weaver! The years are slow,

But each one is nearer the end, I know;

And some day the last thread shall be wove in— God grant it be love instead of sin!

Are we spinners of woof for this life-web-say
Do we furnish the weaver a thread each day?
It were better, then, O my friend, to spin
A beautiful thread than a thread of sin.

ANONYMOUS.

Good Life, Long Life.

He liveth long who liveth well.
All else is but life flung away!
He liveth longest who can tell

Of true things truly done each day.

Then fill each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go.
The life above, when this is past,
Is the ripe fruit of life below.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure!

Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright!
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,

And find a harvest home of light!

?

HORATIUS BONAR.

What We Live For.

What live we for but this?

Into the soul to breathe the soul of sweetness;

The stunted growth to rear to fair completeness;

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.