At church he would demurely stand,
In each of ours a little hand:
Trying so hard to understand,—

Our thoughtful lad-our little lad.
And though he stood so child-like there,
Of half the hymns he caught the air:
And after service, on his chair
He knelt and prayed his mimic prayer,—
Our clever lad—our little lad.

His little cot stood by our bed:
Close,-close. And it was there we said,
That if in dreams he wandered,
We should be near to raise his head,-
Our precious lad-our little lad.
But now we know in our despair
It was because we could not bear
To think our darling was not there,
Whilst we both watched with many a prayer
Our sleeping child-our little lad.

When the sun rose above the hill,
He climbed into our bed at will,
And nestled there so warm and still,-
Our gentle lad- -our little lad.

And now he lieth here, alone:
No loving arm around him thrown.

Ah, No: not all! For part hath flown.
The earth can only claim her own,—
Our little lad-our little lad.

So quickly did he droop and lie

Hard at death's door, we knew not why, It reemed so right that he should die, We could but stand impassive by

Our dying lad-our little lad. For hours he slumbered peacefully, Then, with a smile, woke suddenly. "Now I will go to sleep," said he. And he did sleep, eternally.

Sleep on, sleep on, O little lad.

When stretched upon his tiny bed,
He lay so still that golden head,
We could not think that he was dead:

We could not weep; we only said,—

"Our little boy-our little lad!" We kissed his brow, we kissed his cheek: So pure he lay, so calm, so meek,He who had been so sad and weak: We thought our very hearts would break,Our own-our own-our little lad.

We keep his toys: we love them now.
We used sometimes to wonder how
Those fever'd hands, that aching brow,
Could care to love them, and allow

The childish games-our little lad.
We feel that now we love them too;
We keep his little suit of blue,
The ship he sailed, the sketch he drew,
The tiny glove, the empty shoe.
They may not seem so much to you,
They do to us, for they renew

Our thoughts of him—our little lad.

When on some earthly potentate,
Within his own domain ye wait,
He comes not to the outer gate;
Some herald sendeth he who straight
Leadeth into the inner state:

So will our lad-our little lad.
When we shall reach that higher land,
As the receiving herald stand;
And he will lead us by the hand
To Him who hath supreme command,
And who hath loved our little lad.

We know he thinketh of us yet,
Our thoughtful boy will not forget
Those whose bright earthly sun did set
With him, who mourn with such regret
As ours for him—our little lad.
We know that he will watch and wait,
However long,-however late;
And we shall see those little feet
Running along the golden street
To meet us at the golden gate,—

Our angel boy-our little lad.

THE Publishers have much pleasure in offering a prize of a handsome book, value one guinea, for the best original article, or story, in illustration of the picture on page 18. The composition must not exceed three pages, nor be less than three columns in length. Competitors

must be under the age of eighteen, and send a guarantee to that effect, and also that they have received no help from anybody.

All MSS. must be sent to the Editor, Ham Common, Surrey, on or before the 30th of March, 1880.

T

A DOMESTIC STORY.

HE

HE rectory of Wallingford was, as it deserved to be, the best known house in the parish. Not only because it was large and many-gabled, and built in a quaint picturesque fashion of its own, in a town where the houses were mostly small, pinched, and narrow, boasting a grim ugliness as their chief characteristic, but for reasons which were, if not quite so tangible, even more strongly felt and appreciated. Was not the rector of Wallingford the kindest-hearted friend, the most considerate adviser, the most deeply interested well-wisher of all those poor, hard-working souls who formed the staple of the population of this great manufacturing town? Had he ever been known to refuse the call of the most depraved wretch who went to him in the hour of his or her distress, or to turn away from the most filthy fever-stricken den that the great town could boast? The poor people of Wallingford could remember a time when their rector, old and an

invalid, had scarcely ever been seen in their midst. Their minister and they were quite apart. They knew it, and were very content to accept the state of affairs. It wasn't to be expected that a grand gentleman could come looking after such as they; and, indeed, they didn't want to see him, and be bothered to go to church on Sundays, instead of spending the holy day in excursions and other amusements. They were quite contented to be left alone, to spend their lives in the way they chose, without check or remonstrance. And what if the church was empty, and the children running wild instead of learning about the things of eternity in the Sunday Schools? Surely the church was well enough for gentlefolks, who had every other day in the week for their pleasure, and could go to church on Sunday to show off their fine clothes to their neighbours. Perhaps there was as much good in those that stayed away as in those that went, for the matter of that. Church-going wouldn't take folks