My mother came out to meet her son,
She kissed me, and then she sighed,

And her head fell on my neck, and she wept
For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,

As still and cold he lay,

And thought what a lovely child he had been,
And how soon he must decay,

"O death, thou lovest the beautiful,"

In the woe of my spirit I cried;

For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died!

Again I will go to my father's house,-
Go home to the dear ones all,—
And sadly I'll open the garden gate,
And sadly the door of the hall;

I shall meet my mother, but nevermore
With her darling by her side,

But she'll kiss me and sigh and weep again
For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him when the flowers come
In the garden where he played;
I shall miss him more by the fireside,
When the flowers have all decayed;
I shall see his toys and his empty chair,
And the horse he used to ride;

And they will speak, with a silent speech,
Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again

With her playmates about the door,
And I'll watch the children in their sports,
As I never did before;

And if in the group I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing-eyed,

I'll look to see if it may not be

The little boy that died.

We shall all go home to our Father's house,

To our Father's house in the skies,

Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight,

And our love no broken ties;

We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace, And bathe in its blissful tide:

And one of the joys of our heaven shall be

The little boy that died.

PER PACEM AD LUCEM.-ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.

I do not ask, O Lord! that life may be
A pleasant road;

I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
Aught of its load;

I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet;

I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead:
Lead me aright-

Though strength should falter, and though heart thould
bleed-

Through Peace to Light.

I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed
Full radiance here;

Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand,
My way to see,—

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,
And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day, but peace divine
Like quiet night.

Lead me, O Lord! till perfect day shall shine,
Through Peace to Light.

MARK TWAIN EDITS AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER. S. C. CLEMENS.

The sensation of being at work once again was luxurious, and I wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. We went to press, and I waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. As I left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passage-way, and I heard one or two of them say, "That's him!" I was naturally pleased by this incident. The next morning I found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and

scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the street, and over the way, watching me with interest. The group separated and fell back as I approached, and I heard a man say, "Look at his eye!" I pretended not to observe the notice I was attracting, but secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. I went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as I drew near the door, which I opened, and caught a glimpse of two young, rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window, with a great crash. I was surprised.

In about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. He seemed to have something on his mind. He took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. He put the paper on his lap, and, while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said:

"Are you the new editor?"

I said I was.

"Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" "No," I said; "this is my first attempt."

Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said I did not know as much as a cow; and then went out, and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased about something. But, not knowing what the trouble was I could not be any help to him.

But these thoughts were quickly banished, when the reg ular editor walked in! [I thought to myself, Now if you had gone to Egypt, as I recommended you to, I might have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. I sort of expected you.]

The editor was looking sad, and perplexed, and dejected. He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and then said:

“This is a sad business-a very sad business. There is the mucilage bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spit

toon, and two candlesticks. But that is not the worst. The
reputation of the paper is injured, and permanently, I fear.
True, there never was such a call for the paper before, and
it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity;
but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon
the infirmities of his mind? My friend, as I am an honest
man, the street out here is full of people, and others are
roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, be-
cause they think you are crazy. And well they might, after
reading your editorials. They are a disgrace to journalism.
Why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper
of this nature? You do not seem to know the first rudiments
of agriculture. You speak of a furrow and a harrow as be-
ing the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for
cows; and you recommend the domestication of the pole-cat
on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter.
Your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to
them, was superfluous-entirely superfluous. Nothing dis-
turbs clams. Clams always lie quiet. Clams care nothing
whatever about music. Ah! heavens and earth, friend, if
you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your
life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than
you could to-day. I never saw anything like it. Your ob-
servation that the horse-chestnut, as an article of commerce,
is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy
this journal. I want you to throw up your situation and go.
I want no more holiday-I could not enjoy it if I had it.
Certainly not with you in my chair. I would always stand
in dread of what you might be going to recommend next.
It makes me lose all patience every time I think of your dis-
cussing oyster-beds under the head of ' Landscape Gardening.'
I want you to go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to
take another holiday. Oh! why didn't you tell me that you
didn't know anything about agriculture?”
"Tell you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauli-
flower! It's the first time I ever heard such an unfeeling
remark. I tell you I have been in the editorial business
going on fourteen years, and it is the first time I ever heard
of a man's having to know anythingʻin order to edit a news-
paper. You turnip!

1

"I take my leave, sir! Since I have been treated as you have treated me, I am perfectly willing to go. But I have done my duty. I have fulfilled my contract, as far as I was permitted to do it. I said I could make your paper of interest to all classes, and I have. I said I could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if I had had two more weeks I'd have done it. And I'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had— not a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon from a peach-vine to save his life. You are the loser by this rupture, not me, Pie-plant. Adios."

I then left.

THE BOY WHO WENT FROM HOME.
EMMA M. JOHNSTON.

"You ask me which is the dearest,
And which one I love the best;
Ah, neighbor, the treasure we lose,
We value more than the rest!

Five children are round our hearth-stone,
You'd think I should make no moan;
But my heart goes out with yearning
To the boy who went from home.

"Come in and sit awhile with me,
My neighbor so kind and true;
It surely cannot be a harm

To talk to a friend like you
About this wayward boy of mine,
Gone from us these fifteen years;

And how the thought of him has kept
My pillow wet with tears.

"You never saw him, neighbor mine?
Ah, a handsome lad was he!

In face he was like his father,
His temper he took from me.
We both were over-fond of him,
And maybe it was too true
That we spoiled him just a little,
As fond parents often do.