But a strong wind carried away his hat;
A moment he silently sighed over that;
And then, as he gazed to the further shore,
The coat slipped off and was seen no more.

As he entered heaven his suit of gray
Went quietly, sailing, away, away;
And none of the angels questioned him
About the width of his beaver's brim.

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many, a very wise thing;

That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
And he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised, as one by one
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS.,
Came Wesley, the pattern of goodliness;
But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do?
The water has soaked them through and through."

And there on the river far and wide,
Away they went down the swollen tide;
And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name
Down to the stream together came;
But, as they stopped at the river's brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.
"Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow."
"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now
"And I really think it will hardly do,

As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you,
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

Then straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left-his friend to the right,

Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.
And now,
when the river was rolling on,

A Presbyterian Church went down;

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, But the men I could count as they passed along

And concerning the road they could never agree
The old or the new way, which it could be,

Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud,
Came ever up from the moving crowd:
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true❞—

Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new;
That is the false and this is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak:
Modest the sisters walked and meek.
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men ;'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul,
'Oh, let the women keep silence all!'"

I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met;
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on till the heaving tide
Carried them over side by side-
Side by side, for the way was one;
The toilsome journey of life was done;
And all who in Christ the Saviour died,
Came out alike on the other side.

No forms of crosses or books had they;
No gowns of silk or suits of gray;
No screeds to guide them, or MSS ;
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.
-Mrs. Cleveland

W

E live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We could count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest:

Lives in one hour more than in years do some
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.
Life is but a means unto an end; that end,
Beginning, mean, and end to all things-God.
The dead have all the glory of the worid.

VER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who crossed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels that met him there-
The gate of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the Household pet;

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;
We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be-
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;
And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye;
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from dur vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea,
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;

I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

-Nancy Priest Wakefield.

O

NLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown;

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of day; Till the dawn of heaven is breaking

Through the twilight, soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home; For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come,

Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor and desolate.
Even now I hear the footsteps,

And their voices far away;
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies. -Francis Leighton Mace.