Part 9 (2/2)

A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circ.u.mstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed pet.i.tions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season.

Thus the morning pa.s.sed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive _behind time_.

It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is ”behind time.” There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are ”behind time.” There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever ”_behind time_.”

Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being _behind time_.

KITTENS AND BABIES.

BY LIZZIE M. HADLEY.

There were two kittens, a black and a gray, And grandmamma said, with a frown, ”It never will do to keep them both, The black one we'd better drown.”

”Don't cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess, ”One kitten's enough to keep; Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late And time you were fast asleep.”

The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet Came little Bess from her nap.

The nurse said, ”Go into mamma's room And look in grandma's lap.”

”Come here,” said grandma, with a smile, From the rocking-chair where she sat, ”G.o.d has sent you two little sisters; Now! what do you think of that?”

Bess looked at the babies a moment, With their wee heads, yellow and brown, And then to grandma soberly said, ”_Which one are you going to drown_?”

AN UNACCOUNTABLE MYSTERY.

BY PAUL DENTON.

Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is pa.s.sionately jealous of its own happiness, and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights to seek the suns.h.i.+ne and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-h.o.a.rded beauty.

It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility.

It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents, screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such inc.u.mbrance, deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the eternities, as G.o.d might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree, studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of G.o.d's creation. Speak to the human soul of liberty, and swell it with grat.i.tude, and, beaming with smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller development and brighter existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your pathway with smiles and to remind you of its grat.i.tude. It loves to be noticed; loves to be a.s.sisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight and robs it of happiness--Intemperance--IT IS AS HEEDLESS AS THE STONE.

IMPERFECTUS.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

I wonder if ever a song was sung, But the singer's heart sang sweeter!

I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, But the thought surpa.s.sed the meter!

I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought, Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!

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