Part 34 (1/2)

LITTLE FEET.

Up from all the city's by-ways, From the breathless, sickening heat, To the wide-swung gate of heaven, Eager throng the little feet.

Not a challenge has the warder For these souls so sinless white; Round each brow the Saviour's blessing Circles like a crown of light.

See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, Wide His loving arms are spread; On his heart of hearts is pillowed Every weary baby's head.

But below, with tear-wet faces, And with hearts all empty grown, Stand the mourning men and women, Vainly calling back their own.

Upward floats the voice of mourning-- ”Jesus, Master, dost thou care?”

Aye, He feels each drop of anguish-- ”He doth all our sorrows bear.”

Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; Look beyond the clouds and see, With your dear one on His bosom, Jesus stands and calls to thee.

Waits with yearning, all unfathomed-- Love you cannot understand, Lures you upward with the beckoning Of your buried baby's hand.

A RAINY DAY.

Patter, patter, patter, On the window-pane; Drip, drip, drip, Comes the heavy rain.

Now the little birdies Fly away to bed, And each tender blossom Droops its pretty head.

But the little rootlets, In the earth below, Open wide their tiny mouths Where the rain-drops flow;

And the thirsty gra.s.ses Soon grow fresh and green, With the pretty daisies Springing up between.

FAs.h.i.+ONABLE.

A fas.h.i.+onable woman In a fas.h.i.+onable pew; A fas.h.i.+onable bonnet Of a fas.h.i.+onable hue; A fas.h.i.+onable mantle And a fas.h.i.+onable gown; A fas.h.i.+onable Christian In a fas.h.i.+onable town; A fas.h.i.+onable prayer-book.

And a fas.h.i.+onable choir; A fas.h.i.+onable chapel With a fas.h.i.+onable spire; A fas.h.i.+onable preacher With a fas.h.i.+onable speech; A fas.h.i.+onable sermon With a fas.h.i.+onable reach; A fas.h.i.+onable welcome At the fas.h.i.+onable door; A fas.h.i.+onable penny For the fas.h.i.+onable poor; A fas.h.i.+onable heaven And a fas.h.i.+onable h.e.l.l; A fas.h.i.+onable Bible For this fas.h.i.+onable belle; A fas.h.i.+onable kneeling And a fas.h.i.+onable nod; A fas.h.i.+onable everything, But no fas.h.i.+onable G.o.d.

RESURGAM.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

”There is no G.o.d,” he said, and turned away From those who sought to lead him to the light; ”Here is a violet, growing for a day, When winter comes, and all the world is white, It will be dead. And I am like the flower, To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust.

Is life worth living for its little hour Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?”

The autumn came, and under fallen leaves The little violet was hid away.

”Dead! dead!” cried he. ”Alas, all nature grieves For what she loves is destined to decay.

Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth I shall be hidden, and above my head A stone will tell the record of my birth And of my nothingness when I am dead.”