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LEAVES AND TREES

It might appear not unadvisable that
every leaf should, as it grew, pay a small
tax to the stalk, for its sustenance, so
that there might be no fear of any num-
ber of leaves being too oppressive to their
bearer; which, accordingly, is just what
the leaves do. Each, from the moment
of its complete majority, pays a stated
tax to the stalk, that is to say, collects
for it a certain amount of wood, or ma-
terials for wood, and sends this wood, or
what ultimately becomes wood, down
the stalk, to add to its thickness. As
the leaves, if they did not thus contrib-
ute to their own support, would soon be
too heavy for the spray; so if they spray,
with its family of leaves, contributed
nothing to the thickness of the branch,
the leaf families would soon break down
under their sustaining loads. Each leaf
adds to the thickness of the shoot,
branch and stem, with so perfect an or-
der, and regularity of duty, that from
every leaf, in all the countless crowd of
the tree's summit one slender fibre, or at
least fibre's thickness of wood, descends
through shoot, through spray, through
branch, through stem; and having thus
added, in its due proportion, to form the
strength of the tree, labors yet farther,
and more painfully to provide for its se-
curity; and thrusting forward into the
root, loses nothing of its mighty energy,
until, mining through the darkness, it
has taken hold, in cleft of rock, or depth
of earth, as extended as the sweep of its
green crest in the free air. * * * If
ever in autumn, a pensiveness falls on
us, as the leaves drift by in their fading,
may we not wisely look up in hope to their
mighty monuments? Behold how fair—
how far prolonged in arch and a isle, the
avenues of the valleys, the fringes of the
hills! so stately, so eternal, the joy
of man, the comfort of all living crea-
tures, the glory of the earth—they are
but the monuments of those poor leaves
that flit faintly past us, as they do. Let
them not pass, without our understand-
ing their last counsel and example—that
we also, careless of monument by the
grave, may build it in the world—monu-
ment by which men may be taught to
remember not where we died, but where
we lived. — Ruskin.

Our Own.
If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The word unkind
Would trouble my mind,
I said when I went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
No given you heedless pain;
But we vex "our own"
With look and tone
We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening
I may give you the kiss of peace,
Yet it might be
That never for me
The pain at the heart should cease!
How many go forth in the morning
That never come home at night!
And hearts have been broken.
By harsh words spoken,
That sorrow ne'er can set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger
And smiles for the sometime guest,
But oft for "our own"
The bitter tone,
Though we love "our own" the best.
Ah! lips, with curse impatient!
Ah! brow, with that look of scorn!
'Twere a cruel fate,
Were the night too late
To undo the work of the morn.

(Australian Star.

"Of Such As I Have."
Love me for what I am. Love not for sake
Of some imagined thing which I might be,
Some brightness or some goodness not in me,
But seen afar by you, as eyes that wake
Dream of a dawn before the dawning break.
If I to please you (whom I fain would please),
Reset myself like new key to old tune,
Chained thought, remodeled action, pretty soon
My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees
The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,
Would vanish, and another take her place,
A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,
A new regard, an unfamiliar face.
Love me for what I am, then, if you may;
But if you cannot—love me either way.

Susan Coolidge.

Somebody's Mother.
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day;

The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop—
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low:
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong, young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's old and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away,"

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was: "God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

From Harper's Weekly.

Days of My Youth.
Days of my youth, ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth, you are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth, you are furrowed all o'ver;
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone;
Thoughts of my youth, you gay visions have
flown.

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye shall fall;
Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth, bath'd in tears you have
been;
Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray;
Strength of my youth, why lament you decay?

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of age, in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age, be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your GOD!

St. George Tucker, stepfather to John Randolph, of Roanoke.

Patient.
I was not patient in that olden time,
When my unchastened heart began to long
For bliss that lay beyond its reach; my prime
Was wild, impulsive, passionate and strong.
I could not wait for happiness and love,
Heaven-sent, to come and nestle in my breast;
I could not realize how time might prove
That patient waiting would avail me best.
"Let me be happy now," my heart cried out,
"In mine own way and with my chosen lot;
The future is too dark and full of doubt,
For me to tarry and I trust it not.
Take all my blessings, all I am and have,
But give that glimpse of heaven before the grave!"

Ah me!" God heard my wayward, selfish cry,
And taking pity on my blinded heart
He bade the angel of strong grief draw nigh,
Who pierced my bosom to its tenderest part.
I drank wrath's wine-cup to the bitter lees,
With strong amazement and a broken will;
Then, humbled, straightway fell upon my knees,
And God doth know my heart is kneeling still.

I have grown patient; seeking not to choose
Mine own blind lot, but take that God shall send,
In which, if what I long for I should lose,
I know the loss will work some blessed end,
Some better fate for mine and me than I
Could ever compass underneath the sky.

All the Year Round.

NO SECT IN HEAVEN.
Talking of sects till late one eve,
Of the various doctrines the saints believe,
That night I stood, in a troubled dream,
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.

And a "Churchman" down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide,
You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind;
And his long gown floated out behind,
As down the stream his way he took,
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven; and, when I'm there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer;
And though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy, and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked, in that blissful spot,
Whether he belonged to "the Church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a sober hue was made;
"My coat and hat must be all of gray,
I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin,
And staidly, solemnly waded in,
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight
Over his forehead so cold and white.

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 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 godliness;
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 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 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 seem 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 or crosses or books had they;
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray;
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.;
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.

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