Part 4

Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their minds seem to delight in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when weary with care, and burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we can go, and there, in the midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and quietness.

Heaven! that land of quiet rest--toward which those, who, worn down and tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it--safe in the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, never more to be separated.

It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here on earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, if "faithful unto death," we shall meet again in Heaven, our eternal _home_, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly Father, and go no more out forever.

PRAYING FOR SHOES.

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

_A True Incident._

On a dark November morning, A lady walked slowly down The thronged, tumultuous thoroughfare Of an ancient seaport town.

Of a winning and gracious beauty, The peace of her pure young face Was soft as the gleam of an angel's dream In the calms of a heavenly place.

Her eyes were fountains of pity, And the sensitive mouth expressed A longing to set the kind thoughts free In music that filled her breast.

She met, by a bright shop window, An urchin timid and thin, Who, with limbs that shook and a yearning look, Was mistily glancing in At the rows and varied clusters Of slippers and shoes outspread, Some shimmering keen, but of sombre sheen, Some purple and green and red.

His pale lips moved and murmured; But of what, she could not hear. And oft on his folded hands would fall The round of a bitter tear.

"What troubles you, child?" she asked him, In a voice like the May-wind sweet. He turned, and while pointing dolefully To his naked and bleeding feet,

"I was praying for shoes," he answered; "Just look at the splendid show! I was praying to God for a single pair, The sharp stones hurt me so!"

She led him, in museful silence, At once through the open door, And his hope grew bright, like a fairy light, That flickered and danced before!

And there he was washed and tended And his small, brown feet were shod; And he pondered there on his childish prayer, And the marvelous answer of God.

Above them his keen gaze wandered, How strangely from shop to shelf, Till it almost seemed that he fondly dreamed Of looking on God Himself.

The lady bent over, and whispered, "Are you happier now, my lad?" He started, and all his soul flashed forth In a gratitude swift and glad.

"Happy?--Oh, yes!--I am happy!" Then (wonder with reverence rife, His eyes aglow, and his voice sunk low), "Please tell me! Are you God's wife?"

RUM'S DEVASTATION AND DESTINY.

BY HON. WILLIAM SULLIVAN.

[In a discourse delivered before the Massachusetts Society for the Suppression of Intemperance, on the twenty-third of May, 1832, Hon. William Sullivan, one of the vice-presidents of the society, gave an account of the discovery of the art of distilling wine from brandy, showing that it was made some five or six hundred years ago, by an alchemist who was in search of the means of acquiring "inexhaustible riches and perpetual youth." After having spoken of the origin of alcohol, the speaker imagines it to be "the office of history to announce the future, instead of recording the past," and assuming to stand beside the man who made the discovery, delivered the following eloquent address detailing the melancholy consequences of this discovery, and forecasting the blessings which shall result from the final overthrow of the rum fiend.]

In your researches after that which you should, at once, have known to be impossible, by the laws of nature, you have opened a fountain of misery which shall flow for ages. You have not contented yourself with pressing out the juices of the fruits bestowed upon you, and converting these into strong drink which you needed not,--but you have taken this strong drink, and the harvest, which was given to you for food, and have drawn from these a liquid which is not food and which will not nourish nor sustain your earthly frame. This liquid shall be a curse upon you and your descendants. It shall be known wherever the arts of civilization are known. You shall call it the _elixir of life_. You shall believe it to be nutritious to the body and gladdening to the soul. The love of it shall grow with the use of it. It shall soothe the solitary hour and cheer the festive board. It shall charm away your griefs, and be the cause of your rejoicings. It shall be the inducement to communion and the bond of friendship. It shall be prized alike by the high and the low. It shall be the joy of princes as well as of the meanest of mortals. It shall be the stimulant to laborious toil, and the reward for labor done. It shall be bought and sold, and make the dealer therein rich. It shall yield abundant revenues to sovereignty. Hospitality shall be dishonored in not offering it to the guest, and the guest shall be disgraced in not receiving it at the hand of his host.

But----it shall visit your limbs with palsy; it shall extinguish the pride of man; it shall make the husband hateful to the wife, and the wife loathsome to the husband; it shall annihilate the love of offspring; it shall make members of society a shame and a reproach to each other, and to all among whom they dwell. It shall steal from the virtuous and the honorable their good name, and shall make the strong and the vigorous to totter along the streets of cities. It shall pervert the law of habit, designed to strengthen you in the path of duty, and bind you in its iron chain. It shall disgrace the judge upon the bench, the minister in the sacred desk, and the senator in his exalted seat. It shall make your food tasteless, your mouth to burn as with a fever, and your stomach to tremble as with disease. It shall cause the besotted mother to overlay her newborn, unconscious that it dies beneath the pressure of her weight; the natural cravings of the infant shall make it strive to awaken her who has passed, unheeded, to her last long sleep. The son shall hide his face that he may not behold his father's depravity; and the father shall see the object of his fondest hopes turn to a foul and bloated carcass, that hurries to the grave. It shall turn the children of men into raving maniacs; and the broken ties of blood and affection shall find no relief but in the friendly coming of Death. As the seed which man commits to the earth comes forth into that which he converts into spirit, so shall this product of his own invention be as seed in his own heart, to bring forth violence, rapine and murder. It shall cause man to shut up his fellow-man in the solitude of the grated cell. The prisoner shall turn pale and tremble, in his loneliness, at the presence of his own thoughts; he shall come forth to die, in cold blood, by the hand of his fellow, with the spectacle of _religious homage on a scaffold_, and amid the gaze of curious thousands. Poverty shall be made squalid and odious, even so that Charity shall turn away her face in disgust. It shall attract the pestilence that walks, even at noon-day, in darkness, to the very vitals of the drunkard, as carrion invites the far-sighted birds of prey. The consumer of spirit shall be found dead in the highway, with the exhausted vessel by his side. Yea, the drunkard shall kindle a fire in his own bosom which shall not depart from him till he is turned to ashes. The dropsical drunkard shall die in his delirium, and the fluid which has gathered in his brain shall smell like spirit, and like spirit shall burn. A feeble frame, an imbecile mind, torturing pain and incurable madness shall be of the inheritance which drunkards bequeath, to run with their blood to innocent descendants.

The wise men, who assemble in the halls; of legislation, shall be blind to this ruin, desolation, and misery. Nay, they shall license the sale of this poison, and shall require of dignified magistrates to certify how much thereof shall be sold for the "PUBLIC GOOD."

This minister of woe and wretchedness shall roam over the earth at pleasure. It shall be found in every country of the Christian; it shall go into every city, into every village, and into every house. But it shall not visit the country of the heathen, nor spread woe and wretchedness among them, but by the hands of Christians.

The light of reason shall at length break upon the benighted and afflicted world. The truth shall be told. It shall be believed. The causes of calamity shall be unveiled. The friends of the human race shall speak and be respected. Rational man shall be ashamed of his follies and his crimes, and humbled to the dust that he was so long ignorant of their origin. Governments shall be ashamed that they so long tolerated and sustained the most costly and cruel foe that man has ever encountered. Avarice itself shall be conscience-stricken and penitent. It shall remain where nature placed it for use; and it shall be odious in the sight of _Heaven_ and of _Earth_ to convert the fruits of the soil into poison.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE DESERT.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

An opulent lord of Ispahan, In luxury, lolled on a silk divan, Dreaming the idle hours away In a cloud of smoke from his nargile. Weary with nothing to do in life, He thought, as he watched the smoky whirls, "'Twill be diversion to choose a wife From my peerless bevy of dancing-girls. There are beauties fair from every land-- Lustrous eyes from Samarcand, Dusky forms from the upper Nile, Teeth that glisten when red lips smile, Gypsy faces of olive hue, Stolen from some wild wandering clan, Fair complexions and eyes of blue, From the sunny isles of Cardachan, Regal beauties of queenly grace And sinuous sirens of unknown race; Some one among them will surely bless Hours that grow heavy with idleness." Then the slave that waited his lightest need, Fell on his knee, by the silk divan, And the swarthy, listening ear gave heed To the will of the lord of Ispahan.

"Send hither my dancing-girls," he said, "And set me a feast to please the eye And tempt the palate, for this shall be A wedding breakfast before us spread, If the charm of beauty can satisfy And one of their number pleaseth me. I will wed no maiden of high degree With the tips of her fingers henna-stained And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained, But a child of nature wild and free."

Then the slave bent low and said: "O Sire, A woman lingers beside the gate; Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire And she mourns as one disconsolate; And when we bid her to cease and go, Each eye grows bright, like an evening star, And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe, For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'" "Bid her to enter," the master said, And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled. The hasty word on his lip way stayed As he thought of his youth, in the land afar, And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid, In the desert places of Khandakar. The woman entered and swift unwound The veil that mantled her face around, And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed, In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid. The indolent lord of Ispahan Started back on the silk divan, For in form and feature, in very truth, It seemed the love of his early youth. The almond eyes and the midnight hair, The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin-- Time had not touched them; they still were fair, And the passion of yore grew strong within. Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, Which only dishonor can fail to heed; The solemn pact of the races nine, To help each other in time of need. But her eyes beheld no answering sign, Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, And the trembling maiden could not divine The will of the lord of Ispahan. With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, The voice of the woman her lips forsook; And thus her tale of despair began In the lordly palace of Ispahan:

"On a stallion black as the midnight skies, From a desert I come, where my lover lies At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan That struck him down, are in Ispahan With slaves to sell, in the open street; And only because my steed was fleet Am I now free; but here I bide, For this morning the hard-rid stallion died. Out of your opulence, one swift steed Only a drop from the sea will be; A grain of sand on the shore, to my need; But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me. My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide, And the pain of longing all peace denies, To the heart that strains to my lover's side." "You shall mourn no more, but sit with me And rejoice in a scene of revelry; For the pleasures of life are the rights of man," Said the indolent lord of Ispahan.

The curtains parted and noiseless feet Of dusky slaves stole over the floor. Their strong arms laden with burden sweet Of fruits and flowers a goodly store. Luscious peaches and apricots, Plucked from the sunniest garden spots; Syrian apples and cordials rare; Succulent grapes that filled the air With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, From beakers of wine from Astrakhan; Cooling salvers of colored ice; Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; Smoking viands, on plates of gold, And carven vessels of price untold, Kindling the appetite afresh For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh. The musical notes of the mellow flute, From a source remote, rose higher and higher, With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre.

Then a whirlwind of color filled the air-- A misty vapor of filmy lace, With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, In a mazy whirl of infinite grace; And the lustrous glow of tresses blent With the shimmer of pearls, from the Orient. The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, A swelling burst of sensuous sound, Sank lower to swell and sink again, Then died in silence most profound. The panting beauties with cheeks aglow, Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor, Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, Or tinted sea-shells along the shore. But the lord of the palace turned and cried; "Heavy and languid these maidens are." And he said, to the Bedouin at his side: "Teach them the dances of Khandakar." Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, And she said: "You will pity my need most dire? You will give me steed to fly afar, To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?" "Half that I own shall be yours," he said, "If the love of my youth that was under ban Comes back to me like a soul from the dead Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan."

She sprang to the floor with an agile bound. The music broke in a swirl of sound, Her hair from its fillet became unbound. And the dancing-girls that stood apart, Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart, At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace Of the dancing-girl from the desert race. Not one of them half so fair to see; Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist Of twirling body and bending knee, Of supple ankle and curving wrist. The wilder the music, the wilder she; It seemed like the song of a bird set free To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist And live on its own mad ecstasy. Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan, Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan.

But the thoughts of the master were drifting far To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar; To the time when another had danced as well, And listened with tenderness in her eyes, To the burning words his lips might tell, With kisses freighting her soft replies. And he had thought that her smile would bless His roving life, in the land afar, And cheer him in hours of loneliness, In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar. But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, And the flattered woman had turned and fled From the pleading voice of a stricken man; Then out of the desert the lover sped, To become a great lord of Ispahan.

And now this child, with the subtle grace Of the mother that bore her, had come to him With the desert's breath upon her face, Rousing within him a purpose grim. "By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be The light and the joy of my life to me! As your mother was, you are to-day. Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span; You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay As the wife of the lord of Ispahan." That night, when the dusky shadows crept Across the tiles of the banquet-room, They found the form of a man who slept On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom. The window screens were wide to the air, And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where A frightened fugitive might pass through.

And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, Wakened not at the prancing tread Of the milk-white steed and made no sign, As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled. And the indolent lord of Ispahan Seemed resting still, on the silk divan; But his heart was beating with love no more, In his eyes no light of passion gleamed; His listless fingers touched the floor, Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep; For the end had come to life's brief span; And his jewelled dagger was handle deep, In the heart of the lord of Ispahan.

HORNETS.

BY BILL NYE.

Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory, with a red place all around it.

Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud. When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to scrape them off, because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct toward a hornet.

I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is forever new.

SINCE SHE WENT HOME.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

Since she went home-- The evening shadows linger longer here, The winter days fill so much of the year, And even summer winds are chill and drear, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The robin's note has touched a minor strain, The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- How still the empty room her presence blessed; Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The long, long days have crept away like years, The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, Since she went home.

THE CHILDREN WE KEEP.

The children kept coming, one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three, And the big brown house was alive with fun From the basement floor to the old roof-tree. Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care; Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in its dew, They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, "I'm tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." She cradled him close in her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lighted his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," Stole softly away into paradise Ere "the river" had reached her slender feet. While the father's eyes on the grave are bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies; "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent, Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."

The years flew by and the children began With longing to think of the world outside; And as each, in his turn, became a man, The boys proudly went from the father's side. The girls were women so gentle and fair That lovers were speedy to woo and win; And with orange blossoms in braided hair, The old home was left, the new home to begin.

So, one by one, the children have gone,-- The boys were five and the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and lone, With but two old folks for its company. They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together in eventide, And say, "All the children we keep at last Are the boy and the girl who in childhood died."

AMERICA FOR GOD.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.