Then, when the song was ended, And hushed the last sweet tone, The listener rose up softly And went on her way alone Once more to her life of labor She pa.s.sed; but her heart was strong; And she prayed, "G.o.d bless the singer!

And oh, thank G.o.d for the song!"

THE BICYCLE RIDE.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

[Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not, depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done and the a.s.sociations of the ride.]

You have read of the ride of Paul Revere, And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear; Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart, And the ride where Sheridan played a part; Calendar's ride on a brazen hack, And Islam's prophet on Al Borak; The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent, And a dozen others of like portent, But you never have heard of a bicycle spin Which was piously ended, though started in sin.

Tom was a country parson's son, Fresh from college and full of fun, Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls, Raving, in verse, over golden curls, Sowing a wild oat, here and there, In a way that made the parson stare And chide him sternly, when face to face, While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace.

But the wildest pa.s.sion the boy could feel Was the love he bore for his shining wheel.

He rode it by night and he rode it by day, If he went two rods or ten miles away; And Deacon Smith was heard to remark That he met that "pesky thing in the dark And it went right by with a glint and a gleam And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream; In spite of the fact that he knew right well That evil spirits were all in--well-- He wouldn't meet that thing again For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."

One Sunday morning, the sun was bright, The bird's throats bursting with glad delight, The parson-mounted his plump old bay And jogged to the church, two miles away, While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more And hid his wheel by the chancel door, And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew, "I wonder what makes dad look so blue,"

Till it came like a flash to his active mind, He left his sermon and specs behind.

Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn, Without his specs for a mint of gold, And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold, And right in the midst of his mental shock, The parson deceived his trusting flock, And gave them eternal life and a crown From the book he was holding upside down.

Tom, the rascal, five minutes before, Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.

The horses he frightened I never can tell, Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well, And they said they feared that the parson's lad "Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad, For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days,"

And they thought the length of the parson's prayer Had something to do with his fatherly care.

While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped, He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.

Of course you know how the story will end, The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd,"

When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew And laid down the specs and the sermon too.

Then the parson preached in a timid way, Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day, And he added a postscript, not in the text.

Saying that, when they were sore perplexed, Each must decide as he chanced to feel.

And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."

THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

O! where is the land that each mortal loves best, The land that is dearest and fairest on earth?

It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West; For this beautiful land is the land of our birth.

'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot; And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue, That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot.

We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place, But how often we see it in thought and in dreams!

Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face, Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its streams.

We may build grander homes than the home of our youth, On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast; But we never forget all its love and its truth; It has charms that will hallow it unto the last.

We may learn other tongues, but that language is best That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days-- The language she sung when she rocked us to rest, And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise.

We may love other lands, but wherever we be The land that is greenest and fairest on earth Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see-- The home of our fathers--the land of our birth.

May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth!

May the blessing of G.o.d give it freedom and rest!

Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west, The land of our birth is of all lands the best.

THE TEACHER'S DIADEM.

Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care; Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear; For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on; 'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone; With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim, Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring.

But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears, As the children pa.s.s before her, that she's taught these many years; And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given, To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven!

Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above; Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love."

Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom, Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room; And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun, Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come."

As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright, And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night;

Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars; On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors; Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne, Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done."

Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet; And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete."

All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown; 'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne.

"Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through all these years, If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers; That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less?

Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request."

From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem, He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem; Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear, Who she thought had pa.s.sed unheeded all her earnest thought and care.

"But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?"

And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore;

"'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand; Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands.

Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands; Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands; Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains; From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name.

When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given, This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven."

Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room; And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom; But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew; Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true; Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain; If her bread was on the waters, G.o.d would give it back again; If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap, He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep."

TOBE'S MONUMENT.

BY ELIZABETH KILHAM.