_My_ dress came from Paris; We sent to Worth for it; Mother says she calls it Such a fit!"

Quick there piped another Little voice-- "_I_ did n't send for dresses, Though I had my choice; _I_ have got a doll that Came from Paris too; It can walk and talk as Well as you!"

Still, till now, there sat one Little girl; Simple as a snow-drop, Without flounce or curl.

Modest as a primrose, Soft, plain hair brushed back, But the color of her dress was Black--all black.

Swift she glanced around with Sweet surprise; Bright and grave the look that Widened in her eyes.

To entertain the party She must do her share, As if G.o.d had sent her Stood she there;

Stood a minute, thinking, With crossed hands How she best might meet the Company's demands.

Grave and sweet the purpose To the child's voice given:-- "_I_ have a little brother Gone to Heaven!"

On the little party Dropped a spell; All the little flounces Rustled where they fell; But the modest maiden In her mourning gown, Unconscious as a flower, Looketh down.

Quick my heart besought her, Silently.

"Happy little maiden, Give, O give to me The highness of your courage, The sweetness of your grace, To speak a large word, in a Little place."

A JEWISH LEGEND.

I like that old, kind legend Not found in Holy Writ, And wish that John or Matthew Had made Bible out of it.

But though it is not Gospel, There is no law to hold The heart from growing better That hears the story told:--

How the little Jewish children Upon a summer day, Went down across the meadows With the Child Christ to play.

And in the gold-green valley, Where low the reed-gra.s.s lay, They made them mock mud-sparrows Out of the meadow clay.

So, when these all were fashioned, And ranged in rows about, "Now," said the little Jesus, "We'll let the birds fly out."

Then all the happy children Did call, and coax, and cry-- Each to his own mud-sparrow: "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!"

But earthen were the sparrows, And earth they did remain, Though loud the Jewish children Cried out, and cried again.

Except the one bird only The little Lord Christ made; The earth that owned Him Master, --His earth heard and obeyed.

Softly He leaned and whispered: "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!"

And swift, His little sparrow Went soaring to the sky,

And silent, all the children Stood, awestruck, looking on, Till, deep into the heavens, The bird of earth had gone.

I like to think, for playmate We have the Lord Christ still, And that still above our weakness He works His mighty will,

That all our little playthings Of earthen hopes and joys Shall be, by His commandment, Changed into heavenly toys.

Our souls are like the sparrows Imprisoned in the clay, Bless Him who came to give them wings Upon a Christmas Day!

V.

THE SONGS OF SEVENTY YEARS.

J. G. W.

Master! let stronger lips than these Turn melody to harmony, Poet! mine tremble as they crave A word alone with thee.

Thy songs melt on the vibrant air, The wild birds know them, and the wind; The common light hath claim on them, The common heart and mind.

And air, and light, and wind, shall be Thy fellow-singers, while they say How seventy years of music stir The common pulse to-day.

Hush, sweetest songs! Mine ears are deaf To all of ye save only one.

Blind are the eyes that turn the leaf Against the Autumn sun.

Oh, blinder once were fading eyes, Close folded now from shine and rain, And duller were the dying ears That heard the chosen strain.

Stay, solemn chant! 'T is mine to sing Your notes alone below the breath.

'T is mine to bless the poet who Can bless the hour of death.

For once a spirit "sighed for home,"

A "longed-for light whereby to see,"

And "wearied," found the way to them, O Christian seer, through thee!

Pa.s.sed--with thy words on paling lips, Pa.s.sed--with thy courage to depart; Pa.s.sed--with thy trust within the soul, Thy music in the heart.

Oh, calm above our restlessness, And rich beyond our dreaming, yet In heaven, I know, one owes to thee A glad and grateful debt.

From it may learn some tenderer art, May find and take some better way Than all our tenderest and best, To crown thy life to-day.

BIRTHDAY VERSES.

H. B. S.

Arise, and call her blessed,--seventy years!

Each one a tongue to speak for her, who needs No poor device of ours to tell to-day The story of her glory in our hearts.

Precede us all, ye quiet lips of love, Ye honors high of home--n.o.bilities Of mother and of wife--the heraldry Of happiness; dearer to her than were The homage of the world. We yield unto The royal claims of tenderness. Speak thou Before all voices, ripened human life!

Arise, and call her blessed, dark-browed men!

She put the silver lyre aside for you.

She could not stroll across the idle strings Of fancy, while you wept uncomforted, But rang upon the fetters of a race Enchained, the awful chord which pealed along, And echoed in the cannon-shot that broke The manacle, and bade the bound go free.