The Reason

"Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that turneth aside to tarry for a night?"--Jer. xiv. 8.

Nay, do not get the venison pasty out; I shall not greatly put myself about Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall spare Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole- some fare.

We have to-morrow's dinner still to find; It's well for you I have a frugal mind.

Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever next?

Why with such questionings should I be vext?

The man is naught to us; why should we care?

The little attic room will do; 'tis bare, But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light; He has but come to tarry for a night.

I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I, Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to bed, And he can sup alone, well warmed and fed; 'Tis much to take him in a night like this.

Why should I fret me with concerns of his?

Grey morning came, and at the break of day The Man rose up and went upon his way

Two Women

"I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they be of the same mind in the Lord"--Phil. iv. 2,

EUODIAS.

But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am sure He never would expect me to endure.

There is a something in her very face Antagonistic to the work of grace.

And even when I would speak graciously Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me.

SYNTYCHE.

No, not for worlds! Euodias has no mind; So slow she is, so spiritually blind.

Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she says She grieves to see my aggravating ways Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly How odious Euodias can be!

EUODIAS.

Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another thing!

SYNTYCHE.

Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in- deed.

EUODIAS.

For His sake I'll endure her whispering

SYNTYCHE.

For His sake I'll consent to let her lead.

EUODIAS.

Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by day.

SYNTYCHE.

Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the way.

The Prize Fight

"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body."--1 Cor.

ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).

'T'was breakfast time, and outside in the street The factory men went by with hurrying feet.

And on the bridge, in dim December light, The newsboys shouted of the great prize fight.

Then, as I dished the bacon, and served out The porridge, all our youngsters gave a shout.

The letter-box had clicked, and through the din The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.

John showed the lads the pictures, and explained Just how the fight took place, and what was gained By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea: "Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.

She hits the air sometimes, though," and John smiled.

"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with widened eyes Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a prize?"

We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, how I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow Munched at our early cabbages, and ate The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon- ette!

And many a time I kicked against the p.r.i.c.ks Because the little dog at number six Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross I got When Jane seemed discontented with her lot.

Until poor John in desperation said He wearied of the theme--and went to bed!

And how I vexed myself that day, when he Brought people unexpectedly for tea, Because the table-cloth was old and stained, And not a single piece of cake remained.

And how my poor head ached! Because, well there!

It uses lots of strength to beat the air!

"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray For grace to hit the self-life every day.

And when the old annoyance comes once more And the old temper rises sharp and sore, I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender- Wise, And read approval in Thy loving eyes.

The Home Lights

"In my father's house!" The words Bring sweet cadence to my ears.