'But when Ned gets through with the clothing, and when He has thrown it aside, what do you do with it then?"

"Why, once more we go around the circle complete, And begin to use it for patches for Pete."

Anon.

BETWEEN THE LIGHTS

Dear heart, come closer, while the light
Dies slowly in the darkening sky,
And, marshaled at the call of night,
The twilight shades troop softly by.

I would not have you sorrow so,
Because it must be, soon or late,

That one of us, alone, will go

From out the light thro' death's dark gate.

For life at best is all too short

When measured by a love like ours,

And death is but an open port

To broader fields and fairer flowers.

So, while the twilight shades troop past,
And night and darkness come apace,
We know the dawn will break at last,
And always there is light some place.

Selected

THE AVERAGE MAN

When it comes to a question of trusting
Yourself to the risks of the road,
When the thing is the sharing of burdens,
The lifting the heft of a load,
In the hour of peril or trial,

In the hour you meet as you can,
You may safely depend on the wisdom
And skill of the average man.

'Tis the average man and no other
Who does his plain duty each day,
The small thing his wage is for doing,
On the commonplace bit of the way.
'Tis the average man, may God bless him!
Who pilots us, still in the van,
Over land, over sea, as we travel,
Just the plain, hardy, average man.

So on through the days of existence,
All mingling in shadow and shine,
We may count on the every-day hero,
Whom haply the gods may divine,

But who wears the swart grime of his calling,
And labors and earns as he can,

And stands at the last with the noblest,-
The commonplace, average man.

By permission.

Margaret E. Sangster.

EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE

A fire-mist and a planet,—

A crystal and a cell,—

A jelly-fish and a saurian,

And caves where the cave-men dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty,

And a face turned from the clod,

Some call it Evolution,

And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,

The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high,-
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the goldenrod,-
Some of us call it Autumn,

And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in,-
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod,-

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,

A mother starved for her brood,——

Socrates drinking the hemlock,

And Jesus on the rood;

And millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight, hard pathway plod,—
Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

Copyright, G. P. Putnam's Sons.

By permission.

W. H. Carruth.

A DAILY MOTTO

Verses sent Miss Frances Willard by a devoted friend. It's curious whut a sight o' good a little thing will do; How ye kin stop the fiercest storm when it begins to brew, An' take the sting from whut commenced to rankle when

'twas spoke,

By keepin' still and treatin' it as if it wus a joke; Ye'll find that ye kin fill a place with smiles instead o'

tears,

An' keep the sunshine gleamin' through the shadows of the years,

By jes' laughin'.

Folks sometimes fails ter note the possibilities that lie In the way yer mouth is curvin' an' the twinkle in yer eye: It ain't so much whut's said that hurts ez what ye think lies hid.

It ain't so much the doin' ez the way a thing is did. An' many a home's kep' happy an' contented, day by day, An' like ez not a kingdom hez been rescued from decay By jes' laughin'.

HIS LAST REQUEST

If

"Pat," said the priest, "you're drunk, and I'm going to make you stop this right here. If you ever get drunk again I'll turn you into a rat-do you mind that? I don't see you I'll know about it just the same, and into a rat you go. Now you mind that.'

Pat was very docile that night, but the next evening he came home even worse drunk than ever, kicked in the door, and Biddy dodged behind the table to defend herself.

"Don't be afraid, darlint," said Pat, as he steadied himself before dropping into a chair, “I'm not going to bate ye. I won't lay the weight of me finger on ye. I want ye to be kind to me tonight, darlint, and to remember the days when we was swatehearts and when ye loved me. You know his riverince said last night if I got dhrunk again he'd turn me into a rat. He didn't see me, but he knows I'm dhrunk, and this night into a rat I go. But I want ye to be kind to me, darlint, and watch me, and when ye see me gettin' little, and the hair growin' out on me, and me whiskers gettin' long, if ye ever loved me, darlint, for God's sake keep yer eye on the cat."

The optimist fell ten stories.

At each window-bar

He shouted to his friends:

Selected.

"All right so far.”

Anon.