"But how's your wife and little one?"
"Come home with me," he said.
"Go on, go on: I follow you."

I followed where he led.
He had a pleasant little house;
The door was open wide,

And at the door the dearest face,

A dearer one inside.

He hugged his wife and child; he sang,
His spirits were so light,
"The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.

'Twas supper-time, and we sat down,
The sailor's wife and child,
And he and I: he looked at them,
And looked at me, and smiled.
"I think of this when I am tossed
Upon the stormy foam,

And, though a thousand leagues away,
Am anchored here at home."
Then, giving each a kiss, he said,
"I see, in dreams at night,

This little anchor on my left,
This great one on my right."

R. H. STODDARD.

THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.

I'VE just come in from the meadow, wife, where the grass in tall and green;

I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new machine;
It made my old eyes snap again to see that mower mow,
And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I swung some twenty
years ago.

Many and many's the day I've mowed, 'neath the rays of a scorching sun,

Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done:

I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over the farm,

Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pain come in my arm.

It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swingin' the old scythe then;

Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men:

I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at its speed and power;

The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one short hour.

John said that I hadn't seen the half: when he puts it into his wheat,

I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat; Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and learn To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn.

John kinder laughed when he said it; but I said to the hired men,

I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten,

That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air,
Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most anywhere.

There's a difference in the work I done, and the work m boys now do;

Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the

new;

But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days,

That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways.

To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way!

Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' is almost play; The women have got their sewin'-machines, their wringers, and every sich thing,

And now play croquet in the dooryard, or sit in the parlor and sing.

'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by;

You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for you and I: There were cows to milk; there was butter to make; and many a day did you stand

A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' em' out by hand.

Ah! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have

seen,

For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine;

No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower — There! Hear it afar?

A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad-car.

Well! the old tools now are shoved away; they stand agatherin' rust,

Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust; When the eyes grow dim, when the step is weak, when the strength goes out of the arm,

The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm.

There is one old way that they can't improve, although it has been tried

By men who have studied and studied, and worried till they died;

It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold refined from its dross:

It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross.

JOHN H. YATES.

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, that "soldier" toy;
Look where father's picture stands,
Father, who here kissed his boy

Not two months since,

father kind,
Who this night may Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that He may hear
Who is God of battles; say,
"Oh, keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nations or of creed,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work :
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol;
Willie, all to you and me
Is that spot, where'er it be,

Where he stands no other word!
Stands: God sure the child's prayer
By the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing through the town to-day: That's for victory. Ah, no knells For the many swept away, Hundreds, thousands! Let us weep, We who need not, — just to keep Reason steady in my brain

Till the morning comes again,

Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is, poor and hard:
Yet thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries- Willie, mark -
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma River.

heard

Willie, Willie, go to sleep,
God will keep us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare

In some eyes

Once again,

Child, say thy prayer

a different one:

Say," O God, thy will be done
By the Alma River!"

THE TRIAL SCENE FROM SHAKSPEARE'S "MERCHANT OF VENICE." The DUKE, Magnificoes, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, SOLANIO, SALARINO, GRATIANO, discovered.

Duke. [Seated, c.] What! is Antonio here?

Ant. Ready, so please your grace.

Duke. I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Ant. I have heard

Your grace hath taken great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,

And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury; and am armed
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,

The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Sol. He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

Enter SHYLOCK, L.

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,