Politeness is _to do_ and say The kindest thing in the kindest way. [Illustration] MEASURING THE BABY. EMMA ALICE BROWN. We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall-- A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall; A royal tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold. Without, the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill. His eyes were wide as bluebells-- His mouth like a flower unblown-- Two little bare feet like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again. Ah me! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day; And the little bare feet, that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In a hush of a long repose! Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of Heaven thereon; And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill. We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan-- To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. * * * * * Every man stamps his value on himself. The price we challenge for ourselves is given us. Man is made great or little _by his own will_. SCHILLER * * * * * It was a noble Roman, In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker, Before the Castle say: "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it!" "On--on," exclaimed the hero, "_I'll find a way, or make it!_" JOHN G. SAXE. [Illustration] THE ENGINEER'S STORY. No, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky, I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That will ring in my head forever, Until it rests beneath the sod. We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored-- Climbing the top of the grade; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest.