At last the thread was snapped—her head was bowed, Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene— And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. * * * * * LINES. BY JAMES M’CARROLL. How oft, while wandering through some desert place, I’ve met a poor, pale, thirsty little flower, Looking toward heaven, with its patient face, In dying expectation of a shower. And when the sweet compassion of the skies Fell, like a charm, upon its sickly bloom, Oh! what a grateful stream gushed from its eyes Toward Him who cared to snatch it from the tomb. And, oh! when all its leaves seemed folding up Into the tender bud of other days, What clouds of incense, from the deepening cup, Rolled upward with the burden of its praise. And then I thought, in this dry land of ours How few, that feel affliction’s chastening rod, Are like the poor, pale, thirsty little flowers, With their meek faces turned toward their God. How few, when angry clouds and storms depart, And all the light of heaven reappears, Are found with incense rising in a heart Dissolved, before His throne, in grateful tears. * * * * * A GOOD INVESTMENT. BY T. S. ARTHUR. “That’s a smart little fellow of yours,” said a gentleman named Winslow to a laboring man, who was called in, occasionally, to do work about his store. “Does he go to school?” “Not now, sir,” replied the poor man. “Why not, Davis? He looks like a bright lad.” “He’s got good parts, sir,” returned the father, “but—” “But what?” asked the gentleman, seeing that the man hesitated. “Times are rather hard now, sir, and I have a large family. It’s about as much as I can do to keep hunger and cold away. Ned reads very well, writes a tolerable fair hand, considering all things, and can figure a little. And that’s about all I can do for him. The other children are coming forward, and I reckon he will have to go to a trade middling soon.” “How old is Ned?” inquired Mr. Winslow. “He’s turned of eleven.” “You wont put him to a trade before he’s thirteen or fourteen?” “Can’t keep him home idling about all that time, Mr. Winslow. It would be his ruination. It’s young to go out from home, I know, to rough it and tough it among strangers”—there was a slight unsteadiness in the poor man’s voice—“but it’s better than doing nothing.” “Ned ought to go to school a year or two longer, Davis,” said Mr. Winslow, with some interest in his manner. “And as you are not able to pay the quarter-bills, I guess I will have to do it. What say you? If I pay for Ned’s schooling can you keep him at home some two or three years longer?”