While the family of Mrs. Mier were enjoying their pleasant repast, the strawberry-woman sat at a small table, around which were gathered three young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries, for which she was to pay seven and a-half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box, she would have made seventy-five cents; but such was not the case. Rich ladies had beaten her down in her price—had chaffered with her for the few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her—and actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strove to earn for her children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian meal and molasses for her own and her children’s supper and breakfast. As she sat with her children, eating the only food she was able to provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her; but the remembrance of the kind words, and the glass of cool water, so timely and thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaven in the waters of Marah. Her heart softened, and with the tears stealing to her eyes, she glanced upward, and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though poor, she was still human. Economy is a good thing, and should be practiced by all, but it should show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour, and in the next trying to save a five penny piece off of a wood-sawyer, coal-heaver, or market-woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest. * * * * * THE SOUL’S SEARCH. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. A weary, wandering soul am I, O’erburthened with an earthly weight; A palmer through the world and sky Seeking the celestial gate. Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers, Who all night gaze upon the skies, Have ye not in the silent hours Seen aught of Paradise? Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate With joy which makes your voices strong, Have ye not at the crystal gate Caught somewhat of your song? Ye waters, sparkling in the morn, Ye seas, which hold the starry night, Have ye not from the imperial bourn Caught glimpses of its light? Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines, Ye mountain forests old and gray, In all your long and winding lines Have ye not seen the way? Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers, Knowest thou the path the angels tread? Seest thou beyond thy azure towers The golden gates dispread? Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth While earth was yet a sinless star, Have the immortals heavenly birth Within your realms afar?