None answered the returning one with like repentance, although from the heavy eyes of some a faint desire for a moment gleamed, to flee with him from misery. But the laugh which rung so loud, and with such a mocking echo of contempt, put out the spark which might have kindled to such a glorious blaze, and he turned alone upon his backward way. And now fingers were pointed at him, laughter followed him—his garments were laid hold of to arrest his steps. Many who sighed for his courage, and envied him the way his face was turned, laid stumbling-blocks before his feet, to turn them back—to gain a triumph over him would make their own depravity seem less dark. But they could not conquer him. His angel strengthened him, and he kept the name of the Great Lord upon his lips and in his heart, and so he made his way free from the striving hands and tempting wiles of his companions, and joyfully reached once more the side of his sister in the upward path. * * * * * THE RAIN. BY T. A. SWAN. The birds sing gayly in their bowers, And we can gather what they sing; But what, falling ’mong leaves and flowers, What is the soft rain whispering. I cannot understand their word— Some tale those bright drops tell, I know, For the corn leaves move as if they heard, And barley fields nod to and fro. The lily turns its chalice up To catch the legends as they fall, And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup Rings many a fairy festival. The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads, And then, like elves, they dance and sing; And clovers hang their blushing heads, Like little creatures listening. It is some good thing they relate; For when the cloud has passed the sun, The green fields smile with joy elate, As the world had put new glory on. And so, to me, they chant a strain Uncomprehended by the sense, But when they dash the window-pane, I feel their soothing influence. They lead me back to some bright scene, Some fair spot in the shadowy past, Which glows like the broad moon’s silver sheen Far off upon the waters cast. They ope the pleasant gate of dreams, And from the phantom-world beyond, How visions bright, in golden streams, Like gift from an enchanter’s wand. Kind dreams of sweet imagining— Of the maiden fair shall love me well; But mystic are the strains they sing, Who she may be they will not tell. And through the Future’s golden aisles, They bear me up on angel wing; And many a truth I’ve learned the whiles From the bright rain softly whispering. * * * * * WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA. BY PROFESSOR FROST. [Illustration]