A little child, at an organ In a room across the way, While trying to learn his lesson Awoke me from dreams to-day. The exercises were simple But he soon began to cry, And I heard him say with feeling: “’Tis really no use to try!” Then the master, bending o’er him As patiently as before, Said: “Let me take your place, dear, And I’ll show you how once more.” Soon I hear instead of discord A sweet, harmonious sound, While the master’s skillful fingers The musical keys have found. Within the souls of the many Are keys of ivory white, Which will waken to sweetest music If in tune and touched aright; But how oft we hear a discord When the wrong keys have been tried And the amateur is playing While the Master stands aside. AT LAST. A little stream that danced and played all day Upon its rough and ever winding way, Like some young child, upon his mother’s breast, Soon neared the tide and calmed itself to rest. A little flower that nodded here and there, At every passing breeze, in daylight fair, When sunset splendor lingered o’er the hill Sent forth its fragrance and at last was still. A little bird that built her airy nest Nor thought in sunny hours to pause and rest, Sang sweeter songs to cheer the passer by When light was fading in the distant sky. A man, who thro’ life’s day had toiled and wept, When life was o’er lay down in peace and slept; He, who had borne the burden of the day, Found sunset glories flooding all his way. Peace comes from God, and rest is sure and sweet To those who bear life’s burden and its heat; Sweet, starry twilight calms that manly soul That strives by toil to reach Heaven’s distant goal. HIS PROMISE. Oft when the rain-drops fall, We pray for sunlight fair; Oft when the day is bright, We seek the cooling shade; Oft when the robins call, We long for tree-tops bare; Oft when the ground is white, We wish that spring had stayed. But God who ruleth all, And keeps us in His care, Doth plan all things aright, Which for our good He made; Our gifts, so poor and small, Cannot with His compare, And if we trust His might His promise will not fade. LIFE’S CRUCIBLE. We do not cut and polish the stones That are laid in the common wall; We do not prune the brambles and weeds That around our pathway fall. We do not put into crucibles A metal unworthy the test; Nor do we send a man to the front Who would not peril his best. The vine that’s pruned bears the choicest fruit,— Necessity grinds the dull tool; And the keenest and best instructors Are prepared in Affliction’s school.