When his friend was ready to return home to rest Dick would shove him gently along the perch until he was opposite his own door, then give a chirp which seemed to say: “There you are, jump in,” and in would spring the little sparrow, safe at home. Surely Dick ought to be elected as at least an honorary member of the “Helping Hand Society.” What if he hasn’t any hands? He succeeds in being a very efficient helper. EFIL SREDNOW. * * * * * THERE are a few who make their life “a song,” A silvery call to urge tired souls along, A clear bell o’er the cope Of the steep mountain they have had to climb With such a patience, they have made sublime The soul’s forlornest hope. And when these dear ones hidden pass adown “The other side,” beyond the mountain’s crown, The silvery tinkling vein Of gladness comes aback to touch us so— New courage in our sinking heart doth grow, We urge us on again. —_Selected._ [Illustration: AN OLD QUACK.] ANGIE’S CROSS.—I. (_Character Studies._) EVERYBODY said Angie Conran had a “perfectly lovely voice,” extremely well cultivated for one so young. Her music teacher was in the habit of patting her hand in a patronizing way, at the close of almost every lesson, and saying, in broken French: “Mees Angie, you will make what you Americans call a mark in the world; remember I tell you.” Angie was a member of the choir, and a very faithful one; a member of the “Choral Club,” and practiced early and late to help make it a success. On the particular evening of which I wish to tell you she was seated at the piano, giving a last half-hour of practice to the anthem before she went to rehearsal. Her mother and I sat in the back parlor, where we could have the full benefit of the music. How the exquisite melody filled the room, and how distinctly was every word spoken. “Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee, E’en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee!” “That is as good as a recitation,” I said. “How very distinctly Angie speaks her words.” “Yes,” said the proud mother; “she prides herself on being heard. She says she would never have any pleasure in singing Italian songs; that she would want the words as well as the music to be uplifting. Angie prefers sacred music, I think; her heart seems to echo the sentiment of the words. What she is practicing now is to be sung to-morrow morning, just before the sermon. Our pastor requested it. This is a new arrangement, with solo and quartette, and Angie takes the solo. If the other parts are as beautiful as the soprano, I think it will be lovely. Angie dear, isn’t it time you were going?” “In a minute, mamma; I want to try this minor strain first.” The sweet, tender sounds filled the room: