God knew about the thrall, the small, Weak hands which yet might fall, the call Which all too loud might prove to be For one so young, so little helped as he, So tempted oft, and yet withal so free to fall. And so, one cold Thanksgiving Day, so gay With jingling bells, and sleigh and play, The father sent a messenger in love, To take poor Tommy to his home above, Where, clad in garments whiter than the dove, he’ll stay. And now no more he’ll walk that street, where sleet And slush so cruel hurt his feet; repeat No more his song of paper vending, Shiver no more while restless horse attending, But join in song triumphant, never ending and sweet. But on this day of this November, remember Tommies there are, with feet as cold and tender, remember, As his once were, who now on golden strand Meet rich and poor, of this and every land. These need your store, your love, your helping hand, remember! R. ROBERT TRUESDALE’S LOGIC. THEY were great friends, Robert Truesdale and Claire Waterman. During the long, bright summer at the seashore they spent as much time together as possible, and discussed all sorts of questions. They had opinions concerning everything under the sun, and agreed so well, generally, that to find a subject upon which they totally differed only added interest to the summer. One of these subjects was found one morning when they sat together on the beach. It began—that is, the discussion did—by Robert’s making the astonishing statement that he never went to circuses. Claire stopped playing with the sand which she was letting run idly through her fingers, and turned so that she could see his face. “How very queer!” she said; “I thought all boys went to circuses. Did you never go?” “I went once,” said Robert, low-voiced, “when I was quite a little fellow, and that was once too often. I never cared to try it again.” “I cannot imagine why. I think circuses are splendid. We never go in the city, of course. Why, they don’t have circuses in cities, do they? But I go to my Auntie’s every summer for two months—I always have until this summer—and Uncle West takes us children to the circus just as regularly. That is the reason I like the country so much better than the city, you can go to such queer out-of-door things. And I think the little circus ponies are too cunning for anything; I have always wanted one for my own. Mamma laughs, and says she doesn’t know but I will be a circus rider when I grow up—and then the clown is so funny. Why don’t you want to go, Robert? What happened when you went once? Was there an accident?”