I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers, Or scorned the music of the flowing rills, Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours; Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills Unstayed by light of mighty triumphs won; Alas! what have I done? What have I done? Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe! Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower, The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou know The roundness of its form, its depth of power? Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun, Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done? LILLIAN BLANCHE FEARING, _In Home Mission Monthly._ WHEN ST. CHRYSOSTOM PRAYED. ’TWAS not enough to kneel in prayer, And pur his very soul away In fervid wrestlings, night and day, For those who owned his shepherd care; But faith and works went hand in hand, As test of each petition made, And saints were helped throughout the land When St. Chrysostom prayed. Within the closet where he knelt A box of Bethlehem’s olive wood— “For Christ” engraved upon it—stood; And ever as he daily felt The pressure of the church’s need, Therein the daily gift was laid; For word had instant proof of deed When St. Chrysostom prayed. Beneath his folded hands he placed Whatever gold was his; and when He travailed for the souls of men, So long by pagan rites debased, The more he agonized, the more The burden on his spirit weighed; And piece by piece went all his store When St. Chrysostom prayed. O, golden mother! let this thine alms Rouse us to shame who daily bow Within our sacred places now, With outstretched yet with empty palms! We supplicate indeed; but has Our faith brought answering works to aid? Have words by deeds been proven, as When St. Chrysostom prayed? MARGARET J. PRESTON, _in Missionary World._ PUT TO SHAME. THEY were sitting in the window-seat, Magdalene and Mabel, busy with their work, and talking. “The Mission Band meets this week, you know,” said Mabel. “I know it,” Magdalene said, with a scowl on her face; “I’ve got to go, I suppose, but I don’t want to a bit; I haven’t any money to spare to give; I’m not going to give but a cent, anyhow, I just can’t afford it. Isn’t this blue silk sash lovely, Mabel? It just fits my dollie’s eyes. It was horridly expensive; I had to give twenty cents just for this little piece.” “Nell is going to Mission Band,” said that small woman from the carpet, where she played with her dollie. “Nell knows all about it; mamma told her. Nell doesn’t want to be a selfish little girl and not give to the heathens; Nell is going to give her bestest thing.”