We thy praises sing; To thy cradle bring Love, and thanks and treasure, Offerings without measure; Just now come from glory, We have heard thy story Sung by angel chorus, While God’s light shone o’er us. O, thou Baby stranger! Hiding in a manger, By crowded inn rejected, By pilgrims all neglected, For thee our hearts are burning With a holy yearning. Be thou our guest; Our arms would now enfold thee, Our hearts would gladly hold thee; We love thee best. G. R. ALDEN. THE SPOOL-COTTON GIRL. PART I. SHE stood before a little old-fashioned twisted-legged toilet stand putting the finishing touches to her hair, looking, the while, into a queer little old-fashioned mirror which had been in the family ever since she could remember. Almost everything had been in their family a long while. Especially, Marion sometimes thought, her dresses had. “They do not wear overskirts like this any more,” she had said to her mother that morning, as she was looping it. “They do not wear overskirts at all,” said Renie, the younger sister, looking up from her book. Renie always knew what “they” did. “I know it,” answered Marion, from whose face the slight cloud had already passed; “but we do, because, you see, it hides the pieced part of our dress, and the faded part, and various other blemishes. Why should not there be a what ‘we’ do, as well as to be always quoting what ‘they’ are about?” Her mother laughed somewhat faintly. Marion’s quaint bright speeches were always restful to her; but the fact was undeniable that the dear girl’s clothes were old-fashioned and much worn, and the way to secure, or at least to afford new ones, was hedged. You would not have called her pretty had you seen her as she stood before that little old-fashioned mirror, pushing in the old-fashioned comb into her knot of hair, and trying to make it hold the hair in the way the pretty new style fancy pins which the girls wore held theirs; but you would have liked her face, I think; nearly every one did. It was quiet and restful looking. She gave very little time to the hair, for she was late. There was so much to be done mornings that she was very apt to be late—I mean hurried. They never called her late at the store; she was always in her place before the great bell ceased ringing, but it required much bustling about and some running, to accomplish this. She was only thirteen, and most of the girls in her class in Sunday-school were students at the High School; but Marion had been for more than a year earning her own living. She had charge of the spool-cotton counter in one of the large stores.