“Well, it’s pretty much the same at our house,” observed Maggie Gray. “Of course there are not so many of us, but still mother’s sewing, mending and darning about all the time.” “And mine too!” said Laura Harris. “It was only last evening that I heard father ask mother if she wouldn’t go to the lecture with him, and she said she would like to very much, but couldn’t go, because she had to patch Jack’s trousers so that he could wear them to school the next day. And I sat there like an unfeeling wretch, working on a silly, good-for-nothing lamp-mat! And mother did look so tired and wistful, poor darling! Father seemed disappointed too. Now I might have offered to do the patching, and so given her a chance to go. It would have done her so much good!” “Well,” said Maude briskly, “I guess we’re all in the same fix! We have been going on and doing our own sweet wills, and I for one propose that we make a change! Suppose we all agree to go to our respective mother’s mending-basket and get work from it for our next Fancy Friday?” “All right! We will!” chimed the others. Further conversation on the subject was put an end to by the entrance of Madam, Iliad in hand, and for the next hour, the girls were regaled by the account of Achilles dragging the body of Hector nine times around the walls of Troy. “Four!” chimed the great clock in the hall. “Young ladies, you are dismissed,” said Madam, closing her book. “Next time, I think we will have a little prose instead of poetry. It will be a change, you know. Good afternoon!” “Prose instead of poetry,” Maude repeated as they put on their wraps. “And we’ll have the prose of sewing instead of its poetry, won’t we?” And Nell answered by a wave of the gray woollen sock. “You dear old sock!” she whispered as she rolled it up, “how I did hate to bring you this afternoon, for I was so afraid the girls would make piles of fun! But it all turned out nicely, after all, and you had a mission, didn’t you, you humble thing!” /* M. E. BRUSH. */ POEM FOR RECITATION. MISS MARION’S THANKSGIVING DAY. /* TWO big houses broad and high, Outlined against an autumn sky. Set on two hills, the houses stand, One grim and cheerless, one fair and grand; One teems with life throughout its walls, One silent in all its stately halls. One is of wood, and one of stone, Each set in broad acres all its own. One is the almshouse, gaunt and gray, One the beautiful home of Miss Marion Ray. Miss Marion Ray—her kith and kin All to their rest have entered in. Now she dwells with servants in lonely state, In the mansion behind the iron gate. A lady tall, and sad, and fair, With a quiet face and a gentle air— A sweet, worn face, and hair of gray, Has the lonely lady, Marion Ray. Sometimes in the night, when all is still, She has looked at the lights on the other hill,