Well then try to make some small piece of ground beautiful, peaceful, and fruitful. We will have no untended or unthought-of creatures on it; none wretched, but the sick; none idle, but the dead. We will have no liberty upon it; but instant obedience to known law, and appointed persons; no equality upon it, but recognition of every good that we can find. We will have plenty of flowers and vegetables in our gardens, plenty of corn and grass in our fields. We will have some music and some poetry; the children shall learn to dance it and sing—perhaps some of the old people, in time, may also. We will have some art, moreover pictures and hand-made books; we will at least try if, like the Greeks, we can’t make pottery. The Greeks used to paint pictures of gods on their pots; we, probably, cannot do as much, but we may put some pictures of flowers—butterflies, and frogs, if nothing better. Little by little, some higher art and imagination may manifest themselves among us; and feeble rays of science may dawn for us. Botany, though too dull to dispute the existence of flowers; and history, though too simple to question the nativity of men; nay—even perhaps an uncalculating and uncovetous wisdom, as of rude Magi, presenting, at such nativity, gifts of gold and frankincense. CLAVIGERA. Cumberland, April 6, 1896. THE RAILER. “There is no joy thro’ all the earth: Hope is a witless mocker’s jest: There is no nobler second birth— Nor fair, nor best! “The touch of Death is over all And life is portal to the hell Where men are cattle in a stall To buy and sell! “Yea, he who tears his brother’s heart To cast it to the ravening crowd Is hailed as master of the mart With plaudits loud. “He wears his crown a little space Until a fiercer knave than he Shall push him from his vantage place And monarch be! “The shadows drive away the sun— The flowers are hid by jealous Night, The fruit is plundered—never won— And Might rules Right!” Thus raves the scoffer, age in age, Who bears no message of his own Save the blind clamor of his rage From breast of stone. He holds a balance in his claw To weigh with loaded penny-weights The mighty universe of Law With all its fates! This, to the railer from the tombs Who makes not, neither loves nor gives: Spite of the crackle of thy dooms God lives! God lives! JOHN JEROME ROONEY. SHADOWS. “My wife? She is dead!” said the man. “God help you to bear it,” were the answering words of the woman. “And you would have me do my duty?” “You could do naught else. There are other things than love, my friend; there is honor, and we must abide by that—and the inevitable.” * * * * *