The words were said, and there uprose A low and stifled moan-- Then all was still--The spirit of That stricken one had flown! * * * * * They widened the pit, and side by side Mother and son were laid; No mourning train to the grave went forth, Nor prayer was said as they heaped the earth Above the plague-struck dead! "OH, THIS IS NOT MY HOME!" By Charles P. Ilsley. Oh, this is not my home-- I miss the glorious sea, Its white and sparkling foam, And lofty melody. All things seem strange to me-- I miss the rocky shore, Where broke so sullenly The waves with deaf'ning roar: The sands that shone like gold Beneath the blazing sun, O'er which the waters roll'd, Soft chanting as they run: And oh, the glorious sight! Ships moving to and fro, Like birds upon their flight, So silently they go! I climb the mountain's height, And sadly gaze around, No waters meet my sight, I hear no rushing sound. Oh, would I were at home, Beside the glorious sea, To bathe within its foam And list its melody! THE VILLAGE PRIZE. By Joseph Ingraham. In one of the loveliest villages of old Virginia there lived, in the year 175- and odd, an old man, whose daughter was declared, by universal consent, to be the loveliest maiden in all the country round. The veteran, in his youth, had been athletic and muscular above all his fellows; and his breast, where he always wore them, could show the adornment of three medals, received for his victories in gymnastic feats when a young man. His daughter was now eighteen, and had been sought in marriage by many suitors. One brought wealth--another, a fine person--another, industry--another, military talents--another this, and another that. But they were all refused by the old man, who became at last a by-word for his obstinacy among the young men of the village and neighborhood. At length, the nineteenth birthday of Annette, his charming daughter, who was as amiable and modest as she was beautiful, arrived. The morning of that day, her father invited all the youth of the country to a hay-making frolic. Seventeen handsome and industrious young men assembled. They came not only to make hay, but also to make love to the fair Annette. In three hours they had filled the father's barns with the newly dried grass, and their own hearts with love. Annette, by her father's command, had brought them malt liquor of her own brewing, which she presented to each enamored swain with her own fair hands.