A little while ago a babe was found--one that had been abandoned by its mother--left as a legacy to chance or fate. The warm heart of Mary Fiske, now cold in death, was touched. She took the waif and held it lovingly to her breast and made the child her own. We pray thee, Mother Nature, that thou wilt take this woman and hold her as tenderly in thy arms, as she held and pressed against her generous, throbbing heart, the abandoned babe. We ask no more. In this presence, let us remember our faults, our frailties, and the generous, helpful, self-denying, loving deeds of Mary Fiske. A TRIBUTE TO HORACE SEAVER. At Paine Hall, Boston, August 25, 1889. * The eulogy pronounced at the funeral of Horace Shaver In Paine Hall last Sunday was the tribute of one great man to another. To have Robert G. Ingersoll speak words of praise above the silent form is fame; to deserve these words is immortality.--The Boston Investigator, August 28, 1889. HORACE SEAVER was a pioneer, a torch-bearer, a toiler in that great field we call the world--a worker for his fellow-men. At the end of his task he has fallen asleep, and we are met to tell the story of his long and useful life--to pay our tribute to his work and worth. He was one who saw the dawn while others lived in night. He kept his face toward the "purpling east" and watched the coming of the blessed day. He always sought for light. His object was to know--to find a reason for his faith--a fact on which to build. In superstition's sands he sought the gems of truth; in superstition's night he looked for stars. Born in New England--reared amidst the cruel superstitions of his age and time, he had the manhood and the courage to investigate, and he had the goodness and the courage to tell his honest thoughts. He was always kind, and sought to win the confidence of men by sympathy and love. There was no taint or touch of malice in his blood. To him his fellows did not seem depraved--they were not wholly bad--there was within the heart of each the seeds of good. He knew that back of every thought and act were forces uncontrolled. He wisely said: "Circumstances furnish the seeds of good and evil, and man is but the soil in which they grow." Horace Seaver was crowned with the wreath of his own deeds, woven by the generous hand of a noble friend. He fought the creed, and loved the man. He pitied those who feared and shuddered at the thought of death--who dwelt in darkness and in dread. The religion of his day filled his heart with horror. He was kind, compassionate, and tender, and could not fall upon his knees before a cruel and revengeful God--he could not bow to one who slew with famine, sword and fire--to one pitiless as pestilence, relentless as the lightning stroke. Jehovah had no attribute that he could love.