There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold; But one was out on the hills away, Far off from the gates of gold, Away on the mountain wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care. "Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine: Are they not enough for thee?" But the Shepherd made answer: "'T is of mine Has wandered away from me; And although the road be rough and steep I go to the desert to find my sheep." But none of the ransomed ever knew How deep were the waters crossed, Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through Ere he found his sheep that was lost. Out in the desert he heard its cry-- Sick and helpless, and ready to die. "Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way, That mark out the mountain track?" "They were shed for one who had gone astray Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." "Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?" "They are piercèd to-night by many a thorn." But all through the mountains, thunder-riven, And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, "Rejoice! I have found my sheep!" And the angels echoed around the throne, "Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!" ELIZABETH CECILIA CLEPHANE. * * * * * DE SHEEPFOL'. De massa ob de sheepfol', Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows, Wha'r de long night rain begin-- So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, "Is my sheep, is dey all come in?" Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd: "Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's; But de res', dey's all brung in. But de res', dey's all brung in." Den de massa ob de sheepfol', Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in the gloomerin' meadows, Wha'r de long night rain begin-- So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in." Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in." Den up t'ro' de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro' de col' night rain and win', And up t'ro' de gloomerin' rain-paf', Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in. De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in. SARAH PRATT M'LEAN GREENE. * * * * * THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID. _He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save._ So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian Sect which cried: "Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave."-- So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed, The infant Church! of love she felt the tide Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs, With eye suffused but heart inspired true, On those walls subterranean, where she hid