weigh,

words,
lhe golden curl.
thing,

Murmuring sottly, " Little one,
Grandfather did not weigh you fair."
Nobody weighed the baby's smile,
Or the love that came with the helpless one;
Nobody weighed the threads of care
From which a woman's life is spun.
No index tells the mighty worth
Of a little baby's quiet breathl

the baby's soul,
earth, no weights there be
God only knows

Only eight pounds to hold a sful
That seeks no angel's silver wing,
But shrines it in this human guise-
Within so fair and small a thing.

ther, laugh your merry note,
gay and glad, but don't forget
baby's eyes looks out a soul
at claims a home in Eden yet.
- Y.,k L,dg-

(EN BUCKET.
7OODWORTi.
the scenes of my c
Dresents them to v

by it.

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips !
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
ON THE OTHER SIDE.
SE go our ways in life too much alone ;
We hold ourselves too far from all our kind;
Too often we are dead to sigh and moan;
Too often to the weak and helpless blind;
foo often, where distress and want abide,
We turn and pass upon the other side.
The other side is trodden smooth; and worn
By footsteps passing idly all the day.
Where lie the bruised ones that faint and mourn,
Is seldom more than an untrodden way;
Our selfish hearts are for our feet the guide
They lead us by upon the other side.
It should be ours the oil and wine to pour
Into the bleeding wounds of stricken ones;
To take the smitten, and the sick and sore,
And bear them where a stream of blessing runs.
Instead, we look about - the way is wide,
And so we pass upon the other side.
Oh, friends and brothers, gliding down the years,
Humanity is calling each and all
In tender accents, born of grief and tears I
I pray you, listen to the thrilling call ;
You cannot, in your cold and selfish pride,
Pass guiltlessly by on the other side.