SEED-TIME MB HARVEST. 
WILL HEAVEN BE? 
BY MRS. M, J. SMITH. 
song we sing while toiling, 
Es so full of strength and sweetness, 
What will be the heavenly music, 
When we hear it in completeness? 
If the light that here is given, 
Is so precious to our eyes, 
What will be the light eternal 
When its glorious dawn shall rise? 
If an earthly joy so lifts us 
That we lose our present pain, 
What will be the joy ecstatic. 
When a Crown and Harp we gain ? 
Chicago , III. 
VACATION. 
BY J. W. VAN KIRK. 
Vacation! What a charm in the word, 
or rather what bright anticipations are em¬ 
bodied with it. Looked for happiness 
realized, is what John Ammon and Harry 
Bateman thought, as they reclined one 
bright morning along a creek, which flowed 
through the farm owned by Harry’s father, 
fishing rods in hand. 
John was eighteen and Harry nineteen 
years of age. A greater contrast between 
two boys is seldom seen. John was an 
Apollo in face and figure, dark hair and 
eyes; Harry a light blond, angular in face 
and form, yet with a firmness around his 
mouth showing strength of character. 
John Ammon’s father was wealthy, and 
his son so far as manual labor was con¬ 
cerned, had but a slight idea of it. Not so 
Harry Bateman. Brought up on the farm 
among the rugged hills of New York, work 
to him was a necessity. Nevertheless, the 
boys were fast friends, and John gladly ac¬ 
cepted the invitation to spend vacation with 
Harry. 
“I’ll tell you, Harry, this is fine sport, 
isn’t it?” and John threw himself upon his 
back, and gazed upward through the tree 
tops bending over them. 
“Much better than our fishing excnrsion 
from school last fall,” said Harry, with a 
quiet smile, detaching a fine fish from 
his hook. 
“I think so; such parties I detest. Give 
me a pole like this —cut from the bank of a 
creek—before all the reed poles in the state. 
And, then, to be out a morning like this 
is something like living. You have never 
been out of the country except the last year 
while at school, Harry ?” 
“Not of any account, perhaps a day or 
two at a time.” 
“Well, I, for one, count you a lucky fel¬ 
low. I know the town boys deride the 
country boys for want of grace and man¬ 
ners, but it is through ignorance, for they 
do not know what they lose by living in 
the city.” 
“I like the country the best, yet life in the 
cities has advantages not to be despised.” 
“I know, Harry; but where in the city 
can you spend a morning so agreeable as 
this ? See how the dew sparkles in the sun! 
Look at the water falling over yon ledge 
of rocks, and listen how redbreast sings! 
Do you know a robin comes each morning 
and evening and sings on the top of the 
cedar tree by our window?” 
“Oh, yes. Even before I left home for 
school I remember its coming. I often 
thought how happy it seemed.” 
“Harry, I believe I am a poet, I so love 
to sit and dream. Do you know, I’ve writ¬ 
ten a stanza upon this same robin. If you 
promise not to tell any one I will read it to 
you. Do not laugh, though, should it prove 
too faulty.” 
“I’ll not, John. I think one reason why 
we have been such good friends is because 
we sympathize with one another’s failings.” 
“Thanks, Harry,” said John, sitting up, 
and grasping Harry’s hand warmly. “I’ll 
remember those words years to come. 
Here’s the stanza: 
Among the wildwoods’ merry scenes, 
A robin sits and idly swings; 
With happy notes he fills the air, 
And hallows homes already fair; 
And eve’s and morn’s the brighter seem, 
For love’s abroad when robin sings.” 
Before Harry could give an opinion of 
the poem, a form rose above the bushes on 
the other side of the creek, and a voice ex¬ 
claimed : 
“The last rose of summer!” 
“The first rose of spring, if I may judge,” 
said John, laughing at the sudden appear¬ 
ance and queer tone and voice of the speak¬ 
er. 
“Anyhow I just got up,” he said. 
