SEED-TIME AID HARVEST, 
THE OLD RUM-SELLER. 
Twas nigh to a bar that had long been made, 
Leaned a rum-seller old in the liquor trade; 
His work was done, and he paused to count 
The receipts of the day—a large amount; 
A relic of jolly old topers was he, 
And his hair was white as the foam of the sea; 
And these words came forth with the fumes of gin— 
“I gather them in, I gather them in. 
“I gather them in, both old and young, 
To my den of death they go and come; 
•Some to the scaffold, some to the grave. 
Some to the prison, but none I save. 
-Come, father, mother, daughter and son, 
All I will ruin, one by one, 
With my rum or whiskey, brandy or gin, 
I gather them in, I gather them in. 
‘“I gather them in to a life of shame, 
I blast the fairest, most honored name; 
Make widows and orphans to cry and moan 
At the foot of old King Alcohol’s throne. 
The highest or lowest, I care not which, 
Will soon find their level in a common ditch, 
The law protects me, and it is no sin — 
I gather them in, I gather them in.” 
The old man ceased as he closed his till; 
Soon all was dark and gloomy and still, 
And I said to myself as he went to his rest, 
’Can it be that humanity dwells in your breast? 
Man may forgive you but God never will, 
Though your ill-gotten gains foot the minister’s bill. 
And his voice will be heard o’er the last trumpet’s 
din, 
^Hell gathers you in, hell gathers you in.’ 
—The Christian at Work. 
About Marrying the Family. 
“Well, happily,” observed Laura, “one 
doesn’t have to marry the whole family” 
“Yes, you do, though,” said Lou, quickly. 
“Then I’ll marry an orphan,” said Mary. 
“You don’t unless you marry a widower 
with children, or a deceased wife’s sister,” 
{pronounced Jo. 
“Yes, you do, though,” Lou repeated. 
tShe had been talking so much nonsense, 
:and she was always so full of fun, that we 
all stopped work to look at her, to make 
sure that she was serious. She was bending 
over her sewing with a grave face. 
“Easy for you to say,” Jo retorted, “but 
every man hasn’t as pleasant a family to 
introduce his intended to, as Mr. Cameron 
has. I can’t see that a girl is bound to mar¬ 
ry the whole crowd.” 
“I do, then,” persisted Lou, with unusual 
decision. “If you accept him, you accept 
his circumstances and his surroundings, 
unless lie’s going on a mission to Japan, 
and then you accept Japan and all. His 
parents become your parents; his brothers 
and sisters yours. If you try any other 
way, you make him unhappy, as well as 
the rest of them.” This was such a sober 
speech for Lou, that she grew suddenly 
confused, and beat a hasty retreat. 
“That rule ought to work both ways,’’ 
Mary called after her. 
“It does, too,” was flung back from the 
doorway; “there’s no privilege without its 
duties.” 
We laughed over it, and said such a crazy 
theory might do very well for her, but 
wouldn’t suit all cases; and that Ed Cam¬ 
eron was a fortunate man. But since I 
have thought it over, I am inclined to Lou’s 
view of the matter. Suppose I had a brother, 
and suppose he were to marry — say, Jo 
Taylor; should I like to run in at his house 
on the way to market in the morning, and 
have a little sisterly chat, or should I pre¬ 
fer formal afternoon calls at stated inter¬ 
vals? Would I wish to feel at home there, 
or would I expect the best china and dam¬ 
ask and preserves ? If my sister Dora should 
marry Phil Kennedy, as she may some day, 
would she and Mrs. Kennedy maintain the 
most distant relations of hand-shaking and 
“passing the time of day?” Would she 
wear her velvet suit, as she does now, 
whenever she called on his sisters, and 
would they order the carriage for the re¬ 
turn visit? Surely not! She and Kitty Ken¬ 
nedy would go shopping together, and 
Laura would paint her panels and embroi¬ 
der her draperies in her sitting-room, and 
keep them there in safe hiding until Christ¬ 
mas time; and Dora might send a loaf of 
cake, or a glass of jelly to Mrs. Kennedy, 
who might perhaps send in return a couple 
of jam-tarts Phil is so fond of. 
But suppose they are not congenial. Well, 
what then? Brothers and sisters, and 
mothers and daughters, are not always con¬ 
genial. Certainly it would be better to be 
distantly polite than to quarrel; but is there 
no other possible course? Dora would not 
now choose Kitty Kennedy for a friend, 
but with Phil as a grand eommon interest, 
