They Are All Gone. 
BY MRS. M. J. SMITH. 
They are all gone, the children dear, 
Who used to gather round our hearth. 
The past has echoes, but I hear 
No more the unchecked flow of mirth. 
Our yard is sweet with tcent of rose, 
That blushing wooes the sunbeam’s kiss; 
And in the vale the violet 
Bends ’neath the south-wind’s Boft caress. 
But where's the little hand to pluck 
The buds expanding in the light? 
And where the cheeks that used to flush 
With ecstasy of pure delight 1 
I saw no forms within the dell, 
I heard no voices in the air, 
Though all day long 1 sat beside 
My window in my rocking-chair. 
So, when the evening curtains fell, 
I rose and closed the shatters all; 
The shadows with their dusky wings 
Enwrapped and chilled me like a pall. 
Now here beside my grate I sit, 
And watch the burning embers glow, 
And look in vain along the wall 
For shadows, flitting to and fro. 
The rays are bright, and in their gleam, 
I try my heart to cheat and cheer, 
With memories sweet, until I feel 
As if my lost ones must be here. 
Sw r eet, long lost faces 1 only seen 
Through mist of tears, seem dearer far. 
Nor present pain, nor loneliness. 
The beauty of the past can mar. 
Though now I sit like one bereaved, 
Whose tears make damp the funeral pall; 
And all my days wear yellow leaf. 
And snow-flakes o er my temples fall. 
The hands we used to clasp have dropped 
Our own to guide still weaker hands; 
The l'eet v\e led so carefully 
Have wandered into foreign lands. 
Ah me! perchance ’tis just as well 
Our paths ia later life diverge, 
Since ours are nearing fast the sands, 
Where the dividing waters surge. 
And husband, as the years roll on, 
Each dearer to the other grown, 
While both are spared, not utterly 
Can we be desolate and lone. 
Then let us rise in early dawn, 
The roses pluck for thee and me, 
And with a loving, trusting heart 
Wait happier eternity. 
Jolin Alden’s Farm. 
“You may laugh if you will, Susy, but 
there is something in ‘luck’, and luck has 
always been against the Aldens,” said John 
Alden, despondent, to his sister. 
“How John?” Susy turned her round, 
bright face attentively toward him. 
“Look at grandfather John Alden and 
his sons.” Why, their estate was the richest 
on the Ohio shore. They lived like Irish 
kings. I’ve heard people say, and except¬ 
ing father, they all died penniless.” 
“Grandfather Alden, I am sorry to say, 
was too fond of horse racing and cards to 
keep money long, and his sons, excepting 
father, all drank,” said Susy, dryly. “Liv¬ 
ing like Irish kings, too, is not the most 
secure way of keeping a fortune. 
“Well, now, look at me,” continued John, 
with a scowl on his face unaltered. “I 
neither drink nor gamble, nor care for the 
turf, I’m nineteen, and I’ve tried honestly 
to do my duty in every way.” 
“Well John?” 
“Well”—snappishly—“see the difference 
between me and George Harvey. At 
school, study as hard as I could, he carried 
off all the prizes. I was the dull plodder, 
he was che brilliant scholar, the genius. 
When visitors came, I heard him pointed 
out invariably as ‘Harvey, sir. A most 
promising fellow. He’ll make his mark in 
the world.’ I was passed by without a 
word. When we go into society it is the 
same thing. I take the utmost pains to be 
polite and attentive to the girls, and Harvey 
laughs and quizzes and is positively rude 
to t> em. Yet he is ‘splendid’ and ‘fascina¬ 
ting,’ and the nicest girls are proud to have 
him for a partner, while I am. endured on 
sufferance. There is precisely the same 
difference in business. In every way he is 
favored by fortune and lam slighted.” 
“I do not see thrt, John,” said Susy, 
gravely, “George has a showy, dashy man¬ 
ner, which commands attention to what¬ 
ever he knows. But people soon find out 
how little that is. Even girls, in the long 
run.” 
“I hate in the ‘long run!’” cried John, 
impatiently. 
Susy was silent. She knew very well 
that this outbreak was all owing to the 
fact that Laura Faulk had show r n some 
attention to George the night before. “He 
always did care too much for Laura Faulk’fr 
