Ax Illustrated Monthly Rural Magazine 
-FOR EVERY ONE WHO PLANTS A SEED OR TILLS A PLANT.- 
WO. 7 * 
AN OLD LETTER. 
I burned the others, one by one; but my courage 
failed at last, 
And I snatched this, scorched and yellow, where 
the fire's breath had passed. 
I could not let it lie there, for it turned like a thing 
in pain; 
.And I love it for the old times’ sake, that never 
come again. 
They used to call me beautiful; I had nothing else 
beside. 
There was none more great or wise than he in al! 
the world wide; 
And it's still a sort of pleasure—very mournful 
though it be— 
To know he once could think such thoughts, and 
write such words of me. 
But my poor beauty faded; ’twas the only thing I 
had. 
I was always weak and foolish, and my whole life 
grew sad, 
Bor the cruel blighting fever left me pitiful to see 
(Oh, it’s true that beauty’s fleeting!), and my Love 
no more loved me. 
I’d have loved him all the n o e for that, or any 
grief beside; 
But then he was so different. Oh, if I had only 
died! 
And yet, how can I wish him to have suffered in 
my steady 
I think it would have grieved him then to hear 
that I was dead. 
I have nothing to forgive him; still, he very soon 
forgot; 
Men have much to do and think of that we girls 
have not. 
.A man has little thought to spare for his own 
chosen wife; 
'Women’s minds are very narrow, and a girl’s love 
is her life. 
They say I should forget him, but I cannot if 1 
would. 
.For since my beauty left me I have tried hard to 
be .good; 
And his name is always on my lips when I pray to 
God above— 
Oh, surely I may pray for one I can never cease to 
love! 
I was never fit to be his wife, even when my face 
was fair; 
But every ohe may pray to Heaven; we are # all 
equal there. 
And God, in His great mercy, will not pass my 
prayers by. 
I have one thing left to live for—to pray for him 
till I die. — Calvert's Magazine. 
-- 
IN THE LONG RUN. 
In the long run fame finds deserving man. 
The lucky wight may prosper for a day. 
But in good time true merit leads the van, 
And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way. 
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate, 
But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait 
In the long run. 
In the long run all goodly sorrow pays, 
There is no better thing than righteous pain. 
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days, 
Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain. 
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end, 
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend 
In the long run. 
In the long run all hidden things are known, 
The eye of truth will penetrate the night. 
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known 
However well ’tis guarded from the light. 
All the unspoken motives of the breast 
Are fathomed by the years and stand contest 
In the long run. 
In the long run all love is paid by love, 
Though undervalued by the hearts of earth; 
The great eternal Government above 
Keeps strict account and will redeem its w r ork. 
Give thy love freely; do not count the cost; 
So beautiful a thing was never lost 
In the long run. 
—Ella Wheeler in the Chicago Advance. 
