3£S 
IF. 
BT DE FORREST P. GFMMEItSON. 
IP In ray grave, dear love, I should be sleeping. 
With daisies yellow-eyed above my bed; 
And you should stoop to ga*her one, while weeping, 
I think, dear love, that 1 should hear your tread— 
X think I should, Dear Love ! 
ir, when the atari shone out In the blue sky. 
You, signing, wandered forth alone, 
I think my spirit would be very nigh, 
And cU.m you as Its own, dear one— 
I think It would. Dear Love! 
If, when the Autumn loaves should fall. 
You hud grown weary—longed to die; 
I think that I would hour your call. 
And guido you to ray home beyond the sky— 
I think I would, Dear Love 1 
(Ditr ^ori|-^qllqr. 
TOM FOSTER’S WIFE. 
I had Just returned from n two years'stay in 
Europe, and was sauntering down Tremont 
Street In the golden September morning, when 
1 saw my old friend, Tom Foster, get out of a 
horse oar ft few step* In advance of me. T knew 
him In a moment, though we hud hardly met 
since wo were at Exeter Academy together, ten 
years before—room-mate* and blithe compan¬ 
ions until wo pa' ted-I to go to Harvard and he 
to enter his lather's store, the well-known 
house of Foster A Co., Pearl street. He was 
a merry, heaity, practical follow, clear-skinned 
and robust as an Englishman, self-reliant and 
enterprising as New Hampshire birth and Bos¬ 
ton training could make him. I always liked 
him; but ho plunged into business and I into 
study, and so, without meaning it, wo had 
almost lost sight of each other. He was an only 
ohlld, and his parents spent their Summer at 
their homestead in Greenland, near Portsmouth, 
ami their Winters in Boston. 
As I said, I knew him in a moment. He had 
grown tall and stoul, but the boy was Gtill in 
liis face, and with a flush of early feeling I 
Sprang towards him and caught him by the arm. 
“Tom, how are you ? " 
lie looked puzzled for a moment, and then, 
bunting into a laugh, lie seized my hand in his 
strong grasp, and exclaimed: 
** Why, John Ralston! Is this you ? Where did 
you come from? I'm glad to see you, my boy. 
Why, I haven't set eyes on you since wc made 
that trip to Nshant, in your Freshman year. 
The truth is, father was so poorly for a long 
time that I had ovorythtng to see to, and felt as 
if the world was on my shoulders. I did hear, 
though, about your college honors and your 
going to Germany, and I've often thought of 
you lately, and wished to see you. Why, Jack, 
ju Kpiteof iny weight and your beard and broad 
shoulders, I can't re iliac* that ten years are gone 
since vre* were at Exeter together. We must 
talk over old tunes and new. When did you get 
bftejr, and what arc your plans?" 
41 1 came yesterday, and shall remain in the 
city, on account, of a business matter, until 
Tuesday. Then I am going homo," 
** Well, now, this is Saturday, and you can do 
nothing after three o'clock. Come and spend 
Sunday with mo in the country. I want you to 
6ce ray wife.’’ 
“ Your wife! Arc you married, Tom?” 
“ Married nearly a year," said ho, with asmilc. 
“ You don't look very solemn over it.” 
“ Solemn 1 It's tho Jollies! thing 1 ever did in 
my life. Meet, mo at. the Eastern Depot at four 
o'clock, and I'll tell you all about it ou the way 
down,” 
We parted at tho Winter street corner—he 
to go to Ills store and I to the Parker House. 
“How handsome Boston bus grown,” said I, 
glancing at the flno buildings and the Common, 
beautiful in the September sun. 
“Wo think It a nice town," he replied,” speak¬ 
ing with the uiodoiate words and the perfect 
assurance of tho Bostonian, to whom that city is 
the sum of excellence and delight. “Remem¬ 
ber, four o'olook.” And ho disappeared in the 
crowd. 
“Tom married! ” T said to myself, as I walked 
along. “I dare say it is to his father's pretty 
ward, Clare Maitland, whom I saw when I spent 
tho day there, eleven years ago. I remember 
wbat long curls she had, and how fond she 
seemed of hitn. Yes, I dare say it's to Clara. 1 
hope, though- she hasn't grown up one of those 
delicate young ladles, good for nothing but to 
display the latest fashions. and walt 2 a litUe and 
torture the piano. Better some rosy, sturdy 
German Gretcnen than a poor doll like thorn. 
It would bo a shame for poor Tom, with hi6 
splendid phjrsiqueand vigorous brain, to be tied 
for life to such a woman?” Aud then, turning 
down School Street, my thoughts wandered off 
to a blue-eyed girl I had loved for many a year 
— a girl who was not satisfied with the triumphs 
of tha croquet-ground but who could scud an 
arrow straight homo to tlm mark; und climb 
the hills with in**, her step light and as free as 
the deer in tho glade below; and hold a steady 
oar In tho boat on the river; and swim ashore, 
ir need be; and then, when walk or row was 
over, who could sit down to a lunch of ccld 
meat and bread and butter with an appetite 
keen as a young Indian's after a day s hunt ; 
yes, and who knew how to be efficient in the 
kitchen, and tho rarest ornament of the parlor. 
How impatient 1 was to see her, tho bewitching 
maiden whom a prince might havo been proud 
MOOBE’S BUBAL NEW-YOBKEB. 
to marry. And again I said to myself, as I went 
up the Parker House steps, “I do hope Tom 
hasn't made a fool of himself!" 
Four o'clock found me at the station, and a 
moment later in walked Tom. carrying a bas¬ 
ket tilled with Jersey peaches. They don't 
grow in Greenland," said he, tucking a paper 
down over tho fruit. “Come this way." I fol¬ 
lowed him, and wc had just seated ourselves 
comfortably in the car when the train moved off. 
“Now for the story, Tom," said I, as we 
crossed t he bridge and caught, the cool breeze 
from the sea. “But I'll guess beforehand the 
girl you married. Jt was Clara Maitland." 
A shadow passed over Tom’s lace. “Clara 
has been dead four years,” said bo. “Shein¬ 
herited consumption from her mother. Wc ail 
did everything for her—took her to Minnesota 
and Florida; but It whs no use. She didn’t live 
to see her eighteenth birthday." 
“ Poor Clara! She loved you dearly. Then I 
suppose you chose some Boston girl of jour 
acquaintance." 
"Jack, you couldn't tell who Mrs. Tom Fos¬ 
ter was if you would try from now till morning. 
1 shall havo to enlighten you.” And, moving 
the basket to one side and settling himself in 
his seat, he went on:—“You know I have the 
misfortune to bo an only child. After I was 
twenty-one, father and mother began to talk 
about my marrying- I have plenty of cousins, 
you know, and wc always bad young ladies go¬ 
ing in and out of the house; but while Clara 
lived she was company for me, and after she 
died 1 was full of business, and didn't trouble 
myself about matrimony. I tell j’ou tho truth, 
Jack, I don't fancy the girls. Perhaps I was 
unfortunate in my acquaintances; lint they 
seemed to mo all ourls and flounces and furbe¬ 
low's, aod 1 would as soon have I benight of mar¬ 
rying a fashion-plate as one of those elaborate 
creature*. I don't object to style; I like it. 
But you can SCO Uric gowns and bonnets any 
day in tho Washington street windows; and 
my idea of a woman was one whoso dress is lior 
least attract ion. 
Do you recollect my father's former partner, 
Adam Lane? He’s a. clover old gentleman and 
a millionaire, and father lias the greatest liking 
and respect for him. He had two daughters, 
one married yours ago; and tho other, much 
younger, father fixed upon a* a desirable wife 
forme. J rather think the two families bud 
talked it over together; ut any rate. Miss Matil¬ 
da canto to Greenland for a long Summer visit. 
She is an amiable girl; butso petted ami spoiled 
that she Is good lor nothing-undeveloped in 
mind and body', bhe looked very g.iy In the 
evenings, attired in the latest importations. 
But she was always latent breakfast; she didn’t 
care to ride on horse-back ; sbo couldn’t take a 
walk without stopping to rest nt every Mono; 
and onoe, I asked her if she had read the ac¬ 
count of the battle of Sedan, she looked up in 
her childish way and said, “No, Mr. Foster. 
Nowspajiersare so tiresome." Bless me! what 
should I do with such a baby? 
A year ago this Summer, I was very much 
confined at the store; and when August came, 
instead of spending the whole month at homo, 
l thought 1 would havo a little change, an so I 
went dowu for a fortnight to tho Cliff House, 
on-Beach. It is a quiet-pleasant resort, 
and you’ll always find from fifty to one hun¬ 
dred people there during theseason. The land¬ 
lord is a good follow, and a distant relative* of 
mine. 1 (bought ho looked flurried when I went 
in, and al ter a few minutes he took me to one 
side and said : 
“ Tom, you've come in an unlucky time. I 
had a very good cook, that I got from Boston, 
at twenty dollars a week; but she's a high- 
tempered woman. Last evening she quarreled 
with her assistants, this morning t in* breakfast 
was all in confusion, and now she's packing her 
trunk to leave by tho next train. In two or 
three days I cau probablyget anotheronedowu 
in her place; but what we’re to do in the mean¬ 
while, I don't know, 
“ But, Norton,” said I, “ isn’t there some one 
near by or in the house who can take it?’’ 
“I doubt it," he replied. “I’ve half a dozen 
girls from the vicinity, doing up-stairs work- 
one of them from your town, the best waiter in 
the dining-room. But I suppose all of them 
would either be afraid of the responsibility or 
think it beneath them to turn cook; though 
they would have plenty of help and earn twen¬ 
ty dollars where they now get three." 
“ Who's here from Greenland ( ” I asked, lor 
I know something of almost every one in the 
place. 
“ Mary Lyford.” 
“Mary Lyford? A black-eyed, light-footed 
girl, about twenty years old, with two brothers 
in Colorado and her father a farmer, over to¬ 
wards Soratiiam?" 
“Yes, the very same.” 
“ Why, she‘6 tho prettiest girl in Greenland— 
nt letm I thought so two years ago, when I 
danced with her at the Thanksgiving party in 
tho villnge; and I hearerlast Fall that she took 
the prize at the Manchester Fair, for the best 
loaf of bread. Bui why la she here? ” 
“Oh, you know farmers haven't much ready 
money, and I suppose she wanted lo earn some¬ 
thing for herself, and to go to the Beach, like 
the rest of us. You said she took the premium 
for her bread. I believe I'll go into the dining¬ 
room and propose to give the cook's place to 
any one of the girls who would like it and who 
feels competent to takeii. I must do some¬ 
thing," and, looking at his watch, he went out. 
Ten minutes later he came back, clapping his 
hands, and exclaimed: 
“ Mary Lyford says she'll try it." 
“Hurrah for Greenland!" cried I. “Isn’t 
that plucky? By Jove, I hope she’ll succeed, 
and I believe she will." 
“ You mus'n't expect much to-day,” said Nor¬ 
ton. " Things are all topsy-turvey in the kitch¬ 
en,and it'll take some time to get them straight¬ 
ened out." 
Just then a new arrival claimed his attention, 
and with a serener face, be turned away. 
Dinner was poor that day; supper was little 
better. And in spite of Norton’s caution, I 
began to be afraid that Greenland was going 
down. But the next morning what a breakfast 
we had—juicy steaks, hot potatoes, delicious 
roils and corn bread, grid'lie-cakes that melted 
iu your mouth, coffee that had lost none of its 
aroma in the making. Thenceforth every meal 
was a triumph, Tho guests praised the table, 
and hastened to their seats at the first sound of 
the bell. Norton was radiant with satisfaction, 
and I was as well pleased as if I had been 1 end- 
lord or cook myself. Several times I sent my 
compliments and congratulations to Marj’, but 
she was so constantly occupied lhat 1 never had 
a glimpse of her till the night before 1 was to 
leave. I was dancing in the parlor, and had 
just led a young Indy of the Matilda Lanestamp 
to her mamma, when I saw Mary standing with 
tb© dining-room girls, on the* piazza. I went 
out, and shaking her hand, told her how Inter¬ 
ested I had been In her success, and how proud 
I was to find a Greenland girl so accomplished. 
She blushed and thanked me, and said in a mod¬ 
est way, that she was very glad If all were suit¬ 
ed : and then Norton came up and expressed 
hi« entire satisfaction with what she had done. 
As she stood there in a white pique dress, with 
a scarlet bow at her throat, and her dark hair 
neatly arrnged, she looked every inch a lady. 
44 Do me tho favor, Miss Lyford," said I, “ to 
dance the next cotillon with mo?” 
“Ah! Mr. Foster,” sbo replied, looking arch¬ 
ly at Norton, "that isn't expected of the help.” 
"Thehelp!” I said, indignantly. 44 You are 
the queen of tho establishment, and I invite 
you to dance, and so does Mr. Norton," 
“Certainly I do," he answered. “Go and 
show the company that you arc at home in tho 
parlor, as well as in the kitchen.” So, smiling 
and blushing, she took my arm. 
“ Didn’t wc make a sensation when wc went 
in! Perhaps (here was no fellow with a better 
‘social position' (j’ou know the phrase) than I; 
and I had been quite a favorite with the ladies. 
You should have seen them when we took our 
places on the floor! Some laughed, some 
frowned, some whispered to their neighbors, 
but 1 paid not tho slightest attention to it all, 
end Mary looked so pretty, and went through 
the dance with such grace and dignity, that be¬ 
fore it whs over I believe all regarded her with 
admiration. I didn't wait for comments, but 
escorted her out as if she hud been the belle of 
Boston." 
44 Good-Iiiglit, Miss Lyford," I said, when we 
reached the. ball. “ I am going in the morning, 
but I shall see you again when you get back to 
Greenland." 
“Good-night, Mr. Foster," she replied. “I 
thank you for your kindness.” Then she ad¬ 
ded, laughingly, " Have you any orders for 
breakfast? ” 
“Why, yes. I should like to remember you 
by a plate of such mu 111 ns us we had yesterday.” 
“You shall have them, sir," she said, as she 
disappeared in the doorway. Aud have them I 
did. 
"Three weeks later Mary earne home to 
Greenland, with more than onohiindred dollars 
in her purse and a fame that was worth thous¬ 
ands. I went to see her at her father’s house. I 
found her every way excellent and lovely; 
and the end was that at Christmas we were 
married." 
“Glorious!” I exclaimed. “Give me your 
hand, Tom! 1 was afraid you had been taken 
in by some Matilda Lane." 
“Do you think I'm a fool? ” said he. 
Then I told him of tny own choice, and I was 
still talking when the train stopped at the 
Greenland depot. 
We soou arrived at his hospitable homo. His 
wile was all he had pictured her: a refined, in¬ 
telligent, handsome woman, who would de¬ 
velop aud grow in attractiveness every year of 
her life. After a merry evening in tboir pleas¬ 
ant purlor, I went to bed and dreamed that the 
millennium had come, and that ail women were 
like my blue-eyed girl and Mrs. Tom Foster. 
-- 
THE PARSON’S WIG. 
A worthy Purson had, as worried parsons 
often do, become bald-headed, thought it uo 
harm to assist navure in her tonsorial opera¬ 
tion*, procured a wig. His old-fashioned con¬ 
gregation was greatly exercised thereby. 
Some thought it very worldly lor n parson to 
wear a wig at all, while some thought the shape 
“horrid." Others thought the hair should be 
shorter in front, some at Ihesidos, und some be¬ 
hind. Finally, the good pastor invited the 
brethren and sisters to meet him at the parson¬ 
age. When they were assembled,he handed his 
wig to them to trim according to their taste. 
One clipped it here, another there, ami anotner 
in a different place, until the poor wig oolted 
like anything but a head of lmir. When hand¬ 
ed back to the parson he examined it carefully 
and then gravely said:—‘'Brethren and sisters 
wc may safety worship this, for jt j* the 4 like¬ 
ness of nothing in the heavens above, on the 
earth beneath, or the waters under the earth.’ ’’ 
DEG. U 
“HE CARETH FOR THEE.” 
Slowlt the dusky shadows 
Gather about the room ; 
Fainter tho firelight Hashes— 
Deeper tho evening's gloom. 
I sit in the darkness dreaming. 
Till the night iu wearing late; 
While over my spirit sttaling. 
The shadows arc dark as late. 
Never a gleam Of sunshine 
Pierces the darkness through ; 
In the stormy slcloa above mo 
Never a strip of blue! 
Looking for starry Mo-soms, 
Toiling for golden sheaves— 
Weary and sad 1 gather 
Only the withered leaves! 
The way grows dark before me. 
And I turn aside to weep 
O’er the low green graves, where softly 
The happy by-gynes sleep. 
Do the weary-winged birds at even, 
Panting tor shelter and rest, 
Out In the wild, wet weather, 
Long for the old, worm nest? 
Wilder the night Is growing. 
And never n star I see; 
But 1 know that a loving Father 
Careth tor them und me. 
t Ort l« Smttlu 
-♦♦♦- 
THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
It was morning; the sun had risen in gor¬ 
geous splendor, and shone bright I j’ o'er one of 
the fairest landscapes of earth; o'er tho lawn, 
(stretching far Southward, with its rich and 
varied hues,) to the horizon, where earth and 
sky seem to meet. Northward to the lofty sum¬ 
mit of Mount Tabor, which, though dim iu tho 
distance, was gilded with gold. 
A Roman soldier, tall and helmed, stood at 
the gate ot Nain. A few hours inter aud It was 
almost noon; the busy tread of tho mart hud 
subsided; tint the soldier still leaned upon his 
spear and dreamily kept his idle watch. Per¬ 
haps hi* musing was broken now and then, by 
the solitary fool of some poor mendicant, whom 
he probably cursed for being a Jew. 
'Twits now high noon; tin* dull, low murmur 
of a funeral procession went through the city. 
'I lie sentinel shook off his siumbcrutid gazed up 
the wide street. They citmo on, hearing the 
body on the bier. The broad gate swung on its 
massive hinges; the bearers passed on with 
their burden. There was only one mourner; 
close behind the blcr followed an aged woman; 
her short steps faltered with weakness, and a 
broken moan fell from her lips: she wept con¬ 
vulsively as her heart Mod afresh. 
The pitying crowd followed apart, and noono 
spoke to her. She had no kindred, but had 
lived alone with her son, who was her off, aud 
the onlu tie sba had iu the wide world, und ho 
was dead. 
Jesus drew near to Nain, as they camo forth 
from tho gate; the beaded sweat stood on His 
brow,and U Is sandals were Boiled with the dust of 
travel, for lie had come, since sunrise, from Ca¬ 
pernaum, tarrying not at Bethesda's pool, 
Hiehon's silver spring's, Tabor s side, or iu the 
cool shade ot Gcnessiirelb, by the Sea of Galli- 
lee, where the weary traveler might have rest¬ 
ed till eve, but he pressed on to Nain, 
From tho city-gate the crowd followed tho 
stricken mother. They approached the burial 
place, she clasped the pall with a gasping sob; 
but presently they oaiue where Jesus stood by 
the wuy. He looked upon her, and bis compas¬ 
sionate heart was moved. “ Weep not," He 
said; and they stayed the bier, and at His bid¬ 
ding laid it at His feet. He gently drew the pail 
from out her grasp and laid ir buck in silence 
front the dead. The mute throng drew near, 
and gazed upon HI* calm looks with troubled 
wondor. A minute's space Ho stood aud prayed, 
then taking the cold hand of the young man He 
said “Arise.” And immediately hi* breast 
in aved with respiration, a sudden flush mantled 
his lair young lace, his lips parted, and with a 
murmur of his mother's name he trembled, and 
then sat upright. White tho mourner fell upon 
his neck and wept for Joy, Jesus proceeded 
calmly on his way to Nain. 
- •++ - 
CONSECRATION. 
McLeod says:—Consecration, or simple yield¬ 
ing of ourselves to God, in itself occupies little 
time—no more necessarily than the uttcriDg ot 
an. intelligent "Yes" or “No," whatever tho 
preliminaries that may lead to this point or tho 
momentous consequences that may follow from 
it. But, however easy this choice may seem to 
those who never seriously tried to make it, it 
requires the greatest possible effort, unless, by 
the grace that workett* when and how God 
wilicth, the man has been so slowly educated 
into ir, that ut no period of h s life ha* he ex¬ 
perienced a great and Conscious struggle be¬ 
tween light and darkness, between God and his 
own soul. But most men have imperceptibly 
formed the uicutul hubit oi indifference lo tho 
claims of God. 
- ++• - 
It is with Hie singing of a congregation ns 
with thoeighing of it ewird tolliel* test, wlu.ro 
the notes <*t the million i ti*limp It n\ * e. and the 
bough* striking upon each other, am get her 
mrke a bairn* ny, no matter what be the indi¬ 
vidual discords. 
