MAY. 
BY GEOHOE WILLOUGHBY. 
Oh 1 tbe cheeriest song the earth can sing, 
Or the gladdest theme my heart may bring, 
Is the balmy, lovely May-time Spring 1 
For the golden rays 
Of the sunniest days 
All Join in the praise 
Of May-time Spring 1 
Beautiful Mny has cuught the strain 
And sweeps the chords of the glad refrain— 
She sips the cup of the cheering rain, 
Or tbe dew at her choice, 
And her lovely voice 
Says, O, rejoice, 
I have come again 
Flights of the happiest birds I see, 
Bringing their caroling trill* to me 
Laden with songs of the light and free I 
And the sweets they bring, 
And the lays thoy sing. 
Are the joys of Spring,— 
Sweet May, to thee 
Beautiful May is near again, 
Beautiful bowers are here again, 
The happiest hour of the year again 
Is tracing the gold 
Of the summer’s fold 
lu its halo of old, 
So near again. 
The flrst grand day of the ushered May, 
Though twilight's dim fust fades away. 
Yet whispers thus with its dying ray: 
The fullest shower 
Of the spirit’s power 
Is the fragrant hour 
Of early May I 
toms for Moralists. 
WHICH PROPOSED? 
OR, THE MINISTER’S LOVE STORY. 
“Now, doctor, there was a queer thing 
happened to a student in my class in the 
seminary, 1 don’t suppose that you are 
much interested in a love story, but 1 would 
just like to tell you Hits one, because I think 
you dare not apply your women’s rights 
principles to it in every part. Theories often 
fall when practically applied, you know.” 
“ Go on, Hu, go on; I’d like to hear the 
story. And us for my principles, they’ll bear 
applying anywhere,” and the old doctor 
rubbed his hands together confidently. 
“This friend of mine, Gilbert,” suit! Hu, 
“ was like myself, poor. A long time ago, 
when lie was a boy, the son of a poor widow, 
tbe lot on which be lived joined at tbe back 
the lot on which lived a Mr. Morton, then a 
thriving merchant, now the principal capi¬ 
talist in that part of the country. As there 
was a hack between the lots, my friend was 
the constant playmate from earliest child¬ 
hood of Jennie Morton. He built her play¬ 
houses out of old boards, he molded clay 
bricks for her use, and carved liny toys out 
of pine blocks for her amusement. As he grew 
larger, and ns Jennie’s father grew richer, 
and came to live in great style, Henry grew 
more shy. But by all the unspoken lan¬ 
guage of tbe eyes tbe two never failed to 
make their unchanging regard known to 
each other. 
“ Henry went to college early. At vaca¬ 
tion time the two met. But the growing 
difference in their social relations could not 
but be felt. Jennie’s friends were of a dif¬ 
ferent race from his own. Her parents never 
thought of inviting him to their entertain¬ 
ments. And if they bad, a rusty coat and a 
lack of money to spend on kid gloves, would 
have effectually kept him away. lie was 
proud. This apparent neglect stung him. It 
is true that Jennie Morton was all the more 
kind. But his quick and foolish pride made 
him fancy the he detected pity in her kind¬ 
ness. And all this made him determined to 
place himself in a position in which he could 
ask her hand as her equal. But you do not 
understand, doctor, as I do, how irresistible 
is this conviction of duty in regard to the 
ministry. Under that pressure my friend 
settled it that lie must preach. And now 
there was before him a good ten years of 
poverty at least. What should he do about it ? 
“In this extremity he look advice of a 
favorite theological professor. The professor 
advised him not to seek the hand of a rich 
girl. She would not hesuited to the trials of 
a minister’s life. But finding that Henry 
was firm in his opinion that this sound gene¬ 
ral principle did not in the least apply to this 
particular case, the professor proceeded to 
touch the tendcrest chord in the young man’s 
heart. He told him that it would be uu- 
generous, and in some sense dishonorable for i 
him to take a woman delicately brought up 
into the poverty and trial incident to a min¬ 
ister’s life. If you understood, sir, how mor¬ 
bid his sense of honor is, you would not 
wonder at the impression this suggestion 
made upou him. To give up the ministry 
was in his mind to be a traitor to God. To 
win her, if he could, was to treat ungener¬ 
ously her whose happiness was dearer to 
him, a thousand times, than his own.” 
“ I hope he did not give her up,” said the 
doctor. 
Yes, he gave her up, in a double spirit 
of mediaeval self-sacrifice. Looking towards 
the ministry, he surrendered his love as some 
of the old monks sacrificed love, ambition 
and all other things to conscience. Look¬ 
ing at her happiness, he sacrificed his hopes 
in more than kindly devotion for her welfare. 
The knights sometimes gave their lives. He 
gave more. 
“ For three years he did not trust himself 
to return to his home. But, having gradu¬ 
ated and settled himself for nine months 
over a church, there was no reason why he 
shouldn’t go to see his mother again. And 
once in the village, the sight of the school- 
house and the church revived a thousand 
memories that he had been endeavoring to 
banish. The. garden walks, and especially 
the apple trees, that are the most unchange¬ 
able of landmarks, revived the old passion 
with undiminished power. ITe paced his 
room at night. He looked out at the new 
house of his rich neighbor. He chafed 
under the restraint not to think again of 
Jennie Morton. It was the old story of the 
monk who thinks the world subdued, but 
who finds it all at once about to assume the 
mastery of him. 1 do not know how it 
might have ended, but it was all at once 
stopped from without. 
“ There reached him a rumor that Jennie 
was already the betrothed wife of Colonel 
Pearson, who was her father’s partner in 
business. And indeed Colonel Pearson went 
in and out of Mr. Morton’s gate every even¬ 
ing, and the father was known to favor the 
suit. 
“ Jennie was not engaged to him, how¬ 
ever. Three times she had refused him. 
The fourth time, in deference to her father’s 
wishes, she had consented to ‘ think about 
it,’ for a week. In truth, Henry had been 
home ten days and bad not called upon her, 
and all the weary waiting seemed in vain. 
When the Colonel’s week was nearly out, 
she heard that Henry was to leave in two 
days. In a sort of desperation she determ¬ 
ined to accept Colonel Pearson without 
waiting for the time appointed for her 
answer. But that gentleman spoiled it all 
by his own over-confidence. 
“ For when lie called, after Jennie had 
determined on this course, he found her so 
full of kindness that lie hardly knew bow to 
behave with moderation. And so he fell to 
flattering her, and flattering himself at tbe 
same time that lie know the ins and outs of 
a girl's heart, lie complimented her on the 
many offers she bad received. 
“ ‘And I tell you what,’ he proceeded, 
‘ there are plenty of others who would lay 
their beads at your feet, if they were only 
your equals. There's that young parson, 
Gilbert, I think they call him, that is visiting 
his mother in the un pa in ted and threadbare 
looking little house that stands behind this 
one. I’ve actually seen that, fellow in his 
rusty, musty coat, stop and look after you 
on the street, and every night when I go 
home lie’s sitting at the window that looks 
over this way. The poor fool is in love with 
you. Only think of it! And I chuckle to 
myself when I see him, and say, don’t you 
wish you could reach so high ! I declare it’s 
funny.’ 
“In that one speech Colonel Pearsons 
dashed his chances to pieces. He could not 
account for the sudden return of winter in 
Jennie Morton’s manner. And all liis sun¬ 
shine was powerless to dispel it, or to bring 
hack the least approach of spring. 
“ Poor Jennie 1 You can imagine, doctor, 
how she paced the floor all that night. She 
began to understand something of the cour¬ 
age of Henry Gilbert’s heart, And something 
of Hie manliness of his motives. All night 
long she watched the light burning in the 
room in the widow’s house; and all night 
long she debated the matter until her head 
ached She could reach butoneconclusion: 
Henry was to leave the day after to-morrow. 
If any communication should ever he opened 
between them, she must begin it. It was as 
if she had seen him drifting away forever, 
and must throw him a rope. I think even 
such a woman’s rights man as yourself would 
hardly justify her, however, in taking any 
step of the kind.” 
“ I certainly should,” said the doctor. 
" But she could not find a way — she had 
no rope to throw. Again the Colonel, mean¬ 
ing to do anything else but that, opened the 
way. At the breakfast table the next morn¬ 
ing she received from him a magnificent 
valentine. All at once she saw her method. 
It was St. Valentine's day. Tbe rope was 
in her hand. Excusing herself from break¬ 
fast, she hastened to her room, 
“ To send a valentine to the faithful lover 
was the uppermost thought. But how ? 
She dare not write her name, for after all, 
she might offend his prejudices or his pride 
by so direct an approach. She went to 
fumbling a drawer for stationery. She drew 
out a little pine boat that Henry had whit¬ 
tled for her many years before. He had 
named it * Hope,’ but the combined wisdom 
of the little boy and girl could not succeed 
in spelling the name correctly. And here 
was the little boat that he had given, saying 
often afterward that it was the boat the} 7 
were going to sail in some day. The mis¬ 
spelt name had been the subject of many a 
laugh between them. Now—hut I mustn’t 
be sentimental. 
“It did not take Jennie long to draw an 
exact likeness of the little craft. And that 
there might be no mistake about it, she 
spelled the name as it was on the side of the 
boat — ‘Hoar.’ There was not another 
word in the valentine. Sealing it up, she 
hurried out with it, and dropped it in the 
post-office. No merchant sending all his 
fortune to sea in one frail bark ever watched 
the departure and trembled for the result of 
the venture as she did. Spain did not pray 
half so fervently when the invincible Armada 
sailed. It was an unuttered prayer—an un¬ 
utterable prayer. For heart and hope were 
the lading of the little picture boat that 
sailed out that day, with no other wind but 
her wishes in her sails. 
“ She sat down at her window until she 
saw Henry Gilbert pass the next street cor¬ 
ner on his morning walk to tl e post-office. 
Three minutes alter he went home evidently 
in a great state of excitement, with her val¬ 
entine open in his band. After a while he 
went back again toward the post-office and 
returned. He had taken a reply 1 
“Jennie again sought the office. There 
were people nil round with those hideous 
things they call comic valentines open in 
their bands. And they actually seemed to 
think they were funny! She had a reply. 
It did not take her long to reach her room 
and open it. There was another picture of 
a bout, but the name ou its de road ‘De¬ 
spair.’ And these words were added; 
“ 1 Your boat is the pleasantest, hut under¬ 
standing there was no vacant place upon it, 
I have been obliged to take passage in this.’ 
Slowly the meaning forced itself upon her. 
Henry had fears that she whom he thought 
engaged was coquetting with him. I think, 
doctor, you will hardly justify her in pro¬ 
ceeding farther with the correspondence?” 
“ Why not? Hasn’t a woman ns much 
right to make herself understood in such a 
matter as a man ? And when the social ad¬ 
vantages arc on her side, the burden of mak¬ 
ing the advances often falls upon her. 
Many women do it, indirectly, and are not 
censured.” 
“ Well you know I’m conservative, doctor, 
hut I’m glad you’re consistent. She did send 
another valentine. I am afraid she strained 
this figure of speech about the boat. But 
when everything in the world depends on 
one metaphor, it will not do to be fastidious. 
Jennie drew again the little boat with mis¬ 
spelt name. And tflls time added five words: 
1 The mauler's place is vacant!' 
“And quite late in the afternoon, the re¬ 
ply was left at the door:—‘ 1 am an appli¬ 
cant for the vacant place if you will take that 
of master's mute .'" 
“Good,” cried the doctor; “I always ad¬ 
vocated giving women every liberty in these 
matters.” 
“ Bpt I will stump you yet, doctor,” said 
Hubert. “ That evening Gough was to lec¬ 
ture in the village, and my friend went, not 
to hear Gough, but to see Miss Jennie Mor¬ 
ton at a distance. Somehow in the stupe¬ 
faction of revived hope lie had nut thought 
of going to the house to see her yet. He 
had postponed his departure and had thrown 
away his scruples. Knowing how much 
opposition he would have to contend with, 
he thought, if he thought at all, that he 
must proceed with caution. But some time 
after the lecture began be discovered the 
Morton family without. Jennie 1 Slowly it 
dawned upon him. She was at home wait¬ 
ing for him. He was near the front of the 
church in which the lecture was held, and 
every inch of aisle was full of people. To 
get, out was not easy. But as he thought of 
Jennie waiting it became a matter of life 
and death. If the house had been on fire 
he would not have been more intent on 
making his exit. He reached the door, he 
passed the happiest evening in his life, only 
to awake to sorrow, for Jennie’s father is 
' dead set’ against the match.” 
“ He had no right to interfere,” said the 
doctor vehemently. “ You see 1 stand by 
my principles.” 
“ But if I tell the story out I am afraid 
you would not,” said Hubert. 
“ Why isn’t it done ?” 
“ I beg your pardon, doctor, for having 
used a little craft. I had much at stake. I 
have disguised this story in its details. But 
it is true. I am the hero—" 
The doctor looked quickly toward his 
daughter. Her head was bent low over her 
book. Her long hair hung about it like a 
curtain, shutting out all view of the face. 
The doctor walked to the other window and 
looked out. Hubert sat like a mummy. 
After a minute Dr. Hood spoke. 
“ Cornelia 1" 
She lifted a face that was aflame. Tears 
glistened in her eyes, and 1 doubt not there 
was a prayer in her heart. 
“ You are a brave girl. I had other plans. 
You have a right to choose for yourself. I 
God bless you both. But it’s a great pity 
Hu is not a lawyer. He pleads so well,” 
So saving, he put on his hat and walked 
out, leaving the young minister and his be¬ 
trothed alone. 
OO 
jablmflj 11 cubing. 
“LITTLE DEEDS OF KINDNESS.” 
BY MRS. N. 8. AVERILL. 
In dreams and visions of the night. 
An angel came within my room 
With halo of such radiant light 
As scattered all the gathering gloom. 
In accents kind she bnde me rise, 
And yield me to her guiding hand: 
Then, floating swiftly through the air, 
We reached the Fabled Fairy-land. 
We entered here a lovely girt. 
Of sea-shclla formed and precious stones, 
Whose rainbow-tinted softened light 
Bathed myriad forms of fairy ones. 
Who gathered round in silent awe 
Visions of beauty rarely seen, 
That mortal foot should eTer tread 
The fairies’ path, with fairy Queen. 
A casket swaying to and fro 
They guarded willi unceasing care; 
Nor rested from their gentle toil 
’TUI hidden by the angel fair. 
And then, with witching, nrtless grace. 
They sped away In gleeful whirl. 
And quickly sought a resting place 
Within some shell or hollowed pearl. 
And, as from some JSollan lyre, 
Soft strains respond to every breeze, 
Blending, anon, with deeper chords. 
To rise In richer harmonies : 
So, now, from every spnrkling gem 
Breathed forth such strains us mortal ear 
Shall never catch, while wandering 
Imprisoned in this lower sphere. 
And then the Angel beckoned me 
Before the swaying casket-shell. 
With her to view the treasures there. 
Their destiny to hear her tell. 
A girdle of the brightest tints, 
Like rainbows flushing forth from heaven, 
Was once a smile of pitying love 
Unto an Outcast kindly given. 
A crown of Jewels, richly set, 
Was formed of meek, forgiving tears; 
" Father, forgive them !" this, the prayer, 
Sole answer lor insulting jeers. 
Robes so pure, so dazzling white, 
As earth-born fullers ne’er attain, 
From gentle words and acts of love, 
Were woven free from flaw or stain. 
The widow’s mite and secret alms, 
A never-failing wealth, becomes 
T' enrich the meek Inheritors 
Still waiting in their earthly homes. 
The sighs of penitence and faith, 
Tbe kindly glance of charity; 
The ready deed of mercy done, 
The healthful beams of purity; 
Not one is lost, but all are here, 
Unfading treasures, vast and real, 
Which neither moth nor rust Invade, 
Or midnight thieves break through and steal, 
But morn advanced, before whose ray 
The stars grow dim and visions fade, 
And then my dreum drew to its close. 
The fairy queen the sign obeyed. 
The sparkling of the fuiry gTot 
Grew dimmer with the morning hour; 
While, like the breath of Summer’s wind. 
Or sigh of nn expiring flower. 
The music of that lovely dream 
Struck soltty on my saddened ear, 
But ever sounding through my soul 
This lesson It will ulwuys bear: 
Despise not, thou, the smallest act 
Performed in simplest love, by thee; 
'• As to the least of these, my friends, 
So thou hast done it unto me." 
CHRISTIAN BELIEF. 
The Christian Union has an article on 
this subject—probably by Mr. Beecher— 
from which we condense this little sermon : 
“ That belie is a virtue, and doubt a sin, is 
a general aud strong feeling among men of 
religious education. On the contrary, be¬ 
lief, in the sense of intellectual assent to re¬ 
ligious truth, has of itself no power what¬ 
ever to make the life right, or to bring a man 
into acceptance with God. * * * A man 
is under no moral obligation to suppress the 
honest workings of his own mind ; but let 
no man who is sincerely and earnestly try¬ 
ing to reach the truth, feel that he is sinning 
because he is questioning beliefs that to 
others are sacred. * * * Wherein lies 
the virtue of * belief?’ We answer, without 
belief man is without working force. There 
is not a more unnatural or a more pitiable 
sight than the man who believes nothing. 
Skepticism is the parent of weakness. * * 
But—and here is a point, of supreme im¬ 
portance—it is how we believe quite as much 
as what we believe, that settles our character 
and our fate. It is quality, rather than 
quantity. Not over how wide a field of 
subjects our spiritual convictions extend; 
but how vivid they are. * * * It is only 
in the higher forms that religious belief has 
any value. It must he, in some degree, a 
realization. And the best test of realization 
is fruit." 
-- 
“I PEEL IT PULL” 
In the deepening twilight of a summer 
evening, a pastor called, at the residence of 
one of his parishioners, and found seated in 
the doorway a little boy with hands extend¬ 
ed upward, holding a line. “ What are you 
doing here, my little friend?” inquired the 
minister. 
“Flying my kite, sir,” was the prompt 
reply. 
“ Flying your kite!” exclaimed the pastor. 
“ I can see no kite—you can see none.” 
“ I cannot see it, but I know it is there, for 
I fed it pull /" 
A few years back the angels came and 
bore far above us, out of our sight, one that 
was very dear to us all. The attachment of 
our heart was not broken. The connecting 
ties were lengthened, not broken. We loved 
her while here, we love her still. She loved 
us while in the flesh. We are sure that she 
loves us none the less in her new condition. 
Rising higher and still higher in the heaven 
of heaveus, w a fed her influence. She is with 
Christ, and, attracted by gentle influences, 
we are lending toward her peaceful home, 
with the prospect of the same glorious com¬ 
panionship .—Earnest Worker. 
;oriaI ifopics. 
GERMAN ADVERTISEMENTS. 
Imagine a newspaper, small quarto, of 
from eight to forty-eight pages, costing five 
shillings and fourpence a year, and devoted 
exclusively to advertisements—every page 
full of novelty, and often productive of 
laughter! Within reasonable limits, it is 
scarcely possible to convey an idea of its 
diversified contents. The first pages are 
devoted to official, police, law and sanitary 
notices—notices of contracts, bankruptcies, 
&c.; these are followed by trade advertise¬ 
ments, touching silks, fish, groceries, wines, 
coffins, wet-nurses, and in foil nation as to 
how, when aud where the tllousand-and-one 
wants of this life, and death, may he sup¬ 
plied. Of these we shall say nothing, hut 
proceed at once to the social contents. What 
would our reserved island ladies say to find¬ 
ing their birthdays openly recorded under 
the most transparent initials, with their ages, 
the street and house-number duly added, in 
some such sort as this? “ Hearty congratu¬ 
lations to the dear, tall, black, stout Qretchen 
B-, on her to-day’s cradle-feast, at No. 18 
in the nauptgasse. 
“From one who knows her well, 
Hut tier name won't tell.” 
Or thus:—“ To the dear,stout, pretty blonde, 
Anna K-, in Willi, street, No. 78, right 
hearty congratulations from a silent ad¬ 
mirer." 
At times our attention is called to a swain 
who has forgotten the birthday of her whom 
his soul loves, and who honestly confesses it 
by heading in capital letters, “ Better late 
thannever.” After thus introducing his sal¬ 
utation, his effusion jingles on : 
“ Your birthday's past, as I do see; 
Jimminy-krimlny, 0 dear me! 
What can 1 suy, but tell you plain, 
I’ll try not to forget again." 
Happy couples proclaim their approaching 
nuptiuls thus :—“ With the loving consent of 
their parents, W-II-and S-T- 
herewith announce their betrothal." 
In the following notice there is something 
truly Homeric“ Hate a cure— a fat cow 
will be hewn to pieces in my yard, on Tues¬ 
day, at 11 A. M. sharp, and the flesh will be 
sold at 3d. a pound.” 
About our next extract there is a grim 
bloodthirstiness Lhat would have done credit 
to the Court of King Theodore; it reminds 
one of the Puntin tragedy under patronage, 
and must surely emanate from one whom 
urgent private affairs has recalled from the 
scene of the war ere his appetite for horrors 
was satiated.—“ T- M -recommends 
himself for private slaughtering. Terms 
moderate." 
Here are some miscellaneous morsels: 
“ To he sold cheap, a tolerably modern 
dress-coat, in very good preservation.” 
“ Eleven young hem aud a cock, good 
laj'ers, to be sold.” Is this the ram avis ? 
“ Chamber - sportsmun M-resides at 
No. 7 L-street. The above recommends 
himself as a medium for the destruction of 
all species of vermin.” 
We will conclude with two notices illus¬ 
trative of the German national characteris¬ 
tics—music aud economy: 
“ The Binging Society meets to-night at 
the Muckerlioehle.” The name is not in¬ 
viting ; but the locality is historical. 
And :—“ A gentleman wishes to hire a fur 
cloak for a few weeks.”—[ Chambers' Journal. 
-♦-*-♦- 
DIET OF THE ANOIENTS. 
The difference between the diet of the 
ancients and that of us moderns is very 
striking. The ancient Greeks and Romans 
used no alcoholic liquor, it being unknown 
to them ; nor coffee, nor ten, nor chocolate, 
nor sugar, nor even butter, for Galen tells us 
that lie had never seen butter but once in 
bis life. They were Ignorant of the greater 
number of our tropical spices, as cloves, nut¬ 
meg, ginger, mace, Jamaica pepper, curry, 
pimento. TJiev used neither buckwheat nor 
French beans, nor spinach, nor sage, tapioca, 
arrow-root, nor the potato in its varieties 
not even the common, but a sort of marsh- 
grown bean—not many of our fruits, as the 
orange, tamarind, not American maize. On 
the contrary, they ate substances which we 
now neglect, the mallow, the herb, ox tongue, 
the sweet acorn, the lupin. They liked the 
flesh of wild asses, dogs, the dormouse, the 
fox and the bear. 
