THE SONG OF THE SHOWER. 
BY KATE CAMEllON. 
It was the voice of the summer shower:— 
“I bring new life to the fainting flower; 
I give l'resh strength to the drooping tree. 
And the grass looks up and smiles at me. 
Round the pools the tlilr.-ty cattle throng. 
And the birds slog loud a tliankrul song. 
What Joy I bring to the sons ef toll. 
Who dally delve In the har-d. dry soil : 
They know their work will not be in vain 
Wlien they gladly greet the longed-for rain. 
“ 1'ou may say tuino Is an humble task. 
But who for a better lot would ask ? 
To come with blessings to all around. 
Then gently rest In the grateful ground. 
My life is short, and my mission brief. 
But 1 live again in flower and leaf. 
On errands of mercy I am sent; 
With my Maker’s will I am content.” 
Might not those who sigh for pomp and power, 
A lesson learn from the Summer Shower? 
-- 
CONTRASTS. 
What In the shadowy corn is lying? 
Chirping and fluttering, breast to breast. 
Two fledgling sparrows, that dream of flying— 
And the broken spoils of an empty nest? 
What in the furrowy corn Is growing? 
Tossing over the narrow walk. 
Two open lilies on one stem blowing— 
And « bud that hangs iroin a broken stalk I 
Who In the breezy corn is hiding? 
Sheltering under Its high green roof. 
Two happy lovers with laughter chiding— 
And a girl who sits and sighs aloof ! 
QO 
H'torifs for |lnntmts. 
WILL SHE HIDE OB WALK? 
III. 
[Concluded from page 130, last No.j 
Tiie spring and enrl v summer wore away. 
Out; Idler came from Darrel. A letter such 
as lie might have sent to any chance ac¬ 
quaintance, lull of hints of gay doings here 
and there—nothing more. One little note 
Vcscy wrote his mother, to say she could not 
make the promised visit, Darrel had said 
nolhingin his letter of coming for her. “ And 
tell Darrel ,F —at the close of her note—“ that 
1 am saving any amount of gossip against 
writing him some day.” Hut the “ some 
day ” never came. Absence, like a strong 
light, brings out hidden defects, and Vesey 
knew now that he was a man selfish and 
vain, who had played with her heart. He 
had held it in his hand, weighed and meas¬ 
ured it and her, and had cast both aside as 
worthless. She thought of it with burning 
chocks. 
Among the mountains, in the summer, she 
gathered strength and life again; for both 
had seemed to fail. Perhaps it was the heat, 
The Summer had opened like the tropics. 
With another winter came the Winslows. If 
she had dreaded it, if she had feared for her¬ 
self, would it have been strange? But the 
spell was broken. Looking back, she won¬ 
dered. 
Outwardly the old intimacy was resumed, 
parrel came and went as he had come and 
gone the year before. But to Vesey it was 
only a shell—a hollow, heartless thing that 
never had been friendship, and could never 
now be love. Paul, plodding along day after 
day in the round of his duties, saw—as though 
a great way off—Vesey and Darrel flying up 
and down the icy streets to the tinkle of sil¬ 
ver hells. 
One night, Vesey, glowing in crimson, with 
white chrysanthemums in her hair, passed 
through the hall. The outer door was open 
wide, Paul stood outside. The wind, raw 
and wet with the breath of the sea, caught at 
her hair—at the silken ruffles of her dress. 
“ Oh, is it you ? But you are coining in ?” 
She little knew bow her words tempted 
him—how the vision tempted him, as she 
paused with clasped hands under the gas¬ 
light, and with the warm, bright room be¬ 
yond, 
“ I cannot, I am waiting for your father. 
There is a family at the lower end of the 
town starv-” 
The words choked him. "Thank you, 
not to-night,” he said. He had longed to 
meet her again, like this—alone and face to 
face. But her light manner, her dainty dress 
angered him to-night. He had come from 
from such a different scene. Only a woman 
of the world, after all, he thought. And yet 
so sweet, so bitterly sweet, he owned, when 
he had turned away and plunged iuto the 
cold and darkness. Darrel was waiting for 
her in the drawing-room. 
"You’re like a poem to-night, in all that 
ruby-red—like an Eastern song.” 
" Thank you,” Vesey said, dreamily. 
“ I couldn't imagine you in gray,” he went 
on, half to himself, “ or in anything somber, 
or worn, or poor.” He had begun to study 
the girl in earnest now. <l V es, you are made 
for the rarest and best, Yesey; to shine in 
satin and diamonds.” 
Satin and diamonds 1 Vesey remembered 
the man she had left at the door. He was 
out in the winter night among the hungry 
and naked now, she knew. She had caught 
his half uttered sentence. And she was made 
for satin and diamonds! 
“ Is that all?” she asked, wistfully. 
L 
“All? Is not that enough? It would satis¬ 
fy most women.” 
But to-night it did not satisfy her. 
IV. 
Down at the beginning of the long street 
was a black, low-browed house, like many 
others here, with a shop in the lower story, 
or, more properly, two, since one window 
was occupied by a watchmaker, and the 
other displayed pins, needles, spools of cot¬ 
ton, and such small wares. Above were two 
or three rooms with slanting sides, where a 
deformed girl—a pitiful object to look at— 
lived with her mother, earning enough by 
sewing to put bread into ibeir mouths and 
scanty covering upon their hacks—no more. 
Vesey employed them; from pity mostly, 
since her work could have been better done 
elsewhere. She stepped out of the sleigh 
here at dusk one night, and ran up the stairs, 
a roll of work in her hand. She had to wait 
a moment, so she sat and talked with the 
girl, who was young like herself, and yet not 
like herself at all. It made her happier in 
the happy lot that had sometimes wearied 
her. It made her thankful for her strong, 
young life, which she had never named 
among her blessings, and it shot a gleam of 
pleasure through the girl’s dark days. 
It was a poor room, with paper torn and 
soiled, and of many patterns, upon the walls; 
with the bare hoards of the floor yawning, 
rising and falling uneasily; with the dim 
light struggling through uncurtained win¬ 
dows that peered from under the eaves like 
eyes from overhanging brows. In one of 
these windows, a forlorn canary in a broken 
cage—a brown little bird with ruffled, un¬ 
kempt feathers —chirruped feebly, like a 
moan. Alow voice In a continuous murmur 
fell upon Vcscy’s ear. It seemed to come 
from the next room. 
“ What is that?” 
“That’m?” The girl’s pafe face grew 
bright. “ It’s the minister, Mr. Hayes. He 
comes and prays with mother, now she’s 
sick. The light died down again. 
The little room became all at once like a 
church, solemn and still, as the low voice 
rolled on and on, like a river far away. The 
girl laid down her work. Even the bird for¬ 
got its moan. 
The voice ceased. She heard liis step 
upon the stairs. It was but a second; he 
could not have reached the street, when a 
shriek came from the room he had left. The 
girl sal like one paralyzed. Vesey threw 
open the door. A swift, line of light ran all 
adown the bed. It burst into a flatoc.ln the. 
midst of which the sick woman struggled. 
The overturned candle at her head told the 
story. It was an instinct—there was no time 
for thought—which made Yesey drag the 
square of carpet from the floor and press it 
down upon the flames. They shot out into 
her face. They seemed to catch away her 
breath. They licked her arm. They strove 
and fought, aud wellnigh overcame—all in 
an instant, that seemed hours to the girl, 
who threw herself upon the bed, smothering 
the flames with her own weight. 
They were conquered at last. The silent, 
breathless struggle was over. 
“ If some one would only bring a light! 
Oh, dear! what shall 1 do? Don’t,” to the 
deformed girl, who shrieked and called upon 
her mother. Vesey had not heard the strong 
step springing up the stairs—the opening of 
ihe door. Some one stood beside her in a 
moment, lamp in hand. It was Paul. 
“Is she dead?” gasped Vesey, shrinking 
from the lied. 
He threw back the scorched blanket that 
hid the motionless form. “ No, not dead ; 
but. I think she has fainted. Or the flames— 
I must go for a doctor. Stay here, if you 
are not afraid. Oh, hush! hush!” to the 
frightened girl; “ it is nothing, I hope. Gel 
some water for the lady; and sprinkle her 
face,” lie said to Yesey. Then lie was gone. 
She did as he told her,—waiting, watch¬ 
ing the blackened mass, she dared not touch. 
It was frightful, with that still, white face 
shining out of the darkness. Was it death ? 
No; there was a faint quivering of the eye¬ 
lids—that first sign of returning conscious¬ 
ness—a feeble moan. Then Paul came. Oh! 
the rush of joy, of blinding tears, of sudden 
faintness, that overpowered her when she 
heard his step. The grim-faced doctor be¬ 
hind him walked straight to the bed. 
“ There are no deep burns, I thinkhe 
said at length. “ The blanket saved her. 
The shock has done more than the lire. A 
sponge—ah, that will do. Now some water, 
and some lineu rags.” There were none. 
Vesey quietly held out her dainty handker¬ 
chief. “Hin!” be said, aud tore his own 
into strips. 
“ And now you?” He turned to Vesey. 
“ I have no burns.” Indeed she felt no 
pain. The doctor raised her hand, and held 
it out to Paul. The sleeve was cut away 
from her wrist as by a jagged knife with a 
blackened edge. The flesh was like aflame. 
Paul’s teeth shut tight and quick together. 
Something sprang iuto his eyes—not tears 
alone. 
Then Vesey began to tremble; and, con¬ 
scious at last of the cruel pain that bit and 
tore her hand, she sobbed like a hurt child. 
“ Don’t mind,” she tried to say. “ Don’t 
look at me. It’sonly—only-” The sobs 
swept all her words away. 
Paul bathed her hand. She remembered 
afterwards how tenderer than any woman’s 
had been his touch. 
“ Let her cry,” said the doctor, in a voice 
that must have been given by mistake to 
the grim face. “ And now she’d better go 
home.” He rose from the bed. He took 
the unharmed hand in his. “ She’s a brave 
girl.” He looked away from her to Paul, 
hut still he held her hand tight in his. 
“ God bless you, child. Now go home and 
go to bed.” 
Paul lifted her into the sleigh and wrapped 
tlic robes about her. 
“Shall I go with you?” 
“ If I can take you home.” 
“Oh no; I must,go in here again.” 
“ Then you need not.” 
It seemed suddenly as if they had known 
each other a lifetime— she and Paul; as if 
they could never be strangers to each other 
again. 
She held out her hand. It was the one 
he had bound up. He took it tenderly in 
both his own. “ The brave, strong hand !” 
lie said, bending over it in the darkness— 
“ the hand that saved a life to-night.” 
V. 
There was to he a bazar, to raise money 
for the poor. It opened the next evening. 
The winter had been bard aud cruel, and 
charity — somewhat exhausted — needed a 
spur. 
Vesey had promised to tend a booth. 
“You must not think of going,” her 
father exclaimed. Darrel, too—who foresaw 
a quiet hour with her alone, if she remained 
at home. He had something to tell—some¬ 
thing to ask for, and a ring to give. Alas 
for him ! He had kept his words too long. 
A year ago they would have been manna 
to her heart. 
“ But I am quite well,” she pleaded, “ ex¬ 
cept my hand ; and that has ceased to pain 
me.” Indeed her face was radiant. 
So she dressed herself with quaint sim¬ 
plicity in something soft and gray that 
wrapped her like a cloud, with only the 
braids of her heavy hair for ornament; only 
her shining eyes for gems. Then she went 
aud took her place. * 
The maidens from the Chinese pagodas 
Were all there. Before them, in their gay 
attaire, the Queen of Sheba, and even Solo¬ 
mon the magnificent, would have shrunk 
away abashef-^Mieir glory dimmed. 
Vesey’s nun-li Ice dress was worse than 
diamonds in their envious eyes. More gay 
gallants than one paused to stare—to buy. 
“ It cools your eyes, you see, and rests you 
some way,” vouchsafed one man, by way of 
explanation. 
The evening was half over. Darrel had 
been her shadow. She was tired ; tired of 
his eyes that followed her whichever way 
she turned; tired of his flattering words; 
tired of him. He moved a way at last. Then, 
and not until then, she saw Paul. All the 
maidens plumed their gay feathers as he 
walked down the hall. But he came straight 
to her. 
“ Are you well enough to he here?" with¬ 
out a word of greeting, as though they had 
not parted. “ You frightened uie with your 
white face just now.” 
" I was tired, i wanted to go home.” 
“ Will you go now ?” he asked, quickly. 
“ Arc you strong enough to walk?” 
“ Oh yes.” 
“ Then come.” 
It was strangely pleasant to be bidden ; to 
follow meekly. 
They had reached the stairs descending 
to the street, when they met Darrel Wins¬ 
low. 
“Vesey! where are you going?” He 
scowled and nodded at Paul. 
“ Home." 
“ But it is beginning to rain, and you have 
no cloak. Go back and I’ll get the car¬ 
riage.” He laid his hand upon the wrap 
over Paul’s arm, Paul looked at Vesey. 
What did he read in her face ? 
“ Let Miss Welles decide,” he said, in a 
hard, strange voice. He was trying to be 
calm—to keep his hands from this man who 
had suddenly come between them. He 
turned to Vesey again. His face was very 
pale; his eyes were full of pleading. “Think 
a moment. Will yon ride with him or walk 
with me ?" 
She did not speak. She only smiled and 
laid her hand within his arm. 
He would have been more than human to 
have kept back tlie triumph in his eyes. 
Darrel stared; then wheeled and left 
them, with an oath upon his lips. 
“But think a moment.” Paul’s voice 
grew more gentle now. “ It will he a long, 
long road—a road that has no turn.” 
But she still smiled. 
“ A rough way perha^fe, and your feet are 
tender.” 
“ I will walk with you,” she said. — Scrib¬ 
ner's Monthly. 
—-- 
A man is valued as he makes himself 
valuable. 
THE WAYS OF LOVERS. 
In this most commonplace of common¬ 
place ages, it is not often that one meets 
with thorough, genuine-going lovei’3. The 
fates—in the shape of those gods of socie¬ 
ty, Mammon aud Fashion—are decidedly 
against them. It is the custom to dub those 
who marry for love, rather than money or 
position, nothing less than downright fools. 
The girl who weds an old fellow who is 
toothless, shrunken and decrepid, and has 
led the most immoral of immoral lives, pro¬ 
vided he possesses his hags of gold, is gener¬ 
ally voted to have done a very wise thing, 
and society takes her by the hand and show¬ 
ers its favors upon her. But the maiden 
who unites her fortunes with those of a 
youth who possesses nothing hut. his brains, 
his hands and his good name, is looked cold¬ 
ly upon and banished into exile. 
The good old-fashioned idea, that nothing 
was so proper as for two young people to 
work their way togelher, is considered pre¬ 
posterous and absurd. In the face of this it 
is only natural that most courtships and 
marriages should be of the most matter-of- 
fact description. It may, indeed, be said that 
a money value is set upon a gill just the 
same as there is set upon a bale of cotton or 
a bag of potatoes. This is, perhaps, putting 
the matter rather plainly; but, then, if pa¬ 
rents look at their children in the same light 
as bales of cottcn and hags of potatoes are 
looked at, it is just as well they should he 
told so. Though, to use a rather vulgar 
phrase, when a girl sees a young man begin 
paying her attentions, she instinctively asks 
herself what is his income, his position in 
society, and whether mamma and papa will 
approve, before considering whether he is 
handsome, pleasing or lovable. There are a 
few genuine love matches. It occasionally 
happens that these are made in opposition 
to the wishes of “ parents and guardians.” 
In such cases the position of the pair 
is decidedly unpleasant and embarrassing, 
and it may be said that they fail to appre¬ 
ciate a genuine courtship. 
It more frequently comes to pass, how¬ 
ever, that young people fall in love with 
just those whom they are wanted to fall in 
love with. Then all is plain sailing. They 
can hill and coo from morning till night—so 
long as the bright swain does not neglect his 
business. His fair enslaver’s paterfamilim 
would decidedly object to that. There is no 
doubt that they do bill and coo. It is in¬ 
teresting to watch them for a short time. 
Continued for any period the watching pro¬ 
cess would become monotonous. Cert.-pnly 
an ordinary mortal will get sick of observing 
them before they evidence any symptoms of 
weariness. 
Those favored lovers appear to consider 
themselves entitled to peculiar privileges. 
They will monopolize certain sitting-rooms, 
and quickly make any one feel that his room 
is more acceptable than his company, if he, 
perhaps thinking that they are lonely and 
rather tired of one another, favors them 
with his compnny. If their conversation, 
when any one is with them, is a sample of 
what it is when intruders are out of the way, 
they must be very dull company. Doubt¬ 
less' their conversation is foolish enough; 
hence their desire to he Jeff to themselves. 
They are very much offended if any one has 
the audacity to “chaff" them, They would 
put on an 'expression such as they would 
wear were they attending a funeral* if some 
rude wretch ventures to make what he im¬ 
agines an appropriate joke. Their vengeful 
looks check incipient laughter, and, once for 
all squelch the unfortunate individual He 
must he very brave, indeed, if he attempts a 
jest a second time. 
They quite abrogate the polite law that 
whispering in company is not allowable. 
They never seem so well pleased as when 
they are letting the company know that 
they have secrets which they do not intend 
everybody to hear. Woe he to l he unhappy 
wight who has the temerity to ask them 
what they are talking about ! If a glance 
of the eye could kill, of a surety he ware a 
dead man. However long these lovers 
choose to absent themselves, they must, on 
no account, be asked where they have been. 
It is a most heinous offense to offer to ac¬ 
company them. They have, in a general 
way, in fact, a most emphatic way of show¬ 
ing' you—though even they, lost as they are 
to all sense of what is right, do not tell you 
as much—that they do not care a button for 
your company. They let you know that it 
is a matter of the most supreme indifference 
to them what, you do with yourself—so long 
as you do not bother them. They, perhaps, 
more than any one else, are best calculated 
to make one feel keenly what an insignifi¬ 
cant personage lie is. He may he the most 
brilliant conversationalist living, and his wit 
aud humor will he so much thrown away. 
They do not care for it, and will not thank 
him for it. They would rather listen to their 
own dull, stupid talk; aud how very dull 
and very stupid is their talk to any one hut 
themselves there is no occasion for us to 
state. It is not that they dislike people— 
they do not take the trouble to do that; it is 
that they are so supremely indifferent about 
all that coucerus anybody but themselves. 
Yet, in spile of all this, they expect their 
smallest wishes to be attended to, and the 
thought apparently never enters their heads 
that they are selfish and disagreeable. They 
rarely get jealous. They pursue the even 
tenor of their way until such time as they 
are made man aud wife. After that, of course, 
each gradually drops the role ol lover, until 
they ultimately become as agreeable and 
companionable as ever they were. It is 
nothing less than a blessing to. their friends 
when two such lovers get married. 
GO 
abbnth Leaking. 
“AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL Be" 
LIGHT.” 
A OLOOMT day of clouds and rain. 
All day the eaves dripped fast. 
And. shut within the house in pain 
We wished its hours were past. 
But just at sunset, gleaming through 
The gateway of the mist, 
We saw the gold, the red, the blue. 
The evening light, twice blest. 
The heavens all gorgeous were with huc 3 
Ne’er traced by human hand— 
We felt its cheering light diffuse 
New joy o’er all the land. 
And then I thought wo are too swift 
To cal) life pain at best— 
Our willful eyes refuse to lift 
To see the golden west. 
And yet upon us fulls the gold, 
The joyful gloaming light,— 
Rare beauties at our feet unfold, 
Reflected to our sight. 
Some, ever yearning for the light 
They do not comprehend. 
Believe a cloudy day is night— 
Not knowing where they tend. 
Sometimes n worker toiling goes 
Bent down, like pilgrim old. 
Nor sf-os, till Just at daylight's close, 
The fnr-oll gates of gold. 
If, after all, there’s light, enough 
To us ut evening given. 
What matter If the way ho rough 
That Icadclh uulo heaven. 
Mansfield, Pa. 
F. E. K. 
SAFE IN THE HARBOR. 
Often, as we sit in tbe twilight nmsiiif 
ovcf the past, memory calls up the face of 
one and another who has crossed our life- 
pathway for a brief space, and then we have 
lost, sight of them forever. We wonder 
where they are and what lias been their his¬ 
tory, and if we shall ever meet again. If 
our hearts are spiritually alive, a deep yearn¬ 
ing fills them for the souls of these friends, 
and we long to meet them on the shores of 
Heaven. 
A British man-of-war was onco seal to 
convoy a little sloop with costly lading,from 
the Cape of Good Hope to England. They 
sailed together for a time, but in a terrible 
storm they became separated. The captain 
of the great ship was sad, for he feared sonic 
disaster had befallen his little friend. Every 
time he thought of it, it was with a heavy 
breath. But. when he entered the harbor of 
Portsmouth, and tlie fog lifted, there was Ihe 
litlle craft safely anchored along side of him. 
It had got home first. 
Just such surprises there will one day he 
in the heavenly harbor. We shall meet 
those who have passed from our sight and 
knowledge here, and togelher rejoice in 
singing the new song. If we are luilhful to 
the souls of those we meet with, we shall 
experience a double joy and surprise in 
learning that our efforts were blessed to 
their salvation. Many a sad-hearted Sun¬ 
day school teacher who here saw uo fruit ol 
her labors will there find precious barks 
anchored beside her, over which she has 
wept and prayed as she thought in vain. A 
good old man once said that when begot to 
Heaven he should no doubt have three great 
surprises. One would he that he did not 
see some there he expected would be there; 
but the greatest, surprise of all that he was 
there himself .—Lutheran Observer. 
IMPROVE YOUR TALENTS. 
“Take the talent from him, and give it 
ito him which hath ten talents.’ (Matt, 
xv : 28.) It seems on first reading 'he pat- 
,1c, as though the neglected talent would 
ive been more fittingly bestowed ou the 
jcnpier of the five than of the ten, this lab 
r having already enough. Our Lord, who 
new what was in limn, represents 'he hy- 
auders us having so thought. But the 
dents are intended to signify spiritual gi |ls > 
id of these it is undoubtedly true that the 
iore a man possesses, the more he shall go 
i to acquire. Spiritual wealth has, h -e 
mporal, a power of self-accumulate n 
Whosoever hath, to him shall be S 1 ' 111, 
id whosoever hath not, from him shu a 
iken even that which he seemeth to have. 
-Lord Kinloch. 
LITTLE THINGS. 
Little words arc the sweetest to hear , 
ttle charities fly farthest, and stay 
ii the wing; little lakes are the stillest, 
tile hearts the fullest, and little an i 
st tilled. Little hooks are the most 
id little songs the clearest, loved, 
lien Nature would make any thing -1 
ally rare and beautiful, she makes it UUic 
-little pearls, litlle diamonds, litt e 1 ^ • 
Avar’s is a model prayer; hut then i ‘ 
tile one, and the burden of the pet'bon * 
,r but little. The Sermon on the Mo 
ttle, but the last dedication discourse • ■ 
i hour. Life is made up of little.^, *' ’ 
what remains of them all. Day 
p of little beams, aud night is glorious 
