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Saviour, perfect my trust,

Strengthen the might of my faith,
Let me feel as I would when I stand
On the rock of the shore of death;

Feel as I would when my feet

Are slipping over the brink;

For it may be I'm nearer home,
Nearer now, than I think.




HORNS are of two kinds-vegetable and animal. Vegetable corn grows in rows, and animal corn grows on toes. There are several kinds of corn: There is the unicorn, the capricorn, pop corn, corn dodgers, field corn, and the corn, which is the corn your feet feel most. It is said, I believe, that gophers like corn, but persons having corns do not like to " go fur" if they can help it.

Corns have kernels, and some colonels have corns. Vegetable corn grows on the ears, but animal corn grows on feet at the other end of the body. Another kind of corn is the acorn; this grows on oaks. The acorn is a corn with an indefinite article added. Try it and see. Many a man when he has a corn wishes it

was an acorn.

Folks that have corns sometimes send for a doctor, and if the doctor himself is corned he probably won't do so well as if he isn't. The doctor says corns are produced by tight boots and shoes, which is probably the reason why when a man is tight they say he is corned.

If a farmer manages well, he can get a good deal of corn on an acre, but I know of a farmer that has the corn that makes the biggest acher on his farm. The bigger crop of vegetable corn a man raises, the better he likes it; the bigger crop of animal corn he raises, the better he does not like it. Another kind of corn is the corn dodger. The way it is made is very simple, and it is as follows-that is if you want to know: You go along the street and meet a man you know has a corn, and a rough character; then you step on the toe that has the corn on it, and see if you don't have occasion to dodge. In that way you will find out what a corn dodger is.



"COME, Rosy, come !" I heard the voice and looked

Out on the road that passed my window wide,

And saw a woman and a fair-haired child
That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.
The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,
And, laughing, held it high above its head;
A light glowed bright within the woman's eyes,
And in that light a mother's love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on:
The prattle of the child I still could hear,
Mixed with the woman's fond, caressing tone,
That came in loving words upon my ear.


"Come, Rosy, come!" Years, many years had gone,
But yet had left the recollection of that scene-
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.
I looked.

The old familiar road was there

A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.
"Come, Rosy, come!" I saw no fair-haired child
Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
"Come, Rosy, come!" I heard no merry laugh
To light the love-glow in the mother's eyes.

"Come, Rosy, come!" She turned, and down the road
The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
Caressing tones-not mixed with prattle now,
But full of loving words-I still could hear.
I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
He told the story-all there was to tell:
A little mound the village churchyard bore;
And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.




From St. Nicholas.

[T was Commencement at one of our colleges. The people were pouring into the church as I entered it, rather tardy. Finding the choice seats in the centre of the audience-room already taken, I pressed forward, looking to the right and to the left for a vacancy. On very front row of seats I found one.


Here a little girl moved along to make room for me, looking into my face with large gray eyes, whose brightness was softened by very long lashes. Her face was open and fresh as a newly blown rose before sunrise. Again and again I found my eyes turning to the roselike face, and each time the gray eyes moved, halfsmiling, to meet mine. Evidently the child was ready to "make up" with me. And when, with a bright smile, she returned my dropped handkerchief, and I said "Thank you!" we seemed fairly introduced. Other persons, now coming into the seat, crowded me quite close up against the little girl, so that we soon felt very well acquainted.

"There's going to be a great crowd," she said to me. "Yes," I replied; "people always like to see how school-boys are made into men."

Her face beamed with pleasure and pride as she said: "My brother's going to graduate; he's going to speak; I've brought these flowers to throw to him."

They were not greenhouse favorites; just old-fashioned domestic flowers, such as we associate with the dear grandmothers; "but," I thought, "they will seem sweet and beautiful to him for little sister's sake."

"That is my brother," she went on, pointing with her nosegay.

"The one with the light hair?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she said, smiling and shaking her head in innocent reproof; "not that homely one; that handsome one with brown wavy hair. His eyes look brown, too; but they are not-they are dark-blue. There! he's got his hand up to his head now. You see him, don't you?"

In an eager way she looked from me to him, and from

him to me, as if some important fate depended upon my identifying her brother.

"I see him," I said. "He's a very good-looking brother."

"Yes, he is beautiful," she said, with artless delight; "and he's so good, and he studies so hard. He has taken care of me ever since mamma died. Here is his name on the programme. He is not the valedictorian, but he has an honor, for all that."

I saw in the little creature's familiarity with these technical college terms that she had closely identified herself with her brother's studies, hopes, and successes.

"His oration is a real good one, and he says it beautifully. He has said it to me a great many times. I'most know it by heart. Oh! it begins so pretty and so grand. This is the way it begins," she added, encouraged by the interest she must have seen in my face: "Amid the permutations and combinations of the actors and the forces which make up the great kaleidoscope of history, we often find that a turn of Destiny's hand

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"Why, bless the baby!" I thought, looking down into her bright, proud face. I can't describe how very odd and elfish it did seem to have those sonorous words rolling out of the smiling infantile mouth.

As the exercises progressed, and approached nearer and nearer the effort on which all her interest was concentrated, my little friend became excited and restless. Her eyes grew larger and brighter, two deep-red spots glowed on her cheeks.

"Now, it's his turn," she said, turning to me a face in which pride and delight and anxiety seemed about equally mingled. But when the overture was played

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