"I have just the weather I fancy," said he;
"For what pleases God always satisfies me."
If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark,
And his eye never lost its happiest spark.
""Twill not better fix it to gloom or to sigh;
To make the best of it I always shall try!

So, care, do your worst," said Reuben with glee,
And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall see."

66

If his children were wild, as children will prove,
His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love;

My dear wife," he'd say, "don't worry nor fret;
"Twill all be right with the wayward ones yet;
'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way;
They'll penitent turn from their evil some day."

If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,
"Well, well; we'll not join in the cry, any way;
There are always two sides to every tale
And the true one at last is sure to prevail.
There is an old rule that I learned when a lad,—
'Deem every one good till he's proved to be bad.'”

And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound,
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,

Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught,
"We none of us do half as well as we ought."

If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile

"Well, if they must go, Heaven bless them the while;
We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met,
And though we have parted, I'll cherish them yet;
They'll go by their way and I'll go by mine---
Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join.

There were sickness and death at last in his cot,
But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not:
"Tis the Father afflicts: let Him do what He will;
What comes from His hand can mean us no ill;
I cheerfully give back the blessing He lent,

And through faith in the future find present content."

Then he lay on his death-bed at last undismayed;
No terror had death at which he was afraid;
"Living or dying, 'tis all well with me,
For God's will is my will," submissive said he.
And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace,
That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face.

ONLY A WOMAN.-HESTER A. BENEDICT.

Only a woman, shriveled and old!

The play of the winds and the prey of the cold!
Cheeks that are shrunken,

Eyes that are sunken,

Lips that were never o'er bold.

Only a woman forsaken and poor,

Asking an alms at the bronze church door.

Hark to the organ! roll upon roll
The waves of the music go over her soul!
Silks rustle past her

Thicker and faster;

The great bell ceases its toll.

Fain would she enter, but not for the poor
Swingeth wide open the bronze church door.

Only a woman-waiting alone,
Icily cold, on an ice-cold throne.
What do they care for her?
Mumbling a prayer for her,

Giving not bread, but a stone.

Under old laces their haughty hearts beat,
Mocking the woes of their kin in the street.'

Only a woman! In the old days
Hope caroled to her her happiest lays;
Somebody missed her,

Somebody kissed her,

Somebody crowned her with praise;

Somebody faced up the battles of life
Strong for her sake who was mother, or wife.

Somebody lies with a tress of her hair
Light on his heart where the death-shadows are;
Somebody waits for her,

Opening the gates for her,
Giving delight for despair.

Only a woman-nevermore poor

Dead in the snow at the bronze church door.

COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Snobbleton. Yes, there is that fellow Jones, again. I declare, the man is ubiquitous. Wherever I go with my cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he follows her

like her shadow. Do we take a boating? So does Jones. Do we wander on the beach? So does Jones. Go where we will, that fellow follows or moves before. Now, that was a cruel practical joke which Jones once played upon me at college. I have never forgiven him. But I would gladly make a pretence of doing so, if I could have my revenge. Let me see. Can't I manage it? He is head over ears in love with Prudence, but too bashful to speak. I half believe she is not indifferent to him, though altogether unacquainted It may prove a match, if I cannot spoil it. Let me think. Ha! I have it. A brilliant idea! Jones, beware! here he comes.

(Enter JONES.)

But

Jones. (Not seeing Snobbleton, and delightedly contemplating a flower, which he holds in his hand.) Oh, rapture! what a prize! It was in her hair-I saw it fall from her queenly head. (Kisses it every now and then.) How warm are its tender leaves from having touched her neck! How doubly sweet is its perfume-fresh from the fragrance of her glorious locks! How beautiful! how-Bless me! here is Snobbleton, and we are enemies!

Snob. Good-morning, Jones-that is, if you will shake hands.

Jones. What! you-you forgive! You really

Snob. Yes, yes, old fellow! All is forgotten. You played me a rough trick; but, let bygones be bygones. Will you not bury the hatchet?

Jones. With all my heart, my dear fellow!

Snob. What is the matter with you, Jones? You look quite grumpy-not by any means the same cheerful, dashing, rollicking fellow you were.

Jones. Grumpy-what is that? How do I look, Snobbleton?

Snob. Oh, not much out of the way. Only a little shaky in the shanks,-blue lips, red nose, cadaverous jaws, bloodshot eyes, yellow

Jones. Bless me, you don't say so! (Aside.) Confound the man! Here have I been endeavoring to appear romantic for the last month-and now to be called grumpy-shakyshanked, cadaverous,-it is unbearable!

Snob. But never mind. Cheer up, old fellow! I see it all. Egad! I know what it is to be in

Jones. Ah! you can then sympathize with me! You know what it is to be in

Snob. Of course I do! Heaven preserve me from the toils! What days of bitterness!

Jones. What nights of bliss!

Snob. (Shuddering.) And then the letters-the interminable letters!

Jones. Oh yes, the letters! the billet doux !

Snob. And the bills-the endless bills!

Jones. (In surprise.) The bills!

Snob. Yes; and the bailiffs, the lawyers, the judge, and the jury.

Jones. Why, man, what are you talking about? I thought you said you knew what it was to be in

Snob. In debt. To be sure I did.

Jones. Bless me! I'm not in debt-never borrowed a dollar in my life. Ah, me! (Sighs.) it's worse than that.

Snob. Worse than that! Come, now, Jones, there is only one thing worse. You're surely not in love?

Jones. Yes, I am. Oh, Snobby, help me, help me! Let me confide in you.

Snob. Confide in me! Certainly, my dear fellow! See, I do not shrink-I stand firm.

Jones. Snobby, I-I love her.

Snob. Whom?

Jones. Your cousin, Prudence.

Snob. Ha! Prudence Angelina Winterbottom?

Jones. Now, don't be angry, Snobby! I don't mean any harm, you know. I—I—you know how it is.

Snob. Harm! my dear fellow. Not a bit of it. Angry! Not at all. You have my consent, old fellow. Take her. She is yours. Heaven bless you both!

Jones. You are very kind, Snobby, but I haven't got her consent yet.

Snob. Well, that is something, to be sure. But, leave it all to me. She may be a little coy, you know; but, considering your generous overlooking of her unfortunate defect

Jones. Defect! You surprise me.

Snob. What! and you did not know of it?

Jones. Not at all. I am astonished! Nothing serious I hope.

Snob. Oh, no! only a little-(He taps his ear with his finger, knowingly.) I see, you understand it.

Jones. Merciful heaven! can it be? But really, is it serious?

Snob. I should think it was.

Jones. What! But is she ever dangerous?

Snob. Dangerous! Why should she be?

Jones. (Considerably relieved.)

Oh, I perceive! A mere

airiness of brain-a gentle aberration-scorning the dull world-a mild

Snob. Zounds, man, she's not crazy!

Jones. My dear Snobby, you relieve me. What then? Snob. Slightly deaf. That's all.

Jones. Deaf!

Snob. As a lamp-post. That is you must elevate your voice to a considerable pitch in speaking to her.

Jones. Is it possible! However, I think I can manage. As, for instance, if it was my intention to make her a floral offering, and I should say (elevating his voice considerably,) 'Miss, will you make me happy by accepting these flowers?" I suppose she could hear me, eh? How would that do? Snob. Pshaw! Do you call that elevated?

Jones. Well, how would this do? (Speaks very loudly.) "Miss, will you make me happy-"

Snob. Louder, shriller, man!

Jones. "Miss, will you-"

Snob. Louder, louder, or she will only see your lips move. Jones. (Almost screaming.) "Miss, will you oblige me by accepting these flowers?"

Snob. There, that may do. Still you want practice. I perceive the lady herself is approaching. Suppose you retire for a short time and I will prepare her for the introduction.

Jones. Very good. Meantime I will go down to the beach and endeavor to acquire the proper pitch. Let me see: "Miss, will you oblige me—”

[Exit JONES.]