evening sky. At nights we can see the beacon in the lighthouse and all day can watch the shipping pass in and out of the river. There is more of cheerfulness in the changes of the waves and clouds than in the deepening tints of the most beautiful forest trees. The sea and sky own no winter, and the autumn never saddens them. On the autumn days, when the fog has covered everything, and, "The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,

Clung to the dead earth,"

you hear the waves, which you cannot see, rolling and tumbling behind their white curtains, and you never lose the sense of companionship which they give. The seaweeds spread themselves in the deep rock pools day by day; each day the waves cover them, and each day they seem to be rejoicing in their respite from the tumbling of the frothy waters and in receiving the light into their untroubled depths. The waves are always busy in the harbour, on the sands beyond, or dashing over the boulders at the foot of the rocks. They never feel the winter chill, and the stagnation which rests upon the earth; they fret and chafe with their sense of wrong and spirit of resistance, but death and change have left the waves untouched and so they cannot be sad. If you doubt all this, come and

see.

*

Marguerite.

(FOR MUSIC.)

ARGUERITE! Marguerite!

Charming, scornful Marguerite!

See how she loves to tease me!
Just now her words were soft and sweet
As if she meant to please me;

Yet, look you, if we chance to meet
To-morrow in the village street,

She'll be so cruelly discreet

Her very looks will freeze me!

You've robb'd me, saucy Marguerite;

And yet you've so bewitch'd me,
That I am more than half inclin'd

To call your very scornings kind,

And swear that, though my peace of mind
Be stolen, you've enrich'd me!

And then, with laughter wild and sweet,
She'll taunt me with my own defeat,
Dance round me on light elfin feet
And once again disarm me!

You've robb'd me, saucy Marguerite,

And yet you've so bewitch'd me,
That I am more than half inclin'd

To call your very scornings kind,

And swear that, though my peace of mind
Be stolen, you've enrich'd me!

AMELIA B. EDWARDS.

Links with Heaven.

UR God in Heaven, from that holy place,
To each of us an Angel guide has given;
But Mothers of dead children have more

grace

For they give Angels to their God and
Heaven.

How can a Mother's heart feel cold or weary
Knowing her dearer self safe, happy, warm?
How can she feel her road too dark or dreary

Who knows her treasure sheltered from the storm?

How can she sin? Our hearts may be unheeding-
Our God forgot-our holy Saints defied-

But can a mother hear her dead child pleading
And thrust those little angel hands aside?

Those little hands stretched down to draw her ever
Nearer to God by mother love :-we all

Are blind and weak,-yet surely She can never
With such a stake in Heaven, fail or fall.

She knows that when the mighty Angels raise
Chorus in Heaven, one little silver tone.

Is hers for ever-that one little praise,
One little happy voice is all her own.

We may not see her sacred crown of honour,
But all the angels flitting to and fro
Pause smiling as they pass-they look upon her
As mother of an angel whom they know,

One whom they left nestled at Mary's feet-
The children's place in Heaven-who softly sings
A little chant to please them, slow and sweet,
And smiling strokes their little folded wings.

Or gives them her white lilies or her beads
To play with:-yet, in spite of flower or song
They often lift a wistful look that pleads

And asks her why their mother stays so long.

Then our dear Queen makes answer they may call Her very soon: meanwhile they are beguiled To wait and listen while She tells them all

A story of her Jesus as a child.

Ah, Saints in Heaven may pray with earnest will
And pity for their weak and erring brothers!
Yet there is prayer in Heaven more mighty still-
The little Children pleading for their Mothers.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.