Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and the cricket's

Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, MURDER!

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard

them;

But they did say their prayers, and addressed them Again to sleep.

Lady M. There are two lodged together.

Macb. One cried, God bless us! and Amen! the

other;

As they had seen me with these hangman's hands
Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen,
When they did say, God bless us.

Lady M. Consider it not so deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce
Amen?

I had most need of blessing, and Amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady M. These deeds must not be thought of After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no

more!

MACBETH doth murder sleep-the innocent sleep-
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast:-

Lady M.

What do you mean?

Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more, to all the

house;

GLAMIS hath murdered sleep; and therefore CAWDOR Shall sleep no morc— -MACBETH shall sleep no more!

Lady M. Who was it thus cried? Why, worthy
thane,

You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-sickly of things. Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there. Go, carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macb.

I'll go no more: I am afraid to think on what I have done:

Look on't again, I dare not.

Lady M.

Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,

I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,

For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.

Mach.

Whence is that knocking?

How is't with me, when every noise appalls me?

What hands are here?-Ha? they pluck out mine.

eyes!

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hands? No: this my hand will

rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green-one red.

Reenter Lady MACBETH.

Lady M. My hands are of your color; but I shame

To wear a heart so white. [Knocking.] I hear a

knocking

At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber:

A little water clears us of this deed;

How easy is it, then? is it, then?

Your constancy

Hark! more

Has left you unattended. [Knocking.]

knocking;

Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macb. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. )

[Knocking.]

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.

MOTHER.

I want to speak to you of your mother. It may be that you have noticed a careworn look upon her face lately. Of course, it has not been brought there by any act of yours, still it is your duty to chase it away. I want you to get up to-morrow morning and get breakfast; and when your mother comes, and begins to express her surprise, go right up to her and kiss You can't imagine how it will brighten her dear

her.

face.

Besides, you owe her a kiss or two. Away back, when you were a little girl, she kissed you when no one else was tempted by your fever-tainted breath and swollen face. You were not as attractive then as you And through those years of childish sunshine and shadows, she was always ready to cure, by the magic of a mother's kiss, the little, dirty, chubby hands whenever they were injured in those first skirmishes with the rough old world.

are now.

And then the midnight kiss with which she routed so many bad dreams, as she leaned above your restless pillow, have all been on interest these long, long years.

Of course, she is not so pretty and kissable as you are; but if you had done your share of work during the last ten years, the contrast would not be so marked.

Her face has more wrinkles than yours, and yet if you were sick, that face would appear far more beautiful than an angel's, as it hovered over you; watching every opportunity to minister to your comfort, and every one of those wrinkles would seem to be bright wavelets of sunshine chasing each other over the dear face.

She will leave you one of these days. These burdens, if not lifted from her shoulders, will break her down. Those rough, hard hands that have done so many necessary things for you, will be crossed upon her lifeless breast.

Those neglected lips, that gave you your first baby kiss, will be forever closed, and those sad, tired eyes will have opened in eternity, and then you will appreciate your mother; but it will be too late.

CENTENNIAL HYMN.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Our fathers' God, from out whose hand.
The centuries fall like grains of sand,
We meet to-day, united, free,

And loyal to our land and Thee.
To bless Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.

Here, where of old, by Thy design,
The fathers spake that word of Thine,
Whose echo is the glad refrain
Of rended bolt and falling chain,
To grace our festal time, from all
The zones of earth our guests we call.
Be with us while the new world greets
The old world, thronging all its streets,
Unveiling all the triumphs won
By art or toil, beneath the sun;
And unto common good ordain
This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast here in concord furled
The war-flags of a gathered world,

Beneath our Western skies fulfil
The Orient's mission of good will,

And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,
Send back the Argonauts of peace.

For art and labor meet in truce,
For beauty made the bride of use,
We thank Thee, while, withal, we crave
The austere virtues strong to save,
The honor proof to place or gold,
The manhood never bought nor sold!