ard: it rung like a silver bell;
And these were the words, "The prodigal turns, so tired by want and sin,
He seeks his father's open door--he weeps--and enters in."

Why, sir, you're crying as hard as I; what--is it really done?
Have the loving voice and the Helping Hand brought back my wandering son?
Did you kiss me and call me "Mother"--and hold me to your breast,
Or is it one of the taunting dreams that come to mock my rest?
No--no! thank God, 'tis a dream come true! I can die, for He's saved
my boy!
And the poor old heart that had lived on grief was broken at last by joy!

_Lucy M. Blinn._

Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud!

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall die.

The child whom a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each--all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye
Shone beauty and pleasure--her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king who the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes--like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes--even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our f