too late for happiness.'

With dreary reproaches came memory, disenthralled. I dreamed of my
youth, its love, and its aim. I pictured a porch with its breeze-tossed
vines, a rocking boat on a limpid lake, a narrow path through
twilight-brooded woods, and each scene the shrine of a sweet face with
brown, banded hair, and love-lit eyes.

And these pictures were the True. My heart cleaved the eternity of
separation, beaconing my sad return to them, and I followed gladly, hope
being not yet dead.

The summer porch was shady with fragrant vines--but I missed the face. I
buoyed my heart, and said, 'Of course she would not have waited so
long.'

I went to the woods, through the narrow paths where of old the birds
twittered, and javelins of sunshine pierced--on, where we had gone
together long ago, till I reached the dell where we pledged our love.
Ah! I should find her here--

The sweet face where I should kindle smiles--the brown hair I could once
more stroke--the lithe form that I longed to clasp--the true heart that
should beat for me in a quiet home.

No. No waiting eyes--no true heart --no glad smile. But a cross and a
grave and a name:
'CHRISTINE.'

* * * * *

Aspirants of the Age! Offspring of Alo[=e]us I you have chosen a worship
that admits not a divided heart. But your faith, like the Mystic's,
shall also make your strength; and though _Aspiro_ stoops not to your
stature, yet she reigns, and she rewards. Be true. Be firm. Even if it
be upon the wreck of some frail, temporal heart-hopes, you _must_ reach
higher, till, in the sheen of the approving smile, you read the
world-lesson: Salvation through sacrifice. Through strife and
suffering--excellence.

THE RED MAN'S PLEA.

ALMOST LITERALLY THE REPLY OF 'RED IRON' TO GOVERNOR RAMSEY.

The snow is on the ground, and still my people wait;
They ask but their just dues, ere yet it be too late;
For we are poor, our huts are cold, we starve, we die,
While you are rich, your fires are warm, your harvests lie
High heaped above the hunting grounds, our fathers' graves,
We sold you long ago. Alas! our famished braves
Have sold e'en their own graves! When dead, our bones shall stay
To whiten on the ground, that our Great Father may
More surely see where his Dacotah children died--
His dusky children whom ye robbed, and then belied.

BUCKLE, DRAPER, AND A SCIENCE O