Telling Fortunes.

TELLING FORTUNES.

ALICE CAREY.

23

"Be not among wine-bibbers; among riotous eaters of flesh: for the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shal clothe a man with rags."-Prov. xxii.: 20, 21.

"LL tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad,

I'LL

For you to accept or refuse

The one of them good, and the other one bad:
Now hear them, and say which you choose!

I see, by my gift, within reach of your hand,
A fortune right fair to behold-

A house and a hundred good acres of land,
And harvest.fields yellow as gold.

I see a great orchard, the boughs hanging down
With apples of russet and red;

I see droves of cattle, some white and some brown,
But all of them sleek and well-fed.

I see doves and swallows about the barn-doors,
See the fanning-mill whirling so fast,

See men that are threshing the wheat on the floors:
And now the bright picture is past!

*

And I see, rising dismally up in the place
Of the beautiful house and the land,
A man with a fire-red nose on his face,
And a little brown jug in his hand!

Oh! if you beheld him, my lad, you would wish
That he were less wretched to see,

For his boot-toes, they gape like the mouth of a fish,
And his trousers are out at the knee.

For our text says, the drunkard shall come to be poor,
And drowsiness clothe men with rags;

And he doesn't look much like a man, I am sure,
Who has honest hard cash in his bags.

I've told you two fortunes, my fine little lad,
For you to accept or refuse-

The one of them good, and the other one bad:
And I fancy I know which you'll choose!

24

The First Pocket.

THINK NOT OF THYSELF.

A. R. B.

WOULDS'T thou be happy? Think not of thyself;

One chord oft struck becomes a weary sound, Yet is, when mingled with its brother notes, Melodious found.

Woulds't thou be useful? Think not of thyself;
Be as the stream, that stands not at its source,
But flowing onward cheers the the thirsty fields
That wait its course.

Would'st hou be holy? Think not of thyself;
Wh when the sun unveils his glorious light,
Would turn away, and in some darksome cave
Woo murky night?¡

Would'st thou be like thy Master?

Oh then think

Of other men, not of thyself alone!
For even Jesus, while He wandered here,

Sought not His own.

THE FIRST POCKET.

THAT is this tremendous noise?
What can be the matter?

Willie's coming up the stairs

With unusual clatter.

Now he bursts into the room,

Noisy as a rocket:

"Auntie! I'm just five years old-
And I've got a pocket."

Eyes as round and bright as stars;
Cheeks like apples glowing;

Heart that this new treasure fills

Quite to overflowing.

"Jack may have his squeaking boots,

Kate may have her locket,

I've got something better yet—

I have got a pocket!"

All too fresh the joy to make

The Home and the Man.

And ere many days were o'er,
Strangest things did stock it,
Nothing ever came amiss
To this wondrous pocket:

Leather, marbles, bits of string,
Liquorice and candy,

Stones, a ball, his pennies, too-
It was always handy.

And, when Willie's snug in bed,
Should you chance to knock it,
Sundry treasures rattle out
From his crowded pocket.

THE HOME AND THE MAN.
C. C. H.

"As the home, so are the people."

Wit conquests grand and great ;

HAT is progress? Let us reason.

Honours, such as we emblazon

With the emblems of the state?

Is it armies bravely quelling

Civil strife, that direst ban;

Or the building of a dwelling
Where to mould the future man?

What is progress, Lords and Commons,
Ye who guide the nation's will;
Can it be that man and woman's
Nature courts but human ill?
Is it schools for prayer and spelling,
For the Arab class and clan;
Or a healthy human dwelling
For the family of a man?

Progress, human, is the solemn
Home foundation undefiled,
Man the great Corinthian column,
And the ornament the child:
This is progress, onward swelling,
In proportion and in plan.
As we make the human dwelling
So we shape the future man.

25

26

The Pitman to his Wife.

Let us build for health and morals;
Let us raise, in Heaven's name!
Homes to win us lasting laurels,
And to wipe away our shame.
Earthly triumphs these excelling
Are not in creation's span;
For improvement in the dwelling
Means improvement of the man.

THE PITMAN TO HIS WIFE.

DORA GREENWELL.

SIT ye down on the settle, here by me, I've got some

thing to say to thee, wife:

I want to be a new sort of man, and to lead a new sort of

life;

There's but little pleasure and little gain in spending the days I spend,

Just to work like a horse all the days of my life, and to die like a dog at the end.

For where's the profit, and where's the good, if one once begins to think,

In making away with what little sense one had at the first, through drink?

Or in spending one's time, and one's money too, with a lot of chaps that would go

To see one hang'd, and like it as well as any other show?

And as to the pleasure that some folks find in cards or in pitch and toss,

It's little they've ever brought to me, but only a vast of

loss;

We'd be sure to light on some great dispute, and then, to set all right,

The shortest way was to argue it out in a regular stand-up

fight.

I've got a will, dear wife, I say, I've got a will to be

A kinder father to my poor bairns, and a better man to thee, And to leave off drinking, and swearing, and all, no matter what folks may say;

For I see what's the end of such things as these, and I know this is not the way.

The Pitman to his Wife.

27

You'll wonder to hear me talk like this, as I've never

talked before;

But I've got a word in my heart, that has made it glad, and yet has made it sore;

I've got a word like a fire in my heart, that will not let me be,

"Jesus, the Son of God, who loved, and who gave Himself for me."

I've got a word like a sword in my heart, that has pierced it through and through.

When a message comes to a man from Heaven, he needn't ask if it's true;

There's none on earth could frame such a tale, for as strange as the tale may be,—

Jesus, my Saviour, that Thou should'st die for love of a man like me!

Why, only think, now! if it had been Peter, or blessed Paul,

Or John, who used to lean on His breast, one couldn't have wondered at all,

If He'd loved and He'd died for men like these, who loved

Him so well-but, you see,

It was me that Jesus loved, wife! He gave Himself for me.

It was for me that Jesus died! for me, and a world of men Just as sinful and just as slow to give back His love again; He didn't wait till I came to Him, but He loved me at my worst:

He needn't ever have died for me if I could have loved Him first.

And could'st Thou love such a man as me, my Saviour! Then I'll take

More heed to this wand'ring soul of mine, if it's only for Thy sake.

For it was'nt that I might spend my days just in work, and in drink, and in strife,

That Jesus, the Son of God, has given His love and has given His life.

It wasn't that I might spend my life just as my life's been spent,

That He's brought me so near to His mighty Cross, and has told me what it meant.