NATURE DESIGNED FOR OUR ENJOYMENT

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But they smile; they find a music centered in a doleful

song

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are strong;
Chanted from a race of ill-used men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil,
Till they perish and they suffer-some, 'tis whispered-
down in hell

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

NATURE DESIGNED FOR OUR ENJOYMENT.

From "Lectures to Young Men," by permission of Messrs. Fords, Howard & Hulbert, New York.

THE

HE necessity of amusement is admitted on all hands. There is an appetite of the eye, of the ear, and of every sense, for which God has provided the material. Gayety of every degree, this side of puerile levity, is wholesome to the body, to the mind, and to the morals. Nature is a vast repository of manly enjoyments. The magnitude of God's works is not less admirable than its exhilarating beauty. The rudest forms have something of beauty; the ruggedest strength is graced with some charm; the very pins and rivets and clasps of nature are attractive by qualities of beauty, more than is necessary for mere utility. The sun could go down without gorgeous clouds; evening could advance without its evanescent brilliance; trees might have flourished without symmetry; flowers have existed without odor, and fruit without flavor. When

I have journeyed through forests, where ten thousand shrubs and vines exist without apparent use; through prairies, whose undulations exhibit sheets of flowers innumerable, and absolutely dazzling the eye with their prodigality of beauty-beauty, not a tithe of which is ever seen by man-I have said, it is plain that God is Himself passionately fond of beauty, and the earth is His garden, as an acre is man's. God has made us like Himself, to be pleased by the universal beauty of the world. He has made provision in nature, in society, and in the family, for amusement and exhilaration enough to fill the heart with the perpetual sunshine of delight.

Upon this broad earth, purfled with flowers, scented with odors, brilliant in colors, vocal with echoing and reechoing melody, I take my stand against all demoralizing pleasure. Is it not enough that our Father's house is sc full of dear delights, that we must wander prodigal to the swine-herd for husks, and to the slough for drink ?—when the trees of God's heritage bend over our head and solicit our hand to pluck the golden fruitage, must we still go in search of the apples of Sodom, outside fair and inside ashes?

Men shall crowd to the circus to hear clowns, and see rare feats of horsemanship, but a bird may poise beneath the very sun, or flying downward, swoop from the high heaven; then flit with graceful ease hither and thither, pouring liquid song as if it were a perennial fountain of sound-no man cares for that.

Upon the stage of life, the vastest tragedies are performing in every act; nations pitching headlong to their final catastrophe; others, raising their youthful forms to begin the drama of existence. The world of society is as full of exciting interest as nature is full of beauty. The great dramatic throng of life is bustling along the wise, the fool, the clown, the miser, the bereaved, the broken

hearted. Life mingles before us smiles and tears, sighs and laughter, joy and gloom, as the spring mingles the winter storm and summer sunshine. To this vast Theatre which God hath builded, where stranger plays are seen than ever author writ, man seldom cares to come. When God dramatizes, when nations act, or all the human kind conspire to educe the vast catastrophe, men sleep and snore, and let the busy scene go on, unlooked, unthought upon. It is my object then, not to withdraw the young from pleasure, but from unworthy pleasures; not to lessen their enjoyments, but to increase them, by rejecting the counterfeit and the vile.

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

AFTERWHILES.

Permission of The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, Ind.

W

HERE are they-the Afterwhiles

Luring us the lengthening miles

Of our lives? Where is the dawn

With the dew across the lawn

Stroked with eager feet the far

Way the hills and valleys are?
Where the sun that smites the frown

Of the eastward-gazer down?

Where the rifted wreaths of mist
O'er us, tinged with amethyst,
Round the mountain's deep defiles?
Where are all the afterwhiles?

Afterwhile-and we will go
Thither, yon, and to and fro
From the stifling city-streets
To the country's cool retreats-

From the riot to the rest
Where hearts beat the placidest;
Afterwhile, and we will fall
Under breezy trees, and loll
In the shade, with thirsty sight
Drinking deep the blue delight
Of the skies that will beguile
Us as children—afterwhile.

Afterwhile-and one intends
To be gentler to his friends—
To walk with them, in the hush
Of still evenings, o'er the plush
Of home-leading fields, and stand
Long at parting, hand in hand:
One, in time, will joy to take
New resolves for some one's sake,
And wear then the look that lies
Clear and pure in other eyes-
He will soothe and reconcile
His own conscience-afterwhile.

Afterwhile-we have in view
A far scene to journey to,—
Where the old home is, and where
The old mother waits us there,
Peering, as the time grows late,
Down the old path to the gate.
How we'll click the latch that locks

In the pinks and hollyhocks,
And leap up the path once more
Where she waits us at the door!
How we'll greet the dear old smile,
And the warm tears-afterwhile!

Ah, the endless afterwhiles!

Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles,
In the distance far withdrawn,
Stretching on, and on, and on,
Till the fancy is footsore

And faints in the dust before
The last milestone's granite face,
Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space.
O far glimmering worlds and wings,
Mystic smiles and beckonings,
Lead us, through the shadowy aisles
Out into the afterwhiles.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

A VISIT TO BELLE YARD.

From "Bleak House."

(Adapted.)

WHILE my guardian and I were in London we were

constantly beset by home missionaries to visit Belle Yard, a narrow alley some distance from our hotel, so one bright morning we repaired thither.

We soon found the chandler's shop. In it was a goodnatured looking old woman with a dropsy or an asthma, or perhaps both.

"Neckett's children ?" said she, in reply to my inquiries. "Yes, surely, Miss. Up three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs," and she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key and glanced at her; but she took it for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the children's door, I came out without asking any more questions and led the way up the dark stairs. We went to the top room; I tapped on the