SUCCESS.

By permission of and arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. He must

EVERY man must patiently bide his time.

wait. More particularly in lands like my native land, where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful. Our national character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live in the midst of a battle-there is such a din, such a hurrying to and fro. In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward. In the press of our life it is difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and tide all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main.

The voices of the Present say, "Come!" But the voices of the Past say, "Wait!" With calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent upstream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainty, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream.

Therefore should every man wait-should bide his time. Not in listless idleness, not in useless pastime, not in querulous dejection—but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavors, always willing and fulfilling and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion.

And if it never comes, what matters it? What matters it to the world whether you or I or another man did such a deed or wrote such a book, so be it the deed and book were well done? It is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition to care too much about fameabout what the world says of us; to be always looking

into the faces of others for approval; to be always anxious for the effect of what we do and say; to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE FIRE BY THE SEA.

From Mary Clemmer Ames' Life of Alice and Phoebe Cary.

By permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of the works of Alice and Phoebe Cary.

HERE were seven fishers, with nets in their hands,

THERE

And they walked and talked by the seaside sands;
Yet sweet as the sweet dew fall

The words they spake, though they spake so low,
Across the long, dim centuries flow,

And we know them, one and all—
Aye! know them and love them all.

Seven sad men in the days of old,
And one was gentle, and one was bold,

And they walked with downcast eyes;
The bold was Peter, the gentle was John,
And they all were sad, for the Lord was gone,
And they knew not if He would rise-
Knew not if the dead would rise.

The livelong night, till the moon went out
In the drowning waters, they beat about;
Beat slow through the fog their way,
And the sails drooped down with wringing wet,
And no man drew but an empty net,
And now 'twas the break of day-
The great, glad break of day.

"Cast in your nets on the other side!"
('Twas Jesus speaking across the tide ;)
And they cast and were dragging hard;

But that disciple whom Jesus loved

Cried straightway out, for his heart was moved: "It is our risen Lord

Our Master, and our Lord!"

Then, Simon, girding his fisher's coat,

Went over the nets and out of the boat

Aye! first of them all was he;

Repenting sore the dismal past,

He feared no longer his heart to cast
Like an anchor into the sea-

Down deep in the hungry sea.

And the others, through the mists so dim,
In a little ship came after him,

Dragging their net through the tide;

And when they had gotten close to the land
They saw a fire of coals on the sand,

And, with arms of love so wide,
Jesus, the crucified!

"Tis long, and long, and long ago
Since the rosy lights began to flow
O'er the hills of Galilee;

And with eager eyes and lifted hands
The seven fishers saw on the sands

The fire of coals by the sea-
On the wet, wild sands by the sea.

'Tis long ago, yet faith in our souls
Is kindled just by that fire of coals

That streamed o'er the mists of the sea,
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat,
Went over the nets and out of the boat,
To answer, "Lov'st thou me?"
Thrice over, "Lov'st thou me?"

PHOEBE CARY.

THIS

OLD DADDY TURNER.

HIS was the picture in front of "Old Daddy Turner's " cabin in the "Kaintuck" quarter the other afternoon : Two colored men sitting on a wash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog sleeping in the sun at their feet; and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence, "Now, Jeems Henry, you git right down from dat! Doan' you know dat Daddy Turner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben ?"

Here was the picture inside. The poor old whiteheaded man lying on his dying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. Near him sat his faithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. Farther away was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, and shaking their heads as they cast glances toward the bed. For a long time the old man lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up. A sun as warm as spring-time poured into the room. He took notice of it, and a change came to his face as his eyes rested upon his grieving wife.

"Ize bin gwine back in my mind," he whispered, as he reached out his thin hand for her to clasp. "Fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'long de same path. We sung de same songs, we prayed de same prayers; we had hold of han's when we 'lited in de gospel ranks, an' sot our faces to'rds de golden gates of hebben. Ole woman, Ize gwine to part wid you! Yes, Ize gwine ter leave yer all alone."

"O Daddy! Daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him.

"Doan't take on so, chile! It's de Lawd's doin's, not mine. To-morrow de sun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. All de arternoon Ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of a big

broad ribber. Ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in a leetle time I'll be wid 'em."

She put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his, and sobbed; and he placed his hand on her head, and said :—

"It's de Lawd, chile,-de bressed Lawd! Chile, Ize tried to be good to yer. You has been good to me. We am nuffin but ole cull'd folks, po' in ebery ting, but tryin' to do right by ebery body. When dey tole me I'd got to die, I wasn't sartin if de Lawd wanted a po' old black man like me up dar. Yes, chile, He will! Dis mawnin' I heard de harps playin', de rustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up, an' I got a cl'ar view right frew de pearly gates. I saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' dey was jist as white as anybody; an' a hundred han's beckoned me to come right up dar 'mong 'em."

"O Daddy! I'll be all alone-all alone!" she wailed. "Hush, chile! Ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye. Ize gwine to put my han' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' when night shets down, an' you pray to de Lawd, I'll be kneelin' 'long side of ye. Ye won't see me, but I'll be wid You's ole an' gray. It won't be long before ye'll git de summons. In a little time de cloud will lif' fur ye, an' I'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms."

ye.

"But I can't let you go; I will hold you down heah wid me!"

"Chile! Ize sorry for ye, but Ize drawin' nigh dat shady path. Hark! I kin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down to de broad ribber! Dey will dig a grave, an' lay my ole bones dar, an' in a week all de world but you will forgit me. But doan' grieve, chile. De Lawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause I'm ole an' po' an' black. I kin see dem shinin' way up dar-see our boy at de gate--ha'h de sweetest music dat angels kin play! Light de lamp, chile, 'cause de night has come !"