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of recognized poetic measure. He has a style peculiar to himself, and his writings are full of meaning, beauty and interest. Of his productions, Underwood says: "Pupils who are accustomed to associate the idea of poetry with regular classic measure in rhyme, or in ten-syllabled or elastic hexameters, will commence these short and simple prose sentences with surprise, and will wonder how any number of them can form a poem. But let them read aloud with a mind in sympathy with the picture as it is displayed, and they will find by nature's unmistakable responses, that the author is a poet, and possesses the poet's uncommunicable power to touch

the heart

The Two Mysteries.

In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into. the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said "We don't, either."

he, adding,

W

E know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;

The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go
Nor why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know.

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day

Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could

say.

Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;

Yet oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see!

Then might they say these vanished ones-and blessed is the

thought!

"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may tell ye naught; We may not tell it to the quick-this mystery of death

Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent
So those who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead:
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

The Model Church.

ELL, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped

there to-day;

It made me think of good old times, before my hairs were gray.
The meetin'-house was finer built than they were years ago;
But then I found, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the door;

He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor.
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through
The long aisle of that pleasant church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard the singin'-it had the old-time ring-
The preacher said with trumpet-voice, "Let all the people sing";
The tune was "Coronation," and the music upwards rolled
Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit caught the fire,
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,
And sang, as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall,
Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more,
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;
I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten form
And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm.

The preachin'! well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;

I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't read;

He hadn't time to read, for the lightnin' of his eye

Went passing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth,
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth.
"Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed,
'Twas full of invitations to Christ-and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;
He shot the golden sentences straight at the finest pews.
And, though I can't see very well, I saw the falling tear
That told me hell was some way off, and heaven very near.
How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place!
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with

friend,

When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no end.

I hope to meet that minister, the congregation, too,

In the dear home beyond the skies, that shines from heaven's

blue,

I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray,
The face of God's dear servant who preached His Word to-day.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won,
The shining goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run.
D'er the river we are nearin', they are thronging to the shore
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

Old Times and New.

WAS in my easy chair at home,
About a week ago,

I sat and puffed my light cigar,
As usual, you must know.

I mused upon the Pilgrim flock,
Whose luck it was to land

Upon almost the only Rock
Among the Plymouth sand.

In my mind's eye, I saw them leave
Their weather-beaten bark-

Before them spread the wintry wilds,
Behind, rolled Ocean dark.

Alone that noble handful stood

While savage foes lurked nigh

Their creed and watchword, "Trust in God.

And keep your powder dry."

Imagination's pencil then

That first stern winter painted,

When more than half their number died,

And stoutest spirits fainted.