uman kind,
Strong to reclaim the wandering,
And the lost lamb to find;
To help the suffering, and to bear
Thine own adversity;
To speak brave words for truth and right,
And strike for liberty.

My _whole_ is a mournful little bird,
That in the twilight dim
Complains how hardly he's been used,
Till all must pity him.
But not one word of what he did
Reveals the doleful wight,--
His _mother's_ story could we hear,
We might say, "Served him right!"

_Whip-poor-will._

FAITHFUL LITTLE RUTH.

Little Ruth Mason sat one sweet June morning in the church-porch, by
the side of her old grandfather, who stood reverently leaning on his
staff, with his hat in his hand. They were both watching from that
ivied porch a touching and impressive scene,--the burial service in the
old churchyard.

Mr. Mason had been for many years the sexton of the parish, and though
now too old to discharge the duties of the office, he felt such a
loving interest in the parish church, one of the finest in England,
that he could not keep away from it. Every day he visited the scene of
his old labors, and kindly gave the new sexton the benefit of his long
experience. Sometimes he might be seen kneeling in silent prayer in
the noble chancel, the sunlight that streamed through the stained
windows falling in tender glory on his venerable head. Sometimes he
would linger by the hour in the beautiful churchyard, beside the graves
of his wife, his son, and his son's wife, all the dear ones God had
given him, except one little granddaughter. This last remaining object
of his affection and care was a lovely and loving child, of a
peculiarly thoughtful mind, and of a sweet, constant, religious nature.
She had been carefully trained by a good grandmother, and was prudent
and industrious beyond her years. When not in the little village
school, she was almost always with her grandfather, his little
companion, pupil, and house-keeper.

This interesting orphan child was most kindly regarded by many of the
good village people. She seemed so lonely and helpless in the old
sexton's desolate cottage,--but a poor place at best. Yet she was
hardly an object of pity. Her father and mother had died in her
infancy, and after her first childish grieving for her grandmother was
past, she seemed quite happy and content with the care and
companionship of her grandfather. It was with difficulty that she had
been pe