eeping this light, and the entrance to the harbor open, a
small vessel may enter with the greatest safety. During the silent
watches of the night, the widow may be seen, like "Norma of the Fitful
Head," trimming her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some
misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this
she receives no manner of remuneration--it is pure, unmingled
philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not rest even there; for
she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to
share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and
glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward.
She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to
the under-writers. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed
her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the
remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to
save." This circumstance seems to have prompted her present devoted
and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

* * * * *

Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a
class-mate and friend; but it sounds "as good as new." If he should
happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two
lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and
Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.

THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend,
That knockest at my pane,
Whence is thy being? Where dost end,
Thou little drop of rain?

I come from the deep,
Where the dark waves sleep,
And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep;
I go to the brow
Of the mountain-snow,
And trickle again to the depths below.

But, wanderer, how didst win thy way
From caverns of the sea?
Did not thy sisters say thee nay,
Sweet harbinger of glee?

With his far-darting flame,
The Day-king came,
And bore me away in a cloudy frame;
And I sailed in the air,
Till the zephyrs bare
Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.

And why dost change that tiny form,
Thou sweetest ocean-child?
Why art the snow in winter-storm,
The rain in summer mild?

The breath from above
Of Him who is Love,
In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove,
Lest the young-budding earth
Be destroyed in the birth,
And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.

And wilt thou