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THE HlOE CIRCLE.
I SA W FROM'TlHE BEACH. saw from the beach, when the morning was shin ing, A ba:k o'er the waters move gloriously on; 1 canme when the r:un o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. A nd such is the ahte of our life's early pronLis5l, So pissing the spring-tide of joy we have known; BaTh wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning The close of our day, the callm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's return ing, When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul-like the wood that grow precious in burning Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ? -Thomas Moore. ------------ -· ---ca--r -- - TEE WIFE WINS. When they rea'hed the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed with unspeakable disap pointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the. bridge-switch at the rate of a thousand miles a minute. The first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage, and discontentedly turned their horses' heads. homeward. "It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready," Mr. Mann broke the silence vel:y grimly. -"1 was ready before you were," replied his wife. '4 Great heavens !" cried Mr. Mann, with keen impatience, jerking the horses' jaws (tout of pl)ice; just listen to that. I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along, until the whole neighborhood heard rue.'" "Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which none can assume but a woman, "and every time I started d!,wn stairs, you sent me back for some thing you ::ad forgotten." Mr. Mainn groan 1. " This is too much to bear," ihe said, "when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe 1 would rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my gripsack asd fly, while you would want at least six months for prelimi niary plreparations, and then dawdle around tihe whole day of starting until every train had left town." Well, the upshot of the matter was, that the Manns put offt', their visit to Aurora un til the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go ; and the one who failed'to get ready should be left. T.ihe d' of the match came around in due time. [I'he train was going at 10:30, and Mann, after attending to his business, went home at 9:45. "" Now, then," lie shouted, "only three quarters of an hour's time. Fly around ; a fair field and no favors, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with inconceivalble rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel wheln he started oft alone. lie stopped on his way up stairs to pu!l oft his heavy boots to save time. For tih saume reason he pulled off his coat, and lie ran through the dining room kn(i hung it on a corner of the silver-closet. Then he jerked oft' his vest as he rushed through the hall, and tossed it on a hook in tihe hat-rack, and by thie time he had reached hris own room hIe was ready to plunge into his clean elothei. He pulled out thie bureau drawer aimd begani to paw at the thiings like a Scotch terrier after a rat. " Eleanor," hie shrieked, '"whlere are my shirts ?" " In your bureau-drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glass., quietly and deliberately coaxiug a refrac tory crimp into place. "Well, by thunder, they ain't." shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " Il've emptied everything out of the drawer, and there iL-u't a thing in it I ever s-w before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, and would stay where she put it, replied: "These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been looking in your own drawer." "1 don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, "why you couldn't have put my things out for me, when you had nothing else to do all the morning." " Because," said Mrs. Mann, settling her self into an additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favors, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. " Foul !" he shouted in malicious tri umph. "' No buttons on the neck !" "Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweetly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, impatient wan, during whcih she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, `"because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he began to sweat. ie dropped the sjiirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her neck-tie. "Where's my shirt-studs?" he cried. DMrs. Mann went out into another room, and presently came back with her gloves and her hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find in and about the bureau. Then she said: " In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. .Mann hunted up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. "Eleanor," he snarled at last, "I believe you must know where those cuff buttons are." " I haven't seen them,." said the lady, settling her hat; " didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting room last night ?" Mr. Mann remembered, and went clown stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots, and was immediately landed in the hall at the loot of' the stairs with neat ness and dispatch, attended in the transmis sion with more bumps than he could count with Webster's adder, and landing with a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. "Are you nearly ready, Algernon ?" asked the wife of his family, sweetly, lean ing over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. " Can't you throw me down the other boot?" he asked. SMrs. Mann pityingly kicked it down to him. "" My valise ?" he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. "''Up in your dressing-room," she an swered. " Packed ?" "I do not know; unless you packed it yourself-probably not," she replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate, when the door opened, and he shouted : " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it." " You threw it on the hat-rack," she catled ; "good-by, dear." Before she reached the corner of the street, she was hailed again : "E!eanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Mann! Did you wear off my coat ?" She paused and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and cried : "You threw it on the silver-closet." And the street-car ungulfed her gracetul form, and sihe was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they her.ri Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the firont door every now and then, shrieking up the deserted street after the unconscious .Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, and if he had any clean socks and under shirts~, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house.. And wlvhen he iVent away at last. he left the kitchen door, the side door, and Lthe front door, all the down-stair win dows andl the front gate wide open ; and the loungers about the depot were somewhIqt amused, jutst as the train was pulling olut of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, perspiring man, dith his hat on sideways, his vest buttoned two buttons too high, his enffs unbuttoned and neck-tie flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a door-key in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear plat form of the last car.--Farmer's Review. SHADOWS. In this matter-of-fact age, perhaps the last thing that is thought worthy of notice is a shadow, and contempt is freely thrown up on those who are occupied with them. Yet no thoughtful observer of nature can help noticing how thoroughly they are inter woven with every scene, how they heighten the beauty of every landscape, or deepen the sublimity of every grand and majestic view. All .our inner sense of beauty re sponds to their delicate presence on hillside and valley, on the vast expanse of ocean, or the river or the peaceful lake. The artist studies them with delight, and longs to de pict them faithfully on his canvas, for he knows that if his skill deserts him here his art is a failure. Then, too, how much do we owe to shadows! How grateful is their cooling and quieting presence to the heated and wearied traveler! How eagerly we seek them, and how gladly we welcome them when oppressed with the fervent sun rays! Light and warmth, now our great est blessings, would become curses, did not the shadow intervene to protect us from their intensity. Often, indeed, does it seem far more precious to us than the substance of which it is the reflection. True, shadows are not always blessings. Sometimes they are dark, gloomy and lowering, hiding from us the light which we crave and the warmth for which we pine. Then we are glad to creep from under them and to escape their chill. Yet, in either case, viewed rightly, they cannot be described as unreal and un substantial as they seem; they are positive influences, from which we are never free. In the world of human life, shadows play as important a part as in the world of mat ter; as in the one, they exist either to softgn the light or to obscure it, so in the other they fall either to refresh and bless or to darken and chill. Just as the shadow of our figure follows us without any exercise of the will, so a subtile influence is ever emanating from our characters and feelings, over which we have no control. We are always scheming, planning, striving, doing, and we think that these exhaust the power of our lives. But there is another force, silent and unobtrusive, of which we seldom think and never count upon, yet which is more potent and vital than any which our will ever puts forth. It is the power of be ing; the shadow which the innermost self casts upon the world ; the unspoken, unpr meditated, unconscious influence which we are ever shedding, simply by our life. In the home we find the fullest example of the uncalculated power of this shadow. Pa rents are generally anxious to do their best for their children ; they often toil unremit tingly to supply their needs; if thoughtful, they study and plan to develop their minds and est.lish good principles ; if unselfish. they wIfl give up ease, comfort and pleas ure to secure their children's best good, and they do well. Yet, after all, there is anoth er and even more potent influence, which is seldom thought of. It is the shadow which time home casts over the child from its in most life, which is either to be its blessing, protectien and safe~gnmtard tllhtough all com ing years, or a darkemng and chilling pres ence which it can never wholly escape. When men and women look back to the home of their youth, it is this undo'r-current that remains in their memories long after all special effects have passed away. Was their home bright, sunny, fullof love and simple, natural joy? Where *'uth, honor and duty woven into the lives of those who guided them ? It so, how .their hearts spring back with gratitude and joy to the spot where suchl holy and loving influences overshadowed and blessed them ! If, on the contrary, the spirit of the home was gloomy, forbidding and austere; if nervous irritabil ity pervaded the air, or a tone of distrust rand suspicion ttnctutred the intercourse, then the shadow hasibeen ab halul one, and has darkened the whole lite and chilled the whole nature. So each one of us, not only in the house, but everywhere and at all timdes, is casting a shadow either of blessing or of blight. Over words and deeds we can exert some authority; even thoughts may be subjected to the control of a strong willl; but this aroma which our characters are ever shed ding, we can no more prevent than the rose c'an hide her perfume, or the tree withdraw its shadow. Yet we can by no means es cape the responsibility of this unconscious influence, paradox though it seem. The maiden who views her face in the mirror and beholds a scowl, cannot indeed prevent the faithful reflection, but she may drive the scowl from her brow, and so create a new and more attractive image. So, although our characters will throw the shadows of themselves which we can by no means alter, yet the building up of those, characters rest with us. If we keep our hearts truthful, honorable, pure and loving, the shadows they cast will bless all who come under them. Martineau well said: "The noblest workers of the world bequeath us nothing so great as the image of themselves. Their task, be it ever so glorious, is historical and transient; the majesty of their spirit is essential and eternal.--Ex. HOW EASY HE FOUND IT TO WRITE FOR A NEWSPAPER. He was a friend of mine, and used fre quently to drop in and give me advice as to how I ought to run my paper. He was a minister, and consequently thought I should devote it a littld more to the cause of religion and not quite so much to politics. He said it could be made a power for good in the western land in which we bad both cast our fortunes. He was a lover of the original, too, and said lhe disliked to see reprint, thought I should write more-take the time, in fact, to fill the paper right up with good stuff. It seemed such an easy thing for him that one day I ventured to say : " Brother, you had a glorious meeting at the school-house, I hear; suppose you write it up for me ?" He didn't seem, to act as though he want ed to. I urged. He flushed a little and stood around, awk ward-like. He had never been honored with an invitation to write for the press be fore. I still urged. Then he took off his gloves and. hat. Then I gave him a seat at the table, with paper and pencil. lie sat down to editorial work. He was always talking about how it should be done, and now he was at it. Ile started in. I went about my work, and having writ ten up a column or two of matter for the day's paper, left him still writing while I went out to solicit some advertisements. I was gone an houtr or two, and when I canme back he was still at it. Ile was sweating awfully. 1113 eyes were bent on the dazzling white paper before him, and his pencil was a stub. I began to grow frightened. I knew I had only a small weekly paper, and that its four columns of space (one side wa a patent in ward), would not hold the contents of the Bible and supplementary smessages from heaven besides. At last the man looked up and timidly ad vanced with a piece of paper in one hand and suddenly went back to change a word. Then he cane on again, and like one who hadcpassd through a vision held out a piece of p'uper and boldlly asked : "" Will that do ?" I looked at it. There were just seven lihes of it, advertising measure. lie was a large man ,weighing over 30 pounds then, btrt wheo 1 met him three weeks later he weighed less than 155. He hald been sick. 'Thl'e seven-line nine-hour eflort was too nmuch for him. But it was not mll lost. He never adtivised an editor again. Neither d(lid he compose for a paper again. It was hard work for him to write, and he saw hle was not cut out for an editor.-Chicago Journal. GOLDEN SHEAVES. Fashion Is a troeacheroum vixen That mnahs nus slaves, Then laughs to scorn Our weaty-laden hearts. -Few attributes of character are more charming than the faeulty of graceeully acknowledging one's errors.