We get back our mete as we measure-
We cannot do wrong and feel right,
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
For justice avenges each slight.
The air for the wing of the sparrow,
The bush for the robin and wren,
But alway the path that is narrow
And straight, for the children of men.

"T is not in the pages of story

The heart of its ills to beguile,

Though he who makes courtship to glory
Gives all that he hath for her smile.
For when from her heights he has won her,
Alas! it is only to prove

That nothing's so sacred as honor,
And nothing so loyal as love!

We cannot make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
And sometimes the thing our life misses,
Helps more than the thing which it gets.

For good lieth not in pursuing,

Nor gaining of great nor of small,

But just in the doing and doing

As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating,

Against the world, early and late,

No jot of our courage abating

Our part is to work and to wait. And slight is the sting of his trouble

Whose winnings are less than his worth; For he who is honest is noble,

Whatever his fortunes or birth.

Phoebe Cary.

1824-1871.

OVER-PAYMENT.

I took a little good seed in my hand,
And cast it tearfully upon the land;
Saying, of this the fowls of heaven shall eat,
Or the sun scorch it with his burning heat.

Yet I, who sowed, oppressed by doubts and fears,
Rejoicing gathered in the ripened ears;
For when the harvest turned the fields to gold,
Mine yielded back to me a thousand-fold.

A little child begged humbly at my door;
Small was the gift I gave her, being poor,
But let my heart go with it: therefore we
Were both made richer by that charity.

My soul with grief was darkened, I was bowed
Beneath the shadow of an awful cloud;
When one, whose sky was wholly overspread,
Came to me asking to be comforted.

It roused me from my weak and selfish fears;
It dried my own to dry another's tears;
The bow, to which I pointed in his skies,
Set all my cloud with sweetest promises.

Once, seeing the inevitable way

My feet must tread, through difficult places lay,I cannot go alone, I cried, dismayed—

I faint, I fail, I perish, without aid!

Yet, when I looked to see if help were nigh,
A creature weaker, wretcheder than I,

One on whose head life's fiercest storms had beat,
Clung to my garments, falling at my feet.

I saw, I paused no more: my courage found,
I stooped and raised her gently from the ground:
Through every peril safe I passed at length,
For she who leaned upon me gave me strength.

Once, when I hid my wretched self from Him, My Father's brightness seemed withdrawn and

dim;

But when I lifted up mine eyes I learned
His face to those who seek is always turned.

A half-unwilling sacrifice I made :

Ten thousand blessings on my head were laid;
I asked a comforting spirit to descend:
God made himself my comforter and friend.

I sought His mercy in a faltering prayer,
And lo! His infinite tenderness and care,
Like a great sea, that hath no ebbing tide,
Encompassed me with love on every side!

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

A Christmas Story.

Across the German Ocean,

In a country far from our own,
Once a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village
Where the houses were poor and small,
But the house of little Gottlieb

Was the poorest one of all.

He was not large enough to work,
And his mother could no more

(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes,

And turn, and patch, and darn ;

For never any woman yet

Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night beside her chair
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan

The wonderful things he would do for her When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.

'T was only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then

The Christ-child, who was born that day,
Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said: "He will never find us,
Our home is so mean and small.
And we, who have most need of them,
Will get no gifts at all."

When all at once a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,

And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.

Next day, when the postman's letters
Came from all over the land,

Came one for the Christ-child, written
In a child's poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do;

So he went to the Burgomaster,

As the wisest man he knew.