In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
Are clustered joys serene of other days.
Upon its gentle, sloping hillsides bend
The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust
Of dear, departed ones; yet in that land
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand,
As first they did before the prison-tomb
Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung
With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below..

Others are floating through the dreamy air,

White as the falling snow, their margins tinged

With gold and crimson hues. Their shadows fall Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening's peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,

Unto the utmost verge of memory's land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,

And memory dim with dark oblivion joins,

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell

Upon the ear in childhood's early morn;

And, wandering thence along the rolling years,

I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man's estate.

The path of youth winds down through many a vale,

And on the brink of many a dread abyss,

From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf

And beckons toward the verge. Again the path Leads o'er the summits where the sunbeams fall; And thus in light, in sunshine and in gloom, Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along.

THE DECORATING MANIA.

Charles and his city wife came home
About Thanksgiving day;
She's a smart gal an' all for style,
And style ain't much my way.
She looked about our sitting-room
(I own it's sort o' bare),

And said she soon could give our house

A fashionable air.

"You needn't purchase things," says she
With a superior smile,

"I'll use your common household goods,
For them are all the style."

And with a little gilt and such,

She fixed us up so fine,

That when I looked about the house

I hardly knew 'twas mine.

Well! pa and me, at first were pleased
But pa soon cried in wrath,

"Where is the old snow-shovel gone?
I want to make a path."
And there it was a' painted up
With many a bud and rose,
And hanging on the parlor wall
By sky-blue ribbon bows.

And soon it was my turn to fret
When ironing day came round;
I had two favorite flatirons,

But only one I found.

I went into the sitting-room

And there I found the mate
All gilded up to look like gold,
And made a paper-weight.

And when pa bought a steak, I found
Of broiler I had lack;

The gridron was fixed to be

A fine newspaper rack.

And all the tins for jelly-cake

Had been well washed from grease,

And painted up like plaques, to stand
Upon the mantel-piece.

But when pa found his old arm-chair
That hugged the kitchen fire,
A' painted white, and hung with bows,
The way some folks admire.
And standing in the sitting-room,
Too nice and fine to use,

He said that fashionable styles
He henceforth should refuse.

So pa and me we both agreed
That fashion hadn't paid,

And that we'd use our common things

For what they most seemed made.

So down came shovels, down came pans, And off came every bow,

And things are now more comfortable, If not so much for show.