The Two Anchors.

T was a gallant sailor man

Had just come home from sea, And as I passed him in town

He sang, "Ahoy!" to me.

I stopped, and saw I knew the man-
Had known him from a boy;
And so I answered, sailor-like,
"Avast!" to his "Ahoy!"

I made a song for him one day-
His ship was then in sight-
"The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right."

I gave his hand a hearty grip,
"So you are back again?
They say you have been pirating
Upon the Spanish Main;
Or was it some rich Indiaman

You robbed of all her pearls?

Of course you have been breaking hearts Of poor Kanaka girls!" "Wherever I have been," he said,

"I kept my ship in sightThe little anchor on the left,

The great one on the right.'"

"I heard last night that you were in; I walked the wharves to-day,

But saw no ship that looked like yours.
Where does the good ship lay?

I want to go on board of her."
"And so you shall," said he,
"But there are many things to do

When one comes home from sea; You know the song you made for me? I sing it morn and night

"The little anchor on the left,

The great one on the right!'"

"But how's your wife and little one?" "Come home with me," he said,

"Go on, go on; I follow you."

I followed where he led,

He had a pleasant little house;

The door was open wide,

And at the door the dearest face

A dearer one inside!

He hugged his wife and child; he sang

His spirits were so light

"The little anchor to the left,

The great one to the right."

'Twas supper-time, and we sat downThe sailor's wife and child,

And he and I; he looked at them,

And looked at me and smiled,

"I think of this when I am tossed

Upon the stormy foam,

And though a thousand leagues away
Am anchored here at home."
Then, giving each a kiss, he said,
"I see in dreams at night
This little anchor on the left,
This great one on my right."

Selling the Farm.

ELL, why don't you say it, husband? I know what you

want to say;

You want to talk about selling the farm, for the mortgage we can not pay.

I know that we can not pay it, I have thought of it o'er and o'er; For the wheat has failed on the corner lot, where wheat never

failed before.

And everything here's gone backward since Willie went off to

sea,

То pay the mortgage and save the farm, the homestead, for you

and me.

I know it was best to give it; it was right that the debts be

paid,

The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours of his weak

ness, made;

And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as well as I,
If the ship had not gone down that night when no other ship

was nigh.

But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've tried to pray— (But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd surely be here

to-day)

I thought that the merciful Father would, somehow, care for the

lad,

Because he was trying to better the past, and because he was all we had,

But now I am well nigh hopeless, since hope for my boy has

fled,

For selling the farm means giving him up, and knowing for sure he's dead.

Oh! Thomas, how can we leave it, the home we have always

known?

We won it away from the forest, and made it so much our own. First day that we kept house together was the day that you

brought me here;

And no other place in the wide, wide world will ever be half sc

dear.

Of course, you remember it, Thomas-I need not ask you, I know, For this is the month, and this is the day-it was twenty-six

years ago.

And don't you remember it, Thomas, the Winter the barn was

made?

How we were so proud and happy, for all our debts were paid— The crops were good that Summer, and everything worked like

a charm,

And we felt so rich and contented to think we had paid for the farm.

And now to think we must leave it, when here I was hoping to

die,

It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the fount of my tears is dry.

There's a man up there in the village that's wanting to buy, you

say.

Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it; but why does he come to

day?

But, there it is wrong to grieve you, for you have enough to

bear,

And in all of our petty troubles you have always borne your

share.

I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish grown. There, there go on to the village, let me have it out alone. Poor Thomas, he's growing feeble, he steps so weary and slow, There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty-six years ago. But I know that his heart is youthful as it was when we first were wed,

And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for Willie, our boy

that is dead.

Oh, Willie, my baby Willie, I never shall see him more;

I never shall hear his footsteps, as he comes through the open

door.

"How are you, dear little mother?" were always the words he'd

say;

It seems as if I would give the world to hear it again to-day. I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so early or late,