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John B. Gough

The Bird with a Broken Wing.

I WALKED in the woodland meadows, Where sweet the thrushes sing, And found on a bed of mosses A bird with a broken wing.

I healed its wound, and each morning It sang its old, sweet strain, But the bird with the broken pinion Never soared high again.

I found a young Life, broken By sin's seductive art, And touched with a Christ-like pity, I took him to my heart.

He lived with a noble purpose, And struggled not in vain, But the life that sin had stricken Never soared as high again.

Rut the bird with the broken pinion Kept another from the snare, And the life that sin had stricken Raised another from despair. lamb, and fixing his eyes on this, he saw that it was jerked repeatedly against the skirting of the boards. The mystery was now revealed. A mouse had dragged this bone to the entrance of its hole, but could not pull it through. It was holding on by the tough bit of sinew attached to the end of the bone, and was jerking it back and forward, thus producing the knocking sound which had seemed so mysterious.

This story shows that many sights and sounds which seem mysterious may be explained by a little perseverance and common sense. The Engineer's Story.

O, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky; I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That'll ring in my head forever, Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored- Climbing the top of the grade; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight- Ten minutes behind the time!

Lost in the slackened motion Of the up-grade's heavy climb ; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so, The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow; But to me-ahold of the lever- It seemed a child alway, "Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light.

We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up train passed, oft called me, A playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve.

I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven-eighty paces Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant-one, awful and only, The world flew round in my brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain ; "The train I thought flying forever, With mad irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night wind Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine- How I got there I never could tell- My feet planted down on the crossbar, Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night, While my eye gauged the distance, and measured The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that, turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare.

I know little more-but I heard it- The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking--the engine In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled, with a shudder I swept my hand over the track; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a-climbing, To nestle securely there.

We are not much given to crying- We men that run on the road- But that night, they said, there were faces, With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning As I neared the cabin again, My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the train.

When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door; And her look with a fulness of heaven Blesses me evermore.

T Plucking Wild Flowers.

HOU pluckest one to wear upon thy breast; To quaff the fragrance it is ever breathing.

Oh, cherish lovingly thy bosom's guest, Its graceful tendrils round thy heart-strings wreathing! 'Twill flourish gaily in the light of smiles, And from such sunshine healthful vigor borrow, To soothe in turn with soft enchanting wiles Thy mind, when darkened by a cloud of sorrow.

Showering the sweets of true and constant love On all thy dear ones, make life ever vernal; Until transplanted they shall bloom above, With brighter hues, unfading and eternal!

B Moral Decision.

HILE Barry, the painter, was a young man, residing at Dublin, an incident occurred which strikingly illustrates the character of the man.

He was brought into contact with some young persons of dissipated habits, who on several occasions enticed him to form one of their tavern parties.

As he was returning home late at night from one of these carousals, he was struck by a sudden conviction of the folly of the course he was pursuing in thus wasting the time which might so much more properly be employed in laying the foundation of his future respectability and independence. Diffident perhaps of his own power of foregoing the gratifications which he had the means of purchasing, and certain that the most effectual preventive would be to rid himself of the means at once, he took all his money, which was probably at that time no great sum, and threw it into the Liffey, and afterwards shut himself up with great perseverance to his professional studies.

The Romance of the Swan's Nest.