My vineyard that is mine i have to keep, X'l-uninjr for fruit tho i)l_a___--_t twigs and leaves. Tend thou thy cornfield; ono day thou shalt reap In joy thy ripened sheaves. Or if thine be an orchard, graft and prop Food bearing trees, each watered in its place; Or if a garden, let it yield for crop Sweet herbs and herbs of grace. But if my lot bo sand, whero nothing grows? >'ay, who hath said it? Timo a thankful psalm; for though thy desert bloom not as tho rose, It yet can rear rhy palm. —Christina G. Rosetti in Atalanta.
A WHITE ONE.
Tiie air was thick with steam and im pregnated with the small of soap, and the temperature was by no means low, more especially as the sun was streaming in tb rough the uncurtained windows, but the laundry girls were used to these inconven iences and thought nothing of them. They chatted continuously over their work, nob because they were happy or be cause they had anything particular to say, but because thoy hud no conception of the dignity of silence. Tbe conversation was perhaps not of the most edifying descrip tion, and the language employed was forcible, garnished by slang, and not free from superfluous expletives, for these girls were not of the highest type.
