Miscllaneous.

Wairarapa Standard, Volume XX, Issue 2044, 18 March 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

Miscllaneous.

The Pay.

My son, you your tinning ; Ami it your begun, It is well you at beginning Just where you for your fun ; Though you arc and scholar, No system, that invent, Can swindle him dollar— He collects to the cent; For he knows the were made in Ami appoints his day, When out of the stodHbt you trade in There will be the pay.) Don’t fool yourself thinking Vou can catch else but awake. Though seeming is winking At any false entry No matter how sly He jots it ail down book. And grins with reading As he knows you are on his hook. In measure or weight lack it, Don’t think you can Ar the dearth ; For he always is •• on toßur racket,” And charges you all ifH worth. He cares not for writteafclicntures, Hut holds by a pitileSOJw ; .So, if you indulge in lasraifntures, Will find yourself irndfibis paw. 0 hi he is the clerk of all®es, F.spert from the earliudß|ay. And after you balance yotsj pages There will be the devil tjkpay. Vou may think of cndowiAn college With substance yourself apes not need ; Well, do so, my son, with tie knowledge That Satan won’t eredittbc deed. No ; charities won't make you level No matter how large the *OlOllOl Can’t balance your deal with the devil— That goes to another account 1 Though the loudest has been your profession And longest the piayeis you have made, llemeinber that cveiy transgression Is a debt that has got to be paid ; Ami resolve, as you may, on relenting Vour follies and vices when gray. Though an ocean you weep in repenting, There will he the devil to pay. Then at last, when you are a debtor On his book for each gratified whim— Kacb whim but a link in the fetter That bound you still closer to him— For all of the preaching since Moses, Not a jot of his claim will be stay ; Even after the clearing-house closes There will be the devil to pay.

Motherless. From a far away country town a box of wild flowers bad come to the children’s Hospital in tic city of C . Just at dusk the new nurse stopped in her rounds before one cot where a poor little sufferer lay, claspin" in his thin hands a bunch of blue violets. The little fellow tossed and turned from side to side ; ever and anon lie would start up murmuring something about “ J.ittlc Jack,” then fall back whispering, "too late, too late.” ‘ Bad case, bad case, nurse; father and mother both died of same fever, baby found dead, and this b«>y will go soon and the old doctor shook his bead gravely. ■< Poor little fellow,” murmured the nurse. ‘‘To die alone, no mother’s hand to wipe away the gathering dews i>f death; no mother’s arms; no mother's kiss I” She brushed back the damp golden curls from the white forehead ; the blue eyes opened wide, and a faint Voice whispered. •• Mother!” The nurse bent pityingly over him. his eyes searched her face, then closed wearily. ' •• Oh I want my mother. I want mv mother!” he moaned.

Poor baby.” said the physician, '• he will bnvc his mother soon."

Tice cliild started up, Uock me, motlier,” he cried. Very tenderly tlcc doctor lifted the little figure and placed it in the nurse’s arms; the weary hoad dropped upon bet shoulder ; the bands, still bolding the violets, were folded lovingly around her neck. To and fro she cradled him ; the room was growing dark, a faint streak of light came in at tine eastern window and slipped softly across the ledge. “ Sing to me,” the child whispered ; very sweetly on tice air rose and fell the music of that old, old hymn : Hide me, 0, my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past.” Nearer and nearer crept the moonlight till it touched the swaying figure ; “ Safe into the haven guide, 0, receive my soul at last.” The song ceased. ’'Mother, I’m too tired to kneel to night,” murmured the child: then softly added, ” Now—l lay me down—to —sleep—l—,” with a long sigh the blue eyes closed tiredly ; the arms slipped down : all was still. The moonlight flooded the room with silver ; it lingered about the little while robed child; it fell upon the golden curls and half closed lids, and the withered flowers fallen loosely now from the tired hands. There was a faint, sweet perfume of violets as the rocker crushed to and fro ; nothing stirred in the room save the swaying figure in the moonlight. The doctor touched the nurse and gently said; “ The child is with its mother.”

A Safe Lamp-—A Paris correspondent says : The question of a safe yet strong petroleum lamp, which is exciting so much attention in Kngland, may be considered as practically solved in France in the lamp known as the hiwj)c rtnile. It was invented by an artist of the name of Harte, who once had his atelier burned down by the upsetting of a petroleum lamp, and then set his mind hard at work to find a remedy against such an accident in future. The great feature of the etoile lamp, to which it owes its almost absolute safety, is that the burning wick is not the same wick which dips into the oil reservoir. There are, in fact, two wicks—one which carries up the oil, and another pressed closely in contact with part of its surface, which supplies the flame by an ingenious system of air passages. The inflammable gas. if any, which forms at the surface of the oil is carried into the open air, and has no chance of reaching the flame except through the top of the lamp-glass, lly this time, however, it would be so attenuated that it would cease to be dangerous. The inventor knocked one down before my eyes and the flame was instantly extinguished. This is managed by valves at the orifices of the air passages, which fall down and stop the supply when the lamp is inverted.

Churning Song

Tu ami fro, to and fro, slowly swings the churn: To and fro, to and fro, crimson roses burn ; Drowsy scarlet poppies sway Where the morning breezes play ; To and fro, to and fro, waves the nodding fern; O’er the clover, far away*, Laden bees and perfumes stray, Mingled with the catbirds lay j To and fro, to and fro, In the sunny glow. Hocks a cradle to and fro (while the chum 1 swing); In the maple, rockiugslow, children of a king; Mouarcbs of this castle fair, Horsehair builded, hung in air; Golden robbins, tu and fro, flash on vivid wings; From the nest the young birds call, Oak leaf shadows, soft and small, Like the moments’ footsteps fall; To and fro, to and fro, riwift they come and go.