I see him again in his manhood's prime;
Fame, Fortune are both his own.

He is reaping at last the fruits of his toil,
The harvest his hand has sown.

But e'en in the press of his busy life,
When harassed by toil or care,

His steps turn back to the dear old home,
Where his mother awaits him there.

And so with us all, when wearied and worn With pleasure or work or grief,

We long for home, our faithful friends,

And there we find sweet relief.

And when worn out with the life-work here,

We go, but oh! not alone,

But dwell with our Master in peace and joy,

And hear from His lips, "Well done."

WILL CARLETON.

WILL CARLETON was born near Hudson, in Lenawee County, Michigan, in 1845, and at present he lives in Brooklyn, Long Island. His father was one of the early pioneers of Michigan. The farm where he lived, and where his five children were born, was cleared with his own hands. Only one of the children survives. The father passed away shortly after his son, Will Carleton, had won a reputation. The mother, a noble woman, is still living.

Carleton was raised on a farm. He commenced his studies in the district school. Afterward he walked five miles. daily to attend a high school. At the age of sixteen he commenced to teach school, and by means of this occupation he he was enabled to defray the expense of a collegiate course. He entered Hillsdale College in 1865, and graduated from that institution in 1869. Immediately he joined the editorial staff of an agricultural paper in Chicago, and later, he became editor of the Detroit Weekly Tribune.

In 1868, while yet in college, he wrote a poem for the political campaign, entitled Fax. The poem became popular throughout the campaign. Rifts in the Clouds, the poem read at his graduation, was well received. In 1870 he wrote Cover them Over, a poem of rare beauty, written for

Decoration Day.

Betsey and I are Out appeared in 1871 in the Toledo Blade. This was soon followed by How Betsey and I Made Up. Harper's Weekly took up the former poem and published it with numerous illustrations. These two poems carried the name and fame of the author as on the wings of wind, and stamped them on every reading mind in the land. Other pieces of a similar character soon followed, till finally all were gathered into one volume,-Farm Ballads, in 1873. This extremely popular book was followed in 1875 by Farm Legends. In 1876 appeared Young Folks' Centennial Rhymes; and in 1881 followed Farm Festivals.

As Carleton's writings belong to the present, and so many of his popular poems are so well known in every reading household in the land, we need not stop to mention them separately here. As he is now in the prime of active life, we do not deem it best to refer his productions to the coldhearted literary critic. We would rather see an appreciative public continue to admire his works, in the firm belief that, when his life-work is ended, the unerring critic will rank him among the greatest writers of the present.

*

The Old Man Meditates.

AY, Maggie, let my old-style fancies be

I'm sorry that you interrupted me!

'Tis sweet to press a pretty hand like this,
And taste the flavor of a grandchild's kiss;

I love to draw you to me tender-wise,
And look off at my boyhood through your eyes

(For they are telescopes of wondrous view,

That bring me back a girl that looked like you);
Your voice is, as you just now used it last,

A silver key that takes me through the past;
And now you're here, you girl-witch, you shall stay,
But still I'd rather you had kept away.

For I've been sitting here an hour, I'll own,
Catching some thoughts a man holds best alone,
And shadows on my poor old soul have found
That might feel chilly like to folks around.
I've seen the sun go sailing out of sight,
Far from the gloomy, shifting shores of night,
And wondered (though perhaps 'twas wicked) why
God would not swing those gold doors of the sky
And take me from this world, that's grown so strange,

To heaven, where maybe fashions do not change;

For I am like a gnarled and withered tree

With a new growth of forest shading me.

The world keeps newing so!-they fashion it

So old men find no place wherein to fit.

"On, and right on," leaps hot from every tongue;

"Live while you live," and "go it while you're young."

An average, moderate life, if these things last,

Will be among the lost arts of the past;
These rushing days of lightning and of steam
Push everything out into an extreme.
The rich grow richer, smarter grow the smart;
It's harder for the rest to get a start;
And Wholesale grows more Wholesale every day,
And Retail has to stand back out of the way.
It's hard to tell 'mid all progression's jumps,
How far this world will make up into lumps.
Farewell, old churn, with dasher fringed with cream,
These times when cows are all but milked by steam.
And in the bustling dairy may be found
Butter by tons, instead of by the pound,
While several of the corner groceries keep
Its bogus brother, oleomargarine, cheap!

Good-by, old country mill of water-power:
This steam one does your week's work in an hour!
Adieu, gas, tallow, kerosene, and whale:
The blue-eyed, earth-born lightning makes you pale!
You sailing craft, make wide your fluttering crown,
Lest the great fire-fed frigate run you down!
Old-fashioned politics, cease your mild strife,
When men can say, "An office or your life!"
And you, small rogues, ere you so guilty feel