Seventeen and Seventy.

H, Grandma sits in her oaken chair, And in flies Bessie with tangled hair; "I'm going to be married, oh, grandmamma, I'm going to be married. Ha, ha! ha, ha!"

Oh, grandma smooths out her apron string; "Do you know, my dear, 'tis a solemn thing?" ""Tis solemner not to, grandmamma.

I'm going to be married. Ha, ha! ha, ha!"

Then grandma looks through her seventy years;
And sums up a woman's hopes and fears;
Six of 'em living and two of 'em dead;
Grandpa helpless and tied to his bed.

Nowhere to live when the house burned down;
Years of fighting with old Mother Brown;
Stockings to darn and bread to bake,
Dishes to wash and dresses to make.

But then the music of pattering feet,
Grandpa's kisses so fond and sweet,
Song and prattle the livelong day,
Joy and kisses and love alway.

Oh, grandma smooths out her apron string,
And gazes down at her wedding ring,

And still she smiles as she drops a tear,

HEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered,
In a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes the messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died,

ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

ALICE was born in the Miami Valley, eight miles north of Cincinnati, Ohio, April 26, 1820, and she died in New York, February 12, 1871.

PHOEBE was born near Cincinnati, September 4, 1824, and her life work closed by her death at Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871.

Her

Their parents were people of considerable culture. The education of Alice and Phoebe was limited to the meager opportunities of a newly settled country. Alice commenced writing verses at the age of eighteen years. For ten years she contributed prose and verse to newspapers. sketches of rural life, first published in the National Era, under the signature of "Patty Lee," attracted considerable attention. In 1849 the Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary appeared in book form in Philadelphia.

In 1,850 the sisters removed to New York and devoted themselves entirely and successfully to literary work. Alice became a constant contributor to leading literary periodicals. She also continued to write poems and novels, which appeared in book form. Her published volumes, besides the one mentioned above, are Clovernook Papers, in two series, published in 1851 and 1853; Clovernook Children, 1854;