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things of eternity, we must ever be mindful of time"; then proceeded with his discourse.

There is a worldliness that tones and balances an other-worldliness.

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TIME A MONITOR

Mary Lowe Dickinson tells what we would do if we had only a day to live.

We should fill the hours with the sweetest things, If we had but a day; We should drink alone at the purest springs In our upward way; We should love with a lifetime's love in an hour, If our hours were few; We should rest, not for dreams, but for fresher power To be and to do.

We should waste no moments in weak regret If the day were but one; If what we remember and what we forget Went out with the sun, We should from our clamorous selves set free To work or to pray, And to be what our Father would have us be, If we had but a day.

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TIME BRINGS FORTUNE

Ten years ago Henry Brink, of Melrose, purchased a few thousand shares of stock in an Arizona gold-mine. In return for several hundred dollars he received a great bundle of beautiful green certificates handsomely engraved.

After waiting in vain for the mine to become productive, and finally deciding that as an investor he was as green as his certificates, Brink smiled over his loss and papered his room with the souvenirs of his folly. As a mural decoration the stock was worth par.

Now he has been informed that porcelain clay of rare quality has been discovered on the mine site and that his certificates in consequence were worth a fortune.—Boston Journal.

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TIME, CHANGES OF

The way in which the passage of time alters our views and feelings is exprest in the following verses by Theodosia Garrison:

When I think sometimes of old griefs I had, Of sorrows that once seemed too harsh to bear, And youth's resolve to never more be glad, I laugh—and do not care.

When I think sometimes of the joy I knew, The gay, glad laughter ere my heart was wise, The trivial happiness that seemed so true, The tears are in my eyes.

Time—Time the cynic—how he mocks us all! And yet to-day I can but think him right. Ah, heart, the old joy is so tragical And the old grief so light.

—The Reader Magazine.

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TIME ENOUGH

Joaquin Miller, "The Poet of the Sierras," recently visited a friend in Boston whose literary taste runs largely to Emerson, Browning and Maeterlinck. This friend, says Lippincott's Magazine, found the venerable poet in the library one afternoon deeply absorbed in a book.

"What are you reading?" asked the Bostonian.

"A novel by Bret Harte," replied the poet.

The Hubbite sniffed. "I can not see," said he, "how an immortal being can waste his time with such stuff.

"Are you quite sure," asked Miller, "that I am an immortal being?"

"Why, of course you are," was the unwary reply.

"In that case," responded the Californian grimly, "I don't see why I should be so very economical of my time."

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TIME, IMPROVING

John Wesley's toils as a preacher were interspaced with frequent islets of leisure. This man, who seemed to live in crowds, had yet in his life wide spaces of solitude. He preached to his five-o'clock-in-the-morning congregation, then mounted his horse, or stepped into his chaise, and rode or drove off to the next gathering. Betwixt the two crowds he had hours of solitude—to think, to read, to plan. He was the master, it may be added, of the perilous art of reading on horseback. His work itself was a physical tonic.—, "Wesley and His Century."

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