HEN we say a man or a woman we know is a thorough-bred, we pay to him or her the greatest compliment of which we are capable. There is not in the vocabulary of pleasant terms a stronger word. Visit a stock-farm, the home of highgrade horses or cattle, and you will see that the physical signs of the thoroughbred are fine eyes and an erect bearing. These are the symbols of a high, generous spirit IO

The keeper of the stock-farm will tell you that a thoroughbred never whines. One illustrated this to me by swinging a dog around by the tail. The creature was in pain, but no sound escaped him. 99 You see,' said the keeper, they never complain. It ain't in 'em. Same way when a stable burns. It ain't the best horses that scream when they 're burnin'. It 's the worst."

All this is quite as true of the human thoroughbred. The visible signs of the invisible spirit are the eyes that are steady and shoulders that are straight. No burden except possibly the weight of many years bends his shoulders, and his eyes meet yours in honest fashion, because he neither fears, nor has been shamed, at the bar of his own soul.

He never complains. He keeps his troubles to himself, having discovered, as thoroughbreds do, that to tell troubles is to multiply them, and to lock them in the breast is to diminish and finally end them. He never talks about what Fate has done to him. He knows he is master of his own destiny. He never bewails the treatment he has received from another, for he knows no one can do him lasting harm except himself.—Ada Patterson.

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HE fact is, that civilization requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure, and demoralizing. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.-Oscar Wilde.

ODAY is your day and mine, the only day we have, the day in which we play our part. What our part may signify in the great whole we may not understand; but we are here to play it, and now is our time. This we know: it is a part of action, not of whining. It is a part of love, not cynicism. It is for us to express love in terms of human helpfulness.-David Starr Jordan.

HE perfect historian is he in whose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony By judicious selection, rejection and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In his narrative a due subordination is observed: some transactions are prominent; others retire. But the scale on which he represents them is increased or diminished not according to the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in which they elucidate the condition of society and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp and the senate. But he shows us also the nation. He considers no anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too significant for his notice which is not too insignificant to illustrate the operation of laws, of religion, and of education, and to mark the progress of the human mind. Men will not merely be described, but will be made intimately known to us. -Macaulay.

HE ideal life is in our blood and

never will be still. Sad will be the day for any man when he becomes contented with the thoughts he is thinking and the deeds he is doing,-where there is not forever beating at the doors of his soul some great desire to do something larger, which he knows that he was meant and made to do.

-Phillips Brooks.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound. -Shakespeare.

vices The priest is standing in front of the altar, and is intoning the Exhortation devoutly. The choir in the gallery is chanting the responses. The organ thunders out and floods through the building majestically. I am rapt in an ecstasy of sweet terror, for the Lord God is coming down upon us. He is standing before me and touching my body, so that I have to close my eyes in a terror of shuddering ecstacy.

That is long, long ago, and is all past and done with, as youth itself is past and done with....

Strange! After all these years of doubt and unbelief, at this moment of lucid consciousness, the atmosphere of devoutness, long since dead, possesses me, and thrills me so passionately that I can hardly resist it. This is the same heavy twilight-these are the same yearning angel voices-the same fearful sense of rapture

I pull myself together, and sit bolt upright on the hard wooden pew.

In the main and the side aisles below, and in the galleries above, nothing but soldiers in uniform, and all, with level faces, turned toward the altar, toward

Merciful. He is blessing our rifles that they may not fail us; he is blessing the wiredrawn guns on their patent recoilless carriages; he is blessing every lest a single bullet precious cartridge,

be wasted, lest any pass idly through the air; that each one may account for a hundred

human beings, may shatter a hundred human beings simultaneously. Father in Heaven! Thou art gazing down at us in such terrible silence. Dost Thou shudder at these sons of men? Thou poor and slight God! Thou couldst only rain Thy paltry pitch and sulphur on Sodom and Gomorrah. But we, Thy children, whom Thou hast created, we are going to exterminate them by high-pressure machinery, and butcher whole cities in factories. Here we stand, and while we stretch our hands to Thy Son in prayer, and cry Hosannah! we are hurling shells and shrapnel in the face of Thy Image, and shooting the Son of Man down from His Cross like a target at the rifle-butts.

And now the Holy Communion is being celebrated. The organ is playing mysteriously from afar off, and the flesh and blood of the Redeemer is mingling with our flesh and blood.

There He is hanging on the Cross above me, and gazing down upon me. How pale those cheeks look! And those eyes are the eyes as of one dead! Who was this Christ Who is to aid us, and Whose blood we drink? What was it they once taught us at school? Didst Thou not

love mankind? And didst Thou not die for the whole human race? Stretch out Thine arms toward me. There is something I would fain ask of Thee.... Ah! they have nailed Thy arms to the Cross, so that Thou canst not stretch out a finger toward us.

Shuddering, I fix my eyes on the corpselike face and see that He died long ago, that He is nothing more than wood, nothing other than a puppet. Christ, it is no longer Thee to whom we pray. Look there! Look there! It is he. The new patron saint of a Christian State! Look there! It is he, the great Genghis Khan. Of him we know that he swept through the history of the world with fire and sword, and piled up pyramids of skulls. Yes, that is he. Let us heap up mountains of human heads, and pile up heaps of human entrails. Great Genghis Khan! Thou, our patron saint! Do thou bless us! Pray to thy blood-drenched father seated above the skies of Asia, that he may sweep with us through the clouds; that he may strike down the accursed nation till it writhes in its blood, till it never can rise again. A red mist swims before my eyes. Of a sudden I see nothing but blood before me. The heavens have opened, and the red flood pours in through the windows. Blood wells up on the altar. The walls run blood from the ceiling to the floor, andGod the Father steps out of the blood. Every scale of his skin stands erect, his beard and hair drip blood. A giant of blood stands before me. He seats himself backward on the altar, and is laughing from thick, coarse lips-there sits the King of Dahomey, and he butchers his slaves. The black executioner raises his sword and whirls it above my head. Another moment and my head will roll down on the floor-another moment and the red jet will spurt from my neck Murderers, murderers! None other than murderers! Lord God in Heaven! Then

The church door opens creakingLight, air, the blue of heaven, burst in. I draw a breath of relief. We have risen to our feet, and at length pass out of the twilight into the open air.

My knees are still trembling under me.

We fall into line, and in our hobnailed boots tramp in step down the street toward the barracks. When I see my mates marching beside me in their matter-of-fact and stolid way, I feel ashamed, and call myself a wretched coward. What a weak-nerved, hysterical breed, that can no longer look at blood without fainting! You neurasthenic oftspring of your sturdy peasant forebears, who shouted for joy when they went out to fight! se

I pull myself together and throw my head back.

I never was a coward, and eye for eye I have always looked my man in the face, and will so do this time, too, happen what may.-Wilhelm Lamszus.

KNOWLEDGE is essential to con

quest; only according to our ignorance are we helpless. Thought creates character. Character can dominate conditions. Will creates circumstances and environment.-Annie Besant.

T is assumed that labor is avail

able only in connection with capital; that nobody labors unless somebody else, owning capital, somehow by the use of it, induces him to labor. This assumed, it is next considered whether it is best that capital shall hire laborers, and thus induce them to work by their own consent, or buy them and drive them to do it without their consent. Having proceeded so far, it is naturally concluded all laborers are either hired laborers or what we call slaves.

Now, there is no such relation between capital and labor as here assumed. . Labor is prior to and independent of capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, could never have existed if labor had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital, and deserves much the higher consideration.-Abraham Lincoln.

To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

F we were to single out the men who from the beginning of our Colonial state until the present time have most eminently contributed to fostering and securing religious freedom, who have made this country of ours the haven of refuge from ecclesiastical tyranny and persecution, who have set an example more puissant than army or navy for freeing the conscience of men from civil interference, and have leavened the mass of intolerance wherever the name of America is known, I would mention first the Baptist, Roger Williams, who maintained the principle that the civil powers have no right to meddle in matters of conscience, and who founded a State with that principle as its keystone. I would mention second the Catholic, Lord Baltimore, the proprietor of Maryland, to whom belongs the credit of having established liberty in matters of worship which was second only to Rhode Island. I would name third the Quaker, William Penn, whose golden motto was, "We must yield the liberties we demand." Fourth on the list is Thomas Jefferson, that "arch-infidel," as he has been termed by some religious writers, who overthrew the established church in his own State, and then, with prophetic statesmanship, made it impossible for any church to establish itself under our national Constitution or in any way to abridge the rights of conscience.-Oscar S. Straus.

She drew me up close beside her and told me a story.

"Once, a long, long time ago, God, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had a nice wee nap on His throne. His head was in His han's an' a wee white cloud came down an' covered Him up. Purty soon He wakes up an' says He: "Where's Michael? '

"Here I am, Father!' said Michael. “Michael, me boy,' says God, 'I want a chariot and a charioteer!'

Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of Heaven an' the finest charioteer.

"Me boy,' says God, 'take a million tons of th' choicest seeds of th' flowers of Heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. Scatter them,' says He, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where my poor live.'

"Aye,' says the charioteer, that's jist like Ye, Father. It's th' purtiest job of m' afther-life an' I'll do it finely.' ""It 's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says th' Father, that the rich have all the flowers down there and the poor have nown at all."

"Th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, buttercups, an' daisies, an' th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there 's been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!"— "My Lady of the Chimney-Corner," by Alexander Irvine.

IT is well for a man to respect his

own vocation whatever it is, and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect it deserves. -Charles Dickens.

The religions of the world are the ejaculations of a few imaginative men.

-Emerson.