The River Falls Journal

COMFORT.
Boatman, boatman! my brain is wild,
As wild as the stormy seas;
My poor little child, my sweet little child
Is a corpse upon my knees.
No holy choir to sing so low—
No priest to kneel in prayer,
No tire woman to help me sew
A cap for his golden hair.
Dropping his oars in the rainy sea,
The pious boatman cried;
Not without Him who is life to thee
Could the little child have died!
His grace the same, and the same his power
Demanding our love and trust,
[er]
Whether He makes of the dust a flower,
Or changes a flower to dust.
On the land and the water, all in all.
The strength to be still or pray,
To blight the leaves in their time to fall.
Or light up the hills with May.
Alice Cary.

—How eloquent is the old, homely
word, fall. The flowers fall in the gar-
den, the fruits fall in the orchards, the
leaves fall in the woods. the rains fall from
the clouds, the mercury falls in the tubes.
the leaves fall everywhere, and man falls
into eternity.