BREAD ON THE WATERS.

Mister," the little fellow said, "Please give me a dime to buy some bread." I turned to look at the ragged form, That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched, and haggard, and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old; He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His eyes were red—with weeping, I fear— And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then. His misery struck me dumb; 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum, Where an errand of duty led my feet That day, through the storm and blinding sleet. "Poor little fellow!" at last I said, "Have you no father?" "No, he's dead!" The answer came; "You've a mother, then?" "Yes, sir," he said, with a sob; "She's been Sick for a year, and the doctor said She'd never again get up from bed." "You are hungry, too!" I asked in pain, As I looked at his poor, wan face again. "Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan That would melt to pity a heart of stone; "I am starved; we are all starving," he said, "We haven't had a crust of bread— Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate— Since yesterday morning." I did not wait To ask him more. "Come, come!" I cried, "You shall not hunger;" and at my side His poor little pattering footsteps fell On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell; But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop Before the door of a baker's shop, And we entered. "Now eat away, my boy, As much as you like," I said. With joy, And a soft expression of childish grace, He looked up into my friendly face, And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear: "Oh, if mother and baby Kate were here!" "But eat," said I, "never mind them now," A thoughtful look stole over his brow, And lo! from his face the joy had fled. "What! while they're at home!" he said; "Oh, no, sir! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true. But I cannot eat till they've had some too." The tears came rushing—I can't tell why— To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I: "God bless you! here, you brave little man, Here, carry home all the bread you can." Then I loaded him down with loaves, until He could carry no more. I paid the bill; And before he could quite understand Just what I was doing, into his hand I slipped a bright, new dollar; then said, "Good-bye," and away on my journey sped. 'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, As I wandered by chance through East Broadway, A cheery voice accosted me. Lo! 'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, Though larger grown—and his looks, in truth, Bespoke a sober, industrious youth. "Mister," he said, "I'll never forget The kindness you showed when last we met. I work at a trade, and mother is well, So is baby Kate; and I want to tell You this—that we owe it all to you. 'Twas you—don't blush, sir—that helped us through In our darkest hour; and we always say Our luck has been better since that day When you sent me home with bread to feed Those starving ones in their hour of need."

AND oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering heaven holds dear, 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds, and breaks in her cause! THOMAS MOORE: "LALLA ROOKH."