Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,
And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.
The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot,
A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.
Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart’s desires,
Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.
C. T. Harbaugh.
LITTLE MAG’S VICTORY.
