THE SILEtJT MARCH. ffhea the mnroh begins in the morning Aud tho heart nuJ the foot are light, When the flags are all a-flutter Ami th# world is gay uud bright, When the bugles lead the column And the drums are proud in the van, It's shoulder to shoulder, forward march! Ah! let him lag who can! for it's easy to march to music With your comrades all in line, And you don't get tired, you feel inspired, And life is a draught divine. When tho march drass on at evening And tha oolor-bearer's gone, When the merry strains are silent That piped so brave in the dawn, When you miss tho dear old fellows Who started out with you, When it's stubborn and sturdy forward march! Though tho ragged lines are few. Then it's hard to march in silence, And the road has lonesome grown, And liie Is a bitter cup to drink; But the soldier must not moan. And this is tho task before us, A task we may never shirk, In the gay time aud the sorrowful time We must march and do our work. We must march when the music eheers us, March when the struins are dumb, Plucky and valiant, forward, march! And smile, whatever may come. For, whether life's hard or easy. The stronger man keeps the pace, For the desolate march and the silent The strong soul llnds the grace. —Murgaret E. Sangster. | By itiß Doctors Older. | "Hop-picking," said young Durell, as he took a rosy August apple from his pocket, aud fed it leisurely to the beautiful horse against which he leaned. "Why, yes, it is a rather ro mantic business, if you look upon it from a romantic point of view. You're an artist, eh? Come to sketch our little bits of romantic scenery? But there's nothing particularly pictur esque about our hop fields. Just sun shine and the gold-green of the clus ters, aud the curling tendrils reaching out for something to grasp at, aud the air so blue and clear that one cau almost see the straight lines of the sunshine. Of course, it looks pretty to me, for I was born and brought tip upon it; but—excuse me—l can't see what there is specially worthy of an artist's pencil." "Do you see those long perspec tives of green alleys," said he; "with figures running in /.nd out, and the old woman sitting a/iong the fragrant heaps, with the si/:rlet cloak, aud two little toddles at Her feet? And yonder feeble, bent old man, with water cans on his shoulders? Why, there are a hundred bits of genre here, to say nothing of the background." And Raymond took out his mill boards and color boxes, set up an im promptu easel, aud began digently to paiut. Squire Durell's son looked on with an amused smile. To him, the ma chinery of the great hop farm was the real business of life. Artists and such like were merely pleasure seekers who disported themselves airily ou the outskirts of creation. "You will find some very pretty faces here," said Durell, "if you care for sketching that sort of thing. Peo ple come here from all parts of the country in bop-picking time. Gypsies, tramps, respectable poor workers who don't object to turning nn honest penny, youu£ people who come here for the frolic of the thing, and poor old wretches wh