The Magic Word

AN OPINION OF PAUL KRUGER. 733 future. As he nears the end, his hopes move farther and farther from him ; driven by a power he can not command, England is pressing him into the grave, marching over the lands of his countrymen with the tramp of a conqueror, treading out, it seems to him, the last spark of liberty. Soon he must lay down his weapons, and abandon the cause he has so much loved. When his body shall be cold and quiet in the grave, with his ascending spirit will arise from the lips of his people a wail of desolation and of utter loneliness: Boer independence will chant its last requiem over his lifeless form. THE MAGIC WORD. There's a magic charm in a little word. When spoken in accents sweet, That expresses the height of earthly bliss, Wherein heaven and earth may meet. It causes the heart of the mother to thrill, With a pleasure without alloy, When first it springs from the infant lips. Of her darling baby boy. The sentiment named by this little word, The mother's heart will hold, In a fervent clasp to her erring son. Though all the world grow coid. It lightens the burden of poverty's toil. It brightens the mourner's tear; Without its cheering, comforting rays. This life would be dark and drear. Wife, husband, parent are meaningless terms. Without its sweet softening ray; And friendship would its significance lose, Should this but vanish away. 'Tis the dearest theme of human tongue, It comes from the realms above. To lead us back to the Father of light. This magical word is Love. A. Wootton.