Fanny. O, certainly.

Lizzie. And there is one more thing we shall be sure to avoid.

Miss P. What is that?

Lizzie. The wearing of red chignons.

[Exeunt.



THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

GEORGE CANNING.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road,—your wheel is out of order,— Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't, So have your breeches!

Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all day 'Knives and Scissors to grind O!

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.



KNIFE-GRINDER.

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hang'd first,— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]



PREACHING TO THE POOR.

Father Taylor once said, "'Tis of no use to preach to empty stomachs."

The parson preached in solemn way, —A well-clad man on ample pay,— And told the poor they were sinners all, Depraved and lost by Adam's fall; That they must repent, and save their souls. A hollow-eyed wretch cried, "Give us coals!"

Then he told of virtue's pleasant path, And that of ruin and of wrath; How the slipping feet of sinners fell Quick on the downward road to h——, To suffer for sins when they are dead; And the hollow voice answered, "Give us bread!"

Then he spoke of a land of love and peace, Where all of pain and woe shall cease, Where celestial flowers bloom by the way, Where the light is brighter than solar day, And there's no cold nor hunger there. "Oh," says the voice, "Give us clothes to wear!"

Then the good man sighed, and turned away, For such depravity to pray, That had cast aside the heavenly worth For the transient and fleeting things of earth! And his church that night, to his content, Raised his salary fifty per cent.



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

BY C.B. SOUTHEY.

Tread softly—bow the head; In reverent silence bow; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now.

Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter—no crowds attend; Enter—no guards defend This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head.

No mingling voices sound— An infant wail alone: A sob suppressed—again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan.

Oh! change!—Oh! wondrous change!— Burst are the prison bars— This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars!

Oh! change—stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod! The sun eternal breaks— The new immortal wakes Wakes with his God!



A HORSE-CAR INCIDENT.

No matter what horse-car, but it happened that I had to go a mile or two, and held up my cane to attract the attention of the driver or the conductor of one of them, which I did, after some difficulty. I am bound to say it was not on the Touchandgo road, for the officers employed there have an instinctive knowledge whether a man wishes to ride or not, and indeed often by the magic of the upraised finger they draw people in to ride who had hardly any previous intention of it. I have been attracted in this way, and found myself to my astonishment, seated in the car, confident that I had signified no disposition to do so. In this instance, however, I would ride, and got in.

There were the usual passengers in the car—the respectable people going out of town, who were reading the last editions of the papers, the women who had been shopping, the servant girls who had been in to visit their friends, feeling no interest in one another, and all absorbed in their own reflections, as I was. I was thinking seriously, when—my eye was attracted by some glittering object on the floor, beneath the opposite seat.

Of course everybody is attracted by glitter. A piece of glass in the moonlight may be a diamond, and show is far ahead of substance in influencing men, from the illusion which affects short-sighted vision. Thus this glittering object. What was it?—a diamond pin dropped by a former passenger? No, it could not be this, because it appeared to be round, and bigger than a pin stone could be. Could it be a bracelet? No, for it was too small. I directed my gaze more earnestly towards it in my doubt, and saw that it was a QUARTER, bright and sparkling with the freshness of new mint about it, so it seemed.

This I determined to make mine at the first chance, for a woman was sitting very near it, and I dreaded any confusion I might cause, by a sudden plunge, through the motion of the cars; so, whistling at a low breath, as if indifferent, but keeping my eye upon the prize, I awaited the opportunity that should insure me the coveted one-and-sixpence. It soon came: the bell rang, and the lady opposite, with her arms full of bundles, walked out, leaving the object of my ardent regard more distinctly in view. It seemed to me that every one in the car had an eye on that quarter, which I felt was mine by right of discovery, and which I was determined to have.

As the coach started I rose and fairly tumbled over into the just-vacated seat, taking care to drop in such a way as to screen the glittering bait. I looked at my fellow-passengers, and found that all were staring at me, as though they were reading my secret. The conductor had come inside the door, and was looking at me, and a heavy gentleman on the same seat with me leaned far out on his cane, so that he could take in my whole person with his glance, as though I were a piece of property on which he had to estimate. I felt my face burn, and a general discomfort seized me, as a man sometimes feels when he has done a wrong or a foolish act; though I couldn't think the act I was about to perform was wrong, and no one could say it was foolish in one to try to get a quarter of a dollar in this day of postal currency. At length I stooped down as if to adjust something about my boot, and slipped the object of my solicitude into my hand, unseen, as I believed.

"What is it?" asked the conductor.

"What's what?" said I, with affected smartness.

"What you just found," he persisted.

"I was pulling my pants down over my boot," I prevaricated.

"That's all humbug," said he; "you found something in the car, and it belongs to the company."

"Prove that I found any thing," said I, angrily.

"Young man," said the voice of the big man who was leaning on his cane, still looking at me, "it is as bad to lie about a thing as it is to steal. I saw you pick something up, and to me it had the appearance of money." He struck his cane on the floor as he spoke, and grasped it firmer, as if to clinch his remark.

"Yes," said the conductor; "and we don't want nothing of the kind here, and what's more, we won't have it; so hand over."

"My fine fellow," said I, prepared for a crisis, "I know my rights, and, without admitting that I have found any thing, I contend that if I had, in this public conveyance, which is as public as the street to him who pays for a ride in it, that which I find in it is mine after I have made due endeavour to find out its owner. Money being an article impossible to identify, unless it is marked, if I had found it, it would have been mine—according to Whately, Lycurgus, and Jew Moses."

"Hang your authorities," said he; "I don't know any thing about 'em, but this I know,—that money belongs to the Touchandgo Horse Railroad Company, and I'll have it. Ain't I right, Mr. Diggs?" addressing a gentleman with glasses on, reading the Journal.

"I think you are," replied he, looking at me over the top of his spectacles, as though he were shooting from behind a breastwork; "I think the pint is clear, and that it belongs to the company to advertise it and find out the owner."

"Well," I put in, "suppose they don't find the owner; who has it?"

"The company, I should think," said he, folding his paper preparatory to getting out.

"That's it," said the conductor, taking up the thread as he put the passenger down; "and now I want that money." He looked ugly.

"What money?" I queried.

"The money you picked up on the floor."

I saw that I was in a place of considerable difficulty, involving a row on one side and imputation of villany on the other, and studied how to escape.

"Well," said I, "if, in spite of the authorities I have quoted, you insist upon my giving this up which I hold in my hand,—the value of which I do not know,—I shall protest against your act, and hold the company responsible."

"Responsible be——blowed," replied he, severely; "shell out."

The people in the car were much excited. The fat man on the seat had risen up, though still in sitting position, and balanced himself upon his toes to get a better view. I unclosed my hand and deposited in the conductor's a round piece of tin that had been punched out by some tin-man and hammered smooth bearing a close resemblance to money!

The disappointment of every one was intense. The conductor intimated that if he met me in society he would give me my money's worth, the fat man muttered something about my being an "imposture," several lady passengers looked bluely at me, and only one laughed heartily at the whole affair, as I did. It was a queer incident.



SOCRATES SNOOKS.

Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, The second time entered the married relation: Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land, But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, When, one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said, "I think, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife: So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy."

"Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, "I hate to hear every thing vulgarly my'd; Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, our cow house, our barn yard, our pig pen." "By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." "Say our," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. "I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!"

Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, You are certain to prove the best man of the two. In the following case this was certainly true; For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, And laying about her, all sides at random, The adage was verified—"Nil desperandum."

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, To ward off the blows which descended like rain— Concluding that valour's best part was discretion— Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian: But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, Converted the siege into a blockade.

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, He concluded 't was useless to strive against fate: And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, Said, "My dear, may we come out from under our bed?" "Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks: Now, Socrates—hear me—from this happy hour, If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'T is said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search: Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, "My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?"



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend—"If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light— One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade— Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the quiet town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread The watchful night-wind as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay— A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore waited Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North-Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

It was twelve by the village-clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town, He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village-clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gazed at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village-clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown, And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm— A cry of defiance, and not of fear— A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.



A PLEASURE EXERTION.

MARIETTA HOLLEY.

This humorous sketch is taken from a work entitled "My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's."

They have been havin' pleasure exertions all summer here to Jonesville. Every week a'most they would go off on a exertion after pleasure, and Josiah was all up in end to go too.

That man is a well-principled man as I ever see; but if he had his head he would be worse than any young man I ever see to foller up pic-nics, and 4th of Julys, and camp meetin's, and all pleasure exertions. But I don't encourage him in it. I have said to him, time and agin, "There is a time for everything, Josiah Allen, and after anybody has lost all their teeth, and every mite of hair on the top of their head, it is time for 'em to stop goin' to pleasure exertions."

But, good land! I might jest as well talk to the wind. If that man should get to be as old as Mr. Methusler, and be a goin' a thousand years old, he would prick up his ears if he should hear of an exertion. All summer long that man has beset me to go to 'em, for he wouldn't go without me. Old Bunker Hill himself hain't any sounder in principle than Josiah Allen, and I have had to work head-work to make excuses, and quell him down. But, last week, the old folks was goin' to have one out on the lake, on an island, and that man sot his foot down that go he would.

We was to the breakfast-table, a talkin' it over, and says I, "I shan't go, for I am afraid of big water any way."

Says Josiah, "You are jest as liable to be killed in one place as another."

Says I, with a almost frigid air, as I passed him his coffee, "Mebby I shall be drownded on dry land, Josiah Allen; but I don't believe it."

Says he, in a complainin' tone, "I can't get you started onto a exertion for pleasure any way."

Says I, in a almost eloquent way, "I don't believe in makin' such exertions after pleasure. I don't believe in chasin' of her up." Says I, "Let her come of her own free will." Says I, "You can't catch her by chasin' of her up, no more than you can fetch a shower up, in a drewth, by goin' out doors, and running after a cloud up in the heavens above you. Sit down, and be patient; and when it gets ready, the refreshin' rain-drops will begin to fall without none of your help. And it is jest so with pleasure, Josiah Allen; you may chase her up over all the ocians and big mountains of the earth, and she will keep ahead of you all the time; but set down, and not fatigue yourself a thinkin' about her, and like as not she will come right into your house, unbeknown to you."

"Wal," says he, "I guess I'll have another griddlecake, Samantha." And as he took it, and poured the maple syrup over it, he added, gently but firmly, "I shall go, Samantha, to this exertion, and I should be glad to have you present at it, because it seems jest, to me, as if I should fall overboard durin' the day."

Men are deep. Now that man knew that no amount of religious preachin' could stir me up like that one speech. For though I hain't no hand to coo, and don't encourage him in bein' spoony at all, he knows that I am wrapped almost completely up in him. I went.

We had got to start about the middle of the night, for the lake was fifteen miles from Jonesville, and the old horse bein' so slow, we had got to start a hour or two ahead of the rest. I told Josiah that I had jest as lives set up all night, as to be routed out at two o'clock. But he was so animated and happy at the idee of goin' that he looked on the bright side of everything, and he said that we would go to bed before dark, and get as much sleep as we commonly did! So we went to bed, the sun an hour high. But we hadn't more'n got settled down into the bed, when we heard a buggy and a single wagon stop to the gate, and I got up and peeked through the window, and I see it was visitors come to spend the evenin'—Elder Wesley Minkly and his family, and Deacon Dobbins' folks. Josiah vowed that he wouldn't stir one step out of that bed that night. But I argued with him pretty sharp, while I was throwin' on my clothes, and I finally got him started up. I hain't deceitful, but I thought, if I got my clothes all on before they came in, I wouldn't tell 'em that I had been to bed that time of day. And I did get all dressed up, even to my handkerchief pin. And I guess they had been there as much as ten minutes before I thought that I hadn't took my night-cap off. They looked dretful curious at me, and I felt awful meachin'. But I jest ketched it off, and never said nothin'. But when Josiah came out of the bedroom, with what little hair he has got standin' out in every direction, no two hairs a layin' the same way, I up and told 'em. I thought mebby they wouldn't stay long. But Deacon Dobbins' folks seemed to be all waked up on the subject of religion, and they proposed we should turn it into a kind of a conference meetin'; so they never went home till after ten o'clock.

It was most eleven o'clock when Josiah and me got to bed agin. And then jest as I was gettin' into a drowse, I heard the cat in the buttery, and I got up to let her out. And that rousted Josiah up, and he thought he heard the cattle in the garden, and he got up and went out. And there we was a marchin' round most all night. And if we would get into a nap, Josiah would think it was mornin', and he would start up and go out to look at the clock. I lost myself once, for I dreampt that Josiah was a droundin', and Deacon Dobbins was on the shore a prayin' for him. It started me so, that I jest ketched hold of Josiah and hollered. It skairt him awfully, and says he, "What does ail you, Samantha? I hain't been asleep before to-night, and now you have rousted me up for good. I wonder what time it is?" And then he got out of bed again, and went out and looked at the clock. It was half-past one, and he said "he didn't believe we had better go to sleep again for fear we would be too late for the exertion, and he wouldn't miss that for nothin'."

"Exertion," says I, in a awful cold tone; "I should think we had had exertion enough for one spell."

But I got up at 2 o'clock, and made a cup of tea as strong as I could, for we both felt beat out, worse than if we had watched in sickness.

But, as bad and wore out as Josiah felt bodily, he was all animated in his mind about what a good time he was a goin' to have. He acted foolish, and I told him so. I wanted to wear my brown and black gingham, and a shaker; but Josiah insisted that I should wear a new lawn dress that he had brought me home as a present, and I had got just made up. So, jest to please him, I put it on, and my best bonnet. And that man, all I could do and say, would wear a pair of pantaloons I had been a makin' for Thomas Jefferson. They was gettin' up a military company in Thomas J.'s school, and these pantaloons was white with a blue stripe down the sides, a kind of uniform. Josiah took a awful fancy to 'em; and, says he,

"I will wear 'em, Samantha; they look so dressy."

Says I, "They hain't hardly done. I was goin' to stitch that blue stripe on the left leg on again. They haint finished as they ought to be, and I would not wear 'em. It looks vain in you."

Says he, "I will wear 'em, Samantha. I will be dressed up for once."

I didn't contend with him. Thinks I, we are makin' fools of ourselves by goin' at all, and if he wants to make a little bigger fool of himself, I won't stand in his light. And then I had got some machine oil onto 'em, so I felt that I had got to wash 'em any way, before Thomas J. took 'em to school. So he put 'em on.

I had good vittles, and a sight of 'em. The basket wouldn't hold 'em all. So Josiah had to put a bottle of red rhaspberry jell into the pocket of his dress coat, and lots of other little things, such as spoons, and knives, and forks, in his pantaloons and breast pockets. He looked like Captain Kidd, armed up to the teeth, and I told him so. But, good land, he would have carried a knife in his mouth if I had asked him, he felt so neat about goin', and boasted so, on what a splendid exertion it was going to be.

We got to the lake about eight o'clock, being about the first ones there; but they kep' a comin', and before 10 o'clock we all got there. There was about 20 old fools of us, when we got all collected together. And about 10 o'clock we sot sail for the island. Josiah havin' felt so animated and tickled about the exertion, was worked up awfully when, just after we had got well out onto the lake, the wind took his hat off and blew it away. He had made up his mind to look so pretty that day, and be so dressed up, that it worked him up awfully. And then the sun beat down onto him: and if he had had any hair onto his head it would have seemed more shady. But I did the best I could by him; I stood by him, and pinned on his red bandanna handkerchief onto his head. But as I was a fixin' it on, I see there was something more than mortification that ailed him. The lake was rough, and the boat rocked, and I see he was beginning to be awful sick. He looked deathly. Pretty soon I felt bad too. Oh, the wretchedness of that time! I have enjoyed poor health considerable in my life, but never did I enjoy so much sickness, in so short a time, as I did on that pleasure exertion to the island. I suppose our bein' up all night a'most made it worse. When we reached the island we was both weak as cats.

I set right down on a stun, and held my head for a spell, for it did seem as if it would split open. After awhile I staggered up onto my feet, and finally I got so I could walk straight, and sense things a little. Then I began to take the things out of my dinner basket. The butter had all melted, so we had to dip it out with a spoon. And a lot of water had swashed over the side of the boat, so my pies, and tarts, and delicate cake, and cookies, looked awful mixed up, but no worse than the rest of the company's did. But we did the best we could, and begun to make preparations to eat, for the man that owned the boat said he knew it would rain before night, by the way the sun scalded. There wasn't a man or a woman there but what the perspiration jest poured down their faces. We was a haggered and melancholy lookin' set. There was a piece of woods a little ways off, but it was up quite a rise of ground, and there wasn't one of us but what had the rheumatiz, more or less. We made up a fire on the sand, though it seemed as if it was hot enough to steep the tea and coffee as it was.

After we got the fire started, I histed a umberell, and sat down under it, and fanned myself hard, for I was afraid of a sunstroke.

Wal, I guess I had sat there ten minutes or more, when all of a sudden I thought, Where is Josiah? I hadn't seen him since we had got there. I riz right up and asked the company, almost wildly, "If they had seen my companion, Josiah?" They said "No, they hadn't." But Celestine Wilkins' little girl, who had come with her grandpa and grandma Gowdey, spoke up, and says she, "I seen him a goin' off towards the woods; he acted dreadfully strange, too, he seemed to be a walkin' off sideways."

"Had the sufferin's we had undergone made him delirious?" says I to myself; and then I started off on the run towards the woods, and old Miss Bobbet, and Miss Gowdey, and Sister Minkley, and Deacon Dobbins' wife, all rushed after me. Oh, the agony of them 2 or 3 minutes, my mind so distracted with forebodin's, and the perspiration a pourin' down. But, all of a sudden, on the edge of the woods we found him. Miss Gowdey weighed 100 pounds less than me; had got a little ahead of me. He sat backed up against a tree in a awful cramped position, with his left leg under him. He looked dretful uncomfortable, but when Miss Gowdey hollered out: "Oh, here you be; we have been skairt about you; what is the matter?" he smiled a dretful sick smile, and says he: "Oh, I thought I would come out here and meditate a spell. It was always a real treat to me to meditate."

Jest then I came up, a pantin' for breath, and as the women all turned to face me, Josiah scowled at me, and shook his fist at them 4 wimmen, and made the most mysterious motions with his hands towards 'em. But the minute they turned 'round he smiled in a sickish way, and pretended to go to whistlin'.

Says I, "What is the matter, Josiah Allen? What are you off here for?"

"I am a meditatin', Samantha."

The wimmen happened to be a lookin' the other way for a minute, and he looked at me as if he would take my head off, and made the strangest motions towards 'em; but the minute they looked at him he would pretend to smile that deathly smile.

Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen, we're goin' to have dinner right away, for we are afraid it will rain."

"Oh, wal," says he, "a little rain, more or less, hain't a goin' to hinder a man from meditatin'."

I was wore out, and says I: "Do you stop meditatin' this minute, Josiah Allen."

Says he: "I won't stop, Samantha. I let you have your way a good deal of the time; but when I take it into my head to meditate, you hain't a goin' to break it up."

Says I: "Josiah Allen, come to dinner."

"Oh, I hain't hungry," says he. "The table will probably be full. I had jest as leves wait."

"Table full!" says I. "You know jest as well as I do that we are eatin' on the ground. Do you come and eat your dinner this minute."

"Yes, do come," says Miss Bobbet.

"Oh," says he, with that ghastly smile, a pretendin' to joke; "I have got plenty to eat here, I can eat muskeeters."

The air was black with 'em; I couldn't deny it.

"The muskeeters will eat you, more likely," says I. "Look at your face and hands."

"Yes, they have eat considerable of a dinner out of me, but I don't begrech 'em. I hain't small enough, I hope, to begrech 'em one meal."

Miss Bobbet and the rest turned to go back, and the minute we were alone he said:

"Can't you bring 40 or 50 more wimmen up here? You couldn't come here a minute without a lot of other wimmen tied to your heels!"

I began to see daylight, and then Josiah told me.

It seems he had set down on that bottle of rhaspberry jell. That blue stripe on the side wasn't hardly finished, as I said, and I hadn't fastened my thread properly; so when he got to pullin' at 'em to try to wipe off the jell, the thread started, and bein' sewed on a machine, that seam jest ripped right open from top to bottom. That was what he had walked off sideways towards the woods for. Josiah Allen's wife hain't one to desert a companion in distress. I pinned 'em up as well as I could, and I didn't say a word to hurt his feelin's, only I jest said this to him, as I was a fixin' 'em: "Josiah Allen, is this pleasure?" Says I: "You was determined to come."

"Throw that in my face again, will you? What if I wuz? There goes a pin into my leg. I should think I had suffered enough without your stabbin' of me with pins."

"Wal, then, stand still, and not be a caperin' round so. How do you suppose I can do anything with you a tousin' round so?"

"Wal, don't be so agrevatin', then."

I fixed 'em as well as I could, but they looked pretty bad, and then, there they was all covered with jell, too. What to do I didn't know. But finally I told him I would put my shawl onto him. So I doubled it up corner-ways, as big as I could, so it almost touched the ground behind, and he walked back to the table with me. I told him it was best to tell the company all about it, but he jest put his foot down that he wouldn't, and I told him if he wouldn't that he must make his own excuses to the company about wearin' the shawl. So he told 'em that he always loved to wear summer shawls; he thought it made a man look so dressy.

But he looked as if he would sink all the time he was a sayin' it. They all looked dretful curious at him, and he looked as meachin' as if he had stole a sheep, and he never took a minute's comfort, nor I nuther. He was sick all the way back to the shore, and so was I. And jest as we got into our wagons and started for home, the rain begun to pour down. The wind turned our old umberell inside out in no time. My lawn dress was most spilte before, and now I give up my bunnet. And I says to Josiah:

"This bunnet and dress are spilte, Josiah Allen, and I shall have to buy some new ones."

"Wal! wal! who said you wouldn't?" he snapped out.

But it wore on him. Oh, how the rain poured down. Josiah havin' nothin' but his handkerchief on his head felt it more than I did. I had took a apron to put on a gettin' dinner, and I tried to make him let me pin it on to his head. But says he, firmly:

"I hain't proud and haughty, Samantha, but I do feel above ridin' out with a pink apron on for a hat."

"Wal, then," says I, "get as wet as sop if you had ruther."

I didn't say no more, but there we jest sot and suffered. The rain poured down, the wind howled at us, the old horse went slow, the rheumatiz laid holt of both of us, and the thought of the new bunnet and dress was a wearin' on Josiah, I knew.

After I had beset him about the apron, we didn't say hardly a word for as much as 13 miles or so; but I did speak once, as he leaned forward with the rain a drippin' offen his bandanna handkerchief onto his white pantaloons. I says to him in stern tones:

"Is this pleasure, Josiah Allen?"

He gave the old mare a awful cut, and says he: "I'd like to know what you want to be so agrevatin' for?"

I didn't multiply any more words with him, only as we drove up to our door-step, and he helped me out into a mud puddle, I says to him:

"Mebby you'll hear to me another time, Josiah Allen?"

And I'll bet he will. I hain't afraid to bet a ten-cent bill that that man won't never open his mouth to me again about a PLEASURE EXERTION.



SHAMUS O'BRIEN, THE BOLD BOY OF GLINGALL—A TALE OF '98

BY SAMUEL LOVER.

Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, To hang him by thrial—barrin' sich as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, There was martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon: If he missed in the judges—he'd meet a dragoon; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance, An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin', An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet— Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay; An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all Was SHAMUS O'BRIEN, from the town iv Glingall. His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white; But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red; An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night! An' he was the best mower that ever has been, An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen, An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare; An' by gorra, the whole world gev it into him there. An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he done: an' it's often I heerd tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best; Afther many a brave action of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils over past, In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

Now, SHAMUS, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look at her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night; One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the sheltering, far distant wood; Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake, An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison-ground, An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air, An' happy remembrances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start; An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering in the cold grave His enemies never should have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword-in-hand; An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered, An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big, With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig; An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN kem into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend; An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' JIM didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, JIM O'BRIEN, av you plase?"

An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN made answer and said: "My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time I thought any treason, or did any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow Before GOD and the world I would answer you, no! But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, yes; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then SHAMUS' mother in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O, judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; You don't know him, my lord—O, don't give him to ruin! He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted; Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' GOD will forgive you—O, don't say the word!" That was the first minute that O'BRIEN was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; And GOD knows it's betther than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, From thought, labour, and sorrow, forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then towards the judge SHAMUS bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; But why are the men standin' idle so late? An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street? What come they to talk of? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? O, SHAMUS O'BRIEN! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last; Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die. An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; An' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck too, An' ould men and young women enjoying the view. An' ould TIM MULVANY, he med the remark, There wasn't sich a sight since the time of NOAH'S ark, An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for devil sich a scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge, For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' SHAMUS was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. An' as soon as the people saw SHAMUS O'BRIEN, Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN throws one last look round. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill; An' the rope bin' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer, But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring JIM has leaped on the ground; Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,— By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken— One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father MALONE lost his new Sunday hat; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.

He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be In America, darlint, the land of the free.



"WHICH AM DE MIGHTIEST, DE PEN OR DE SWORD?"

The "Colored Debating Society" of Mount Vernon, Ohio, had some very interesting meetings. The object of the argument on a particular evening was the settlement, at once and forever, of the question.

Mr. Larkins said about as follows: "Mr. Chaarman, what's de use ob a swoard unless you's gwyne to waar? Who's hyar dat's gwyne to waar? I isn't, Mr. Morehouse isn't, Mrs. Morehouse isn't, Mr. Newsome isn't; I'll bet no feller wot speaks on the swoard side is any ideer ob gwyne to waar. Den, what's de use ob de swoard? I don't tink dar's much show for argument in de matter."

Mr. Lewman said: "What's de use ob de pen 'less you knows how to write? How's dat? Dat's what I wants to know. Look at de chillun ob Isr'l—wasn't but one man in de whole crowd gwine up from Egyp' to de Promis' Lan' cood write, an' he didn't write much. [A voice in the audience, "Who wrote de ten comman'ments, anyhow, you bet." Cheers from the pen side.] Wrote 'em? wrote 'em? Not much; guess not; not on stone, honey. Might p'r'aps cut 'em wid a chisel. Broke 'em all, anyhow, 'fore he got down de hill. Den when he cut a new set, de chillun ob Isr'l broke 'em all again. Say he did write 'em, what good was it? So his pen no 'count nohow. No, saar. De swoard's what fotched 'em into de Promis' Lan', saar. Why, saar, it's ridiculous. Tink, saar, ob David a-cuttin' off Goliah's head wid a pen, saar! De ideer's altogedder too 'posterous, saar. De swoard, saar, de swoard mus' win de argument, saar."

Dr. Crane said: "I tink Mr. Lewman a leetle too fas'. He's a-speakin' ob de times in de dim pas', when de mind ob man was crude, an' de han' ob man was in de ruff state, an' not tone down to de refinement ob cibilized times. Dey wasn't educated up to de use ob de pen. Deir han's was only fit for de ruff use ob de swoard. Now, as de modern poet says, our swoards rust in deir cubbards, an' peas, sweet peas, cover de lan'. An' what has wrot all dis change? De pen. Do I take a swoard now to get me a peck ob sweet taters, a pair ob chickens, a pair ob shoes? No, saar. I jess take my pen an' write an order for 'em. Do I want money? I don't git it by de edge ob de swoard; I writes a check. I want a suit ob clothes, for instance—a stroke ob de pen, de mighty pen, de clothes is on de way. I'se done."

Mr. Newsome said: "Wid all due 'spect to de learned gemman dat's jus' spoke, we mus' all agree dat for smoovin' tings off an' a-levelin' tings down, dere's notting equals de swoard."

Mr. Hunnicut said: "I agrees entirely wid Mr. Newsome; an' in answer to what Dr. Crane says, I would jess ask what's de use ob drawin' a check unless you's got de money in de bank, or a-drawin' de order on de store unless de store truss you? S'pose de store do truss, ain't it easier to sen' a boy as to write a order? If you got no boy handy, telegraf. No use for a pen—not a bit. Who ebber heard of Mr. Hill's pen? Nobody, saar. But his swoard, saar—de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar—is known to ebbery chile in de lan'. If it hadden been for de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar, whaar'd we niggers be to-night, saar? whaar, saar? Not hyar, saar. In Georgia, saar, or wuss, saar. No cullud man, saar, should ebber go back, saar, on de swoard, saar."

Mr. Hunnicut's remarks seemed to carry a good deal of weight with the audience. After speeches by a number of others, the subject was handed over to the "committee," who carried it out and "sot on it." In due time they returned with the followin' decision:

"De committee decide dat de swoard has de most pints an' de best backin', an' dat de pen is de most beneficial, an' dat de whole ting is about a stan'-off."



JUVENILE PUGILISTS.

S.C. CLEMENS.

"Yes, I've had a good many fights in my time," said old John Parky, tenderly manipulating his dismantled nose, "and it's kind of queer, too, for when I was a boy the old man was always telling me better. He was a good man and hated fighting. When I would come home with my nose bleeding or with my face scratched up, he used to call me out in the woodshed, and in a sorrowful and discouraged way say, 'So, Johnny, you've had another fight, hey? How many times have I got to tell ye how disgraceful and wicked it is for boys to fight? It was only yesterday that I talked to you an hour about the sin of fighting, and here you've been at it again. Who was it with this time? With Tommy Kelly, hey? Don't you know any better than to fight a boy that weighs twenty pounds more than you do, besides being two years older? Ain't you got a spark of sense about ye? I can see plainly that you are determined to break your poor father's heart by your reckless conduct. What ails your finger? Tommy bit it? Drat the little fool! Didn't ye know enough to keep your finger out of his mouth? Was trying to jerk his cheek off, hey? Won't you never learn to quit foolin' 'round a boy's mouth with yer fingers? You're bound to disgrace us all by such wretched behaviour. You're determined never to be nobody. Did you ever hear of Isaac Watts—that wrote, "Let dogs delight to bark and bite"—sticking his fingers in a boy's mouth to get 'em bit, like a fool? I'm clean discouraged with ye. Why didn't ye go for his nose, the way Jonathan Edwards, and George Washington, and Daniel Webster used to do, when they was boys? Couldn't 'cause he had ye down? That's a purty story to tell me. It does beat all that you can't learn how Socrates and William Penn used to gouge when they was under, after the hours and hours I've spent in telling you about those great men! It seems to me sometimes as if I should have to give you up in despair. It's an awful trial to me to have a boy that don't pay any attention to good example, nor to what I say. What! You pulled out three or four handfuls of his hair? H'm! Did he squirm any? Now if you'd a give him one or two in the eye—but as I've told ye many a time, fighting is poor business. Won't you—for your father's sake—won't you promise to try and remember that? H'm! Johnny, how did it—ahem—which licked?"

"'You licked him? Sho! Really? Well, now, I hadn't any idea you could lick that Tommy Kelly! I don't believe John Bunyan, at ten years old, could have done it. Johnny, my boy, you can't think how I hate to have you fighting every day or two. I wouldn't have had him lick you for five, no, not for ten dollars! Now, sonny, go right in and wash up, and tell your mother to put a rag on your finger. And, Johnny, don't let me hear of your fighting again!'"

"I never see anybody so down on fighting as the old man, was, but somehow he never could break me from it."



THE OLD MAN IN THE STYLISH CHURCH.

JOHN H. YATES.

Additional effect may be given to this piece by any one who can impersonate the old man.

Well, wife, I've been to church to-day—been to a stylish one— And, seein' you can't go from home, I'll tell you what was done; You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day; The sisters were fixed up so fine they hardly bowed to pray. I had on these coarse clothes of mine, not much the worse for wear, But then they knew I wasn't one they call a millionaire; So they led the old man to a seat away back by the door— 'Twas bookless and uncushioned—a reserved seat for the poor. Pretty soon in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine; They led him to a cushioned seat far in advance of mine. I thought that wasn't exactly right to seat him up so near, When he was young, and I was old and very hard to hear. But then there's no accountin' for what some people do; The finest clothing nowadays oft gets the finest pew, But when we reach the blessed home, all undefiled by sin, We'll see wealth beggin' at the gate, while poverty goes in. I couldn't hear the sermon, I sat so far away, So, through the hours of service, I could only "watch and pray;" Watch the doin's of the Christians sitting near me, round about; Pray God to make them pure within, as they were pure without. While I sat there, lookin' 'round upon the rich and great, I kept thinkin' of the rich man and the beggar at his gate; How, by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar's form grew cold, And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold. How, at last, the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight, From the purple and fine linen to the home of endless night; There he learned, as he stood gazin' at the beggar in the sky, "It isn't all of life to live, nor all of death to die." I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold, Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old, Then returned home from their worship, with a head uplifted high, To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy. Out, out with such professions! they are doin' more to-day To stop the weary sinner from the Gospel's shinin' way Than all the books of infidels; than all that has been tried Since Christ was born at Bethlehem—since Christ was crucified. How simple are the works of God, and yet how very grand; The shells in ocean caverns, the flowers on the land; He gilds the clouds of evenin' with the gold right from his throne, Not for the rich man only—not for the poor alone. Then why should man look down on man because of lack of gold? Why seat him in the poorest pew because his clothes are old? A heart with noble motives—a heart that God has blest— May be beatin' Heaven's music 'neath that faded coat and vest. I'm old—I may be childish—but I love simplicity; I love to see it shinin' in a Christian's piety. Jesus told us in His sermons in Judea's mountains wild, He that wants to go to Heaven must be like a little child. Our heads are growin' gray, dear wife; our hearts are beatin' slow; In a little while the Master will call us for to go. When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes, We'll see no stylish worship in the temple of the skies.



THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.

JOHN H. YATES.

A companion to the foregoing.

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long isle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him Lord of all." I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm. The prechen'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed. The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end." I hope to meet that minister—that congregation, too— In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought—the victory soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.



THE SAN FRANCISCO AUCTIONEER.

ANON.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour of putting up a fine pocket-handkerchief, a yard wide, a yard long, and almost a yard thick; one-half cotton, and t'other half cotton too, beautifully printed with stars and stripes on one side, and the stripes and stars on t'other. It will wipe dust from the eyes so completely as to be death to demagogues, and make politics as bad a business as printing papers. Its great length, breadth and thickness, together with its dark colour, will enable it to hide dirt, and never need washing. Going at one dollar? seventy-five cents? fifty cents? twenty-five cents? one bit? Nobody wants it! Oh, thank you, sir! Next, gentlemen—for the ladies won't be permitted to bid on this article—is a real, simon pure, tempered, highly-polished, keen-edged Sheffield razor; bran spanking new; never opened before to sunlight, moonlight, starlight, daylight or gaslight; sharp enough to shave a lawyer or cut a disagreeable acquaintance or poor relation; handle of buck-horn, with all the rivets but the two at the ends of pure gold. Who will give two dollars? one dollar? half a dollar? Why, ye long-bearded, dirty-faced reprobates, with not room on your phizzes for a Chinese woman to kiss, I'm offering you a bargain at half a dollar! Well, I'll throw in this strop at half a dollar! razor and strop! a recent patent; two rubs upon it will sharpen the city attorney; all for four bits; and a piece of soap, sweeter than roses, lathers better than a school-master, and strong enough to wash all the stains from a California politician's countenance, all for four bits. Why, you have only to put the razor, strop and soap under your pillow at night, and wake up in the morning clean shaved. Won't anybody give two bits, then, for the lot? I knew I would sell them! Next, ladies and gentlemen, I offer three pair socks, hose, stockings, or half-hose, just as you're a mind to call them, knit by a machine made on purpose, out of cotton wool. The man that buys these will be enabled to walk till he gets tired; and, provided his boots are big enough, needn't have any corns; the legs are as long as bills against the corporation, and as thick as the heads of the members of the legislature. Who wants 'em at one half dollar? Thank-ee, madame, the money. Next I offer you a pair of boots made especially for San Francisco, with heels long enough to raise a man up to the Hoadley grades, and nails to ensure against being carried over by a land slide; legs wide enough to carry two revolvers and a bowie-knife, and the upper of the very best horse leather. A man in these boots can move about as easy as the State Capitol. Who says twenty dollars? All the tax-payers ought to buy a pair to kick the council with, everybody ought to buy a pair to kick the legislature with, and they will be found of assistance in kicking the bucket especially if somebody should kick at being kicked. Ten dollars for legs, uppers and soles! while souls, and miserable souls at that, are bringing twenty thousand dollars in Sacramento! Ten dollars! ten dollars! gone at ten dollars! Next is something that you ought to have, gentlemen,—a lot of good gallowses—sometimes called suspenders. I know that some of you will, after a while, be furnished at the State's expense, but you can't tell which one, so buy where they're cheap. All that deserve to be hanged are not supplied with a gallows; if so, there would be nobody to make laws, condemn criminals, or hang culprits, until a new election. Made of pure gum-elastic—stretch like a judge's conscience, and last as long as a California office-holder will steal; buckles of pure iron, and warranted to hold so tight that no man's wife can rob him of his breeches; are, in short, as strong, as good, as perfect, as effectual and as bona-fide as the ordinance against Chinese shops on Dupont Street—gone at twenty-five cents.



PAT-ENT GUN.

I've heard a good joke on Emerald Pat, Who kept a few brains and a brick in his hat; He was bound to go hunting; so taking his gun He rammed down a charge—this was load number one; Then he put in the priming, and when all was done, By way of experiment, he thought he would try And see if by perchance he might hit the "bull's eye."

He straightened himself until he made a good figure, Took a deliberate aim and then pulled the trigger. Click! went the hammer, but nothing exploded; "And sure," muttered Paddy, "the gun isn't loaded." So down went another charge, just as before, Unless this contained a grain or two more; Once more he made ready and took a good aim And pulled on the trigger—effect quite the same. "I wonder, can this be, still shootin'?" said Pat; "I put down a load, now I'm certain of that; I'll try it again, and then we shall see!" So down went the cartridge of load number three. Then trying again with a confident air, And succeeding no better, he gave up in despair. Just at that moment he happened to spy His friend, Michael Milligan, hurrying by. "Hello, Mike! Come here and try on my gun; I've been trying to shoot until I'm tired and done!" So Mike took the gun and picked up the powder, Remarking to Pat, "it would make it go louder." Then placing it firmly against his right arm, And never suspecting it might do him harm, He pointed the piece in the proper direction, And pulled on the trigger without more reflection, When off went the gun like a county election Where whisky and gin have exclusive selection Of those who are chosen to guard the inspection— There's a great deal of noise—and some little inspection, And Michael "went off" in another direction. "Hold on!" shouted Pat, "Hold on to the gun, I put in three loads, and you fired off but one! Get up, and be careful, don't hold it so level, Or else we are both us gone to the—cemetery!" "I'm goin'," says Michael, "it's time that I wint, I've got meself kicked and I'll just take the hint."

Now, old boys, and young, here's a moral for you; Don't make Pat your pattern whatever you do. Don't carry too much in the crown of your hat; Of all things you lodge there beware of the bat!

I don't mean the little mouse flying in the air, The ladies so fear that may get into their hair, But the dangerous brick bat, so much worse than that, Nobody can wear it that isn't a "flat," And then don't forget it is one of Old Nick's Diabolical methods of playing his tricks On foolish young men who become "perfect bricks;" He don't give the hint until after he kicks!



A PSALM OF LIFE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow, Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labour and to wait.



THE LAST MAN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die, before this mortal shall assume its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight—the brands still rusted in their bony hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or tread, and ships were drifting with the dead to shores where all was dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that Lone One stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm passed by, saying—"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast seen the tide of human tears—that shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts that made fire, flood, and earth, the vassals of his will?—yet mourn I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrowned king of day; for all those trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a passion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like grass beneath the scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine in bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall taste,—go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to quench his immortality, or shake his trust in God!"



THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE."

A.D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign— The white, the blue, the red."

Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us!" cried the captain, For naught can man avail: O, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen; At sea we sink or strand: There's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha: "God's errands never fail! Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-shore The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill; The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness They drove for weary hours; And lo! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers The ship of mercy knew— They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, the blue.

And the bells in all the steeples Rang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soil The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old!

With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate foe; The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, How long, O Lord! how long?

But courage, O my mariners! Ye shall not suffer wreck, While up to God the freedman's prayers Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that de Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven— The red of sunset's dye The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, For daylight and for land; The breath of God is on your sail, Your rudder in His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep freighted With blessings and with hopes; The saints of old with shadowy hands Are pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye, holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye, unborn ages send Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha!— God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; And all the bells of God shall ring The good ship bravely in!



THE POLISH BOY.

ANN S. STEPHENS.

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy—I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store— Upspringing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length, And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band: "Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can! This hour has made the boy a man! I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now— My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame; The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang: "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! His freedom is forever won; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss— One last embrace, one blessing—one! To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er my heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! What! silent still? Then art thou dead? ——Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom—dead.



THAT HIRED GIRL.

ANON.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that class of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this.

"Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!"

"Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

"Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—"

"Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon; "we don't want any flour-sifters here!"

"You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly. "I called to—"

"Don't want anything to keep moths away—fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face.

"Is the lady in?" he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head.

"Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; "and now I don't want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come lift your boots!"

"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new—"

"Yes, I know you—you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog."

"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?"

"No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."

"Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off.

"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."

"But here is my card."

"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!"

"I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate.

"It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; "we don't want no prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know the policemen on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!"

And she took unusual care to lock the door.



THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC."

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Toll, toll, toll! Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, Wrecked on yon rocky-shore! Sea-weed is in her palace halls— She rides the surge no more.

Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; But it vanquished them at last.

Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows strife!

Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath th' unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea: He cometh not, pale maiden— His heart is cold to thee?

Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group— Fond wife, and children dear! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate:— Room for the sheeted dead!

Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide— The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song.

Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace; Toll for the hapless orphan left, The last of all his race! Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living—not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er.

Toll, toll, toll! O'er breeze and billow free; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high— Lone teacher of the deep!



THE OWL—A SMALL BOY'S COMPOSITION.

ANON.

Wen you come to see a owl cloce it has offle big eyes, and wen you come to feel it with your fingers, wich it bites, you fine it is mosely fethers, with only jus meat enuf to hole 'em to gether.

Once they was a man thot he would like a owl for a pet, so he tole a bird man to send him the bes one in the shop, but wen it was brot he lookt at it and squeezed it, and it diddent sute. So the man he rote to the bird man and said Ile keep the owl you sent, tho it aint like I wanted, but wen it's wore out you mus make me a other, with littler eyes, for I spose these eyes is number twelves, but I want number sixes, and then if I pay you the same price you can aford to put in more owl.

Owls have got to have big eyes cos tha has to be out a good deal at nite a doin bisnis with rats and mice, wich keeps late ours. They is said to be very wise, but my sisters young man he says any boddy coud be wise if they woud set up nites to take notice.

That feller comes to our house jest like he used to, only more, and wen I ast him wy he come so much he said he was a man of sience, like me, and was a studyin arnithogaly, which was birds. I ast him wot birds he was a studyin, and he said anjils, and wen he said that my sister she lookt out the winder and said wot a fine day it had turn out to be. But it was a rainin cats and dogs wen she said it. I never see such a goose in my life as that girl, but Uncle Ned, wich has been in ole parts of the worl, he says they is jes that way in Pattygong.

In the picture alphabets the O is some times a owl, and some times it is a ox, but if I made the picters Ide have it stan for a oggur to bore holes with. I tole that to ole gaffer Peters once wen he was to our house lookin at my new book, and he said you is right, Johnny, and here is this H stan for harp, but hoo cares for a harp, wy don't they make it stan for a horgan? He is such a ole fool.



THE FLOWERS.

HOWITT.

[In reciting this sweetly beautiful little poem its noble truths should be uttered with emphatic, but not noisy elocution. There is sufficient variety in the different stanzas for the speaker to display much taste and feeling.]

God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers.

The one within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor does it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night:—

Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not— Then wherefore had they birth?— To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth;

To comfort man—to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him!



THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous head-ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.

(Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)

Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (Coughs.)

Oh this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out—as it was a raining at the time—but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes—and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (Coughs.)