A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor fellow's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and trickling down his body into his very boots, so that he was literally in a perfect bath of oil.

"Well, good night, Seth," said the humorous Vermonter, "if you will go"; adding, as Seth got out into the road, "Neighbor, I reckon the fun I've had out of you is worth sixpence; so I sha'n't charge you for that half-pound of butter."

THE CLOWN'S STORY.-VANDYKE BROWNE

Yes-that's my business, sir-a clown,
The saw-dust ring is life to me,

And spinning that old white hat by the crown
Is a sort of second nature, you see.

For thirty years I've been in the ring-
Thirty years and I'll be bound ;
This flight of time is a curious thing,
And here, another season's 'round!

No, nothing to do. Be seated, sir;
I'm fond of an hour's quiet chat;
And what with show-life's bustle and stir,
It isn't a thing to be wondered at.

We've been on the road four months to-day,
The road, with its varied pleasure and strife;
And-beg your pardon, sir, what did you say?—
How do I like my calling in life?

Well, 'tisn't the easiest thing in the world-
At least I haven't found it to be;
A man is tossed about, and hurled
Here and there, like a bottle at sea.

But a fellow must live somehow, you know,
And pick up his bread as best he can;
And how could I do outside the show?
I think it would prove a difficult plan.

Then, too, in spite of the hardship and strife,
Of which, no doubt, it has its share,
There's a certain charm about the life
That steals upon me unaware.

Why, sir, as soon as the winter's past,

And I feel the warmer breath of spring,My pulses, even now, beat fast,

To scent again the air of the ring!

The canvas, sir, is the only place

In which I feel at home, you see;

And a brown stone front, with Brussels and lace,
Would be as bad as the Tombs for me!

Singular, isn't it? Yet I suppose
Whatever the life a man has led,

He learns to like it-the more when he knows
That by it he gets his butter and bread.

Always a clown? Well, no sir, no,
I've done a little in every line—
Was principal rider, years ago,

But fell one night and injured my spine.

Performed on the bar for a season or more,
And tumbled a while-till I hurt my hip;
That left me always a little sore-

I could clear twelve horses once, like a whip!

And then, for a time, I did the trapeze

With Tom-the show bills called us "brothers," And 'twasn't, by Jove, much out of the way,

Though we did have different fathers and mothers!

I wish that some of these pious chaps,

Who'd think it a sin to shake hands with me,
Could have known poor Tom, and then, perhaps,
They'd have, in the future, more charity.

It happened that we were south that year,—
The fever was raging bad, they said:
And yet I had no thought of fear,
Until I saw Tom lying dead!

He seemed too young, too strong and brave,
To be thus early stricken down;

But strength don't count against the grave;
So poor Tom went, and I turned clown.

That's more than twenty years ago;

And since that sad time-let me see--
I've stuck with patience to the show,
And done what seemed the best to me.

I married, after poor Tom died,
As good a girl, as kind and true,
As ever pledged herself a bride,-

I count that more than looks, don't you?

But she was beautiful as well,

With such rich, glorious, golden hair,
And eyes that held you like a spell,-
Such eyes!-like that blue heaven there!

Well, we were wed, and for a time

Our lives seemed one long summer day— "As merry as a marriage chime,"

I think that's what the stories say.

But ah, how soon it ended, sir!

The road and canvas-life to me-
Proved all too rough and hard for her,
She drooped beneath the weight, you see.

I watched her, heavy-hearted, fail;
I tried to think she would not die;
I saw her rounded cheek grow pale,—
The lustre fade from out her eye;

And then I knew all hope was past;

The days dragged by, with snail-like pace,

Such days of anguish!-till, at last,

Death clasped her in his cold embrace.

Since then the years have come and gone;
I've scarcely marked them as they fled;

For from the day on which she died,

It seemed as though time, too, were dead.

My griefs, sometimes, have crushed me down,
But the world, of course, knows nothing of that;
Who'd think of sorrow in a clown?

My business is to spin that hat!

I don't complain. The life I've led
Has had its dark and sunny page;
Twas Shakspeare, wasn't it? who said
That "all the world is but a stage."

Well, that, I think, 's about my creed,

And 'twouldn't much have changed the thing If Shakspeare had made the passage read That "all the world is but a ring."

And so it is, sir! you and I

Are only playing different parts; The Manager who rules on high

I think will judge men by their hearts.

I don't believe he'll even ask

What their calling was down here; But only if they bore their task,

And kept a conscience straight and clear.

So, when the season here is through,

And I go to meet Him face to face,

If He finds a heart that has tried to be true,
Perhaps He'll give even the clown a place.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.-GEORGE P. MORRIS.

This book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start ;

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,

I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,

Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!

Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false I found thee true,
My counselor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE.
CHARLES DICKENS.

I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree.

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top,-for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth,—I look into my youngest Christmas recollections.

All toys at first, I find. But upon the branches of the tree, lower down, how thick the books begin to hang! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black let

ters to begin with!

A was an archer, and shot at a frog." He was an apple-pie also, and there he is!

Of course he was.

He was a good

many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe: like Y, who