A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things;
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit;
Content that from employment springs;
A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it;
A fellow feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door:

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all other level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whitens, soft, white hands;
That is the best crop from the lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

0 poor man's son, scorn not thy state!
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;

Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear GOD;
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

MARK TWAIN TELLS AN ANECDOTE OF A. WARD.

As Artemus was once traveling in the cars, dreading to be bored, and feeling miserable, a man approached him, sat down, and said,—

66

Did you hear that last thing on Horace Greeley?" "Greeley? Greeley?" said Artemus, "Horace Greeley? Who is he?"

The man was quiet about five minutes. said,

Pretty soon he

George Francis Train is kicking up a good deal of a row over England. Do you think they will put him in a bastile?"

"Train? Train? George Francis Train?" said Artemus, solemnly, "I never heard of him."

This ignorance kept the man quiet about fifteen minutes, then he said,—

"What do you think about General Grant's chances for the Presidency? Do you think they will run him?”

"Grant? Grant? hang it, man," said Artemus, “you appear to know more strangers than any man I ever saw." The man was furious. He walked off, but at last came back and said,—

"You confounded ignoramus, did you ever hear of Adam?” Artemus looked up and said,— "What was his other name?"

THE DYING STREET ARAB.-MATTHIAS BARR.

I knows what you mean, I'm a dyin';
Well, I ain't no worse nor the rest;
"Taint them as does nothin' but prayin',
I reckon, is allus the best.

I ain't had no father nor mother

A-tellin' me wrong from the right;
The streets ain't the place,--is it, parson?-
For sayin' your prayers of a night.

I never knowed who was my father,
And mother, she died long ago;

The folks here, they brought me up somehow,
It ain't much they have teached me, I know.

Yet I think they'll be sorry, and miss me,
When took right away from this here,
For sometimes I catches them slyly
A-wipin' away of a tear.

And they says as they hopes I'll get better;
I can't be no worse when I'm dead;
I ain't had so jolly a time on't,-
A-dyin' by inches for bread.

I've stood in them streets precious often,
When the wet's been a-pourin' down,
And I ain't had so much as a mouthful,
Nor never so much as a brown.

I've looked in them shops,.with the winders
Chokeful of what's tidy to eat,

And I've heerd gents a-larfin' and talkin',
While I drops like a dorg at their feet.

But it's kind on you, sir, to sit by me;
I ain't now afeerd o' your face;
And I hopes, if it's true as you tells me,
We'll meet in that t'other place.

I hopes as you'll come when it's over,

And talk to them here in the court; They'll mind what you says, you're a parson, There won't be no larkin' nor sport.

You'll tell them as how I died happy,
And hopin' to see them again;

That I'm gone to that land where the weary
Is freed of his trouble and pain.

Now open that book as you give me,

I feels as it never tells lies,

And read me them words-you know, guv'nor,-
As is good for a chap when he dies.

There, give me your hand, sir, and thankee
For the good as you've done a poor lad;
Who knows, had they teached me some better,
I mightn't have growed up so bad.

NOTHING BUT LEAVES.

He found thereon nothing but leaves.-MATT. xi., 19.

Nothing but leaves; the spirit grieves
Over a wasted life;

Sins committed while conscience slept,
Promises made but never kept,
Hatred, battle, and strife-

Nothing but leaves!

Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheaves
Of life's fair, ripened grain;
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds;
We sow our seed,-lo! tares and weeds;
We reap with toil and pain
Nothing but leaves.

Nothing but leaves; memory weaves
No veil to screen the past:

As we retrace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
We find, sadly, at last,
Nothing but leaves.

And shall we meet the Master so,
Bearing our withered leaves?
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit;
We stand before him, humbled, mute,
Waiting the word he breathes,-
Nothing but leaves,

THE MAN OF EXPEDIENTS.-S. GILMAN.

The man of expedients is he who, never providing for the little mishaps and stitch-droppings with which this mortal life is pestered, and too indolent or too ignorant to repair them in the proper way, passes his days in inventing a succession of devices, pretexts, substitutes, plans, and commutations, by the help of which he thinks he appears as well as other people. Look through the various professions and

characters of life. You will there see men of expedients darting, and shifting, and glancing, like fishes in the stream. If a merchant, the man of expedients borrows incontinently, at two per cent. a month; if a sailor, he stows his hold with jury-masts, rather than ascertain if his ship be sea worthy; if a visitor where he dislikes, he is called out before the evening has half expired; if a musician, he scrapes on a fiddle-string of silk; if an actor, he takes his stand within three feet of the prompter; if a poet, he makes “fault" rhyme with "ought," and "look" with "spoke;" if a reviewer, he fills up three quarters of his article with extracts from the writer whom he abuses; if a divine, he leaves ample room in every sermon for an exchange of texts; if a physic ian, he is often seen galloping at full speed, nobody knows where; if a debtor, he has a marvelous acquaintance with short corners and dark alleys; if a collegian, he commits Euclid and Locke to memory without understanding them, interlines his Greek, and writes themes equal to the Rambler.

But it is in the character of a general scholar that the man of expedients most shines. He ranges through all the arts and sciences-in cyclopædias; he acquires a most thorough knowledge of classical literature-from translations; he is very extensively read-in title-pages; he obtains an exact acquaintance with authors-from reviews; he follows all literature up to its sources-in tables of contents; his researches are indefatigable-into indexes; he quotes by memory with astonishing facility-the dictionary of quotations; and his bibliographical familiarity is miraculous-with Dibdin.

We are sorry to say that our men of expedients are to be sometimes discovered in the region of morality. There are those who claim the praise of a good action, when they have acted merely from convenience, inclination, or compulsion. There are those who make a show of industry, when they are set in motion only by avarice. There are those who are quiet and peaceable, only because they are sluggish. There are those who are sagely silent, because they have not one idea; abstemious, from repletion; patriots, because they are ambitious; perfect, because there is no temptation.