Oh, why don't the preachers all preach to the point?
I have sat here till every bone's out of joint,
I've a crick in my neck and a pain in my back.
I declare, Mary Riley has got a new sack,
And all lined through with the finest of fur,

I never could see what folks fancied in her.

Well, the sermon's progressing, I must listen and learn,
How I wish he'd warm up and not look so stern.
Mary Gray is in mourning, I wonder who's dead,
She'd look well in black if her hair wasn't red.
In the pew right behind me is old Deacon Moore;
I don't mind his sleeping, but why does he snore?
Just hear that cross baby; I know Mr. Birch
Must hate so to have it disturbing the church;
And how can he preach and pray through it all?
They say Maggie Ross was "belle of the ball;"
That her dress was just lovely, her dancing divine,
But I won't believe it was better than mine.

The sermon is finished, the Bible is closed,

The "collection" has wakened the deacons that dosed;
I must feel in my pocket and get out my dime,
Those boys in the gallery have a good time.
Why, there's Mary Martin! what a beautiful hat,
How pretty she'd be if she wasn't so fat!

And now we will have a tune from the choir;

I think that their singing lacks feeling and fire;

I wonder if Murray will be at the door

Or if he will join that pert Minnie Moore?

She's so proud of her eyes, with their sleepy old lids,
I do wish I had some six-button kids.

"Old Hundred" is finished and I'll get my muff,
I think for to-day I've had preaching enough.
The aisle is so crowded we'll have to go slow;
Ah! there's Minnie Moore gone off with my beau!
See how she struts in her new polonaise;
I always did hate her impudent ways.

I'll pretend not to see her and turn up my nose,
And show how indifferent I am to the beaus;
There's Jennie Jones opposite waiting to see
If I had a gentleman come home with me.
Ah, me, I just know pa and ma will be vexed
For I have forgotten every word of the text.

NOTHING IS LOST.

Nothing is lost: the drop of dew

Which trembles on the leaf or flower
Is but exhaled to fall anew

In summer's thunder-shower;
Perchance to shine within the bow

That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.

Nothing is lost; the tiniest seed

By wild birds borne or breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown.

The language of some household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after-hour.

So with our words: or harsh or kind,
Uttered, they are not all forgot:
They have their influence on the mind,
Pass on-but perish not.

So with our deeds: for good or ill,

They have their power scarce understood;

Then let us use our better will,

To make them rife with good!

SAXON GRIT.-ROBERT COLLYER.

At the New England dinner, given in New York on the 22nd of December, 1879, the toast, "The Saxon Grit-which, in New England as in Old England, has made a race of men to be honored, feared and respected. It is as positive as the earth is firm," was responded to by the Rev. Robert Collyer, in the following poem :

Worn with the battle, by Stamford town,

Fighting the Normans by Hastings Bay,

Harold the Saxon's sun went down,

While the acorns were falling one Autumn day.
Then the Norman said, "I am lord of the land;
By tenor of conquest here I sit.

I will rule you now with the iron hand;"
But he had not thought of the Saxon grit

He took the land, and he took the men,

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne,
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen,
Eat up the corn and drank the wine,
And said to the maiden, pure and fair,
"You shall be my leman, as is most fit,
Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;"

But he had not measured the Saxon grit.

To his merry green wood went bold Robin Hood, With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray. Driving the arrow into the marrow

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way, Scorning the fetter, fearless and free,

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit,

Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he,

This merry old rogue, with the Saxon grit.

And Kett, the tanner, whipt out his knife;

And Watt, the smith, his hammer brought down For Ruth, the maid he loved better than life,

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the crown. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,

"Our life shall not be by the king's permit;
We will fight for the right, we want no more,"
Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit.
For slow and sure as the oaks had grown

From the acorns falling that Autumn day,
So the Saxon manhood in thorp and town
To a nobler stature grew alway.
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Standing by law and the human right,
Many times failing, never once quailing,
So the new day came out of the night.

A new world stood in the morn of the day,

Ready to welcome the brave and free,

Who could wrench out the heart and march away

From the narrow, contracted, dear old land

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit,

To ampler spaces for heart and hand

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.

Steadily steering, eagerly peering,
Trusting in God, your fathers came,

Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers,

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts all aflame.
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter
And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ,
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy,
And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and føn,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;

Pouring out life for the nurture of men ;

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines; Great with the rifle and great with the ax, Sending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade. This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might.
Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown
From the acorns that fell on that old dim day,
So this new manhood, in city and town,

To a nobler stature will grow alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Slow to contention, and slower to quit,
Now and then failing, but never once quailing,
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

DOT LEEDLE LOWEEZA.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

How dear to dis heart vas mine grandshild, Loweeza!
Dot shveet leedle taughter off Yawcob mine son!
I nefer vas tired to hug und to shqueeze her
Vhen home I gets back und der day's vork vas done.
When I vas avay, oh, I know dot she miss me,

For vhen I come homevards she rushes bell-mell, Und poots oup dot shveet leedle mout' for to kiss meHer "darling oldt gampa,” dot she lofe so vell.

Katrina, mine frau, she could not do mitoudt her,
She vas sooch a gomfort to her day py day;
Dot shild she make efry von habby aboudt her,

Like sunshine she drife all dheir droubles avay;
She holdt der vool yarn vhile Katrina she vind it,
She pring her dot camfire bottle to shmell;
She fetch me mine bipe, too, vhen I don'd can find it,
Dot plue-eyed Loweeza dot lofe me so vell.

How shveet, vhen der toils off der veek vas all ofer,
Und Sunday vas come mit its quiet und rest,
To valk mit dot shild 'mong der daisies und clofer,
Und look at der leedle birds building dheir nest!
Her pright leedle eyes how dhey shparkle mit bleasure,
Her laugh it rings oudt shust so clear as a pell;
I dink dhere vas nopody haf sooch a treasure
As dot shmall Loweeza, dot lofe me so vell.

Vher vinter vas come, mit its coldt, shtormy veddher,
Katrina und I ve musd sit in der house

Und dalk off der bast, by de fireside togedder,

Or play mit dot taughter off our Yawcob Strauss. Oldt age mit its wrinkles pegins to remind us

Ve gannot shtay long mit our shildren to dwell; But soon ve shall meet mit der poys left pehind us, Und dot shveet Loweeza, dot lofe us so vell.

UNCLE TOM AND THE HORNETS.

There is an old woman down town who delights to find a case that all the doctors have failed to cure and then go to work with herbs and roots and strange things and try to effect at least an improvement. A few days ago she got hold of a girl with a stiff neck, and she offered an old negro named Uncle Tom Kelly fifty cents to go to the woods and bring her a hornet's nest. This was to be steeped in vinegar and applied to the neck. The old man spent several days along the Holden road, and yesterday morning he secured his prize and brought it home in a basket. When he reached the Central Market he had a few little purchases to make and after getting some few articles at a grocery he plac ed his basket on a barrel near the stove and went out to look for a beef bone.