HOW JIMMY TENDED THE BABY.

I never could see the use of babies. We have one at our house that belongs to mother, and she thinks everything of it. I can't see anything wonderful about it. All it can do is to cry, and pull hair, and kick. It hasn't half the sense of my dog, and can't even chase a cat. Mother and Sue wouldn't have a dog in the house, but they are always going on about the baby, and saying, "Ain't it perfectly sweet?"

The worst thing about a baby is, that you're expected to take care of him, and then you get scolded afterward. Folks say, "Here, Jimmy, just hold the baby a minute, there's a good boy;" and then, as soon as you have got it, they say, "Don't do that! Just look at him! That boy will kill the child! Hold it up straight, you goodfor-nothing little wretch!" It's pretty hard to do your best, and then be scolded for it; but that is the way boys are treated. Perhaps after I'm dead, folks will wish they had done differently.

Last Saturday, mother and Sue went out to make calls, and told me to stay at home and take care of the baby. There was a base-ball match, but what did they care for that? They didn't want to go to it, and so it made no difference whether I went to it or not. They said they would be gone only a little while, and if the baby waked up, I was to play with it, and keep it from crying, and "be sure and not let it swallow any pins." Of course I had to do it. The baby was sound asleep when they went out; so I left it just a few minutes, while I went to see if there was any pie in the pantry. If I was a woman, I wouldn't be so dreadfully suspicious as to keep everything locked up. When I got back up stairs again, the baby was awake, and was howling like he was full of pins. So I gave him the first thing that came handy, to keep him quiet. It happened to be a bottle of French polish, with a sponge on the end of a wire, that Sue

uses to black her boots, because girls are too lazy to use the regular brush. The baby stopped crying as soon as I gave him the bottle, and I sat down to read a paper. The next time I looked at him, he'd got out the sponge, and about half of his face was jet black. This was a nice fix, for I knew nothing could get the black off his face, and when mother came she would say the baby was spoiled, and I had done it. Now I think an all black baby is ever so much more stylish than an all white baby, and when I saw that the baby was part black, I made up my mind that if I blacked it all over it would be worth more than it ever had been, and perhaps mother would be ever so much pleased. So I hurried up, and gave it good coat of black.

You should have seen how that baby shined! The polish dried as soon as it was put on, and I had just time to get baby dressed again, when mother and Sue came in. I wouldn't lower myself to repeat their unkind language. When you've been called a murdering little villain, and an unnatural son, it will rankle in your heart for ages. After what they had said to me, I didn't even seem to mind father, but went up stairs with him almost as if I was going to church, or something that didn't hurt much. The baby is beautiful and shiny, though the doctors say it will wear off in a few years. Nobody shows any gratitude for all the trouble I took, and I can tell you it isn't easy to black a baby without getting it into his eyes and hair. I sometimes think it is hardly worth while to live in this cold and unfeeling world.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.-ELIZA COOK.

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day

When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled,
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow.
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

A BALLAD OF WAR.-MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land?
What did you hear, and what did you see?
Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand
Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

"I come from red war in that dire Eastern land;

Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see; But I know not your son, with his sword in his hand; If you would hear of him, paint him to me."

"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!"
""Tis not a gentle place where I have been."
*Oh. he has a smile like the outbreak of day!"
"Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done,—

Deeds of chief honor, you said you saw three:
You said you saw three-I am sure he did one.
My heart shall discern nim, and cry 'This is he!'"
"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair,

And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." "That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?"

"Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won. And they said it was grand for a man to die so." "Alas for his mother! He was not my son.

Was there no fair-haired soldier who humbled the foe?"

"I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die:

Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank

Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh." "Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son;

Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair." "Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose;

I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard

Two legends of fame from the land of our foes:

But you said there were three: you must tell me the third." "I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly

In a battery's face; but it was not to slay;

A poor little drummer had dropped down to die,
With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.
"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain,—
The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell;
And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain,
Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy.
Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). ̧
He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy,

And his name "Speak it not! "Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree,

Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam! And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath,

And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading

years-

How he died his noble and beautiful death,

And his mother, who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face shining in at the door,

With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore? Do not go back alone-let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain;

I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain,

And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"

SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY.

Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of Virginia, March 23d, 1775.

Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth,--to know the worst, and to provide for it!

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a