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And he's huffy, and stuffy, and puffy, and snuffy,
And musty, and fusty, and rusty, and crusty;
Sneezing, and wheezing, and teasing, and freezing,
And grumbling, and fumbling, and mumbling, and stuwb)
Falling, and bawling, and crawling, and sprawling,
Withering, and dithering, and qmvering, and shiveiJing
Waking, and aching, and quaking and snaking,
Ailing, and wailing, and always bewailing,
Weary, and dreary, and nothmg that's cheery,
Groaning, and moaning, his selfishness owning;
And crymg, and sighing, while lying and dying,
Grieving and heavmg, though naught he is leaving
But wealth and ill health, and his pelf, and himself.

Then he sends for a doctor to cure or to kill,
With his wonderful skill,
And a very big bill,
All of which is worth nil,

By droppmg a hint about making his will;
For the game's up at last,
The grave die is cast,
Never was fretful antiquity mended—
So the lonely life of the bachelor's ended.
Nobody mourns him, nobody sighs,
Nobody misses him, nobody cries;
For whether a fool, or whether he's wise,
Nobody grieves when a bachelor dies.

Now, gentlemen! mark me, for this is the life
That is led by a man never bless'd with a wife;
And this is the way that he yields up his breatl
Attested by all who are in at the death.

WE SHALL KNOW—Annie Herrert.

When the mists have rolled in splendor

From the beauty of the hills,
And the sunshine, warm and tender,

Falls in kisses on the rills,
We may read Love's shining letter

In the rainbow of the spray,
We shall know each other better
When the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,

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If we err in human blindness

And forget that we are dust,
If we miss the law of kindness

When we struggle to be just,
Snowy wings of peace shall cover

All the pain that hides away,
When the weary watch is over,

And the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,

When the mists have cleared away.

When the silvery mist has veiled us

From the faces of our own,
Oft we deem their love has failed us

And wo tread our path alone;
We should see them near and truly,

We should trust them day by day,
Never love nor blame unduly,
If the mists were cleared away.

We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,

When the mists have cleared away.

When the mists have risen above us,

As our Father knows his own, Face to face with those that love us,

We shall know as we are known; Love, beyond the orient meadows,

Floats the golden fringe of day;
Heart to heart we bide the shallows,

Till the mists have cleared away.
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
When the Day of Light is dawning,

And the mists have cleared away.

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.

She stood at the bar of justice,

A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,

In features too old for a child,

For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pule young face,

It seemed lung years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her

With kindly look yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you p ease sir,"

"And your age?"— I am turned fifteen." "Wei", Mary," and then from a paper

He 3lowly and gravely read, "You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it—

With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show

Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate hurst of weeping

Was at first her sole reply,
But she dried her eyes in a moment,

And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir,

My father and mother are dead, And my little brother and sisters

Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,
But somehow times were bad, sir,

And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;

The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered—

(Little johnny's but four years old;}-*"
So, what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn, I took—oh, was it stealing?

The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room—

Gray-beard and thoughtless youthKnew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spake the truth, Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,

Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets

Treasures hoarded for years.

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The judge's face was a study—

The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured

Something about the law.
For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,

Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered,

When at last these words they heard
"The sentence of this young prisoner

Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered

When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,

Himself, the " guilty " child.

ODE FOR DECORATION DAY.
Henry Petersom.

Bring flowers to strew again

With fragrant purple rain

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,

The dwellings of our dead, our glorious dead I

Let the bells ring a solemn funeral chime,

And wild war-music bring anew the time

When they who sleep beneath

Were full of vigorous breath,
And in thair lusty manhood sallied forth,

Holding in strong right hand

The fortunes of the land, The pride and power and safety of the North! It seems but yesterday The long and proud array— But yesterday when ev'n the solid rock Shook as with earthquake shock,— As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground Against each other with convulsive bound, And the whole world stood still

To view the mighty war, .

And hear the thunderous roar, While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill. Alas! how few came back

From battle and from wrack!

Alas! how many lie

Beneath a Southern sky,

Who never heard the fearful fight was done,

And all they fought for won.

Sweeter, I think their sleep,

More peaceful and more deep,

Could they but know their wounds were not in vain,
Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain,
And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread.
Ah! let us trust it is so with our dead—
That they the thrilling joy of triumph feel,
And in that joy disdain the foemau's steel.

We mourn for all, but each doth think of one

More precious to the heart than aught beside— Some father, brother, husband, or some son

Who came not back, or coming, sank and died,—

In him the whole sad list is glorified!
"He fell 'fore Richmond, in the seven long days

When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed eve. And lies there," one pale, widowed mourner says,

And knows not most to triumph or to grieve. "My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs; "And mine at Gettysburg!" his neighbor cries,

And that great name each sad-eyed listener thrills. I think of one who vanished when the press Of battle surged along the Wilderness,

And mourned the North upon her thousand hills.

Oh! gallant brothers of the generous South,

Foes for a day and brothers for all time,
I charge you by the memories of our youth,

By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime,
Hold our dead sacred—let them quietly rest
In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best I
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive,
And o'er their graves a 'broidered mantle weave;
Be you as kind as they are, and the word
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird,
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make
Our peace the peace of brothers once again,
And banish utterly the days of pain.

And ye ! O Northmen ! be ye not outdone

In generous-thought and deed.
We all do need forgiveness, every one;

And they that give shall find it in their need.

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