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And next,—what a load! it will split the old gun,—
Three fingers,—four fingers,—five fingers of fun!
Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise
Was there ever a lot like us fellows, The Boys?

Bump! bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,—
Aha, Old Professor! Look out for your toes!
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to deep in your bed,—
Two " Boys"—twenty-niners—room over your head!

Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!
From red " Massachusetts" the war-cry was raised;
And " Hollis" and " Btoughton " re-echoed the call,
Till P poked his head out of Hoi worthy Halll

Old P , as we called him,—at fifty or so,—

Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should say,
Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day I

Oh, say, can you look through the vista of age
To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage?
When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years,
And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears?

And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed
The days of our dealings with Willard and Read?
When " Dolly" was kicking and running away,
And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?

But where are the Tutors, my brother, Oh, tell!—
And where the Professors, remembered so well?
The sturdy old Grecian of Hohvorthy Hall,
And Latin and Logic and Hebrew and all?

"—They are dead, the old fellows" (wecalled them so then, Though we since have found out they were lusty young men). —They are dead, do you tell mo?—but how do you know? You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.

I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight?
It's not quite so clear. It admits of debate.
I may have been dreaming. I rather incline
To think—yes, I'm certain—it is 'twenty-nine!

"By George!" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,—
You tell me thev're dead, but I know it's a lie!

Is JackRon not President? What was't you said?

It can't be ; you're joking; what,—all of 'em dead?

Jim,—Harry,—Fred—Isaac,—all gone from our side?— They couldn't have left us,—no, riot if they tried. —Look,—there's our old Preses,—he can't find his text; —See—P rubs his leg, as he growls out, " The Next!" I told you 'twas nonsense. Joe, give us a song!

Go harness up " Dolly," and fetch her along!—

Dead! Dead! You fals^ gravbeard, I swear they are n»ti

Hurrah for Old Hickory! —Oh, I forgot!

Well, one we have with as (how could he contrive
To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?)
Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,—
No wonder he took to the study of Job!

—And now as my load was uncommonly large,
Let me taper it off with a classical charge;
When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun,
And then stand at ease; for my service is done.

Bibamia ad Classcm rocat,im " The Boys"
El eorum TiUorcm cut itoinen cut " Xoyes;"
Et floreatd, valeaiu, vigecmt tarn,
Aon Beircius ipse eimmerct quam 1

THE DEATH OF MOSES.*—Jessie G. M'caktei:.

Led by his God, on Pisgah's height,

The pilgrim-prophet stood—
When first fair Canaan blessed his sight,

And Jordan's crystal flood.

Behind him lay the desert ground

His weary feet had trod;
While Israel's host encamped around,

Still guarded by their God.

With joy the aged Moses smiled

On all his wanderings past,
While thus he poured his accents mild

Upon the mountain-blast:

"I see them all before me now—

The city and the plain,
From where bright Jordan's waters flow,

To yonder boundless ma n.

"Oh! there the lovely promised land

With milk and honey flows;
Now, now my weary murmuring band

Shall find their sweet repose.

"This i*tom will form a worthy prelude tjj Sirs. C. Y. Alexander' s "Burial 'il Mom." Seo No. 3, page !>4.

"There groves of palm and myrtle spread

O'er valleys fair and wide; The lofty cedar rears its head

On every mountain-side.

"For them the rose of Sharon flings

Her fragrance on the gale;
And there the golden lily springs,—

The lily of the vale.

"Amid the olive's fruitful boughs

Is heard the song of love, for there doth build and breathe her vows

The gentle turtle-dove.

"For them shall bloom the clustering vine.

The fig tree shed her flowers, The citron's golden treasures shine

From out her greenest bowers.

"For them, for them, but not for me—

Their fruits I may not eat;
Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea,

Shall lave my pilgrim feet.

"Tis well, 'tis well, my task is done,

Since Israel's sons are blest: Father, receive thy dying one

To thine eternal rest!"

Alone ho bade the world farewell,

To God his spirit fled. Now, to your tents, O Israel,

And mourn your prophet dead I

TEMPERANCE.—1776-1878*

Our sires were rocked in Faneuil Hall,

The famous cradle of the free; And shall we hear our brothers call

For help, and never heed the plea? We heap the granite to the skies,

Over the graves on Bunker's hill; But if the heroes there could rise,

While Rum is king, would they be still?

They would again renew their vows

To wipe away a nation's stain; *O. w. Boxoii.

And Warren's thrilling voice would rouse

The iron will of mighty men.
They would relight their heacon fires

On old Waehusett's naked brow,
And clang the bells in all their spires,

And sow their votes like storms of snow)

Where are t he sons of sires who cast

The taxed tea-chests in the sea? Where is the spirit of the past,

That moved the deep of sympathy? Would not intemperance have been driven

From us, like a loathsome curse,
If, when our fathers went to heaven,

Their mantles had been worn by us?

Descendants of the good old stock,

By all the free blood in your veins, By all the prayers at Plymouth Rock,

Strike off the drunkard's galling chains! By all the blood your fathers shea,

By all the laurels they have won, Stand up for Temperance as they did

For liberty at Lexington!

Strike out the statutes which disgrace

Our land before a wondering world I Enact a law to lift the race!

Let vice into its gulf be hurled! Strike, for the glory of our land!

Strike for the victims bound in chains!_ Strike, when the heart beats to the hand;

Strike, for the cause the foe disdains I

Go bravely to the ballot-box,

And cast a freeman's honest vote; Be never like the stupid ox.

Led by the halter at the throat. Trust not the men who did betray

Our cause for office, power, or gold; The promises they make to-day

They'll break to-morrow, as of old.

Men who make politics a trade

Will stoop to-day to tie your shoes;
To-morrow your cause will be betrayed

And crucified by bitter foes.
They'll sell it ere the morning dawns,

And nail it to the cursed tree,
Robe it with scorn, crown it with thorns,

And make of it a mockery.

THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY WHO DIDN'T COME TO GRIEF—Mark Twain.

Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim; though, if yon will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James, in your Sunday-school books. It was very strange, but still it was true, that this one was called Jim.

He didn't have any sick mother, either,—a sick mother who was pious, and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest, but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt that the world would be harsh and cold towards him when she was gone. Most bad boys in the Sunday-school books are named James, and have sick mothers who teach them to say, "Now I lay me down," <Scc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices, and then kiss them good-night, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it was different with this fellow. He was named Jim; and there wasn't any thing the matter with his mother,—no consumption, or any thing of that kind. She was rather stout than otherwise; and she was not pious: moreover, she was not anxious on Jim's account. She said if he were to break his neck, it wouldn't be much loss. She always spanked Jim to sleep; and she never kissed him good-night: on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.

Once this bad little boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped in there, and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar, so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at once a terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to whisper to him, "Is it right to disobey my mother? Isn't it sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good, kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all alone and promise never to be wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. No; that is the way with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened

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