And next,-what a load! it will split the old gun,- Bump! bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,- Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed! Oh, say, can you look through the vista of age "They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then, I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight? I may have been dreaming. I rather incline To think—yes, I'm certain-it is 'twenty-nine! 66 By George!" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry, You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie! Is Jackson not President?- What was 't you said? Jim,-Harry,-Fred-Isaac,-all gone from our side?—- -Look, there's our old Præses,-he can't find his text; I told you 'twas nonsense. Joe, give us a song! Go harness up" Dolly," and fetch her along! Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not! Hurrah for Old Hickory!- -Oh, I forgot! Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?) -And now as my load was uncommonly large, Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est “Noyes;" Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam ! THE DEATH OF MOSES.*-JESSIE G. M'CARTEE. Led by his God, on Pisgah's height, 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 agéd Moses smiled While thus he poured his accents mild "I see them all before me now- 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 poem will form a worthy prelude to Mrs. C. F. Alexander's “Burial of Moses." See No. 3, page 94. NUMBER NINE. "There groves of palm and myrtle spread O'er valleys fair and wide; The lofty cedar rears its head "For them the rose of Sharon flings Her fragrance on the gale; And there the golden lily springs,— "Amid the olive's fruitful boughs Is heard the song of love, For there doth build and breathe her vows "For them shall bloom the clustering vine, The citron's golden treasures shine "For them, for them, but not for me→ Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea, ""Tis well, 'tis well, my task is done, Father, receive thy dying one Alone he bade the world farewell, Now, to your tents, O Israel, And mourn your prophet dead! TEMPERANCE.-1776-1876.* Our sires were rocked in Faneuil Hall, 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 *G. w. BUNGAY. And Warren's thrilling voice would rouse And sow their votes like storms of snow! Where are the 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? Descendants of the good old stock, Strike out the statutes which disgrace Let vice into its gulf be hurled! Strike for the victims bound in chains! Strike, when the heart beats to the hand! Strike, for the cause the foe disdains! 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. Men who make politics a trade They'll sell it ere the morning dawns, Robe it with scorn, crown it with thorns, 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 you 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," &c., 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 |