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Nor any clouds in that eternal day

Trouble them more who once have entered in

But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Thus the gates close and I behold no more,—
Though, as I walk, they open oftencr now
For those who leave me and go on before ;—
And I am lonely also while I bow

And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired!—but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way:
I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,
And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,

When thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.


There is a God! The herbs of the valley, the cedars of the mountain, bless him; the insect sports in his beam ; the bird sings him in the foliage; the thunder proclaims him in the heavens; the ocean declares his immensity;—man alone has said, There is no God! Unite in thought at the same instant the most beautiful objects in nature. Suppose that you see, at once, all the hours of the day, and all the seasons of the year,—a morning of spring, and a morning of autumn— a night bespangled with stars, and a night darkened by clouds—meadows enameled with flowers—forests hoary with snow—fields gilded by the tints of autumn,—then alone you will have a just conception of the universe! While you are gazing on that sun which is plunging into the vault of the west, another observer admires him emerging from the gilded gates of the east. By what inconceivable power does that agfid star, which is sinking fatigued and burning in the shades of the evening, reappear at the same instant fresh and humid with the rosy dew of the morning? At every hour of the day, the glorious orb is at once rising, resplendent as noon-day, and setting in the west; or rather, our senses deceive us, and there is, properly speaking, no east or west, no north or south, in the world.


Veil den, I dells you mit te dime I goed a huntin mit mine brodder Shake, ven ve vash boys not so biggerish ash ve ish now. Shake he vash smaller ash I pin, unt I vash bigger ash Shake. We vash dwin boys, but dere vash about two or dree years bigger ash vuu anudder vash. Veil den, von day I dakes brodder Shake unt two udder togs, und I dells dem we go a huntin mit te woodchuck unt some oder dings. Ve go to te old barn past, unt te pack of te field behint us, unt pooty soon we kit te voots in te mittle of us, ten I vistles to Shake unt te udder two togS; unt py unt py somedings sehart te togs, unt they roon shust so pig fasht ash dey neffer vas roon pefore. Shake he roon pooty fasht, unt I roon, for I dinks somedings vas sehart mit de togs. Pooty soon te togs vash stop mit roonin, unt vash makin dere hets in te log mit a pig hole in, veil I comes up. Shake, he says, "Prodder Hans, ter ish a woodchuck in te log mit te hole." Den I tells Shake, "You shust vatch mit vun hole, unt te togs te udder hole, den I vill make vun udder hole, mit mine ax, in te mittle of te log, unt den, ven I see him, I viU schlock him un te koop, unt schmite his het off mit to ax." So Shake, he says, " I vill stop te hole mit mine foot, so he vill not mooch kit out mit dis hole." Den I dakes mine ax, unt a hole make in te log. Pooty soon I kits a hole, unt I dinks I see te woodchuck, unt I dells prodder Shake to still be, unt I shopped a little more, unt den I sees te dings het, so I makes te ax come down mit all my might—I dinks I vill make his het off—unt, mine gracious! vat you dink! Prodder Shake, he make von pig noise, uift he gommence a groanin, schwearin in Tuch unt English all togedder, unt he says, " Prodder Hans, dash ish not te woodchuck ; you ish von biggest fool you hash schmite mine foof off. Oh! mine gootness! I ish kill!" Veil, I vash sehart mooch; I dinks I had kilt prodder Shake, unt I gried, unt schwewed a leetle, den I looked in te hole, unt tore vash a bait of prodder Shake's poot, unt two or dree toes, all ploody, lav ing in te log, put dere vash no woodchuck or any udder dings in te log. Shake he croaned so pig lout, dat I dake his foot unt dies mine shirt up mit it. Shake, ho make him up on my pack, unt 1 garried him to te house. Py unt by his foot git well, put no more toes crowed out it, unt he say, " Prodder Hans, I vili no more go woodchuck hunt mit you ;" unt he neffer did.

THE RED JACKET.—George M. Baker.

"Pis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar
The north winds beat and clamor at the door;
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet,
The weary traveler with their smiles to greet;
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—
"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"

But hark! above the beating of the storm
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm.
Yon gloomv heaven's aflame with sudden light,
And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
The ready friend no danger am appall;
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
Devouring all they coil themselves about,
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
In vam attempts their power to overthrow;
With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,
Something that's human waits a horrid death;
A little child, with waving golden hair,
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,—
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
While sobs of terror shake her tender breaat.


I know each nook in the rocky strand,
And the crimson weeds on the golden sand,
And the worn old cliff where the sea-pinks cling,
And the winding caves where the echoes ring—
I shall wake them nevermore.

How it keeps calling, calling!

It is never a night to sail; I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, As I strained through the haze my failing sight, And the cottage creaks and rocks, well mgh As the old " Fox" did in the days gone by,

In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling!

It is hard on a soul, I say,
To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,
Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark,
While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast,
And the angry waves roll fierce and fast,

Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?

And yet I am not so old. At the herring fishery, but last year, No boat beat mine for tackle and gear, And I steered the cobble past the reef. When the broad sail shook like a withered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

Will it never stop calling, calling?

Can't you sing a song by the hearth— A heartsome stave of a merry glass, Or a gallant fight, or a bonny lass? Don't you care for your grand-dad just so much? Come near, then, give me a hand to touch,

Still warm with the warmth of earth.

You hear it calling, calling?

Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup,
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white

Beneath the low black skies.

But then, in its calling, calling,

No summons to soul was sent.
Now—well, fetch the parson, find the book,
It is up on the shelf there, if you look;
The sea has been friend, and fire, and bread;
Put me where it will tell of me, lying dead,

How it called, and I rose and went.

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