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THE MAN WHO FELT SAD.
He entered the hardware store on Woodward avenue about 10 o'clock Saturday morning, and taking a seat by the stove, he beckoned to the proprietor and said:
"Sit down here—I want to speak with you."
He was a man who looked sad from the crown of his hat to the toes of his boots. There were deep care lines on his face, his eyes were red and anxious looking, and his tattered overcoat was drawn in at the waist by a wide leather belt.
"Can we do anything for you to-day?" asked the merchant as he sat down.
The sad man slowly wiped his nose, slowly turned around, and slowly replied;
"Sir, it makes me feel sad when I reflect that we have all got to die!"
"Yes—um," replied the merchant.
"Christopher Columbus is dead!" continued the sad man, "and who feels bad about it—who sheds a tear over his loss? He is gone, and we shall never see him more! You and I must sooner or later follow him, and the world will go on just the same."
"Then you don't want anything to-day?" queried the merchant after a painful pause.
"—nd King James is dead!" exclaimed the sad man, wiping his nose again. "Is anybody weeping over his loss? Don't folks laugh and laugh, and don't the world go on just the same? Sir, it may not be a week before you and I will be called upon to rest from the labors of this life. Doesn't it make you feel sad when you think of it?"
"Of course, we've got to die," replied the merchant as he tossed a stray nail over among the eightpennys.
"Andrew Jackson is dead," continued the sad man, a tear falling on his hand. "Yes, Andrew has been gathered, and a good man has gone from among us. Wero you acquainted with him?"
"I believe not," was the answer.
"Well, he was a fine man, and many a night I have laid awake and cried to think that he would be seen among us no more forever. Yet do you hear any wailing and sobbing? Does anybody seem to care a cent whether Andrew Jackson is dead or living? You or I may be the next to go, and the world will move on just the same as if we had never lived."
"The world can't, of course, stop for the death of one man, no matter how great," said the merchant.
"That's what makes me sad—that's why I weep these tears!" answered the man, wringing his long, peaked nose with vigorous grief. "William Penn is also dead. Once in a great while I hear some one express sorrow, but as a general thing the world has forgotten William with the rest. Don't it make you feel sad when you reflect that you will never see him again? Don't it make you feel like crying when you think he has gone from among us?"
"I never have time to think of these things," answered the merchant, fondling the coal stove shaker.
"And Shakspeare's gone, too!" exclaimed the man, his chin quivering with agitation," we may sigh, and sigh, and wish, and wish, but poor Shaky will never be seen moving with us again! They have laid him away to sleep his long sleep, and a bright lamp has been extinguished forever."
"Well, did you want anything in the line of hardware?" asked the merchant as he rose up.
"Can you speak of hardware to me at such a time as this?" 'exclaimed the sad man. "Knowing my sad feelings, seeing these tears, and listening to my broken voice, can you have the heart to try and force hardware upon me?"
The merchant went over to his desk and the sad man wrung his nose again and went out.
—Detroit Free Press.
RESIGNATION—H. W. Longfellow.
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there I
But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying;
And mournings for tiie dead;
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
The grief that must have way.
THE LEAP OF CURTIUS.—George Aspinall.
Within Rome's Forum suddenly
A wide gap opened in a night, Astounding those who gazed on it,
A strange, terrific sight.
In Senate all their sages met,
Their faces blanched with deadly fear,
A sign inimical to Rome,
A visitation from the gods,
Yet how to have their minds resolved,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt,
In silence brooded they awhile,
Unbroken by a single word, While from the capital without
The lightest sounds were heard.
Then rose the eldest magistrate,
A tall old man with locks like snow,
Straight as a dart, and with an eye
And thus with ripe, sonorous voice,
Or indicate the wear of time,
"Fathers, the Oracle is nigh,
To it then let us promptly send, And at the shrine inquire what this
Dread marvel doth portend.
"And if to Rome it augurs ill,
Then ask we, ere it be too late, How we may best avert the doom,
And save the sacred state:
"That state to every Roman dear,
For which each true-born son would give,
"For what, O Fathers! what were life
Yea, is not all our highest good,
"And now adjourn we for a space,
And on the morning of the fourth,
Then gat they up and gloomily
For such short interval did part,
And sad was every heart.
The fourth day dawned, and when they met,
Something most precious in the chasm
But if unclosed it shall remain,
And all the splendor of her state
Something most precious! H hat the gift
What costly offering will ^ne gods
While this they rordered, lo! a sound
Of footsteps foil on every ear,
Did presently appear.
Apollo's hvow, a mien like Mars,
At Op. his golden hair the sun
Tis Marcus Curtius! purer blood
None there could boast, and none more braves There stands the youthful patriot, come,
A Roman, Rome to save.
His own young life, he offers that,
Yea, volunteers himself to throw Within the cleft to make it close,
And stay the heavy woe.
And now on horseback, fully armed,