Hees woice vas shdrong und glear, Und dese vords vent de shpout oop, "Dooce Dr. Sholtz leve hier?"

Und gwickly beck my an-swear
Dot shbout vas goin dro:

66

Dr. Sholtz, dot vas my name, sir,
Vat vood you hev me doo?"

"Now let me eshk you doketor;
You shoore I'fe got dot righd?
Ish your name Dr. Vriederick Sholtz?"
Hee yelt mit oll hees mighd.

I doght dot men vas crazy

Oar meppy he vas dight.

I sed, "Yaas-'tvas Doketor Vriederick Sholtz, Vat you vant dese dime off nighd?"

Und I vas zo oxtonished,

Bud de naixt dings vat I hear
en dot failer dold me " Doketor,
How long hev you leefed hier?”
Ur den I vas oxcited,

I felt yooust like a row;

I sed, "I'fe leefed hier dwendy years.
Vat you vant ainyhow?"

Dot men he vas a villane,

Und dot's yoost vat I kin brove;

He singed oud to me lowdly,

66

'Vat's de reason you dond moofe!"

I run down dru de sdhairvay,
Und oud into de shdreed,
Bud I only hurt de bavemends
Klattering fashd agenshd hees feed.

I reely dink sooch ekshurs

Shoot not be oferlooked;

Of I kood kaitch dot failer

Py cosh, hees coose vas kooked!

Now I vood say doo de doketors,
Yoost pefore id vas doo late,
Dond naifer loose your batients,
Und you'll suckseed fushtrate.

No metter vots de reason,

You naifer shood get vexed;
You may loose your bay in dese vorldt,
Bud you'll get id in de next.

DIMES AND DOLLARS.-HENRY MILLS.

"Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!"
Thus an old miser rang the chimes,
As he sat by the side of an open box,
With ironed angles and massive locks:
And he heaped the glittering coin on high,
And cried in delirious ecstasy-

"Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
Ye are the ladders by which man climbs
Over his fellows. Musical chimes!
Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!"

A sound on the gong, and the miser rose,
And his laden coffer did quickly close,
And locked secure. These are the times
For a man to look after his dollars and dimes,
A letter! Ha! from my prodigal son.
The old tale-poverty. Pshaw, begone!
Why did he marry when I forbade?
As he has sown, so he must reap;

But I my dollars secure will keep.
A sickly wife and starving times?

He should have wed with dollars and dimes."

Thickly the hour of midnight fell;
Doors and windows were bolted well.
"Ha!" cried the miser, “not so bad :—
A thousand dollars to-day I've made.
Money makes money; these are the times
To double and treble the dollars and dimes.
Now to sleep, and to-morrow to plan ;-
Rest is sweet to a wearied man."

And he fell asleep with the midnight chimes —
Dreaming of glittering dollars and dimes,

The sun rose high, and its beaming ray
Into the miser's room found way,

It moved from the foot till it lit the head
Of the miser's low uncurtained bed;

And it seemed to say to him, "Sluggard, awake;
Thou hast a thousand dollars to make!

Up, man, up!" How still was the place,
As the bright ray fell on the miser's face!
Ha! the old miser at last is dead.
Dreaming of gold, his spirit fled,

And he left behind but an earthly clod
Akin to the dross that he made his god.

What now avails the chinking chimes
Of dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
Men of the times! men of the times!
Content may not rest with dollars and dimes.
Use them well, and their use sublimes
The mineral dross of the dollars and dimes.
Use them ill, and a thousand crimes

Spring from a coffer of dollars and dimes.
Men of the times! men of the times!

Let Charity dwell with your dollars and dimes.

ETERNAL JUSTICE.-CHARLES MACKAY.

The man is thought a knave or fool,

Or bigot, plotting crime,

Who, for the advancement of his kind,

Is wiser than his time.

For him the hemlock shall distil;

For him the axe be bared;

For him the gibbet shall be built;

For him the stake prepared:

Him shall the scorn and wrath of men

Pursue with deadly aim;

And malice, envy, spite and lies,

Shall desecrate his name.

But truth shall conquer at the last,

For round and round we run,

And ever the right comes uppermost,

And ever is justice done.

Pace through thy cell, old Socrates,

Cheerily to and fro;

Trust to the impulse of thy soul

And let the poison flow.

They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay
That holds a light divine,

But they cannot quench the fire of thought
By any such deadly wine;

They cannot blot thy spoken words
From the memory of man.

By all the poison ever was brewed
Since time its course began.
To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored,
So round and round we run,
And ever the truth comes uppermost,
And ever is justice done.

Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite:
Be wiser than thy peers;

Augment the range of human power,
And trust to coming years.

They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed,
And load thee with dispraise:

Thou wert born five hundred years too soon
For the comfort of thy days.

But not too soon for human kind:
Time hath reward in store;

And the demons of our sires become
The saints that we adore.

The blind can see, the slave is lord;

So round and round we run,

And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong,

And ever is justice done.

Keep, Galileo, to thy thought,

And nerve thy soul to bear;

They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring

From the pangs of thy despair:

They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide

The sun's meridian glow;

The heel of a priest may tread thee down,

And a tyrant work thee woe;

But never a truth has been destroyed:
They may curse it and call it crime;
Pervert and betray, or slander and slay
Its teachers for a time.

But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,
As round and round we run,

And the truth shall ever come uppermost,
And justice shall be done.

And live there now such men as these

With thoughts like the great of old?

Many have died in their misery,

And left their thought untold;

And many live, and are ranked as mad,
And placed in the cold world's ban,
For sending their bright far-seeing souls
Three centuries in the van.

They toil in penury and grief,

Unknown, if not maligned;
Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn
Of the meanest of mankind,

But yet the world goes round and round,

And the genial seasons run,

And ever the truth comes uppermost,
And ever is justice done.

THE FAST MAIL AND THE STAGE.-JOHN H. YATES.

Lay by the weekly, Betsey, it's old like you and I,
And read the morning's daily, with its pages scarcely dry.
While you and I were sleepin', they were printing them to-
day,

In the city by the ocean, several hundred miles away.

"How'd I get it?" Bless you Betsey, you needn't doubt and laugh;

It didn't drop down from the clouds nor come by telegraph; I got it by the lightning mail we've read about you know, The mail that Jonathan got up about a month ago.

We farmers livin' 'round the hill went to the town to-day To see the fast mail catch the bags that hung beside the way; Quick as a flash from thundering clouds, whose tempest swept the sky,

The bags were caught on board the train as it went roarin' by.

We are seein' many changes in our fast declinin' years; Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears. Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream,

Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from

steam.

Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails,

Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian

trails,

How impatiently we waited- -we were earnest lovers thenFor our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and

glen.