A GLASS OF COLD WATER.-PAUL Denton.

Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a barbecue, with bet ter liquor than was ever furnished. When the people were assembled, a desper. ado in the crowd cried out; "Mr. Paul Denton, your Reverence has lied. You promised us not only a good barbecue, but better liquor. Where is the liquor?" "There!" answered the missionary, in tones of thunder, pointing his motionless finger at the matchless Double Spring, gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth. "There!" he repeated, with a look terrible as the lightning, while his enemy actually trembled on his feet, "There is the liquor, which God, the Eternal, brews for all his children!"

Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water, but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down in the deepest valleys where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high up on the tall mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar the chorus, sweeping the march of God,-there he brews it, that beverage of life, health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty; gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gem, till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright snow-curtains softly about the wintry world; weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all decked with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful,—that blessed life-water! No poi son bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in words of eternal despair! Speak out, my friends! would you exchange it for the demon's drink, Alcohol?

DEACON STOKES.-THOMAS QUILP.

There once lived one Asa Stokes,

One of those men whom everything provokes,

A surly-tempered, evil-minded, bearish,
Ill-natured kind of being;

He was the deacon of the parish,

And had the overseeing

Of some small matters, such as the ringing
Of the church-bell, and took the lead in singing.

Well, Deacon Stokes had gone to bed, one night,
About eleven or before,

"Twas in December, if my memory's right, in '24.
'Twas cold enough to make a Russian shiver;
I think I never knew one

Colder than this-in faith it was a blue one!
As by the almanac foretold, 'twas

A real Lapland night. Oh, dear! how cold 'twas!

There was a chap about there named Ezekiel,
A clever, good-for-nothing fellow,

Who very often used to get quite mellow,

Of whom the deacon always used to speak ill;
For he was fond of cracking jokes

.On Deacon Stokes, to show on

What terms he stood among the women folks, and so on.

It came to pass that on the night I speak of,

Ezekiel left the tavern bar-room, where

He spent the evening, for the sake of

Drowning his care, by partaking

Of the merry-making and enjoyment

Of some good fellows there, whose sole employment
Was, all kinds of weather, on every night,

By early candle-light, to get together

Reading the papers, smoking pipes and chewing,
Telling long yarns, and pouring down the rain.

Pretty well corned, and up to anything,
Drunk as a lord, and happy as a king,

Blue as a razor, from his midnight revel,

Nor fearing muskets, women, or the devil;

With a light heart,-much lighter than a feather,-
With a light soul that spurned the freezing weather,
And with a head ten times as light as either,

And a purse, perhaps, as light as all together,
On went Ezekiel, with a great expansion
Of thought, until he brought

Up at a post before the deacon's mansion.

With one arm around the post, awhile he stood
In thoughtful mood, with one eye turned
Up toward the window where, with feeble glare,
A candle burned;

Then with a serious face, and a grave, mysterious
Shake of the head, Ezekiel said-

(His right eye once more thrown upon the beacon
That from the window shone,) “I'll start the deacon!”
Rap, rap, rap, rap, went Deacon Stokes's knocker.

But no one stirred; rap, rap, it went again;

66

By George, it must be after ten, or

They must take an early hour for turning in."
Rap, rap, rap, rap -" My conscience, how they keep
A fellow waiting-patience, how they sleep!"

The deacon then began to be alarmed,
And in amazement threw up the casement;
And with cap on head, of fiery red,
Demanded what the cause was of the riot,
That thus disturbed his quiet.

"Quite cool this evening, Deacon Stokes," replied
The voice below. "Well, sir, what is the matter?"
"Quite chilly, Deacon; how your teeth do chatter!”
"You vagabond, a pretty time you have chosen
To show your wit; for I am almost frozen;
Be off, or I will put the lash on!"

“Why bless you, Deacon, don't be in a passion!
'Twas all in vain to speak again,

For with the deacon's threat about the lash,
Down went the sash.

Rap, rap, rap, rap, the knocker went again,

And neither of them was a very light rap;

Thump, thump, against the door went Ezekiel's cane, And that once more brought Deacon Stokes's night-cap

"Very cold weather, Deacon Stokes, to-night!"
"Begone, you vile, insolent dog, or I'll

Give you a warming that shall serve you right;
You villain, it is time to end the hoax!"

"Why bless your soul and body, Deacon Stokes,

Don't be so cross when I've come here, in this severe
Night, which is cold enough to kill a horse,

For your advice upon a very difficult and nice

Question. Now, bless you, do make haste and dress you."

“Well, well, out with it, if it must be so;
Be quick about it, for I'm very cold."
"Well, deacon, I don't doubt it.

In a few words the matter can be told;
Deacon, the case is this; I want to know

If this cold weather lasts all summer here,

What time will green peas come along next year?"

A DISTURBED REVERIE.

Lying supine on the soft, matted grasses,
Gazing up lazily into the blue

Of the sky, when the wandering wind as it passes
Opens the branches for me to look through,

Idly I ponder, and ponder, and ponder,

Thinking of nothing, yet happy and free; Careless of everything, idly I wonder

At the immensity opened to me.

Looking up listlessly, thoughtlessly dreaming,
Mind a vacuity, life full of joy,

All the dull world seems with happiness teeming,
With nothing to worry, or fret, or annoy.

Earth seems a paradise. Why should I trouble
Or toil to win heaven? Why, heaven is here!
Fortune is worthless, and fame but a bubble:

I scorn them both, looking into the clear
Deep blue of the sky, while the wild bees are humming,
Above and ground me, in harmony deep,

And over the meadows the breezes are coming
To fan me, and soothe me, and lull me to sleep.

This, this is happiness, perfect, unmeasured;
Long shall this day without blemish or fleck

Stay in my memory, lovingly treasured-
GREAT SCOTT! There's a wasp down the back of my

L*

neck!

THE MAY QUEEN.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad NewYear;

Of all the glad New-Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say;
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'
the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands

gay,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'

the May.

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see
But Robin, leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yester-

day

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'
the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me? .
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
o' the May.