In dust sank roof and battlement; Still swelled the plague-the flame grew pale; On ocean, river, forest, vale, Thundered at once the mighty gale. A THANKSGIVING SERMON. My friends, Thanksgiving Day comes, by statute, once a year; to the honest man it comes as frequently as the heart of gratitude will allow, which may mean every day, or once in seven days, at least. I know that occasionally, in meeting, perhaps, a person confesses that he is a poor, miserable sinner, but you tell that person the same fact, out of doors, and he will get mad and tear round dreadfully. We are all honest, good, conscientious people, my friends, no matter what anybody says. Now, I propose, my friends, to state a few of the things for us to be thankful for-when we are in the mood, of course; for when we are not inclined, who can make us give thanks for anything? We should be thankful that we know more than anybody else; for, are we not capable of talking and giving lectures upon every subject ever talked of? i should like to see the male or female in this audience, who didn't know a great deal more than anybody has any idea of! We should be thankful that we are all good-looking. Aint we? Just look around this audience, and see if you can "spot" the person who is, in his own estimation, not good-looking. It would be a curious study to be sure, to find in what particular some people are goodlooking; but it's none of our personal business if a man has carroty hair, eyes like a new moon, nose like a split pear, mouth like a pair of waffle-irons, chin like a Dutch churn, neck like a gander's, and a body like a crowbar; comparatively he is good-looking; that is, there are homelier men and animals than he; so everybody is good-looking and has a right to put on airs. Let us be very thankful, my friends, that this is so; for, otherwise, some of us would be shut up in "homes for the scarecrows," which government would have to provide. We should be thankful that we are more pious than anybody else. That we are pious is evident from the manner in which we treat poor creatures who have most unfortunately been driven to sin; from the fact that we pay our preachers occasionally, and always require them to be unexceptionable, in all respects; from the fact that we don't work on Sunday, and eat the big dinners which it has made the women-folks almost tired to death to pre pare. Who is the person in this room that is not pious? I do not care to know him for the present. We should give thanks that our house is, in many respects, superior to our neighbors'. True, it may not be as big, nor as fine-looking, nor, indeed, as attractive generally; but it is superior, nevertheless, as we always inform any man who wants to purchase, we should be very thankful that we can turn things so favorably for our own interests. We should be thankful that our teachers, and editors, and doctors, and lawyers, are such superior men, as we learn they are when they come to die and have their epitaphs written. We should be thankful, in fact, that this world was especially created for our own comfort, convenience, and use; that we have a perfect right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, no matter if these do conflict with some other person's wishes, and happiness, and rights. I hope you will thank me for this recognition of your good qualities, your rights, your glory; and trust I shall be permitted to say of myself, when I retire, "Here lies an honest young man." ONLY WAITING. A very aged Christian who was so poor as to be in an alms-house, was asked what he was doing now. He replied," Only waiting.” Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Of the day's last beam is flown; From the heart once full of day; Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly For the bloom of life is withered, Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, Only waiting till the shadows Of the day's last beam is flown; NOTHING TO WEAR.-WLLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris; And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris, Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills; And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's I had just been selected as he who should throw all On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," It was one of the quietest business transactions. Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball,— I considered it only my duty to call, And ask if Miss Flora intended to go. The fair Flora looked up, with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher, "Nothing to wear! go just as you are; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped, for her eye, |