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"Many thanks," answered Pat, "for your telling me that;

May the blessings upon you be big!

On that sittlement day to the widow I'll say,

Mrs. Flannegan, here is your pig."

CXCVII.-CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.

CALLING a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of pastimes, especially if the boy has taken a great deal of active exercise the day before. And, it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys; and yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair door and insinuatingly calls, "Johnny." There is no response, "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, 'John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry."

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A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made, and the mother is encouraged to add: "You'd better be down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel.” This so startles the young man that be immediately goes to sleep again. This operation has to be repeated several times.

A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-bottle ejects its cork, and the "John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. He pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is be

lieved to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. —J. M. Bailey.

K. N. E.-39.

CXCVIII.-PROVISIONAL FORGIVENESS.

OLD Hodge was sick; so very sick, in sooth,
His life, 't was thought, was drawing to a close;
And, pondering on this all-unwelcome truth,
Remorseless memories robbed him of repose.
The duty of forgiveness to his foes
His ghostly counselor had urged with zeal,
Assuring him most earnestly that those
Who anger or resentment should conceal,
Would surely hazard their immortal weal.

'Twas hard on Hodge; for he and Deacon Giles
Had been at daggers' points for many a day;
And now to meet the enemy with smiles,

Whom he had kept for twenty years at bay, And quarreled, snarled, and fought with all the way, Was passing tough; but, with a wholesome fear Of what might chance by reason of delay, Hodge sent for Giles, and bidding him draw near Beside his couch, observed with face severe:

"Giles, it is meet the truth should be confessed; You are, of all the knaves I ever knew,

The very meanest, and the mealiest,

A rascal out and out, and through and through; But, as the doctors and the parson too,

Will have it that I'm ebbing out to sea,

And that I must be reconciled to you,

Why, here's my hand, let by-gones by-gones be;
Heaven may forgive you,—but it's tough to me."

Giles wrung his hand, and straightway turned to go,
But, at a motion from the sick man, came
Back to his couch again, and, bending low,

He heard him faintly syllable his name,

And add, his cheeks suffused with hectic flame: "I may recover, and get round once more;

So I was thinking, Giles, before you came, That if the doctor should my health restore, I'd like to have it just as 't was before."

CXCIX.-BOMBAST.

THERE are those, though, whom monuments can never honor. To those veterans eulogy is preposterous, and monuments unavailing; but a heart soaking with gratitude is never bleak nor serene. Cold calumny may chill it, and life's icicles freeze it, but when thawed by recollections, blood leaps through its veins.

Could we learn from immortality their fame, or presage their memory, the priceless league, the serried rank, the siren yell, the solemn march, the cracking bone, the flying flesh, the clinic pang, the galling wail, the quenchless sigh, and the clattering footsteps of that army, welding sympathy to ages, and liberty to life, will float like the dying groans of the martyr down the rapids of mortality, and, diffusing hope along the whirlpool of nations, they will enter like their fathers, a sea of agrarian bliss.

We might pauperize our intellect, but we can not dramatize their valor. The sublimity of conjecture outvies the suggestions of our fancy, and rifles the deductions of our experience. With their knees as their minaret, inspired by glorious hopes, their deific peals stream along the faded lines and flapping ensigns of the army, and, touching the angelic wires with telegraphic flight, and doxologizing along the suburbs of that aristocratic city, they dart through the labyrinths of other worlds, to be printed in italics in the newspapers of eternity.

CC. THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR.

So goes the world; if wealthy, you may call
This friend, that brother, friends and brothers all;
Though you are worthless, witless, never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy,-what then?
'Tis wealth, good Sir, makes honorable men.

You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.

But if you're poor, Heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possessed the intellect of angels, too,

'Tis all in vain;-the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score;-why should it take the pains?
'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever,
Witty and wise;-he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever

Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried I; "whence is it?"
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied;
And some

Said, by their silence, "Better stay at home."
A rich man burst the door,

As Croesus rich; I'm sure

He could not pride himself upon his wit;
And as for wisdom, he had none of it;
He had what's better,-he had wealth.

What a confusion!-all stand up erect;
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.

"Allow me, Sir, the honor!"-then a bow
Down to the earth. Is't possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?
The poor man hung his head,

And to himself he said,

"This is, indeed, beyond my comprehension!' Then looking round,

One friendly face he found,

And said, "Pray, tell me, why is wealth preferred
To wisdom?""That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other; "have you never heard,

A man may lend his store

Of gold or silver ore,

But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"

CCI. THE TARTAR.

THERE's trouble in Hungary, now, alas! There's trouble on every hand,

For that terrible man,

The Tartar Khan,

Is ravaging over the land!

He is riding forth with his ugly men,

To rob, and ravish, and slay;

For deeds like those,

You may well suppose,

Are quite in the Tartar way.

And now he comes, that terrible chief, To a mansion grand and old;

And he peers about,

Within and without,

And what do his eyes behold?

A thousand cattle in fold and field,
And sheep all over the plain;
And noble steeds

Of rarest breeds,

And beautiful crops of grain.

But finer still is the hoarded wealth
That his ravished eyes behold;

In silver plate

Of wondrous weight,

And jewels of pearl and gold.

A nobleman owns this fine estate;
And, when the robber he sees,

'Tis not very queer

He quakes with fear,

And trembles a bit in the knees.

He quakes in fear of his precious life, And scarce suppressing a groan,

"Good Tartar," says he,

"Whatever you see

Be pleased to reckon your own."

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