something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldent wish his worst enemy to suffer one minute as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin'; think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he dident. He and me went once in the dead o' winter in a one-hoss shay out to Boonville, to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them 'ere flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a-sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident. He only said, says he, "Consarn it!" How did we get out, did you ask? Well, we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team, and they hysted us out.

But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly." I could see by the light of the fire (there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgetful, but

I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles 'ceptin' when we had company). I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommonly sollemnized. Says he to me, says he, "Silly;" I says to him, says I, "What?" He says to me, says he, "We're all poor critturs!"

MIZPAH.

BY CLEMENT SCOTT.

[And Laban said, This heap is a witness between me and thee this day. Therefore was the name of it called Galeed and Mizpah, for he said, The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.-Gen. xxxi. 48, 49.]

When we are parted-pray! but do not weep;
My spirit in the air is wandering;

Love is an hour of life; with death comes sleep:
The night's a dream; the day a wakening.
The Lord watch over us where'er we stray,
One from another be it night or day,

Be this our covenant apart, alone,

Carve thou this sign upon Love's altar stone.
Mizpah !

Whilst we are waiting-hope, but do not grieve;
There is some sunshine on the darkest day;
Around Love's monument fresh garlands weave;
Despair not thou, my heart-but only pray!
The Lord watch over us, 'twixt me and thee,
When we are absent, if we parted be.
Be this our covenant, by faith alone,
Carve thou our sign upon Love's altar stone.
Mizpah!

A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN

COOKING.

I found fault some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, and tried to tell her how my mother made custard pie. Maria made the pie after my receipt. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every day for dinner, and you see I could not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was economical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy's funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself.

Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the cakes myself. I got the flour, and the salt, and water, and, warned by the past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered: "Yeast! yeast, to be sure!" I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker and got six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher be

hind the sitting-room stove, and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I didn't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then got a fire in the kitchen, and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the right flavor. I took one mouthful and it satisfied me; I lost my appetite at once. Maria would not let me put one on her plate. I think those cakes may be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and stayed away three days after one was offered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw them into the back-yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's system of cooking.

FOREVER.

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

Those who love truly never die,

Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, A ring and flowers, types of life and death, Are laid upon their graves.

For death the pure life saves,

And life all pure as love, and love can reach From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach Than those by mortals read.

Well blessed is he who has a dear one dead:

A friend he has whose face will never change, A dear communion that will not grow changed, The anchor of a love is death.

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath

Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years;

For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears,

She's thine unto the end.

Thank God for one dead friend,

With face still radiant with the light of truth, Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, Through twenty years of death.

-)0(—

PETER SORGHUM IN LOVE.

A CAPITAL YANKEE STORY BY ALF. BURNETT.

One day Sall fooled me; she heated the poker awful hot, then asked me to stir the fire. I seized hold of it mighty quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to oblige