ters. I once knew a bad boy who struck his sister a blow over the eye; and although she didn't slowly fade away and die in the early summer-time, when the June roses were blowing, with words of sweet forgiveness on her pallid lips, she rose up and hit him over the head with a rolling-pin, so that he couldn't go to Sunday-school for more than a month, on account of not being able to put his best bat on. So love your little sisters, I say. I never had a little sister of my own, but I recollect that I went out once and loved another man's sister, but she had a wicked father, and he hurt me very much helping me off of his front door-steps. But you ought to love them, and always obey your father and mother. If your father tells you to do a thing and your mother tells you not to, it don't make any difference, you've got to mind them both.

And you must go to school regularly, too, and never play truant, or anything of that kind. I used to know a boy who played truant one day, and never went to school at all, and what was the consequence? Why, the very next morning his Aunt Sarah was bit and tore by a mad dog, who chawed her leg all up, until she couldn't stand, and she died. Thus you see how wicked and sinful it is to stay away from school. You ought to love your teachers very much, too, and reverence them. When I went to school the boys used to love the teacher so much that they couldn't bear for him to even go out for a minute, and they put shoemaker's-wax on his chair, so as to hold him down. And the teacher said he would never desert us-never, never; but he would always stick to us. And then be used to get down a club, about four feet long, with a ferule on it, and do more sticking than we thought was necessary. He was a good teacher, though, and once when I asked him if he would wbip me for a thing I didn't do, he said “No," and then I told him I hadn't done my sums. But he said he believed he'd change his mind, and then he flogged me like the very nation. Still we loved that teacher, and when he died, the boys

were so glad to see that he had a handsome coffin, that they fairly shouted for joy.

And, my dear children, let me caution you against the sin of letting your angry passions rise. Fighting is a bad business. Dr. Watts, you know, says:

“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For 'tis their nature to;
But Satan still will find some work

For idle bands to do." Fighting is very wicked, indeed. A few years ago I knew a boy who was squaring off and daring people to fight him, and saying he could lick them, more or less, all the time. And what became of this wretched boy? Why, one day he dared a fellow to knock a chip off his shoulder, and the fellow knocked it, and did much more knocking besides, so that the boy was taken deathly sick, and couldn't budge out of his bed for six weeks. So that the boy actually wished he had never seen that particular chip, or any other cbip, in the whole course of his life. But he went around and bought a brass-barreled pistol, and got some other boys to make a secret society, and draw up a constitution. And they all swore to have revenge. But nothing much ever came of it, for the fellow who knocked off the chip was a big boy, and, of course, so fast as the society boys grew big, he grew bigger, so they thought perhaps they'd better let him alone.

But this boy had a wicked heart; and when he was sent for milk he would always manage to drink about half of it, and he was also very much in favor of his mother's preserves. But his strong point was cats and dumb brutes. Why, once he smeared two cats over with turpentine and tied them together and hung them over a clothes-line, and then set them on fire. But it always comes back one day, my dear children; and when this boy grew up and got married, millions on millions of cats used to come and

holler all night in his yard, and have kittens in his cellar, and in the entry, and in the kitchen, and all over the house, so that this man was stricken with anguish and remorse.

Another thing, boys, I want to caution you against, and that is ever going to the theatre or the circus. I know boys who always go to see the show and creep in under the tent. But they generally come to bad ends, and a tiger, or a hyena, or some wild animal or other, is absolutely certain to rush out and grab them by the trousers sooner or later. Then, as for the theatre, there was once a boy I knew who got a very serious talking to one Sunday from his teacher about the wickedness of the theatre ; but this boy was depraved, and he went down to the theatre the very next night, and what did he see? What do you think that sinful boy saw? Why, he actually saw that very identical teacher sitting with his arms around a girl in the parquet circle ! That's so; and if this boy had stayed at home he would never have been as much shocked and mortified as he was. So be very careful to keep away from all such places, and go to Sunday-school regularly. Why, I recollect just as distinctly as if it had been to-morrow, a boy who ran away one Sunday morning, and instead of going to school he went a-boating on the river; and he hadn't been gone long before a fearful storm came—which wouldn't have come if he had gove to Sunday-school-and the boat was upset and this miserable boy was nearly drowned. But now listen to the result. Ah! my dear children, wickedness is always punished, and this boy got to hate water so much that he never drank a drop afterwards that he couldn't help, and he used to drink rum, and he died and filled a drunkard's grave. So be sure you always go to school and be kind and patient, and not like another boy I knew, who, when the teacher asked him who America was named after, he said, “ Mr. Merrick-ah-the-ah-machinist,” and when the teacher struck him he got very mad, and said the teacher was an cold bloat.

This was wrong, and so it was to smoke and chaw tobacco. I had a second cousin who went out and got a chaw of tobacco when he was a boy, and he came home and chawed it, and he sat down by the stove and got sicker and sicker and whiter and whiter, and when his fond mother asked him what was the matter with him, he said he guessed he must have taken a slight cold, and when he went out and threw up with this wicked lie upon his lips, he threw up until you'd a thought his insides were constructed of floating débris and refuse matter.

It never works to be a bad boy; but if all you children mind what I am saying to you, you'll never be bad boys, and I don't believe the girls will ever, anyhow. But mind, you mustn't be too good. Casabianca was too good and he died miserably. George Washington was good and he died, and all the good boys that ever lived died. So you'd better be just a little good, and when you grow up maybe you'll all get to be president. The girls, of course, won't, but I suppose some of them maybe can go to Congress by that time, and then you can blacken one another's characters as much as you've a mind to.


What a moment, what a doubt!
All my nose is inside out-
All my thrilling, tickling caustic,
Pyramid rhinocerostic,

Wants to sneeze and cannot do it!
How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me,
How with rapturous torment fills me !

Now says, “Sneeze, you fool-get through it!”
Shee-shee-oh! 'tis most del-ishi-
Isbi-ishi—most del-ishi !
(Hang it, I s'all sneeze till spring!)
Snuff is a delicious thing.

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THE MESSAGE TO THE IRON FOUNDRY. Adapted and abridged for recitation from the German of Schiller.

A God-revering youth, we learn,

Was gentle Fridolin :
Reared by the Countess Von Savern,

His childhood knew no sin.
Oh, she was mild—so mild and good!
But even Caprice's harshest mood
He would have borne, this duteous boy,
And borne, for love of God, with joy.
From streaky gleam of morning's light

Until the vesper-toll,
He wrought for her with earnest might,

He gave her heart and soul.
“Rest, rest, my child !" the dame would cry:
Then tears would fill the Page's eye,
But still he toiled, and seemed to feel
The labor lost that wanted zeal.
And therefore did the countess raise

Him o'er her menials all,
And from her lovely lips his praise

Was hourly heard to fall.
Her knave or page he scarce was named ;
His heart a filial interest claimed:
And often would her pleasured glance
Dwell on his comely, countenance.
Now in the huntsman, Robert, this

Begot the wrath of hell,
With Envy's devilish venom his

Black breast began to swell;
And listening to the Tempter's word,
Straightway one day he sought his Lord,
Fresh from the chase, and strewed with art
Doubt's darkling seeds within his heart.
“How blest are you, my noble master !"

So spake his cunning deep

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