The last time he was fetched to find a lost child he was guzzling

with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted mother

and father, about town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? Come, Billy, come home to

your best of mothers ! I'm scared so when I think of them cabroleys, they drive so they'd

run over their own sisters and brothers. Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping wretch, to stick

fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot

has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap

my two longin' eyes on his face, For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come back

you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two motherly arms, and

wouldn't I hug him and kiss him ! Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was—but a child don't

not feel like a child till you miss him. Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch,

it's that Billy, as sartin as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm

blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!



“There is no sunshine that hath not its shade,
Nor shadow that the sunshine hath not made;
There is no cherished comfort of the heart
That hath not its own tearful counterpart.
Thus, through a perfect balance, constant flow
The sharp extremes of joy and those of woe;
Our sweetest, best repose results from strife,
And death-what is it, after all, but life ?”



You are going to marry my pretty relation,

My dove-like young cousin, so soft in the eyes ; You are entering on life's settled dissimulation,

And, if you'd be happy, in season be wise. Take my counsel. The more that, in church, you are tempted

To yawn at the sermon, the more you'll attend. The more you'd from milliners' bills be exempted,

The more on your wife's little wishes you'll spend.
You'll be sure every Christmas to send to the rector

A dozen of wine and a hamper or two.
The more your wife plagues you the more you'll respect her ;

She'll be pleasing your friend if she's not plaguing you.
For women, of course, like ourselves, need emotion;

And happy the husband whose failings afford
To the wife of his heart such good cause for commotion,

That she seeks no excitement save plaguing her lord.
Above all, you'll be careful that nothing offends, too,

Your wife's lady's maid, though she give herself airs ; With the friend of a friend it is well to be friends, too,

And especially so when that friend lives up-stairs.
Under no provocation you'll ever avow yourself

A little put out when you're kept at the door;
And you never, I scarcely need say, will allow yourself

To call your wife's mother a vulgar old bore.
However she dresses, you'll never suggest to her

That her taste as to colors could scarcely be worse ;
Of the rooms in your house you will give up the best to her,

And you never will ask for the carriage, of course.
If, at times with a doubt on the soul and her future,

Revelation and reason, existence should trouble you, You'll be always on guard to keep carefully mute, your

Ideas on the subject, and read Dr. W. Bring a shawl with you home when you come from the club, sir,

Or a ring, lest your wife, when you meet her, should pout;

And don't fly in a rage and behave like a cub, sir,

If you find that the fire, like yourself, has gone out. In eleven good instances out of a dozen

'Tis the husband's a cur when the wife is a cat. She is meekness itself, my soft-eyed little cousin,

But a wife has her rights, and I'd have you know that. Keep my counsel. Life's struggles are brief to be borne, friend.

In heaven there's no marriage nor giving in marriage. When Death comes, think how truly your widow will mourn,

friend, And your worth not the best of your friends will disparage.



Heaven is not gained at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step toward God,

Lifting the soul from the common sod
To purer air and broader view.
We rise by things that are 'neath our feet;

By what we have mastered of good and gain;

By the pride deposed, and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light,

But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night,
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.
We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings

Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for the men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way,

We may hope and resolve and aspire and pray,
But our feet must rise, or we fall again.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;

But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.



Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest ?

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,

And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd—“No."
Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play-
Know'st thou some favor'd spot, some island far away,
Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs-
Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies?

The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow

Stopp'd for awhile, and sigh'd to answer—"No." And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace, Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man might find a happier lot ?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,

And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded—“No."
Tell me, my secret soul-oh, tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin and death ? —
Is there no happy spot where mortals may be bless'd,
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope and Love, best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings, and whisperd—“YES, IN HEAVEN


From the New York Times.

There is nothing like discipline. Instant and implicit obedience is the most valuable lesson that either boy or man can learn. It involves promptness, precision, and that decision of character which we have the authority of Foster for regarding as an inestimable thing. A boy may be taught half a dozen meritorious languages, together with all the permutations of apples and oranges in the arithmetic, without being half as well educated as the boy who merely knows how to obey orders.

Such is or was the opinion of Mr. Chzmenzryski, a New England school-teacher of the purest Puritan blood, who until recently presided over the district school of Johnstown, Ohio. He was undoubtedly an able instructor of youth, and his peculiar method of using the convex side of the ruler was greatly admired by the boys in other towns. While he taught his pupils everything that should be taught in a well-regulated school, he was particularly strong in the matter of discipline. His pupils were trained with such success, that they did everything by the stroke of a bell with the precision of a veteran regiment drilling by the bugle. It was an impressive sight to see his Latin class recite their lesson in two times and four motions-as per his private manual of tactics—and the boy who committed the slightest error was so thoroughly convinced of his fault, that in most cases he preferred to take his meals in a standing position, and to sleep face downward for the ensuing week. While Mr. Chzmenzryski was the strictest of disciplinarians, he was nevertheless far from being a hard master and unsympathetic man. On the contrary, he always tried to instill moral principles and box-wood rulers into his pupils in a genial and attractive way. Thus, he was in the constant habit of relating entertaining anecdotes to the boys, and no matter how often he told a story, he

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