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it is so,
But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word I told 'em I'b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you
knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him
for what he don't know. But, layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my
little boy, Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor
outen o' him. “My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run
short. I've got a right smart of a family-its one of the old-fash
ioned sort: There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a workin' away on the
farm, They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go
off like a charm. There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple
of eels; But they're tol’able steady in one thing--they al'ays git
round to their meals. There's Peter, is busy inventin' (though what he invents I
can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine-and both of 'em boardin'
with me. There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm
for himself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid
on the shelf. The rest of the boys are all growin' 'cept this little runt,
which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin’ an editor outen
o' him. “ He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored
with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he
couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about
him is big, Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the
jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descrip
the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women in
tions of chores; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be
much, I'ın afraid, So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the
editor's trade. His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too
slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outer
o' him. “ It ain't much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long
for to learn; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strap
pin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now
to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your ar
rangements right through. I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and
how; But 'tis most of it made by machinery-I can see it all plain
enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different de
signs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of
the lines; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker
than grease, And a-rentin' her heaven-born productions at a couple of
dollars apiece ; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy
enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o’Jim." The editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in
Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mourn
fully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon
both ? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a
natural oath ? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart
in his cheek ? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a six
pence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an im
pudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen
Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and
reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much to know, and known
how to not know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check
rein on his pride ? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros
hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness,
courage and vim ? If so, we perhaps can be makin' an editor outen o’him.” The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his vis
age o'erspread, And he said: “ Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head."
- Extract from “The Editor's Guests,” in Farm Ballads.
THE SILENT HARP. This poem was read at a memorial meeting, held in Detroit, Mich., in behalf of Me, and Mrs. P. P. Bliss. The harp of Zion's psalmist now is still;
Ten thousand eyes in bitter grief have wept, Because the hand that, with a master's skill,
These silver chords so long, so sweetly swept, Is turned to ashes in the fatal flames!
No more, on earth, that voice redemption sings, And sounds the name above all other names,
With whose high praises even heaven rings! The harp is still! The harper is not here.
No more shall that anointed silver tongue Arouse the dull and inattentive ear,
And teach us how the gospel may be sung! How poet's harp and heart, alike devote,
Both words and melodies may consecrate, Till Christ's own call is heard in every note,
And wins the wanderer to the narrow gate. The earthly harp is still; but up on high,
Where everlasting anthems ceaseless roll, A golden harp, resounding in the sky,
Thrills with the triumph of a ransomed soul! There, 'mid the host of the celestial choir,
His sorrow buried, and his heart at rest, He has “more holiness,”—his soul's desire,
Safe in the arms of Jesus, on his breast.
Weep not for him, who now doth fully know
The depth of mercy, and the grace divine; 'The precious blood, that makes him white as snow
And sings with rapture, “Yes, I know he's mine!" He leadeth him; He guides him with His eye,
Light of the world, He brightly beams on him; And, brethren, we shall meet him by and by,
Where not a tear the ransomed eye shall dim. Catch up and echo ye his trumpet tone,
Let whosoever heareth shout the sound! We'll tell of Him, who saves and saves alone,
Till sinners shall receive, the world around. Shall shout, “ 'Tis done, I, too, believo the Son,"
Till prodigals come home, and kiss His feet, Till hearts, emptied of self, by grace are won,
Nothing but vessels for his use made meet. He'd bid us, could he speak from mansions fair,
“Rescue the perishing,” not mourn the dead; Bid burdened souls dismiss their load of care,
And learn that Jesus loves them-for them bled. He seems to shout, from over Jordan's wave,
“Hold ye the fort ! by help of grace divine; Let lower lights be burning, you may save
Some struggling seaman, if your light doth shine!" Let us not weep! When Jesus comes, we'll fly,
And enter into rest--We're going home. He gave His life for us; why should we sigh?
For then our weary feet no more shall roam.
With Jesus crucified, we shall, ere long,
And join, with harp in hand, in that new song.
CUDDLE DOON.-ALEXANDER ANDERSON.
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' muckle faucht an' din.
Your father's comin' in."
I try to gie a froon;
Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"
He aye sleeps next the wa'
Bangs up an' cries, “I want a piece":
The rascal starts them a'.
They stop awee the soun'
“Noo, woanies, cuddle doon”
Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes,
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."
He'd bother half the toon.
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon! "
An', as he steeks the door,
While Tam pretends to snore.
As he pits aff his shoon.
An' lang since cuddled doon."
We look at oor wee lambs.
An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
An' as I straik each croon,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
Will quaten doon their glee.
May He who sits aboon
• Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”
Hearing a confused noise in front of my house the other night, writes a correspondent, I threw up the window to ascertain the cause. I observed a dark object clinging to the