for you;.

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

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

the eye,

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.
Now coming to the cross, anew to be

With Jesus crucified, we shall, ere long,
The ransomed saints and our dear Saviour see,

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.
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues:

Your father's comin' in."
They never heed a word I speak.

I try to gie a froon;
But aye I hap them up, an' cry,

Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"
Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid-

He aye sleeps next the wa'

Bangs up an' cries, “I want a piece":

The rascal starts them a'.
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks-

They stop awee the soun'
Then draw the blankets up, and cry,

“Noo, woanies, cuddle doon”
But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab

Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes,
· Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at ance:

He's kittlin' wi' his taes."
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks:

He'd bother half the toon.
But aye I hap them up, and cry,

“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon! "
At length they hear their father's fit;

An', as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa',

While Tam pretends to snore.
“ Hae a' the weans been gude?” he asks,

As he pits aff his shoon.
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,

An' lang since cuddled doon."
An' just afore we bed oorsels,

We look at oor wee lambs.
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,

An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,

An' as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,

“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
But soon the big warl's cark an' care

Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,

• Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

LODGE NIGHT.

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