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him, and under this delusion he conversed with them freely.

The Japanese were very polite to him, they bowed and uttered a great many words in their own tongue; but though Josiah could not understand a syllable, he kept plying them with questions about their goods, their country, and their modes of living.

Well, you're a kind o'smart people, too. Kinder yaller in the complexion, like, but maybe ye ain't none the worse for that."

The Log Cabin was Josiah's idea of a residence. While he was examining it, the bell rang, and the police ordered his party to move out.

“But we ain't through yet. We ain't got the worth of our money,” remonstrated Josiah.

“Can't help it. Time's up.”

We next found our friends making frantic efforts to get into a car.

“Mother have you got all the children?”

"All but one, Josiah. Bless me, where is that Abe Lincoln ? Maria Jane where's your brother? There, the car's going off, and we'll be left! Josiah, ask the police to look after our Abe Lincoln. I'll die if anything happens to him.”

But the police officer refuses to search for Abe Lincoln, being otherwise engaged, and the family feeling is at panic height, when the boy appears, having been trying to sinuggle himself in to see the learned pig.

"Abe Lincoln, where was you brought up, to go after pigs in that way?” said his mother, administering a cuff; but at the same time adding, “ Josiah, that must be a curious crita ter! I wish to gracious you bad took us to see it.”

"All aboard !” was shouted.

Josiah and two of the children got into one car; his wife, four of the children, and the Brown family got into another, When the separation was discovered a loud wail was raised, “Josiah don't leave your little family!” shrieked his wife.

An officer helped Josiah back to his spouse, and the car was about moving off when another shriek attested a fresh catastrophe: the ginger-bread had fallen on the road, and the younger children were wild at the loss.

Josiah mildly asked the conductor to stop while he went back for it; but we regret to say that that depraved conductor looked wickedly at the poor man, and said some words in answer that sounded very strong, to say the least of it.

The last words we heard were from Josiah, who was saying to a fellow-passenger: “Yes sir, big affair! I never saw a Centennial before, to my knowledge; but I mean to attend 'em regular at every place after this."


Old Margery Miller sat alone,
One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,
Where dimly the faded firelight shone.
Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,
Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer;
For oh! life's burden was hard to bear.
Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown,
Her friends, like the birds of summer, had flown.
Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,
Full eighty winters their snows had shed,
With silver sheen, on her agéd head,
One by one had her loved ones died;
One by one had they left her side,
Fading like flowers in their summer pride.
Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown,
Had God forgotten she was His own?
No castle was hers, with a spacious lawn:
Her poor old hut was the proud man's scorn;
Yet Margery Miller was nobly born ;-
A brother she had, who once wore a crown,
Whose deeds of greatness and high renown
From age to age had been handed down.
Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown,
Where was her kingdom, her crown, her throne ?
Margery Miller, a child of God,
Meekly and bravely life's path had trod,
Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”
Her brother, Jesus, who went before,
A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,
And what, poor soul! could she hope for more?


Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown, Strange that her heart had not turned to stone! Aye, there she sat on that Christmas eve, Seeking some dream of the past to weave, Patiently striving not to grieve. Oh! for those long, long eighty years, How had she struggled with doubts and fears, Shedding in secret unnumbered tears ! Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown,
How could she stifle her sad heart's moan?
Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,
Bringing the thought of the dear old times,
Like birds that sing of far distant climes;
Then swelled the flood of her pent-up griaf,
Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,
Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.
Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown,
How heavy the burden of life had grown!
“Oh, God!" she cried, “I am lonely here,

Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;
Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.
Oh! if the dead were allowed to speak!
Could I only on their faces meek,
How it would strengthen my heart so weak !”
Poor old Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Unsought, unknown, What was that light which around her shone? Dim on the hearth burned the embers red, Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head, A light like the sunset glow was shed; Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor, “Mother" was whispered, as oft before, And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more. Poor old Margery Miller!

No longer alone,

Unsought, unknown,
How light the burden of life had grown!
She lifted her withered hands on high,
And uttered the eager, earnest cry,
“God of all mercy! now let me die.

Beautiful angels, fair and bright,
Holding the hem of your garments white,
Let me go forth to the world of light.”
Poor old Margery Miller!

So earnest grown,

Was she left alone? His humble child did the Lord disown? Oh! sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell, As its musical changes cose and fell, With a low refrain or a solemn swell; But sweeter by far was the blessed strain That soothed old Margery Miller's pain, And gave her comfort and peace again. Poor old Margery Miller!

In silence, alone,

Her faith had grown;
And now the blossom had brightly blown.
Out of the glory, that burned like flame,
Calmly a great white angel came;

Softly he whispered her humble name.
“ Child of the Highest,” he gently said,
“ Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,
And life immortal now crowns thy head."
Poor old Margery Miller!

No longer alone,

Unsought, unknown, God had not forgotten she was His own. A change o'er her pallid features passed ; She felt that her feet were nearing fast The land of safety and peace, at last. She faintly murmured, “God's name be blest!" And, folding her hands on her dying breast, She calmly sank to her dreamless rest. Faithful Margery Miller!

Sitting alone,

Without one moan,
Her patient spirit at length had flown.
Next morning a stranger found her thero,
Her pale hands folded as if in prayer,
Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.
He spoke-but she answered not again,
For, far away from all earthly pain,
Her voice was singing a joyful strain.
Happy Margery Miller!

Her spirit had flown

To the world unknown, Where true hearts never can be alono.


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day

Great day from which all other days were made; Now came still evening on, and twilight gray,

In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. Sweet was the sound when oft at evening's close

The moping owl does to the moon complain; With louder plaint the mother spoke her woes,

Driven by the wind and battered by the rain. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise; Westward the star of empire takes its way

And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Honor and shame from no condition rise,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. “What were they made for, then, you dog?” he cries;

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.
Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh;
On with the dance. Let joy be unconfined;

Let earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly.
A little learning is a dangerous thing;

Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store, See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing

Arm! Arm! It is the cannon's opening roar. "Live while you live," the epicure would say,

And catch the manners living as they rise. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

If ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise. You see mankind the same in every age,

And as they first are fashioned always grow; He struts and frets his hour upon the stageVirtue alone is happiness below.

“Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way;”
If I ari wrong, oh, teach my heart

To find the better way!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

An' never bro't to min'?
Oh, no, my friends, for is it not

Poured out by hands divine?

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