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In seventeen hundred and eighty-eight:

Folks couldn't then afford
Carpets and cushings and sech like-

The seats were just plain wood,
Too narrer for the sleepy ones;

In prayer we allus stood.
And when the hymns were given out,

I tell you it was grand
To hear our leader start the tunes,

With tunin'-fork in hand !
Then good old “ China, Mear,” and all,

Were heard on Sabbath days,
And men and women, boys and girls,

J'ined in the song of praise.
But that old pulpit was my pride-

Just eight feet from the ground
They'd reared it up-on either side

A narrer stairs went down;
The front and ends were fitly carved

With Scripter stories all-
Findin' of Moses, Jacob's dream,

And sinful Adam's fall.
Jest room inside to put a cheer,

The Bible on the ledge
(I'll own I did get narvous when

He shoved it to the edge).
There, week by week, the parson stood,

The Scripter to expound;
There, man and boy, I've sot below,

And not a fault was found.
Of course I've seen great changes made,

And fought agenst 'em, too;
But first a choir was interdooced,

Then cushings in each pew;
Next, boughten carpet for the floor;

And then, that very year,
We got our big melodeon,

And the big shandyleer.
Well, well! I tried to keep things straight-

I went to every meetin',
And voted “No” to all they said,

But found my influ’nce fleetin'.
At last the worst misfortune fell-

I must blame Deacon Brown:
He helped the young folks when they said

The pulpit should come down.

They laughed at all those pious scenes

I'd found so edifyin':
Baid, “ When the parson rose to preach,

He looked aʼmost like flyin';
Said that “ Elijah's chariot

Jest half way up had tarried ;"
And Deacon Brown sot by and laughed,

And so the pi'nt was carried.
This was last week. The carpenters

Have nearly made an end-
Excoose my feelin's. Seems to me

As ef I'd lost a friend.
“It made their necks ache, lookin' up,"

Was what the folks did say:
More lookin' up would help us all

In this degin'rate day.
The church won't never seem the samo

(I'm half afеard) to me,
Under the preachin' of the truth

I've been so used to be.
And now-to see our parson stand

Like any common man,
With jest a railin' round his desk-
I don't believe I can!

Harper's Magazine

TOO LATE.-Fitzhugh Ludlow,

There mat an old man on a rock,

And unceasing bewailed him of fate,
That concern where we all must take stock,
Taough our vote has no bearing or weight;
And the old man sang him an old, old song-
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it could drown the old man's song--

For he sang the song, " Too late! too late!" " When we want, we have for our pains

The promise that if we but wait
Till the want has burned out our brains,
Nery means shall be present to sate;

While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold,
While the bonnet is trimining the face grows old,
When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold,

And everything comes too late-too late !

" When strawberries seemed like red heavens,

Terrapin stew a wild dream--
When my brain was at sixes and sevens,
If my mother had 'folks' and ice cream;

Then I gazed with a lickerish hurger,
At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger-
But oh! how I wished I were younger,

When the goodies all came in a stream-in a stream “I've a splendid blood-horse, and a liver

That it jars into torture to trot;
My rowboat's the gem of the river-
Gout makes every muscle a knot.

I can buy boundless credit on Paris and Rome,
But no palate for menus-no eyes for a dome;
Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home,

When no home but an attic he'd got-he'd got! “How I longed, in that lonest of garrets

Where the tiles baked my brains all July,
For the ground to grow two pecks of carrots-
Two pigs of my own in a sty-

A rose-bush-a little thatched cottage-
Two spoons-love--a basin of pottage-
Now in freestone I sit-and my dotage-

With a woman's chair empty close by-close by! "Ah! now, thongh I sit on a rock,

I have shared one seat with the great;
I have sat, knowing naught of the clock,
On love's high throne of state;

But the lips that kissed and the arms that caressed,
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed.

Had they only not come too late—too late!”

GOD BLESS OUR SCHOOL.

About the room the Christmas greens

In rich profusion hung,
While sparkling in their gilded dress

Those graceful vines among,
Were fitting mottoes wrought with care,

Each with its wealth of good,
And this of all that decked those walls
The children's favorite stood-

God bless our school.”

It glittered in the morning sun

In characters of gold,
As beautiful at noontide hour,

Like truth that ne'er grows old;
What though the storms were fierce without,

With low-hung clouds of gloom,
A halo crowned those sacred words,
Its radiance filled the room-

“God bless our school.

Once to my side a fair young

child Came with her eyes of blue, So full of light and innocence,

Pure thoughts were there I knew. “Teacher,” said she, “I wonder so

If it can really be,
That God who lives high up above
Looks down from heaven to see

And bless our school.”.

Oh, what a fitting time to teach

A sweet and holy truth,
To leave its impress deep engraved

Upon the mind of youth!
I took the little hand in mine,

Gazed in that childish face,
And told how He whose watchful love
Abides in every place,

Could bless our school;
And how not e'en a sparrow's fall,

Not e'en a raven's cry,
Though small they seem, could e'er escape

The notice of His eye.
The child-face glowed with happy smiles,

"Ah! now I know," said she,
"If God loves e'en the little birds,
He surely cares for me,

And all our school."

O ye! unto whose tender care

These little ones are given,
Spurn not the thoughtful questionings,

But turn their hearts to heaven.
And when ye twine about your rooms

The rich festoons of green,
There place among those graceful vines
These golden words to gleam-

“God bless our school."

:

TO AMERICA IN 1876.-MARTIN F. TUPPER. Great and understanding nation,

Bear with one whose humble pen Sends this hearty commendation

Flying through the mouths of men;
Not in vain, presumptuous daring,

But with gratitude sincere,
As your thousand bounties sharing

This Centennial, happy year.
None need doubt my faithful fitness

Thus to judge, and so to speak As a true and honest witness,

Mindful, though the words be weak,
Since I may not tell out strongly

All the best I feel and see,
Lest suspicion, sneering wrongly,

Find a flatterer in me.
Five and twenty years have vanished

Since I hailed you once before,
And my memory holds unbanished

How you greeted me of yore; Even now some few surround me

Though that quarter-century's fled-And their love has newly crowned me

With old blessings on my head. Thanks to you, dear old and new friends,

Each and all my praise receive, Everywhere I know you true friends

And your cordial words believe; As a brother greets a brother,

Still our generous feelings blend, And we look on one another

Each with each as on his friend. Noble people! now returning

Absent thus so many a year,
With what ken, not undiscerning,

Can I judge your great career?
How does Rip Van Winkle find you-

Worse or better than of yore?
Flinging all your faults behind you?

Forcing all your best before ? Yes! as in that old Dutch story,

You have grown both great and good; Truly, progress is your glory,

Winning all that mortals could;

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