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There's a funny tale of a stingy man,

Who was none too good, but might have been worse, Who went to his church on a Sunday night,

And carried along his well filled purse. When the sexton came with his begging-plate,

The church was but dim with the candle's light; The stingy man fumbled all through his purse,

And chose a coin by touch, and not sight. It's an odd thing, now, that guineas should be

So like unto pennies in shape and size. “I'll give a penny,” the stingy man said:

“The poor must not gifts of pennies despise.” The penny fell down with a clatter and ring !

And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. "The world is so full of the poor,” he thought:

"I can't help them all-1 give what I can." Ha, ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure,

To see the gold guinea fall into his plate !
Ha, ha ! how the stingy man's heart was wrung,

Perceiving his blunder, but just too late!
“No matter," he said: “in the Lord's account

That guinea of gold is set down to me. They lend to him who give to the poor:

It will not so bad an investment be." “Na, na, mon,” the chuckling sexton cried out:

“The Lord is na cheated-He kens thee well; He knew it was only by accident

That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell ! “He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir:

But in that account He'll set down to thee Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon,

Than the one bare penny ye meant to gi'e !"
There's a comfort, too, in the little tale-

A serious side as well as a joke ;
A comfort for all the generous poor,

In the comical words the sexton spoke;
A comfort to think that the good Lord knows

How generous we really desire to be,
And will give us credit in His account

For all the pennies we long "to gi'e."

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It is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a inile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock--caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing to believe his own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surrounding shore are covered with thousands of spectators.

Who is he?” “How did he get there?” are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful food, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words; they are irresistible, and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel-bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements or high drop a tear of pity on the

The silvery stars shine dimly through their curtain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his God. Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss; he clings to that rock with all the tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of his position.


strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his home, his wife and children there; he sees the home of his childhood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips.

No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard: he is there-he is still alive! Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driven from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the object, than she shrieks, “Oh, my husband!” and sinks senseless to the earth. The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has clung for the last forty-eight hours. He instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rockbound coast? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the

grave. His wife sees it and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark; the poor man's strength is almost gone; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, hands clenched, and eves that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, ahove Niagari's eternal roar, “ Lost!” and sinks forever from ilin ze om 'n




It was as fine a spectacle as any one could see,
The meeting of the Ballotville Female Society;
For the sisters they wore spectacles, except a trifling few,
And some of them (the spectacles) were green, and some

were blue.
But women are not properly respected everywhere,
And so it was a low design that was concocted there,
An infamous conspiracy for to demoralize
That splendid convocation and to break it up, likewise.
Miss Blinks arose and said it was enough to vex a saint,
The way some women carry on, and how some creatures

paint; She also was ashamed to see 'em wearing sailor hats, And thought the sisters should not come accompanied by cats. Then Mrs. Brown remarked that she could not pretend to

say How old the previous speaker was, exactly to a day; But she would like to know (and here she made a scornful

face,): How cats could be avoided while Miss Blinks was in the

place. Then Sarah Smith got up and said that Mrs. William Brown, Because she was a wife could not put other people down; The man that she had married was a mean old stingy clown, Who first had been refused by almost every girl in town. Those bitter words brought on a dreadful storm, and pretty Each sister at that meeting seemed as crazy as a loon; The chairman she rapped hard and tried some order to

restore, But the row had got too lively, and at last she tried no more. The way the fixings flew, then, was a caution to behold, It were in vain to tell it, for the half could not be told, But the secretary's documents were scattered all around, And the chairman lost chignon that has never since been

found. Then suddenly, and while the conflict raged most furiously, A delegation entered that was shocking for to see; For the husbands of the sisters who were married were all

there, And each man had a baby that was hungry as a bear.


And they pinched those little infants with a view to make

'em yell; And how the mothers went for 'em I won't pretend to tell; But there was no more discussion about anything that day, And the meeting was adjourned in quite an unexpected way. Since that disgraceful game was played on the society, The members have pursued their avocations quietly; Assembling in convention is a thing they do no more, And upon that simple subject they now feel extremely sore


The crazy

Miss Annabel McCarty

Was invited to a party, * Your company from four to ten,” the invitation said ;

And the maiden was delighted

To think she was invited
To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed.

little midget Ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's

And said, with accents hearty,

“ 'Twill be the swatest party If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I wish it was to-night!"

The great display of frilling

Was positively killing;
And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely sash so wide!

And the gloves so very cunning!

She was altogether “stunning,'
And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride.

They gave minute directions,

With copious interjections
Of "sit up straight !” and “don't do this or that—twould

be absurd !"
But, what with their caressing,

And the agony of dressing,
Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word.

There was music, there was dancing,

And the sight was most entrancing,
As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubileo;

There was laughing, there was pouting;

There was singing, there was shouting;
And old and young together made a carnival of glee.

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