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An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarned,
Will treat aside, and let the reptile live.
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,
And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes
Sacred to neatness and repose,-the alcove,
The chamber, or refectory,--may die:
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so when, held within their proper bounds,
And guiltless of offense, they range the air,
Or take their pastime in the spacious field:
There they are privileged; and he that hunts
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,
Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm,
Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.
The sum is this: If man's convenience, health,
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs;
Else they are all-the meanest things that are-
As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
As God was free to forin them at the first,
Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons
To love it too.

TOM, THE DRUMMER-BOY. An incident of the late war as related in “Song Victories of The Bliss auf Sankey Hymns,"--published by D. Lothrop & Co.

A chaplain in our army one morning found T610, the drummer-boy, a great favorite with all the men, and whom, because of his sobriety and religious example, they called “the young deacon," sitting alone under a tree. At first he thought him asleep, but, as he drew near, the boy lifted up his head, and he saw tears in his eyes.

“Well, Tom, my boy, what is it; for I see your thoughts are sad? What is it?"

“Why, sir, I had a dream last night, which I can't get out of my mind.”

“What was it?"

“You know that my little sister Mary is dead-died when ten years old. My mother was a widow,-poor, but good. She never seemed like herself afterwards. In a year or so, she died, too; and then I, having no home, and no mother, came to the war. But last night I dreamed the war was over, and I went back to my home, and just before I got to the house, my mother and little sister came out to meet me. I didn't seem to remember they were dead! How glad they were! And how my mother, in her smiles, pressed me to her heart! Oh, sir, it was just as real as you are real now!"

“Thank God, Tom, that you have such a mother, not really dead, but in heaven, and that you are hoping, through Christ, to meet her again!" The boy wiped his eyes and was comforted.

The next day there was terrible fighting. Tom's drum was heard all day long, here and there. Four times the ground was swept and occupied by the two contending armies. But as the night came on, both paused, and neither dared to go on the field lest the foe be there. Tom,“the young deacon," it was known, was wounded and left on the battlefield. His company encamped near the battle-field. Iu the evening, when the noise of battle was over, and all wis still, they heard a voice singing, away off on the field. They felt sure it was Tom's voice. Softly and beautifully the words floated on the wings of night,

“ Jesus! lover of my sonl,

Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the billow's near me roll,

While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,

Till the storm of life is past!
Safe into the haven guide,

Oh, receive my soul at last.
Other refuge have I none,

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee!
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,

Still support and comfort me!" The voice stopped here, and there was silence. In the morn. ing the soldiers went out and found Tom sitting on the ground, and leaning against a stump-dead! His soul went up in the song. Did his mother and Mary meet him? Who can say?

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A TOAST—“PEACE AND PLENTY.Corn in the big crib, and money in the pocket, Baby in the cradle, and pretty wife to rock it, Coffee in the closet, and sugar in the barrel, Love around the fire-side, and folks that never quarrel.


PHEBE CARY. Once, a long time ago, so good stories begin, There stood by the roadside an old-fashioned inn; An inn which the landlord had named " The Blue Hen," While he, by his neighbors, was called “Uncle Ben.” At least, they quite often addressed him that way When ready to drink, but not ready to pay ;, Though when he insisted on having the cash, They went off mutt'ring “Rummy,” and “Old Brandy Smash." He sold barrels of liquor, but still the old “Hen” Seemed never to flourish, and neither did “Ben;" For he drank up his profits, as every one knewEven those who were drinking their profits up too. So, with all they could drink, and with all they could pay, The landlord grew poorer and poorer each day; Men said, as he took down the gin from the shelf, "The steadiest customer there was himself.” There was hardly a man living in the same street But had too much to drink and too little to eat; The women about the old “Hen" got the blues; The girls had no bonnets, the boys had no shoes. When a poor fellow died, he was borne on his bier By his comrades, whose hands shook with brandy and fear; For, of course, they were terribly frightened, and yet They went back to “The Blue Hen” to drink and forget! There was one jovial farmer who couldn't get hy The door of “The Blue Hen” without feeling dry; One day he discovered his purse growing light; “There must be a leak somewhere,” he said. He was right! Then there was the blacksmith (the best ever known, Folks said, if he'd only let liquor alone) Let his forge cool so often, at least he forgot To heat up his iron and strike when 'twas hot. Once a miller, going home from “The Blue Hen," 'twas said, While his wife sat and wept by his sick baby's bed, Had made a false step, and slept all night alone In the bed of the river, instead of his own. Even poor “Ben” himself could not drink of the cup Of tire forever without burning up; He grew sick, fell to raving, declared that he knew No doctors could help him; and they said so, too.

He told those about him, the ghosts of the men
Who used, in their lifetimes, to haunt “ The Blue Hen,"
Had come back, each one bringing his children and wife,
And trying to frighten him out of his life.
Now he thought he was burning; the very next breath
He shivered, and cried he was freezing to death;
That the peddler lay by him who, long years ago,
Was put out of “ The Blue Hen" and died in the snow.
He said that the blacksmith, who turned to a sot,
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him red hot;
That the puilder who swallowed his brandy fourth proof,
Was pitching him downward, head first, froin the roof.
At last he grew frantic; he clutched at the sheet,
And cried that the miller had hold of his feet;
Then leaped from his bed with a terrible scream,
That the dead man was dragging him under the stream.
Then he ran, and, so swift that no mortal could save,
He went over the bank and went under the wave;
And his poor lifeless body next morning was found
In the very same spot where the miller was drowned.
“ 'Twasn't liquor that killed him," some said," that was plain;
He was crazy, and sober folks might be insane !"

'Twas delirium tremenx," the coroner said, But, whatever it was, he was certainly dead!


I saw him standing in the crowd

A comely youth, and fair!
There was a brightness in his eye,

A glory in his hair!
I saw his comrades gaze on him-

His comrades, standing by;
I heard them whisper each to each.

“He never told a lie!"

I looked in wonder on that boy,

As he stood there, so young;
To think that never an untruth

Was uttered by his tongue.
I thought of all the boys I'd known-

Myself among the fry--
And knew of none that one could say:

“He never told a lie!"

I gazed upon that youth with awe

That did unchain me long;
I had not seen a boy before

So perfect and so strong.
And with a something of regret

I wished that he was I,
So they might look at me and say:

“He never told a lie!"
I thought of questions very hard

For boys to answer right:
“How did you tear those pantaloons ?

“My son! what caused the fight ?”
“Who left the gate ajar last night ?”

“Who bit the pumpkin-pie ?"
What boy could answer all of these,

And never tell a lie ?
I proudly took him by the hand,

My words with praise were rife;
I blessed that boy who never told

A falsehood in his life;
I told him I was proud of him.

A fellow standing by
Informed me that that boy was dumb

Who never told a lie!


Kacelyevo's slope still felt
The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt;
For the last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.
Mehemet Ali stroked his beard ;
His lips were clinched and his look was weird ;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.
“Clear me the Muscovite ont !” he cried.
Then the name of “Allah!" echoed wide,
And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered,
And on to the last redoubt they poured.
One fell, and a second quickly stopped
The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;
The second,-a third straight filled his place;
The third,-and a fourth kept up the race.

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