hymn, with the leader brandishing his enormous tuning-fork. When the choir stood, the congregation stood also. The Thanksgiving sermon to which we listened was most impressive. The learned pastor infused into it the heat of his own enthusiasm, the full measure of his own gratitude for blessings received. There was no ambiguity in his expressions, no confusion in his own thoughts of how much to attempt or how to discriminate. His style was simple and direct, his speech as spontaneous as that of an ingenuous, impetuous boy, his piety as transparent as glass. The mystery of mysteries was the cooking of the Thanksgiving dinner. To most of us, at that period, the long crane in the monster fireplace was novelty, and the iron kettles of varied shapes and sizes hanging upon it, with their boiling and stewing contents, of greater moment than the British Museum has ever been to us since. Steaming pies, mince, apple, and pumpkin, coming from the brick oven, together with a regiment of puddings, whetted our appetites marvelously; and chickens roasting before the fire in a movable tin bake-oven were declared "done" by a self-appointed committee a dozen times or more before the banquet hour arrived. The chicken pie, without which no New England Thanksgiving could have been complete, we did not discover until we were served to it at the table. But we had secret advices from our cheery host that it was baking, with a friendly caution against indecorous interrogation where so many amateur cooks were concerned; and while we waited, with a polite exhibition of excessive patience not very cordially felt, he charmed us with another invoice of captivating stories. Charles Graham Halpine. BORN in Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland, 1829. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1868. THE THOUSAND AND THIRTY-SEVEN. [Baked Meats of the Funeral. By Private Miles O'Reilly. 1866.] 20 April, 1864. Oh, 'twas a gallant day, In memory still adored, That day of our sun-bright nuptials Of the thousand stalwart bayonets And hundreds in Maryland clay; And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep For the swords-one night a week ago, Gathered around a banqueting-board As we toasted "Our Flag and Land!" And the room seemed filled with whispers And with choking throats we pushed aside Then in silence we brimmed our glasses As we stood up—just eleven And bowed as we drank to the Loved and the Dead Who had made us Thirty-seven! SAMBO'S RIGHT TO BE KILT. [Life and Adventures, Songs, etc., of Private Miles O'Reilly. 1864.] 1862. On every day in the year, boys, And in every hour of the day; The right to be kilt I'll divide wid him, In battle's wild commotion I shouldn't at all object If Sambo's body should stop a ball So ginerous are we here, I'll resign, and let Sambo take it On every day in the year. On every day in the year, boys, And wid none o' your nasty pride, All my right in a Southern bagnet prod The men who object to Sambo Should take his place and fight; And it's betther to have a nayger's hue Than a liver that's wake an' white. Though Sambo's black as the ace of spades, And his eye runs sthraight on the barrel-sights So hear me all, boys darlin', Don't think I'm tippin' you chaff, The right to be kilt we'll divide wid him, HE Philander Deming. BORN in Carlisle, Schoharie Co., N. Y., 1829. TOMPKINS. [Tompkins and Other Folks. 1885.] E was a small, wiry man, about forty years of age, with a bright young face, dark eyes, and iron-gray hair. We were reclining in a field, under a clump of pines, on a height overlooking Lake Champlain. Near by were the dull-red brick buildings of the University of Vermont. Burlington, blooming with flowers and embowered in trees, sloped away below us. Beyond the town, the lake, a broad plain of liquid blue, slept in the June sunshine, and in the farther distance towered the picturesque Adirondacks. "It is certainly true," said Tompkins, turning upon his side so as to face me, and propping his head with his hand, while his elbow rested on the ground. "Don't you remember, I used to insist that they were peculiar, when we were here in college?" I remembered it very distinctly, and so informed my old classmate. "I always said," he continued, "that I could not do my best in New England, because there is no sentiment in the atmosphere, and the people are so peculiar." "You have been living in Chicago?" I remarked inquiringly. "That has been my residence ever since we were graduated; that is, for about seventeen years," he replied. "You are in business there, I believe?" I questioned. Tompkins admitted that he was, but did not name the particular line. "Halloo!" he suddenly called out, rising to his feet, and looking toward the little brown road near us. I looked in the same direction, and saw a plainly dressed elderly couple on foot, apparently out for a walk. Tompkins went hastily toward them, helped the lady over the fence, the gentleman following, and a moment later I was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Pember, of Chicago. Tompkins gathered some large stones, pulled a board off the fence in rather a reckless manner, and fixed a seat for the couple where they could lean against a tree. When they were provided for, I reclined again, but Tompkins stood before us, talking and gesticulating. "This," said he, "is the identical place, Mrs. Pember. Here you can see the beauties I have so often described. Before you are the town and the lake, and beyond them the mountains of Northern New York; and (if you will please to turn your head) that great blue wall behind you, twenty miles away, is composed of the highest mountains in Vermont. The mountains in front of you are the Adirondacks, and those behind you are the Green Mountains. You are at the central point of this magnificent Champlain Valley; and you are comfortably seated here beneath the shade, on this the loveliest day of summer. Dear friends, I congratulate you," and Tompkins shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Pember. "And there, Timothy," observed the old gentleman, pointing at the University buildings with his cane, "is actually where you went to col lege." "It was in those memorable and classic halls, as my classmate here can testify," replied Tompkins. "And here we roamed in 'Academus' sacred shade,' and a good deal beyond it. We went fishing and boating during term-time, and made long trips to the mountains in the vaca tions. In the mean time this wonderful valley was photographed upon the white and spotless sensorium of my youthful soul." "Going, going, going!" cried Mrs. Pember, with a light, rippling laugh, glancing at me. "That is the way I stop Mr. Tompkins when he gets too flowery." Tompkins looked at me and reddened. "I own up," he remarked, “I am an auctioneer in Chicago." I hastened to say that I felt sure he was a good one, and added, in the kindest way I could, that I had just been wondering how he had become such a good talker. "Is it a good deal of a come-down?" asked Tompkins, with a mixture of frankness and embarrassment. I replied that the world was not what we had imagined in our college days, and that the calling of an auctioneer was honorable. A general conversation followed, in the course of which it appeared that Tompkins had boarded at the home of the Pembers for several years. They evidently looked upon him almost as their own son. They were travelling with him during his summer rest. "I came "This is a queer world," observed Tompkins, dropping down beside me, and lying flat on his back, with his hands under his head. to college from a back neighborhood over in York State, and up to the day I was graduated, and for a long time afterward, I thought I must be President of the United States, or a Presbyterian minister, or a great poet, or something remarkable, and here I am an auctioneer." Occasional remarks were made by the rest of us for a while, but soon the talking was mainly done by Tompkins. Said he, "Since I was graduated, I never was back here but once before, and that was four years ago next August. I was travelling this way then, and reached here Saturday evening. I was in the pork business at that time, as a clerk, and had to stop off here to see a man for the firm. I put up at the best hotel, feeling as comfortable and indifferent as I ever did in my life. There was not the shadow of an idea in my mind of what was going to happen. On Sunday morning I walked about town, and it began to come down on me.” "What, the town?" asked Mrs. Pember. "No; the strangest and most unaccountable feeling I ever had in my life," answered Tompkins. "It was thirteen years since I had said good-by to college. It had long ago become apparent to me that the ideas with which I had graduated were visionary and impracticable. I comprehended that the college professors were not the great men I had once thought them, and that a college president was merely a human being. I had been hardened by fighting my way, as a friendless young man has to do in a great city. As the confidential clerk of a |