For the wheels were just as strong as the thills
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.-Off went they

The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
-First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill-
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once-
All at once, and nothing first-
Just as bubbles do when they burst.-
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic Is Logic. That's all I say.

ALL OF THEM.

WITH head erect, and lips compressed,
He throws his hammer by;

The purpose of his manly breast

Is now to do or die.

He seeks the camp; " Put down my name :
My boys will mind the shop;

If the rebels want my heart's best blood,
I'll sell it drop by drop

And now here comes my oldest boy;
My son, what would you do ?”
"Father, my brother will drive the trade;
I've come to fight with you."

"God bless him! Well, put down his name; I cannot send him home;

But here's the other boy, I see

My son, what made you come ?"

"Father, I could not work alone;
The shop may go to grass;
I've come to fight for the good old flag;
Stand off here; let me pass.

"Yes, put him down—he's a noble boy ;
I've two that are younger still;

They'll drive the plough on the Flushing farm,

And work with a right good will.

"My stars! and here comes one of them! My son, you must not go !"

"Father, when rebels are marching on, I cannot plough or sow.

"Well, thank God, there is one left yet;
He will plough and sow what he can;
But he's only a boy, and can never do
The work of a full-grown iman."

With a proud, full heart the blacksmith turned,
And walked to the other side;

For he felt a weakness he almost scorned,
And a tear he fain would hide.

They told him then that his youngest boy
Was putting his name on the roll ;
"It must not be," said the brave old man;
"No, no, he's the light of my soul!”

But the lad came up with a beaming face,
Which bore neither fears nor cares;

'Father, say nothing-my name is down; I have let out the farm on shares !"

And now they have marched to the tented field, And when the wild battle shall come,

They'll strike a full blow for the Stars and Stripes, For God, and their country, and home.

THE MEETING PLACE.

Where the faded flower shall freshen,
Freshen never more to fade;
Where the shaded sky shall brighten,
Brighten never more to shade;
Where the sun-blaze never scorches;
Where the star-beams cease to chill;
Where no tempest stirs the echoes
Of the wood, or wave, or hill;
Where the morn shall wake in gladness,
And the moon the joy prolong;
Where the daylight dies in fragrance
'Mid the burst of Holy song-

Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

Where no shadow shall bewilder;
Where life's vain parade is o'er;
Where the sleep of sin is broken,

And the dreamer dreams no more;
Where the bond is never severed-
Partings, claspings, sobs, and moan—
Midnight waking, twilight weeping,
Heavy noontide-all are done;
Where the child has found its mother,
Where the mother finds the child;
Where dear families are gathered
That were scattered on the wild-

Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

Where the hidden wound is healed:
Where the blighted light re-blooms;
Where the smitten heart, the freshness
Of its buoyant youth resumes;
Where the love that here we lavish

On the withering leaves of time,
Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on,
In an ever spring-bright clime;
Where we find the joy of loving,
As we never loved before;
Loving on unchilled, unhindered,
Loving once and evermore-

Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

Where a blasted world shall brighten
Underneath a bluer sphere,

And a softer, gentler sunshine
Shed its healing splendor here;

Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,
Putting on their robe of

And a purer, fairer Eden

green,

Be where only wastes have been ; Where a King, in kingly glory

Such as earth has never known,

Shall assume the righteous sceptre,

Claim and wear the heavenly crown-
Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

A RESPONSE TO "BEAUTIFUL SNOW."

Sallie J. Hancock.

Cast by the bright wings of a seraph-the snow,
From the uppermost heights to the earth below;
Gently enwrapping a star-begemmed spread
O'er homes of the living and graves of the dead.
Radiantly white as the Genii of story!
Pure as the saints in their robings of glory!
Whose soft tears of sympathy froze in their fall,
For the sin an 1 the curse that are over us all;
Fleecy and light from the olive-hued skies,
As the trailing insignia of paradise;
The one fair perishing thing that is given
To worlds aglow with the splendors of Heaven!

Proud spirit, who told of the height which you fell
Adown like the snow flakes from Heaven to hell?”
God made you as fair as the beautiful snow!

He loves you, poor sinner, though you may not know
How deep in that Infinite heart sank your cry
For "shelter" and "rest" of the saint passing by,
Who spurned you, and left you to die in the street,
With a bed and a shroud of the snow and the sleet.
The world has cursed you, yet God has not said
A soul shall be bartered for gold or for bread.

He knows all your erring and horrible woe,

The want and the crime that have maddened you so:
All the dearer to him for the strife, and for stain,
Aud purer to-day for repentance and pain!
Made white by His blood, as the beautiful snow
That falls on a sinner with nowhere to go;"
And sweeter the pardon hard won by the cries
That from Magdalen lips went up to the skies.

Oh! beautiful snow, from the filth of the earth,
Swift rises again in its cherubic mirth

In crystalline dew-drops-all glistening bright
As clear shining stars in a heaven of night.

If contrite to the throne of God's mercy you go,
He will make you as pure as the "beautiful snow!"

A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL CELLAR Alf. Burnett.

LET'S see, where am I? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd I get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met a wheel-barrow wot was drunk, coming t'other way. That wheel-barrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheel-barrow, and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which; guess it must have been me. I'm a nice young man; yes, I am; tight, tore, drunk, shot! Well, I can't help it; 'taint my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones's fault? No! Is it my wife's fault? WELL IT AN'T! Is it the wheel-barrow's fault? No-o-o! IT'S WHISKY'S FAULT!! WHISKY! who's Whisky? Has he got a large family? Got many relations? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for the last ten years; always hated to, though, for fear of hurting