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Mr. B. Hard-hearted, ma'am, hard! (Squeezes Mrs. C's little finger as she takes the cup, slaps his heart twice, heaves a mighty sigh, and gradually hitches his chair around the table, close to Mrs. C.) Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney? (Stirring his tea and looking up into her face.) Are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?

Mrs. C. Dear me! what a very curious question from a single man! What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble? (Mr. B. drinks his tea, finishes a piece of toast, whisks the crumbs off his knees, wipes his lips, and deliberately kisses Mrs. C.) Mr. Bumble (in a frightened whisper), Mr. Bumble, I shall scream! (Mr. B. puts his arm round her waist. A hasty knock is heard at the door. Mr. B. darts to the wine bottles, and begins dusting them with great violence.) Who's there? (loudly and sharply.)

A Pauper (putting her head in at the door). If you please, Mistress, old Sally is a-going fast.

Mrs. C. Well, what's that to me? (angrily.) I can't keep her alive, can I?

Pauper. No, no, Mistress, nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. But she's troubled in her mind; and when the fits are not on her,— and that's not often, for she is dying very hard, she says she has got something to tell which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, Mistress.

Mrs. C. It's a shame that old women can't die without purposely annoying their betters (muffling herself in a shawl). Mr. Bumble, perhaps you'd better stay till I come back, lest anything particular should occur. (Amiably to Mr. B.; then crossly to the pauper.) Walk fast! don't be all night hobbling out o' the way. Charles Dickens.

THE LONG AGO.

OH! a wonderful stream is the river of Time,

As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the Ocean of Years. ·

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf- so they come and they go,
On the river's breast with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that Isle is the "Long Ago,"
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow
There are heaps of dust - but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair:

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows, and pieces of rings,

And garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be that blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night!

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

A BATTLE-SONG OF FREEDOM.

EN of action! men of might!

MEN

Stern defenders of the right!

Are you girded for the fight?

Have you marked and trenched the ground
Where the din of arms must sound,
Ere the victor can be crowned?

Have you guarded well the coast?
Have you marshalled all your host?
Standeth each man at his post?

Have you counted up the cost?
What is gained and what is lost,
When the foe your lines have cross'd?

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Freemen, up! The foe is nearing!
Haughty banners high uprearing-
Lo, their serried ranks appearing!

Freemen, on! The drums are beating!
Will you shrink from such a meeting?
Forward! give them hero greeting!

From your hearths, and homes, and altars
Backward hurl your proud assaulters;
He is not a man that falters.

Hush! The hour of fate is nigh;
On the help of God rely!

Forward! We will do or die.

G. Hamilton.

OUR

CENTENNIAL HYMN.

JR fathers' God! from out whose hand
The centuries fall like grains of sand,

We meet to-day, united, free,

And loyal to our land and Thee,

To thank Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.

Here, where of old, by Thy design,
The fathers spake that word of Thine,

Whose echo is the glad refrain
Of rended bolt and falling chain,
To grace our festal time from all
The zones of earth our guests we call.

Be with us while the New World greets
The Old World thronging all its streets,
Unveiling all the triumphs won
By art or toil beneath the sun;
And unto common good ordain
This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou who hast here in concord furled
The war-flags of a gathered world,
Beneath our western skies fulfil
The orient mission of good-will;
And, freighted with love's golden fleece,
Send back the Argonauts of peace.

For art and labor met in truce,
For beauty made the bride of use,
We thank Thee, while withal we crave
The austere virtues, strong to save;

The honor, proof to place or gold;

The manhood, never bought nor sold.

Oh! make Thou us through centuries long,
In peace secure, in justice strong;

Around our gift of freedom draw
The safeguards of Thy righteous law,
And, cast in some diviner mould,

Let the new cycle shame the old.

J. G. Whittier.

THE END.

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