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THE GRATEFUL PREACHER.-JOHN G. SAXE.

A strolling preacher, "once upon a time,”
Addressed a congregation rather slim
In numbers, yet his subject was sublime

("Twas "Charity"); sonorous was the hymn;

Fervent the prayer; and though the house was small,

He pounded lustily the Sacred Word,

And preached an hour as loud as he could bawl,
As one who meant the Gospel should be heard.
And now, behold, the preacher's hat is sent
Among the pews for customary pence,
But soon returns as empty as it went!

Whereat-low bowing to the audience-
He said, "My preaching is not all in vain;
Thank God! I've got my beaver back again !"

AN HONEST RUM-SELLER'S ADVERTISEMENT. A. MCWIGHT.

All hail, friends and neighbors, I've opened a shop, At which I invite you, politely, to stop!

I keep liquid fire to sell to you all,

I therefore beseech you to give me a call!

I've purchased indulgence from Court, and begin
Dealing out to my neighbors rum, brandy, and gin.

I expect to make paupers for you to support,
And to help on the business your custom I court.
I'll also make drunkards and beggars likewise,
But then I am honest and need no disguise.

I shall deal in foul spirits, and hope to excite
Men to rob and to murder, by day and by night.
I shall drive away comfort, expenses augment,
I shall stir up contention, on this I'm intent.
At a very short notice and for a small sum,
By the wonderful magic of brandy and rum,

I will fill your asylums and poor-houses too;
To your prisons and scaffolds I'll send not a few.

I will sell you, kind neighbors, if you will but call,
A drink that will poison and ruin you all;
Make accidents frequent, diseases increase,-
Or those in existence more fatal at least.

The goods I shall deal in will take away life,
Deprive some of reason; fill the country with strife;

Make widows and orphans; of fathers make fiends;-
The loud wail of thousands my business attends.
I will see that the youth are in ignorance kept;
Their morals corrupted, nor shall I forget
Of natural affection the parent to rob.
I'll incite insurrection and stir up the mob.
I will uproot religion, the soul I'll destroy;
For none of my votaries shall heaven enjoy.
Though spirits are priceless I'll send them to hell-
Compel them in torment forever to dwell.

Should any one ask me my reason to give,
My answer is," money-and money I'll have!"
By trading in spirits I can it obtain,

And if I keep trading no one should complain;
Legislators sustain me, my business support,
And then I have license directly from Court.
Judges assure me my business is just;

Though it ruins my neighbor and grinds him to dust.
I've purchased indulgence from them, and I hope
It's as good as indulgences sold by the Pope.
My trade then is lawful, and I'm not ashamed
To push it for money. Nor should I be blamed;

If I don't pursue it some other one will,
Those croakers against me should therefore be still
I live in a country where liberty (!!) reigns;
I've purchased the right to augment the pains

Of those who surround me; to prostrate their health,
Bring them down to the grave and prey on their wealth.
I know that the Bible says, "Thou shalt not kill,"
But the Court says I may-with the juice of the still.

I know that no drunkard shall Paradise gain,
And as I make drunkards no doubt I'd be slain,

Did not Legislators step in to my aid,

And by their enactments take the guilt of my trade;

But I must make money though thousands I slay.
Come, then, friends and neighbors! come, call every day.

SIM'S LITTLE GIRL.-MARY HARTWELL.

Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down-can't wait a minute. Business particular-concerns the Company. I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I? When

a tough old fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees sore need of it.

Just takin' drinks for good fellowship? Yes, I know all 'bout that. Been there myself. Sit down on the edge of the platform here.

Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought to be the last to touch the bottle. We have life and property trusted to our hands. Ours is a grand business; I don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember when I was a young fellow like you, just set up with an engine, I used to feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin' that iron beast do just as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think fast.

I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long afterwards. We had a nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts was set on each other, and she was a little proud of her engineer-she used to say so, anyhow. She was sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not one of your loud ones. And pretty, too. But you know what it is to love a woman, George Burks, I saw you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday.

And after awhile we had the little girl. We talked a good deal about what we should call her, my wife and I. We went clean through the Bible, and set down all the fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. I used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little girl. My wife wanted to call her Endora Isabel. But that sounded like folderol. Then we had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what not. Finally, whenever I looked at her, I seemed to see "Katie." She looked Katie. I took to callin' her Katie, and she learned it, so Katie she

was.

I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She was rounder and prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead: and her hair was that light kind, that all runs to curls and glitter.

me.

Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet I've soiled a-many of her white pinafores, buryin' my face in them before I was washed, and sort of prayin' soft QQQQ

like under the roof of my heart, "God bless my baby!-God bless my little lamb!"

As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin'—even took her into my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals and such things. She tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little thing! Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the road. Remember once hearing her say to a playmate, "There's my papa. He's an engineer. Don't you wish he was your papa?"

My home was close by the track. Often and often the little girl stood in our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by.

Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the engine whizz! We was awful jolly, the fireman and me. Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time made on that road before nor since. I had just sense enough to know what I was about, but not enough to handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at the entrance of our town.

I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' throug the suburbs, I see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock still!

The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped the engine, if I'd only had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! But I was too drunk! And that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had placed on the track!-right over my baby!-Oh, my baby!— Go away, George.

There! And do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed her mother? And do you want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my own child, who stood up to save me? And do you want me to tell you the good fellowship you were drinkin' a while ago brought all this on me?

You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. Hope you will. I was a moderate un.

(O God! Oh, my baby!)

THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.-WILL CARLETON.

The district school-master was sitting behind his great bookladen desk,

Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.

As whisper the half-leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes have come,

His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum.

Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading & forest path o'er,

Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.

There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth,

And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;

There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom,

And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room,

With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,

Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.

There were anxious young novices, drilling their spellingbooks into the brain,

Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train;

There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,

And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,

And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,

As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!"

There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed,

In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best.

A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,

How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;

And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness

stood,

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