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short distance before it. We are told that Joseph Ritner, who was for some time a member of the Legislature of Pennsylvania, and afterwards Governor of that State, was once a bound boy to Jacob Myers, an independent farmer, who brought him up. While he was Governer, there was a celebration of the Fourth of July, at which Mr. Myers gave the following toast Joseph Ritner - he was always a good boy, and has still grown better; everything he did, he always did well; he made a good farmer, and a good legislator; and he makes a very good Governor." What a consistency of character all the way through. Let this be one ambition of boyhood. To find a successful end, there must be a consistent beginning. Not to the thoughtless and hair-brained, the unprofitable and unprincipled of boyhood's kingdom, but to the humbly teachable, the good and the true in it, are we to look for the world's light, and hope, and freedom.

To the old and to the young, I would commend one other thought. It is, that boyhood should never be given up, but always retained. Happiest they who can preserve -we do not say all, for that were impracticable-but most of its freshness, through life. It is a blessed boon. What more genial to the young, even, than a cheerful, happy, manhood or old age? "Once a man and twice a child," is the old saying.

green

Always a child,

sounds better, if the

conception and reality are what they should be. And this in no wise contradicts that apostolic idea so simply and beautifully expressed; "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." He tells us that he wished to be true to the high spiritual teachings which illuminated the pathway of his manhood, as he had been to his good instincts during his youthful experience. But he would have the freshness of childhood in both times of life. His later days would only be true births of his former ones. He would and did retain his youthfulness all through up to the hour when he triumphantly said, "I have finished my course, and the time of my departure is at hand." So was a higher childhood at hand, after that departure, in which his youth should be "renewed like the eagles," and age and physical infirmity should never cast their shadows on his shining way. Yes the best manhood is that which has, with all other corresponding virtues, the most of the freshness of youth in it.

"They smile at me- -they laughing say,

'When will you be a man?

The parting year leaves you the boy

You were when it began.'

And I, in love with the disgrace,

Their smiles and jests enjoy,

And thank kind Heaven that, old in years,
In heart I'm still a boy!

What is it, this they'd have me win —

This gain from which I start?

A keener, calculating head

Ah, loss, a colder heart!

Well manhood's sense, or boyhood's warmth,

But one, if I enjoy

Leave, leave the heart and keep the head,

I still will be a boy."

There is a strain of good philosophy in this little gush of rhyming. We have seen it confirmed in many an agreeable father and grandfather, who were pillars of light and hope wreathed with the freshest flowers, and attractive with the sweetest odors of life, to the happy childhood faces that loved to cluster around them. Be such the golden old age of thousands who now revel in the blithe

someness and glory of boyhood; their setting-sun days as rich and lustrous as was the fresh and radiant sky of life's glad morning.

18

THE TURKISH PIPE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFEFFEL.

BY C. M. SAWYER.

God greet you, friend!— A tasteful pipe — Let's see!—a lily-bell

Rose-hued the rim a golden stripe —
Pray, old

man, will you sell?

No, sir! It was a prize in war
By a brave soldier made:
He won it from a great Pacha
In a battle near Belgrade.

Fine booty, sir, we had: the road

For miles with dead was strewn; Like stubble, sir, our people mowed The Turkish cohorts down.

Another time your story tell
Here, man, be not a dunce,
But for this double ducat, sell

Your Turkish pipe, at once.

I am a poor old man, and live
On charity alone;

But, sir, this pipe I would not give

For all the wealth you own!

Hear, sir! when once the Turks in hot

Pursuit, we Hussars prest,

A dog of a Janissary shot
Our captain in the breast.

I nursed him long, and ere his end
He reached me all his gold

And this rich pipe, then prest my hand,
And his last hour was told.

The gold I paid the landlord, all,—

He had been plundered thrice

But kept for a memorial

This precious Turkish prize.

Through all my marches long and sore
On horseback and on foot,

A sacred thing, this pipe I wore
Safe hidden in my boot.

That limb was shot away, sir, when
Before the walls of Prague; .

I clutched my pipe the first, and then
Picked up my severed leg.

You move me old man, e'en to weep:Who was that man? O, tell