IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?* Is it nothing to you, O Christians, Dwells in that bright wine's flow, Is it nothing to you, though that spirit Into the ears of his victims, Ye may drink; for look at the righteous, Do they not drink of it too?" And the listeners fall as they listen-- Ye have the gift of knowledge, Ye are standing fast in your strength; But that which is now your servant For art has lost its cunning, And learning ceased to shine, And the light of religion been darkened, Before that spirit of wine. Will you teach your children's voices "Lead us not into temptation," And then, lead, and leave them there? The path is slippery and treacherous, But they may follow, and perish- There are thousands struggling before you This poem is printed on tinted paper and circulated as a tract of appeal among he sturdy Scotch- We are indebted to MARGARET E. PARKER, of Dundee, Scota, for forwarding it. Which hurries them on to destruction- But if, with a generous effort, If you hold not the other end. Ye are called with a holy calling, Is it nothing to you, O Christians, Arise in your Master's honor, And cleanse your hands from the stain, Which makes your lamps burn dim! He gave His life for your ransom; Up, Christians, up and be doing! If you take not the part of your Saviour, Fling the bondage of evil custom, And the fetters of self aside, Nor destroy, with your strength and knowledge, The souls for whom Jesus died. ART THOU LIVING YET?-JAMES G. CLARK. Is there no grand, immortal sphere And dry the tears from weeping eyes; And June stands near with deathless flowers; I ask, and lo! my cheeks are wet I feel thy kisses o'er me thrill, Till I am thine and thou art mine, But, mother, art thou living yet, And dost thou still remember me? The springtimes bloom, the summers fade, Thy memory lives by night and day; I sometimes think thy soul comes back My cheeks bloom younger in thy breath, And yet, at times, my eyes are wet With tears for her I cannot see- And dost thou still remember me? JOSIAH AND FAMILY AT THE CENTENNIAL. While going the rounds of the great Exhibition, lately, we found the passage-way suddenly blocked by a family cavalcade. There was the father, bald and beaming, and averaging two hundred and eighty in weight. He wore a blue coat, gray pants, and a green neck-tie. He carried the family umbrella under his arm, and frequently removed his white hat to mop his forehead with a bright bandanna. His partner was equal to him in size, and similar in style of dress. In regular family order six children followed them; and were supplied from time to time with ginger-bread by the mother, who carried it in straw paper in her right hand. "Well, mother," puffed the head of the family, “this is astonishin', now, ain't it? I never saw nuthin' like it before. Most played out, mother, eh? John Henry, take the basket from mother. What's this? (stopping before the piece of worsted-work entitled "The Battle of Langside.") My grashus! that chap looks delicate, now. That beats your samples all to nuthin' mother. I 'spect Maria Jane'll do somethin' rale handsome, like that, with her needle, when she's growed up." Here the youngest child set up a lively howl at being trodden on, and the entire family, with umbrella, baskets, satchels, and ginger-bread stopped to find out who the guilty party was. 'You ought to 'a minded her better, Selina," said the mo ther. "There, give her an orange to suck, out o' that littlest bag." We next came across this interesting family in Horticul tural Hall, trying to spell out the names of plants, and showing general disgust that such a fuss was made over bits of flowers. "It's jest throwin' away money to come and see these 'ere things, when we've got jest as good in our own garden at home. Abe Lincoln, don't you pinch your little sister Sallie agin, or I'll thump you where we stand, as sure as I'm your livin' mother. Josiah," (to her husband) "let's go an' see somethin' better than this." Josiah agreed, but just at that moment they met their friends, the Browns, and there were general exclamations and salutations. "Well, neighbor Brown," said our fat friend, "this is-this is somethin' big now, ain't it?" Brown agreed that it was. "Its the first Centennial that me and mother and the children's ever seen," continued Josiah. "They had one over to Squabtown, last year, but none on us got to it, owin' to our little Abe Lincoln there havin' the scarlet fever so amazin' smart we thought we was goin' to lose him." The family, their numbers swelled by the addition of the Brown tribe, moved on to the Art Gallery, whither we followed, intent on fun. "The Banquet Scene," from Macbeth, caused a panic among our fat friend's six children, and Brown's six children, owing to the ghost. Twelve young voices were raised in unearthly cries at the sight of it. "Maria Jane, you hush up! You know it ain't a rale, livin' ghost. What's the use o' settin' the young un's to whoopin' like that?" exclaimed her father; while the head of the Brown family administered a smart rap on the skull of each of his offsprings. "Josiah, come right away from that picture and fetch the children with you. There's a woman in it that ain't got any frock on. It's a shame!" Josiah meekly obeyed his wife. The great American eagle, which had served in the late war, was an object of enthusiastic interest to the entire party. And the way that bird looked at them and listened to their comments, was something rich. In particular he fixed his eyes upon a fat, flaxen-haired child of our friend Josiah's as though imagining what the taste of such a creature would be. "We ain't seen the Japanese, yet," said Josiah. And forthwith they marched to the department occupied by Japan. Josiah seemed possessed with a feeling that the Japanese in attendance on their goods were capable of understanding |