It goes for laces, feathers, rings,

Toys, dolls, and other baby-things,
Whips, whistles, candies, bells, and bows!
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? Come,
I know it didn't go for rum;

It goes for schools and Sabbath chimes,
It goes for charity sometimes,

For missions and such things as those-
And that's the way the money goes!

How goes the money? There,
I'm out of patience, I declare;
It goes for plays and diamond pins,
For public alms and private sins,
For hollow shams and silly shows-
And that's the way the money goes!

A

THANKSGIVING DAY.

BRIGHT little damsel, dressed plainly and neat,
Came tripping along o'er the wet, miry street,
For November's first snow-gift was passing away
In the chemical change of a red-featured clay;
So she guarded her clothes with a housewifely care,
Still gliding ahead like a creature of air,
While every brisk nerve in her feet seem'd to say,
Going home, going home to keep Thanksgiving Day.

On her well-rounded arm a nice basket she bore,
With a present, perchance, of some delicate store;
For she poised it precisely, and peep'd now and then

Beneath its snug lid with a critical ken;

All was right, and 't would seem that her movements kept time

With the inward response of a musical chime,

For nothing that song of her spirit could stay,

Home, father and mother, and Thanksgiving Day.

Then on came the cars, with a whistle and din,
And light as a lark the young damsel leap'd in,
And I saw her no more, save a glimpse through the pane
Of a face that no evil had ventured to stain,
Surrounded by travellers, on business intent,

Some anxious, some weary, some feeble and bent,
Though mingled with others vociferous and gay,
In anticipation of Thanksgiving Day.

So Fancy her limning took up, and behold

A village sprang forth from her pencil of gold,
And a quaint, rural house 'mid its roof-trees arose,
Where a man and a woman, in Sabbath-day clothes,
Gazed forth from their gate o'er the hill-top so brown,
For their daughter to come from her work in the town,
And, lo! there she hastens, all smiling and gay,
To gladden their souls on this Thanksgiving Day.

O land of my birth! dear New England, the clime
Of pilgrims, and heroes, and sages sublime,
Whatever of change o'er thine annals may sweep
When we in thine elm-girdled bosom shall sleep,
To a love-lighted home, where the virtues preside,
And God is acknowledged as Ruler and Guide,
Still gather thine own, from their work or their play,
To this feast of the heart, old Thanksgiving Day.

THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.

I

CANNOT vouch my tale is true,
indeed, 't is wholly new;

Nor say,
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,

But that could hardly grieve him much;

He thought—as Frenchmen always do-
That all the world could "parley-voo!"
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gayly here and there
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes:
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden-gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,

Whose very charming grounds are these?
And-pardon me -be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell?"
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann." *

"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste;

So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford.
With statues, too, in every niche;

Of course, Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king-

Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!"
In Amsterdam, the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold:
Gazing with rapture at the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears to raise his wonder more-
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;

'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man!"

Next day, our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery-shop,

*Nicht verstann-I don't understand.

And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the Mammoth Prize.
"Ten Millions!-'t is a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home!
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner?"
Conceive our traveller's amaze

To hear again the hackneyed phrase!
"What? no!—not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he's the luckiest of men!
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France:
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;
A perfect angel of a wife;

And gold enough to last a life;
There never yet was mortal man

So blest as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street;
And, asking one who stood near by
What nobleman had pleased to die,
Was stunned to hear the old reply!

The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead!
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that Mammoth Prize-
He wins, and pop - the winner dies!
Ah! well-his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they could not last;
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great!"

THE

DANIEL WEBSTER AND HENRY CLAY.

HERE was a striking contrast between Daniel Webster and his illustrious contemporary, Henry Clay. Webster was usually distant and reserved; Clay always cordial and sympa

thizing. Webster conversed brilliantly, but he required to be drawn out; Clay would take the initiative, and he always selected the subject with tact and a true discernment of the tastes and intelligence of his companions. In fashionable society at Washington, Webster stood in proud repose, with icy brow, like Mont Blanc among the lesser Alps, its summit covered with perpetual snow. He was among them, but not of them. Clay, on the contrary, had the facility to adapt himself to every situation. He could shine as brilliantly in the saloon as in the Senate. Webster would enter the party of a secretary or minister, move slowly to one side of the room, and sit down, silent and abstracted. After a while a few friends would gather around him, and the conversation, at first sluggish and cold, would gradually become instructive, sometimes warm into eloquence, but seldom grow light and lively. Clay would address himself to the ladies, engage in their conversation or amusement, and vie with the lightest of them in gayety, with the liveliest in vivacity, and with the brightest in wit. Thus Clay was always the most popular man in Washington society; a distinction which Webster never attained and never sought.

Similar differences between the two were observable in their public and official intercourse with men. Webster made firm friends of the few, but held the many at a distance. He was courteous to all, but cordial only to those who had the key to his heart, and knew how to turn it. Clay made friends of all who approached him. Many who voted against him as a politician, loved him as a man. Webster inspired respect, but he was inscrutable. When you grasped the warm hand of Clay, you could look through the windows of his eyes right down into his heart and see it beat. Webster awed men-Clay attracted them. They admired Webster - they loved Clay.

It re

In their treatment of great questions, the difference between Clay and Webster was as striking as in their manners. minds us of the contrast drawn by a writer some years since, in a style somewhat exaggerated, between Canning and Brougham. Clay swept lightly over the surface, seized the obvious points, and adorned his subject with all the graces of wit and rhetoric. Webster toiled in deep mines, grasped the strongest points, and addressed himself to the understanding rather than the sympathies of his hearers. Clay was the more persuasive - Webster