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"Darwin looked at the bug and then he looked at the boys. He smiled slightly.

‘Did it hum when you caught it?' he asked.

'Yes,' they answered, nudging one another. " "Then,' said Darwin, it is a humbug.'"

New York Tribune.

A JUNE MORNING Oh! have you not seen on some morning in June, When the flowers were in tears and the forest in tune, When the billows of morn broke bright on the air, On the breast of the brightest, some star clinging there? Some sentinel star not ready to set, Forgetting to wane and watching there yet? How you gazed on that vision of beauty the while, How it wavered till torn by the light of God's smile, How it passed through the portals of pearl like a bride, How it paled as it passed and the morning star died. The sky was all blushes; the lark was all bliss, And the prayer of your heart was "Be my ending like this." So my beautiful dove passed away from life's even; So the blush of her being was blended with heaven; So the bird of my bosom fluttered up in the dawn, A window was open; my darling was gone. A truant from tears, from time and from sin, For the angel on watch took the wanderer in. And when I shall hear the new song that she sings I shall know her again, notwithstanding her wings, By those eyes full of heaven; by the light of her hair, And the smile she wore here she will surely wear there.

Benjamin F. Taylor.

THE LOVE OF HOME

It is only shallow-minded pretenders who either make distinguished origin a matter of personal merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal reproach. Taunt and scoffing at the humble condition of early life affect nobody in America but those who are foolish enough to indulge in them, and they are generally sufficiently punished by public rebuke. A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition.

It did not happen to me to be born in a log-cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters were born in a log-cabin raised among the snowdrifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada.

Its remains still exist; I make it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections and the touching narratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode.

I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affectionate veneration for him who reared it and defended it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its root and, through the fire and blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name and the name of my posterity be blotted forever from the memory of mankind!

Daniel Webster.

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time. For like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And tonight I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears froni the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Henry W. Longfellow.

TO HUSBAND AND WIFE

Preserve sacredly the privacies of your own house, your married state and your heart. Let no father or mother or sister or brother ever presume to come between you or share the joys or sorrows that belong to you two alone.

With mutual help build your quiet world, not allowing your dearest earthly friend to be the confidant of aught that concerns your domestic peace. Let moments of alienation, if they occur, be healed at once. Never, no never, speak of it outside; but to each other confess and all will come out right. Never let the morrow's sun still find you at variance. Renew and renew your vow.

It will do you good, and thereby your minds will grow together contented in tha: love which is stronger than death, and you will be truly one.

Anonymous.

HULLO!

When you see a man in woe,
Walk straight up and say, "Hullo!"
Say, "Hullo!" and "How d'ye do?
How's the world been using you?"
Slap the fellow on his back,
Bring your hand down with a whack;
Waltz straight up and don't go slow,
Shake his hand and say, "Hullo!"
Is he clothed in rags? Oh, ho!
Walk straight up and say, “Hullo!"
Rags are but a cotton roll
Just for wrapping up a soul;
And a soul is worth a true
Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"
Don't wait for the crowd to go;
Walk straight up and say, "Hullo!"
When big vessels meet, they say,
They salute and sail away:
Just the same as you and me,
Lonely ships upon the sea,
Each one sailing his own jog
For a port beyond the fog;
Let your speaking-trumpet blow,
Lift your horn and cry, "Hullo!"

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