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I was not strong and stalwart
Like my brothers, Rob and John,
And so they planned a scholar's life
For me, the youngest one.

They would go out into the world
And win their daily bread,
While I with mother should remain
And stand in father's stead.

I studied much and studied long,
Lest I should give them pain,
And in that time I learned to love
My little neighbor, Jane.

I loved them all, and yet my thoughts
Were ever of the sea;

By day, by night, awake, asleep,
I heard its melody!

And then, I think, my brain grew wild,
And I could bear no more;

I fled, nor stayed my feet until
I heard the ocean's roar.

I loved them all, and yet I left
Without a parting word,
And sailed the sea exultingly
As any uncaged bird.

My soul was sated with delight,

I roamed the wide world o'er;
We touched at many a fertile isle
And many a desert shore.

We traded much from port to port,
And much I found my gain;
"And soon I shall go home," I said,
"And marry little Jane."

How shall I tell what followed,
Of storm and wreck at sea?

How shall I tell of long, long years
Of sad captivity?

I reached my mountain home at last,
A weary man and worn,
Unknowing and unknown, I sat
In the cot where I was born.

A stranger's fire was on the hearth,
And none a welcome gave,
For Rob and John were far away,
My mother in her grave!

Jane was a thrifty farmer's wifa
With children at her knee;
I would not mar her happiness
With any thought of me.

I stood, a beggar, at her door,
She waited my command;
I humbly asked a little bread,
And took it from her hand.

She pitied me, and she was kind;
What could I ask for more?

And with a murmured word of thanks
I left her cottage door.

My home is now upon the wave,
Naught else remains to me;

And when this wasted life shall end,
Bury me in the sea!

WHEN TO WORSHIP.

Worship the Father, when the lovely morn
Shows her pure beams below;

Worship the Father, when the early birds
On their light pinions go!

Worship the Father, when the loving flowers
Spread forth their leaves to Him:

When living things, that dwell amid the woods,
Gambol from limb to limb.

Worship the Father, in the solemn hush
Twilight breathes gently round;

By the clear lake-side, by the slumbering stream,
In the deep woods profound.

Worship the Father in the moonlight pure,
Sanctified unto God;

While earthly things seem dead, and heavenly life
Floats o'er the withered sod.

Worship the Father, when the door is shut,

Silence with God is filled:

He moves in the deep quiet of the air:
Let man's quick pulse be stilled!
Worship the Father, 'mid the busy hum,
Working with heart and hand;

The soul may minister in all it doth-
Laboring by sea or land.

Worship the Father, Oh, thou human heart!
Yield unto Him thy will-

And consecrate each passing day and hour
Thy little round to fill

With justice, charity and trusting love,
Serving the Holy One,

As true and living worshipers, who pray
Father, thy will be done."

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Thus live a life of purity and truth,

Acting from Christian love;

Forgetting not thy brother's blessedness,

When thou dost look above.

Ay! worship God,-and live for suffering man-
So thou shalt rest at night

'Neath the green branches, and the watching stars,
To wake in Heaven's full light.

NOOZELL AND THE ORGAN-GRINDER.-AH-MIE. Noozell was alone in his glory. His wife and family had gone out for a walk. He sat on his front doorstep, meditatively surveying the clouds, when a native of sunny Italy stopped at his gate and insinuatingly asked, "Moosic?"

"No, sir-ee!" promptly answered Noozell, who is not at all partial to music.

But the Italian didn't leave. He looked intently at Noozell's face for some moments. Then he opened the gate, and with tears in his eyes, staggered up to Noozell, who had risen in alarm, and passionately embraced him. "It ees-it ees," he hysterically exclaimed, and then completely overcome with his emotions, hung limp and lifeless upon the astonished Noozell.

"Dear me! this is awful!" groaned Noozell, borne down with the weight of a healthy Italian and a fifty pound organ.

The Italian soon recovered and disengaged himself. But only for a moment. With a few inarticulate expressions in his native tongue, he embraced Noozell with renewed vigor, and almost smothered that harmless and peaceable citizen in the ardor of the act.

After repeating this several times he retired a few feet and looked admiringly at Noozell; while that ruffled individual sat down on the steps and manfully endeavored to regain his lost breath. After accomplishing this laudable under

taking sufficiently to look around, he found that several of his neighbors were enjoying the scene from their respective front door steps. This aroused the lion in Noozell's bosom. He got up, and raising himself to his greatest height, thundered: "You villain! you rascal! you thief! what does this mean?" The tears again started from the Italian's eyes as he reproachfully said:

"Zis from ze man who safe ze life of my two sons, who is now both artists on ze hand-organ! Zis from ze man who pay ze doctor ven zay was sick! It ees too mooch!" And the stalwart Italian leaned against the fence and wept.

"My friend," said Noozell, who is a soft-hearted man, and who, on seeing the Italian's emotion, heartily regretted his harsh words, "you are mistaken. I am not the man."

"Not ze man?" repeated the Italian. "Oh yes you is! I know him. Zere is zot gumbile on your pretty face. Zat grooked nose. Zein big ears. Zem nice red hair. Oh no! I no can be mistake!"

Noozell sat down, perfectly speechless and stared blankly at the small but select audience of bootblacks who were enjoying the scene from the sidewalk.

"I am grateful," continued the Italian. "Gold and silver I hafe not; but what I hafe shall be yours. I play you a tune." And he did; notwithstanding the fact that Noozell, in the most elegant pigeon-English, and the most frantic demonstrations a despairing mortal is capable of making, tried to make him understand that he was opposed to the motion.

He ground out that popular air "The Marsellaise,” a tune that Noozell detests above all other tunes. So he spasmodically reached for his hair, and gazed around with a gloomy look on his face that furnished the highest possible enjoyment for the appreciative audience of bootblacks.

"Ze nices moosic he can be," remarked the smiling musician.

Noozell didn't think so. When the Italian at length stopped to change the tune he pulled out a greenback and offered it to the Italian, saying:

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Enough-now go."

But the Italian waved his hand in a hurt manner. "Nothing. I am grateful," he simply said, and began grinding out more melody.

Noozell settled himself to his fate and quietly sat there for half an hour while the pleased Italian turned the crank with unremitting energy.

At the end of that time he got up and earnestly requested the enthusiastic Italian to stop. But that individual was too grateful to comply.

Then Noozell swung his arms around his head and jumped up and down the steps, and in despair called the Italian, the bootblacks, his neighbors, and everybody else who was looking on," Bloated bond-holders!"

The Italian evidently mistook this for a token of approval and delightedly murmured, "Nices moosic he can be!"

Then Noozell, in his despair, unconsciously executed a neat double-shuffle, which the audience on the sidewalk vigorously applauded to the intense delight of the Italian who rapturously repeated, "Nices moosic he can be!" and turned the crank with ever increasing speed.

At last Noozell, completely worn out with his efforts to induce the organist to leave, entered the house. His was a desperate resolve. He got down from the garret a thing that every well-regulated family inherits from a grandfather -an old gun. This he loaded with bird-shot, cocked it, sprang nimbly to the open door with it, aimed at the Italian, who was still playing, and fired. A moment later there was music in the air-music a thousand times more terrible to Noozell's ears than the most unearthly air ever ground out of any organ in existence,-its component parts were the screams of his wife, the cries of his children, the shrieks of the lately-smiling bootblacks, mingled with the shouts of the excited bystanders. For when the blood-thirsty Noozell shot at the musician, the former's wife was just entering the gate, and in a moment would have been directly in front of the Italian, and out of danger. But as fate would have it, she was completely out of range of the Revolutionary relie, and, as a matter of course, received the full charge of birdshot on her breast; but, luckily, she had on her new, fashionable buckle, so the shot glanced off and distributed itself impartially among the nearest bystanders.

Then to add to the confusion, two policemen marched Noozell off to the station-house to answer to the charge of

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