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“We care not for thy houses three,

We live but for the present,
And merry will we make it yet,

And quaff our bumpers pleasant.”
Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak,

And, lifting high his bicker,
“ Body and soul are mine,” he said ;
“I'll have them both for liquor.”

Charles Mackay.


The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed-
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ;
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes
The thronéd monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway-
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ;
And that same prayer doth teach us all
To render the deeds of mercy.



HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it-ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened, without delay-





Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive -
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down;
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on that terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace-lurking still.
Find it somewhere you must and will
Above or below, or within or without;
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an “I dew vum or an “I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
‘N’ the keounty 'n' the kentry raoun';
It should be built so that it couldn't break daown :
“Fur," said the Deacon, “'tis mighty plain
Thut the weakes place mus' stan’ the strain ;
'N' they way 't' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
To make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ;
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these ;




WHAT shall I do lest life in silence pass ?

And if I do,
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,

What needst thou rue ?
Remember aye the ocean's deeps are mute ;

The shallows roar.
Worth is the ocean-Fame is the bruit

Along the shore.
What shall I do to be for ever known?

Thy duty ever.
This did full

many who slept unknown.
Oh! never, never !
Thinkst thou, perchance, that they remain unknown

Whom tħou knowst not ?
By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown,

Divine their lot.

What shall I do to gain eternal life?

Discharge aright
The simple dues with which each day is rife,

Yea, with thy might.
Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise

Will life be fled ;
While he who acts as conscience cries
Shall live, though dead.



The cottage was a thatch'd one,

The outside old and mean,
Yet everything within that cot

Was wondrous neat and clean.
The night was dark and stormy,

The wind was howling wild ;
A patient mother knelt beside

The death-bed of her child.



A little worn-out creature

His once bright eyes grown dim ; It was a collier's only child

They called him Little Jim.

And, oh! to see the briny tears

Fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offer'd up a prayer in thought-

She was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved

Far better than her life ;
For there was all a mother's love

In that poor collier's wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels

Beside the sufferer's bed ;
And prays that He will spare her boy,

And take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child ;

Soft fall these words from him“Mother, the angels do so smile,

And beckon little Jim !

“I have no pain, dear mother, now,

But, oh ! I am so dry;
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again,

And, mother, don't you cry."

With gentle, trembling haste, she held

The teacup to his lips ;
He smiled, to thank her, as he took

Three tiny little sips.

“ Tell father, when he comes from work,

I said good-night to him;
And mother, now I'll go to sleep."

Alas! poor little Jim !

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With hearts bowed down with sadness,

They humbly ask of Him,
In heaven, once more, to meet again
Their own poor little Jim.

E. Farmer.


COURAGE, brother! do not stumble

Though thy path is dark as night;
There's a star to guide the humble

Trust in God and do the right.

Let the road be long and dreary,

And its ending out of sight;
Foot it bravely-strong or weary-

Trust in God and do the right.

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