Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace out
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dese dings eggsblain

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild

Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy.

But ven he vas ashleep in ped,

So quiet as a mouse,

I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.

I've just come in from the meadow, wife, where the grass is tall and green;

I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new machine;

It made my old eyes snap again to see that mower mow,

And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I swung some twenty years ago.

Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath the rays of a scorching sun,

Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done:

I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over the farm,

Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pain come in my arm.

It was hard work, it was slow work, a swingin' the old scythe then; Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men;

I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at its speed and

power;

The work that took me a day to do, it done in one short hour.

John said that I hadn't seen the half; when he puts it into his wheat,
I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat;
Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and larn,
To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn.

John kinder laughed when he said it; but I said to the hired men, "I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten,

That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air,

Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most anywhere."

There's a difference in the work I done, and the work my boys now do;
Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new:
But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling
days,

That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways.

To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way!

Old tools are of little service now, and farming is almost play;
The women have got their sewin' machines, their wringers, and every

such thing,

And now play croquet in the dooryard, or sit in the parlor and sing.

Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by;
You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toiling for you and I;
There were cows to milk, there was butter to make; and many a day
did you stand,

A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' 'em out by hand.

Ah, wife, our children will never see the hard work we have seen, For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine; No more the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower-there! hear it afar? A-rattling along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car.

Well! the old tools now are shoved away, they stand a-gatherin' rust, Like many an old ma I have seen put aside with only a crust; When the eyes grow dim, when the step is weak, when the strength goes out of his arm,

The best thing a poor old man can do, is to hold the deed of the farm.

There is one old way that they can't improve, although it has been tried

By men who have studied, and studied, and worried till they died;
It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold refined from its dross,
It's the way to the kingdom of heaven-by the simple way of the

cross.

JOHN H. YATES.

THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.

Well, Betsy, this beats everything our eyes have ever seen,
We are riding in a palace fit for a king or queen.

We didn't ride so fast as this, nor on such cushions rest,
When we left New England years ago, to seek a home out West.
We rode through this same country, but not as now we ride;
You sat within a stage-coach, while I trudged on by your side,
Instead of riding on a rail, I carried one, you know,

To pry the old coach from the mire through which we had to go.

Let's see 'tis fifty years ago—just after we were wed;

Your eyes were then like diamonds bright, your cheeks like roses red. Now, Betsy, people call us old, and push us to one side,

Just as they did the slow old coach in which we used to ride.

I wonder if young married folks to-day would condescend
To take a wedding tour like ours, with a log-house at the end.
Much of the sentimental love which sets young cheeks aglow
Would die to meet the hardships of fifty years ago.

Our love grew stronger as we toiled, though food and clothes were

coarse;

None ever saw us in the courts a-hunting a divorce.

Love leveled down the mountains, and made low places high;

Love sang a song that cheered us when clouds and storm were nigh.

I'm glad to see the world move on-to hear the engine's roar,

And all about the cable stretching from shore to shore.

Our mission here's accomplished; with toil we both are through,
The Lord Just lets us live awhile to see how young folks do.
Whew! Betsy, how we're flying; see the farms and towns go by;
It makes my gray hairs stand on end, and dims my failing eye.
Soon we'll be through our journey, and in the house so good
That stands within a twelve-rod of where the log one stood.
How slow, like old-time coaches, our youthful days swept by,
The years when we were living 'neath a bright New England sky.
Swifter than palace cars now fly, our later years have flown,
Until we're journeying hand in hand down to the grave alone;
And I can hear the whistle blown on life's fast-flying train,—
Only a few more stations in the valley now remain.
Soon we'll reach the home eternal with its glories rare-untold,
Stop at last in that blest city, and walk its streets of gold!

THE EAST AND THE WEST.

We must educate! we must educate! or we must perish by our own prosperity. If we do not, short from the cradle to the grave will be our race. If, in our haste to be rich and mighty, we outrun our literary and religious institutions, they will never overtake us, or only come up after the battle of liberty is fought and lost, as spoils to grace the victory, and as resources of inexorable despotism for the perpetuity of our bondage. And let no man at the East quiet himself and dream of liberty, whatever may become of the West. Our alliance of blood, and political institutions, and common interests, are such that we cannot stand aloof in the hour of her calamity, should it ever come. Her destiny is our destiny; and the day that her gallant ship goes down, our little boat sinks in the vortex!

I would add, as a motive to immediate action, that if we do fail in our great experiment of self-government, our destruction will be as signal as the birthright abandoned, the mercies abused, and the provocation offered to beneficent Heaven. The descent of desolation will correspond with the past elevation. No punishments of heaven are so severe as those for mercies abused; and no instrumentality employed in their infliction is so dreadful as the wrath of man. No spasms are like the spasms of expiring liberty, and no wailings, such as her convulsions extort. It took Rome three hundred years to die;

and our death, if we perish, will be as much more terrific as our intelligence and free institutions have given to us more bone and sinew and vitality. May God hide me from the day when the dying agonies of my country shall begin! O thou beloved land, bound together by the ties of brotherhood, and common interests, and perils, live forever-one and undivided!

LYMAN BEECHER.

IRISH ASTRONOMY.

A VERITABLE MYTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O'RYAN IGNORANTLY AND FALSELY SPELLED ORION.

O'Ryan was a man of might
Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight

And constant occupation.

He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;

He gave the keepers many a run,
And would n't mind the game laws,

St. Patrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',

And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,
He thought he'd enter bould in.
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick!
To praich at Thurles I'm goin';
So let me have a rasher quick,
And a dhrop of Innishowen."

"No rasher will I cook for you
While better is to spare, sir,
But here's a jug of mountain dew,
And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,
And says he, "Good luck attind you,
And whin you're in your windin' sheet,
It's up to heaven I'll sind you."