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peaceful trance, and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.

How did I finally save him from the asylum? I took him to a neighboring university, and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with them, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should come across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them-avoid them as you would a pestilence!

MARK TWAIN.

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THE USED-TO-BE.

From Rhymes of Childhood," by permission of The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Indiana.

BEYOND the purple, hazy trees

Of summer's utmost boundaries,

Beyond the sands, beyond the seas,
Beyond the range of eyes like these,
And only in the reach of the
Enraptured gaze of Memory,
There lies a land, long lost to me
The land of Used-to-be.

A land enchanted-such as swung
In golden seas when sirens clung
Along their dripping brinks, and sung
To Jason in that mystic tongue

That dazed men with its melody-
Oh! such a land, with such a sea
Kissing its shores eternally,

Is the fair Used-to-be.

A land where music ever girds

The air with belts of singing birds,

And sows all sounds with such sweet words,
That even in the low of herds

A meaning lives so sweet to me,

Lost laughter ripples limpidly

From lips brimmed o'er with the glee
Of rare old Used-to-be.

Lost laughter, and the whistled tunes
Of boyhood's mouth of crescent runes
That rounded, through long afternoons,
To serenading plenilunes,

When starlight fell so mistily

That, peering up from bended knee,
I dreamed 'twas bridal drapery
Snowed over Used-to-be.

O land of love and dreamy thoughts,
And shining fields, and shady spots
Of coolest, greenest grassy plots,
Embossed with wild forget-me-nots,

And all ye blooms that longingly
Lift your fair faces up to me
Out of the past, I kiss in thee
The lips of Used-to-be.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

OWEN MOORE.

WEN MOORE went away

OWEN

Owin' more than he could pay;
Owen Moore came back to stay—
Owin' more.

THE NATION'S DEFENDERS.

ODE FOR JULY 4.

From "Songs of History," by permission of New England Publishing Co., Boston, Mass.

A

GAIN wake the song to the nation's defenders,

The years of prosperity rise and increase; The summer days glow with their shadowless splen

dors,

And blow the war-bugles the sweet notes of peace. Here, here where the Northmen their harbored sail

shifted,

And wondering turned to the dark seas again, And the knights of the Fleur-de-lis gallantly lifted The banners of Francis-awake the glad strain To the valor of old,

To the flag we behold,

And the twice twenty stars that our banners unfold!

Sing the Pilgrims of old, who, by dark foes surrounded,

Their lone, tentless way through the still forests trod,

Who knelt by the Charles and our Ilion founded
On the hills where their faces were lifted to God!
Sing, sing them, these heroes of history glorious,

Who caught the free spirit of Cromwell and Vane,
And over the foes of their empire victorious,
Throned Liberty Monarch--awake the glad strain
To the valor of old,

To the flag we behold,

And the twice twenty stars that our banners unfold!

Defenders of Might to King George's towns loyal, When o'er them the Red Cross of Albion blew; Defenders of Right, in humanity royal,

Beneath the white stars of the century new.

They stood as one man when the Red Cross was o'er

them,

They stood as one man 'neath the new flag again; The years glowed behind them, the years glowed before them,

And shall glow forever-awake the glad strain

To the valor of old,

To the flag we behold,

And the twice twenty stars that our banners unfold!

Sing, sing them who fell by each palm-shaded river,
The Union to save and the bondmen to free!
The mocking-bird sings by their graves, and forever
When valor awakes they remembered shall be.
Their deeds thrill our lives, their examples the ages,
And shadowless ever their fame shall remain;

The white marbles bloom for their sakes, and the

pages

Of history gladden with hope-wake the strain
To the valor of old,

To the flag we behold,

And the twice twenty stars that our banners unfold!

Then sing ye the song of the nation's defenders,
The wild roses bloom and the Western winds

blow,

The natal day hail that to memory renders

The debt that to Liberty's martyrs we owe! In spirit they come when the bugles are blowing The sweet notes of peace on our festival days; In spirit they live in the great empires growing, And shall live forever!-sing, sing ye the praise Of the valor of old,

Of the flag we behold,

And the twice twenty stars that our banners unfold!

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

THE POETRY OF CITY AND COUNTRY

LIFE.

By permission of and arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Boston, Mass.

THERE should the scholar live? In solitude or in society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat; or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make

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