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“Well, you know best,” said the minister.

“ You see, thè hoose was taen at ony rate,” continued Sanders. “An' I'll juist ging in tillt instead

. o'Sam'l."

“Quite so."
“ An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie."

“Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders,” said the minister; " but I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without full conseed. eration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business, marriage

“ It's a' that,” said Sanders; “but I'm willin' to stan' the risk.”

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife T'nowhead's Bell, and on that day Sam'! Dickie was seen trying to dance at the penny wed. ding.




LONG years a sculptor wrought,

a Slowly to carve upon the pulseless stone The glowing vision in his heart that shown;

Then dying proudly thought, “ Long as the heavens endure, a glorious fame Shall keep the deathless memory of my name."

A poet sang such songs,
Where, with his dreaming soul he sat apart,
As thrilled the great world to its mighty heart

And swayed the listening throng;

Then dying thought, “While sun and stars shall shine All men shall sing these deathless lays of mine."

Beside a sleeping child,
In the still twilight of a summer day,
A mother knelt with folded hands to pray ;

Saying in accents mild,
“Ah, loving Christ, how blest my life would be
Might I but lead my little child to Thee."

Ages have passed since then :
The sculptor's marble is a shapeless thing;
The poet's song all lips forget to sing,

And from the hearts of men
The mother's name has faded with the rest,
And only daisies grow above her breast.

Yet in the world of light,
The child she prayed for by the cradle side
Is singing now among the glorified.

Praise God, both day and night,
And so shall sing a seraph high and pure
Long as the years of God's right hand endure.



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THEN de worl' don' go to suit you,

An' yer feelin' kin' o' blue;
An' everybody seems to have
Er special pick at you,

Jest because yer hair is kinky,
An' yer hide is kin' a' black;
You jest wanter mosey forards, an'


An' when you tries to lift a pullet,
When the pullet man's asleep;
An' you git yer head stuck in the fence,
Through which you's tried ter creep,
An' you feel de bulldog at yer pants,
A-takin' in de slack;
Yer jest wanter mosey forards, an'


An' when Satin's jest er achin'
For to git you in his grip,
So's ter hea' you holler murder,
Afore he lets you slip;
An' you hea' him come a-puffin'
An’a-snortin' up de track;
You jest wanter mosey forards, an'


Dar's a pow'ful heap ob logic,
In what I'se 'bout ter say;

An' if you memorize it,
It'll do you good some day:
You can't git a watermillion
By jest peekin' through de crack.
So you wanter mosey forards, an'





ARLY on the morning of the 23d, intelligence

was brought King Robert of the march of the English army from Falkirk, and, without a moment's delay, the patriot sovereign drew forth his rejoicing troops, to form them in the line of battle on which he had resolved. The drums rolled to arms; the silver clarions and deeper trumpets echoed and re-echoed from various sides, and under each, the gallant soldiery sprung up around their respective leaders. Slowly Bruce rode along the line once and again, then he paused, and a deep, breathless stillness for a brief minute prevailed. It was broken by his voice, clear, sonorous, rich, distinguished for many paces round :

“Men of Scotland : We stand here on the eve of a mighty struggle. Slavery or freedom are in the balance; misery or joy hinge on the result. I hesitate not to avow there are odds, fearful odds against


us. England hath more than treble our number; but, soldiers, your monarch fears not—the fewer men, the greater glory! We shall win, we shall give freedom to our country, fling from us her last chain, crushed to atoms, into dust; and to do this, what do we need ?-bold hearts and willing hands, and those who have them not, let them now depart. Friends, subjects, fellow-soldiers, if there be any amongst ye whose hearts fail them, who waver in their determination to conquer or die with Robert Bruce, I give ye liberty, perfect liberty to depart hence. Our hearts are not all cast in the same mold, and if there be any excuse for wavering spirits, men of Scotland, behold it in the whelming flood that England's power hath gathered to appall us. Be this proclaimed: I would not one hand should stay whose heart hath failed.”

Scarce had he ceased to speak when the wild cry of confidence, of love, of fidelity to death, burst from every lip.

“To the death, to the death, we will abide with thee!-thy fate is ours, whatever it may be-victory —thy

— or death

we will share it! Death hath no terror when thou art by! Victory shall be ours, for 'tis the Bruce that leads ; with thee we live or die !"

And then, as by magic-calmed, silenced, disciplined as before--they fell into their ranks, and waited the orders of their king.

About four hours after noon of the same day, the vanguard of the English came in sight; standard and pennon, banner and plume, of every shade and gorgeous material, gleamed in the sunshine, as

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