"So the summer went by sort of cheerful,
And one night my baby, my Joe,
Seemed feverish and fretful, and woke me,
By crying, at midnight, you know.

I was tired with my day's work, and sleepy,
And could n't, no way, keep him still;
So, at last, I grew angry, and spanked him,
And then he screamed out with a will.

"Just then I heard a soft rapping,
Away at the half-open door;
And then little Patience McAlpin
Walked shyly across the white floor.
Says she: 'I thought Josey was cryin',
I guess I'd best take him away;
I knew you'd be getting up early,
To go to the marshes for hay;
So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast;
I guess he'll be quiet with me.
Come, Josey, kiss papa, and tell him
What a nice little man you will be!'
She was stooping low over the pillow,
And saw the big tears on his cheek;
Her face was so close to my whiskers,
I darsn't move, scarcely, or speak;
Her hands were both holdin' the baby,
Her eye by his shoulder was hid;
But her mouth was so near and so rosy,
I-kissed her. That's just what I did."

Then down sat the tremblin' sinner,
The sisters they murmured of "shame,"
And "she should n't oughter a let him,
No doubt she was mostly to blame."
When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor,
"Now bretherin and sisters," he said
(We knowed then that suthin' was comin',
And all sot as still as the dead),

"You've heard Brother Hartley's confession, And I speak for myself when I say

That if my wife was dead, and my children
Were all growin' worse every day;
And if my house needed attention,
And Patience McAlpin had come,
And tidied the cluttered up kitchen,

And made the place seem more like at home;
And if I was worn out and sleepy,

And my baby would n't lie still,
But fretted and woke me at midnight,
As babies, we know, sometimes will;
And if Patience came in to hush him,
And 't was all as our good brother sez-
I think, friends-I think I should kiss her,
And 'bide by the consequences."

Then down sat the elderly deacon,
The younger one lifted his face,
And a smile rippled over the meetin'
Like light in a shadowy place.
Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters
Remembered their far-away youth,

Or the daughters at home by their firesides,
Shrined each in her shy, modest truth;
For their judgments grew gentle and kindly,
And-well-as I started to say

The solemn old bells in the steeple

Are ringing a bridal to-day.

-N. S. Emerson.

CLXXX. THE GUILELESS WITNESS.

"Do you know the prisoner well?" asked the attorney. "Never knew him sick," replied the witness.

"No levity," said the lawyer, sternly.

"Now, sir, did you ever see the prisoner at the bar?" "Took many a drink with him at the bar."

"Answer my question, sir!" yelled the lawyer.

long have you known the prisoner?"

"From two feet up to five feet ten inches." "Will the court make the

K. N. E.-36.

"How

"I have, Jedge," said the witness, anticipating the lawyer, "I knowed the prisoner when he was a boy two feet long and a man five feet ten

"It's a fac', Jedge; I'm under my oath," persisted the witness.

The lawyer arose, placed both hands on the table in front of him, spread his legs apart, leaned his body over the table, and said: "Will you tell the court what you know about this case?"

"That aint his name," replied the witness.

"What aint his name?"

"Case."

"Who said it was?"

"You did. You wanted to know what I knew about this case his name's Smith."

"Your Honor," howled the attorney, plucking his beard out by the roots, "will you make this man answer?"

"Witness," said the Judge, "you must answer the question put to you."

"Land o' Goshen, Jedge, hain't I bin doin' it? Let him fire away, I'm ready."

"Then," said the lawyer, don't beat about the bush any more. You and this prisoner have been friends?"

"Never!" promptly responded the witness.

"What! Was n't you summoned here as a friend?” "No, sir; I was summoned here as a Presbyterian. Nary one of us was ever Friends-he's an old line Baptist, without a drop of Quaker blood in him.”

"Stand down," yelled the lawyer in disgust. "Hey?"

"Stand down."

"Can't do it; I'll sit down or stand up

"Sheriff, remove that man from the box."

Witness retires, muttering: "Well, if he aint the thick headedest chap I ever laid my eyes on!"

CLXXXI.-THE BORE.

AGAIN I hear the creaking step!
He's rapping at the door!
Too well I know the boding sound
That ushers in a bore.

I do not tremble when I meet

The stoutest of my foes;

But Heaven defend me from the friend
Who comes but never goes.

He drops into my easy chair,
And asks about the news;
He peers into my manuscript,
And gives his candid views.

He tells me where he likes the line,
And where he's forced to grieve;
He takes the strangest liberties,
But never takes his leave.

He reads my daily papers through
Before I've seen a word,

He scans the lyric that I wrote,
And thinks it quite absurd.
He calmly smokes my last cigar,
And coolly asks for more;
He opens every thing he sees,
Except the entry door.

He talks about his fragile health,
And tells me of his pains;

He suffers from a score of ills

Of which he ne'er complains;

And how he struggled once with death

To keep the fiend at bay.

On themes like those away he goes,

But never goes away!

He tells me of the captious words,

Some shallow critic wrote,

And every precious paragraph
Familiarly can quote,

He thinks the writer did me wrong,
He'd like to run him through!
He says a thousand pleasant things,
But he never says "Adieu!"

Whene'er he comes, that dreadful man,
Disguise it as I may,

I know that like an autumn rain,
He'll last throughout the day.
In vain I speak of urgent tasks,
In vain I scowl and pout;
A frown is no extinguisher,
It does not put him out.

I mean to take the knocker off;
Put crape upon the door;
Or hint to John that I am gone
To stay a month or more.

I do not tremble when I meet
The stoutest of my foes;

But Heaven defend me from the friend
Who never, never goes!

-John G. Saxe.

CLXXXII-JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON.

THE minister said last night, says he,

Don't be afraid of givin';

If your life aint nothin' to other folks,
Why, what's the use of your livin'?”
And that's what I say to my wife, says I,
There's Brown the mis'rable sinner,
He'd sooner a beggar would starve than give
A cent toward buyin' his dinner.

I tell you our m'nister's prime he is,
But I couldn't quite determine,

When I heard him a-givin' it right and left,
Just who was hit by his sermon.