With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;

The rod was scarcely known in his school;
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule,

And too hard work for his poor old bones;
"Besides, it was painful,”—he sometimes said,
"We should make life pleasant here below,
The living need charity more than the dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet and neat and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,

And made him forget he was old and poor. "I need so little," he often said,

"And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

But the most pleasant times that he had, of all,
Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,

Over a pipe and a friendly glass;

"This was the sweetest pleasure," he said,
"Of the many I share in here below;
Who has no cronies, had better be dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace,

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. "I'm a pretty old man,"-he gently said,

"I've lingered a long while here below, But my heart is fresh, if my youth be fled!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He smoked his pipe, in the balmy air,

Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown; And, feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, ""Tis a glorious world down here below;

Why wait for happiness till we are dead?"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He sat at his door one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,
While the odorous night-wind whispered "Rest!"
Gently, gently he bowed his head.

There were angels waiting for him, I know,—
He was sure of happiness, living or dead,
This jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

UNCLE JO.

I have in memory a little story,

That few indeed would rhyme about but me; 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory,

Although a little colored with the three-
In very truth, I think as much, perchance,
As most tales disembodied from romance.
Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor
To every one who had hard work to do;
If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor

Most people thought, but there was one or two
Who sometimes said, when he arose to go,
“Come in again and see us, Uncle Jo!"
The "Uncle" was a courtesy they gave-
And felt they could afford to give to him,
Just as the master makes of some good slave
An "Aunt Jemima," or an Uncle Jim;"
And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad-
Poor fellow, it was all he ever had!

A mile or so away he had a brother,--

A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire; But Jo had neither sister, wife or mother,

And baked his corn-cake, at his cabin fire,
After the day's work, hard for you and me,
But he was never tired-how could he be?

They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness
For everybody that he could befriend;
Said one and all, "How kind he is in sickness,"
But there, of course, his goodness had an end.

Another praise there was, might have been given,
For, one or more days out of every seven,

With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder,
And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread,
He sought the place of graves, and each beholder
Wondered and asked each other, who was dead?
But when he digged all day, nobody thought
That he had done a whit more than he ought.

At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted
Faintly and cold across the church-yard snow,
The bell tolled out-alas! a grave was wanted,

And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo;

His spade stood there, against his own roof-tree,
There was his pickaxe, too, but where was he?
They called and called again, but no replying;
Smooth at the window, and about the door
The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying-
He didn't need the daylight any more.
One shook him roughly, and another said,
"As true as preaching, Uncle Jo is dead!”

And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer
And finer, too, than he had worn till then,
They found a picture-haply of the sharer

Of sunny hope, sometime; or where or when,
They did not care to know, but closed his eyes,—
And placed it in the coffin where he lies!

None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty

Of the pure love that reached into the grave,
Nor how, in unobtrusive ways of duty

He kept, despite the dark; but men less brave
Have left great names, while not a willow bends
Above his dust-poor Jo, he had no friends!

DREAMS AND REALITIES.-PHEBE Cary.

The following poem is the last one sent by Phebe Cary to Harper's Bazar. The Bazar says: "It is the song of the dying swan, tender, and sweet, and beautiful."

O Rosamond, thou fair and good,
And perfect flower of womanhood,
Thou royal rose of June!

Why didst thou droop before thy time?
Why wither in the first sweet prime?
Why didst thou die so soon?

For, looking backward through my tears
On thee, and on my wasted years,
I cannot choose but say,

If thou hadst lived to be my guide,
Or thou hadst lived and I had died,
"Twere better far to-day.

O child of light, O golden head!—
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed
Upon life's lonely way—

Why didst thou vanish from our sight?
Could they not spare thy little light
From heaven's unclouded day?

O friend so true, O friend so good!—
Thou one dream of my maidenhood,
That gave youth all its charms-
What had I done, or what hadst thou,
That, through this lonesome world till now,
We walk with empty arms?

And yet had this poor soul been fed
With all it loved and coveted,

Had life been always fair,

Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart,
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart,
Forever tremble there?

If still they kept their earthly place,
The friends I held in my embrace,

And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes, I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build ;

That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,
In heaven shall be fulfilled.

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb;

But on some brighter, better shore
They live, embodied evermore,
And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,

Then shall we hear our Lord

Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death,
Henceforth, according to thy faith,

Shall be thy faith's reward.

DREAM OF THE "FAT CONTRIBUTOR."
A. MINER GRISWOLD.

I had a singular dream last night. "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls," and that those halls were thronged with characters whose names are familiar in song. The entertainment was given by the " Old Folks at Home," who had invited a goodly number of the friends of "Auld Lang Syne," as well as distinguished strangers from abroad.

"Rory O'More" was easily distinguished by his jolly, good-natured face, and his manner of " tazing" the girls. He was shortly joined by a fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked youth, who, in reply to a question from the master of ceremonies he had entered somewhat un-(master of) ceremoniously-replied, proudly:

"Ould Ireland is me country, and
Me name is Pat Malloy."

Pat and Rory then proceeded to the "Irishman's Shanty," there being "Whisky in the Jug."

I knew " Old Uncle Ned," as soon as I saw him scratch his bald head with his cane-brake fingers, and as he smiled, his toothless gums, wholly inadequate for the hoe-cake, confirmed my previous impression. The spruce darkey who followed him, ogling " Lucy Long" through an eyeglass, could be no other than "Dandy Jim, of Caroline." The "Bould Soger Boy" came strutting along, brandishing "The Sword of Bunker Hill," in an audacious manner; and" The Minstrel Returned from the War"