it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was right,-three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccups. I can taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along; sentimental young folks still took stock in that beautiful old saying that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, but "too thin," simply wind on the stomach, my friends! If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual hour, 2:30 in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remark—with a mental addition which wouldn't improve a Sunday-school book much-that that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline! And as you went fluttering up and down the room in your "undress uniform" you not only prattled undignified babytalk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing "Rockaby baby in a tree-top," for instance. What a spectacle for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, too,-for it isn't everybody within a mile around that likes military music at three in the Juorning. And when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or three hours, and your little velvet-head intimated that nothing suited him like exercise and noise,— "Go on!",—what did you do? You simply went on, till you aisappeared in the last ditch.

The idea that a baby doesn't amount to anything! Why, one baby is just a house and a front-yard full by itself. One baby can furnish more business than you and your whole interior department can attend to. He is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of lawless activities. Do what you please, you can't make him stay on the reservation. Sufficient unto the day is one baby;-as long as you are in your mind don't you ever pray for twins.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance of the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop. Fifty years hence we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still survive,-and let us hope it may-will be floating over a republic numbering 200,000,000

souls, according to the settled laws of our increase; our present schooner of state will have grown into a political leviathan--a Great Eastern-and the cradled babies of today will be on deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of these cradles the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething-think of it!—and putting in a world of dead-earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too; in another the future great historian is lying-and doubtless he will continue to lie until his earthly mission is ended; in another the future President is busying himself with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some 60,000 future office-seekers getting ready to furnish him occasion to grapple with that same old problem a second time; and in still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind, at this moment, to trying to find out some way to get his own big toe into his mouth,—an achievement which (meaning no disrespect) the illustrious guest of this evening turned his whole attention to some fifty-six years ago. And if the child is but the prophecy of the man, there are mighty few will doubt that he succeeded.

AT THE GARDEN GATE.

They lingered at the garden gate,
The moon was full above;
He took her darling hand in his,
The trembling little dove,
And pressed it to his fervent lips,
And softly told his love.

About her waist he placed his arm,
He called her all his own;

His heart, he said, it ever beat
For her, and her alone;

And he was happier than a king
Upon a golden throne.

Come weal, come woe," in ardent tones
This youth continued he,

"As is the needle to the pole,

So I will constant be;

No power on earth shall tear thee, love,
Away, I swear, from me!"

From out the chamber window popped
A grizzly night-capped head;

A hoarse voice yelled: "You, Susan Jane,
Come in and go to bed!"

And that was all,—it was enough:

The young man wildly fled.

MACDONALD'S RAID.-A. D. 1780.-PAUL H. HAYNE. (48 NARRATED MANY YEARS AFTER BY A VETERAN OF "MARION'S BRIGADE.")

I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,
And the Legion lay idle and listless that day,

A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,
And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,
When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade,

Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid.

Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring,

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,

To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;

Yet he chose from our numbers four men and no more. "Stalwart brothers," quoth he, you'll be strong as four

score,

66

If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,

With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.

Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form
Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm

When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,
And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;

His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,

With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee, His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing

Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,

A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,
When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,
With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,
Over which, like the blasts of ten trumpeters, ring
"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"
Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout
That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,
And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,
"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.

Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven! what a din!

'Tis the front wall besieged-have the rebels rushed in? It must be; for hark! hark to that jubilant ring

Of Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,
And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;
And the ground here and there by an ominous stain
Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:
A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,
With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,
By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,

To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,
And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring
With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the
King!"

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left

Whose heart was not pierced, or whose head-piece not cleft,
What should we do next, but-as careless and calm
As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm
Mid a land of pure peace-just serenely drop down
On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.
What a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,
As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?—

Of the King, or his minions? No; war and its scars
Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars
From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,
On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,

Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast
Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last;
So we haste to our coursers, yet, flying, we fling

The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and
King!"

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track
We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,
And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:
With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,
And the soil was plowed up, and the space 'twixt the trees
Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;
Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring

The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the
King!"

Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of!

What men

Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us then?
Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow
I'd o'ermatch a half-score of your fops even now-
The poor, puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,

Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the

town:

Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring-
Ay! my muscles are firm still; I fought 'gainst the King!

Bare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all
The sheathed sabers that hang there, uplooped on the wall;
Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;
Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp

The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep
I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep-
That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling

To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

AUNT KINDLY.-THEODORE PARKER.

Miss Kindly is aunt to everybody, and has been so long that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments three-score years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found his way to college through her pocket. Generations not her own, rise up and call her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. That great fortune-when it was a seed she carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation ran out of the cup her bounty filled. Now she is old; very old. The little children