Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack,

I'm seeking for rest, at each place,
Or, like pilgrim of old, with his load at his back,

Only my load I bear on my fuce.
I can't get a wife, though each hour hard I try,

The girls they all blush like a rose; “I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why? “Because you have got such a nose.”

Oh, dear! lack-a-daisy me! Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose, They all like the man, but they say,—“Blow his nose !" Like a large joint of meat, before a small fire,

They say that my proboscis hangs;
Or, to a brass knocker, nought there can be nigher,

And in length, it a pump-handle bangs.
A wag, you must know, just by way of a wipe,

Said, with a grin on his face, t'other night,
As he, from his pocket, was pulling a pipe,
“At your nose will you give me a light ?”

Oh, dear! lack-a-daisy me!
If I ask any one my way to disclose,
If I lose it, they answer, “Why, follow your nose."

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THE HONEST DEACON.

AN OLD STORY IN RHYME.
An honest man was Deacon Ray;

And, though a Christian good,
He had one fault,—the love of drink;

For drink he often would.
On almost every Sunday, too,

He would at dinner-time
Indulge to quite a great extent

In good Madeira wine.
At church, in front, upon the sido,

The deacon had his pew;
Another worthy, Squire Lee,

He had a seat there too.
One Sunday, the sermon done,

The parson said he'd talk
In language plain, that afternoon,

Of sins within tbeir flock.

He warned them that they must not flinch

If he should be severe.
Each thought his neighbor'd get dressed down;

So all turned out to hear.
The church at early hour was full;

The deacon, some behind,
Came in quite late; for he had been

Indulging in his wine.
And up the long and broad aisle

He stiffly tottered on;
And, by the time he'd reached his seat,

The sermon had begun.
The parson of transgressors spoke,

And of the wrath to flee;
And soon he to the query came, -

“ The drunkard—where is he?”
A pause; and then the deacon rose,

And answered like a man,Though with a hiccup in his voice,

“Here, parson,-hic-'ere I am." Of course the consternation

Was great on every side;
For who'd have thought the deacon

Would thus aptly have replied ?
The preacher, not the least disturbed,

With his remarks kept on,
And warned him to forsake his ways;

The deacon then sat down.
'Twas soon another question came,

With no more welcome sound,"Where is the wicked hypocrite ?"

This made them all turn round. Some looked at this one, some at that,

As if they would inquire
Who 'twas the parson meant;

His eyes were on the squire.
The deacon, noting how things stood,

Turned round and spoke to Lee:
Come, squire,-nic-come, you get up;
I did when he called on me.”

THE NEW BIRTH.-HERMAN MERIVALR.

God spake in a voice of thunder,

Of old from Sinai's hill;
And the mystic words of wonder

Thrill the believer still;
He sees in the vault above him,

With the eye of faith alone,
Gemmed round by the souls that love Him,

The great Creator's throne. He sees-in the day of danger

The column of cloud that led
From the land of the alien stranger,

His Israel whom he fed;
And knows, though his footsteps wander

Astray in a twilight land,
That his home is building yonder,

By the one unerring hand.
He sees--in the night of peril-

The pillar of fire that shone
From the halls of pearl and beryl,

To light God's children on;
And feels that straight from Heaven,

When the eye of sense grows dim,
Shall a grander sight be given

To all who trust in Him.
On the page of the mighty ocean

He reads the mightier still,
Who curbs its restless motion

By the law of His royal will; And while in its course diurnal

It murmurs, or sings, or raves,
He lists to the voice Eternal,

In the language of the waves.
He marks in the plants around him

The throbs of a life their own,
While the wordless worlds that bound him,

Whisper their undertone.
From the hawk and the hound yet clearer

He hears the secret fall,
Which nearer to him and nearer
Brings the great God of all.

In the leaves that blow and perish

In the space of a single hour, As the loves that most we cherish

Die like the frailest flower,--
In the living things whose living

Withers or e'er they bloom,
He reads of the great thanksgiving,

Which breathes from the open tomb
The bright Spring leaves returning

To the stem whence Autumn's fell, And the heat of Summer burning,

To change at the Winter's spell, The year that again repasses,

The grain that again revives,
Are signs on the darkened glasses

That bar and bound our lives.
I know how the glass must darken

To my vision more and more,
When the weak ear strains to hearken,

When the faint eye glazes o'er;
But the glass shall melt and shiver,

Once kissed by the fighting breath, And the light beyond the river

Shine full in the face of death. Strong-set in a strong affection,

We look to the golden prime, When a mightier resurrection

Shall burst on the doubts of time; And the thoughts of all the sages,

Like the waves of the fretful main, At the base of the Rock of Ages

Shall foam and fume in vain.

THE POTATO. --THOMAS MOORE.

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I'm a careless potato, and care not a pin

How into existence I came; If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in,

To me 'tis exactly the same. The bean and the pea may more loftily tower,

But I care not a button for them, Defiance I nod with ny beautiful flower

When the earth is hoed up to my stem.

WHAT A LITTLE BOY THINKS ABOUT THINGS.

JOHN PAUL I am a little boy about so many years old; I don't know whether l'ın a good little boy, but I'm afraid not, for I sometimes do wicked things, and once I cut sister's kitten's tail off with the chopping knife, and told her a big dog came along and bit it off and swallowed it down before kitty could Bay Jack Robinson, and sister said she was sorry, and it must have been a very naughty dog, but mother did not believe me and said she was afraid I had told a lie, and I'm afraid I had.

So then she asked me if I knew where liars went to and I said yes,—they went to New York and wrote for the newspapers; she said no-but to a lake of fire and brimstone, and she asked me if I would like to go there, and I said no, for I didn't think there would be much skating or sliding on that lake, and the boys couldn't snowball either, on shore, and she said it was more than that, just as though that wasn't bad enough, for I don't think they can play base-ball nuther.

Then she asked me if I wouldn't like to be a nangel and have a harp, and I said no, I'd rather be a stage driver and have a big drum, for I couldn't play on t’other thing. So I shouldn't like to be a nangel, for their wings must be in the way when they go swimming, and play tag, and leap frog, and besides it must be hard to fly when one ain't accustomed to it. But it would be jolly to be a stage driver and have a great long whip and touch up the leaders, and say “ g’lang there, what are ye doin' on!" I should like that much better'n flyin'; and then mother said there was a dreadful stage of sin, and Bob hollered and said that he "guessed I was on it," and then she whipped us and sent us to bed without any supper,—but I didn't care for any supper, for they hadn't nothin' but bread and butter and tea,-and Bob and I got up and he lifted me in at the pantry window, and we got a mince-pie and a whole hat-full of doughnuts, and they thought it was the cook that stole 'em, and sent her away the next day, and Bob said he was giad of it, for she didn't make good pies, and the doughnuts wasn't fried enough.

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