Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many-a very wise thing-
That the people of heaven "all round" might sing.

But I thought he heaved an anxious sigh
As he saw that the river ran broad and high;
And he looked rather surprised as, one by one,
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS.,

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness;
But he cried," Dear me, what shall I do?

The water has soaked them through and through."
And there on the river, far and wide,
Away they went down the swollen tide,

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name
Down to the stream together came;
But, as they stopped at the river brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged-may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"

66

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'Thus, with a few drops on my brow."

But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now;

And I really think it will hardly do,

As I'm close communion, to cross with you.
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss ;
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."
Then straightway plunging, with all his might,
Away to the left-his friend to the right,
Apart they went from this world of pain,
But at last together they entered in.

And now, when the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian Church went down ;
Of women there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree:
The old or the new way-which it should be;
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud,
Came ever up from the moving crowd:

"You're in the old way, I'm in the new ;
That is the false, and this is the true;"

Or," I'm in the old way, and you're in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true."

I watched them long in my curious dream
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met;
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side-
Side by side, for the way was one.
The toilsome journey of life was done,
And priest, and Quaker, and all who died,
Came out alike on the other side.

No forms, no crosses, or books had they-
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray-
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.

JOHN BURNS, OF GETTYSBURG.

BRET HARTE.

Have you heard the story that gossips tell
Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah! well:
Brief is the glory that hero earns,
Briefer the story of poor John Burns:

He was the fellow who won renown

The only man who didn't back down

When the rebels rode through his native town;

But held his own in the fight next day,

When all his townsfolk ran away.

That was in July, sixty-three,

The very day that General Lee,

Flower of Southern chivalry,

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how, but the day before,
John Burns stood at his cottage door,
Looking down the village street,
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,
He heard the low of his gathered kine,
And felt their breath with incense sweet;
Or I might say, when the sunset burned
The old farm gable, he thought it turned
The milk that fell, in a babbling flood

Into the milk-pail, red as blood!
Or how he fancied the hum of bees
Were bullets buzzing among the trees.
But all such fanciful thoughts as these

Were strange to a practical man like Burns,
Who minded only his own concerns,

Troubled no more by fancies fine

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine—
Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,

Slow to argue, but quick to act.

That was the reason, as some folks say,

He fought so well on that terrible day.

Raged for hours the heavy fight,

Thundered the battery's double bass—
Difficult music for men to face;

While on the left-where now the graves
Undulate like the living waves
That all that day unceasing swept
Up to the pits the rebels kept-
Round shot plowed the upland glades:
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;
Shattered fences here and there
Tossed their splinters in the air;

The very trees were stripped and bare;
The barns that once held yellow grain
Were heaped with harvests of the slain;
The cattle bellowed on the plain,

The turkeys screamed with might and main,
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest
With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns,

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns.
How do you think the man was dressed?
He wore an ancient long buff vest,

Yellow as saffron-but his best;

And buttoned over his manly breast

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar,
And large gilt buttons-size of a dollar—
With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,

White as the locks on which it sat.
Never had such a sight been seen

For forty years on the village green,

Since old John Burns was a country beau,
And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day,
Veterans of the Peninsula,

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away:
And striplings, downy of lip and chin—
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in-
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,
Then at the rifle his right hand bore,

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,
With scraps of a slangy répertoire :

"How are you, White Hat!" "Put her through!"
"Your head's level," and "Bully for you!"
Called him "Daddy"-begged he'd disclose
The name of the tailor who made his clothes,
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,
Stood there picking the rebels off-

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.
"Twas but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand;
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair,
The Past of the Nation in battle there;

And some of the soldiers since declare

That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest:
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,
Broke at the final charge, and ran,

At which John Burns-a practical man-
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns :

In fighting the battle, the question's whether
You'll show a hat that's white or a feather!

P 2

ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER.

MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW.

Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good-night" had been said, And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;

There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,

And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,

For to-night their stern father's command had been given
That they should retire precisely at seven

Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before:
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin—
No such being as "Santa Claus" ever had been-
And he hoped after this he should nevermore hear
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.
And this was the reason that two little heads

So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds.
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;
Not a word had been spoken by either till then,
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, "Dear Annie, is you fast asleep?"
"Why no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes,
For somehow it makes me sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus.'
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died:
But then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear every thing mamma would say;
And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here,
With the sack full of presents he brought every year
"Well, why tan't we pay dest as mamma did then,
And ask Dod to send him with presents aden ?"
"I've been thinking so too," and, without a word more,
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,

And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,

And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believe
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;
You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'

And by that you will know that your turn has come then
'Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,

And grant us the favor we are asking of thee.

I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring,

And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see