ber in which he slept and died? Sir, I am no prophet. But when, from such sacred memories as these, I turn to view the opposite picture, the veil of futurity seems to be lifted.

I will suppose that this opportunity is unimproved. That cherished inheritance which with characteristic patriotism, the family of Washington now offer to the country, is forfeited to parsimony. That family pass away, and with it the last hope of securing this peculiar treasure. The heritage enshrined in the hearts of millions is the subject of speculation. Mammon, the earth ruling demon, flaps his dark wing over the consecrated spot and dooms it to its most accursed uses. It becomes the resort of the idle, a den of gamblers and inebriates. But I forbear; I can pursue this picture no further. If such desecration is to befall the home and the grave of Washington, then let the curtain fall which hides the future from my view; that day of shame, I pray not to see.

It needs no prophet's eye to scan, along the line of time, the majestic outline of our nation's destiny, when the fruits of our free government shall be more and more developed, until this vast continent shall be peopled with freemen from sea to sea; when the fame of the nation shall reach the farthest islands and shores; when our star of empire, radiant with the beams of liberty, shall have grown to such magnitude as to attract the eyes and guide the steps of all nations; and when some queen of Sheba shall come over seas and continents to behold our greatness, and see the happy results of the wisdom of Washington. Then, sir, Mount Vernon will be sought, and thousands now unborn will wish to kiss the earth which cradled, and now covers the Father of his Country. How will we appear in that millenial day of our nation's destiny, if it shall be truly recorded that the most sacred spot which God committed to our custody, was thrown away a sacrifice to parsimony, or some fashionable fine-spun theories, with which true patriotism has no fellowship? Will not every American blush with

shame, and wish that he could cover from the gaze of nations so dark a blot in the page of our history?

Sir, shall no spot be held sacred by Americans? Have we no reverence for the symbols of departed greatness? True there are monuments at Bunker Hill and Baltimore. We have here and there a national memento. The curious can trace the crumbling ramparts and the remains of hasty breast works, behind which the stout hearts of our forefathers beat with patriotic zeal, and over which they dealt dismay and death to our enemies. But, sir, as we have been reminded by our Governor, these memorials, like ourselves, are fast passing away. Let us then secure this honored patrimony! Let Mount Vernon be the perpetual memento of our country's great deliverance, and let the reverence with which it is regarded be the token of our gratitude! And when, in ages hence, the banks of the silvery Potomac shall resound, as now, with the bell of passing vessel, uttering its tribute to the memory of Washington, and the flag at the masthead shall humbly droop, and the mariner stand uncovered in honor of the sacred spot,-let future generations learn the lesson of gratitude and patriotism which these tokens shall daily recite at Mount Vernon.

THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.*
I'm a broken-hearted Deutscher

Vot's villed mit crief und shame:
I dells you vot der drouble ish,—
1 doesn't know my name.

You dinks dis very funny, eh?
Ven you der story hear,
You vill not vonder den so mooch,
It vas so shtrange und queer.

Mein moder had two little twins,

Dey vas me und mein broder;

*Author of "Leedle Yawcob Strauss," "Dot Baby off Mine," "Mine Katrine," "Mother's Doughnuts," and other excellent dialect recitations in subsequent Numbers of this Series.

Ve looks so ferry mooch alike,
No von knew vich from toder.
Von ov der poys vas Yawcob,

Und Hans der oder's name;
But den it makes no tifferent,
Ve both got called der same.
Vell! von ov us got tead-

Yaw, Mynheer, dat ish so!
But vedder Hans or Yawcob,
Mein moder, she ton't know.

Und so I am in droubles,

I gan't git droo mein hed
Vedder I'm Han's vot's lifing,

Or Yawcob vot ish tead!

PRAYER AND POTATOES.-REV. J. T. PETTEE.

"If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit? [James ii. 15-16.]

An old lady sat in her old arm-chair,

With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,
And pale and hunger-worn features;

For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.

But now they were gone; of bad or good,
Not one was left for the old lady's food

Of those potatoes;

And she sighed and said, “What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?"

And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,

Whose cellar was full of potatoes,

And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come;
He'll not mind much to give me some

Of such a store of potatoes."

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought of potatoes;

He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,

Immediately answered, "Potatoes."

But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way;
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes;
So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,

But she only thought of potatoes.

He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"
She audibly sighed "Give potatoes;"
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,
The same request for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
"Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About "those carnal potatoes."

So, ending his prayer, he started for home; As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"

And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room-
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.

Again he went to the widow's lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;
But there she sat in that old arm-chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air,
And, entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.

The widow's cup was running o'er,

Her face was haggard and wan no more.

66

Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?"

Yes," said the widow, "now you may."

And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,

And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;

No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud “amen!”
But spake no more of potatoes.

And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying, “prevail?"

Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,

For wisdom and guidance,- for all these are good,—
But don't forget the potatoes.

CATILINE'S LAST HARANGUE TO HIS ARMY.-CROLY.
Brave comrades! all is ruined! I disdain

To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown!
And now, let each that wishes for long life

Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome.

Ye are all free to go.

Not one!-a soldier's

What! no man stirs ! spirit in you all?

Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes
Is womanish --'twill pass.) My noble hearts!
Well have you chosen to die! For, in my mind,
The grave is better than o'erburthened life;
Better the quick release of glorious wounds
Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues;
Better the spear-head quivering in the heart
Than daily struggle against Fortune's curse;
Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood,
To leap the gulf than totter to its edge
In poverty, dull pain, and base decay.
Once more, I say,-are ye resolved?

Then each man to his tent, and take the arms
That he would love to die in, for, this hour,
We storm the consul's camp. A last farewell!
When next we meet, we'll have no time to look
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance.
Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome!

Now to your cohorts' heads! the word's-Revenge.