scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the street, and over the way, watching me with interest. The group separated and fell back as I approached, and I heard a man say, “Look at his eye!” I pretended not to observe the notice I was attracting, but secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. I went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as I drew near the door, which J opened, and caught a glimpse of two young, rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window, with a great crash. I was surprised.

In about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. He seemed to have something on

his mind. He took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. He put the paper on his lap, and, while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said:

"Are you the new editor?"

I said I was.

"Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" "No," I said; "this is my first attempt."

Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said I did not know as much as a cow; and then went out, and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased about something. But, not knowing what the trouble was I could not be any help to him.

But these thoughts were quickly banished, when the reg、 ular editor walked in! [I thought to myself, Now if you had gone to Egypt, as I recommended you to, I might have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. I sort of expected you.]

The editor was looking sad, and perplexed, and dejected. He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and then said:

"This is a sad business-a very sad business. There is the mucilage bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spit

toon, and two candlesticks. But that is not the worst. The reputation of the paper is injured, and permanently, I fear. True, there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind? My friend, as I am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. And well they might, after reading your editorials. They are a disgrace to journalism. Why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of this nature? You do not seem to know the first rudiments of agriculture. You speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for cows; and you recommend the domestication of the pole-cat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter. Your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to them, was superfluous entirely superfluous. Nothing disturbs clams. Clams always lie quiet. Clams care nothing whatever about music. Ah! heavens and earth, friend, if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than you could to-day. I never saw anything like it. Your observation that the horse-chestnut, as an article of commerce, is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy this journal. I want you to throw up your situation and go. I want no more holiday—I could not enjoy it if I had it. Certainly not with you in my chair. I would always stand in dread of what you might be going to recommend next. It makes me lose all patience every time I think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of ‘Landscape Gardening.' I want you to go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday. Oh! why didn't you tell me that you didn't know anything about agriculture?”

"Tell you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower! It's the first time I ever heard such an unfeeling remark. I tell you I have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time I ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. You turnip!

"I take my leave, sir! Since I have been treated as you have treated me, I am perfectly willing to go. But I have done my duty. I have fulfilled my contract, as far as I was permitted to do it. I said I could make your paper of interest to all classes, and I have. I said I could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if I had had two more weeks I'd have done it. And I'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper hadnot a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon from a peach-vine to save his life. You are the loser by this rupture, not me, Pie-plant. Adios."

I then left.

THE BOY WHO WENT FROM HOME.
EMMA M. JOHNSTON.

"You ask me which is the dearest,
And which one I love the best;
Ah, neighbor, the treasure we lose,
We value more than the rest!

Five children are round our hearth-stone,
You'd think I should make no moan;
But my heart goes out with yearning
To the boy who went from home.

"Come in and sit awhile with me,
My neighbor so kind and true;
It surely cannot be a harm

To talk to a friend like you

About this wayward boy of mine,
Gone from us these fifteen years;

And how the thought of him has kept

My pillow wet with tears.

"You never saw him, neighbor mine?
Ah, a handsome lad was he!

In face he was like his father,
His temper he took from me.
We both were over-fond of him,
And maybe it was too true
That we spoiled him just a little,
As fond parents often do.

"But he had such a smiling way, And a blue and sunny eye;

And my heart was like a heart of wax
Whenever my boy was by.

And no matter what he wished for,
Nor where he wanted to go;
Try as hard as ever I would,
f never could say him no.

"He grew a bit wild and thoughtless,
And wouldn't settle down:

He laughed at his mother's chidings,
Nor heeded his father's frown.
At last his father grew angry,
And they had a word or two;
Ah, neighbor, how for a life-time
A word or two we may rue!

"And so one day he left us

Ah, my darling, handsome lad
I never could say, good neighbor,
That ever he did aught bad.
He was very quick, but noble;
And wayward, but loving too;
The fault was mostly on our side,-
I say this 'twixt me and you.

"I'm glad I've said this much to you,
For, neighbor, you cannot know
What 'tis to have a sorrow like mine,
Nor say a word as you go.

I feel a little ease of heart,

Though you have said not a word,
Just listen a minute, neighbor,
Was that a step that I heard?

"Perhaps I am growing childish,
For at times it comes to me

That one day my boy will come again,
The boy I long to see.

I must have been weak and faulty,
But Christ hath long forgiven,
And all my pray'rs for my wand'rer
Are treasured up in heaven.

"His father never looked the same,
But stooped and grew quite gray;
As for me, my grief keeps vigil
Since the day he went away.
Just fifteen years-a long, long time!-
My good neighbor, what was that?

I thought above the garden fence
I just saw a well-worn hat.

"Stand out of my light, dear neighbor!
Oh, surely I hear a sound!
The latch of the gate seems lifted,
Can it be the lost is found?
O neighbor, I'm worn and weary!
I wonder if this could be

My long-lost boy come home again,
Come back to his home and me."

The latch of the gate was lifted,
And gently let fall again-

A bearded man with boyhood's eyes
Came into the sunlight then,
And he pushed aside the neighbor-
How strange she felt no alarms!-
And he lifted his grey old mother
Right up in his two strong arms;
And she sobbed upon his shoulder;
"Ah, the heart doth know its own!
For lo! my boy is back again-

My boy who went from home."

MERCY.-SHAKSPEARE.

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power
Th' attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,-
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this-
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer should teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.