Him, Philip took up in his arms,

To snatch him from all female charms,-
Intending he should never know
There were such things as girls below,
But lead an honest hermit's life,
Lest he, likewise, might lose his wife.

The place he chose for his retreat,
Was once a lion's country seat;
Far in a wild, romantic wood,
The hermit's little cottage stood,
Hid, by the trees, from human view,—
The sun himself could scarce get through;
A little garden, tilled with care,
Supplied them with their daily fare;
Fresh water-cresses from the spring,-
Turnips, or greens, or some such thing;-
Hermits don't care much what they eat,
And appetite can make it sweet!

'Twas here our little hermit grew,-
His father taught him all he knew,
Adapting, like a cheerful sage,
His lessons to the pupil's age.

At five years old, he showed him flowers,
Taught him their various names and powers,

Taught him to blow upon a reed,

To say his prayers, and get the creed.
At ten, he lectured him on herbs,
(Better than learning nouns and verbs,)
The names and qualities of trees,
Manners and customs of the bees;
Then talked of oysters full of pearls,
But not one word about the girls.
At fifteen years, he turned his eyes
To view the wonders of the skies;
Called all the stars by their right names,
As you would call on John or James;
And showed him all the signs above,
But not a whisper about love.

And now his sixteenth year was nigh,
And yet he had not learned to sigh;
Had sleep and appetite to spare;
He could not tell the name of care;
And all because he did not know
There were such things as girls below.
But now a tempest raged around,—
The hermit's little nest was drowned;

Good bye then, too, poor Philip's crop,
It did not leave a turnip-top.

Poor Philip grieved, and his son too,-
They prayed-they knew not what to do;
If they were hermits, they must live,
And wolves have not much alms to give.

Now, in his native town, he knew
He had disciples-rich ones too,
Who would not let him beg in vain,
But set the hermit up again.

But what to do with his young son

Pray tell me, what would you have done?
Take him to town he was afraid,

For what if he should see a maid!

In love, as sure as he had eyes,

Then any quantity of sighs!

Leave him at home? the wolves, the bears,—
Poor Philip had a father's fears!

In short, he knew not what to do,

But thought at last he'd take him too;
And so, with truly pious care,

He counts his beads in anxious prayer,-
Intended as a sort of charm,

To keep his darling lad from harm;
That is, from pretty ladies' wiles,
Especially their eyes and smiles;—
Then brushed his coat of silver gray,
And now you see them on their way.

It was a town, they all agree,
Where there was everything to see,
As paintings, statues, and so on,
All that men love to look upon.
Our little lad, you may suppose,

Had never seen so many shows;

He stands with open mouth and eyes,

Like one just fallen from the skies;

Pointing at everything he sees

What's this? what's that? Oh, here, what's these?

At last he spies a charming thing,

That men call angel when they sing

Young lady, when they speak in prose;

Sweet thing! as everybody knows.

Transported, ravished, at the sight;
He feels a strange, but sweet delight.

What's this? what's this? Oh, heavens!" he cries, "That looks so sweetly with its eyes:

Oh, shall I catch it! is it tame?
What is it, father? what's its name?"
Poor Philip knew not what to say,
But tried to turn his eyes away;
He crossed himself and made a vow,
""Tis as I feared, all's over now;
Then, prithee, have thy wits let loose?
It is a bird men call a goose."
"A goose! O pretty, pretty thing!
And will it sing, too, will it sing?
Oh, come, come quickly, let us run,
That's a good father, catch me one!
We'll take it with us to our cell,
Indeed, indeed, I'll treat it well!"

THE TWO VILLAGES.-ROSE TERRY.

Over the river on the hill,

Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river under the hill,
Another village lieth still;

There I see in the cloudy night

Twinkling stars of household light,

Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,

Mists that curl on the river shore;

And in the roads no grasses grow,

For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;

Never a clock to toll the hours;

The marble doors are always shut;

You can not enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep;
Never a grain to sow or reap,
Never in dreams to moan or sigh,
Silent, and idle, and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home, from this below;
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall-
"Patience! that village shall hold ye all.”

DAMON TO THE SYRACUSANS.—JOHN BANIM.

Are all content?

A nation's rights betrayed, and all content?
What! with your own free willing hands yield up
The ancient fabric of your constitution,

To be a garrison for common cut-throats!
What! will ye all combine to tie a stone,
Each to each other's neck, and drown like dogs?
Are you so bound in fetters of the mind
That there you sit, as if you were yourselves
Incorporate with the marble? Syracusans!-
But no! I will not rail, nor chide, nor curse you!
I will implore you, fellow-countrymen!

With blinded eyes, and weak and broken speech,
I will implore you-Oh! I am weak in words,
But I could bring such advocates before you,--
Your fathers' sacred images; old men,

That have been grandsires; women with their children
Caught up in fear and hurry, in their arms;

And those old men should lift their shivering voices And palsied hands, and those affrighted mothers Should hold their innocent infants forth, and ask, Can you make saves of them?

EXAMPLE.

We scatter seeds with careless hand,

And dream we ne'er shall see them more;

But for a thousand years

Their fruit appears,

In weeds that mar the land,

Or healthful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say-
Into still air they seem to fleet,
We count them ever past;
But they shall last--

In the dread judgment they
And we shall meet!

I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love's sake of brethren dear,
Keep thou the one true way,
In work and play,

Lest in that world their cry
Of woe thou hear.

THE DUMB-WAITER.-F. S. COZZENS.

We have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If you have company, every thing can be sent up from the kitchen without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing him in one of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help.

To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In consequence, you can not hear any thing that is going on in the story below; and when you are in an upper room of the house, there might be a democratic ratificationmeeting in the celtar, and you would not know it. Therefore, if any one should break into the basement, it would not disturb us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I put stout iron bars in all the rower windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when she such a rattle as watcrimen carry there. neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revolver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and make inquiries afterward.

was in Philadelphia; This is to alarm our

One evening, Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy writing, when it struck me a glass of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A country pump in the kitchen, is more convenient; but a well with buckets is cer