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to find a man who was goin' part of the way an' would show ine the way to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an’ when I got out of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould me to go straight south a mile an'a half, and the first house would be Dennis's.

“An' you've no time to lose now," said he, “for the sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods."

“Is it lost now," said I,“that I'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navigator as iver steered a ship across the thrackless say! Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged to ye

for your kind advice, and thank yiz for the ride."

An' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. I shouldered me bundle bravely, an’ whistlin’a bit of time for company like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush an’trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it! all of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould Crotched tree that seemed to be standin' on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growin' dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time, and no mistake. I got on bravely for a while, but och hone! och hone! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister; an'after tumblin' and stumblin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think that I was lost intirely, an’ that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning.

Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, “Whip poor Will!” “Bedad," sez I, “I'm glad it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger they are doin'it, or why should they say, “poor Will?' an’ sure they can't be Injin, haythin, or naygur, for it's plain English they're afther spakin'. Maybe they might help me out o' this,” so I shouted at the top of my voice, “A lost man!” Thin I listened. Prisently an answer came.

· Who? Whoo? Whooo?“Jamie Butler, the waiver!” sez I, as loud as I could roar,

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an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, “A lost man!”

“Who! Whoo! Whooo!” said a voice right over my head.

“Sure," thinks I, “it's a mighty quare place for a man to be at this time of night; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for the children's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them?” All this wint through me head like a flasn, an’thin I answered his inquiry.

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't in. convanience yer honor, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis O Dowd?”

“Who! Whoo! Whooo!” sez he.

"Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, "and a dacent man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." “Who! Whoo! Whooo!” sez he again.

Me mother!” sez I, and as fine a woman as iver peelel a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her maiden name was Molly McFiggin."

“ Who! Whoo! Whooo!

“Paddy McFiggin! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, Paddy McFigyin, I say-do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary, excipt Jim Doyle, the black. smith.”

“Who! Whoo! Whooo!”

“Jim Doyle the blacksmith,” sez I,“ye good for nothin' blaggurd naygur, and if yiz don't come down and show me the way this min't, I'll climb up there and break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy Butler!"

“Who! Whoo! Whooo!” sez he, as impident as iver.

I said niver a word, but lavin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly around till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me.

“Whist,” sez I, “and I'll let him have a taste of an Irish stick," and wid that I let drive and lost me balance an'came EDUCATION.-SCHUYLER COLFAX.

All writers on education agree that the chief means of iniellectual improvement are five: Observation, Conversation, Reading, Memory, and Reflection. But I have sometimes thought that education did not bring out the last two into the commanding and paramount importance they deserve, sacrificing them to a wider range of reading and of studies. Knowledge is not what we learn, but what we retain. It is not what people eat, but what they digest, that makes them strong. It is not the amount of money they handle, but what they save, that makes them rich. It is not what they read or study, but what they remember, that makes them learned.

And Memory, too, is one of those wondrous gifts of God to man that should be assiduously cultivated. Much of your mental acquisitions will form a secret fund, locked up even from your own eyes till you need to briig it into use-a mystery that no philosopher has yet been or ever will be able to explain. There it lies hidden, weeks, months, years, and scores of years, till, mayhap a half-century afterward, it bursts when needed, at Memory's command, upon the mind, like a hidden spring bubbling up at the very hour of neer in the path way of the thirsty traveler.

While I have counseled self-reliance, and would go further and urge you to labor to deserve the good opinion of your fellow-men, I do not counsel that longing for fame which is so much more largely developed under our free republic than in any other realm upon the globe. Lord Mansfield once uttered as advice, what history teaches us he should hava declared as an axiom, that that popularity is alone valuable and enduring which follows you, not that which you run after. It was Sumner Lincoln Fairfield who wrote

“Fame! 'tis the madness of contending thought,
Toiling in tears, aspiring in despair;
Which steals like Love's delirium o'er the orain,
And, while it buries childhood's purest joys,

Wakes manhood's dreary agonies into life."
Far be it from me to counsel longings for such a fame as

this. “Toiling in tears, aspiring in despair,” is but a poor preparation for the enjoyment of popular honors or the performance of public trusts. And there is an exceedingly bet. ter way. It is to climb, young men, with buoyant heart, the hill of knowledge. It is to boldly scale the Alps and Apennines which ever rear themselves in your pathway. It is to feel your sinews strengthen, as they will, with every obstacle you surmount. It is to build yourself,—developing mental strength, untiring energy, sleepless zeal, fervent patriotism, and earnest principle,-until the public shall feel that you are the man they need, and that they must command you into the public service.

And if perchance that call should not happen to come, and you should be forced to remain an American sovereign instead of becoming a public servant, you shall have your reward in the rich stores of knowledge you have thus collected, and which shall ever be at your command. More valuable than earthly treasure,—while fleets may sink, and storehouses consume, and banks may totter, and riches flee, the intellectual investments you have thus made will be permanent and enduring, unfailing as the constant flow of Niagara or Amazon-a bank whose dividends are perpetual, whose wealth is undiminished however frequent the drafts upon it; which, though moth may impair, yet thieves cannot break through nor steal.

Nor will you be able to fill these storehouses to their full. Pour into a glass a stream of water, and at last it fills to the brim and will not hold another drop. But you may pour into your mind, through a whole lifetime, streams of knowledge from every conceivable quarter, and not only shall it never be full, but it will constantly thirst for more, and welcome each fresh supply with a greater joy.

Nay, more, to all around you may impart of these gladdening streams which have so fertilized your own mind, and yet, like the candle from which a thousand other candles may be lit without diminishing its flame, your supply shall not be impaired. On the contrary, your knowledge, as you add to it, will itself attract still more as it widens your realm of thought; and thus will you realize in your own life the parable of the Ten Talents, for“ to him that hath shall be given."

JOE JONES.-A PARODY.

Don't you remember lame Sally, Joe Jones

Lame Sally, whose nose was so brown?
Who looked like a clam if you gave her a smile,

And went into fits at your frown?
In the old goose-pond in the orchard, Joe Jones,

Where the goslings are learning to swim,
Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,

And there by mistake tumbled in.

Under old Sim's brush fence, Joe Jones,

That winds at the foot of the hill,
Together we've seen the old camel go round,

Grinding cider at Appleton's mill;
The mill-wheel is oven-wood now, Joe Jones,

The rafters fell on to a cow,
And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,

Are the lords of the cider-mill now.

Do you remember the pig-pen of logs, Joe Jones,

Which stood on the path to the barn? And the shirt button trees, where they grew on the boughs

Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn?
The pig-pen has gone to decay, Joe Jones,

And the lightning the tree overcome;
And down where the onions and carrots once grew,

Grow thistles as big as your thumb.

Don't you remember the school, Joe Jones?

And the master who wore the old wig?
And the nice shady nook by the crook of the brook,

Where we played with Aunt Catharine's pig?
Mice live in the master's wig, Joe Jones,

The brook with the crook is now dry,
And the boys and the girls that were playmates then,

Have grown up ever so high.

There's a change in the things I love, Joe Jones,

They have changed from the good to the bad-
And I feel in my stomach, to tell you the truth,

I'd like to go home to my dad.
Twelve times twelve months have passed, Joe Jones,

Since I knocked off your nose with a rail;
And yet I believe I'm your own true friend,

Joe Jones of the Hurricane Gale!

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