and holding three letters over his head, while he said, "Look at that!" he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table, before the squire, saying—

"Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honor the worth o' your money anyhow!"

SAMUEL LOVER.

REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS.

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan,
To make your judgment by de cloes dat kivers up a man;
For I hardly needs to tell you how you often comes across
A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss;
An', wukin in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go,
Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for hebben
Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben;
Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat,

And neber draps a nickel in de missionary hat,

Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes,
But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.

I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way

By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay;
For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high,
An' de turkey-buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky;

Dey ketches little minners in de middle of de sea,

An' you finds the smallest possum up de biggest kind o' tree!

ANONYMOUS.

THE SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

[The reader should recite this piece with a strong, clear voice, in a bold, martial tone, an erect carriage, with free liberal gesticulation and action.]

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea;
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass,

Wce to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup,

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads,—

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlight plain;

'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp
A moment-and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THAT HIRED GIRL.

THE CLERGYMAN'S RECEPTION ON HIS INITIAL CALL IN HIS NEW PARISH.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that class of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but

her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this.

"Ah-um-is-Mrs.-ah!"

"Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

"Beg pardon, but I would like to see-see-
"Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon;

don't want any flour-sifters here!"

"we

"You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly, "I called to-" "Don't want anything to keep moths away-fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face.

"Is the lady in?” he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head. "Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; "and now I don't want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come, lift your boots!"

"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new—” "Yes, I know you-you are the new man with the patent flatiron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog!"

"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?"

"No, I wont; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."

off.

"Didn't you know that I was a minister?'' he asked as he backed

"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."

"But here is my card."

"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!"

"I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate.

"It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; we don't want no prepared food for infants-no piano music-no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!" And she took unusual care to lock the door.

DETROIT FREE PRESS.

THE VILLAGE BELL.

High up in the tower of the old moss-covered church, which the winds and storms of many years have beaten against, hangs the village bell. How many times it has been rung in merriment and rejoicing, in sadness and mourning! And yet it is as faithful as if it had not stood sentinel over the little country town for half a century.

Fifty years! How long, and yet how short! In that time the little churchyard has been filled. The sleepers listened to the sound of the old bell in the days that are gone; and when they passed away, it tolled sadly and solemnly, as they were carried,-lovingly, regretfully, through the old gate-way,—and silently laid down to their calm, sweet rest.

What a long, undisturbed rest it is! They hear not the tones of the old bell, as it tells that still another is being brought out to sleep with them, under the green mounds that mark their resting-place. Is it sounding an invitation from those already there, saying, with its hollow voice, "Come, rest with us?" Is it sending up to the Great White Throne a deep-toned, agonized prayer for those who stand weeping by the open grave, supplicating, "God-help-us?" Is it the voice of the departed calling from the other shore, "Come to me?" Which is it? Who can tell?

We all know its solemn tolling sends a sorrowful thrill to our hearts. Are we laughing? The laugh goes out on our lips at the thought of the anguished father, or mother, or sister, or brother-the lonely-hearted, desolate husband or wife. God help them at such a time! It may be that He sends such terrible dispensations to show us how infinite is His power. As we listen we cannot help thinking in our hearts, and the words form themselves slowly with its deep sound of the old tell, "Will-it-be-my-turn— next?" Sometimes its tones seem almost human, so readily do we assimilate them with our own emotions.

It is a calm, beautiful morning-a lovely, sunshiny Sabbath mornning-and our hearts are filled with solemn gratitude to the Great Giver. It is inviting us to come and worship. We fancy its loud, regular double strokes say, "Praise God! praise God!" Its tones seem to be inspired with the sacredness of its holy mission.

It is evening; and just while twilight is stealing over us, the bell's mellow tones come floating down, and thrill through our hearts,