"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can-and will-cook you!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true,
(Which he ne'er forgot,) and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too.
"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features fell,
"Twill soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.’
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his
squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And as I eating be
The last of his chops, why I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see.
"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play;
But I sit and eroak, and a single joke
I have, which is to say:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"
THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.*
Well, wife, I've found the model church-I worshipped there to-day!
It made me think of good old times before my hair was
*See The Old Man in the Stylish Church," No. 6, page 42.
The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years
But then I felt when I went in it wasn't built for show.
The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;
He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;
He must have been a Christian, for he led me through
The long aisle of that crowded church, to find a place and
pew.
I wish you'd heard that singin'-it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice, "Let all the people sing!"
The tune was Coronation, and the music upward rolled,
Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of
My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,
And sang as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Ilim Lord of all.”
I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;
I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,
And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm.
The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all the preacher said;
I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;
He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye
Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner
by.
The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple gospel truth;
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth.
Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed;
'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and not to creed.
The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;
He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews,
And-though I can't see very well-I saw the filling tear
That told me hell was someways off, and heaven very near.
How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend,
"Where congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."
I hope to meet that minister-that congregation too—
In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue.
I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray,
The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.
Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won;
The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run.
O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.
Arise! for the day is passing
While you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,
And forth to the fight are gone;
Your place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has a part to play;
The past and the future are nothing
In the face of the stern to-day.
Arise from your dreams of the future,
Of gaining a hard-fought field,
Of storming the airy fortress,
Of bidding the giant yield;
Your future has deeds of glory,
Of honor; (God grant it may!)
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or needed as now,-to-day.
Arise! If the past detain you,
Her sunshine and storm forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret;
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
Cast her phantom arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife to-day!
Arise! for the hour is passing;
The sound that you dimly hear
Is your enemy marching to battle;
Rise! rise! for the foe is near.
Stay not to brighten your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,
And from dreams of a coming battle
You will wake and find it past.
JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW.-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
The journals this morning are full of a tale
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail;
And people are called on to note and admire
How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire,
Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives,-
Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives.
But of him who performed such a notable deed
Quite little the journalists give us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold,
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Away in Nevada-they don't tell us where,
Nor does it much matter-a railway is there,
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes-
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread,
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road,
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,
And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.
With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train,
While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain,
As he came to a spot where a curve to the right
Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,
And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,
Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire—
The further extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,
But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still,
And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes,
And his lips-not with fear-took the color of ashes.
"If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman-we'll send her ahead!
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! Give her her wings!"
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,
This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath,
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death,
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell,
Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire
That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire,
With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed!
While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill yell
Told the joy.at escape from that underground hell,
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.
Did the passengers get up a service of plate?
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children eling fast to his kneesi
Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? İlas he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?
Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort,
And all that they give us about him to-day
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is-the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
When I was the dirtiest little towhead-and I am sure that dirt is no disgrace-that tramped to the village school, a traveling phrenologist declared that my bump of imitation covered two-thirds of my cranium, and as the days waned
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