tumblin' to the ground, nearly breakin' me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half of me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. spoke to the chap in the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all.

Sure, thinks I, he must have gone hume to rowl up his head, for by the powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'.

Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's.

I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. "Sure," sez I, “I'm comin' to a settlement now, for 1 hear the church bell.” I kept on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leavin' the ould cow puffin' and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's.

He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters—as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him me adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl.

“An ould what?" sez I.
“Why, an owl, a bird,” sez he.

“Do ye tell me now?” sez I, “Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird.”

And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked at me and roared again.

Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl.



A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright,

Conversed as they sat on the green;
They gazed on each other with tender delight:
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,

The maiden's, the Fair Imogine.
"And oh!” said the youth,“ since to-morrow I go

To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,
Some other will court you, and you will bestow

On a wealthier suitor your hand!”
"Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said,

“Offensive to love and to me; For, if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead

Shall husband of Imogine be.
"If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside,

Forget my Alonzo the Brave,
God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride,
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,

And bear me away to the grave!”
To Palestine hastened the hero so bold,

His love she lamented him sore;
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold!
A baron, all covered with jewels and gold,

Arrived at Fair Imogine's door.
His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain,

Soon made her untrue to her vows;
He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain;
He caught her affections, so light and so vain,

And carried her home as his spouse.
And now had the marriage been blest by the priest;

The revelry now was begun; The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast, Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

When the bell at the castle tolled--one.

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

A stranger was placed by her side:

His air was terrific; he uttered no sound-
He spake not, he moved not, he looked not around,

But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height,

His armor was sable to view;
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright;
The lights in the chamber burned blue!

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;

The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spake the bride-while she trembled—“I pray Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,

Ard deign to partake of our cheer.”

The lady is silent; the stranger complies

His vizor he slowly unclosed;
Oh, God what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!
What words can express her dismay and surprise

When a skeleton's head was exposed ?

All present then uttered a terrified shout,

All turned with disgust from the scene; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about,

While the spectre addressed Imogine:
“Behold me, thou false one, behold me!” he cried,

“Reinember Alonzo the Brave!
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side;
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,

And bear thee away to the grave!”
Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,

While loudly she shrieked in dismay;
Then sunk with his prey thro' the wide-yawning ground,
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

Or the spectre that bore her away.
Not long lived the baron; and none, since that time,

To inhabit the castle presume;
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite,

When mortals in slumber are bound,

Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight,

And shriek as he whirls her around!

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them the spectres are seen; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: “To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

And his consort, the Fair Imogine!”


Think of me!- When?
Just at the gentle twilight hour,
When the dews are falling on tree and flower,
When birds to their quiet nests have gone,
And the summer night comes softly on:-

Think of me then.

Think of me!- When?-
As thou art roving through pleasant glades,
Or lingering 'mid the deep forest's shades,
Gazing on flower and field and tree,
Let thy thoughts turn for a while to me:-

Think of me then.

Think of me!-When?
As some sweet strain we have loved to hear,
Comes with a pathos deep to thine ear,
Or a soft note over thy senses flung,
Brings back the time when that lay was sung:-

Think of me then.

Think of me!-When?-
At the early hours of the Sabbath morn,
When no rude sounds on the breeze are borne,
When all is balmy and sweet and still,
And the mists are rising from stream and hill:

Think of me then.

Think of me!-When ?-
At that lone hour, when, on bended knee,
Thou art breathing a prayer to the Deity,
That all whom thou'lovest he may defend,
Obl ask some boon for thy distant friend:

Think of me then,


All writers on education agree that the chief means of inlellectual 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 bring 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 need in the pathway 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 have 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

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