THE BOY'S LAST REQUEST.

Half raised upon the dying couch, his hand
Drooped on his mother's bosom, like a bud
Which, broken from its parent stock, adheres
By some attenuate fibre. His thin hand,
From 'neath the downy pillow drew a book,
And slowly pressed it to his bloodless lips.
Mother, dear mother, see your birthday gift
Fresh and unsoiled. Yet have I kept your word,
And ere I slept each night, and every morn,
Did read its pages, with my simple prayer,
Until this sickness came."

66

He paused; for breath
Came scantily, and with a toilsome strife-
"Brother or sister have I none, or else
I'd lay this Bible on their hearts, and say,
'Come read it on my grave, among the flowers.'
So you who gave must take it back again,
And love it for my sake."

"My son! My son!"

Whispered the mourner in that tender tone,
Which woman in her sternest agony

Commands to soothe the pang of those she loves;
"The soul! the soul! to whose charge yield you that?"
"To God who gave it!"-So that gentle soul,
With a slight shudder, and a seraph smile,
Left the pale clay for it's Creator's arms.

LAUGHIN' IN MEETIN'.-H. B. STOWE.

We were in disgrace, we boys, and the reason of it was this: we had laughed out in meeting-time! To be sure, the occasion was a trying one, even to more disciplined nerves. Parson Lothrop had exchanged pulpits with Parson Summeral, of North Wearem. Now, Parson Summeral was a man in the very outset likely to provoke the risibles of unspiritualized juveniles. He was a thin, wiry, frisky little man, in a powdered white wig, black tights, and silk stockings, with bright knee-buckles and shoe-buckles, with round, dark, snapping eyes, and a curious, high, cracked, squeaking voice, the very first tones of which made all the children

stare and giggle. The news that Parson Summeral was going to preach in our village spread abroad among us as a prelude to something funny. It had a flavor like the charm of circus-acting; and on the Sunday morning of our story we went to the house of God in a very hilarious state, all ready to set off in a laugh on the slightest provocation.

The occasion was not long wanting. Parson Lothrop had a favorite dog yclept Trip, whose behavior in meeting was notoriously far from that edifying pattern which befits a minister's dog on Sundays. Trip was a nervous dog, and a dog that never could be taught to conceal his emotions or to respect conventionalities. If anything about the performance in the singers' seat did not please him, he was apt to express himself in a lugubrious howl. If the sermon was longer than suited him, he would gape with such a loud creak of his jaws as would arouse every body's attention. If the flies disturbed his afternoon's nap, he would give sudden snarls or snaps; or if anything troubled his dreams, he would bark out in his sleep in a manner not only to dispel his own slumbers, but those of certain worthy deacons and old ladies, whose sanctuary repose was thereby sorely broken and troubled. For all these reasons, Madame Lothrop had been forced, as a general thing, to deny Trip the usual sanctuary privileges of good family dogs in that age, and shut him up on Sundays to private meditation. Trip, of course, was only the more set on attendance, and would hide behind doors, jump out of windows, sneak through by-ways and alleys, and lie hid till the second bell had done tolling, when suddenly he would appear in the broad aisle, innocent and happy, and take his seat as composedly as any member of the congregation.

Imagine us youngsters on the qui vive with excitement at seeing Parson Summeral frisk up into the pulpit with all the vivacity of a black grasshopper. We looked at each other and giggled very cautiously, with due respect to Aunt Lois' sharp observation.

At first there was only a mild, quiet simmering of giggle, compressed decorously within the bounds of propriety, and we pursed our muscles up with stringent resolution whenever we caught the apprehensive eye of our elders.

But when, directly after the closing notes of the tolling second bell, Master Trip walked gravely up the front aisle, and, seating himself squarely in front of the pulpit, raised his nose with a critical air toward the scene of the forthcoming performance, it was too much for us-the repression was almost convulsive. Trip wore an alert, attentive air, befitting a sound, orthodox dog, who smells a possible heresy, and deems it his duty to watch the performance narrowly. Evidently he felt called upon to see who and what were to occupy that pulpit in his master's absence.

Up rose Parson Summeral, and up went Trip's nose, vibrating with intense attention.

The parson began in his high, cracked voice to intone the hymn, "Sing to the Lord aloud," when Trip broke into a dismal howl.

The parson went on to give directions to the deacon in the same voice in which he had been reading, so that the whole effect of the performance was somewhat as follows: Sing to the Lord aloud,

(Please to turn out that dog,)

And make a joyful noise.

The dog was turned out, and the choir did their best to make a joyful noise, but we boys were upset for the day, delivered over to the temptations of Satan, and plunged in waves and billows of hysterical giggle, from which neither winks nor frowns from Aunt Lois, nor the awful fear of the tithing-man, nor the comforting bits of fennel and orangepeel passed us by grandmother, could recover us.

Every body felt, to be sure, that here was a trial that called for some indulgence. Hard faces, even among the stoniest saints, betrayed a transient quiver of the risible muscles, old ladies put up their fans; youths and maidens in the singers' seat laughed outright; and for the moment a general snicker among the children was pardoned. But I was one of that luckless kind whose nerves, once set in vibration, could not be composed. When the reign of gravity and decorum had returned, Harry and I sat by each other, shaking with suppressed laughter. Everything in the subsequent exercises took a funny turn, and in the long prayer, when every body else was still and decorous, the whole scene

came over me with such overpowering force that I exploded with laughter, and had to be taken out of meeting and marched home by Aunt Lois as a convicted criminal. What especially moved her indignation was, that the more she rebuked and upbraided the more I laughed, till the tears rolled down my cheeks-which Aunt Lois construed into wilful disrespect to her authority, and resented accordingly.

By Sunday evening, as we gathered around the fire, the reaction from undue gayety to sobriety had taken place, and we were in a pensive and penitent state. Grandmother was gracious and forgiving, but Aunt Lois still preserved that frosty air of reprobation which she held to be a salutary means of quickening our consciences for the future. It was, therefore, with unusual delight that we saw our old friend Sam come in and set himself quietly down on the block in the chimney corner. With Sam we felt assured of indulgence and patronage, for, though always rigidly moral and instructive in his turn of mind, he had that fellow-feeling for transgressors which is characteristic of the loose-jointed, easy-going style of his individuality.

"Lordy massy, boys-yis," said Sam, virtuously, in view of some of Aunt Lois' thrusts, ye ought never to laugh nor cut up in meetin'; that'are's so, but then there is times when the best on us gets took down. We gets took unawares, ye see-even ministers does. Yis, natur' will git the upper hand afore they know it."

"Why, Sam, ministers don't ever laugh in meetin', do they?"

We put the question with wide eyes. Such a supposition bordered on profanity, we thought; it was approaching the sin of Uzzah, who unwarily touched the ark of the Lord.

"Laws, yes. Why heven't you never heard how there was a council held to try Parson Morrell for laughin' out in prayer-time?"

Laughin' in prayer-time!" we both repeated, with uplifted hands and eyes.

My grandfather's mild face became luminous with a suppressed smile, which brightened it as the moon does a cloud, but he said nothing.

"Yes, yes," said my grandmother, " that affair did make a dreadful scandal in the time on't. But Parson Morrell was a good man, and I'm glad the council wasn't hard on him."

"Wal," said Sam Lawson, "after all, it was more Ike Babbitt's fault than 'twas anybody's. Ye see, Ike he was allers for gettin' what he could out o' the town, and he would feed his sheep on the meetin'-house green. Somehow or other Ike's fences allers contrived to give out, come Sunday, and up would come his sheep, and Ike was too pious to drive 'em back, Sunday, and so there they was. He was talked to enough about it, 'cause, ye see, to hev sheep and lambs a ba-a-in' and a blatin' all prayer and sermon time wa'n't the thing. 'Member that 'are old meetin'-house up to the north end, down under Blueberry Hill, the land sort o' sloped down, so as a body hed to come into the meetin'-house steppin' down instead o' up.

"Fact was, they said 'twas put there 'cause the land wa'n't good for nothin' else, and the folks thought puttin' a meetin’house on't would be a clear savin'-but Parson Morrell he didn't like it, and was free to tell 'em his mind on't, that 'twas like bringin' the lame and the blind to the Lord's sarvice-but there 'twas.

"There wa'n't a better minister nor no one more set by in all the State than Parson Morrell. His doctrine was right up and down, good and sharp, and he give saints and sinners their meat in due season, and for consolin' and comfortin' widders and orphans Parson Morrell hedn't his match. The women sot lots by him, and he was, allus' ready to take tea round and make things pleasant and comfortable, and he hed a good story for every one, an' a word for the children, and maybe an apple or a cookey in his pocket for 'em. Wal, you know there ain't no pleasin' every body, and ef Gabriel himself, right down out o' heaven, was to come and be a minister, I expect there'd be a pickin' at his wings, and sort o' fault-findin'.

"Now Aunt Jerushy Scran and Aunt Polly Hokum, they sed Parson Morrell wa'n't solemn enough. Ye see there's them that thinks that a minister ought to be jest like the town hearse, so that ye think of death, judgment, and eternity, and nothin' else, when you see him round; and ef they see