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 better 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!

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.-T. WESTWOOD.

A little child,

A little meek-faced, quiet village child,

Sat singing by her cottage door at eve

A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear
Caught the faint melody,-
-no human eve

Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile

That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,

"Praise God! Praise God!”

A seraph by the throne

In full glory stood. With eager hand

He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood

Of harmony on the celestial air

Welled forth, unceasing. There, with a great voice
He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,

Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration.

Higher yet

Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,

To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"

Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the throne
With a mute hallelujah.

But even then,

While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice-a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar-
A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music with the roll

Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles

Lit up the beauty of each angel's face

At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon

Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! praise God!"

Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre

And when the seraph's song

Silence hung brooding,-when the eternal courts
Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime,

Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice
Came floating upward from its world afar,

Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! Praise God!"

HAVE CHARITY.

If we knew the cares and crosses,
Crowded round our neighbor's way;
If we knew the little losses,

Sorely grievous day by day,

Would we then so often chide him
For the lack of thrift and gain,
Leaving on his heart a shadow,
Leaving on our lives a stain?

If we knew the clouds above us
Held by gentle blessing there,
Would we turn away, all trembling,
In our blind and weak despair?
Would we shrink from little shadows,
Lying on the dewy grass,

While 'tis only birds of Eden
Just in mercy flitting past?

If we knew the silent story

Quivering through the heart of pain
Would our manhood dare to doom it
Back to haunts of vice and shame?
Life is many a tangled crossing,
Joy has many a break of woe,

And the cheeks tear-washed are whitest,-
And the blessed angels know.

Let us reach within our bosoms
For the key to other lives,
And with love to erring nature,
Cherish good that still survives;
So that when our disrobed spirits
Soar to realms of light again,
We may say, "Dear Father! judge us
As we judged our fellow-men."

HOW JAMIE CAME HOME.-WILL M. CARLETON.

Come, mother, set the kettle on,
And put the ham and eggs to fry;
Something to eat,

And make it neat,

To please our Jamie's mouth and eye;
For Jamie is our all, you know,
The rest have perished long ago!
He's coming from the wars to-night,
And his blue eyes will sparkle bright,
And his old smile will play right free,
His old, loved home, again to see.

I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing
That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,

With hopes and fears,

And gloomy, hopeless tidings filled;
And many a night, the past five year,
We've lain within our cottage here,
And while the rain-storm came and went,
We've thought of Jamie, in his tent;
And offered many a silent prayer
That God would keep him in His care.

I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing

That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,

With blood and tears,

With cruel, bloody battles filled;
And many a morn, the past five year,
We've knelt around our fireside here,
And while we thought of bleeding ones,
Our blazing towns and smoking guns,

We've thought of him and breathed a prayer
That God would keep him in His care.

Nay, Addie, girl, just come away,
Touch not a dish upon the shelf!

Mother well knows

Just how it goes,

Mother shall set it all herself!
There's nothing to a wanderer's looks,
Equal to food that mother cooks;
There's nothing to a wanderer's taste,
Like food where mother's hand is traced;
Though good a sister's heart and will,
A mother's love is better still,