"Your tale is marvelous, my son,
But think not yours the only one;
For I a prodigy can tell,

To match your story wondrous well:
A bridge we come to, by-and-by,
That lets down all who tell a lie;
Down to the gulf below they fall,
And vainly for deliverance call.
'Tis said none ever yet could find
The artist who this work designed;
But sure it is this very day

We both must cross it in our way."

The startled youth turned deadly pale,
Astonished at the fearful tale.

Nay, father, I have said too much,
"Tis clear the case could not be such;
For I remember being told

The dog was only nine months old;
And yet it was a creature rare,
To which no others could compare;
I'm confident that it was quite
Your very tallest heifer's height."

As nearer to the bridge they pressed,
Again his sire the youth addressed:
Large as our heifer, did I say,

The dog I met the other day?

Nay, for that matter, you're too wise
To think a dog could be that size;
But I could on my honor state
That it was pretty near as great,
And, if I may believe my eyes,
Just like a full-grown calf in size."

The fatal bridge now close at hand,
The stripling makes a final stand:
"Father, at what a rate you walk!
Is this the bridge of which you talk?
Hear me, the truth I will declare:
This foreign dog was not so rare,
But much like others in its size,
With nothing to create surprise."

The Bridge thus brought him to the test,
And all his falsehoods were confessed!

There is a bridge which must be passed
By one and all of us at last;
To those whose "refuge is in lies,"
"Twill be, alas! a "bridge of sighs."

Beneath it is a gulf of woe,

Where those who "love a lie" must go;
But over on the other side,

A beauteous prospect, far and wide.
Once landed on this fearful bridge,
One step advanced upon its ridge,
Eternal Truth, without disguise,
Will burst upon our startled eyes.
May He who is the Way, the Truth,
Direct aright the steps of youth,
To do what's pleasing in his eyes,
And "false ways" utterly despise.

WANTED-A PASTOR.

He must be young in years, in wisdom old;
His heart transmuted into purest gold;
Fervent in prayer, calm, earnest, modest, meek,
Yet ever bold the gospel truth to speak.

Solemn, yet social; thoughtful, yet urbane;
His dignity most careful to maintain;
To suit the elders he must be "true blue,"
To please the young folks, must be "jolly" too.

His preaching must be brilliant, yet profound;
Theology, the soundest of the sound;

Must prove his doctrine back from Paul to Moses,
Then down to Calvin, ere his sermon closes.

He must be trained to speaking extempore,
Yet ne'er repeat his phrases o'er and o'er;
And when we want a written sermon, then
Must wield a graceful and a practised pen.

While hurling forth the thunders of the law,

With honeyed sweetness must be skilled to "draw;" Must be a potent instrument to use

In filling up a score of empty pews.

Must preach two rousing sermons every Sunday, And feel the fresher each succeeding Monday: Must bring to every Wednesday evening meeting A burdened heart, yet cheerful Christian greeting.

Prompt ever to suppress unchristian schisms,
Quick always to detect unlicensed 'isms,
He must reserve the hardest of his knocks
To hurl against the rank "unorthodox."

His heart replete with every saintly grace,
A holy calm must rest upon his face;
With soul exalted to the sacred skies,
He must be planning to "economize."

And ere he break to us the bread of life,
He must be furnished with a comely wife.
For children he must thank the gracious Giver,
Yet not be burdened with too full a quiver.

If, Rev'rend Sir, this scrap should meet your eye
While looking for a pulpit, please apply;
For, sotto voce, we'll confess to you

We're sore perplexed and know not what to do.

OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY.

WILL M. CARLETON.*

Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new;
All the hurry and worry are just as good as through;
Oaly a bounden duty remains for you and I,

And that's to stand on the door-step, here, and bid the old house good-bye.

What a shell we've lived in, these nineteen or twenty years!
Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled about our ears;
Wonder it stuck together and answered till to-day,
But every individual log was put up here to stay.

Things looked rather new, though, when this old house was built,

And things that blossomed you, would have made some women wilt;

And every other day, then, as sure as day would break, My neighbor Ager come this way, invitin' me to "shake."

And you, for want of neighbors, was sometimes blue and sad,

For wolves and bears and wildcats was the nearest ones you had;

*Author of "Betsy and I are Out," "Over the Hill to the Poor-House," &c., See No. 4, pp. 27 and 149.

But lookin' ahead to the clearin', we worked with all our might,

Until we was fairly out of the woods, and things was goin' right.

Look up there at our new house,-ain't it a thing to see? Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be ;

All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves,

And never a debtor to say but what we own it all ourselves.

Look at our old log house-how little it now appears!
But it's never gone back on us, for nineteen or twenty years;
An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun,

There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you remember how rich we was that night,

When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight; We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's

new,

But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun,Kitchen and parlor and bedroom, we had 'em all in one; And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West,

Was tickin' away in the corner there, an' doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a whisperin' cheering words,
Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet the song of birds;
And home grew sweeter and brighter-our courage began to

mount

And things looked hearty and happy, then, and work appeared to count.

And here, one night it happened, when things was goin' bad,
We fell in a deep old quarrel-the first we ever had;
And when you give out and cried, then I like a fool give in,
An' then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done,
And you was a makin' clothing that wasn't for either one;
And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say,
And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods
away.

Then our first-born baby-a regular little joy

Though I fretted a little, because it wasn't a boy;

Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all her pouts and smiles?

Why, settlers come to see that show, a half a dozen miles.

Yonder sat the cradle--a homely, home-made thing; And many a night I rocked it, providin' you would sing; And many a little squatter brought up with us to stay, And so that cradle, for many a year, was never put away.

How they kept a comin'—so cunnin' and fat and small! How they growed! 'twas a wonder how we found room for 'em all;

But though the house was crowded, it empty seemed that day,

When Jennie lay by the fire-place, there, and moaned her life away.

And right in there, the preacher, with Bible and hymn-book stood,

""Twixt the dead and the living," and "hoped 'twould do us good."

And the little whitewood coffin on the table there was set,
And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I could see it yet.

Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, you know;
Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en a'most let go;
And here is the spot I tumbled, and give the Lord His due,
When the doctor said the fever'd turned, an' he could fetch
you through.

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear:
Christenin's, funerals, weddin's-what haven't we had here?
Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got,—
And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.

Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new;
All the hurry and worry is just as good as through;
But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say:
There's precious things in this old house, we never can take

away.

Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before; Winds will whistle through it and rains will flood the floor; And over the hearth once blazing, the snow drifts oft will pile,

And the old thing will seem to be a mournin' all the while.

Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see, But you seem like a human being-a dear old friend to me; And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands,

Until we commence a keepin' house in the "house not made with hands."