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well as with hopes, are struggling within him. He heads a short procession over these then naked fields; he crosses yonder stream on a fallen tree; he ascends to the top of this eminence, whose original oaks of the forest stand as thick around him as if the spot had been devoted to Druidical worship, and here he performs the appointed áuty of the day.

And now, if this vision were a reality ; if Washington actually were now amongst us, and if he could draw around him the shades of the great public men of his own day, patriots and warriors, orators and statesmen, and were to address us in their presence, would he not say to us : “Ye men of this generation, I rejoice and thank God for being able to see that our labors, and toils, and sacrifices, were not in vain. You are prosperous, you are happy, you are grateful. The fire of liberty burns brightly and steadily in your hearts, while duty and the law restrain it from bursting forth in wild and destructive conflagration. Cherish liberty, as you love it; cherish its securities, as you wish to preserve it. Maintain the Constitution which we labored so painfully to establish, and which has been to you such a source of inestimable blessings. Preserve the Union of the States, cemented as it was by our prayers, our tears, blood. Be true to God, to your country, and to your duty. So shall the whole Eastern world follow the morning sun, to contemplate you as a nation; so shall all generations honor you, as they honor us; and so shall that Almighty power which so graciously protected us, and which now protects you, shower its everlasting blessings upon you and your posterity!”

Great father of your country! we beed your words ; we feel their force, as if you now uttered them with lips of flesh and blood. Your example teaches us, your affectionate addresses teach us, your public life teaches us your sense of the value of the blessings of the Union. Those blessings our fathers have tasted, and we have tasted, and still taste. Nor do we intend that those who

and our

come after us shall be denied the same high function, Our honor, as well as our happiness, is concerned. We cannot, we dare not, we will not, betray our sacred trust. We will not filch from posterity the treasure placed in our hands to be transmitted to other generations. The bow that gilds the clouds in the heavens, the pillars that uphold the firmament, may disappear and fall away in the hour appointed by the will of God; but, until that day comes, or so long as our lives may last, no ruthless hand shall undermine that bright arch of Union and Liberty which spans the continent from Washington to California!

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“ VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE?"

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.* Vas marriage a failure? Vell, now, dot depends Altogeddher on how you look at it, mine friends. Like dhose double-horse teams dot you see at der races, It depends pooty mooch on der pair in der traces; Eef dhey don't pool togeddher right off at der sthart, Ten dimes oudt off nine dhey was beddher apart. Vas marriage a failure? Der vote vas in doubt; Dhose dot's oudt vould be in, dhose dot's in vould be oudt; Der man mit oxberience, goot looks und dash, Gets a vife mit some fife hundord dousand in cash; Budt, after der honeymoon, vhere vas der honey? She haf der oxberience-he haf der money. Vas marriage a failure? Eef dot vas der case, Vot vas to pecome off der whole human race? Vot you dink dot der oldt “ Pilgrim faders” vould say, Dot came in der Sunflower to oldt Plymouth bay, To see der fine coundtry dis peoples haf got, Und dhen hear dhem ask sooch conondhruins as dot? Vas marriage a failure? Shust go, ere you tell, To dot Bunker Mon Hillument, vhere Varren fell; Dink off Vashington, Franklin und “Honest Old Abe"Dhey vas all been aroundt since dot first Plymouth babe.

*Author of " Leedle Yawcob. Strauss" “Dot Baby off Mine," Mother's Doughnuts," "Der Oak und der Vine," and other popular dialect recitations to be found in previous issues of this series.

1 vas only a Deutscher, budt I dells you vot! 1 pelief every dime, in sooch “ failures” as dot. Vas marriage a failure? I ask mine Katrine, Und she look off me so dot I feels pooty mean. Dhen she say: "Meester Strauss, shust come here eef you

blease,” Und she dake me vhere Yawcob und little Loweeze By dhere shnug trundle-bed vas shust saying der prayer. Und she say, mit a smile: “Vas dhere some failures dhere?”

SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS.-FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE

A little bit queer"--my Mary!
“Her roof not quite in repair!”
And it's that you think, with a nod and wink,

As you sit in my easy cha
Drop it, I say, old feller;

Drop it, I tell you, do,
Or language, I doubt, I shall soon let out

I'd rather not use to you.
Shake hands, and I ax your pardon-

'Twas chaffing I knowed you were;
But a hint or a slur or a joke on her

Is a thing as I can't abear.
And what if she has her fancies?

Why, so has us all, old chap;
Not many's the roof as is reg'lar proof,

If a bit of a whim's a gap.
She's up to the nines, my Mary;

Lord bless her, she keeps us right!
It's up with her gown and the house scrubbed down

As certain as Friday night.
Is it rheumatiz, cough, lumbager?

Is anything queer inside ?
She'll physic you up with a sup in a cup

As tickles the doctor's pride.
Is it mending of socks or trousers,

Or starching your best cravat ?
Is it letting alone the joint with the bone,

And choosing the goose that's fat?
She hasn't herlikes, my Mary
And never put out nor riled;

She hasn't a fad, and she never had

Exưepting about the child.
Six years we was wed, and over,

And never a cradle got;
a od nowheres, I sw.ar, a more dotinger pali

On baby and tiny tot;
So when of a winter morning

At last we was 'ma and dad,
No Royal Princess had the welcome, I guess,

As our little stranger had.
Lord, wasn't she Christmas sunshine

To gladden the childless place!
She was nothing in size, with tremenjous eyes,

And the oldest-fashioned face.
She'd stare at the folks that knowing,

Laiil over the nurse's knee,
As I'd laugh, and I'd say, in a joking way,

“She's older nor you nor me.'
And wasn't she nuts to Mary!

Just picter her, them as can,
A-doing her best with her mother's breast

For Alexandrina Ann!
It was so as we'd named the baby,

By way of a start in life,
From parties, I knew, as could help her through,-

The Queen and my uncle's wife.
And wasn't the baby fêted!

She lay in her bassinet
With muslin and lace on her tiny face,

As ever growed smaller yet.
But it wasn't in lace nor coral

To bribe her to linger here;
I looks in her eyes, and “She's off,” I sighs,

“She's off to her proper sp'ere.”
Her treasures was all around her,

But she was too wise and grave
For the pug on the shelf and, as big as herself,

The doll as her grand’ma gave.
She wanted the stars for playthings,

Our wonderful six-weeks' guest:
So, with one little sigh, she closed her eye,

And woke on a hangel's breast.

And how did the missis take it?

Most terrible calm and mild;
With a face aʼmost like a bloodless ghost

She covered the sleeping child.
There was me, like a six-foot babby,

A-blubbering long and loud,
While she sat there in the rocking-chair,

A-sewing the little shroud.
I couldn't abide to see it-

The look in her tearless eye;
I touches her so, and I whispers low,

“My darlingest, can't you cry?”
She gave me a smile for answer,

Then over her work she bowed,
And all through the night her needle bright

Was sewing the little shroud.
In the gray of the winter morning,

The sun like a ball of flame,
Sent up like a toy by a whistling boy,

The mite of a coffin came.
He reckoned it only a plaything,-

A drum or a horse-and-cart, -
The box that had space, O Father of Grace,

To bury a mother's heart!
Great God, such a shaller coffin,

And yet so awful deep!
I placed it there by the poor wife's chair,
And I thinks, “ At last she'll weep.”
But she rose with never a murmur,

As calm as a spectre thin,
And-waxy and cold and so light to hold-

She places the baby in.
Then, moving with noiseless footfall,

She reaches from box and shelf
The little 'un's mug, and the china pug,

And the doll that was big as herself.
Then--God! it was dread to watch her-

All white in her crape-black gown,
With her own cold hands, my Mary stands

And fastens the coffin down.
I carried the plaything coffin,

Tucked under my arm just so;
And she stood there at the head of the stair,

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