ORTHOGRAPHY.-WADE Whipple,

Marier! Here's a letter kum
From my ol' friend Kris Bar;
P'raps yew think it soun's more plum
To call 'im Kristofer.

Heze bort a farm out West, an' here
He fills this letter chok

With nuze ov what he raised last year
An' tidin's 'bout his stock.

But what gits me in this, ol' gal,
Iz how the critter spells.

Kris allers wus eriginal,

But sizzers! How it tells Agin a kollege chap ter reed

The way he duz upset

The parts o' speche! it puts ter seed
My spellin' ettyket.

I aint at spellin' wat the Frentch
'U'd kall ofay, but, Sis,

I kalkerlate I never rentch
The alferbet like this-

Just lissen-here heze got a wurd
'Bout what heze had tew pay
For ginny-hens, an' spells the burd
"G-u-i-n-e-a!"

Git out! That burd'd yawp frum now
Till kingdom kum ter heer

Its name spelt thataway; but how

Duz this style fit yer ear?

Hiz gote is spelt "g-o-a-t,"

Hiz kow with "c," I swar,

An' heffer-wall, that jist gits me
"H-e-i-f-e-r."

Now aint thet fer a kollege man
The wust yew ever heer?
But dog my cats! I haint began
Ter fish out all ther kweer,
Dad-fetched, all-fired orthogerfy
Thet's here-Marier, say!

Wot sort of peekok's spelt with P-
"E-a-c-o-c-k?"

δν

An' now heze munkst hiz garden weeds;
Hiz kaller's spelt with "C-
A-l-l-a;" his murtel reeds
"M-y-r-t-l-e."

Thet's orful, aint it? Wall, jist wait;
Here's wun thet t'others recks!
Hiz floks-like's bloomin' at ar gate-
Iz "p-h-l-o-x."

Great Seezer! Every step he takes
Heze gettin' wusser. My!

A spellin' bee hiz hunny makes,
It's "h-o-n-e-y."

An' landy Moses! Marcy me!
Heze chuckt the books away;
Hiz rooter-beggar is
66 r-u-

T-a-b-a-g-a!"

Thar, thar, Marier! Ef it churns
Yer laugh ter that ekstent
I'll stop; but 'fore the thing ajurns
This invite he hez sent.

He wants us thar on Krismus day,
Ter feest on fezent pi;
Hiz fezent starts "p-h-e-a,"

Hiz Kris "C-h-r-i."

Thet jist gives me a pinter; Ile
Return hiz komplerments,
By antserin' in thet same stile
An' spellin' 'thout no sents.
An' when the enverlope I 'dress,
For Kristofer, I swar,
Ile rite it "C-h-r-i-s-

T-o-p-h-e-r."

"SHOUTIN'."-F. L. STANTON,

There's lots an' lots of people (if you'll just believe my song),

What says we shoutin' Methodists is got the business wrong. Well, they're welcome to their 'pinions, but of one thing I'm

secure:

If they ever git religion they will shout a hundred, sure!

I was once into a love-feast, an' talk of shoutin'-why,
It almost shook the windows in the everlastin' sky.

An' the Presbyterian people-they were happy, not a few, An' the Baptist brother come along and joined the shoutin',

too.

I tell you, folks, religion is a curious kind o' thing;

It gives a man a heart to pray, a powerful voice to sing! An' if you've only got it-though there aint no shoutin' heard

The people's bound to see it, if you never say a word.

In this little church at Smithville, that is dear to one and all,

Where the footsteps of the Master in the mystic silence fall, As He walks among the people in this little church, if we Only had some old time shoutin' how much better it would be.

We're sailin' in the same old ship, no matter where we roam;

The Baptists and the Methodists, we're all a-goin' home;
An' no matter how we travel, by our different creeds enticed,
We'll all git home together if we're only one in Christ!

The paths we tread are sometimes rough, and flowerless is the sod;

"This world is not a friend of grace to help us on to God." But the lights of Canaan shinin' o'er the river's crystal tide Seem to woo us to the city that is on the other side.

Then let us sing together, for we're bound to get there soon; "On the other side of Jordan"-will some brother raise the

tune?

"Where the tree of life is bloomin'," sheddin' blossoms o'er the foam,

"There is rest for the weary," an' we're goin', goin' home!

▲ NIGHT RIDE ON THE ENGINE.-EMMA SHAW.

OVER THE CANADIAN ROCKIES.

Beside the engine-driver grim
We stand, and, in the twilight dim,
Look out upon the forest wild,
The rocky debris heaped and piled
About the track where shining steel
Outlines the way for truck and wheel.

Like flaming, never-sleeping eye
The head-light plazes; as we fly,

Its radiance makes the gloom more dense;
Each heart is filled with awe intense
That man should ever dare to try

This road to build 'mongst mountains high,
Through cañons weird, and gloomy pass,
By rock-girt lake and lone morass.

On! On, until we seem to fly,
Beneath the star-bespangled sky!

Huge shapes loom up on either side,-
Like Titan giants typified;

A transient gleam lights up the snow

Which crowns each brow, and scarred seams show Where swept the fearful avalanche,

Destroying trees both root end branch,

And proving its all-potent sway

By leaving chaos in its way.

Now some lone lake reflects our light
An instant, ere 'tis lost to sight,
And then our passing gaze we fix
On river, black as fabled Styx,-
Far, far beneath us, winding through
A cañon wild; next to our view

A lone night-watchman holds in sight
The flag which signals, “Track all right!”
Then's lost in the surrounding gloom,
As into tunnel, like a tomb,

We swiftly plunge, and with a thrill
Dash onward through its damp and chill.

Emerging from this cavern dark
We see, far off, a tiny spark,

Which broadens to the switchman's light,
In all its blaze of colors bright,

As fast we thunder to the town,

Then sudden stop,-the brakes hard down,
To see-although 'tis past midnight-
Bronzed faces, 'neath a glare of light,
Look out with curious eager stare
The little while we linger there,
Ere, by that almost magic wand
The train-conductor's waving hand,
We're started on our westward way;
For trains, like time and tide, ne'er stay

For laggards. Swift the lights recede,
And we right onward, onward speed!

Where fire has swept across the land,
Huge trees, like ghoulish figures, stand
Outreaching branches leafless, bare,
As if to breathe a voiceless prayer
That Nature'd grant them yet once more
The emerald robes they wore of yore.
On trestled bridge we slowly go,
O'er Stygian rivers far below,

While thund'rous, deaf'ning dash and roar
Tell how tumultuous waters pour

O'er jagged rocks, in foam-wreaths white,
Half hidden by the gloom of night.

We look ahead, and with a thrill,
See rifted crags crowd closer still
About our track, and at their feet
Wide-branching pine trees seem to meet
And mingle. Still we climb the steep,
And round wild, darksome ledges creep;
Till, far before us, softly gray,
Eternal hills foretell the day.
We watch the faint rose-tint of dawn
Broaden into the flush of morn,
When, suddenly, each flinty spire.

A halo wears of sunrise fire!

Up comes the sun; the mists are curled
Back from the solitary world,

Which lies about-behind-before!
Our strangely-wild night ride is o'er.

DOMESTIC MUTUAL IMPROVEMENT.
ANDREW STEWART.

It was Sabbath evening, and Bob and Mrs. Johnston were seated at either side of the fire, crackin' soberly as befitted the time and the occasion. They had been to church, and heard a sermon in which the preacher had denounced hypocrisy as the besetting sin of the age, and pictured what a beautiful world this would be if every.