atalwart hunters of Yorkshire said: “That little shrimp! What! he carry the Reform Bill?” “No, no,” said Sidney; "no; he was a large man; but the labors of the bill shrunk him.” Do you remember the story of Webster, that Russell Lowell tells, when we, in Massachusetts, were about to break up the Whig party? Webster came home to Faneuil Hall to protest; and four thousand Whigs went to meet him. He lifted up

his majestic presence before the sea of human faces, his brow charged with thunder, and he said: "I am a Whig,a Massachusetts Whig, a Revolutionary Whig, a constitutional Whig, a Faneuil Hall Whig; and if you break up the Whig party, where am I to go ?” And Russell Lowell says: “We held our breaths, thinking where he could go. But if he had been five feet five,” said Lowell, “ we would have said: "Well, hang it, who cares where you go?'”

Well, O'Connell had all that. Then he had, besides, what Webster never had, and what Clay had, the magnetism and grace that melts a million souls into his. When I saw him he was sixty-six, -lithe as a boy ; his every attitude was beauty; every gesture was grace. Macready or Booth never equaled him. Why, it would have been delightful even to look at him, if he had not spoken at all; and all you thought of was a greyhound. Then he had—what so few American speakers havea voice that sounded the gamut. I heard him once, in Exeter Hall, say : “Americans, I send my voice careering, like the thunder storm, across the Atlantic, to tell South Carolina that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to remind the negroes that the dawn of their redemption is breaking." And I seemed to hear the answer come re-echoing back to London from the Rocky Mountains. And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish brogue, he would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall laugh. And the next moment tears were in his voice, like an old song, and five thousand men would be in tears.

PRESTO CHANGO.*-JOSEPH BERT SMILET

Sempronius Prigg and Miltiades Piso
Were invited one night to a stylish high tea.

I couldn't say why so

But this Mr. Piso
Was much more sedate than his wont was to be.

And so Mr. Prigg kept his eye on Sir Piso,
And watched him quite carefully all the meal through,

And while he so eyed him,

He presently spied him
Slip a fine silver teaspoon down into his shoe.
Sempronius Prigg, when he saw Mr. Piso,
Thought that a remarkably provident act.

Accordingly, he soon

Was poking a teaspoon
Away in his pocket with subtlest tact.
But the hostess she happened to see this manoeuvre,
And asked our friend what he was trying to do.

Now that was a very

Embarrassing query,
And to ask him before a whole table-full, too.

But Prigg very promptly responded, “ Well, madam,
I was going to show you a neat little game;

Of course you don't know it,

But I will now show it, -
I'm a sleight-of-hand artist of no little fame.

“Now, madam, I'll take this most elegant teaspoon,
And it goes in my pocket, as every one sees,

And now I am able,

While still at this table,
To send this same teaspoon wherever I please.
"Now this is a wonderful, rare exhibition,
But still, if you please, I will show it to you.

Now Spirito Venito

Presto tu chango You will now find your spoon in that gentleman's shoe.” *From “Meditations of Samwell Wilkins," a collection of original poems, opinbons and parodies, by permission of the Author.

THE SHEPHERD'S STORY.-DAVID J. BURRELL, D. D.

A mother, in the twilight
Of a low-browed cave, nursing an infant
On her bosom, gazes intently into its face
As one who wonders, dreaming and seeing visions
Startled by sound of footsteps drawing near
She clasps her infant closer and listens.
On a sudden a torch, flaming in the doorway,
Reveals a nomad shepherd with a company
Of rustics following and peering through the gloom.
Seeing the mother and her holy child they enter
Reverently and bow before him.

The shepherd speaks:
“We were abiding in the fields by night,
Watching over our flocks, when suddenly
The heavens were aflame and the earth glowed
With an exceeding splendor.
And lo! from the midst of the glory
Stood forth an angel saying:
'Fear not, good news I bring!
For unto you is born,
This glorious morn,
A Savior, who is Christ, your King!
Good tidings,
Good tidings of great joy!
To Bethlehem baste, your hearts in gladness keeping,
For there in swaddling bands arrayed,
And in a manger laid,
Your Christ lies sleeping !'
Then suddenly from twice ten thousand tongues
Of angels standing in the golden mist,
An anthem of great joy:
'Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace,
Good will toward men!'
“The sweetest song that angels ever sang,
The sweetest music mortals ever heard,
Now rising like the shout of an embattled hosty
Now murmuring like a lullaby:
'Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace,
Good will toward men!'

“Then we arose with one accord and camo
Even unto Bethlehem!
And our eyes have seen the Christ!
Wherefore let us praise God:
'Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace,
Good will toward men!""
The shepherds went their way,
And the years passed, while in the fields
They watched their flocks. But evermore
They saw visions in the clear blue skies
And heard music in the silent nights
That others saw and heard not.

THE WHISTLING REGIMENT.*

JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompanh mont on the piano and by the whistling of strains from Anuio Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses.

The melody should be played very softly, except where the battlo is alluded to, and the wbistling should be so timed that the last struin of Annie Laurie may end with the words, "would lay me down and die.” The beat of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it is better to omit it unless it can be done skil. fully. It is well to state bofore reciting, that the escape described is not entirely imaginary, as many prisoners made their way through underground passages from rebel prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk at the end of a line de potes where the whistling should commence, and a dagger where it should cease, When the North and South had parted, and the boom of

the signal gun Had wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to

be done, When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and

dale, When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's

cheeks turned pale, In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down

the west, A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast. From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as

one, Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when

“Go."

We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way, But it ripened to full completeness, when the parting came,

that day; Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent

prayer That seemed to say: "God bless you, and guard you, every

where." At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow, She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of

the rustling trees,* The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze, Then I drew her pale face nearer and said : “Brave heart

and true. Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you." And I called her my Annie Laurie and whispered to her

that I For her sweet sake was willing to lay me down and die. And I said: “Through the days of danger, that little song

shall be Like a password from this hillside, to bring your love to

me.”+ Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death, When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated

breath,* The lips of strong men trembled and brave breasts heaved

a sigh, When some one whistled softly; " I'd lay me down and

die.”+ The tender little ballad our watchword soon became, And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name. In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,* The boys from old New England ofttimes went rushing by, And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went, For the gray-coats fled, in terror, from the "whistling regi

ment.” Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the shells

on high, You could hear the brave boys whistling: “I'd lay me down

and die.”+ But, alas! though truth is mighty and right will, at last,

prevail, There are times when the best and braiest, by the wrong

outnumbered, fail; And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at

most, A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the natural