stalwart 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 have— a 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 SMILEY But this Mr. Piso Was much more sedate than his wont was to be. And so Mr. Prigg kept his eye on Sir Piso, He presently spied him. Slip a fine silver teaspoon down into his shoe. Sempronius Prigg, when he saw Mr. Piso, Was poking a teaspoon Away in his pocket with subtlest tact. But the hostess she happened to see this manœuvre, And to ask him before a whole table-full, too. But Prigg very promptly responded, " Well, madam, 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, While still at this table, To send this same teaspoon wherever I please. "Now this is a wonderful, rare exhibition, Presto tu chango You will now find your spoon in that gentleman's shoe." *From "Meditations of Samwell Wilkins," a collection of original poems, opintons 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. On a sudden a torch, flaming in the doorway, Of rustics following and peering through the gloom. 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 haste, 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 host, 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 came 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 THE WHISTLING REGIMENT.* JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompani ment on the piano and by the whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses. The melody should be played very softly, except where the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be so timed that the last strain 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 skilfully. It is well to state before 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 denotes 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 'twas won; *Taken, by permission of the author, from "Lines and Rhymes," an admirable compilation of original articles especially suitable for public reading and recitation. 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, everywhere." At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow, She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go." 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."t 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."t 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 regiment." 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."t But, alas! though truth is mighty and right will, at last, prevail, There are times when the best and bravest, 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 rahal host. |