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the hands that did this were those of a loving Southern woman, whose father had fallen on the Confederate side in the battle, I said: “The war indeed is over; let us have peace!”
Gentlemen ; soldiers ; comrades; the silken folds that twine about us here, for all their soft and careless grace, are yet as strong as hooks of steel! They hold together a united people and a great nation; for, realizing the truth at last, --with no wounds to be healed and no stings of defeat to remember,—the South says to the North, as simply and as truly as was said three thousand years ago in that far away meadow upon the margin of the mystic sea : “ Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
A GOOD JOKE ON MARIA. The Centennial Celebration of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church was held in Philadelphia, May 17-29, 1888. During the week commencing May 21, the Butcher beld their National Convention in the same city and paraded in their peculiar dress on the 24th. The day was a very rainy one.
I've got a good joke on Mariar,
'Nd that allers does me proud.
But-she's a leetle inclined to crowd.
I haint never had no call;
She sets up to know it all.
I don't think we're no ways sot;
'Nd that's ez fur ez we've got.
We're up to see an’ hear it,
In a genooine Christian speerit.
To obsarve the celebration
The Presbyterians had got up
For their hundredth centenation. 'Nd we stood there in all that rain
To see their grand parade. Ef it hadn't 'a' been to encourage 'em
I don't think I'd 'a' stayed.
So I didn't inind it much
'Nd wearin' white gowns, ’nd such I only hunched Mariar, ’nd says:
Presbyterians is pretty gay;
Carry on in no sech way.”
She jest looked round an’smiled
That I jest nacher'ly biled.
'Most any man would, ye see; Them haint no Presbyterians;
Them's 'Piscopals,” sez she. Then a man next to me spoke up,
Ez civil ez civil could be: “ They're wet enough to be Baptists.
But they're jest the Butchers,” ses be I gin one look at my pardner;
Her face wuz ez red ez fire; Bo I jest let the matter drop,
But I've got a good joke on Mariar.
UP HIGHER.-JOSEPH BERT SMILTY.
Every time you miss, or fail,
Every stunning blow of pain
for a larger sphere
THE FIREMAN'S PRIZE. These lives were suggested by the brave act of Fireman McAlhattan, in modo ming a little child from death, near Dimmock Station, Pa., April 21, 1891. With his hand upon the throttle as the train swept round
the bend, The engineer stood ready the signal forth to send; His eye alert and watchful as he scanned the iron way That between him and the station in the gleaming sunlight
lay. All alone he kept his vigil, save for one who, true and tried, With a spirit never failing, shared each danger by his side, His fireman, brave and dauntless, with his nerves like tem
pered steel, But, with heart of gold within him, prompt to act and quick
feel. Like a flash of summer lightning, onward dashed the fiery
steed, Never pausing for a moment in its rush of headlong speed. When suddenly the whistle sounded shrill upon the air, And the engineer grew pallid with a look of wild despair;
For there, before him standing, not a hundred yards away,
fell; But only for an instant-quick as thought he struck the
bell, And reversed the flying engine, but, alas, in vain, in vain ! For, with terrible momentum, onward sped the rushing
train. " You stay!
I'll save the baby!” all at once rang in his ear; And, almost before the meaning of his comrade's words was
clear, From his cab had leaped the fireman, of the danger think
ing naught, Driven onward by an impulse that with generous love was
fraught. Like a deer before its hunters, like an arrow through the
sky, Sped he on his noble mission, the dread monster to outvie, While from every door and window of the scarcely slack
ened train Anxious eyes his footsteps followed as he strove the goal to
gain. On he dashed, the score of watchers gazing with suspended
breath At the contest, so unequal, in the very jaws of death; Every voice to whispers sinking, direst fear in every face, Lest the brave man, speeding onward, should be conquered
in the race. It could last but little longer, and a breathless silence fell, When suddenly, like thunder, rose a wild, triumphant yell, That, echoing and re-echoing, seemed to pierce the very
skies, For the fireman was the victor, and the baby's life his prize! Ah! the smiles and tears and praises showered on him ev
erywhere As be placed the blue-eyed baby in its mother's tender
care; Then, to his post up-springing, as the train again moved on, Mid the sound of cheering voices, in a moment he was gone.
- Golden Days.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
He his last day on earth had passed ;
Found a fitting rebuke at last.
And his salesrooms with crape were hung,
To the cold river Styx had come.
He fain would have stayed on the land,
As he felt the force of Death's hand.
And treinbled so in affright
Till the echoes darkened the night.
In mocking, sepulchral tone,
“To the gates of your future home.” A fearful voyage was that, in all truth,
To the wretched and abject man ;
And he wished he was young again.
We separate here,” Charon said ;
A path through a dark tunnel led.
He followed his merciless guide Until they arrived at a loathsome den,
By the foot of a mountain side. “Spirit,” the regal custodian said,
“Behold here the home you have won! Here you must live till your victims forgive
The numerous wrongs you have done.
You are called upon here to reap,
Ere you planted those seeds so deep.”