And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home.
In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose;
And the ever-green love of a virtuous wife

Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.
Then long be the journey, and narrow the way.
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay,
And whate'er others may say, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

WHAT DROVE ME INTO A LUNATIC
ASYLUM.*-ELI PERKINS.

What ruined me and got me into an idiot asylum was this: I used to have a strong contempt for lawyers. I thought their long cross-examinations were brainless dialogues for no purpose. Lawyer Johnson had me as a witness in a wood case. In my direct testimony I had sworn truthfully that John Hall had cut ten cords of wood in three days. Then Johnson sharpened his pencil and commenced examining me."

"Now, Mr. Perkins," he began," how much wood do you say was cut by Mr. Hall?"

"Just ten cords, sir," I answered boldly. "I measured it."

66

Well, we don't want impressions, sir. What we want is facts before this jury-f-a-c-t-s, sir, facts!"

"The witness will please state facts hereafter," said the Judge, while the crimson came to my face.

"Now, sir," continued Johnson, pointing his finger at me, "will you swear that it was more than nine cords?" "Yes, sir. It was ten cords-just-"

"There! never mind," interrupted Johnson. "Now, how much less than twelve cords were there?" "Two cords, sir."

From St. Jacob's Oil Family Calendar, 1885, by permission

"How do you know there were just two cords less, sir? Did you measure these two cords, sir?" asked Johnson, savagely.

"No, sir, I

66 'There, that will do! You did not measure it. Just as I expected,----all guess-work. Now didn't you swear a moment ago that you measured this wood?"

"Yes, sir, but"

"Stop, sir! The jury will note this discrepancy."

"Now, sir," continued Johnson, slowly, as he pointed his finger almost down my throat, "now, sir, on your oath, will you swear that there were not ten cords and a half?"

"Yes, sir," I answered meekly.

"Well now, Mr. Perkins, I demand a straight answer -a truthful answer, sir."

"T-t-ten c-c-cords," I answered, hesitatingly. "You swear it?"

“I—I—d—d-do.”

"Now," continued Johnson, as he smiled satirically, "do you know the penalty of perjury, sir?"

"Yes, sir, I think

"On your oath, on your s-o-l-e-m-n oath, with no evasion, are you willing to perjure yourself by solemnly swearing that there were more than nine cords of wood?" "Yes, sir, I—__”

"Aha! Yes, sir. You are willing to perjure yourself then? Just as I thought (turning to the Judge); you see, your Honor, that this witness is prevaricating. He is not willing to swear that there were more than nine cords of wood. It is infamous, gentlemen of the jury, such testimony as this." The jury nodded assent and smiled sarcastically at me.

"Now," said Johnson, "I will ask this perjured witness just one more question.

"I ask you, sir-do you know-do you realize, sir, what an awful-a-w-f-u-l thing it is to tell a lie?" "Yes, sir," I said, my voice trembling.

And, knowing this, you swear on your solemn oath, that there were about nine cords of wood?"

"No, sir, I don't do anything of"

"Hold on, sir! Now how do you know there were just nine cords?"

"I don't know any such thing, sir! I-"

"Aha! you don't know then? Just as I expected. And yet you swore you did know,----swore you measured it. Infamous! Gentlemen of the jury, what shall we do with this perjurer?"

"But I-"

"Not a word, sir,-hush! This jury shall not be insulted by a perjurer! Call the next witness!"

This is why I am now keeping books in a lunatic asylum.

LITTLE JO.-MARY MCGUIRE.

Written expressly for this Collection.

I wonder if old Santa Claus will come to-night!
He couldn't find the way last year;

I wish he had, for little Jo was here-
Dear little Jo! we're better off a sight,
Than what we were last year

When he was here.

We hadn't fire to keep us warm last Christmas day;

And not enough, not near enough to eat,—

Just bread and tea; but not a bit of meat On Christmas day! I didn't care to play, The snow kept falling fast

And sleighs went past.

Once when I brought my blocks and things to Jo
He moaned as if it hurt him just to look,
Then partly cried, and pushed the picture book;
His sorry eyes looked straight at mother, so,
And she said "Hush, and go away,

Jo doesn't want to play."

And not a soul came in the whole day through,
And we were there alone all day, you see,-
Mother and I, and little Jo-we three;

And then toward night the wind arose and blew,
And I remember now so plain,

How all the snow turned into rain.

That made it lonesomer, you know,

And little Jo grew worse toward night,
And moaned so pitiful, his face was white,
Why, just as white, and cold, almost, as snow.
You see we hadn't fire to keep him warm
Through such a storm.

That's why I had to go to bed so early;
Mother said first I might kiss little Jo,-
I didn't do it every night, you know,
But this was Christmas night,-his hair was curly,
And scattered on the pillow, soft and bright:
I noticed then how solemn and how white,

And lonesome mother looked, she didn't talk,
Except to bid me say my prayers, and say 'em low,
So's not to waken Jo;

And then to see how careful I could walk.

She didn't say another single word;
But kissed Jo as he stirred.

Once in the night I woke—the rain still poured
Against the window; mother sat beside

Jo's bed, and when he tossed about and cried
She soothed him with a hymn about the Lord,-
The dear Christ-child who on one Christmas day,
Long years ago, within a manger lay.

There was such comfort in that pretty hymn,-
Or else in mother's voice,-I nestled deep
Within the coverlid and went to sleep,

Still hearing in my dreams -though faint and dim-
The sound of rain, and mother singing low,
Singing to little Jo.

Next morning I woke suddenly and sat

Up in the bed; the dreadful storm had passed.
Mother was up and sewing just as fast!

It made me very glad to notice that;

She hadn't sewed since Jo was took that way,-
That's why we were so hungry Christmas day.

I dressed me quick, and went to Joey's bed;
He hadn't wakened yet, and lay so still;
His little hands were crossed: I never will

Forget how smooth the curls were on his head.

Mother," I cried, "has Jo got well again?

"Yes, dear," she whispered, "well and out of pain."

And then I went and stood by mother's chair,-
She looked as different, most, as little Jo;
Too pale and sick, it seemed to me, to sew.
And there was such a sadness in the air!

But mother stitched away with all her might,-
A little narrow gown made all of white.

Jo has a pretty grave: it stands alone,

Near other poor folks' graves close by the wall.
The most of them are large, a few are small.
Jo's hasn't yet, of course, got any stone;

But summer grasses grow there just as sweet,
And winter snows,-they drape it like a sheet.

I often wondered how it came that we

Should have the right to lay our dear boy there,
In that sweet spot, with none to blame or care;
I didn't understand how it could be,

For not a blade of grass grows near our door;
We haven't any yard, we are so poor.

So I asked mother when we stood beside
His grave one day. "The dear Lord, long ago,
Gave graves like this," she said, "to such as Jo,"
And then she turned her face away and cried.

I wonder why? It is a pretty grave, I'm sure,
And little Jo-he sleeps there all secure.

SABLE SERMON.-I. EDGAR JONES.

Deah frens, I'se glad ter see yo' heah, I knows yo'll think it funny,

But I is gwine ter preach dis day 'bout ways ob makin'

money.

Dar's mighty few rich folks in heaben, an' many a monstrous

steeple

Am nearah to de angel's home dan those high flyin' people What rustle silks an' muttah prayers jess by its stately shaddah;

Dey'll make less fuss on judgment day, likewise be sufferin'

saddah.