An' bury th' three in one coffin. I can't bear th' terrible load.

Mary has crossed th' Division, an' I'm-somewhere upon th' long road."

Th' sun was jes' up in th' mountains, an' out in the treetops a bird

Was a-singin' away ter th' mornin', an' th' Little Chickwater was heard;

An' thar wasn't a man in th' number but felt somehow ter

ribly weak,

An' too sick an' faint with th' horror ter think o' a word fer

ter speak.

Wal, Kern'l, that pine-tree I show'd ye, a-fore it begin ter git dark,

Has had a piece cut from its south side, an' onter that place

is a mark

O' a cross; an' beneath it, a-lyin' thar side by side,
Is Bill, an' Mary, an' Baby, gone over th' Big Divide.

TRUTH IN THE SHIP'S LOG.

During a certain voyage of a down-east vessel the mate, who usually kept the log, became intoxicated one day and was unable to attend to his duty. As the man very rarely committed the offence the captain excused him and attended to the log himself, concluding with this: "The mate has been drunk all day."

Next day the mate was on deck and resumed his duties. Looking at the log he discovered the entry the captain had made and ventured to remonstrate with his superior.

"What was the need, sir," he asked, "of putting that down on the log?"

'Wasn't it true?" asked the captain.

"Yes, sir; but it doesn't seem necessary to enter it." "Well," said the captain, "since it was true, it had better stand; it had better stand."

The next day the captain had occasion to look at the log, and at the end of the entry the mate made was this item:

The captain summoned the mate and thundered : "What did you mean by that entry? Am I not sober

every day?"

Yes,

66

Why of course it was true!"

Well, then, sir," said the mate, " since it was true, I think it had better stand; it had better stand."

JONER SWALLERIN' A WHALE.-LOUIS EISENBEIS. Written expressly for this Collection.

I've jined the church, I've seen enough of worldly fuss and foolin',

'Tis nothin' but a noisy show, besides, a costly schoolin';
For five and forty year, an' more, I served the cause of Satan,
And I couldn't say enough agin the churches I was hatin'.
The Bible was a sham to me-of course, I never read it;
I read a heap of Thomas Paine, an' what he said, I said it.
I'd argy any bible saint, and smash his golden rule,
And I could always bring him down, by sayin', "You're a
fool!"

I thought I was a kind of boss; a mighty truth expounder,
Not knowin' I was jist as dumb, and flat as is a flounder.
I thought myself a heap too smart, to jine a bible-meetin',
And said religion was a fraud, and preachers were deceitin'.

I once remember goin' in, to hear a bible sermon;

The preacher was a thick-set man, his hair to gray was turn

in',

He took his text,-I didn't mind just what the words, or where,

But anyhow, I told my wife, 'twas somewhere in Isaier,'Twas that old bible story, which I then thought weak and stale,

Which he fixed up to suit himself--I mean, Joner and the whale.

The preacher was ablaze with zeal, but I didn't hear a word For nurturin' my own conceit, and thinkin', " How absurd!” I waited till the preacher closed, and when he got done preachin',

I says to him, says I, "Look here! do you b'leve that yarn you're teachin'?"

'Tis jist that kind of preachin' does a mighty sight of harm. The preacher looked dumbfounded, and he said, “My friend, what yarn?"

"I mean," says I, "that story, so onreasonable and stale,
Of Joner, tumblin' in the sea, and swallerin' a whale."
Said I, "it's false, no matter who, that simple story wrote,
No livin' man could ever git a big whale down his throat."

The people laughed, the preacher smiled, my words were hard to endure,

The preacher somehow looked confused; thinks I, he's cornered sure.

Said he, "My friend, you've got it wrong, your mind's a little dim,

Joner didn't swaller the whale, 'twas the whale that swallered him.

Perhaps," said he, "you haven't given this subject proper heed,

Or else, I beg your pardon, sir, you've not yet learned to

read."

"Wal now," says I, "to say the least, that's most tremenjus

cool;

Do you, my aged preacher friend, take me to be a fool?
I've growed a man, an' read a heap, I've teached a country

school,

And now you want to put me down, as dummer'n a mule."

It raised my dander, hot and high, to hear him talk that

way,

And so I s'pose I said some things, I hadn't orter say.

But you know I never go round the bush, I always speak

my mind,

And though I seemed a little harsh, he took it very kind. He took my hand, and gently said: "Before I say good-bye, Allow me, sir, to say a word, mistakes are slow to die. When you get home, take my advice, and take your Bible

down,

And read again that wondrous tale of Jonah's strange re

nown,

And see how easy 'tis to err-though truth be high and deep, Be sure you're right, then go ahead; look first, before you

leap.

I went straight home, and took the Bible down from the mantel shelf,

Brushed off the dust, to hunt the place, just to satisfy my

self.

It takes sometime to find a text, to me it ginerally does, And so it took me over an hour, to find where Joner was. At last I found it, and I read, as if I'd found a prize,

I read agin, and sakes alive! I scarce could b'l'eve my eyes. Right there it was, in black and white-my sight began to fail

It said, that Joner in the sea, was swallered by the whale.
If I'd been struck by a lightnin' flash, I couldn't felt worse,

I say, When I saw what a fool I'd made myself, in the meetin'house that day.

How I shet my ears agin the truth, and done my best to try To prove the preacher was a fraud, and the Bible was a lie. Just then it was, this thought came in, 'tis the doin's of the Lord!

To prove to me my blindness, by the shinin' of his word. My doubts all fled, I jined the church, no more Tom Paine fur me!

The bible agrees with common sense, as any man may see. And now for nearly fifty year I've seen a heap of things; I've watched the tricks and traits of men, from peasants up to kings;

But I never knowed an infidel yit, that didn't git things by the tail,

And try to make the Bible read, that Joner swallered the whale.

MY DOLLS.-BERTHA GERNEAUX DAvis.

I found my old dolls in the attic to-day,
In a box where I long ago laid them away.
It was silly, I know, but 'twas such a surprise,
The sight of their faces brought tears to my eyes.

There was poor little Flossie, with azure eyes closed.
For many a month she had quietly dozed,

In the little silk gown in which I last dressed her-
That time was brought back so, I stooped and caressed her;

And then, as I raised her, she opened her eyes,
And stared at her mother in such sad surprise
That I kissed her and laid her again in her place
To keep her reproachful blue eyes off my face.

And next I uncovered my little bisque Mabel,
To meet whose brown eyes I was still more unable.
Their gaze was surprised, but exceedingly mild,
My poor little, dear little, laid-away child!

And I kissed her, her face looked so childish and sweet,
And I held for a moment her little kid feet,

For her stockings were scattered, and so were her shoes,
And then, when I found them, they gave me the blues.

I kissed her, and laid her back in the box, but

She looked at me still (for her eyes would not shut),
And hastily covering her face from my sight,

I searched till wax Elsie I brought to the light.

Now, that poor little doll was only my niece,

Her eyes were dark-blue and her curls white as fleece. But her nose was so flat, 'twas no longer a nose,

And her wax cheeks had faded and lost all their rose.

From losing her sawdust her body was slender,
Yet for these very reasons my kiss was more tender,
And I laid the poor thing away with a sigh,
And feeling, I must say, like having a cry.

One big doll was missing,-my dear Rosabel,—
How much I did love her, I really can't tell.
It is painful, indeed, to be talking about,

But I loved her so much that I quite wore her out.

Well, well, I am older, but I'm sure I'm not glad.
The thought of those old times, in fact, makes me sad.
And, although the feeling is silly, I know,

I cannot help sighing: "Oh! why did I grow?"

JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL.-EUGENE J. HALL,

"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the raging billows roll,

While the tempest still is nigh!"

Carelessly a little child,

In the sunshine, at her play,

Lisping sang and sweetly smiled,

On a joyous April day.

Sang with laughter, light and droll

Sang with mirth in each blue eye:

"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly!”

"Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;

Oh, receive my soul at last!"
Sang a maiden with a face

Free from look of earthly care,