snug home, where you might live in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body hammered to a jelly; and all for what? Why, for a championship! It's ridiculous. What good'll it do you if you are champion? Why don't you try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?" "This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a-" "I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to jail," said the sheriff, with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole thing." "You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman." "Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "It's too bad for you to lie that way-too bad, indeed." "But I am a clergyman, sir,-pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre. Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me." "You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared. "Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my sermons." "Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't know how I ever— a preacher! What a fool I've made of myself! I don't know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front steps, just kick away; I'll bear it like an angel." Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs to finish his Sunday sermon. The sheriff talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on. SPEAK GENTLY.-DAVID BATES. This beautiful, and well known poem, was originally published in Philadelphia in 1845. The author died, January, 1870. Speak gently! it is better far To rule by love than fear. Speak gently-let no harsh words mar Speak gently! Love doth whisper low Speak gently to the little child; Speak gently to the young, for they Pass through this life as best they may Speak gently to the aged one, Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Speak gently to the erring-know Speak gently-He who gave his life Speak gently! 'tis a little thing "IF IT WAS NOT FOR THE DRINK." A. L. WESTCOMBE. "Tis close upon the midnight chimes, The fire is burning low, My eyes are blinded so with tears I cannot see to sew; I'm faint and hungry, and I fain And stole to see them as they slept, We have but rags upon us now, There's nothing but my shadow now Across the empty space Where our old clock stood, year after year, I used to like to hear it tick, And to see the hour draw on Yet he would be so kind and good I'm thankful that your mother's lot My Lizzie with the flaxen curls, There seemed no bitterness in death, As I stood beside your grave, For the Heavenly Shepherd had stooped down, The weakest lamb to save. You'll never cry again, my child, With hunger or with cold, For the sound of weeping is not heard In the city all of gold. Yet still I miss your little face, And the tears fall as I think Oh! sometimes when I'm sitting here And call the wish back as I think To earn a little bit of bread For it's very, very seldom now, Ah me! it is a bitter grief To feel one's love and trust Have leaned upon a broken reed, This bruise is sore-but oh! my heart And try to hide, whose hand it was That gave the cruel blow. For the drink has got that hold on Joe, He's dark and sullen in the morn, I feel ashamed to go to church, "Tis very long since I have had A gown that was not old, And my bonnet has been soaked with rain, And so I have to stay at home, And silently to pray That God would pity my poor Joe, And take his sin away, Without the power to think; Yet he would think, and he would pray, It makes me mad to see the man With his glittering rings and chain of gold, Holding his head so high. 'Tis hard to see his wife and girls In silks and satins shine, And to know the money that they spend And I'm ready oftentimes to wish That all the drink could be, With those that make and those that sell, Flung down into the sea; For almost all the country's woe And crime would with them sink, And men might have the chance for good, WASHINGTON.-DANIEL WEBSTER. Delivered at the laying of the corner stone of the new wing of the Capitol a Washington, July 4, 1851. Washington! Methinks I see his venerable form now before me. He is dignified and grave; but concern and anxiety seem to soften the lineaments of his countenance. The government over which he presides is yet in the crisis of experiment. Not free from troubles at home, he sees the world in commotion and arms all around him. He sees that imposing foreign powers are half disposed to try the strength of the recently established American government. Mighty thoughts, mingled with fears as |