me, bit a farewell hunk out of my leg, kicked, and died,—the same tail, shorter only by six inches, which he used to wear when he and his master and I, in adventurous infancy, scaled the picket-fence to pluck the first ripe potato-balls, and bear them home in childish exultation! I told the proprietor that the deceased had been my friend's dog, homely, faithful, and kind, and I begged that I might convey away the carcass to a taxidermist, and sell the skin for 'nippers.' Ay! upon my head, amid the blood and mud of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and mothers, and the scrabble, shouted in derision; deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see the prince of clowns turn red and grumble about the piece of bleeding dog-flesh. And the proprietor drew back, as I were dilution, and sternly said, 'Let the beast alone! It shall not be mee(a)t for you.' And so, fellow-acrobats, rusticusses, clowns, must you as well as I be bluffed by these covetous proprietors. O Rum, Rum! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that indigent, unostentatious hog-boy, who never heard a louder noise than a thunderbolt, cast-iron muscles, and a heart of brick, taught him to run his hands within the mails and pocket cash, to run his sword against brick buildings and stone walls, to gaze into the bleared eyeballs of the fierce Khamscatkan woodpecker, even as a young lady upon an intimate cat! And he shall pay thee back as soon as the yellow Paddygumpus shall turn red as frothing logwood, and in its deepest juice the codfish lie cradled!

"Ye stand there now like rowdies, as ye are! There is no tin within your gaping pockets; and to-morrow, or next day, some rustic Polyphemus, breathing of onions from his infinite mouth, shall with his freckled fingers point at your red noses, and bet a three-cent piece on your head. Hark! Hear ye yon giraffe roaring in his hen-coop? 'Tis six weeks since he has tasted food; but to-morrow they will, as likely as not, give him your breakfast, and miserable fodder will it be for him, by the way. If ye know nothing at all, scarcely, work then like dogs, for almost nothing and board! If ye are men, follow me; leave the concern, run off with the horses, and set up for yourselves, as your ancestral grandfathers did at old Spoodinkum. Is Scarborough dead? Is

the old 'New England' that you drank to-day dried up with. in you, that ye do skulk and squat, like a be-horse-whipped pup beneath his master's barn? O fellow comrades, rusticusses, clowns! if we must turn inside out, let us do it for ourselves! If we must turn summersets for subsistence, let us do it under a clean tent, with horses that are not lame in more than three legs, ponies that have tails, and horses that haven't sore backs! Let us carve for ourselves, in the annals of cavalry, names which shall far transcend those of all that the world calls great, so that all the champions and knights of old,-Skipio, Alabamacanus, the Knights of Malta, the Arabian Nights, the Spanish Cid,—shall sink into insignificance before us. Let us spur on our painted-white steeds, till we reach the summit of equine renown.”

THE BROWNS.-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Margery Brown in her arm-chair sits,
Stitching and darning and patching for life;
The good woman seems at the end of her wits-
No end to the toil of a mother and wife.
She'd like to be far from her home on the farm;
She sighs for the pleasure and rush of the town;
She counts every stitch, and she longs to be rich-
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.

Here is a coat with a rent in the sleeve;
Here is a sock with a hole in the toe;
This wants a patch on the arm, you perceive;
That must be darned at once, whether or no.
It is patching and darning and sewing of rents,
From dawn till the moment the sun goes down;
And all from those boys full of mischief and noise-
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.

Timothy Brown starts a-field in the morn,

To follow the plough-tail for many an hour;
The drought has been curling the leaves of the corn,
And stirring the ground meets the lack of a shower.
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun,
Through the terrible rays that pour fiercely down,
He treads in his toil o'er the parched dusty soil-
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.

He reaches his home at the close of the day

The oven wood has to be chopped for next morn; The horse must be given his oats and his hay,

The cows have their mash, and the pigs get their corn. He would like for a moment to glance at the news

In the journal that yesterday came from the town;
But when he has fed, he must hurry to bed--
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.

Riding along is the rich Hector Graeme,

With his wife by his side; both are sickly and wan; They have not a child left to carry their name

The one that they owned, to the churchyard has gone.

He looks at the boys perched aloft on the fence,

She sees the stout wife in the skimpest of gowns— "These have children and health!" and the people of wealth Envy the lot of those fortunate Browns.

I think that the world is made up just like this-
Discontent gnaws the higher as well as the low;
The Browns think the Graemes reach the summit of bliss;
The Graemes think the Browns are exempt from all woe.
We are all Browns or Graemes as our stations may be;
We look to our crosses much more than our crowns;
And while Brown and his wife thus repine at their life,
Graemes pass in their coaches and envy the Browns.

JUDGE NOT.

Judge not! The workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,
In God's pure light may only be

A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight,

May be a token, that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal, fiery foe,

Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,

And cast thee shuddering on thy face.

The fall thou darest to despise

Perchance the slackened angel's hand

Has suffered it, that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

CUT BEHIND.-T. DEWITT TALMAGE.

The scene opens on a clear, crisp morning. Two boys are running to get on the back of a carriage, whose wheels are spinning along the road. One of the boys, with a quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, but fails, and falls on the part of the body where it is most appropriate to fall. No sooner has he struck the ground than he shouts to the driver of the carriage, “Cut behind!”

Human nature is the same in boy as in man-all running to gain the vehicle of success. Some are spry, and gain that for which they strive. Others are slow, and tumble down; they who fall crying out against those who mount, "Cut behind!"

A political office rolls past. A multitude spring to their feet, and the race is in. Only one of all the number reaches that for which he runs. No sooner does he gain the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat from his brow, and think how grand a thing it is to ride in popular preferment, than the disappointed candidates cry out, " Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let the newspapers of the other political party 'cut behind.""

There is a golden chariot of wealth rolling down the street. A thousand people are trying to catch it. They run; they jostle; they tread on each other. Push, and pull, and tug. Those talk most against riches who cannot get them. Clear the track for the racers! One of the thousand reaches the golden prize and mounts. Forthwith the air is full of cries, "Got it by fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! His father was a rag-picker! His mother was a washerwoman! I knew him when he blacked his own shoes! Pitch him off the back part of the golden chariot! Cut behind! cut behind!"

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In many eyes success is a crime. "I do not like you," said the snow-flake to the snow-bird. Why?" said the snow-bird. "Because," said the snow-flake, "you are going up and I am going down."

We have to state that the man in the carriage, on the crisp morning, though he had a long lash-whip, with which

he could have made the climbing boy yell most lustily, did not cut behind. He heard the shout in the rear, and said, "Good morning, my son. That is right; climb over and sit by me. Here are the reins; take hold and drive; was a boy myself once, and know what tickles youngsters."

Thank God, there are so many in the world that never "cut behind," but are ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he wants it. There are hundreds of people whose chief joy it is to help others on. Now it is a smile, now a good word, now ten dollars. When such a kind man has ridden to the end of the earthly road, it will be pleasant to hang up the whip with which he drove the enterprises of a lifetime, and feel that with it he never "cut behind" at those who were struggling.

REV. OLEUS BACON, D. D.-IN MEMORIAM.

He was a lowly missionary,
And he sailed upon the sea,
As far as western longitude,
One hundred sixty-three.
Of such a portly presence,
And so unctuous was he,
There seemed no goodlier preacher
In all the presbytery.

But a very unfortunate person,
As all men must agree,
Was the Reverend Oleus Bacon,
To be sent upon a mission

To the islands near Feejee.

He was much too fleshy a person,
As any one might see;

I may say, in fact, he was corpulent

To the very last degree.

His cheeks were as plump as puddings,

His thighs were as fat as could be,

And his beautiful double chin reposed
Upon his bosom free;

And no man in his waistcoat

Ever buttoned so much as he,

This Reverend Oleus Bacon,

As was sent upon a mission
To the islands near Feejee.