How merrily it is ringing a welcome to the happy young bride and bridegroom! They are just coming up the aisle, the admired of all the simple, honest villagers assembled to witness their joy. His frank, manly face is bent down above hers, and her eyes are raised trustfully to his. What a perfect shower of music the bell is making! What a glad, joyous ring!

The day fades away. It is night, and then day again. Hark! What sound is that? What has so changed the tones of the old bell? Last night it was ringing in loud rejoicing; to-day it is slowly tolling, tolling, like great, deep, half-suppressed sobs. What a dreary sadness steals over us as we listen to its muffled sound! Another friend has passed away. The form, lately so full of life and gayety, is now cold and still in death; and now, in the beautiful springtime, the setting sun casts a golden, warm, and mellow light on the heavy sod that covers her breast, and the villagers sorrowfully mourn a loved one.

Every inhabitant of the village will tell you what the old bell is to him. Every peal awakens a responsive heartbeat in our breasts, for the recollection of half a century is sweetened by hallowed memories.

PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO.-SAMUEL LOVER.

In the gap of Dunlo
There's an echo, or so,

And some of them echoes is very surprisin';
You'll think in a stave

That I mane to desaive,

For a ballad 's a thing you expect to find lies in.
But visible thrue

In that hill forninst you

There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too;
But civilly spake

"How d' ye do, Paddy Blake?"
The echo politely says, "Very well, thank you!"

One day Teddy Keogh
With Kate Conner did go

To hear from the echo such wondherful talk, sir;
But the echo, they say,

Was conthrairy that day,

Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir.

So Ted says to Kate,

""Tis too hard to be bate

By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy ;
But if we both shout

At each other, no doubt,

We'll make up an echo between us, my daisy !"

66

Now, Kitty," says Teddy,
To answer be ready."

"Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty then, sir; Would you like to wed, Kitty darlin'?" says Ted.

66

"Oh, very well, thank you," says Kitty again, sir.
D' ye like me?" says Teddy;
And Kitty, quite ready,

Cried," Very well, thank you!" with laughter beguiling.
Now won't you confess,

Teddy could not do less

Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling.

Oh, dear Paddy Blake,
May you never forsake

Those hills that return us such echoes endearing:
And, girls, all translate

The sweet echoes like Kate,

No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing.
And, boys, be you ready,
Like frolicsome Teddy,

Be earnest in loving, though given to joking;
And, when thus inclined,

May all true lovers find

Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking.

WHAT WHISKEY DID FOR ME.-EDWARD CARSWELL.

TO BE RECITED IN CHARACTER.

Kind friends, I'm glad to meet you here;
I stand before you all,

A soldier who has served his time
With old King Alcohol.

I've stood by him through thick and thin,
Until they call me sot,

And when for him I sold my coat
This was the coat I got..

I fought for him, I bled for him,

As through the streets I'd rave,
And when through him I lost my hat
This is the hat he gave.

My boots were of the neatest fit,
As fine as boots could be;
For him I gave away my boots,
And then he booted me.

My eyes were of the deepest blue,
Nor lustre did they lack;

But now you see they both are red,
And one is also black!

My nose was never beautiful,
But still was not amiss;

Old Alcohol, he touched it up,

And what d' ye think of this?

He promised I should courage have
For all the ills of life;

The bravest thing he made me do
Was beat my little wife.

He promised he would give me wit,
And I should ne'er be sad;

Instead of which he took away
The little sense I had.

The health and wealth he promised me
He never, never gave;

But when he'd taken all I had,
I found myself a slave.

So now I'll fight for him no more,
For woe is all his pay;

He's cheated me and lied to me-
I'll join the "Sons" to-day!

THE NIGHT THAT BABY DIED.-NICHOLAS NILES.

No black-plumed hearse goes slowly sweeping by,
No suits of woe nor masks of misery,

No long procession winding to the tomb
Its serpent length of simulated gloom;
Only one carriage and two mourners there,
Who on the other seat a burden bear-
A little pine-wood coffin, rudely stained
To imitate a fabric finer grained.

Who would suppose that that small box contained
The hopes, the fears, the joys, the exultant pride
Which in the dark were crucified

The night that Baby died?

Poor Baby! what a gleam of glory lit

Yon wretched hovel when he brightened it
With his sweet presence, of a winter morn!
Say not that he to poverty was born,

For from the first his blue, contented eyes
Reflected visions of serener skies.

He saw, beyond the world that round us lies,
That far-off shore whose outline seems so dim,
He found companions in the seraphim,

And all the wealth of Heaven belonged to him;-
Its pearly portals angels opened wide,
The night that Baby died.

He was not poor, but very poor were they
To whom he came-brief sunshine of their day—
The only sunshine that was ever lent

To light the gloom of their dark tenement.
And when he fell into the final sleep

Their hearts were torn by agony so deep

That, bending over him, they could not weep,
But gazed upon him in their dumb despair,-
Upon the little face supremely fair,

The aureole glory of his yellow hair,

Then hugged the grief to which tears were denied,
The night that Baby died.

Dear Lord! who art the poor man's friend and shield,
Be with that carriage in the Potter's Field;
Command the white wings of the Holy Ghost
To cover them, who need thy healing most.
And when upon the little coffin lid

The dull earth falls-the poor pine box is hid—
Though no priest pray, and never prayer is said,
Be thou with them to sanctify their dead.

And though their lives through tortuous paths be led,
Teach them to know, whatever is denied,
They gained the love of Him, the crucified,
The night that Baby died.

RECIPE FOR A MODERN NOVEL.

Stir in a fool to make us laugh;
Two heavy villains and a half;
A heroine with sheeny hair,
And half a dozen beaux to spare;
A mystery upon the shore;

Some bloody foot-prints on a floor;
A shrewd detective chap, who mates
Those foot-prints with the hero's eights,
And makes it squally for that gent-
Till he is proven innocent;

A brown stone front; a dingle dell;
Spice it with scandal; stir it well;
Serve it up hot;-and the book will sell,

A LITERARY NIGHTMARE.-MARK TWAIN.

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following verses, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?

"Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

CHORUS:

Punch, brothers! punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before-a thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen; but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined-I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step, and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight, frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except “Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!" By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings: "Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!"