four times five are twenty, and four and four are eight. That's as correct as I could get 'em if I went to school for a hundred years. And don't I know how to spell? C-a t is 'cat' the world over, and I'll bet on it every time. H-e-n spells ‘hen,' and I know it as well as if I weighed a ton."

He rose up to throw a stone at a dog across the street, and after resuming his seat he went on:

"Jogerfy kinder wrestles me down, but I don' go much on jogerfy. What do I care whether an island is entirely surrounded by water, or whether there ain't any water within ten miles of it? S'pose I'm going to buy and sell islands for a living? I don't care which is the highest mountain or the longest river, do I? I'm going to keep a feed store, and when I'm rolling bales o' hay around will I care about mountains and rivers? I've heard the boys go on about exports and imports, and straits, and seas, and capes, but what's them to me? If a feller wants a bag o' oats, is he going to wait and ask me when the Island of Madagascar was discovered?"

He carefully examined the big toe of his left foot and the heel of his right foot, and gloomily observed:

"The old folks are making ready to push me into school, and I've got to make ready to keep out. I can't take to school, somehow. I could sit here and study all day, but the minute I get into a school-house I'm nervous. Something's going to happen to me this week. I'll be taken home in a wheelbarrow with a big gash in my heel, or my toe almost cut off. That will mean four weeks on a crutch, and they don't allow lame boys to go to school and crutch up and down the aisles. Or, sposin' I go home with palpitation of the heart? The old lady has had it, and I won't more than get into the house before she'll have me tucked up on the lounge, the camphor bottle down, currant jell and sponge cake in the distance, and she'll call out to the old gent:

"Father, it's no use of thinking of sending this boy

to school. He looks stout and healthy, but he's a mere shadder. The close atmosphere of the school-room will kill him before snow flies.'"

The boy looked up. There was a grin all over his face, and he chuckled:

"Palpitation is the key-note! A sore toe can be seen, -a palpitating heart is hidden away under hide and fat and ribs. Now then-oosh-Woosh, u-m-m-m-hold yer breath, roll yer eyes, kick out yer left leg, and make her bob around like a fly on a hot stove-cover."

TROUBLE IN THE "AMEN CORNER."

T. C. HARBAUGH.

'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, And the chorus,-all the papers favorably commented on it, For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bon

net.

Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white,

And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,

And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,

And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow,

And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine,

That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day Seven influential members who subscribe more than they

pay,

And having asked God's guidance in a printed prayer or two They put their heads together to determine what to do. They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York,"

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother

Eyer,

And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir."

Said he: “In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile,
And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style;
Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing
Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries
to sing.

We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old,— If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold.”

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,

As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb.

They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair,

And the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;

He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice both cracked and

low,

But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation

To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;" "And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a

nudge,

"And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

"It was the understanding when we bargained for the

chorus

That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother. It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

"We don't want any singing except that what we've bought! The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;

And so we have decided-are you listening, Brother Eyer?That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir."

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,
And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;
His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky
snow,

As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and

low;

"I've sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years,

They've been my staff and comfort and calmed life's many fears;

I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong;
But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back

a song.

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,-

Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's

choir."

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head;

The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs

before us,

And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.
The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot,
A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered

not.

Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart's

desires,

Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs!

LOTTIE DOUGHERTY.-DWIGHT WILLIAMS.

Died, Lottie Dougherty," to-day
The paper said, “M- -ville, N. J."
Though hers a humble name

She won a martyr's fame,
Will live as years shall roll away.

All day she sat in humble toil

And touched the wires with magic coil, And from her fingers quick

The flashes click! click! click! Told tales of pleasure or of spoil.

"On time" or "late" each train she knew,

And told the moment it was due;

And thus she served the throng That whirled each day along, Known only by a loving few.

One eve a storm came crashing down And whirled in frenzy through the town; And in its on ward glee

It rent an ancient tree

That fell before its awful frown.

Across the track!" the girl they told, It lay with broken trunk and old;

The "Express" was nearly due,

It flashed her quick brain through, And then her heart grew faint and cold.

On, on it came with heart of fire,
The steed whose muscles never tire;
And maid and matron sat

And talked of this and that,

Or dreamed of friends with fond desire.

Men lounged within the palace car,
And laughed to see the winds at war;
What if the surging rain

Had flooded vale and plain,
They dreamed no danger near or far.

But ah, that timid girl, her soul
Springs from its fear beyond control;
A hundred lives are hers;
Her bosom heaves and stirs ;
Strange fears across her visign roll.

She seizes quick the signal light,
And rushes like a fairy sprite

Out through the storm and dark;
She swings the "red light." Hark!
The whistle shrieks the wild affright.