And go, thou sacred car Yes, let your tears indignant fall, So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The churchyard where his children rest, For many a year and many an age, Of that paternal soul! RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. SPELLING DOWN. Well, Jane, I staid in town last night, I told her I was most too old; A likely gal is Susan Jane, • The image of her mother. I begged and plead with might and main, I ain't much used to city ways, Or city men and women, And what I saw and what I heard, The hall was filled with stylish folks, And Mayor Jones, in thunder tones, The people looked so bright and smart, Then Caleb Dun, the broker's son, He put two n's in money, And Susan Jane, she smirked and smiled, And Leonard Rand, the Harvard chap, Spelled lots o' French and Latin words, And as I sot there, quiet-like, A winkin' and a blinkin', The gas-light glarin' in my eyes, I couldn't help a thinkin' How things were changed since you and I, In other winter weather, Drove o'er the snow-bound Eaton pikes, To spellin' school together. Again the bleak New England hills Of Yankee girls, with hair in curls, They wan't afraid to sing when asked, Twelve couple then a sleigh load made, Down past the Quaker meetin' house, Until (the gas-light dimmer grew,— The school-house lights a gleamin' The pedagogue gave out the words, For he who broke the master's rule Was certain of a trouncin'. Brave hearts went down amid the strife; Like body-guard of veterans scarred, All down but two! Fair Lucy's locks The room is still, the air grows chill, "P-h-t-h-y-s-i-c!" Lisped Lucy in a flurry; Cried Rufus in a hurry. No laurel wreath adorned his brow The master sleeps beneath the hill, Who snapped the word from Lucy Bird, And countless millions bless the name Of him who set in motion The tidal wave which freed the slave The girls who charmed us with their song, Much better than the new ones. WILL GIFFORD, SHE WANTED AN EPITAPH. She came in from the country a few days ago and ordered a headstone for the grave of her departed husband. The marble cutter was to have it all ready yesterday, when she was to come in again with the inscription, have the letters carved on it, and take the stone away. She was on time, but she wore an anxious, troubled look, having failed to write up such a notice as she thought the stone ought to bear. "I want something that'll do my poor dead Homer justiss," she explained to the marble cutter. "I think I ought to have one or two verses of poetry, and then a line or two at the bottom-suthin' like, 'Meet me on the other shore."" The cutter said he thought he could get up something, and she entered the office, and he took out twenty-three sheets of foolscap and three penholders, and set to work, while she held her breath for fear of disturbing his thoughts. He ground away for a while, scratched out and wrote in, and finally said he'd got the neatest thing that ever went upon white marble. It read: IN MEMORY of HOMER CLINK, who died October 13, 1873, Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days. My husband was a noble man, Of me he lots did think; And I'll never see another man Like my dear Homer Clink. "Isn't that bully?" asked the man as he finished reading the inscription. "It's purty fair, but-" replied the widow. "But what, madam?” "Why, you see, he was good and kind, and was allus hum nights, and all that, but I may find another man just as good, you know. I have said that I wouldn't marry again, but I may change my mind, and I guess we'd better tinker up that verse a little. And besides, you didn't get anything on the bottom." She went out and rambled among the tombstones, while the cutter ground away again, and just as she had become interested in a dog-fight he called her in and read the new inscription. The first part was as before, but his poetry read: My husband is dead, |