And go, thou sacred car
Bearing our woe afar!

Yes, let your tears indignant fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall;
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The fallen to his last repose.
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home,

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best,
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!

For many a year and many an age,
While history on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that paternal soul!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

SPELLING DOWN.

Well, Jane, I staid in town last night,
(I know I hadn't oughter)
And went to see the spellin' match,
With Cousin Philip's daughter.

I told her I was most too old;
She said I wasn't nuther-

A likely gal is Susan Jane,

• The image of her mother.

I begged and plead with might and main,
And tried my best to shake her,
But blame the gal, she stuck and hung,
Until I had to take her.

I ain't much used to city ways,

Or city men and women,

And what I saw and what I heard,
Just sot my head a swimmin'.

The hall was filled with stylish folks,
In broadcloth, silks and laces,
Who, when the time had come to spell,
Stood up
and took their places;

And Mayor Jones, in thunder tones,
And waistcoat bright and yeller
Gave out the words to one and all,
From a new-fangled speller.

The people looked so bright and smart,
Thinks I it's no use foolin',
They've got the spellin'-book by heart
With all their city schoolin';
Till Orvil Kent, the Circuit Judge,
Got stuck on Pennsylvania,
And Simon Swift, the merchant's clerk,
Went down on kleptomania.

Then Caleb Dun, the broker's son,

He put two n's in money,

And Susan Jane, she smirked and smiled,
And left out one in funny.

And Leonard Rand, the Harvard chap,
With features like a lady,

Spelled lots o' French and Latin words,
And caved on rutabaga.

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
Re-echoed to the singing

Of Yankee girls, with hair in curls,
Who set the welkin ringing:

They wan't afraid to sing when asked,
And never would refuse to;
Somehow the singing now-days, Jane,
Don't sound much as it used to.

Twelve couple then a sleigh load made,
Packed close to keep from freezin';
Lor' bless the black-eyed rosy girls,
They didn't mind the squeezin';
Your sweetheart never would complain
Because you chanced to crowd her,
They'd more of flesh and blood them days
And less of paint and powder.

Down past the Quaker meetin' house,
And through the tamarack holler,
'Mid mirth and song we sped along,
With other loads to foller,

Until (the gas-light dimmer grew,—
I surely wa'n't a dreamin')
Upon the distant hill I see

The school-house lights a gleamin'

The pedagogue gave out the words,
His steel-bowed specs adjustin',
To linsey girls, with hair in curls,
And boys in jeans and fustian;
The letters rang out sharp and clear,
Each syllable pronouncin',

For he who broke the master's rule

Was certain of a trouncin'.

Brave hearts went down amid the strife;
The words came thicker, faster,

Like body-guard of veterans scarred,
The boys closed round the master—

All down but two! Fair Lucy's locks
Swept over Rufus' shoulder,

The room is still, the air grows chill,
The winds blow fiercer, colder.

"P-h-t-h-y-s-i-c!"

Lisped Lucy in a flurry;
P-h-t-h-i-s-i-c!"

Cried Rufus in a hurry.

No laurel wreath adorned his brow
Twined by a blood-stained Nero;
Yet in his homespun suit of blue
Young Rufus stood, a hero.

The master sleeps beneath the hill,
The voice of Rufus Bennett,

Who snapped the word from Lucy Bird,
Was heard within the Senate,

And countless millions bless the name

Of him who set in motion

The tidal wave which freed the slave
From ocean unto ocean.

The girls who charmed us with their song,
'Mid heavenly choirs are singin';
Their feet have pressed the shining street,
Where golden harps are ringin';
We've both grown old and feeble, Jane,
Our views may not be true ones;
Yet somehow all the old times seem

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,
My poor Homer Clink,