of the "last war,” lived in the house with Sparin, and would undoubtedly go in and see how it was with his unfortunate neighbor. Uncle Bean, however, was in bed, and in response to Blifkins' knocks a window was opened over the door, and a voice harshly demanded, what the deuce was the row. Blifkins explained the matter as well as he could, which was poorly enough, as the veteran was a little hard of hearing. As soon as he could make the story out, he told Blifkins that he must be excused from doing anything, as he had just retired on four fingers of whiskey and a bad cold, and didn't want to be disturbed. He advised Blifkins to go down the street to Constable Grabem's, and get him to come up and attend to the affair, as it was his especial busi

ness.

The office of constable had been filled, from time immemorial, by some unfortunate who was unable, from bodily infirmity or otherwise, to get a living, but who was deemed sufficient to preserve the peace and dignity of the town, though a home guard of seventy men are now enrolled for that purpose.

Blifkins assured himself, as he came out again into the street, that the unfortunate was still there, though Mrs. Blifkins and the domestic forces had retreated to the citadel.

"Mr. Blifkins!" said his wife from an upper story window, "have you tied him?”

Without deigning a reply, because it might involve too long an explanation, and provoke unpleasant remark, Blifkins started at double quick for Grabem's, who lived some twenty rods down the street. The old fellow was cooling off in the porch of his house, tilted back in a chair made of a flour barrel, which just admitted his spacious person, and smoking a clay pipe. He heard the story patiently, but vouchsafed no reply to Blifkins' prognostications regarding the inebriate's performance of mischief, except "Let him." "He'll cut his own throat, and then murder his family," said Blifkins.

"Let him," replied Grabem, puffing away.

"He'll set fire to the house, and burn the neighborhood!" screamed Blifkins.

"Let him!" shouted the constable.

"He'll kill everybody, and play the deuce generally!" yelled Blifkins.

'Let him!" roared the official, breaking the clay pipe as he tipped energetically forward.

Blifkins went back, and bethought himself that Sparin had a son, a sort of second edition of himself,-who was disposed of an evening to make merry with boys of his age, by the grocery at the other side of his residence, about as far as he had come to find the constable. He would go and see him, and have him go home and look after his eccentric paternal. He accordingly rushed, as fast as his weary limbs would carry him, to where he expected to find the lad. He looked up at the house as he passed by, and there was the face, still there, with the set eyes and the busy hands.

Fortunately for Blifkins, the boy was found; and on being informed of the suspicions concerning his parent, and expressing his own convictions thereon in a very precocious manner, involving sundry unfilial remarks, implying a wish that he might be permitted to punch his head, they started down the street together. The outposts of the Blifkins stockade saw them coming down the street by the uncertain light of the stars, and the whole garrison turned out to meet them, with the remark of Mrs. Blifkins, that he had been gone two hours, and that all of them might be killed and scalped if they depended upon such as he for protection. It was an exaggeration with regard to the time, because not more than half an hour had elapsed since he had arrived from the city; but something must be allowed for excitement, when a maniac, threatening violence, and perhaps death, was in the case.

Blifkins thought it would be best for the boy to go in, while he would wait outside of the door, armed with a bludgeon, to rush in at the first alarm. He accordingly provided himself with a cat-stick, and stood with a beating heart to await the result. He heard no sound from within. The stillness of death prevailed. Could it be possible that the maniac had rushed upon the lad suddenly and strangled him! He glanced up at the window, and saw that the stony face had disappeared. He couldn't leave his youthful

ally to perish. The respect of the neighborhood, his r respect, and, more than all, the respect of Mrs, BliCkins, whom he still saw watching him from the opposite side of the way, forbade so cowardly a thing. He seized his cudgel with a firmer grasp, and was lifting his foot to take a step nearer the door, when he heard a step upon the stairs inside, and the door opened. He was relieved by seeing that it was the boy, who said,—

"It's all right."

"What's all right?" cried Blifkins, taking him by the col lar, and dragging him across the street to where the impatient group were awaiting the denouement of the scene.

"It's only mother," said he, as soon as he could speak; "you see she wears a wig, and was sitting there where you saw her, pulling out the short hairs that were growing on her head-she's as bald as a plate."

"Just as I thought," said Mrs. Blifkins, "and anybody but a fool would have seen it at once. I declare I believe Blifkins is growing stupider and stupider every day. I'm thankful none of the children take after him."

"True, dear," chimed in his mother-in-law; "but it couldn't be expected any different, because men are never so considerate as women. Though he hadn't ought to try your feelings so at such a time."

"Oh! my feelings are not of any consequence," said Mrs. Blifkins; "I never expect any consideration for them."

Blifkins with a tried spirit went into the house, the light had disappeared from the pane opposite, he heard his children say their prayers as he put them to bed, and sat down in velvet slippers and tranquil meditation, thanking his lucky stars that he had been saved from participating in what might have been a tragedy, had the fates so willed it. -Pertingtonian Patchwork.

THE OLD CLOCK AGAINST THE WALL.

Oh! the old, old clock of the household stock,
Was the brightest thing, and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime rang still the sweetest;

'Twas a monitor too, though its words were few,
Yet they lived though nations altered;
And its voice, still strong, warned old and young,
When the voice of friendship faltered:
"Tick! tick!" it said-" quick, quick to bed,
For ten I've given warning;
Up! up! and go, or else you know,

You'll never rise soon in the morning!'

A friendly voice was that old, old clock,
As it stood in the corner smiling,

And blessed the time with a merry chime,
The wintry hours beguiling;

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,
As it called at day-break boldly;

When the dawn looked gray o'er the misty way,
And the early air blew coldly:

"Tick! tick!" it said, "quick out of bed,

For five I've given warning;

You'll never have health, you'll never have wealth,
Unless you're up soon in the morning!"

Still hourly the sound goes round and round,
With a tone that ceases never;

While tears are shed for bright days fled,
And the old friends lost forever;

Its heart beats on-though hearts are gone,
Its hands still move-though hands we love
Are clasped on earth no longer!

"Tick! tick!" it said-" to the church-yard bed,
The grave hath given warning:

Up! up! and rise, and look at the skies,
And prepare for a heavenly morning!"

THEBES.-WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

And Thebes, how fallen now! Her storied gates
Resistless all! Where sweeps the Nile's swift wave,
Relentless sands embattling, she awaits

Her final sepulture and gathering grave:-
For Lybia there her wide dominion brings,
More powerful than Severus to entomb,
And vaster than the sculptur'd place of kings,
That pierces far the mountain's inmost womb,

Her moral breathes from out a sterner wilder gloom.

The city rose where wandering paths were traced,—
Robed by the Graces she came forth a queen ;—
Man in his virtue took her from the waste,

Man in his wrath turned her to waste again;
He conquered whilst his passions were aflame,
But he became relentless 'mid the glare

Of his wild conquests, and his conquerors came;
All that he worshipped perished-all that were
Of his, swept through the rapid tideway of despair.

Methinks I see her serried legions march,
And hear the cadent tramp of many feet;
Proud banners wave upon the sculptur'd arch;
The drum's stern tempest and its stirring beat
Invoke to ardor where the fearless meet.

The fierce steed prances to the trumpet's note
With flushing nostrils and disdainful feet,

And tossing mane and battle-breathing throat,
To make the poet's theme, and history's pen provoke.

And here, where ruin peers, the lover wooed

And won his bride-brave men and beauteous maids
Trod proudly through the vestibules-here stood
In stern command, within the pillar'd shades,
Imperious monarchs, whose ensanguin'd blades
Defied the gods-and here remorseless war,
Sedition's rage, inexpiable deeds,

And conquering crime, made her the servitor

Of baseness-she became the handmaid of the boor.

And now she is a lone, deserted one,

The tears of Niobe are hers, for she

Has lost her children-fate they could not shun,
Or from the shafts of stern Latona flee.
Wrapt in her griefs, she owns the dark decree,
And bows where Amphion left his bloody stains;
Requiting gods from thraldom do not free,

No tides of life swell through her pulseless veins,
Where she was turned to stone in gloom she still remains.

She was a city of a thousand years

Ere Homer harped his wars, yet on her plain, Crumbling, the riven monument appears,

To mourn that glory ne'er returns again:

Her front of graven epics vainly tells

How long she conquered-lonely musings bound The storied place-where deep ranks gathered, swells, Of fallen architraves, the saddening mound,

And many a worshipp'd pile bestrews the silent ground.