THE FORTY-ACRE FARM.

M thinkin', wife, of neighbor Jones, that man of stal

I'M

wart arm

He lives in peace and plenty, on a forty-acre farm; While men are all around us, with hands and hearts

asore,

Who own two hundred acres, and still are wanting

more.

His is a pretty little farm, a pretty little house;
He has a loving wife within, as quiet as a mouse ;
His children play around the door, their father's life to
charm,

Looking as neat and tidy as the tidy little farm.

No weeds are in the corn-fields; no thistles in the oats; The horses show good keeping by their fine and glossy

coats;

The cows within the meadow, resting 'neath the beechen

shade,

Learn all their gentle manners of the gentle milking maid.

Within the fields, on Saturday, he leaves no cradled

grain,

To be gathered on the morrow for fear of coming rain, He keeps the Sabbath holy, his children learn his ways, And plenty fills his barn and bin after the harvest days.

He never has a law-suit to take him to the town,

For the very simple reason there are no line fences

down,

The bar-room in the village does not have for him a charm,

I can always find my neighbor on his forty-acre farm.

His acres are so very few he plows them very deep; 'Tis his own hands that turn the sod, 'tis his own hands that reap

He has a place for everything, and things are in their

place;

The sunshine smiles upon his fields, contentment on his

face.

May we not learn a lesson, wife, from prudent neighbor

Jones,

And not-for what we haven't got-give vent to sighs and moans?

The rich aren't always happy, or free from life's alarm ; But blest are they who live content, though small may be their farms.

THE RUM-SELLER'S INVITATION.

RIENDS AND NEIGHBORS:

FRIENDS

Having just

opened a commodious shop for the sale of liquid Fire, I embrace this opportunity of informing you that I have commenced the business of making Drunkards, Paupers, and Beggars for the sober, industrious, and respectable portion of the community to support. I shall

deal in Family Spirits, which will incite men to deeds of riot, robbery, and blood, and by so doing diminish the comfort, augment the expenses, and endanger the welfare of the community.

I will undertake, at short notice, for a small sum, and with great expectations, to prepare victims for the Asylum, Poor Farm, Prisons, and Gallows.

I will furnish an article which will increase fatal accidents, multiply the number of distressing diseases, and render those which are harmless incurable.

I will deal in drugs which will deprive some of Life, many of Reason, most of Property, and all of Peace, which will cause fathers to become fiends, and wives widows, children orphans, and all mendicants.

I will cause many of the rising generation to grow up in ignorance, and prove a burden and a nuisance to the nation.

I will cause mothers to forget their offspring, and cruelty take the place of love.

I will sometimes even corrupt the Ministers of religion; obstruct the progress of the Gospel; defile the purity of the Church, cause temporal, spiritual, and eternal death; and if any should be so impertinent as to ask why I have the audacity to bring such accumulated misery upon the people, my honest reply is, "Money!" The spirit trade is lucrative, and some professing Christians give it their cheerful countenance.

I have a license, and if I do not bring these evils upon you somebody else will.

I have purchased the right to demolish the character, destroy the health, shorten the lives, and ruin the souls of those who choose to honor me with their custom.

pledge myself to do all I have herein promised. Those who wish any of the evils above specified brought upon themselves or their dearest friends are requested to meet me at my Bar, where Į will for a few cents furnish them with the certain means of so doing.

CONSOLATIONS IN BEREAVEMENT.

DEATH was full urgent with thee, sister dear,

And startling in his speed;

Brief pain, then languor till thy end came near-
Such was the path decreed,

The hurried road

To lead thy soul from earth to thine own God's abode.

Death wrought with thee, sweet maid, impatiently—
Yet merciful the haste

That baffles sickness-dearest, thou didst die,
Thou wast not made to taste

Death's bitterness,

Decline's slow-wasting charm, or fever's fierce distress.

Death came unheralded—but it was well;
For so thy Saviour bore

Kind witness, thou wast meet at once to dwell

On His eternal shore;

All warning spared,

For none He gives where hearts are for prompt change prepared.

Death wrought in mystery; both complaint and cure To numan skill unknown

God put aside all means, to make us sure

It was His deed alone

Lest we should lay

Reproach on our poor selves, that thou wast caught away.

Death urged as scant of time-lest, sister dear,
We many a lingering day

Had sickened with alternate hope and fear

The ague of delay;

Watching each spark

Of promise quenched in turn, till all our sky was dark

Death came and went-that so thy image might
Our yearning hearts possess,

Associate with all pleasant thoughts and bright,
With youth and loveliness;
Sorrow can claim,

Mary, nor lot nor part in thy soft soothing name.

Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes!
Dearest, thou art enshrined

In all thy fragrance in our memories;

For we must ever find

Bare thought of thee

Freshen this weary life, while weary life shall be.

DR. J. H. NEWMAN.