Or he's not too nice to mix

In the dish of politics;

And the dignity of office he puts on;

And feels as big again

As a dozen nobler men,

While he writes himself the "Honorable John."

Not to hint at female Horners,

Who, in their exclusive corners,

Think the world is only made of upper crust,

And in the funny pie

That we call society,

Their dainty fingers delicately thrust

Till it sometimes comes to pass,
In the spiced and sugared mass,

One may compass (don't they call it so ?) a catch;
And the gratulation given,

Seems as if the very heaven

Had outdone itself in making such a match.

Oh, the world keeps Christmas day
In a queer perpetual way;

Shouting always, "What a great, big boy am I!"

Yet how many of the crowd,

Thus vociferating loud,

And all its accidental honors lifting high,

Have really more than Jack,

With all their lucky knack,

Had a finger in the making of the pie.

Mother Goose for Grown People.

Barbara Frietchie.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach-trees fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famished Rebel horde.

On that pleasant day of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot into Frederick town,
Forty flags with the silvery stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down.
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the Rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire !"-out blazed the rifle blast;
It shivered the window, pane, and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this gray old head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The noble nature within him stirred
To life at Barbara's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head,
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street,
Sounded the tread of marching feet,
All day long that free flag tossed
Over the heads of the Rebel host;
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And, through the hill-gaps, sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more;
Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,

Flag of Freedom and Union wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below at Frederick town.

Whittier.

Which?

The following tells its own story, and a beautiful one it is too-read. ing best ani sounding sweetest, when the family circle have gathered around the evening lamp, perhaps :

"Which shall it be? which shall it be?"

I looked at John - John looked at me
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as tho' my locks were jet).
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak;
"Tell me again what Robert said?

And then I list'uing bent my head.
This is his letter:

"I will give

A house and land while you shall live,

If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty, and work and care,

Which I, though willing, could not spare!
Of seven hungry mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

"Come, John," said L

"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep; " so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept;
Her damp curls lay like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white,
Softly her father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her- not her."

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there
In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek

A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robby's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim,.
Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one-

Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave

Bids us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love,
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in willful way,

And shook his head. "Nay, love, not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly,

Only one more, our eldest lad,

Trusty and truthful, good and glad -
So like his father. "No, John, no-
I cannot, will not, let HIM go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed.
Happy in truth that not one face
We missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting then to ONE IN HEAVEN!

The Power of Habit.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir?"

"That," said he, "is Niagara river."

“Well, it is a beautiful stream,” said I; “bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids?"

"Only a mile or two,” was the reply.

"Is it possible that only a mile from us, we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near the Falls ?"