souls, according to the settled laws of our increase; our present schooner of state will have grown into a political leviathan--a Great Eastern-and the cradled babies of today will be on deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of these cradles the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething-think of it!—and putting in a world of dead-earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too; in another the future great historian is lying-and doubtless he will continue to lie until his earthly mission is ended; in another the future President is busying himself with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some 60,000 future office-seekers getting ready to furnish him occasion to grapple with that same old problem a second time; and in still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind, at this moment, to trying to find out some way to get his own big toe into his mouth,—an achievement which (meaning no disrespect) the illustrious guest of this evening turned his whole attention to some fifty-six years ago. And if the child is but the prophecy of the man, there are mighty few will doubt that he succeeded. AT THE GARDEN GATE. They lingered at the garden gate, About her waist he placed his arm, His heart, he said, it ever beat And he was happier than a king "Come weal, come woe," in ardent tones This youth continued he, "As is the needle to the pole, So I will constant be; No power on earth shall tear thee, love, From out the chamber window popped A hoarse voice yelled: "You, Susan Jane, And that was all,-it was enough: The young man wildly fled. MACDONALD'S RAID.-A. D. 1780.-PAUL H. HAYNE. (AS NARRATED MANY YEARS AFTER BY A VETERAN OF "MARION'S BRIGADE.") I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray, Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid. Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright, Yet he chose from our numbers four men and no more. 66 score, If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead, With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed. Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark, His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free, With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee, His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King! 'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms, Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven! what a din! 'Tis the front wall besieged-have the rebels rushed in? It must be; for hark! hark to that jubilant ring Of Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped, To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown, Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left Whose heart was not pierced, or whose head-piece not cleft, Of the King, or his minions? No; war and its scars Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town: Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring- Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King. AUNT KINDLY.-THEODOre Parker. Miss Kindly is aunt to everybody, and has been so long that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments three-score years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found his way to college through her pocket. Generations not her own, rise up and call her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. That great fortune-when it was a seed she carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation ran out of the cup her bounty filled. Now she is old; very old. The little children who cling about her, with open mouth and great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or that Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth. To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution of the country. At Christmas they think she is the wife of Saint Nicholas himself, such an advent of blessings is there from her hand. She has helped to lay a blessing in many a poor man's crib. Now these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; they are remembered in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has done is treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer in its breast which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after stratum her good works are laid up, imperishable in the geology of her character. It is near noon. She is alone. She has been thoughtful all day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, and say nothing. In a chamber, from a private drawer, she takes a little casket, and from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped; but the clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding is faded by long use. Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name on the fly-leaf; only her Christian name, "Agnes," and the date. Sixty-eight years ago this day it was written there, in a clear, youthful, clerkly hand-with a little tremble in it, as if the heart beat over it quick. It is a very well-worn, dear old Bible. It opens of its own accord at the fourteenth chapter of John. There is a little folded piece of paper there; it touches the first verse and the twenty-seventh. She sees neither; she reads both out of her soul; "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God; believe also in me." "Peace I leave with you. My peace give I unto you. Not as the world giveth give I unto you." She opens the paper. There is a little brown dust in it; perhaps the remnant of a flower. She takes the precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She drops a tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes; it is a red rose of the spring, not quite half-blown, dewy, fresh. She is old no longer. It is not Aunt Kindly now; it is sweet Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was eightand-sixty years ago, one day in May, when all nature was |