Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers,

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts all aflame.
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter
And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ,
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy,
And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;
Pouring out life for the nurture of men;

In faith that by manhood the world wins all.
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines;
Great with the rifle and, great with the ax,
Sending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs.
Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,
Yet open of hand when the dollar is made,
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar,
But a little too anxious about a good trade.
This is young Jonathan, son of old John,
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right,
Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might.
Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown
From the acorns that fell on that old dim day,
So this new manhood, in city and town,

To a nobler stature will grow alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,

Slow to contention, and slower to quit,
Now and then failing, but never once quailing,
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

DOT LEEDLE LOWEEZA.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

How dear to dis heart vas mine grandshild, Loweeza!
Dot shveet leedle taughter off Yawcob mine son!

I nefer vas tired to hug und to shqueeze her
Vhen home I gets back und der day's vork vas done.
Vhen I vas avay, oh, I know dot she miss me,

For vhen I come homevards she rushes bell-mell,
Und poots oup dot shveet leedle mout' for to kiss me-
Her "darling oldt gampa," dot she lofe so vell.

Katrina, mine frau, she could not do mitoudt her,
She vas sooch a gomfort to her day py day;
Dot shild she make efry von habby aboudt her,
Like sunshine she drife all dheir droubles avay;
She holdt der vool yarn vhile Katrina she vind it,
She pring her dot camfire bottle to shmell;
She fetch me mine bipe, too, vhen I don'd can find it,
Dot plue-eyed Loweeza dot lofe me so vell.

How shveet, vhen der toils off der veek vas all ofer,
Und Sunday vas come mit its quiet und rest,
To valk mit dot shild 'mong der daisies und clofer,
Und look at der leedle birds building dheir nest!
Her pright leedle eyes how dhey shparkle mit bleasure,
Her laugh it rings oudt shust so clear as a pell;
I dink dhere vas nopody haf sooch a treasure
As dot shmall Loweeza, dot lofe me so vell.

Vhen vinter vas come, mit its coldt, shtormy veddher,
Katrina und I ve musd sit in der house

Und dalk off der bast, by de fireside togedder,
Or play mit dot taughter off our Yawcob Strauss.
Oldt age mit its wrinkles pegins to remind us

Ve gannot shtay long mit our shildren to dwell;
But soon ve shall meet mit der poys left pehind us,
Und dot shveet Loweeza, dot lofe us so vell.

UNCLE TOM AND THE HORNETS.

There is an old woman down town who delights to find a case that all the doctors have failed to cure and then go to work with herbs and roots and strange things and try to effect at least an improvement. A few days ago she got hold of a girl with a stiff neck, and she offered an old negro named Uncle Tom Kelly fifty cents to go to the woods and bring her a hornet's nest. This was to be steeped in vinegar and applied to the neck. The old man spent several days along the Holden road, and yesterday morning he secured his prize and brought it home in a basket. When he reached the Central Market he had a few little purchases to make and after getting some few articles at a grocery he placed his basket on a barrel near the stove and went out to look for a beef bone.

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It was a dull day for trade. The grocer sat by the stove rubbing his bald head. His clerk stood at the desk balancing accounts, and three or four men lounged around talking about the new party that is to be founded on the ruins of the falling ones. It was a serene hour. One hundred and fifty hornets had gone to roost in that nest for the winter. The genial atmosphere began to limber them up. One old vetcran opened his eyes, rubbed his legs and said it was the shortest winter he had ever known in all his hornet days. A second shook off his lethargy and seconded the motion, and in five minutes the whole nest was alive and its owners were ready to sail out and investigate. You don't have to hit a hornet with the broadside of an ax to make him mad. He's mad all over all the time, and he doesn't care a picayune whether he tackles a humming-bird or an elephant.

The grocer was telling one of the men that he and General Grant were boys together, when he gave a sudden start of surprise. This was followed by several other starts. Then he jumped over a barrel of sugar and yelled like a Pawnee. Some smiled, thinking he was after a funny climax, but it was only a minute before a solemn old farmer jumped three feet high and came down to roll over a job lot of washboards. Then the clerk ducked his head and made a rush for the door. He didn't get there. One of the other men who had been looking up and down to see what could be the matter, felt suddenly called upon to go home. He was going at the rate of forty miles an hour when he collided with the clerk, and they rolled on the floor. There was no use to tell the people in that store to move on. They couldn't tarry to save 'em. They all felt that the rent was too high, and that they must vacate the premises. A yell over by the cheese-box was answered by a war-whoop from the show-case. A howl from the kerosene barrel near the back door was answered by wild gestures around the show window.

The crowd went out together. Uncle Tom was just coming in with his beef bone. When a larger body meets a smaller one, the larger body knocks it into the middle of next week. The old man lay around in the slush until every body had stepped on him all they wanted to, and then he sat up and asked:

"Hev dey got de fiah all put out yit?"

Some of the hornets sailed out of doors to fall by the wayside, and others waited around on top of barrels and baskets and jars to be slaughtered. It was half an hour before the last one was disposed of, and then Uncle Tom walked in, picked up the nest, and said:

"Mebbe dis will cure de stiffness in dat gal's neck, jist de same, but I tell you I'ze got banged, an' bumped, an' sot down on till it will take a hull medical college all winter long to git me so I kin jump off a street kyar!"

-Detroit Free Press.

THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.

JOHN H. YATES.

Well, Betsey, this beats everything our eyes have ever seen! We're ridin' in a palace fit for any king or queen;

We didn't go as fast as this, nor on such cushions rest, When we left New England years ago to seek a home out West.

We rode through this same country, but not as we now ride, You sat within a stage-coach, while I trudged by your side; Instead of ridin' on a rail, I carried one, you know.

To pry the old coach from the mire through which we had

to go.

Let's see; that's fifty years ago,-just arter we were wed; Your eyes were then like diamonds bright, your cheeks like roses red.

Now, Betsey, people call us old, and push us off one side, Just as they have the old slow coach in which we used to ride.

I wonder if young married folks to-day would condescend To take a weddin' tour like ours, with a log house at the end? Much of the sentimental love that sets young cheeks aglow, Would die to meet the hardships of fifty years ago.

Our love grew stronger as we toiled; though food and clothes were coarse,

None ever saw us in the courts a-huntin' a divorce;
Love leveled down the mountains and made low places high;
Love sang a song to cheer us when clouds and winds were

I'm glad to see the world move on, to hear the engine's roar, And all about the cables stretchin' now from shore to shore. Our mission is accomplished; with toil we both are through; The Lord just let us live awhile to see how young folks do. Whew! Betsey, how we're flyin'! See the farms and towns go by!

It makes my gray hair stand on end; it dims my failin' eye. Soon we'll be through our journey and in the house so good, That stands within a dozen rods of where the log one stood. How slow-like old time coaches-our youthful years went by!

The years when we were livin' 'neath a bright New England sky;

Swifter than palace cars now fly, our later years have flown,
Till now we journey hand in hand, down to the grave alone.

I hear the whistle blowin' on life's fast flyin' train;
Only a few more stations in the valley now remain.
Soon we'll reach the home eternal, with its glories all untold,
And stop at the best station in the city built of gold.

MEMORY.-JAMES A. GARfield.

The following poem was written by the late President, during his senior year in Williams College, Mass., shortly before his graduation. It was published in the Williams Quarterly for March, 1856. Viewed in the light of recent events the concluding lines of the poem seem almost prophetic.

'Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down
Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.
No light gleams at the windows, save my own,
Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.
And now, with noiseless step, sweet memory comes
And leads me gently through her twilight realms.
What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung,

Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed

The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells?
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;
And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed
In Heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
Are clustered joys serene of other days.
Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend
The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust
Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,