"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy, John?

If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?"
"That good ship went down!"

"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John ?"

I call upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be built up again, here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world-of a new civilization. But how, I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do, indeed, toil; but they too generally do it because they must, Many submit

They fulfil the great law

to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire noth ing so much on earth as escape from it. of labor in the letter but break it in the muscle but break it with the mind.

spirit; fulfil it with the To some field of labor, mental

or manual, every idler should hasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to Nature -it is impiety to Heaven-it is breaking Heaven's great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat―TOIL, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility.

CATS.-(A Parody on Poe's Raven.)

ANON.

[In a vivacious manner.]

The other night while we lay musing, and our weary brain confusing o'er the topics of the day, suddenly we heard a rattling as of serious hosts a battling, as they mingled in the fray. "What is that?" we cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! we ran against the door. "Oh, 'tis nothing," Edward grumbled, as o'er a huge arm-chair we stumbled, "'tis a bug and nothing more." Then, said we, our anger rising (for we thought it so surprising that a bug should thus offend), "Do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, 'tis not a bug, my friend."

Now, becoming sorely frightened, round our waist our pants we tightened, and put on our coat and hat-when into the darkness peering, we saw, with trembling and much fearing, the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat, Esq. With astonishment and wonder we gazed upon this son of thunder, as he sat upon the floor-when, resolution taking, and a rapid movement making, lo! we opened wide the door. "Now clear out!" we hoarsely shouted, as o'erhead our boot was flouted; "take your presence from my floor." Then with air and mien majestic, this dear creature, called domestic, made his exit through the door. Made his exit without growling, neither was his voice howling, not a single word he said. And with feeling much elated, to escape a doom so fated we went back to bed.

THE MOTHERLESS TURKEYS.

MARIAN DOUGLASS.

[In a natural, simple manner.]

The white turkey was dead! The white turkey was dead!
How the news thro' the barn-yard went flying!

Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys were left,
And their case for assistance was crying.

E'en the peacock respectfully folded his tail,

As a suitable symbol of sorrow;

And his plainer wife said, "Now the old bird is dead,

Who will tend her poor chicks on the morrow?

And when evening around them comes dreary and chill.

Who above them will watchfully hover?"

"Two, each night, I will tuck 'neath my wings," said the duck,

"Tho' I've eight of my own I must cover."

"I have so much to do! for the bugs and the worms

T

In the garden 'tis tiresome pickin';

I have nothing to spare, my own I must care,"
Said the hen with one chicken.

"How I wish," said the goose, "I could be of some use,
For my heart is with love over-brimming;

The next morning that's fine they shall go with my nine
Little yellow-backed goslings out swimming!"

"I will do what I can," the old dorking began,
"And for help they may call upon me, too,

Tho' I've ten of my own that are only half grown,

And a great deal of trouble to see to.

But those poor little things, they are all heads and wings,
And their bones thro' their feathers are stickin'!"
"Very hard it may be, but, oh! don't come to me,"
Said the hen with one chicken.

"Half my care, I suppose, there is nobody knows,

I'm the most overburdened of mothers!

They must learn, little elves, how to scratch for themselves,
And not seek to depend upon others."

She went by with a cluck, and the goose to the duck
Exclaimed, in surprise, “Well, I never!”

Said the duck, "I declare, those who have the least care,

You will find, are complaining forever!

And when all things appear to look threatening and drear,
And when troubles your pathway are thick in,

For aid in your woe, oh! beware how you go
To a hen with one chicken."

KNOWLEDGE.

ANON.

[In a bold, forcible manner.]

One fountain there is whose deep vein has only just begun to throw up its silver drops among mankind—a fountain which will allay the thirst of millions, and will give to those who will drink from it peace and joy. It is knowledge; the fountain of cultivation, which gives health to mankind, makes clear his vision, brings joy to

his life, and breathes over his soul's destiny a deep repose. Go and drink therefrom, thou whom fortune has not favored, and thou wilt find thyself rich! Thou mayest go forth into the world and find thyself everywhere at home; thou canst cultivate it in thine own little chamber; thy friends are ever around thee, and carry on wise conversation with thee. The industrious kingdoms of the ant, the works of man, and rainbow and music records offer to thy soul hospitality.

BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS.

ANON.

Thousands of men breathe, move and live, pass off the stage of life, and are heard of no more. Why? They did not a particle of good in the world, and none were blessed by them as instruments of their redemption; not a word they spoke could be recalled, and so they perished—their light went out in darkness, and they were not remembered more than the insects of yesterday. Will you thus live and die, oh, man immortal? Live for something! Do good, and leave behind you a monument of virtue that time can never destroy. Write your name in kindness, love and mercy on the hearts of thousands you come in contact with, year by year, and you will never be forgotten. No. Your name your deeds, will be as legible on the hearts you leave behind as the stars on the brow of the evening. Good deeds will shine as brightly on the earth as the stars of heaven.

ARTEMUS WARD'S ORATION.-July 4, 1859.

[With mock seriousness.]

FELLER CITTERSUNS.-I hav bin onered with a invite to orate be4 you on this grate & gellorious day. The feelins which I feel on this occasion is more easier imagined than described. Wethersfield is justly distinguished for her onyuns and patertism the Wurld over, and to be requested to paws and address you on this, my fust per