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never went fur to do it; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and wos allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be

made to say it wery large he might."

"It shall say it, Jo; very large."

Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. Its wery kind of you sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore."

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, he has never been so close to a case requiring so many,-and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet No more.

no more.

(Another Scene.-Enter Mr. Woodcourt.)

"Well, Jo, what is the matter? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Au't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?"

"Nobody."

"And I an't took back to Tom-all- Alone's, am I, sir?" "No."

Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am wery thankful." After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, did you ever know a prayer?" "Never knowd nothink, sir."

"Not so much as one short prayer?"

'No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlmen come down Tomall-Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about.'

It takes him a long time to say this; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.

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Stay, Jo, stay! What now?"

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns with a wild look.

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo ?" "Where they laid him as wos wery good to me; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berricd. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him."

"By-and-by, Jo; by-and-by."

self.

"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myBut will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"

"I will, indeed."

"Thankee sir! Thankee sir! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom.-It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin ?"

"It is coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.

"Jo, my poor fellow !"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin—a gro pin-let me catch hold of your hand."

"Jo, can you say what I say?”

"I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."

"OUR FATHER."

"Our Father!—yes, that's wery good, sir." "WHICH ART IN HEAVEN."

"Art in Heaven!-Is the light a comin, sir?"

"It is close at hand. HALLOWED BE THY NAME." "Hallowed be-thy-name!"

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly com passion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day!

Charles Dickens.

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John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,

And knowledge gained in foreign parts..
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answered John in heathen Greek:
To all he asked 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John to the Palais-Royal come,

Its splendor almost struck him dumb:
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.”

John saw Versailles from Marle's height,
And cried, astonished at the sight,

"Whose fine estate is that there here ?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"His? What! the land and houses too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:

On everything he lays his claw;
I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair,

John cried, enchanted with her air,

"What lovely wench is that there here ?"
"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
What, he again? Upon my life!

A palace, lands, and then a wife

Sir Joshua might delight to draw;

I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends pas."—"What, is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up;—

I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,

Good-night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."

C. Dibdin.

THE RUINED MERCHANT.

A cottage home with sloping lawn, and trellised vines and flowers,

And little feet to chase away the rosy-fingered hours;

A fair young face to part, at eve, the shadows in the door;I picture thus a home I knew in happy days of yore.

Says one, a cherub thing of three, with childish heart elate, 'Papa is tomin' let me do to meet 'im at te date!"

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Another takes the music up, and flings it on the air,

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'Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep on the stair ?"

"O father! did you bring the books I've waited for so long, The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and mother's 'angel song?' And did you see"-but something holds the questioning lips apart,

And something settles very still upon that joyous heart.

The quick-discerning wife bends down, with her white hand to stay

The clouds from tangling with the curls that on his forehead

lay;

To ask, in gentle tones, "Beloved, by what rude tempest

tossed ?"

And list the hollow, "Beggared, lost,-all ruined, poor, and lost!"

"Nay, say not so, for I am here to share misfortune's hour,
And prove how better far than gold is love's unfailing dower.
Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far as wings can soar,
The bird of love will hover near, and only sing the more."

"All lost, papa? why here am I; and, father, see how tall;
I measure fully three feet four, upon the kitchen wall;
I'll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and have such lots of fun,
I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the oldest son."

"And I, papa, am almost five," says curly-headed Rose,
"And I can learn to sew; papa, and make all dolly's clothes.
But what is 'poor,'-to stay at home, and have no place to go?
Oh! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make us always so."

"I'se here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his father's knee He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby-boy of three. "And if we get too poor to live," says little Rose, "you know There is a better place, papa, a heaven where we can go.

"And God will come and take us there, dear father, if we pray, We needn't fear the road papa, he surely knows the way."

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Then from the corner, staff in hand, the grandma rises slow, Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft fluttering to and fro:

Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of kindly hands, Counting in every little face, her life's declining sands; Reaches his side, and whispers low, "God's promises are sure; For every grievous wound, my son, he sends a ready cure."

The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly turns aside, The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the coming tear, to hide; Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kisses o'er and o'er That noble wife whose faithful heart he little knew before.

"May God forgive me! What is wealth to these more precious things,

Whose rich affection round my heart a ceaseless odor flings? I think he knew my sordid soul was getting proud and cold, And thus to save me, gave me these, and took away my gold.

"Dear ones, forgive me; nevermore will I forget the rod That brought me safely unto you, and led me back to God. I am not poor while these bright links of priceless love remain, And, Heaven helping, never more shall blindness hide the chain." Cora M. Eager.

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night,—
Her breathing soft and low,-

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers,
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied,-

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed;-she had
Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood.

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