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Out with your saw-tempered blades of steel!
Smoother than glass from point to heel;
Now, steady and clear, from turret and port,
Ring out your challenge: Mort-oh, mort!'"
Clink! clink! trowel and brick!

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Music with labor and art combine; Brick upon brick, lay them up quick;

But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line

Cheery as crickets all the day long,
Lightening labor with laugh and song;
Busy as bees upon angles and pier,
Piling the red blocks tier upon tier;
Climbing and climbing still nearer the sun;
Prouder than kings of the work they have done!
Upward and upward the bricklayers go,

Till men are but children and pigmies below;
While the master's order falls ringing and short,
To the staggering carrier, "Mort—oh, mort!"
Clink! clink! trowel and brick!

Music with labor and art combine; Brick upon brick, lay them up quick;

But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line! Who are the peers of the best in the landWorthy 'neath arches of honor to stand? They of the brick-reddened, mortar-stained palms, With shoulders of giants and sinewy armsBuilders of cities and builders of homesPropping the sky up with spires and domes; Writing thereon, with their trowel and lime, Legends of toil for the eyes of Time! So that the ages may read, as they run, 11 that their magical might has done! So clink! clink! trowel and brick!

Work by the master's word and sign
Brick upon brick, lay them them up quick'
But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line!"

THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.

W. W. FOSDICK.

Let sailors sing the windy deep;

Let soldiers praise their armor; But in my heart this toast I'll keep"The Independent Farmer."

When first the rose, in robe of green,

Unfolds its crimson lining,

And round his cottage porch is seen

The honeysuckle twining;

When banks of bloom their sweetness yield

To bees that gather honey,

He drives his team across the field
Where skies are soft and sunny.

The blackbird clucks behind his plough,
The quail pipes loud and clearly:
Yon orchard hides behind its bough

The home he loves so dearly;
The gray old barn, whose doors enfold
His ample store in measure,

More rich than heaps of hoarded gold,
A precious, blessed treasure;
But yonder in the porch there stands
His wife, the lovely charmer,
The sweetest rose on all his lands-
The Independent Farmer.

To him the spring comes dancing gay,
To him the summer blushes;

The autumn smiles with mellow ray;
His sleep old winter hushes.

He cares not how the world may move,
No doubt or fears confound him;
His little flock are link'à in love,

And household angels round him;

He trusts in God and loves his wife,

Nor grief nor ill may harm her;
He's nature's nobleman in life—
The Independent Farmer.

TO LABOR IS TO PRAY.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

[Boldly and spiritedly.]

Pause not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us,
Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys, would'st thou keep them in tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all pretty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin promptings, that ever entreat us,

Rest from world-sirens, that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides!
Labor is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness--a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor-all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God!

LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER.

J. G. SAXE.

[Tenderly and expressively.]

Beneath the hill you may see the mill

Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone!

Year after year, early and late,

Alike in summer and winter weather, He pecked the stones and caulked the gate, And mill and miller grew old together.

"Little Jerry!" 'twas all the same

They loved him well who called him so; And whether he'd ever another name Nobody ever seemed to know.

'Twas "Little Jerry, come grind my rye," And “Little Jerry, come grind my wheat;" And "Little Jerry" was still the cry

From matron bold and maiden sweet.

'Twas "Little Jerry" on every tongue,
And thus the simple truth was told;
For Jerry was little when he was young,
And he was little when he was old.

But what in size he chanced to lack

Jerry made up in being strong; I've seen a sack upon his back

As thick as the miller and quite as long.

Always busy, and always merry,
Always doing his very best-
A notable wag was Little Jerry,

Who uttered well his standing jest.

"When will you grind my corn, I say?" "Nay," quoth Jerry, "you needn't scold; Just leave your grist for half a day,

And never fear but you'll be tolled."

How Jerry lived is known to fame,
But how he died there's none may know;
One autumn day the rumor came-

"The brook and Jerry are very low."

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