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The "time for honest folks to be in bed"
Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till 'tis fairly light,
And so enjoys his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery, or else—he drinks!

Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But then he said it lying in his bed

At 10 o'clock A. M.-the very reason
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.
'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake-

Awake to duty and awake to truth-
But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we pass'd in childhood, or-asleep!

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night,
And free at last from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight-
In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackney'd phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising
The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!"



[Boldly and with energy.]

The true gentleman is above a mean ng. He cannot stoop to a mean fraud. He invades no secret in the keeping of another.

He betrays no secrets confided to his own keeping. He never struts in borrowed plumage. He never takes selfish advantage of our mistakes. He uses no ignoble weapons in controversy. He never stabs in the dark. He is ashamed of innuendoes. He is not one thing at a man's face and another behind his back. If by accident he comes in possession of his neighbor's counsels, he passes upon them an act of instant oblivion. He bears sealed packages without tampering with the wax. Papers not meant for his eye, whether they flutter in at his window or lie open before him in unguarded exposure, are sacred to him. He invades no privacy of others, however sound the sentry sleeps. Bolts and bars, locks and keys, hedges and pickets, bonds and securities, notice to trespassers, are none of them for him. He may be trusted himself out of sight anywhere. He buys no office, he sells none, he intrigues for none. He would rather fail of his rights than win them through dishonor. He will eat honest bread. He tramples on no sensitive feeling. He insults no man. If he has rebuke for another, he is straightforward, open, manly. He cannot descend to scurrility. In short, whatever he judges honorable he practices towards every man.



[To be given in a stirring manner.]

The banging of the hammer,

The whirling of the plane,
The crashing of the busy saw,
The creaking of the crane,
The ringing of the anvil,
The grating of the drill,
The clattering of the turning lathe,
The whirling of the mill,
The buzzing of the spindle,
The rattling of the loom,
The puffing of the engine,
The fan's continual boom,

The clipping of the tailor's shears

The driving of the awlThese sounds of industry

I love I love them all.

The clinking of the magic type,
The earnest talk of men,
The toiling of the giant press,

The scratching of the pen,
The tapping of the yard stick,

The tinkling of the scales, The whistling of the needle

(When no bright cheek it pales), The humming of the cooking stove, The surging of the broom, The pattering feet of childhood,

The housewife's busy hum, The buzzing of the scholars,

The teacher's kindly callThese sounds of active industry I love-I love them all.

I love the ploughman's whistle,
The reaper's cheerful song,
The drover's oft repeated shout,

Spurring his stock along,
The bustling of the market man
As he hies him to the town,
The hallo from the tree top

As the ripened fruit comes down, The busy sound of threshers

As they clean the ripened grain, The husker's joke and catch of glee

'Neath the moonlight on the plain, The kind voice of the dairyman, The shepherd's gentle call— These sounds of pleasant industry I love I love them all.



[Simply and tenderly.]

I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,

Stuffed as full as full could be,
And attentive, listening to me

With a face demure and mild, That old Santa Claus, who filled them, Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder ?"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid,
While I turned me to my table,

Where the tempting goblet stood,
With a dainty drink brimmed over,
Sent me by a neighbor good.

But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loath,
Sat, by way of entertainment

Slapping off the shining froth; And, in not the gentlest humor

At the loss of such a treat, I confess, I rather rudely

Thrust poor pussy in the street.

Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled! Gathering up the precious store

He had busily been pouring

In his tiny pinafore,

With a generous look, that shamed me,
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing by his mien indignant
All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You shall have my candy wabbit !"
But the door was fastened tight.
So he stood, abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look, alternate

Bent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes

Watched the flames go higher and higher, In a brave, clear key he shouted,

Like some lordly little elf,

"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney— Make my moder 'have herself!"

"I will be a good girl, Benny,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor pussy,
Mewing on the gallery roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,

Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gamboled 'neath the live oaks
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim fire-lighted chamber

Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my play-worn boy beside me

Knelt to say his evening prayer: "God bess fader, God bess moder,

God bess sister "--then a pauseAnd the sweet young lips devoutly

Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus!"

He is sleeping; brown and silken

Lie the lashes, long and meek, Like caressing, clinging shadows,

On his plump and peachy check.

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