The "time for honest folks to be in bed" Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said At 10 o'clock A. M.-the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, For the soft visions of the gentle night, So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought THE TRUE GENTLEMAN. ANON. [Boldly and with energy.] The true gentleman is above a mean thing. 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. MUSIC OF LABOR. ANON. [To be given in a stirring manner.] The banging of the hammer, The grating of the drill, The clattering of the turning lathe, 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, I love the ploughman's whistle, 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. BENNY. ANON. [Simply and tenderly.] I had told him, Christmas morning, "But we'll be good, won't we, moder ?" Where the tempting goblet stood, But the kitten, there before me, 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! 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, "You shall have my candy wabbit!" Then, as by some sudden impulse, 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- "I will be a good girl, Benny," Laughter chased away the frown, 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 pause- He is sleeping; brown and silken |