And I, right in my latter days,

Am fairly crowded out!

To-day, the preacher, good old dear
With tears all in his eyes,
Read-"I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies;"

I al'ays liked that blessed hymn,
I s'pose I al'ays will;

It somehow gratifies my whim,
In good old Ortonville;

But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn't catch a word;

They sung the most dog-gonedest thing,
A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near;
An' when I seed them grin,"

I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly waded in.

I thought I'd chase their tune along,
An' tried with all my might;

But though my voice is good and strong,
I couldn't steer it right;

When they was high, then I was low,

An' also contra' wise;

And I too fast, or they too slow,
To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know
They played a little tune;

I didn't understand, an' so
I started in too soon.

I pitched it pretty middlin' high,
I fetched a lusty tone,

But oh, alas! I found that I

Was singing there alone!

They laughed a little, I am told;

But I had done my best:

And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.

And sister Brown-I could but look--
She sits right front of me;

She never was no singin' book,
An' never meant to be;

MM

But then she al'ays tried to do

The best she could, she said;

She understood the time, right through,
An' kep' it with her head;

But when she tried this mornin', oh,
I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a bobbin' so,

It e'en a'most came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs,-he all broke down,

As one might well suppose,

He took one look at sister Brown,

And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn book through and through,
And laid it on the seat,

And then a pensive sigh he drew,

And looked completely beat.

An' when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise,

But drawed his red bandanner out,
An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true,
For five an' thirty year;

I've done what seemed my part to do,

An' prayed my duty clear;

But death will stop my voice, I know,

For he is on my track;

And some day, I to church will go

And never more come back;

And when the folks get up to sing-
Whene'er that time shall be-

I do not want no patent thing
A-squealin' over me!

From "Farm Ballads."

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling

A tugging pain in my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,

That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored,—

Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,

Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight—
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion

Of the up grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,

The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me-a-hold of the lever-
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow,
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashed
The reverse lever down in dismay,
Groaning to Heaven- eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant-one, awful and only—

The world flew round in my brain,

And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;

The train I thought flying forever,

With mad, irresistible roll,

While the cries of the dying, the night wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine,-
How I got there I never could tell,—
My feet planted down on the crossbar,
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail;
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,

While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;

I saw the bright curls of her hair,
And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.

I know little more, but I heard it,―
The groan of the anguished wheels,
And remember thinking-the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying

I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled, with a shudder

I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a-climbing,
To nestle securely there.

We are not much given to crying

We men that run on the road-
But that night, they said, there were faces,
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years, in the eve and the morning
As I neared the cabin again,

My hand on the lever pressed downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;

And her look with a fulness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

DEATH OF GAUDENTIS.-HARRIET ANNIE.

The following inscription was found in the Catacombs by Mr. Perret, upon the tomb of the Architect of the Coliseum.

"Thus thou keepest thy promises O Vespasian! the rewarding with death him, the crown of thy glory in Rome. Do rejoice, O Gaudentis! the cruel tyrant promised much, but Christ gave thee all, who prepared thee such a mansion." -Professor J. De Launay's Lectures on the Catacombs.

Before Vespasian's regal throne

Skilful Gaudentis stood;

"Build me," the haughty monarch cried,
"A theatre for blood.

I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work,
Thine is the power to frame
Rome's Coliseum vast and wide,
An honor to thy name.

"Over seven acres spread thy work,

And by the gods of Rome,

Thou shalt hereafter by my side

Have thy resplendent home.

A citizen of Roman rights,

Silver and golden store,

These shall be thine; let Christian blood

But stain the marble floor."

So rose the amphitheatre,

Tower and arch and tier;

There dawned a day when martyrs stood
Within that ring of fear.

But strong their quenchless trust in God,
And strong their human love,

Their eyes of faith, undimmed, were fixed
On temples far above.

And thousands gazed, in brutal joy,
To watch the Christians die,—
But one beside Vespasian leaned,
With a strange light in his eye.