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nest is, indeed, a perfect structure; yet the nest of a swallow of the nineteenth century is not at all more commodious or elegant than those that were built amid the rafters of Noah's ark. But if we compare the wigwam of the savage with the temples and palaces of ancient Greece and Rome, we then shall see to what man's mistakes, rectified and improved upon, conduct him.

9.

"When the vast sun shall veil his golden light
Deep in the gloom of everlasting night;

When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the skies,
When ruin triumphs, and when nature dies;
Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive;
'Mid falling spheres, immortal man shall live."

Jane Taylor.

DEFINITIONS.-2. Dis-tine'tion, a point of difference. Im'plements, utensils, tools. Wig'wam, an Indian hut. 3. Bŭr'rōwş, holes in the earth where animals lodge. 4. Dis-cus'sion, the act of arguing a point, debate. 5. Me-diç'i-nal, healing. 8. En-dowed', furnished with any gift, quality, etc. Făe'ul-ty, ability to act or perform. Ree'ti-fied, corrected.

XCVI. THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.

John Godfrey Saxe (b. 1816, d. 1887), an American humorist, lawyer, and journalist, was born at Highgate, Vt. He graduated at Middlebury College in 1839; was admitted to the bar in 1843; and practiced law until 1850, when he became editor of the "Burlington Sentinel." In 1851 he was elected State's Attorney. "Progress, a Satire, and Other Poems," his first volume, was published in 1849, and several other volumes of great merit attest his originality. For genial humor and goodnatured satire, Saxe's writings rank among the best of their kind, and are very popular.

1. It was six men of Indostan,

To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the elephant,

(Though all of them were blind,)

That each by observation

Might satisfy his mind.

2. The first approached the elephant,
And, happening to fall

Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the elephant
Is very like a wall!"

3. The second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried: "Ho! what have we here,

So very round, and smooth, and sharp?
To me 't is very clear,
This wonder of an elephant
Is very like a spear!"

4. The third approached the animal,
And, happening to take

The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up he spake:

"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a snake!"

5. The fourth reached out his eager hand, And fell about the knee: "What most this wondrous beast is like, Is very plain," quoth he; ""Tis clear enough the elephant Is very like a tree!"

6. The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most:

Deny the fact who can,

This marvel of an elephant

Is very like a fan!"

7. The sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,

Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,

I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a rope!"

8. And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,

Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

XCVII. A HOME SCENE.

Donald Grant Mitchell (b. 1822, This popular American writer was born in Norwich, Conn. He graduated at Yale in 1841. In 1844 he went to England, and, after traveling through that country on foot, spent some time on the continent. His first volume, "Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf from the Old Fields of Continental Europe, by Ik. Marvel," was published in 1847, soon after his return home. He revisited Europe in 1848. On his return, he published "The Battle Summer." Mr. Mitchell has contributed to the "Knickerbocker Magazine," the "Atlantic Monthly," and several agricultural journals. His most popular works are "The Reveries of a Bachelor," 1850, and "Dream Life," 1851. Besides these, he has written "My Farm of Edgewood," " Wet Days at Edgewood," "Doctor Johns," a novel, "Rural Studies," and other works. He is a charming writer. In 1853 he was appointed United States consul at Venice. In 1855 he settled on a farm near New Haven, Conn., where he now resides. The following selection is from "Dream Life. "

1. LITTLE does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him out insensibly from the harbor of his home, upon the great sea of life,—what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go, save on the wings of his dreams.

2. Little does he think, as he leans upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her, in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour, or in some important story of his griefs, that such sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with his wishes, he will find nowhere again.

3. Little does he imagine that the fond sister Nelly, ever thoughtful of his pleasures, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach of either; and that the waves of the years which come rocking so gently under him will soon toss her far away, upon the great swell of life.

4. But now, you are there. The fire-light glimmers upon the walls of your cherished home. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted corner by the chimney side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its oaken top. Opposite sits your mother: her figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued; - her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition, of the days that are to come.

5. The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock that ticked so plainly when Charlie died is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the middle of the room, with its books and work, waits only for the lighting of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery and of story.

6. Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a flicker of the fire-light, and makes it play, as if in wanton, upon the ceiling, lies that big book, reverenced of your New England parents-the Family Bible. It is a ponderous, square volume, with heavy silver clasps, that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint, old pictures, or for a study of those prettily bordered pages, which lie between the Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

7. There are the Births;-your father's and your mother's; it seems as if they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears an almost incredible dis

tance back. Then, there are the Marriages;-only one as yet; and your mother's name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of her as any one else than your doting parent.

8. Last of all came the Deaths;-only one. Poor Charlie! How it looks!"Died, 12 September, 18-, Charles Henry, aged four years." You know just how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf.

9. And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the Record, there sometimes wanders a vague, shadowy fear, which will come,—that your own name may soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know.

10. Yet your mother-how strange it is!—has no fears of such dark fancies. Even now, as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that she can not be long with you;-that the time is coming, when you must be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the friends of your boyhood.

11. There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home-blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon your brow. To struggle with the world, that is a proud thing; to struggle alone,there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of boyhood the first anxious thought of youth.

12. The hands of the old clock upon the mantel, that ticked off the hours when Charlie sighed, and when Charlie died, draw on toward midnight. The shadows that the fire-flame makes, grow dimmer and dimmer. And thus it is, that Home,-boy-home, passes away forever,—like the swaying of a pendulum,-like the fading of a shadow on the floor.

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