cussedest flogging I ever gave a nigger yet. I b'lieve he's trying to die; but I don't know as he'll make it out." "Where is he?" said the visitor, impetuously. me see him."

"Let

"He's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow, who stood holding George's horse.

Without saying another word, George turned and strode to the spot.

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering, for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed, but, for the most part, in a quiet stupor.

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick.

"Is it possible, is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him. "Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said:

"Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are."

Tears fell from the young man's eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.

"Oh, dear Uncle Tom! do wake, do speak once more! Look up! Here's Mas'r George, your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know me?"

"Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice. "Mas'r George!"

He looked bewildered. Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.

"Bless the Lord! it is,-it is, it's all I wanted! It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, O my soul!"

"You shan't die! you mustn't die, nor think of it. I've come to buy you, and take you home," said George, with impetuous vehemence.

The Lord's bought

"Oh, Mas'r George, ye're too late. me, and is going to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck. I'm right in the door, going into glory! Oh, Mas'r George! Heaven has come !"

At this moment, the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him, he closed his eyes, and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other worlds. He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations, and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conquerer.

"Who-who-who shall separate us-from the love-of Christ?" he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and, then, with a smile, Uncle Tom fell asleep.

THE DILEMMA.

Now,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

OW, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;

By every name I cut on bark

Before my morning-star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,—
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams:
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung.
I asked the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten livid lips said, "Heavenly blue,"
And ten accused the darker hue.

I asked a matron, which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed;
She answered, some thought both were fair-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in-their eyes were blue.

I asked a maiden. Back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until, beneath its rays,
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all
of green:
She looked at me,-what could she mean?

but eyes eyes

Ah! many lids love lurks between,
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake,
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,
That wears for us the sweetest smile.

THE DEACON'S CONFESSION.

YES

N. S. EMERSON.

ES, surely the bells in the steeple were ringing; I thought you knew why.

No? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly it's whispered about on the sly.

Some six weeks ago, a church meeting was held, for no one knew what;

But we went, and the parson was present, and I don't know who or who not.

Some twenty odd members, I calc'late, which mostly was wimmin, of course;

But I don't mean to say aught agin 'em-I seen many gatherings look worse.

And in the front row sat the deacons; the eldest was old Deacon Pryor,

A man counting fourscore and seven, and ginerally full of

his ire.

Beside him his wife, aged fourscore, a kind-hearted, motherly

soul;

And, next to her, young Deacon Hartley, a good Christian man, on the whole.

Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty, and long ago laid on the shelf,

Had wedged herself next, and beside her was Deacon Munroe -that's myself.

The meeting was soon called to order, the parson looked glum

as a text.

We silently stared at each other, and everyone wondered “What next?"

When straightway uprose Deacon Hartley, his voice seemed to tremble with fear

As he said: "Boy and man, you have known me, my friends, for this nigh forty year,

66 And

you scarce may expect a confession of error from me -but-you know

My dearly loved wife died last Christmas-it's now over ten months ago.

The winter went by long and lonely-but the spring-time crep' forward apace;

The farm work begun, and I needed a woman about the old place.

"My children were wilder than rabbits, and all growing worse every day;

I could find no help in the village, although I was willing to

pay.

I declare I was near 'bout discouraged, and everything looked so forlorn,

When good little Patience McAlpine skipped into our kitchen one morn.

"She had only run in of an errand, but she laughed at our woe-begone plight,

And set to work just like a woman, a-putting the whole place to right.

And though her own folks was so busy, and illy her helping could spare,

She'd flit in and out like a sparrow, and 'most every day she was there.

"So the summer went by sort o' cheerful; but one night my baby, my Joe,

Was restless and feverish, and woke me, as babies will often, you know.

I was tired with my day's work, and sleepy, and couldn't no

way keep him still;

So at last I grew angry and spanked him, and then he screamed out with a will.