"Learn while you're young," he often said, With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool, The rod was scarcely known in his school; And too hard work for his poor old bones; He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor. "I need so little," he often said, "And my friends and relatives here below Wont litigate over me when I am dead,” Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the most pleasant times that he had, of all, Over a pipe and a friendly glass;— The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles;"I'm a pretty old man,”—he gently said, "I've lingered a long while here below, But my heart is fresh, if my youth be fled !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe, in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown And, feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, He sat at his door one midsummer night, There were angels waiting for him, I know ;He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. UNCLE JO-ALICE CARY. I HAVE in memory a little story, That few indeed would rhyme about but me; 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory, Although a little colored with the threeIn very truth, I think as much, perchance, As most tales disembodied from romance. Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor The "Uncle" was a courtesy they gave- A mile or so away he had a brother A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire, But Jo had neither sister, wife nor mother, And baked his corn-cake, at his cabin fire, After the day's work, hard for you and me, But he was never tired-how could he be? They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder, At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted Faintly and cold across the church-yard snow, The bell tolled out-alas! a grave was wanted, And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo; His spade stood there, against his own roof-tree, There was his pickaxe, too, but where was he? They called and called again, but no replying; And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer And finer, too, than he had worn till then, They found a picture-haply of the sharer Of summy hope, sometime; or where or when, They did not care to know, but closed his eyes,— And placed it in the coffin where he lies! None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty Of the pure love, that reached into the grave, Nor how, in unobtrusive ways of duty He kept, despite the dark; but men less brace Have left great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust-poor Jo, he had no friends! ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS. DREAMS AND REALITIES.-PHOEBE Cary. and THE following poem is the last one sent by Phoebe Cary to Harper's Bazar. The Bazar says: "It is the song of the dying swan, tender, and sweet, beautiful." O ROSAMOND, thou fair and good, Why did'st thou droop before thy time? For, looking backward through my tears If thou had'st lived to be my guide, O child of light, O Golden head !-- Why did'st thou vanish from our sight? Friend so true, O Friend so good!— What had I done, or what hadst thou, And yet had this poor soul been fed Had life been always fair Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, Forever tremble there? If still they kept their earthly place, And gave to death, alas! Could I have learned that clear, calm faith That looks beyond the bonds of death, PP And almost longs to pass? Sometimes, I think, the things we see That every hope that hath been crossed, That even the children of the brain And when on that last day we rise, Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, DREAM OF THE "FAT CONTRIBUTOR." A. MINER GRISWOLD. I HAD a singular dream last night. "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls," and that those halls were thronged with characters whose names are familiar in song. The enter tainment was given by the "Old Folks at Home," who had invited a goodly number of the friends of "Auld Lang Syne," as well as distinguished strangers from abroad. "Rory O'More" was easily distinguished by his jolly, good-natured face, and his manner of "tazing" the girls. He was shortly joined by a fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked youth, who, in reply to a question from the master of ceremonies he had entered somewhat un-(master of)ceremoniously-replied, proudly, "Ould Ireland is me country, and Me name is Pat Malloy." Pat and Rory then proceeded to the "Irishman's shanty," there being "Whisky in the Jug." I knew" Old Uncle Ned," as soon as I saw him scratch his bald head with his cane-brake fingers, and as he smiled, |