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It's a funny world, but I've got just as good a right here as anybody.

Happy thought! I've made a new resolution. It is to be just as good and studious and promising as all the people seemed to think I had been, after that notice appeared. Then if anything should happen, folks wouldn't have to be so two-sided about it.

SUE GREGORY.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

WELCOME, ye pleasant dales and hills

Where dream-like passed my early days,
Ye cliffs and glens and laughing rills

That sing unconscious hymns of praise;
Welcome, ye woods with tranquil bowers

Embathed in autumn's mellow sheen,
Where careless childhood gathered flowers,

And slept on mossy carpets green.
The same bright sunlight gently plays

About the porch and orchard trees;
The garden sleeps in noontide haze,

Lulled by the murmuring of the bees;
The sloping meadows stretch away

To upland field and wooded hill ;
The soft blue sky of peaceful day

Looks down upon the homestead still,

I hear the humming of the wheel

Strange music of the days gone by-
I hear the clicking of the reel,

Once more I see the spindle fly.

How then I wondered at the thread

That narrowed from the snowy wool, Much more to see the pieces wed,

And wind upon the whirling spool! I see the garret once again,

With rafter, beam, and oaken floor; I hear the pattering of the rain

As summer clouds go drifting o'er. The little window toward the west

Still keeps its webs and buzzing flies, And from this cozy childhood nest,

Jack's bean stalk reaches to the skies. I see the circle gathered round

The open fire-place glowing bright, While birchen sticks with crackling sound

Send forth a rich and ruddy light; The window-sill is piled with sleet,

The well-sweep creaks before the blast, But warm hearts make the contrast sweet,

Sheltered from storm, secure and fast. O loved ones of the long ago,

Whose memories hang in golden frames,
Resting beneath the maple’s glow,
Where few e'er read

your
chiseled

names, Come back, as in that Christmas night,

And fill the vacant chairs of mirth l Ah me! the dream is all too bright, And ashes lie

upon the hearth. Below the wood, beside the spring,

Two little children are at play,
And hope, that bird of viewless wing,

Sings in their hearts the livelong day;

The acorns patter at their feet,

The squirrel chatters 'neath the trees, And life and love are all complete

They hold Aladdin's lamp and keys.

And, sister, now my children come

To find the water just as cool,
To play about our grandsire's home,

To see our pictures in the pool.
Their laughter fills the shady glen;

The fountain gurgles o'er with joy That, after years full three times ten,

It finds its little girl and boy. No other spring in all the world

Is half so clear and cool and bright,
No other leaves by autumn curled

Reflect for me such golden light.
Of childhood's faith this is the shrine;

I kneel beside it now as then,
And though the spring's no longer mine,

I kiss its cooling lips again.
Unchanged it greets the changeful years;

Its life is one unending dream;
No record here of grief or tears ;

But, like the limpid meadow stream, It seems to sympathize with youth,

Just as the river does with age, And ever whispers—sweetest truth Is written on life's title page.

WALLACE BRUCE JUPITER AND TEN.

MRS

RS. CHUB was rich and portly,

Mrs. Chub was very grand, Mrs. Chub was always reckoned

A lady in the land.

You shall see her marble mansion

In a very stately square, Mr. C. knows what it cost him,

But that's neither here nor there.

Mrs. Chub was so sagacious,

Such a patron of the arts,
And she gave such foreign orders,

That she won all foreign hearts.

Mrs. Chub was always talking,

When she went away from home, Of a most prodigious painting

Which had just arrived from Rome.

“ Such a treasure,” she insisted,

“ One might never see again!" “ What's the subject ?" we inquired,

“ It is Jupiter and Ten!"

“ Ten what ?" we blandly asked her,

For the knowledge we did lack. “ Ah! that I cannot tell you,

But the name is on the back.

“ There it stands in printed letters.

Come to-morrow, gentlemen,
Come and see our splendid painting,

Our fine Jupiter and Ten."

When Mrs. Chub departed,

Our brains we all did rack,
She could not be mistaken,

For the name was on the back.

So we begged a great Professor

To lay aside his pen,
And give some information

Touching “ Jupiter and Ten.”

And we pondered well the subject,

And our Lempriere we turned,
To discover what the Ten were ;

But we could not, though we burned !

But when we saw the picture,—

Oh, Mrs. Chub! oh, fie! oh!
We perused the printed label,
And 'twas Jupiter and Io !

JAMES T. FIELDS.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY.

PALE

LE is the February sky,

And brief the mid-day's sunny hours;
The wind-swept forest seems to sigh

For the sweet time of leaves and flowen.

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