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ADVICE TO A FIRE COMPANY. IT having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,—for the farthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better, you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a ligit breaks on your view, "break” for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 'twill help amazingly. A brace of cats drayved up stairs by the tail would be a powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pumphandle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for “ doing it brown.” Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you.

If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cowchains. Never mind the horse-he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast Ditto as to the hogy;--let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the washboards in the basement story; and, if that den't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor :nare a similar fate. Should the devouring element” still pursue the

even tenor of its way,” you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!

If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water kogsbead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the miitor. The further it can be thrown, the more picces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story ; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes care. fully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and. of course, you require no further directions.


Glorious New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient tame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution; and far away in the horizon of thy past gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home-sick tears. Here foats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glitiering stars increased in number.

The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad republic! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, pecu. liarly devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods.

We cannot do with less than the whole Union; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children dows Northern and Southern blood; how shall it be separated ?who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature? We love the land of our adoption : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic.

Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the go!den cord of union! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance !

But no! the Union cannot be dissolved; its fortunes are tog brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted.

Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development.

And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns ;—when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ;-when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ;-then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder,-Lo! this is our country ;—when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city—so great and glorious a republic!


THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.—By Colman. A MEMBER of the Æscula pian line lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bull, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of your head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him fine man!” His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the "belles letters.' Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town,-it might be four,-to whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article-in pharmacy that's called cathartical: and on the label of the stuff he wrote this verse, which one would think was clear enough, and terse, –

" When iaken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's house he goes, upon his pad, who a vile trick of stumbling had; but be arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double rap: The servant lets him in, with dismal face, long as a coure tier's out of place,--portending some disaster. John's coun. enance as ruetul looked and grim, as if the apothecary had physicked him, and not his master.

*Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head, “Indeed !--hum!--ha!-that's very odd !-He took the draught?''-John gave a nod. “Well? how? what then?-speak out, you dunce!" " Why then," says John,

we shook him once. -"Shook him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out.—“We jolted him about.''

" What! shake the patient, man !--why, that won't do." "No, sir," quoth John, and so we gave him two." “Tiro shakes! O, luckless verse! 'Twould make the patient worse!" " It did so, sir, and so a third we tried.”—“Well

, and what ihen?'--" Then, sir, my master-died !"


LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the

street; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the launp. The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth, Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom,There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room; And children with grave faces are whispering one another Of presents for the new year, for father er for mother. But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak, No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek. No little arms are round her: 'ah me! that there should be, With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery! Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round, Is laden boughs in autumn Bling their ripe fruits to the ground. And the best love man can oiler to the God of love, be sure, Is kindness to his littl, ones, and bounty to his poor. Little (iretchen, little Gretehen goes coldly on her way; There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay.

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fler home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high.
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.
And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell;
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own;
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, -
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this !"
Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow;
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her, and see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did

Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away.
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see
Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden with things that children prize,
Bright gifts for boy and maiden-she saw them with her eyes.
And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome

When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out.
Another, yet another, she has tried-they will not light;
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might:
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare,
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air.

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