"Learn while you're young," he often said, With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool, The rod was scarcely known in his school; 66 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; "This was the sweetest pleasure," he said, The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face He smoked his pipe, in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown 3 And, feeling the kisses, he smiled and said,. He sat at his door one midsummer night, know UNCLE JO-ALICE CARY. I HAVE in memory a little story, That few indeed would rhyme about but me; Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor Most people thought, but there was one or two, Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, 6: Come in again and see us, Uncle Jo!'" 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 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 sunny 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 brave Have left great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust-poor Jo, he had no friends! DREAMS AND REALITIES.-PHŒBE CARY. 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, and 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, 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, And almost longs to pass? PP 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 ba'd head with his cane-brake fingers, and as he smiled, |