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To develop home resources, with no foreign cares to fret us, Using house-made faith more frequent; but our parson

wouldn't let us ! To view the same old scenery, time and time again he'd

call usOver rivers, plains, and mountains he would any minute

haul us;

He slighted our soul-sorrows, and our spirits' aches and

ailings, To get the cargo ready for his regular Sunday sailings ! Why, he'd take us off a-touring, in all spiritual weather, Till we at last got home-sick and sea-sick all together! And “I wish to all that's peaceful,” said one free-expres

sioned brother “That the Lord had made one cont'nent, an' then never

made another !”

Sometimes, indeed, he'd take us into old, familiar places, And pull along quite natral, in the good old Gospel traces : But soon my wife would shudder, just as if a chill had got

her, Whispering, “Oh, my goodness gracious! he's a-takin to

the water !” And it wasn't the same old comfort, when he called around

to see us;

On some branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree

us;

All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronise us, And with oft-repeated stories still endeavours to surprise us.

And the sinners got to laughing; and that finally galled and Didn't he think that more home produce would improve our

stung us, To ask him, wouldn't he kindly once more settle down

among us?

soul's digestions ? They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the

questions. I found him in his garden, trim an' buoyant as a feather; He shook my hand, exclaiming, “This is quite Italian

weather! How it ʼminds me of the evenings when, your distant-hearts

caressing, Upon my dear good brothers, I invoked God's choicest

blessing!”

I went and told the brothers, “No; I cannot bear to grieve

him; He's so happy in his exile, it's the proper place to leave

him. I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it; But I cannot take it from him; if you want to, go and do

it.”

Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to enfold

him, And he looked so hurt and humbled, that I knew that they

had told him. Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly

vocal; But every word and sentence was pre-eminently local ! Still, the sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt

who heard it; 'Twas a grief to see him steer it—'twas a pain to hear him

word it. “When I was abroad”—was maybe half-a-dozen times

repeated; But that sentence seemed to choke him, and was always

uncompleted.

As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally

brighten, But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to

whiten; He would look off to the eastward, with a wistful, weary

sighing, And 'twas whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was

dying

The coffin lay 'mid garlands, smiling sad as if they knew

us;

The patient face within it preached a final sermon to us; Our parson had gone touring-on a trip he'd long been

earningIn that wonderland, whence tickets are not issued for

returning! O tender, good heart-shepherd ! your sweet smiling lips,

half-parted, Told of scenery that burst on you, just the minute that you

started! Could you preach once more among us, you might wander,

without fearing; You could give us tales of glory that we'd never tire of

hearing!

Will Carleton.

A RAILROAD RECUSSANT.

A FRIEND of ours, sojourning during the past summer

in one of the far-off “shore-towns” of Massachusett's Bay, was not a little amused one day at the querulous complainings of "one" of the "oldest inhabitants" against railroads; his experience in which consisted in having seen the end of one laid out, and at length the cars running upon it. Taking out his old pipe, on a pleasant summer afternoon, and looking off upon the ocean, and the ships far off and out at sea with the sun upon their sails, he said: I don't think much o' railroads : they aint no kind o’ justice into 'em. Neöw what kind o' justice is it, when railroads takes one man's upland and carts it over in wheelbarrers onto another man's ma'sh? What kind o''commodation be they? You can't go when you want to go; you got to go when the bell rings, or the noisy whistle blows. I tell yeöw it's payin' tew much for the whistle. Ef you live a leetle ways off the dee-pot, you got to pay to git to the railroad; and ef you want to go any wheres else 'cept just to the eend on it, you got to pay to go a’ter you git there. What kind o' 'commodation is that? Goin' round the country tew, murderin' folks, runnin' over cattle, sheep, and hogs, and settin' fire to bridges, and every now and then burnin' up the woods. Mrs. Robbins, down to Cod-p’int, says—and she ought to know, for she's a pious woman, and belongs to the lower church-she says to me, no longer ago than day-'fore yesterday, that she'd be cuss'd if she didn't know that they sometimes run over critters a-purpose. They did a likely shoat o'her'n, and never paid for't, 'cause they was a 'corporation,' they said. What kind o' 'commodation is that? Besides,

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