...

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;
The rod was hardly known in his school .
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule,
And too hard work for his poor old bones;
Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said:
"We should make life pleasant, down here below,
The living need charity more than the dead,”-
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,

And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said;

"And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,”— Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all,
Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipp'd back to a neighbour's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,

Over a pipe and a friendly glass:
This was the finest pleasure, he said,

Of the many he tasted, here below; "Who has no cronies, had better be dead!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Melted all over in sunshiny smiles; He stirr'd his glass with an old-school grace, Chuckled, and sipp'd, and prattled apace, Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles: "I'm a pretty old man "-he gently said, "I have linger'd a long while, here below; But my heart is fresh, if my youth is 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 play'd in his silvery hair,
Leaving his tenderest kisses there,

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown:
And, feeling the kisses, he smil'd, and said,
"Twas a glorious world, down here below;
Why wait for happiness till we are dead?”
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

66

He sat at his door, one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light

Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,

While the odorous night-wind whispered-"Rest!" Gently, gently, he bow'd his head.

There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead,— This jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

THE MATRON YEAR.

THE leaves that made our forest pathways shady
Begin to rustle down upon the breeze;

The year is fading, like a stately lady
Who lays aside her youthful vanities:

Yet, while the memory of her beauty lingers,
She cannot wear the livery of the old,

So Autumn comes, to paint with frosty fingers,
Some leaves with hues of crimson and of gold.

The Matron's voice fill'd all the hills and valleys
With full-toned music, when the leaves were young;
While now, in forest dells and garden-alleys,

A chirping, reedy song at eve is sung;

Yet sometimes, too, when sunlight gilds the morning,
A carol bursts from some half-naked tree,
As if, her slow but sure decadence scorning,
She woke again the olden melody.

With odorous May-buds, sweet as youthful pleasures,
She made her beauty bright and debonair:
But now, the sad earth yields no floral treasures,
And twines no roses for the Matron's hair:
Still can she not all lovely things surrender;
Right regal is her drapery even now,-

Gold, purple, green, inwrought with every splendour,
And clustering grapes in garlands on her brow!

In June, she brought us tufts of fragrant clover
Rife with the wild bee's cheery monotone,
And, when the earliest bloom was past and over,
Offer'd us sweeter scents from fields new-mown:
Now, upland orchards yield, with pattering laughter,
Their red-cheek'd bounty to the groaning wain,
And heavy-laden racks go creeping after,

Piled high with sheaves of golden-bearded grain.

Erelong, when all to love and life are clinging,
And festal holly shines on every wall,
Her knell shall be the New-Year bells, outringing;
The drifted snow, her stainless burial-pall:
She fades and fails, but proudly and sedately,

This Matron Year, who has such largess given,
Her brow still tranquil, and her presence stately,
As one who, losing earth, holds fast to heaven!

A SENSIBLE SERENADE.

THE surf upon the distant shore is breaking;
Bright tears of dew the roses seem to weep;
But you are prejudiced against awaking,
So I'll sing small, and let you have your sleep!
Sleep, Lady, sleep!

You shall not chide me for this song, love, shall you?
I take great pains my voice subdued to keep,

For well I understand the lofty value
All sane folks set upon a wholesome sleep.
Sleep, Lady, sleep!

Some fellows-at their nonsense oft I wonder―
Sing out with voices strong and loud and deep,
Until their loved ones wish they'd go to thunder,
Or, like myself, sing small, and let them sleep.
Sleep, Lady, sleep!

The grass is wet; I find that I am sneezing;
This kind of thing is getting rather "steep;"
The thought of rheumatism isn't pleasing,
So, with your leave, I'll home to bed and sleep.
Sleep, Lady, sleep!

JOHN JAMES PIATT.

Born at Milton, Indiana, 1835—

RIDING TO VOTE.

(The Old Democrat in the West.)

YONDER the bleak old Tavern stands-the faded sign before, That years ago a setting sun and banded harvest bore: The Tavern stands the same to-day-the sign you look

upon

Has glintings of the dazzled sheaves, but nothing of the sun.

In Jackson's days a gay young man, with spirit hale and blithe,

And form like the young hickory, so tough and tall and lithe,

I first remember coming up-we came a waggon-load,
A dozen for Old Hickory-this rough November road.

Ah! forty years-they help a man, you see, in getting gray;
They can not take the manly soul, that makes a man, away!
It's forty years, or near: to-day I go to vote once more;
Here, half a mile away, we see the crowd about the door.

My boys, in Eighteen-Sixty-what! my boys? my men, I

mean!

(No better men nor braver souls in flesh-and-blood are seen!) One twenty-six, one twenty-three, rode with their father then:

The ballot-box remembers theirs,-my vote I'll try again!

The ballot-box remember theirs, the country well might

know

Though in a million only two for little seem to go;

But, somehow, when my ticket slipp'd I dream'd of Jackson's day:

The land, I thought, has need of One whose will will find a way!

He did not waver when the need had call'd for steadfast thought

The word he spoke made plain the deed that lay behind it wrought;

And while I mused the Present fell, and, breathing back the Past,

Again it seem'd the hale young man his vote for Jackson cast!

Thank God it was not lost!-my vote I did not cast in vain !

I

go alone to drop my vote-the glorious vote again; Alone-where three together fell but one to-day shall fall; But though I go alone to-day, one voice shall speak for all!

For when our men, awaking quick, from hearth and threshold came,

Mine did not say "Another day!" but started like a flame;

I'll vote for them as well as me; they died as soldiers can, But in my vote their voices each shall claim the right of

man.