Gems In Verse

Plaíitation Theoloíjy About Eden. Would you like in know the reason why de snake slu-d his skiu? Kase he tuk de ole one off fur to let de debbil íti; An Eve she sot a-ílshin wid a piece of meat an bread, An de debbil ho slip up an put de apple in her head. An de way de debbil done it; he jistsquatdown by de ditch, An he seed de crayfish bitin an he gire de Une a bitch; An Eve, she tank him kindly, an de debbil blow his nose, An say, "Ain't you got nuflln hut your skin an har fur close?" An he teil her, ef she eat up all de apple an de seeds, Bho kin git a yaller josey an a string o' chaney beads. Thar1 Was Jim. Wildest boy in all the village, Up to every wicked lark, Hnppy at a chance to pillage Melon patches in the dark. Seemed a tarual mischief breeder, For in every wicked whim Put your hand upon the leader- Thar' was Jim. He was eighteen when the summons Come for Union volunteers, An the flfln's and the drununin's An the patriotic eheers Made us with excitement dance, slr. Even old men, staid and prim; And among the fust to answer- Thar' was Jim. One day v.-hen the giner'l wanted Volunteers to charge a place Where the rebel banners flaunted Impuduntly in our face, Seemed as though the cannon's bellers Had no skerishness for him, For ainong the foremost fellers- Thar' was Jim. How we cheered 'em at the startin On that fearful charge they made, For it seemed that death was sartia In that fearful ambuscade. Once the smoke riz up a-showin Them as up the hill they clim', An ahead and still a-goin Thar was Jim. Git thar? Wal, yer just a-shoutin, Nothin could have stopped them men; Each one seemed a howlin demon Chargin on a flery pen. Purty tough when next I found him, For wi li face all black and grim, Dead, with dead men all around him- Thar' was Jim. -Captain Jack Crawford. If. If I were in the valley land, And you far up the mountain blae, Would you just turn and wave your hand, And bid me strive to follow you? If I were in the tossing sea, And you upon the quiet shore, Would you send out your help to me. And bid me to my life once more? If I were cast from heaven's gate, Aan you within so glad and fair, I know you would come forth and wait Eeside me, love, in my despair. - Ernest Radford. Oood Niglit. Good night.dear friend! I say good night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white. Bridging all space between us it may be. Lean low, sweet friend, it is the last good nightl For, lying mute upon my couch and still, The fever flush evauished from my face, I heard them whisper softly, " 'Tis His will; Angels will give her happier resting place!" And so, from sight of tears that f all like rain. And sound of sobbing smothered close and low, I turned my white face to the window pane, To say Oood night to thee before I go. Good night, good night! I do not fear the end, Tne conflict with thebillows dark and high: And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die. ; Ií I could feel, through all the quiet waves Of rny deep hair, thy tender breath a-thrill, I could go down to the place of graves 1 With eyes a-shine and pale lips siniling still; Or it may be that if, through all the strife And pain of partiug, I should hear thy cali, I should come surging back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all. It may not be. Good night, dear friend, good night! And when you see the violets again. And hear, through boughs with swollen buda a-white, The gentle falling of the April rain, Remember her whoso young life held thj name With all things holy, in its outward flight. And turn soraetiiues froin busy haunts of men To hear again aerloWGood night, good night! - Hester A. Beuedict. Sliortem Shy and Herbert Spencer. Shortem Shy playa 'round my knee While I read Herbert Spencer; But still the more I read and read My ignorance grows denser; For Shortem Shy decries my taste. And tells ine every minute, "Say, papa, I don't like that book; There ain't no lions in it." Now Herbert Spencer is a great, A world compelliug thinker; No heavy plummet line of truth Goes deeper than his sinker. But one man reads his work vvay through For tbousands that begin it. They leave one-half the leaves uncut- "There ain't uo lions in it." The age-old errors in their den Does Herbert Spencer throttle. And ranks with Newton, Bacon, Kant And ancient Aristotle. The mighty homage of the few- These towering gianta win it, The millions shun their hunting ground, "There ain't no lions iu it." I leave this metaphysic swamp, Thick grown with sturdy scions, And roain the Meadows of Romance With Shortem and his lions. He brings his gaudy Noah's Ark book And begs ine to bagin it; "Better thau Hnbbut I'eneer book, That ain't no lions in it. "Now wead about the efalunt So big he scares the people; Au wead about the kangerwoo Who jampa up on the 'teeple." So ï take ap the Noah's Ark book And sturdily begin it, And read about the "efalnnts" And lions that are iu it. Shortem will grow ín soberness, His life become intenser; Some day he'Il drop his "efalunts" And take up Herbert Spencer. But life can have no happier years Than glad years that begin it, And life sometimes grows dull and tame That has no lions in it. -S. W. Fos. The Heart's Gold. The sweetest songs are never sung; The fairest pictures never hung; The foudest hopes are never told - They are the heart's most cherished gold. - Henry A. Lovely. Cii'cumstttiice. Tis God made man, no doubt- not Chance: Ho made us great and small; But, being made, 'tis circuinstance That flnishes us all. - Owen Meredith. To purify Sour bloorl Take Etood's Sarsaparilla.