Dick he sot out full tilt and came down on him ker chunk, and knocked him head over heels into the broad aisle, and his wig flew one way and he t'other, and Dick made a lunge at it as it flew, and carried it off on his horns.

"Wal, you may believe, that broke up the meetin' for one while, for Parson Morrell laughed out, and all the girls and boys they stamped and roared, and the old Deacon he got up and begun rubbing his shins -'cause he didn't see the joke on't.

"You don't orter laugh,' says he; 'it's no laughin' matter—it's a solemn thing,' says he; 'I might have been sent into 'tarnity by that critter,' says he. Then all roared and haw-hawed the more, to see the Deacon dancin' round with his little shiny head, so smooth a fly would trip up on't. 'I believe, on my soul, you'd laugh to see me in my grave,' says he!

"Wal, the truth on't was, 'twas just one of them bustin up times that natur' has, when there ain't nothin' for it but to give in; 'twas jest like the ice breakin' up in the Charles River-it all come at once and no whoa to 't. Sunday or no Sunday, sin or no sin, the most on 'em laughed until they cried, and couldn't help it.

"But the Deacon he went home feelin' pretty sore about it. Lem Sudoc he picked up his wig and handed it to him. Says he, 'Old Dick was playing tithing-man, wa’n't he, Deacon? Teach you to make allowance for other folks that get sleepy.'

"Then Mrs. Titkins she went over to Aunt Jerushy Scran's and Aunt Polly Hokum's, and they had a pot o' tea over it, and 'greed it was awful of Parson Morrell to set sich an example, and suthin' had got to be done about it. Miss Hokum said she allers knew that Parson Morrell hadn't no spiritooality, and now it had broke out into open sin, and led all the rest of 'm into it; and Mrs. Titkins she said such a man wa'n't fit to preach; and Miss Hokum said she couldn't never hear him ag'in, and the next Sunday the Deacon and his wife they hitched up and driv eight miles over to Parson Lothrop's, and took Aunt Polly on the back seat.

"Wal, the thing growed and growed till it seemed as if there warn't nothin' else talked about, 'cause Aunt Polly and Mrs. Titkins and Jerushy Scran they didn't do nothin' but talk about it, and that sot everybody else a talkin'.

"Finally, it was 'greed they must hev a council to settle the hash. So all the wimmen they went to chopping mince, and making up pumpkin pies and cranberry tarts, and bilin' doughnuts, gettin' reddy

for the ministers and delegates-'cause councils always eats powerful -and they had quite a stir, like a general trainin'. The hosses they was hitched all up and down the stalls, a stompin' and switchin' their tails, and all the wimmen was a talkin', and they hed up everybody for witnesses, and finally Parson Morrell he says, 'Brethren', says he, 'jest let me tell you the story jest as it happened, and if you don't every one of you laugh as hard as I did, why, then I'll give up.'

“The parson he was a master hand at sittin' off a story, and afore he'd done he got 'em all in sich a roar they didn't know where to leave off. Finally, they give sentence that there hadn't no temptation took him but such as is common to man; but they advised him afterward allers to pray with his eyes shut, and the parson he confessed he orter 'a' done it, and meant to do better in future, and so they settled it.

"So, boys," said Sam, who always drew a moral, "ye see it larns you you must take care what you look at, ef ye want to keep from laughin' in meetin'."

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

[This poem presents an admirable exercise for the practice of the voice, for rapid and distinct articulation, and variety of expression.]

How does the water come down at Lodore?

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,

Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along, conflicting and strong;

Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,

Showering and springing,

Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking;

Turning and twisting;
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound.

Smiting and fighting,

In turmoil delighting,

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,

And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and spitting
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and rearing,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,

And hopping and dropping,

And working and jerking,
And gurgling and struggling,

And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering,

And falling and brawling, and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and crinkling and twinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling;
Dividing and gliding and sliding

Grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

!

Clattering and battering and shattering,

And gleaming and streaming and skimming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling;
Betreating and meeting and beating and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and spraying and playing,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling;

And thumping and bumping and flumping and jumping,
And thrashing and clashing and flashing and splashing;
And so never ending,

But always descending,

Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er,

With a mighty uproar;—

And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD.

Here's the spot, Look around you. Above, on the height,
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall—

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.

Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay, one moment; you've heard

Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word

Down at Springfield? What! no? Come, that's bad; why, he had

All the Jerseys aflame! and they gave him the name
Of "the rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God, and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way

At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arıns,
Sat alone in the house. How it happened, none knew
But God, and that one of the hireling crew

Who fired the shot. Enough! there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach-did he pray? Think of him, as you stand
By the old church, to-day; think of him, and that band
Of militant plowboys! See the smoke and the heat
Of that reckless advance-of that straggling retreat!
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view—
And what could you, what should you, what would you do?

Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch
For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
Then, above all the shouting and shots

At their feet!

Rang his voice

"Put Watts into 'em, boys! give 'em Watts!"

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
You may dig anywhere and turn up a ball,
But not always a hero like this—and that's all.

BRET HARTE.

HALF-WAY DOIN'S.

Belubbed fellow trabelers, in holden forth to-day,
I doesn't quote no special verse for what I has to say,
De sermon will be bery short, an' dis here am de tex':
Dat half-way doin's ain't no 'count in dis worl' nor de nex'.
Dis worl' dat we's a-libbin' in is like a cotton row,
Where ebery cullud gentleman has got his line to hoe;
An' ebery time a lazy nigger stops to take a nap,
De grass keeps on a-growin' for to smudder up de crap.

When Moses led de Jews acrost de waters of de sea,
Dey had to keep a goin' jus' as fas' as fas' could be;