paths. Pat had been visiting at the house of a friend, and he had unfortunately imbibed more whisky than ordinary mortals can absorb with safety to their persons. On his return home the road was too narrow, and he performed wonderful feats in his endeavors to maintain the centre of gravity. Now he seemed to exert his best efforts to walk on both sides of the road at the same time; then he would fall and feel upward for the ground; then he would slowly pick himself up, and the ground would rise and hit him square in the face. By the time he reached the meadow-lands, located about half-way betwixt his home and the shanty of his friend, he was somewhat sobered by the ups and downs he had experienced on the way.

Hearing strange voices, he stopped suddenly to ascertain if possible the purport of their language. Judge his astonishment when he heard his own name distinctly called," Patrick O'Rouke-Patrick O'Rouke."

"Faith, that's my name, sure."

"Patrick O'Rouke-Patrick-O'Rouke-Rouke-Rouke." "What do ye want o' the likes o' me?" he inquired. "When did you come over-come over-come over?" "It is jest tree months ago to the minute, and a bad time we had, sure, for we wur all say-sick, and the passage lasted six long wakes."

"What will you do-do-do? What will you do-do-do?" "I have nothing to do at all at all; but then I can do any thing: I can dig; I can tind mason; and I can hould office, if I can git it."

"You are drunk-you are drunk-drunk-drunk-drunk -drunk."

"By my sowl that's a lie."

"You are drunk-dead drunk-drunk-drunk."

Repate that same if ye dare and I will take me shillaly to ye."

"You are drunk-dead drunk-drunk-drunk."

"Jist come out here now and stip on the tail o' my coat, like a man," exclaimed Pat in high dudgeon, pulling off his coat and trailing it upon the ground.

"Strike him-strike him-strike-strike-strike."

"Come on wid ye, and the divil take the hindmost; I am a broth of a boy-come on."

"Knock him down-down-down."

"I will take any one in the crowd, and if Mike Mulligan was here we wud take all of yees at onct."

66

'Kill him-kill him-kill him.”

"Och, murther! sure ye wud not be after murdering meI was not oncivil to ye. Go back to Pate Dogan's wid me tow, and I will trate ivery one of yees." "We don't drink rum--rum-rum." "And are ye all Father Mathew men?"

"We are cold watermen-watermen."

"Take me advice now, and put a little whasky in the wather, darlings: it will kape the cowld out whin yees git wet, and so it will."

"Moderation-moderation-moderation."

'Yis, that's the talk. I wint to Pate Dogan's, down there in Brownville, and says I, 'Will ye stand trate?' Says he, 'Faith, and I will.' Says I, 'Fill up the glass;' and so he did; "Fill it agin,' said I, and so he did; and agin,' said I, and so he did. 'Give me the bottle,' said I. 'And I won't do that same,' said he. 'Give me the bottle,' said I, and he kipt on niver heedin' me at all at all, so I struck him wid me fist rite in his partatee thrap, and he kicked me out o' the house, and I took the hint that he didn't want me there, so I lift."

"Blackguard and bully-blackguard and bully."

"Ye wouldn't dare say that to my face in broad day, sure; but ye are a set of futpads and highwaymin, hiding behind the rocks and the traas. Win I onct git to Watertown I will sind Father Fairbanks afther ye, and he will chuck ye into the pond as he did that thafe who stole the public money, and he will hould ye there until ye confess, or he will take yees to the perleese."

"Come on, boys-chase him-chase him."

"Faith and I won't run, but I will jist walk rite along, for if any of me frinds shud find me here in sich company, at this time o' night, they wud think I was thrying for to stale somethin'. Tak me advice, boys, and go home, for it's goin' for to rain, and ye will git wet to the skin if ye kape sich late hours."

"Catch him-catch him-catch him."

"Sure ye'd bether not, for I haven't got a cint wid me or I'd lave it in yer jackets. What's the use of staling all a man has whin he has jist nothing at all at all? Bad luck to ye

for bothering me so."

About this time the frog concert was in full tune, and the hoarse chorus so alarmed Pat that he took to his heels, for he was now sober enough to run.

Reaching his home, two miles distant from the scene of his encounter with the "highwaymin" who held such a long parley with him, he gave a graphic history of his grievance. Soon it was noised about the neighborhood that Patrick O'Rouke had been waylaid and abused by a drunken set of vagabonds, whose headquarters were near a meadow on the banks of the Black River; but the fear of the citizens subsided when they discovered that Pat had been out on a bender, and could not distinguish a frog from a friend or an enemy.

THE SIGN OF DISTRESS.

"Twas a wild, dreary night, in cheerless December; 'Twas a night only lit by a meteor's gleam;

'Twas a night,-of that night I distinctly remember,That my soul journeyed forth on the wings of a dream, That dream found me happy, by tried friends surrounded, Enjoying with rapture the comforts of wealth;

My cup overflowing with blessings unbounded,

My heart fully charged from the fountains of health.

That dream left me wretched, by friendship forsaken,
Dejected, despairing, and wrapped in disinay;

By poverty, sickness, and ruin o'ertaken,

To every temptation and passion a prey; Devoid of an end or an aim, I then wandered

O'er highway and by-way and lone wilderness; On the past and the present and future I pondered, But pride bade me tender no sign of distress.

In frenzy the wine cup I instantly quaffed at,
And habit and time made me quaff to excess;
But heated by wine, like a madman, I laughed at
The thought of e'er giving the sign of distress;
But wine sank me lower by lying pretenses,

It tattered my raiment and furrowed my face,
It palsied my sinews and pilfered my senses,
And forced me to proffer a sign of distress.

I reeled to a chapel, where churchmen were kneeling,
And asking their Savior poor sinners to bless;
My claim I presented--the door of that chapel
Was slamined in my face at the sign of distress;
I strolled to the priest, to the servant of Heaven,
And sued for relief with wild eagerness;
He prayed that my sins might at last be forgiven,
And thought he had answered my sign of distress.

I staggered at last to the home of my mother, Believing my prayers there would meet with success, But father and mother and sister and brother

Disowned me, and taunted my sign of distress.

I lay down to die, a stranger drew nigh me,
A spotless white lambskin adorning his dress;
My eye caught the emblem, and ere he passed by me,
I
gave, as before, the sign of distress.

With godlike emotion that messenger hastens

To grasp me, and whisper, "My brother, I bless
The hour of my life when I learned of the Masons
To give and to answer your sign of distress."
Let a sign of distress by a craftsman be given,
And though priceless to me is eternity's bliss,
May my name never enter the records of Heaven
Should I fail to acknowledge that—sign of distress.

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST.
MRS. E. PRENTISS.

I walk along the crowded streets, and mark
The eager, anxious faces;

Wondering what this man seeks, what that heart craves
In earthly places.

Do I want any thing that they are wanting?
Is each of them my brother?

Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to heart,
Each to the other?

Nay, but I know not! only this I know,
That sometimes merely crossing

Another's path, where life's tumultuous waves
Are ever tossing,

He, as he passes, whispers in mine ear
One magic sentence only,

And in the awful loneliness of crowds
I am not lonely.

Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ;
How vast the mystery!

Reaching in height to heaven, and in its depth
The unfathomed sea.

FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM.-ORVILLE DEWEY.

God has stamped upon our very humanity this impress of freedom. It is the unchartered prerogative of human na、 ture. A soul ceases to be a soul, in proportion as it ceases to be free. Strip it of this, and you strip it of one of its essential and characteristic attributes. It is this that draws the footsteps of the wild Indian to his wide and boundless desert-paths, and makes him prefer them to the gay saloons and soft carpets of sumptuous palaces. It is this that makes it so difficult to bring him within the pale of artificial civiliza、 tion. Our roving tribes are perishing-a sad and solemn sacrifice upon the altar of their wild freedom. They come among us, and look with childish wonder upon the perfection of our arts, and the splendor of our habitations; they submit with ennui and weariness, for a few days, to our burdensome forms and restraints; and then turn their faces to their forest homes, and resolve to push those homes onward till they sink in the Pacific waves, rather than not be free.