Eli Perkins and my hired girl were very near together. She said, "You shan't do so," and he dosoed. She also said she would get right up and go away, and as an evidence that she was thoroughly in earnest about it, she remained where she was. They are married now, and Mr. Perkins is troubled no more with the headache. This year we are planting corn. Mr. Perkins writes me that "on accounts of no skare krows bein put up krows cum and digged fust crop up but soon got nother in. Old Bisbee who was frade youd cut his sons leggs off Ses you bet go an stan up in feeld yrself with dressin gownd on & gesses krows will keep away. This made Boys in store larf. terday from "Yours respecful "his letter." no More ELI PERKINS," My friend Mr. D. T. T. Moore, of the Rural New Yorker, thinks if I “keep on” I will get in the Poor House in about two years. If you think the honest old farmers of Barclay County want me, I will come. Truly Yours, CHARLES F. BROWNE. ELIZABETH B. BROWNING ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, an English poetess, born at Durham in 1806; died at Florence, Italy, in 1861. She was the daughter of a clergyman named Barrett, and had an unusual education for a girl of her day, as she took up the classical studies usually pursued by university men. Her first poems appeared when she was but sixteen. In 1838 the "Seraphim and Other Poems " was given to the public. In 1846 she married Robert Browning. Among her noted works are "The Rhyme of the Duchess May," "The Romaunt of Margret," and the great translation of "Prometheus Bound." A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT was he doing, the great god Pan, WHAT Spreading ruin and scattering ban, With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, High on the shore sate the great god Pan, And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can He cut it short, did the great god Pan Then drew the pith like the heart of a man, Then notch'd the poor, dry, empty thing "This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan (Laugh'd while he sate by the river), "The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain,— For the reed that grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds of the river. "He giveth His beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvii. 2 F all the thoughts of God that are OF Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this,"He giveth His beloved sleep" ? What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown to light the brows? He giveth His beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved? The whole earth blasted for our sake. 56 Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when "He giveth His beloved sleep." O earth, so full of dreary noises! 66 His dews drop mutely on the hill, Though on its slope men sow and reap. Or cloud is floated overhead, "He giveth His beloved sleep." Ay, men may wonder while they scan For me, my heart, that erst did go That sees through tears the mummers leap, Who "giveth His beloved sleep!" And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be E MY HEART AND I I ■NOUGH! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The hard types of the mason's knife, |