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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. no More terday from

“Yours respecful

Eli PERKINS,"

“his letter." 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. BROW NE.

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
W HAT was he doing, the great god Pan,

Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat

With the dragon-fly on the river?
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,

From the deep, cool bed of the river.
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,

While turbidly flow'd the river,
And hack'd and lew'd as a great god can
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed

To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan

(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
Then notch'd the poor, dry, empty thing

In holes as he sate by the river.

“ 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,

Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly

Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,

To laugh, as he sits by the river, 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.

THE SLEEP
"He giveth His beloved sleep.”—Psalm cxxvii. 2
of all the thoughts of God that are

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 hero's heart to be unmoved,

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?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.

“He giveth His beloved sleep."

s« 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.”

D earth, so full of dreary noises !
o men, with wailing in your voices !

O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, () curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,

And giveth His beloved sleep.”

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

Confirm'd in such a rest to keep;
But angels say—and through the word
I think their happy smile is heerd-

“He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its weary vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose

Who "giveth His beloved sleep!”

And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, “Not a tear must o'er her fall,

He giveth His beloved sleep.”

MY HEART AND I

TNOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,

As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I.

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