With a foaming glass of liquor,
Extended in your hand.

He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.

And next I will paint a drunkard,
Only a year has flown,

But into that loathsome creature,
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid,
I will paint him as he lies,
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.

I will paint the form of the mother,
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.

I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-"lost,"
I will paint all this rum-seller,
And will paint it free of cost.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe,
That is born there in your work-shop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rum-seller,
And many shall pause to view,
This wonderful swinging sign-board,
So terribly, fearfully true.

SEWING ON A BUTTON.-THE DANBURY NEWS MAN.

It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for -this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes

after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, "Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man.

LITTLE PAT AND THE PARSON.

He stands at the door of the church peeping in,
No troublesome beadle is near him;

The preacher is talking of sinners and sin,
And little Pat trembles to hear him ;-

A poor little fellow alone and forlorn,.
Who never knew parent or duty;
His head is uncovered, his jacket is torn,
And hunger has withered his beauty.

The white-headed gentleman shut in the box,
Seems growing more angry each minute;
He doubles his fist and the cushion he knocks,
As if anxious to know what is in it.

He scolds at the people who sit in the pews,-
Pat takes them for kings and princesses;
(With his little bare feet-he delights in their shoes;
In his rags he feels proud of their dresses!)

The parson exhorts them to think of their need,
To turn from the world's dissipation,

The naked to clothe, and the hungry to feed,-
Pat listens with strong approbation!

And when the old clergyman walks down the aisle,
Pat runs up to meet him right gladly,
"Shure, give me my dinner!" says he with a smile,
"And a jacket, I want them quite badly."

The kings and the princesses indignantly stare,
The beadle gets word of the danger,

And, shaking his silver-tipped stick in the air,
Looks knives at the poor little stranger.

But Pat's not afraid, he is sparkling with joy,
And cries, who so willing to cry it?
"You'll give me my dinner,-I'm such a poor boy:
You said so,-now don't you deny it."

The pompous old beadle may grumble and glare,
And growl about robbers and arson;

But the boy who has faith in the sermon stands there,
And smiles at the white-headed parson!

The kings and princesses may wonder and frown,
And whisper he wants better teaching;

But the white-headed parson looks tenderly down
On the boy who has faith in his preaching.

He takes him away without question or blame,
As eager as Patsy to press on,

For he thinks a good dinner (and Pat thinks the same)
Is the moral that lies in the lesson.

And after long years, when Pat handsomely drest,—
A smart footman,-is asked to determine

Of all earthly things what's the thing he likes best?
He says, "Och, shure, the master's ould sermin !"

And they pinched those little infants with a view to make 'em yell;

And how the mothers went for 'em I won't pretend to tell;
But there was no more discussion about anything that day,
And the meeting was adjourned in quite an unexpected way.
Since that disgraceful game was played on the society,
The members have pursued their avocations quietly;
Assembling in convention is a thing they do no more,
And upon that simple subject they now feel extremely sore.

THE FIRST PARTY.-JOSEPHINE POLLArd.

Miss Annabel McCarty

Was invited to a party,

"Your company from four to ten," the invitation said; And the maiden was delighted

To think she was invited

To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed.

The crazy little midget

Ran and told the news to Bridget,

Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight,

And said, with accents hearty,
""Twill be the swatest party

If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I wish it was to-night!"

The great display of frilling

Was positively killing;

And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely sash so wide!
And the gloves so very cunning!

She was altogether "stunning,"

And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride.

They gave minute directions,
With copious interjections

Of "sit up straight !" and "don't do this or that 'twould
be absurd!"

But, what with their caressing,

And the agony of dressing,

Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word.

1

There was music, there was dancing,

And the sight was most entrancing,

As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubilee';

There was laughing, there was pouting;

There was singing, there was shouting;
And old and young together made a carnival of glee.

Miss Annabel McCarty

Was the youngest at the party,

And every one remarked that she was beautifully dressed; Like a doll she sat demurely

On the sofa, thinking surely

It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest.

The noise kept growing louder;

The naughty boys would crowd her;

"I think you're very rude indeed!" the little lady said; And then, without a warning,

Her home instructions scorning,

She screamed: "I want my supper-and I want to go to bed!"

Now big folks who are older,

Need not laugh at her, nor scold her,

For doubtless, if the truth were known, we've often felt inclined

To leave the ball or party,

As did Annabel McCarty,

But we hadn't half her courage and we couldn't speak our

mind!

-St. Nicholas.

THE LAST HYMN.-MARIANNE FARNINGHAM,

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted
west,

And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.

But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there;

A fierce spirit moved above them-the wild spirit of the air— And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned, and boomed,

And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,

When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore

Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.

With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes,

As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.