Our heads are growin' gray, dear wife; our hearts are beatin' slow; In a little while the Master will call us for to go.

When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes, We'll see _no stylish worship_ in the temple of the skies.

THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.

JOHN H. YATES.

A companion to the foregoing.

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day!

It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The s.e.xton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long isle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"

The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of sh.o.r.e; I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm.

The prechen'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor pa.s.sed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear That told me h.e.l.l was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end."

I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the sh.o.r.e, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

THE SAN FRANCISCO AUCTIONEER.

ANON.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour of putting up a fine pocket-handkerchief, a yard wide, a yard long, and almost a yard thick; one-half cotton, and t'other half cotton too, beautifully printed with stars and stripes on one side, and the stripes and stars on t'other. It will wipe dust from the eyes so completely as to be death to demagogues, and make politics as bad a business as printing papers. Its great length, breadth and thickness, together with its dark colour, will enable it to hide dirt, and never need washing.

Going at one dollar? seventy-five cents? fifty cents? twenty-five cents? one bit? n.o.body wants it! Oh, thank you, sir! Next, gentlemen--for the ladies won't be permitted to bid on this article--is a real, simon pure, tempered, highly-polished, keen-edged Sheffield razor; bran spanking new; never opened before to sunlight, moonlight, starlight, daylight or gaslight; sharp enough to shave a lawyer or cut a disagreeable acquaintance or poor relation; handle of buck-horn, with all the rivets but the two at the ends of pure gold. Who will give two dollars? one dollar? half a dollar? Why, ye long-bearded, dirty-faced reprobates, with not room on your phizzes for a Chinese woman to kiss, I'm offering you a bargain at half a dollar! Well, I'll throw in this strop at half a dollar! razor and strop! a recent patent; two rubs upon it will sharpen the city attorney; all for four bits; and a piece of soap, sweeter than roses, lathers better than a school-master, and strong enough to wash all the stains from a California politician's countenance, all for four bits.

Why, you have only to put the razor, strop and soap under your pillow at night, and wake up in the morning clean shaved. Won't anybody give two bits, then, for the lot? I knew I would sell them! Next, ladies and gentlemen, I offer three pair socks, hose, stockings, or half-hose, just as you're a mind to call them, knit by a machine made on purpose, out of cotton wool. The man that buys these will be enabled to walk till he gets tired; and, provided his boots are big enough, needn't have any corns; the legs are as long as bills against the corporation, and as thick as the heads of the members of the legislature. Who wants 'em at one half dollar? Thank-ee, madame, the money. Next I offer you a pair of boots made especially for San Francisco, with heels long enough to raise a man up to the Hoadley grades, and nails to ensure against being carried over by a land slide; legs wide enough to carry two revolvers and a bowie-knife, and the upper of the very best horse leather. A man in these boots can move about as easy as the State Capitol. Who says twenty dollars? All the tax-payers ought to buy a pair to kick the council with, everybody ought to buy a pair to kick the legislature with, and they will be found of a.s.sistance in kicking the bucket especially if somebody should kick at being kicked. Ten dollars for legs, uppers and soles!

while souls, and miserable souls at that, are bringing twenty thousand dollars in Sacramento! Ten dollars! ten dollars! gone at ten dollars!

Next is something that you ought to have, gentlemen,--a lot of good gallowses--sometimes called suspenders. I know that some of you will, after a while, be furnished at the State's expense, but you can't tell which one, so buy where they're cheap. All that deserve to be hanged are not supplied with a gallows; if so, there would be n.o.body to make laws, condemn criminals, or hang culprits, until a new election. Made of pure gum-elastic--stretch like a judge's conscience, and last as long as a California office-holder will steal; buckles of pure iron, and warranted to hold so tight that no man's wife can rob him of his breeches; are, in short, as strong, as good, as perfect, as effectual and as bona-fide as the ordinance against Chinese shops on Dupont Street--gone at twenty-five cents.

PAT-ENT GUN.

I've heard a good joke on Emerald Pat, Who kept a few brains and a brick in his hat; He was bound to go hunting; so taking his gun He rammed down a charge--this was load number one; Then he put in the priming, and when all was done, By way of experiment, he thought he would try And see if by perchance he might hit the "bull's eye."

He straightened himself until he made a good figure, Took a deliberate aim and then pulled the trigger.

Click! went the hammer, but nothing exploded; "And sure," muttered Paddy, "the gun isn't loaded."

So down went another charge, just as before, Unless this contained a grain or two more; Once more he made ready and took a good aim And pulled on the trigger--effect quite the same.

"I wonder, can this be, still shootin'?" said Pat; "I put down a load, now I'm certain of that; I'll try it again, and then we shall see!"

So down went the cartridge of load number three.

Then trying again with a confident air, And succeeding no better, he gave up in despair.

Just at that moment he happened to spy His friend, Michael Milligan, hurrying by.

"h.e.l.lo, Mike! Come here and try on my gun; I've been trying to shoot until I'm tired and done!"

So Mike took the gun and picked up the powder, Remarking to Pat, "it would make it go louder."

Then placing it firmly against his right arm, And never suspecting it might do him harm, He pointed the piece in the proper direction, And pulled on the trigger without more reflection, When off went the gun like a county election Where whisky and gin have exclusive selection Of those who are chosen to guard the inspection-- There's a great deal of noise--and some little inspection, And Michael "went off" in another direction.

"Hold on!" shouted Pat, "Hold on to the gun, I put in three loads, and you fired off but one!

Get up, and be careful, don't hold it so level, Or else we are both us gone to the--cemetery!"

"I'm goin'," says Michael, "it's time that I wint, I've got meself kicked and I'll just take the hint."

Now, old boys, and young, here's a moral for you; Don't make Pat your pattern whatever you do.

Don't carry too much in the crown of your hat; Of all things you lodge there beware of the bat!

I don't mean the little mouse flying in the air, The ladies so fear that may get into their hair, But the dangerous brick bat, so much worse than that, n.o.body can wear it that isn't a "flat,"

And then don't forget it is one of Old Nick's Diabolical methods of playing his tricks On foolish young men who become "perfect bricks;"

He don't give the hint until _after_ he kicks!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!"

For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow, Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like m.u.f.fled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle.

In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act--act in the living Present!

Heart within, and G.o.d o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.