THE WORLD FOR SALE.

REV. RALPH HOYT.

The world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me: who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free?

'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear.

'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth; who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions!

now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now purchase, and a world command!--and be with a world's curses crowned.

Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast, save this desponding one of mine--who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the best of all I still have left--my Faith, My Bible, and my G.o.d.

HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.

JOSHUA JENKINS.

I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go away--O Lord--Joshua--shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.

I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its a.s.sistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around.

Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it.

I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.

Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.

THE DYING HEBREW.

KIMBIE.

The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858.

A Hebrew knelt in the dying light, His eye was dim and cold; The hairs on his brow were silver white, And his blood was thin and old!

He lifted his look to his latest sun, For he knew that his pilgrimage was done; And as he saw G.o.d's shadow there, His spirit poured itself in prayer!

"I come unto death's second birth Beneath a stranger air, A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth, As all my fathers were!

And men have stamped me with a curse, I feel it is not Thine; Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made On me, as them, to shine; And therefore dare I lift mine eye Through that to Thee before I die!

In this great temple, built by Thee, Whose pillars are divine, Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly Lights up Thine own true shrine, Oh take my latest sacrifice-- Look down and make this sod Holy as that where, long ago, The Hebrew met his G.o.d.

I have not caused the widow's tears, Nor dimmed the orphan's eye; I have not stained the virgin's years, Nor mocked the mourner's cry.

The songs of Zion in mine ear Have ever been most sweet, And always, when I felt Thee near, My shoes were off my feet.

I have known Thee in the whirlwind, I have known Thee on the hill, I have loved Thee in the voice of birds, Or the music of the rill; I dreamt Thee in the shadow, I saw Thee in the light; I blessed Thee in the radiant day, And worshiped Thee at night.

All beauty, while it spoke of Thee, Still made my soul rejoice, And my spirit bowed within itself To hear Thy still, small voice!

I have not felt myself a thing, Far from Thy presence driven, By flaming sword or waving wing Shut off from Thee and heaven.

Must I the whirlwind reap because My fathers sowed the storm?

Or shrink, because another sinned, Beneath Thy red, right arm?

Oh much of this we dimly scan, And much is all unknown; But I will not take my curse from man-- I turn to Thee alone!

Oh bid my fainting spirit live, And what is dark reveal, And what is evil, oh forgive, And what is broken heal.

And cleanse my nature from above, In the dark Jordan of Thy love!

I know not if the Christian's heaven Shall be the same as mine; I only ask to be forgiven, And taken home to Thine.

I weary on a far, dim strand, Whose mansions are as tombs, And long to find the Fatherland, Where there are many homes.

Oh grant of all yon starry thrones, Some dim and distant star, Where Judah's lost and scattered sons May love Thee from afar.

Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet In choral praise and prayer, Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet, Alone be wanting there?

Yet place me in Thy lowest seat, Though I, as now, be there, The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest; But let me see and hear, From some dim mansion in the sky, Thy bright ones and their melody."

The sun goes down with sudden gleam, And--beautiful as a lovely dream And silently as air-- The vision of a dark-eyed girl, With long and raven hair, Glides in--as guardian spirits glide-- And lo! is kneeling by his side, As if her sudden presence there Were sent in answer to his prayer.

(Oh say they not that angels tread Around the good man's dying bed?) His child--his sweet and sinless child-- And as he gazed on her He knew his G.o.d was reconciled, And this the messenger, As sure as G.o.d had hung on high The promise bow before his eye-- Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung, To point his heavenward faith, And life's most holy feeling strung To sing him into death; And on his daughter's stainless breast The dying Hebrew found his rest!

GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND.

Not many years since, a young married couple from the far "fast-anch.o.r.ed isle" sought our sh.o.r.es with the most sanguine antic.i.p.ations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour, the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his companion.

Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She pressed her way through the baccha.n.a.lian crowd who were revelling there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give me back my husband!_"

"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the prostrate wretch.

"_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that n.o.ble form that once, like the great oak, held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that once n.o.ble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore the superscription of the G.o.dhead? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and see in his mirror the image of his G.o.d? What Egyptian drug have you poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the altar!"

The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that burning liquid was opened upon our sh.o.r.es, have been saluted, at every stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in Israel at the ma.s.sacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple, have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my sister! Give me back my wife!_"

But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals?

No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction. _He had bought a letter of indulgence_--I mean a _license!_--a precious instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more respectable than the pope's. _He_ confounded? Why, the whole artillery of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Caesar on his credentials, and unto Caesar he appealed; and unto Caesar, too, his _victims_ appealed, and _appealed in vain_.

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.

A LOGICAL STORY.

O.W. HOLMES.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.