"ABIDE WITH ME."--S. H. THAYER.

"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,"

A simple maiden sang, with artless feeling,
"The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide,"
While in her voice the tender accents stealing,
Fell, softly as the dying day,

From those sweet lips, and died away.

"Abide with me” she could not know the plea―
The utter consecration-in her dreaming;
Joy, like a bird, made life a melody,

And spring, its sun along her pathway beaming,
Stirred her young heart with gentle fires,
And quickened her with sweet desires.

"The darkness deepens," slowly fell the sound,
As if with plaintive grief the notes were laden,
Yet not a sorrow had her bosom owned,
Nor ever sadness touched the lovely maiden;
How could she sing "Abide with me,"
Or know its hidden mystery?

"The darkness deepens," and the years go by;
The maiden 'neath the shadows oft has wandered;
Joy, like a bird, has left its nest to fly,

And bonds of love and happiness are sundered;
Lo, all the friendliness of earth

Has taken wings, with joy and mirth.

Despair, the tearless offspring of all woe-
The lonely progeny of a world of sorrow—
Has turned upon her, like a sudden foe,
To snatch Hope's only legacy,-to-morrow;
And, shuddering, in her dumb distress,
She drinks the cup of bitterness.

O Life! she knows the anguish of its cross,—
Love turned to hate and blessings to reverses;

She, too, has felt the fever of remorse,

With its deep dregs of agony and curses; "When helpers fail and comforts flee,” She dare not ask, "Abide with me."

Her voice, it will not sing, the notes are dead;

But in their stead, like some pale phantom, haunting Weird echoes, through her memory, mocking dread,

Breathe the dead song her aching heart is wanting, "Abide with me" she cannot sing,

But mutely brings the offering.

"Fast falls the eventide;" yet, to her eyes,
The golden light of morn is faintly dawning;
"Earth's joys grow dim," but from eternal skies
Is borne the answer to her spirit's longing;
And now, as "falls the eventide,"

She whispers, "Lord, with me abide."

She knows it now, the faith that comes at last;
Child of the pang and travail of her spirit,
Born of the withering passions of the past,
Its heavenly voice, she lingers long to hear it;
Lo, through the valley of despair,
Her song has sung itself to prayer!

THE OLD SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS.

Oh, the old school exhibitions! will they ever come again, With the good, old-fashioned speaking from the girls and boys so plain?

Will we ever hear old "Iser," with its rapid roll and sweep, And "Pilot, 'tis a fearful night; there's danger on the deep!" Sweet Mary doesn't raise her lambs like Mary did of old; Their fleece is not as white as snow;" they're wandering from the fold.

The boy upon "the burning deck" is not one half as fineHe was not "born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine!"

The girls don't speak in calico, the boys in cotton jeans; They've changed the old-time dresses 'long with the oldtime scenes;

They smile and speak in ancient Greek, in broadcloth and in lace;

And you can't half see the speaker for the collar round the

face!

Oh, the old school exhibition! it is gone forever more!
The old schoolhouse is deserted, and the grass has choked

the door;

And the wind sweeps round the gables with a low and mournful whine.

For the old boys "born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine?" - Atlanta Constitution.

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THE CONJUGATING DUTCHMAN.

THOMAS HOLMES.

Years ago, when every gentleman in western Europe wore as a part of his daily dress a sword, two Englishmen one day entered a café in Paris, and, seating themselves at a table, fell to conversing. In the course of

the lunch one of the men told the other that he had noticed in a newspaper that morning an account of the arrival in the city of a celebrated dwarf.

Upon the speaker concluding his remarks, the Englishmen were astonished to hear a tall, stolid-looking man, seated at a table near by, say: "I arrive, thou arrivest, he arrives, we arrive, you arrive, they arrive."

The Englishman whose remark seemed to have suggested this mysterious speech stepped over to where the stranger sat, and asked, sternly: "Did you mean to speak to me, sir?"

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I speak, you speak, they speak-" said the man.

Do you mean to insult me?" the Englishman cried, with rising temper. The stranger calmly replied: "I insult, thou insultest, he insults, we insult, you insult, they insult."

The Englishman's temper gave way at this, and, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, he said, hotly: This is too much! I'll have satisfaction. If you have any spirit with your rudeness come along with me." The imperturbable stranger arose and followed the Englishman, saying, as he did so: "I come, thou comest, he comes, we come, you come, they come."

The men went into a neighboring alley. Unsheathing his sword, the Englishman said: "Now, sir, you must fight me.”

"I fight," answered the stranger, drawing his weapon, "thou fightest, he fights, we fight,"-here he made a thrust,-"you fight, they fight," and at this point he disarmed the Englishman.

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Well," said the Englishman, you have the best of it, and I hope that you are satisfied."

"I am satisfied," replied the stranger, sheathing his sword, "thou art satisfied, he is satisfied, we are satisfied, you are satisfied, they are satisfied."

"I am glad," said the Englishman, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, "that every one is satisfied; but leave off, I beg of you, this quizzing, and tell me what is your object in doing so.'

"I am a Dutchman," said the stranger, "and I am learning your language. It is very difficult for me to remember the peculiarities of the verbs, and my tutor has instructed me to conjugate every English verb that I hear spoken that I may fix them in my mind. I make it a rule to do this, and I do not like to have my plans disturbed or I would have told you this before fighting you."

The Englishman laughed heartily at the explanation, and said: You must dine with me this evening."

"I will dine," said the Dutchman; "thou wilt dine, he will dine, they will dine,-we will all dine together." They accordingly did, and the Dutchman conjugated with as much relish as he ate.

THE KISS IN THE TUNNEL.

They were sitting five seats back, but I plainly heard the smack,

As we dashed into the tunnel near the town;

And the currents of my veins ran like gushing April rains,
Though I'm grave and gray-and wear a doctor's gown.

Once-alas! so long ago-on the rails I journeyed so,
With a maiden in a jaunty jersey sack,

And I kissed her with my eyes as the timid stars the skies,
But I longed-oh, how I longed!-for one real smack!

Did she know it? I dare say! (She'd a sweet clairvoyant

way

In the glancing of her eyes so bright and blue.)

Ne'er a bee such honey sips as the nectar on her lips;
But I longed and longed in vain, as on we flew.

Just as yearning reached its height, lo! there came a sudden night,

And like steel to magnet clove my mouth to hers!

I shall never more forget how like drops of rain they met, In the bosom of a rose that lightly stirs !

When we came again to light, both our faces had burned white,

White as clouds that float in summer from the south,

Missed I glances, missed I siniles, but on air I rode for miles
With the sweetness of love's dew upon my mouth.

So the kiss that some one stole, in the rayless Stygian hole,
While with loud imprisoned clangor on we rushed,
Caused the sluggish streams of age, with young madness
leap and rage—

And my wife, restored to daylight, laughed and blushed.

WHEN MANDY BRINGS THE KIDS.-A. T. WORDEN.
You kaint tell how it chirks me up
When Mandy comes from town,
An' brings her trunks an' all the kids,
An' hat and summer gown,

Tew stay a spell, with Baby Ruth,

An' Allie, she's three year;

You jest kin bet they make things hum

When all the kids are here.

They'd ruther set on grandpa's knee,

Or lop again' his breast

An' hear him sing his old psalm-tunes,

Than fool round with the rest.

They'll walk and talk an' sing fer me

When other's kaint come near;

It's just a picnic all the time,

When Mandy's kids are here.

I like tew have 'em fussin' round,

A-combin' of my hair,

An' tyin' of my neckercher,

While standin' on a chair

They pull my whiskers with a comb

Until they start a tear;

God grant I weep no other kind,

While Mandy's kids are here.