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saw-pit and see the movements of the carpenters, with their strong bare-arms and monotonous swayings at work. Their "weans" having tilted a plank across one of the tree-stumps, are enjoying a noisy see-saw; now quivering high in air and gripping the wood with their hands and knees, anon being dunted down on the ground at the risk of a capsize, but always in an ecstacy of merriment. Our Blacksmith, honest "Burn-the-win'," is a model for Phidias, when he wheels his ponderous hammer above his head, and makes the sparks of heated iron fly around him, till he appears to be a gigantic Catharine Wheel of a new and improved pattern. As for exertion, if you watched the bell-ringer on Sabbath, hauling the rope of the cracked piece of metal which summons all good folks to Church, you would own that the man earned his stipend. How lustily he pulls, the perspiration running down his thin grey locks, and being mopped up from his temples by a coloured handkerchief, large enough for a hearth-rug. Neither are the ploughmen and herd-laddies the sort of boys to eat the bread of idleness. When holiday is made on Auld Handsel Monday, you will find them doing hard work at the Houlaken, with grave face and moist brow, covering the buckle with their hobnailed shoon, and giving a short quick skreigh of intense delight, as they link arms and whirl their neighbour round, while the lasses look on and await their turn demurely. Blithely will the fiddle sound, played by some Orpheus of the soil, who has charmed listeners many a long Winter evening, when the snow-drift enmantled every dale, and prevented all save in-door labour.

As the evening twilight fades into starry night, you may be fortunate enough to encounter Frank Sylvan himself,"brave old buck!" with his rod in his hand, returning homeward from such a day of line-casting as will be long remembered in the annals of Troutland. Perhaps you find him lingering near the Post-Office, where he has called for his newspaper and letters, talking with the English schoolmaster, who also has been busy with the rod in his own way, but who has lately adapted himself to the palmy days of the north country in which he finds employment, learning to do at Rome as the Romans do; some believe that there is nothing like leather. He knew well that as the twig is bent so is the tree inclined, and in his own land he used to bend the birch twig to good purpose. If you are so lucky as to secure the company of the Old Bachelor himself, Frank Sylvan, you will do well to set him talking about the days that have gone by,-the men whom he has known, both the

serene creators of immortal things" whose names are lustrous on the scrolls of literature, and the simple, honest, and laborious dwellers in such an old Scottish Village as that wherein he was born. Best of all it is to stand with him at his own garden door, and watch the sunset glory of the sky, with the clear outline of the purple hills, and to listen to the musical tinkling and gurgling of the spring of water, unseen but garrulous, that fills up every pause of conversation. He is not of despondent mood, yet you may find him not unfrequently in the church-yard, where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep," and where every humble mound is associated with a remembered life of patient labour, suffering, or simple happiness. At such times the seriousness which especially distinguishes the Scottish character, reveals itself by a tone of elevated piety, totally removed from gloom, and we know that the good old man is thinking of the home that is awaiting those who toiled and mourned, who sowed in tears but who will reap in joy, when the fashion of this world has passed away, and the Rest that is promised to the people of God shall be theirs eternally.

"O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch,
Made ready for the weary. Everywhere,

O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children,
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up,
And to return to thee; and in thy bosom

To lie in perfect luxury of peace,

Fearless of morn and day."

J. W. E.

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THE STROKE'S DREAM.

I.

THE last night's racing had come and gone,
The shades of night had descended,
(I mean by that figure t'was half-past one)

When a "stroke" to his rooms ascended.
He seemed in that happy frame of mind
Which by some's styled "elevated,"
But as I don't wish to say aught unkind,
I shall merely call him "elated."

II.

He sought his couch, and announced by snores
(It could snore could that stroke's proboscis)
That he slept the sleep peculiar to oars,

And overworked omnibus "osses."

As into slumber he, toplike sank,

The spirit of Dreams drew nigh him,

And he dreamt that he stood upon Grassy's bank,
And the eights went sweeping by him.

III.

But strange, strange faces did seem to float

O'er that river o. Dreams careering,

For Gladstone rowed stroke to the foremost boat,

And Palmerston was steering.

He heard a chattering, rattling row,

A species of wordy tussle;

He looked at the man who was rowing bow,

And found it was Johnny Russell.

IV.

And struck by a faded 'Varsity Blue
He asked "who number two is?"
A shadow in flannels replied, "what, two?
Lord bless you it's Cornewall Lewis."
He looked them over from stern to stem,
Examined their time and feather;
Quoth he "there's plenty of putt in them
If only they swing together."

V.

While pondering over their future fate
He caught the oars double knocks on
The rowlock, and by him there passed an eight,
To which Lord Darby was coxswain,
While Dizzy ever on the alert

Was playing the leading fiddle,

And Whiteside game for the quickest spurt
Was swinging fierce in the middle.

VI.

At length they too disappeared from view
And life from the scene departed,
And our stroke began to look rather blue
And feel somewhat anxious hearted,
When a gun's report o'er the meadows flew
And he heard a roar of "well started "!
They come round the corner and up the gut
With every muscle straining,

All doing their darn'dest in pace and putt,
But the boat behind seems gaining.

VII.

And Gladstone still kept putting it on,
But yet could'nt keep her going,

And hard upon Grassy "the late Lord John,"
Seemed more for "row "ing than rowing:

And Dizzy was creeping up fast behind,
With Whiteside the strong and strapping,
Resolved that the coxswain in front should find
That he was not giv'n to napping :

A lift a shoot as swift as the wind-
See Benjamin's overlapping!

VIII.

But somehow (perhaps the claret-cup
Did his natural powers diminish)

The Dreamer forgets if Pam's hand went up,
Or what was the struggle's finish;

He only remembers waking dry

And looking uncommonly yellow,

And how his friends said, as they passed him by,

"You must have been cut old fellow."

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