ber in which he slept and died? Sir, I am no prophet. But when, from such sacred memories as these, I turn to view the opposite picture, the veil of futurity seems to be lifted. I will suppose that this opportunity is unimproved. That cherished inheritance which with characteristic patriotism, the family of Washington now offer to the country, is forfeited to parsimony. That family pass away, and with it the last hope of securing this peculiar treasure. The heritage enshrined in the hearts of millions is the subject of speculation. Mammon, the earth ruling demon, flaps his dark wing over the consecrated spot and dooms it to its most accursed uses. It becomes the resort of the idle, a den of gamblers and inebriates. But I forbear; I can pursue this picture no further. If such desecration is to befall the home and the grave of Washington, then let the curtain fall which hides the future from my view; that day of shame, I pray not to see. It needs no prophet's eye to scan, along the line of time, the majestic outline of our nation's destiny, when the fruits of our free government shall be more and more developed, until this vast continent shall be peopled with freemen from sea to sea; when the fame of the nation shall reach the farthest islands and shores; when our star of empire, radiant with the beams of liberty, shall have grown to such magnitude as to attract the eyes and guide the steps of all nations; and when some queen of Sheba shall come over seas and continents to behold our greatness, and see the happy results of the wisdom of Washington. Then, sir, Mount Vernon will be sought, and thousands now unborn will wish to kiss the earth which cradled, and now covers the Father of his Country. How will we appear in that millenial day of our nation's destiny, if it shall be truly recorded that the most sacred spot which God committed to our custody, was thrown away a sacrifice to parsimony, or some fashionable fine-spun theories, with which true patriotism has no fellowship? Will not every American blush with shame, and wish that he could cover from the gaze of nations so dark a blot in the page of our history? Sir, shall no spot be held sacred by Americans? Have we no reverence for the symbols of departed greatness? True there are monuments at Bunker Hill and Baltimore. We have here and there a national memento. The curious can trace the crumbling ramparts and the remains of hasty breast works, behind which the stout hearts of our forefathers beat with patriotic zeal, and over which they dealt dismay and death to our enemies. But, sir, as we have been reminded by our Governor, these memorials, like ourselves, are fast passing away. Let us then secure this honored patrimony! Let Mount Vernon be the perpetual memento of our country's great deliverance, and let the reverence with which it is regarded be the token of our gratitude! And when, in ages hence, the banks of the silvery Potomac shall resound, as now, with the bell of passing vessel, uttering its tribute to the memory of Washington, and the flag at the masthead shall humbly droop, and the mariner stand uncovered in honor of the sacred spot,-let future generations learn the lesson of gratitude and patriotism which these tokens shall daily recite at Mount Vernon. THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.* Vot's villed mit crief und shame: You dinks dis very funny, eh? Mein moder had two little twins, Dey vas me und mein broder; *Author of "Leedle Yawcob Strauss," "Dot Baby off Mine," "Mine Katrine," "Mother's Doughnuts," and other excellent dialect recitations in subsequent Numbers of this Series. Ve looks so ferry mooch alike, Und Hans der oder's name; Yaw, Mynheer, dat ish so! Und so I am in droubles, I gan't git droo mein hed Or Yawcob vot ish tead! PRAYER AND POTATOES.-REV. J. T. PETTEE. "If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit? [James ii. 15-16.] An old lady sat in her old arm-chair, With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, For days and for weeks her only fare, But now they were gone; of bad or good, Of those potatoes; And she sighed and said, “What shall I do? And she thought of the deacon over the way, Whose cellar was full of potatoes, And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come; Of such a store of potatoes." And the deacon came over as fast as he could, He asked her at once what was her chief want, Immediately answered, "Potatoes." But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; But she only thought of potatoes. He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; So, ending his prayer, he started for home; As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" And that groan followed him all the way home; Again he went to the widow's lone hut; The widow's cup was running o'er, Her face was haggard and wan no more. 66 Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" Yes," said the widow, "now you may." And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, And such a prayer the deacon prayed No longer embarrassed, but free and full, And would you, who hear this simple tale, Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; For wisdom and guidance,- for all these are good,— CATILINE'S LAST HARANGUE TO HIS ARMY.-CROLY. To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown! Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome. Ye are all free to go. Not one!-a soldier's What! no man stirs ! spirit in you all? Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes Then each man to his tent, and take the arms Now to your cohorts' heads! the word's-Revenge. |