Budt Yawcob vas no shooter-he don't do id pooty

vell;

Dot arrow don't go droo de core, budt id vent pooty

near

Shust near enough to miss id und go droo hees broder's

ear.

He dravels mit hees buysickle in efery kind off vedder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes he dakes a "header:"

I don't know oxactly vot dat vas, budt dot poy he only grumble,

Und say I beddher try id vonce, dhen maybe I vould "tumble."

Dot Yawcob says dot ve vas boor: und he vants to be

richer,

Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass pasepall pitcher;

He say he must be "shtriking oudt," und try und "make a hit,"

Und tells me I vas "off mine pase" vhen I make fun

off it;

Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe "oudt on der schwim."

He

say

dot von off Honlan's shells vas goot enough for him.

Vot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dot's brofligate and

vild;

"How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der toothless child?"

(I got dot deedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless

youth.

He cuts his poor oldt fader more as a serpent's

tooth.)

Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he must

obey,

Und dot eef you should sphare der rod you sphoil him righdt away.

Vell, Yawcob, he vas pooty goot-I guess I don'd gomplain.

I sometimes vish, mineself, dot I vas been a poy again. I lets him play mit pase-pall, und dake headers vhile he

can.

I prings him up mit kindness, und I risk der coming

man.

Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shitck, vhile Otto howls und dances;

I'll shpoil der rod und sphare der child, I dink, und

dake der shances.

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

PART SECOND.

BEST SELECTIONS

NUMBER 2.

A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS.

THE old year, hoary with the snows of age, exhausted

with the labors of its life, tottering under its weight of days, stood trembling upon the brink of the grave. The closing day of its life was waning. The last sunset threw its golden beams over the white robe of the departing monarch. The stars came out on the tented field of night to keep their vigils with him. Around the altar of many a rustic church or solemn cathedral gathered God's children to watch "the old year out and the new year in."

The hours fled slowly by-nine, ten, eleven-how solemnly the last stroke of the clock floats out upon the still air. It dies gently away, swells out again in the distance, and seems to be caught up by spirit-voices of departed years, until the air is filled with melancholy strains. It is the requiem of the dying year. Tenderly, mournfully it lingers upon the ear and sinks into the heart; slowly and softly it dies away. The clock strikes twelve; the grave opens and closes, and the old year is buried.

Turning with saddened hearts from the tomb, a gush of joyous melody bursts upon us. The bells are ringing