CHARITY.

HOUGH I speak with the tongues of men and of

THOUGH

angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.-1 CORINTHIANS XIII.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

A successful impersonation of the feeble, broken voice of an old woman, will add much to the rendering of this piece.

VER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my

OVE

weary way,—

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle
gray,-
I who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house,-I can't quite make it clear!

Over the hill to the poor-house, it seems so horrid

queer!

Many a step I've taken a toilin' to and fro,

But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day

To work for a decent livin', and pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some,-I was, upon my soul,— Once my cheeks were roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't, remember, in them days, of hearin' people

say,

For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me:

Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,

And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,

But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to've done;

Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,

But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!— I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my

sons;

And God He made that rule of love; but when we're old

and gray,

I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other

way.

Strange, another thing; when our boys and girls was

grown,

And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed

to be,

The Lord of Hosts He come one day an' took him away from me.

all;

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall,→
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word

or frown,

Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' had n't a pleasant smile,-
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine, 't was carryin' things
too fur;

An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),

That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.

So 't was only a few days before the thing was done,— They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage one family will do,

But I never have seen a house that was big enough for

two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please

her eye,

An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with

childr❜n three,

'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,'
For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the childr'n was on me-I couldn't stand their

sauce

And Thomas said I need n't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best;

And one of 'em said 't was too warm there for any one so

old,

And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me

about

So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart

out;

But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put

down,

Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the

town.

Over the hill to the poor-house-my childr'n dear, good-bye!

Many a night I've watched you when only God was

nigh;

And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray

That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

WILL M. CARLETON.