LINCOLN'S RULES FOR LIVING.

Do not worry, eat three square meals a day, say your prayers, be courteous to your creditors, keep your digestion good, steer clear of biliousness, exercise, go slow and go easy. Maybe there are other things that your special case requires to make you happy, but, my friend, these I reckon will give you a good lift.

Abraham Lincoln.

THE WATER FOWL.

Whither midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As darkly painted on the crimson sky

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along the pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near,

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven,
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart:

He, who from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

William Cullen Bryant.

TRUE REST.

Rest is not quitting

The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to one's sphere.

"Tis the brook's motion,
Clear without strife,

Fleeting to ocean,
After this life.

"Tis loving and serving,
The highest and best;
"Tis onward, unswerving,

And this is true rest,

Goethe,

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.

The great big church, wus crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk An' satin rich as cream that grows on our ole Brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there,

An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in

prayer.

The elder, in his poolpit high, said as he slowly riz:
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith rheumatiz,
An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore aint here,
Will some'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red nosed, drunken tramp of low an' rowdy style,
Give an introductory hiccup an' then staggered up the isle.
Then thro' thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense ov sin,
An' thro' thet air uv sanctity the odor uv ole gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man perfanes the house uv God. W'y this is sacrilege!" The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumbling feet,

An' sprawled an' staggered up the stairs an' gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain
That seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain,
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an'
knees,

He slam dashed his whole body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry.
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky.
The old church shook an' staggered and seemed to reel an' sway,
An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears,

That brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith

tears;

An' we dreamed of old time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat,

Uv home an' love and baby-days, an' mother an' all that.

An' then he struck a streak of hope, a song from souls forgiven,
Thet burst the prison bars uv sin an' stormed the gates of Heaven;
The mornin' stars they sung together, no soul wus left alone,
We felt the universe was safe an' God wus on His throne.

An' then a wail of deep despair and darkness came again,
An' long black crepe hung on the door uv all the homes of men;
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs uv glad delight,
An' then the tramp he staggered down and reeled into the night.

But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he never spoke a word,
An' it wuz the saddest story that our ears had ever heard;
He hed tol' his own life history, an' no eye wuz dry that day,
When the elder rose an' simply said, "My brethren, let us pray!"
Sam Walter Foss.

WATER.

Sweet, beautiful water-brewed in the running brook, the rippling fountain and the laughing rill-in the limpid cascade, as it joyfully leaps down the side of the mountain. Brewed in yonder mountain top, whose granite peak glitters like gold bathed in the morning sun-brewed in the sparkling dewdrop; sweet, beautiful water-brewed in the crested wave of the ocean deeps, driven by the storm, breathing its terrible anthem to the God of the seabrewed in the fleecy foam and the whitened spray as it hangs like a speck over the distant cataract-brewed in the clouds of heaven;

sweet, beautiful water! As it sings in the rain shower and dances in the hailstorm-as it comes sweeping down in feathery flakes, clothing the earth in a spotless mantle of white. Distilled in the golden tissues that paint the western sky at the setting of the sun, and the silvery tissues that veil the midnght moon-sweet, healthgiving, beautiful water! Distilled in the rainbow of promise, whose warp is the raindrop of earth, and whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven-sweet, beautiful water.

John B. Gough.

YOU KISSED ME.

You kissed me! My head dropped low on your breast
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,

While the holy emotions my tongue dared not speak,
Flashed up as in flame from my heart to my cheek.
Your arms held me fast, oh! your arms were so bold:
Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold.

Your glances seemed drawing my soul through mine eyes,
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies.
Your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss
They might never unclasp from the rapturous kiss.

You kissed me! My heart, my breath, and my will
In delirious joy for a moment stood still.
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
No visions of rapture outside of your arms,
And were I this instant an angel possessed
Of the peace and the joy that belong to the blest,
I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,
I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown,
To nestle once more in that haven of rest-

Your lips upon mine, my head on your breast.