But in all the great crowd, and I turned everywhere,
I could not see a sign of him,-my darling was not there.
I asked the men around me to go and find my son,
But they only stared or laughed, and left me one by one,
Till at last an old countryman came up to me and said—
How could I live to hear it?-that my Donal was dead!
The Shamrock sod is growing on Greenwood's hillside;
It grows above the heart of my darling and my pride;
And on summer days I sit by the head-stone all day,
With my heart growing old, and my head growing gray,
And I watch the dead leaves whirl from the sycamore trees,
And wonder why it is that I can't die like these;

But I think that this same winter, and from my heart I hope,
I'll be lying nice and quiet upon Greenwood's slope,
With my darling close beside me underneath the trickling
dew,

And the shamrocks creeping pleasantly above us two.

A DISTURBANCE IN CHURCH.

They have had more trouble at our Methodist meetinghouse. Last Sunday the preacher was just beginning his sermon, and had uttered the words, "Brethren, I wish to direct your attention this morning to the fourth verse of the twentieth chapter of Saint"-when a hen emerged from the recess beneath the pulpit. As she had just laid an egg, she interrupted the preacher to announce the fact to the congregation; and he stopped short as she walked out into the aisle, screeching: “Kuk-kuk-kukkuk-te-ke! Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-te-ko!"

The parson contemplated her for a moment, and then concluded to go on; but the sound of his voice seemed to provoke her to rivalry, and so she put on a pressure of five or six pounds to the square inch, and made such a racket that the preacher stopped again, and said,

"Will Deacon Grimes please remove that disgraceful chicken from the meeting-house?"

The deacon rose, and proceeded with the task. He first tried to drive her toward the door; but she dodged

the front pew.

him, and, still clucking vigorously, got under the seat in Then the deacon seized his umbrella, and scooped her out into the aisle again, after which he tried to "shoo" her toward the door; but she darted into a pew, hopped over the partition, came down in the opposite pew, and out into the side aisle, making a noise like a steam planing-mill.

The deacon didn't like to climb over after her, so he went round, and just as he got into the side aisle the hen flew over into the middle aisle again. Then the boys in the gallery laughed, and the deacon began to grow red in the face.

At last Mr. Binns came out of his pew to help, and as both he and the deacon made a dash at the chicken from opposite directions she flew up with a wild cluck to the gallery, and perched on the edge, while she gave excited expression to her views by emitting about five hundred clucks a minute. The deacon flung a hymn-book at her to scare her down again, but he missed, and hit Billy Jones, a Sunday-school scholar, in the eye. Then another boy in the gallery made a dash at her, and reached so far over that he tumbled and fell on Mrs. Miskey's bonnet, whereupon she said aloud that he was predestined for the gallows. The crash scared the hen, and she flew over and roosted on the stove-pipe that ran along just under the ceiling, fairly howling with fright. In order to bring her down, the deacon and Mr. Binns both beat on the lower part of the pipe with their umbrellas, and at the fifth or sixth knock the pipe separated and about forty feet of it came down with a crash, emptying a barrel or two of soot over the congregation. There were women in that congregation who went home looking as if they had been working in a coal-mine, and wishing they could stab Deacon Grimes without being hung for murder. The hen came down with the stove-pipe; and as she flew by Mr. Binns he made a dash at her with his umbrella, and knocked her clear through a fifteen-dollar

pane of glass, whereupon she landed in the street, and hopped off clucking insanely. Then the preacher adjourned the congregation. They are going to expel the owner of that hen from the church when they discover his identity.

MINE SCHILDHOOD.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

Der schiltren dhey vas poot in ped,
All tucked oup for der nighdt;
I dakes mine pipe der mantel off,
Und py der fireside pright

I dinks aboudt ven I vas young,
Off moder, who vas tead,

Und how at night-like I do Hans-
She tucked me oup in ped.

I mindt me off mine fadder, too,
Und how he yoost to say,
"Poor poy, you hafa hardt oldt row
To hoe, und leedle blay!"

I find me oudt dot id vas drue

Vot mine oldt fader said,

Vhile smoodhing down mine flaxen hair
Und tucking me in ped.

Der oldt folks! Id vas like a dhream
To shpeak off dhem like dot;
Gretchen und I vas "oldt folks" now,

Und half two schiltren got.

Ve lofes dhem more as nefer vas,
Each leedle curly head,

Und efry nighdt ve takes dhem oup
Und tucks dhem in dheir ped.

Budt dhen, somedimes, vhen I feels plue,
Und all dings lonesome seem,

I vish I vas dot poy again,

Und dis vas all a dhream.

I vant to kiss mine moder vonce,
Und vhen mine brayer vas said,
To haf mine fader dake me oup
Und tuck me in mine ped.

THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS.-SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON.

IN CLEAR CREEK CANON.

Walls of granite, upward towering,
Meet and arch the heavens o'er;
Crag on crag, in somber shadɔw,
Rise behind and loom before;
While the moon, in car of splendor,
Rolls along the lofty height,

Coldly lighting up the canon

Through the watches of the night.

Silence weaves, with noiseless shuttle,
Warp and woof of mystic power,
Draping with its folds of grandeur,
Lofty cliff and craggy tower;
E'en yon misty cloud of vapor
Hangs suspended o'er the stream,
And we wander up the canon
As if walking in a dream.

Spirits of the past are gliding

Up the way with us to-night,
We can feel their presence near us,
See their waving plumes of white;
Painted warriors, forest maidens,
Aged chiefs, and children fair,—
Moving on to meet the present
Creeping from its mountain lair.

Hark! a rumble deep and heavy
Vibrates on the midnight air!
Distant grumblings, jarring whispers,
Wire and rail of iron bear;
Nearer, deeper, fainter, muffled,
Bursting out again, till tower
Answers cliff with mighty thunders

From the fast approaching power.

Louder! louder! how the echoes

Clash and crash amid the rifts;
Rolling downward through the canon
Grander now the tempest drifts!
See! around yon mighty bowlder,
Sweeping comes the flashing light,

Turning into glare of midday
Every murky shade of night!
O'er its road of iron rocking

On it comes with clang and clash,
From o'erhanging cliff and tower
Breaking with a wilder crash!
High its cloud, with lightnings painted,
Upward rolls along the face

Of the mountain towering o'er it,—
Mountain trembling to its base.
Onward! onward! brighter! brighter!
Glows the red pulsating flash,
Onward! onward! louder! louder!
Now the hoofs of metal crash;
Nearer! nearer! Clutch the granite
Farthest from its iron path!
Shrink within the rocky fissure
From the breathings of its wrath!
Nearer! nearer! past us flying
It has thundered down the way
Farther, fainter, till the echoes
Mid the mountains cease to play;
Weave again, O silence, sadly,
Warp and woof of mystic chain,
For a mighty living present

Rent thy temple's vail in twain.

BEHIND TIME.—FREEMAN HUNT.

A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.

A great battle was going on. Column after column