All that my pining spirit in its youth
Has pictured forth of excellence, is she;
The same ideal figure full of truth,
Alike in gentleness and purity:
By Bradley & Rulofson made divine.
Oh how I love to worship at her shrine!
The Man Who Struck Him.—“Show me the man who struck O’Docherty,” shouted a pugnacious little Irishman at an election; “show me the man who struck O’Docherty, and I’ll—” “I am the man who struck O’Docherty,” said a big, brawny fellow, stepping to the front; “and what have you to say about it?” “Och, sure,” answered the small one, suddenly collapsing, “and didn’t you do it well!”
We cannot stay thy footsteps, Time.
Thy flight no hand may bind
Save His, whose foot is on the sea,
Whose voice is in the wind.
Yet we can make a cloudy day
As bright as in sunshine,
And drive the demon care away
With draughts of Gerke Wine.
Mr. John Owens, who lately died at Jackson, aged 114, was in some respects a remarkable man. He blushingly admitted that he had used whisky since he was ten years old, and had chewed tobacco and smoked, more or less, for one hundred and three years, but he never claimed that he had seen Washington.