'Not till you have something warm, Seth. Come, I've got a story to tell you, too: sit down, now;' and Seth was again pushed into his seat by his cunning tormentor.

'Oh! it's confounded hot here,' said the petty thief, again attempting to rise.

'Set down; don't be in such a plaguy hurry,' retorted the grocer, pushing him back in his chair.

'But I've got the cows to fodder, and some wood to split, and I must be a goin', continued the persecuted chap.

ner.

'But you must n't tear yourself away, Seth, in this manSet down; let the cows take care of themselves, and keep yourself cool: you appear to be fidgetty,' said the roguish grocer, with a wicked leer.

The next thing was the production of two smoking glasses of hot rum-toddy, the very sight of which, in Seth's present situation, would have made the hair stand erect upon his head, had it not been well oiled and kept down by the butter. 'Seth, I'll give you a toast now, and you can butter it yourself,' said the grocer, with an air of such consummate simplicity, that poor Seth still believed himself unsuspected. 'Seth, here's - here's a Christmas goose, - (it was about Christmas time,) - here's a Christmas goose, well roasted and basted, eh? I tell you, Seth, it's the greatest eating in creation. And, Seth, do n't you never use hog's fat, or common cooking butter, to baste with. Fresh pound butter, just the same as you see on that shelf yonder, is the only proper thing in natur', to baste a goose with. Come, take your butter I mean, Seth, take your toddy.'

Poor Seth now began to smoke as well as to melt; and his mouth was as hermetically sealed up, as though he had been born dumb. Streak after streak of the butter came pouring from under his hat; and his handkerchief was already soaked with the greasy overflow. Talking away, as if nothing was the matter, the grocer kept stuffing the wood into the stove, while poor Seth sat bolt upright, with his back against the counter, and his knees almost touching the red-hot furnace before him.

6

'Confounded cold night this!' said the grocer. Why, Seth, you seem to perspire, as if you was warm! Why don't you take your hat off? Here, let me put your hat away.' 'No!' exclaimed poor Seth at last, with a spasmodic effort to get his tongue loose, and clapping both hands upon his hat;

'no! I must go: let me out; I aint well, let me go!' A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor fellow's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and trickling down his body into his very boots, so that he was literally in a perfect bath of oil.

'Well, good night, Seth,' said the humorous Vermonter, 'if you will go;' adding, as Seth got into the road, 'neighbor, I reckon the fun I've had out of you is worth a ninepence, so I shan't charge for that pound of butter!'

EXERCISE CXXXII.

OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES.

Mrs. S. R. A. Barnes.

Written for the 4th of July

The glad, green earth beneath our feet
The blue, bright heaven is greeting;
The voiceless praise is rising up,
Responsive to the meeting;

Yet wherefore wakes a scene like this
The warm heart's wild emotion?
The slave may boast a home as bright,
Beyond the pathless ocean.

Why do we love our mountain land?
The murmuring of her waters?
Italia's clime is far more bland,

More beautiful her daughters.
Why pine we for our native skies?
Our cloud-encircled mountains?
The hills of Spain as proudly rise,
As freshly burst her fountains.
Alas! for mount or classic stream,
By deathless memories haunted;
For there Oppression, unrebuked,

His iron foot hath planted.
The curse is on her vine-clad hills
"T is rife upon her waters,
But doubly deep upon her sons,
And on her dark-eyed daughters.

Go, fling a fetter o'er the mind,
And bid the heart be purer;
Unnerve the warrior's lifted arm,
And bid his aim be surer!
Go bid the weary prisoned bird,
Unfurl her powerless pinion;
But ask not of the mind to brook
The despot's dark dominion.

Why turn we to our mountain homes,
With more than filial feeling?
"T is here that Freedom's altars rise,
And Freedom's sons are kneeling!
Why sigh we not for softer climes?
Why cling to that which bore us?
'T is here we tread on Freedom's soil,
With Freedom's sunshine o'er us!

This is her home, this is her home,
The dread of the oppressor;
And this her hallowed birth-day is,
And millions rise to bless her!
'T is joy's high Sabbath; grateful hearts
Leap gladly in their fountains,

And bless our God who fixed the home
Of freedom in the mountains!

EXERCISE CXXXIII.

A TRUE LIFE. H. Greeley.

A true life must be simple in all its elements. Animated by one grand and ennobling impulse, all inferior aspirations find their proper places in harmonious subservience. Simplicity in taste, in appetite, in habits of life, with a corresponding indifference to worldly honors and aggrandizement, is the natural result of the predominance of a divine and un

selfish idea. Under the guidance of such a sentiment, virtue is not an effort, but a law of nature, like gravitation. It is vice alone that seems unaccountable, - monstrous, wellnigh miraculous. Purity is felt to be as necessary to the mind, as health to the body, and its absence, alike, the inevitable source of pain.

us so soon.

A true life must be calm. A life imperfectly directed, is made wretched through distraction. We give up our youth to excitement, and wonder that a decrepit old age steals upon We wear out our energies in strife for gold or fame, and then wonder, alike, at the cost, and the worthlessness of the meed. 'Is not the life more than meat?' Ay, truly but how few have practically, consistently, so regarded it? And little as it is regarded by the imperfectly virtuous, how much less by the vicious and the worldling! What a chaos of struggling emotions, is exhibited by the lives of the multitude! How like to the wars of the infuriated animalculæ, in a magnified drop of water, is the strife constantly waged in each little mind! How Sloth is jostled by Gluttony, and Pride wrestled with by Avarice, and Ostentation bearded by Meanness! The soul which is not large enough for the indwelling of one virtue, affords lodgment, and scope, and arena, for a hundred vices. But their warfare cannot be indulged with impunity. Agitation and wretchedness are the inevitable consequences, in the midst of which, the flame of life burns flaringly and swiftly to its close.

A true life must be genial and joyous. Tell me not, pale anchorite, of your ceaseless vigils, your fastings, your scourgings. These are fit offerings to Moloch, not to our Father. The man who is not happy in the path he has chosen, may be very sure he has chosen amiss, or is self-deceived. But not merely happier, he should be kinder, gentler, and more elastic in spirits, as well as firmer and truer. 'I love God and little children,' says a German poet. The good are ever attracted and made happier, by the presence of the innocent and lovely. And he who finds his religion adverse to, or a restraint upon, the truly innocent pleasures and gayeties of life, so that the latter do not interfere with and jar upon its sublimer objects, - may well doubt whether he has indeed 'learned of Jesus.'

EXERCISE CXXXIV.

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

Emma C. Embury.

Midnight was on the mighty deep,
And darkness filled the boundless sky,
While mid the raging wind was heard
The sea-bird's mournful cry;

For tempest clouds were mustering wrath
Across the seaman's trackless path.

It came at length: one fearful gust
Rent from the mast the shivering sail,
And drove the helpless bark along,
The plaything of the gale;

While fearfully the lightning's glare
Fell on the pale brows gathered there.

But there was one o'er whose bright face
Unmarked the vivid lightnings flashed;
And on whose stirless, prostrate form,
Unfelt the sea-spray dashed;
For mid the tempest fierce and wild,
He slumbered like a wearied child.

Oh! who could look upon that face,
And feel the sting of coward fear?
Though hell's fierce demons raged around,
Yet heaven itself was here;

For who that glorious brow could see,

Nor own a present Deity?

With hurried fear they press around
The lowly Saviour's humble bed,
As if his very touch had power

To shield their souls from dread;
While cradled on the raging deep,
He lay in calm and tranquil sleep.

Vainly they struggled with their fears;
But wilder still the tempest woke,
Till from their full and o'erfraught hearts
The voice of terror broke: