o not write your sermons? _Lee._
No; not very often. _Second Lawyer._ Do you not often make mistakes in
preaching extemporaneously? _Lee._ I do, sometimes. _Second Lawyer._ How
do you do then? Do you correct them? _Lee._ That depends upon the
character of the mistake. I was preaching the other day, and I went to
quote the text: "All liars shall have their part in the lake that
burneth with fire and brimstone;" and, by mistake, I said, "All
_lawyers_ shall have their part"--_Second Lawyer_ (interrupting him).
"What did you do with that? Did you correct it?" _Lee._ "Oh, no, indeed!
It was so nearly true, I didn't think it worth while to correct it."
"Humph!" said one of them, with a hasty and impatient glance at the
other; "I don't know whether you are the more knave or fool!" "Neither,"
he quietly replied, turning at the same time his mischievous eyes from
one to the other; "I believe I am just _between_ the two!"

Finding they were measuring wit with a master, and mortified at their
discomfiture, the knights of the green bag drove on, leaving the victor
to solitude and his own reflections.

ANNUARIES,

BY ALICE CAREY.

I.

A year has gone down silently
To the dark bosom of the Past,
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last.
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch--
All just a year ago the same,
And I--oh! I am changed so much!

The beauty of a wildering dream
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay.
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embraces of pale flame
Clasp not the weary world from wo!

Another year shall I return,
And cross this solemn chapel floor,
While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn--
Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
When drooped and died the tenderer bloom,
Folded the white tent of young life
For the pale army of the tomb.

The dry seeds dropping from their pods,
The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
And the pale mullen's starless rods,
Were just as now a year agone.
But changed is every thing to me,
From the small flower to sunset's glow,
Since last I sat beneath this tree,
A year--a littl