hat I mean
When the praises I sing of a hank of long green!

Since the days of King James and his old counterblast
Its sway of all classes has ever held fast,
And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live
In remembrance as sweet as affection can give,
And the incense we burn is an offering seen
In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green!

Now some may advise you and others may swear
That nicotine poison your nerves will impair,
And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof
From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof--
For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen
Was hastened away by smoking long green!

But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew
Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do,
And murder the microbes that float in the air,
And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair,
If you will remember, and never forget,
To just draw the line at a vile cigarette!

GEORGE W. CHILDS.

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894.

"Gone to his exceeding great reward,"
The friend of rich and poor alike;
And there'll rest not beneath the sward
More shining mark that death could strike.

The benefactor of his race--
His noble soul from avarice free;
By heaven lent the sordid earth to grace--
A nation's tears sincerely shed for thee!

Thrice blest the one, in lowly lot,
Contented with an humble place,
Who by thy noble heart was ne'er forgot
And knew thy smiling, loving face!

Oh, thus too early snatched away
From generous act and loving deed;
Thousands will now deplore the day--
Thousands now whose hearts will bleed!

The heaven-pointing shaft for thee
Its stately head might never raise;
But thy sweet memory would ever be
Hymned by thy fellow-mortals' praise!

Oh, thanks to Him who in His image made
And to the world this beacon gave;
With tears we'll water flowers that never fade
And gently drop upon his new-made grave!

THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE.

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof--
('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)--
It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears;
And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!
Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
Till we see once again, though with tea