ruined. He loaded up a little, but
left them enough for seed another year, and something to live on
besides, and drove most of his wagons home empty.

For twenty-one or twenty-two years on the anniversary of that fast day
all work has stopped, and a fast as rigid as the first, with special
religious services, has been kept, and on June 21st a day of
thanksgiving. On the first, which is in February, they ask for God's
special blessing on the seed about to be planted, and on the work of
their hands for the year, and on the day in June they praise the Lord
for what prosperity they have enjoyed in the past. It was my privilege
to attend both of these anniversaries this year. I found the people
earnest, intelligent and _strictly moral_. These people appreciate the
American Missionary Association and her work in their behalf. It would
be long before they could themselves sustain such institutions as the
Association has placed among them, but they are disposed to do so as
rapidly as they become able.

* * * * *

A VISIT TO UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

BY J.W. HOLLOWAY, OF TURIN, GA.

(_Graduate of Class of 1894, Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn._)

On a hillside near a turnpike,
Just a mile or so from town,
In a double room log-cabin,
Lives a hero of renown.
There beneath a shady maple,
Summer evenings warm and fair,
You may find my swarthy hero
Calmly smoking, in his chair.

You've heard of Uncle Tom, most likely,
And his old log-cabin, too;
But for fear you've nothing recent,
I proceed to enlighten you.
"Ah!" say you, "I've heard the story
As it's told by Mrs. Stowe,
That old man is dead and buried,
Must be years and years ago."

Prithee, check your swift conclusion,
What you say can scarce be so,
For I know that this one's living
That I saw two hours ago.
Old and gray, and slightly stooping,
Black as ebony in hue,
He's a type of times departed,
Tho' he still survives the new,

Talks as if he owned a quarry,
Where they hew out slabs of gold,
Tho' to-day he gathered berries,
Which he took to town and sold.
Never was a hinder hostess
Than his old wife, Mary Ann,
And her baking is delightful
(To a very hungry man).

Thither went I in the gloaming,
For a night with Uncle Tom;
In the yard we "took it easy"
Till the supper time was come.
In a home-made crib beside him