O! ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day,
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its swirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt.
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold;
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor;
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare--
Spoiled children of fashion--you've nothing to wear!

And O! if perchance there should be a sphere
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime,
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretense,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness and love,
O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!

A BOY'S ESSAY ON GIRLS

"Girls are very stuckup and dignefied in their manner and behaveyour.
They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and
rags. They cry if they see a cow in afar distance and are afraid of
guns. They stay at home all the time and go to Church every Sunday. They
are al-ways sick. They are al-ways funy and making fun of boys hands and
they say how dirty. They cant play marbles. I pity them poor things.
They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them. I dont beleave
they ever kiled a cat or any thing. They look out every nite and say oh
ant the moon lovely. Thir is one thing I have not told and that is they
al-ways now their lessons bettern boys."

HENRY WARD BEECHER

DEACON MARBLE

How they ever made a deacon o