dfather, he is so sober, but we are not
the least bit. He let us count $1,000 to-night which a Mr. Taylor, a
cattle buyer, brought to him in the evening after banking hours. Anybody
must be very rich who has all that money of their own.

_Friday._--Our old horse is dead and we will have to buy another. He was
very steady and faithful. One day Grandfather left him at the front gate
and he started along and turned the corner all right, down the Methodist
lane and went way down to our barn doors and stood there until Mr. Piser
came and took him into the barn. People said they set their clocks by
him because it was always quarter past 12 when he was driven down to the
bank after Grandfather and quarter of 1 when he came back. I don't think
the clocks would ever be too fast if they were set by him. We asked
Grandfather what he died of and he said he had run his race but I think
he meant he had walked it, for I never saw him go off a jog in my life.
Anna used to say he was taking a nap when we were out driving with
Grandfather. I have written some lines in his memory and if I knew where
he was buried, I would print it on his head board.

Old Dobbin's dead, that good old horse,
We ne'er shall see him more,
He always used to lag behind
But now he's gone before.

It is a parody on old Grimes is dead, which is in our reader, only that
is a very long poem. I am not going to show mine to Grandfather till he
gets over feeling bad about the horse.

_Sunday._--Grandmother gave Anna, Doddridge's "Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul" to read to-day. Anna says she thinks she will have
to rise and progress a good deal before she will be able to appreciate
it. Baxter's "Saints Rest" would probably suit her better.

_Sunday, April_ 5.--An agent for the American Board of Foreign Missions
preached this morning in our church from Romans 10: 15: "How shall they
hear without a preacher and how shall they preach except they be sent."
An agent from every society presents the cause, whatever it is, once a
year and some people think the anniversary comes around very often. I
always think of Mrs. George Wilson's poem on "A apele for air, pewer
air, certin proper for the pews, which, she sez, is scarce as piety, or
bank bills when ajents beg for mischuns, wich sum say is purty often,
(taint nothin' to me, wat I give aint nothin' to nobody)." I think that
is about the best poem of its kind I ever read.

Miss Lizzie Bull tol