ighty work which we have in hand.
Let the introduction of free labor to the South be in future the subject
to which every thinking American mind shall be devoted. Let them stream
in by millions!--the free laborers of all the world!--there is room for
them all; and the right of man to work never yet had such fair and just
opportunity to have justice done it. Agricultural aristocracy, supported
by involuntary servitude and unsupported by manufactures, has been
tried, and found worse than wanting. Let its place be filled as promptly
as possible by that truly higher aristocracy of industry and of culture
which is at present common to Europe and our own portion of America. The
turn of the North to rule has at length come. Let its reign be
inaugurated by great, noble, and philanthropic efforts to extend the
blessings of true civilization to all the continent.

I WAIT.

I wait--watching and weary, I wait;
You wander from the way!
My heart lies open, however late,
However you delay!

I wait--watching and weary, I wait;
But day must dawn at last!
Together, beyond the reach of fate,
Love shall redeem my past.

I wait, ah! forever I can wait;
Forever? I am brave:
Time can not fathom a love so great--
It waits beyond the grave!

TAKING THE CENSUS.

Moses Grant sat in his vine-grown arbor one fine afternoon in August. A
fine afternoon, I call it--a little sultry, to be sure, which made Moses
Grant's eyes heavy; but the hum of the bees that played around the white
clover-blossoms, and the sound of the leaves as they rustled in the warm
wind, and the richly colored clouds that floated around in the deep,
deep blue of the summer sky, and a thousand other things which I will
not pause to note, but which every observing reader has noted on many an
August day, made the afternoon I speak of as glorious as any afternoon
could be in all our glorious summer.

Moses Grant's eyes were heavy--or eye-lids, if the reader should be a
critic. He had brought a book from his daughter's book-case. He
remembered the volume--it was called _A Book of a Thousand Stories_--as
the one his daughter Mary read aloud one evening, when the witty turns
of speech put all the company into the best of humor. But, somehow, the
wit had now lost its point--the joke had lost its zest--and let him try
as he would to collect his scattered thoughts, and let him set his