game--Brother Hornblower first off. When he
cum round a little, says he:

"T-T-Tyler, I con-ceive somethin's give way 'bout these parts!'

"You air about right in your suppostishuns,' says I; 'the gravil bank's
busted, and it's a marcy we an't in kingdom kum!'

"Don't talk that way,' says he; 'let's go up and fire a cupple barrels
more into the blastid rebbils, fur vengenz.'

"No yer don't, this mornin', as I knows on,' said I; 'I've got enough
shootin craws your fashun. Next time I go shootin' crows 'long any
boddy, I'm goin' to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not
blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil. That kind o' shootin'
don't suit my style o' bones--'speehally head-fo'most inter a dead
kaow!"

'On-ly four crows killt!' said the Squire, with a groan. 'To think what
a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self
judishuslously as he came tumblin' onto 'em spang! Wal!' (looking
cheeringly to young Tyler,) 'you couldn't do more'n fire both barrils
into 'em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?'

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS.

In the desert of Engedi
Lies a valley deep and lone;
Softly there the mild air slumbered,
Lovely there the sunlight shone.
In the bosom of this valley,
By the path that leads across,
Lay a modest velvet carpet
Of the finest, softest moss.

But the careless traveler, passing,
Heedless of it went his way;
Thus this miracle of beauty
Lone in hidden glory lay.
Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter,
Him from distant mountains greet;
On to that the stranger hurries,
Past the moss-bed at his feet.

Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining
To the evening dew that fell;
And its tufted bosom heaving,
Thus its 'plains began to tell:
'Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine,
Long its rosy glow to see,
Feed their eyes on luring flowers
Whilst their feet tread rude on me!'

Now, when mellow rays of sunset
Lingered golden on the trees,
Came a weary pilgrim slowly
From the bordering forest leas.
This was JESUS, just returning
From his fast of forty days;
Worn by Satan's fierce temptations,
He for rest and comfort prays.

Sore his sacred feet are blistered,
Wandering o'er the desert-sands;
Torn and bleeding from the briers,
S