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4. He can, after the vacancy has existed for ten days, but not before.

Q. If the offices of Town Superintendent and Town Clerk, are both filled by the same person, and in case of difficulty, a district should call in the chairman of the Town Board and the Town Clerk, to assist the Town Superintendent, how would the spirit of the law be carried into effect, since the Town Superintendent holds both offices ?

A. In case there was a disagreement between the Town Superintendent and the Chairman of the Town Board, the Town Superintendent should resign one of his offices, and have another person appointed, and not, by occupying a double position, obstruct the ends of justice, or even be in the way of what some might regard as the attainment of justice. Compiled from the records of the Department, by

Assistant State Superintendent.


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If it be true that Luther composed that tune, and the worship of mortals is carried on the wings of angels to heaven, how often has he heard the declaration, “They are singing Old Hundred now.” The solemn strain carries us back to times of the reformers-Luther and his devoted band. He, doubtless, was the first to strike the grand old chords in the public sanctuary of his own Germany. From his stentorian lungs it rolled -vibrating not through vaulted cathedral roof, but along a grander arch, the eternal heavens. He wrought into each note his own sublime faith, and stamped it with that faith's immortality. Hence it can not die. Neither men nor angels will let it pass into oblivion.

Can you find a tomb in the land where sealed lips lie, that have not sung that tune ?

If they were gray old men, they had heard or sung “ Old Hundred.” If they were babies, they smiled as their mother rocked them to sleep singing “Old Hundred.” Sinner and saint have joined with

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endless congregations where it has- with and without the pealing organ -sounded on the sacred air.

The dear little children, looking with wondering eyes on this strange world, have lisped it. The sweet young girl, whose tombstone told of six

en summers—she whose pare innocent face haunted you with its mild beauty-loved “Old Handred," and she sang it, closed her eyes, and seom. ed communing with the angels who were soon to claim her. He whose manhood was devoted to the service of God, and he who, with the white hand placed over his breast, loved " Old Hundred;" and though sometimes his lips only move, way down in his heart, so soon to cease its throbs, the holy melody was sounding. The dear white-haired old father, with his tremulous voice, how he loved “Old Hundred.” Do you see him now, sitting in the venerable arm chair, his hands crossed over the head of his cane, his silvery locks floating off from his hallowed temple, and la tear stealing down his care-worn, furrowed cheeks, that thin, quivering, falter. ing sound, now bursting forth, now listened for in vain ? If you do not, we do; and from such lips, hallowed by fourscore years' service in the Master's cause, “Old Hundred” sounds, indeed, a sacred melody.

You may fill your choirs with Sabbath prima donnas, whose daring notes emulate the steeple, and cost most as much—but give us the spirittones of the Lutheran hymn, surg by old and young together. Mothers have hallowed it; it has gone up from the bed of the saints. The old churches, where generation after generation have worshiped, and where maly scores of the dear dead have been carried and laid before the altar, where they gave themselves to God, seem to breath of “Old Hundred" from vestibule to tower.top; the air is haunted with its spirit.

Think a moment of the asssembled company who have at different times, and at different places joined in the familiar tune. Throng upon throng-the strong, the timid, the gentle, the brave, the beautiful, the rapt faces all beaming with inspiration of the beavenly sounds.

“Old Hundred !” king of the sacred band of “ancient airs !” Never shall our ears grow weary of hearing, or our tongue of singing thee. And when we get to heaven, who knows but what tho first triumphal strains that welcome us may be

“Be thou, O God! exalted high !"

BURNS' CENTENARY.—Burns, writing to his earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in 1786, thus expresses himself: "For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas-a-Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my bir:hday inscribed among the wonderful events of Poor Robin and Aberdeen almanacks, along with the Black Monday and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge.”-See Lockhart's “Life of Barns,” page 110.


GEORGE OF CAPPIDOCIA, born at Epiphania, in Cicilia, was a low parasite, who got a lucrative contract to supply the army with bacon. A rogue and informer, he got rich, and had to run from justice. He saved his money, embraced Arianism, collected a library, and got promoted by faction to the Episcopal throne of Alexandria. When Julian came, A.D., 361, George was thrown into prison; the prison was burst open by the mob, and George was lynched as he deserved. And this precious knave became, in good time, St. George of England, patron of chivalry, and pride of the blood of the modern world. Strange that the solid, truth-speaking Briton should derive from an impostor. Strange that the New World should have no better luck—that the broad America must wear the name of a thief. Amerigo Vespuci, the pickle dealer at Seville, who went out in 1499 a subaltern with Hojeda, and whose highest naval rank was boatswain's mate in an expedition that never sailed, managed in this lying world to supplant Columbus, and baptize half the world with his own dishonest name. Thus nobody can throw stones. We are equally badly off in our founders; and the false pickle dealer is an offset to the false bacon seller.- Ralph Waldo Emerson.


one cause,

STRANGE, and passing strange, that the relation between the two sexes, the passion of love, in short, should not be taken into deeper consideration by our teachers and our legislators. People educate and legislate as if there was no such thing in the world; but ask the priest, ask the physician-let them reveal the amount of moral and physical results from this

Must love be always discussed in blank verse, as if it were a thing to be played in tragedies or sung in songs—a subject for pretty poems and wicked novels, and had nothing to do with the prosaic current of our every-day existence, our moral welfare? Must loye be treated with profaneness, as a mere illusion ? or with coarseness, as a mere impulse ? or with fear, as a mere disease or with shame, as a mere weakness? or with levity, as a mere accident? Whereas, it is a great mystery, and a great necessity, lying at the foundation of human existence, morality and happiness-mysterious, universal, inevitable as death. Why, then, should love be treated less seriously than death? It is as serious a thing.--Mrs. Jameson.


COME to me! Oh, ye children!

For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me,

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows

That look toward the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine

In your thoughts the brooklets flow, But in mine is the wind of autumn,

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us

If the children were no more ?
We should dread the desert behind us,

Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood,

That to the world are children;

Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me! Oh, ye children!

And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing,

In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,

And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses,

And the gladness of your looks ?

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Tae Marseillaise was inspired by genius, patriotism, youth, beauty, and champagne. Rouget de Lisle was an officer of the garrison a: Strasburg, and a native of Mount Jura. He was an unknown poet and composer, he had a peasant friend, Dietrick, whose wife and daughters were the only critics and admirers of the soldier poet's song. One night he was at sapper with his friends family and they had only coarse bread and slices of lam. Dietrick, looking sorrowfully at De Lisle, said, “ Plenty is not our feast, but we have the courage of a soldier's heart; I have still one bottle left in the cellar, bring it my daughter, and let us drink to the liberty of our country !"

The young girl brought the bottle; it was soon exhausted, and De Lisle went staggericg to bed; he could not sleep for the cold, but his heart was warm and fall of the beating of genius and patriotism. He took a little clavicord and tried to compose a song; sometimes the words were composed first sometimes the air. Directly he fell asleep uver the icstra. ment, and waking at daylight, wrote down what he had conceived in the delirium of the night. Then he waked the family and sang his produc. tion; at first, the women turned pale, and then wept, and burst forth in a cry of enthusiasm. It was the song of the nation and of terror.

Two months afterward, Deitrick went to the scaffold, listening to the self same music, composed under his own roof, and under the inspiration of the last bottle of wine. The people sang it every where; it flew from city to city, to every public orchestra. Marseilles adopted the song at the opening and close of its clubs hence (the name “Hymn of the Marseillaise;" then it sped all over France. They sung it in their houses, in public assemblies, and in the stormy street convocation. De Lisle's mother hearing it, said to her son—“What is this revolutionary hymn, sung by bands of brigands, and with which your name is mingled ?" De Lisle heard it, and shuddered as it sounded through the streets of Paris, rung from the Alpine passes, while he, a royalist, fled from the infuriated poo

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