Up rose my guest: "Now Heaven me save," Aloud he shouted; then,

"O, what is that?" "'Tis gas," said I,
"We call it hydrogen."

Then forth into the fields we strolled;
A train came thundering by,

Drawn by the snorting iron steed
Swifter than eagles fly.

We stood within a chamber small

Men came the news to know

From Worcester, Springfield and New York,
Texas, and Mexico.

It came-it went-silent and sure

He stared, smiled, burst out laughing;

"What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we call Magnetic telegraphing."

THE OLD FORSAKEN SCHOOL-HOUSE.

[Pure tone-conversational.]

They've left the school-house, Charley, where years ago we sat
And shot our paper bullets at the master's time-worn hat;
The hook is gone on which it hung, the master sleepeth now
Where school-boy tricks can never cast a shadow o'er his brow.

They've built a new, imposing one-the pride of all the town,
And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps up and down;
A tower crowns its summit with a new, a monster bell,
That youthful ears, in distant homes, may hear its music swell.

I'm sitting in the old one, with its battered, hingeless door;
The windows are all broken, and the stones lie on the floor;
I, alone, of all the boys who romped and studied here,
Remain to see it battered up and left so lone and drear.

I'm sitting on the same old bench where we sat side by side
And carved our names upon the desk, when not by master eyed;
Since then a dozen boys have sought their great skill to display,
And, like the foot-prints on the sand, our names have passed away.

'Twas here we learned to conjugate "" amo, amas, amat," While glances from the lassies made our hearts go pit-a-pat; 'Twas here we fell in love, you know, with girls who looked us

through

Yours with her piercing eyes of black, and mine with eyes of blue.

Our sweethearts-pretty girls were they-to us how very dearBow down your head with me, my boy, and shed for them a tear; With them the earthly school is out; each lovely maid now stands Before the one Great Master, in the "house not made with hands."

You tell me you are far out West; a lawyer, deep in laws,
With Joe, who sat behind us here, and tickled us with straws;
Look out for number one, my boys; may wealth come at your touch;
But with your long, strong legal straws don't tickle men too much.

Here, to the right, sat Jimmy Jones-you must remember Jim-
He's teaching now, and punishing, as master punished him;
What an unlucky lad he was! his sky was dark with woes;
Whoever did the sinning it was Jim who got the blows.

Those days are all gone by, my boys; life's hill we're going down,
With here and there a silver hair amid the school-boy brown;
But memory can never die, so we'll talk o'er the joys

We shared together, in this house, when you and I were boys.

Though ruthless hands may tear it down-this old house lone and drear,

They'll not destroy the characters that started out from here; Time's angry waves may sweep the shore and wash out all beside: Bright as the stars that shine above, they shall for aye abide.

I've seen the new house, Charley: 'tis the pride of all the town,
And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps up and down;
But you nor I, my dear old friend, can't love it half so well
As this condemned, forsaken one, with cracked and tongueless bell.
JOHN H. YATES.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

[Crimean War-Siege of Sevastopol, October 25, 1854.]

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the Valley of Death,
Rode the Six Hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the Valley of Death

Rode the Six Hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade !"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the Valley of Death

Rode the Six Hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered.

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the Six Hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back; but not-
Not the Six Hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them-
Left of Six Hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade-
Noble Six Hundred.

TENNYSON.

THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS.

[An excellent selection for vocal culture. Opportunity is here found for the expression of high elocutionary art. Begin with simple conversational voice, and read each stanza as indicated by the second line of that stanza. The voice should be rich and mellow. The last stanza should be omitted when not intended as a temperance reading.]