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Her loving husband's tomb is built-
But still she works upon her quilt.
And now, deserted and forlorn,
To generations yet unborn,
When she has left this world of guilt,
She'll pass along her crazy quilt.

In six short days the world was done,
The world, the planets, and the sun;
But in a hundred years are built
A fraction of a crazy quilt.

THE ORIGIN OF SIN.

He talked about the origin
Of sin;

But present sin, I must confess,
He never tried to render less,
But used to add, so people talk,
His share unto the general stock-
But grieved about the origin
Of sin.

He mourned about the origin
Of sin;

But never struggled very long

To rout contemporaneous wrong,
And never lost his sleep, they say,

About the evils of to-day

But wept about the origin
Of sin.

He sighed about the origin.

Of sin;

But showed no fear you could detect
About its ultimate effect;

He deemed it best to use no force,

But let it run its natural course

But moaned about the origin

Of sin.

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.

THE gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,
An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk;
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stove-pipe hats were there,
An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn' kneel in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz:
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,

An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here,
Will some 'un in the congergation be so kind 's to volunteer?"
An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,
Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle;
Then thro' the holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin,
An' thro' thet air er sanctity the odor uv ol' gin.

Then Deacon Purin❜ton he yelled, his teeth all sot on edge:
"This man purfanes the house er God! W'y this is sakerlege!"
The tramp didn' hear a word he said, by slouched 'ith stumblin' feet,
An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps and gained the organ seat.
He then went pawrin' thro' the keys, and soon there riz a strain
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain;
An' there he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an'
knees, -

He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry,
It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky,
The ol' church shook an' staggered, an' seemed to reel and sway,
An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,
Thet brought up blessed memories an' drenched 'em down 'ith tears;
An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat,
Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' mother, an' all that!

a song from souls forgiven

An' then he struck a streak uv hope
Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven;
The mornin' stars they sung together, no soul wuz left alone,
We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God wuz on his throne !

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness came again,
An' long black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs uv glad delight,—
An' then the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night!
But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he never spoke a word,
An' it wuz the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;
He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye wuz dry thet day,
W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

THE CLASSICS.

LET me always read the classics.

There are bardlings of a day,

Fames from twilight unto twilight;
But the classics ever stay.

And the classics are the voices
Of the mountain and the glen
And the multitudinous ocean
And the city filled with men, -
Voices of a deeper meaning
Than all drippings of the pen.

Yes, the mountains are a classic,
And an older word they speak
Than the classics of the Hebrew
Or the Hindoo or the Greek.
Dumb are they, like all the classics,
Till the chosen one draws near,
Who can catch their inner voices

With the ear behind the ear;

And their words are high and mystic, But the chosen one can hear.

And the ocean is a classic.

Where's the scribe shall read its word,
Word grown old before the Attic
Or Ionian bards were heard,
Word once whispered unto Homer,
Sown within his fruitful heart,
And he caught a broken message,
But he only heard a part.

Listen, thou; forget the babblings
And the pedantries of art.

And the city is a classic, -
Aye, the city filled with men ;
Here the comic, epic, tragic,
Beyond painting of the pen.
And who rightly reads the classic
Of the city, million-trod,

Ranges farther than the sky-line,
Burrows deeper than the sod,

And his soul beholds the secrets
Of the mysteries of God.

Give to me to read these classics:
Life is short from youth to age;
But its fleetness is not wasted

If I master but a page.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER, American composer and song-writer, born at Allegheny, Penn., July 4, 1826; died in New York, Jan. 13, 1864. The boy was of a quiet and studious disposition, and early displayed a fondness for music, and played upon several instruments. He received a fair education and at thirteen he wrote "Sadly to My Heart Appealing," and three years later, "Open Thy Lattice, Love." His next songs were "Old Uncle Ned" and "O Susannah," for the latter of which he received $100. He then decided to adopt song-writing as a vocation, and produced a large number of simple melodies, the original words and harmonious music of which form a distinct type of ballad. About one-third of his one hundred and twenty-five songs are written in negro dialect, and his chief successes were songs written for negro minstrel shows. Foster's songs had a wide sale, "Old Folks at Home" alone bringing its author some $15,000. His later songs were characterized by a higher order of musical composition, and after his mother's death were tinged with melancholy. His most popular pieces were entitled: "My Old Kentucky Home," "Nellie Was a Lady," "Old Folks at Home," "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," "Willie, We Have Missed You," "Jennie With the Light Brown Hair," "Gentle Annie," "Old Dog Tray," "Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming."

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

'WAY down upon de Swanee Ribber,

Far, far away

Dar's whar my heart is turning ebber-
Dar's whar de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam;

Still longing for de old plantation,

And for de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young;

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