The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink,
The swallows skim the river's brink,
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

Cheerily calling,

"Co", boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes
With grateful heart at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling;

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat;
The pigs come grunting to his feet;
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes
His cattle calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,
"Co, boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes:
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;

The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "so, so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed:
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling:

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling,

"Co", boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

And oft the milkmaid in her dreams
Drums on the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

THE LIGHT BRIGADE-TENNYSON.

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:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's 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,
Sab'ring 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?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered,
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred!

TRUE ELOQUENCE

-DANIEL WEBSTER.

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which. produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they

will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it, they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object, this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence,it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action.

NATURE PROCLAIMS A DEITY

-CHATEAUBRIAND.

There is a God! The herbs of the valley, the cedars of the mountain, bless Him; the insect sports in His beam; the bird sings Him in the foliage; the