THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH,

the mighty man.  It has been set to one of the best musical accompaniments that I have ever heard.  When the verses below are reached, the key is changed to one where the sadness intensifies, until the honest old heart hears the “mother’s voice singing in Paradise:” 

     He goes on Sunday to the church;
       And sits among his boys;
     He hears the parson pray and preach,
       He hears his daughter’s voice,
     Singing in the village choir,
       And it makes his heart rejoice.

     It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
       Singing in Paradise;
     He needs must think of her once more,
       How in the grave she lies;
     And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
       A tear out of his eyes.

I wish, instead of merely printing these simple words, I could breathe them out to you, as some great tenor or baritone like Sims Reeves or Santley sings them—­there is such a world of human life and feeling hidden there, ready to spring forth with the touch of sympathetic sounds!

NOTHING BECOMES A YOUNG MAN SO MUCH

as a respectful demeanor toward a reverend man.  Nothing lowers a man so much as flippant speech concerning his elders.  The young man with the most dignity has the most deference for age.  He takes sincere delight in bowing before ripe years and wisdom.  Alas! how sad that ever age should come to one who is not fitted for its honors!

I have known a son to thwart every dream of his father.  I have seen the parent, struggling with adversity, yet succeed in opening before the child a career of honor and comfort; and I have seen the son clutch those opportunities as a highwayman seizes upon the wayfarer, and throttle them in the dust and ashes of failure and disgrace.  How sad the picture!

A BRIGHTER VIEW.

I have seen a parent toil for years, carrying to his cottage the wages which should support his son in seven long years of careful education.  I have watched that son in his ceaseless studies and found he thought only of gladdening his father’s heart.  I have seen him graduate second in a class of one hundred and fifteen, and then after two years of additional study, first in a body of eighty young men, each of whom was a scholar.  The best men of a great city have given that young man encouragement.  Their homes and their wives and their daughters have smiled at his approach, and his course has been upward without a fall, and with few pauses for rest.  Has he forgotten his poor father?  No.  He still lives in the cottage, and will make the small house with a great man in it more hospitable and more honorable than a wide door that swings open to a narrow soul.  How pleasant the picture!

[Illustration]