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waves of retrogression, endeavorin' to lure us upward in the scale of progressive bein'-in what degree do we differ from the acalphia? Let us, then, noble brethren, in the broad field of humanity, let us rise. Let us prove that mind is superior to matter-Let us prove ourselves superior to the acalphia."

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Yes, less prove ourselves."

Prof. Todd stopped stone still, an' his face got as red as blood, he drinked several swallers of water and then went on till most the last, when he wanted the people of Jonesville to "drown black care in the deep waters of oblivion, not mind her mad throes of dissolvin' bein', but let the deep waters cover her black head an' march onward!" and then the old gentleman forgot himself, an' jumped right up and hollered out "Yes, drown the black cat! Hold her head under! There'll be cats enough left after she's gone! Do as he tells ye-drown the black cat!"

The next speaker was a large healthy-lookin' man who talked against wimmen's rights. He didn't bring up no new argyments but talked jest as they all do who oppose 'em-about wimmen outragin' and destroyin' their modesty, by bein' seen in the same street with a man once every 'lection day. He talked grand about how woman's weakness, aroused all the shivelry an' nobility of a man's nater! and how it was his dearest and most sacred privilege an' happiness to pertect her from even a summer's breeze, if it should dare to blow too hard onto her beloved and delicate form. Why, before he had got through, a stranger from another world, who hadn't never seen a woman, wouldn't a' had the least idea that they was made out of the same kind of clay that a man was, but he'd a' thought they was made out o' some sort o' thin gauze, which was liable to blow away any minute, an' that man's only employment was to stand an' watch 'em for fear some zephyr'd get the advantage of 'em. He called wimmen' every pretty name he could think of, an' says he, a wavin' his hands in a rapid eloquence, "shall these weak. helpless creatures, these angels,

these seraphims, these sweetly cooin' doves, whose only mission is to sweetly coo--shall these rainbows, these posies vote? Never! my brethren, will we lay such hardships onto them. Never, never, never!'

Just as the folks was a concludin' their frantic cheers over his speech, a thin, feeble-lookin' woman come by where I sat, drawin' a large baby-wagon with two children in it. She also carried one in her arms, that was lame. She looked so beat out, and so ready to drop down, that I got up and gave her my seat, and says I, " You look ready to fall down."

"Am I too late-to hear--my husband's-speech?" "Is that your husband that's a laughin' an' talkin' with that air pretty gal up there?

"Yes."

"Wall, he's jest finished." She looked ready to cry. An' as I took the lame child out of her breakin' arms, says I, "This is too much for you, mum." "Oh," says she, "I wouldn't mind gettin' 'em onto the ground; I hain't hed only three miles to bring 'em. That wouldn't be much if it wasn't for the work I hed to do before I come."

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Why, what did you have to do?"

"Oh, I hed to fix him off, an' brush his clothes, an' black his boots; and then I did up all my work, an' then I hed to go out and lay up six lengths o' fence. The cattle got into the corn yesterday and he was so busy writin' his piece he couldn't fix it-and then I hed to mend his thick coat, in the wagon there, he didn't know but he should want it to wear home. He knew he was goin' to make a great exertion to-day and he thought he should sweat some. He's dretful easy to take cold."

"Why didn't he help you along with these 'ere children!" says I. "Oh, he said he had to make a great effort, an' he wanted to have his mind free and clear. He is one of the kind that can't have their minds trammeled."

"It would do him good to be trammeled hard.” “Oh, mum, don't speak so of him."

"Are you satisfied with his doin's?"

"Oh, yes. You would too, mum, if you knew how beautiful he can talk."

I said no more; for it is a rule of my life, not to make no disturbances in families. But the looks I cast at him and that air pretty gal, was cold enough to a' froze 'em both into a male and female glazier.

The editor then came forward and said, " Before we leave this festive grove, I am requested to announce that a poem will be read by one of the fair young ladies of our town, which is dedicated to the Goddess of Liberty." Sophrony Gowdey then came for rard an' recited the follerin' lines.

"Before all causes East or West,

I love the Liberty cause the best,
I love its cheerful greetin's.

No joys on earth can e'er compare
With those pure pleasures that we share

At Jonesville Liberty greetin's--meetin's
Greet no,-meetin's.

At Jonesville Liberty meetin's.

To all the world I give my hand,
My heart is with that chosen band,
The Jonesville Liberty Brothers-
The Jonesville Liberty Brothers--
May every land preserved be,
Each land that dotes on Liberty,
Jonesville before all others."

Lawyer Nugent thengot up and said: "That whereas the speakin' was now foreclosed, he motioned they should adjourn sine die to the dinner table. The dinner was good, but there was an awful crowd round the tables an' I was glad I wore my old lawn dress; for the children was thick, and so was the bread and butter an' sass of all kinds. I jest plunged right into the heat o' the battle, as you may say, an' the spots on my dress skirt would a' been too much. for anybody that couldn't count forty.

There was a number o' pieces o' toast drunk durin' dinner. I can't remember 'em all, but among 'em was these "The Eagle of Liberty-may her quills

lengthen till the proud shadder of her wings shall sweetly rest on every land."

"The 4th of July:-The star which our fathers tore from the ferocious mane of the howling lion of England, and set in the calm and majestic brow of E Pluribus Unum. May it gleam brighter and brighter, till the lion shall hide his dazzled eyes and cower like a stricken lamb at the feet of E Pluribus." The last piece o' toast was Lawyer Nugent's, an' I s'pose when he got it off, he thought he was a gettin' off suthin' great. "The fair sect:-First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of their countrymen. May them that love the aforesaid flourish like a green bay berry tree; whereas may them that hate 'em dwindle down into as near nuthin' as the bunnits of the aforesaid."

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I went home a little while before the picnic broke, an' if there ever was a beat-out creetur, I was. jest drapped my dilapidated form into a rocking-chair, an says I, "There needn't be another word said; I'll never go to another 4th o' July as long as my name is Josiah Allen's Wife."

"You haint patriotic enough, Samantha, you don't love your country."

"What good's it done to the country to hev me all torn to pieces? Look at my dress! Look at my bunnit and cape! Anybody ought to be iron-clad to stand it! Look at my dishes," says I.

"I guess the old heroes of the Revolution went through more'n that."

"Wall, I hain't an old hero."

"Wall, ye can honor 'em, can't ye?"

"Honor 'em! Josiah Allen, what good's it done to old Mr. Lafayette to hev my new earthen pie-plates all smashed to bits? What good has it done to Thomas Jefferson to have my lawn dress torn off me this way? What honor has it been to George Washington to have my straw bunnit flatted down tight to my head? I am sick of all this talk about honorin' these old heroes, and goin' through all these

performances to please 'em; fer if they're in heaven they can get along without hearin' the Jonesville brass band play, and if they ain't they are probably where fireworks hain't much of a rarity.-Josiah Allen's Wife.

THE VOICE OF THE HELPLESS.

I hear a wail from the woodland;
A cry from the forests dim;

A sound of woe from the sweet hedge-row,
From the willows and reeds that rim
The sedgy pools; from the meadow grass,
I hear the fitful cry, alas!

It drowns the throb of music,

The laughter of childhood sweet,
It seems to rise to the very skies,

As I walk the crowded street;

When I wait on God in the house of prayer,
I hear the sad wail even there.

'Tis the cry of the orphaned nestlings,
'Tis the wail of the bird that sings
His song of grace in the archer's face;
'Tis the flutter of broken wings;
'Tis the voice of helplessness-the cry
Of many a woodland tragedy.

O, lovely, unthinking maiden,

The wing that adorns your hat

Has the radiance rare, that God placed there.
But I see in the place of that,
A mockery pitiful, deep, and sad,
Of all things happy and glad.

O! mother, you clasp your darling,
Close to your loving breast;

Think of that other, that tender mother,
Brooding upon her nest!

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