Through the forest vast and vacant,
Rang that cry of desolation,
But there came no other answer,
Than the echo of his crying,
"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!'

In the wigwam with Nokomis, And the gloomy guests that watched her, She was lying, the beloved,

She the dying Minnehaha.

"Hark!" she said, "I hear a rushing,
Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from the distance!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'Tis the night wind in the pine trees!"
"Lock!" she said, "I see my father
Standing lonely at his doorway,
Beckoning to me from his wigwam!"
"No, my child," said old Nokomis,

"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!"

"Ah!" she said, "the eyes of Pauguk

Glare upon me in the darkness,

I can feel his icy fingers

Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha!"

Hiawatha

And the desolate Hiawatha,
Far away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him from the distance,
"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed-heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing;
"Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are,
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"

And he rushed into the wigwam,

Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him.
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish

That the forest moaned and shuddered.

Then he sat down still and speechless,
At the feet of Minnehaha,

At those willing feet that never
More would lightly run to meet him
Never more would lightly follow.
As in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,
Covered her with snow-like ermine.
"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha ; '
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to suffer
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Land of the Hereafter."

Longfellow.

THE LITTLE HOUSEKEEPER.

O, dear! I'se so drefful tired, been washin' so hard mose all day;

S'pect these tlose had better be ironed, hope mamma 'll keep Freddie away,

He bovers me so, and 'll wake Lottie, 'fore it's time to take her up.

Then she kies and kies so naughty, I dives her some soofsin syrup.

Guess Dollie's tuttin' her toofies, tause she kies so mose ever day;

I'll buy her a wubber to bite on, I'se dot free cents for the pay.

I must dit somebody's to hep me, I'se dot so much works for to do!

Dollie must have two or free dresses, and a cloak made "a la Watteau."

Guess its about time to dit dinner, tause Lottie 'll want somesin to eat ;

My sakes! I mose tut my finner, tryin' to slice that cold meat.

I'll borrow some zerves of my mamma, 'tause her's dot lots of 'em I know,

She teeps 'em up high in the tloset, I heard her tell B'iget so.

I detlare! this house does look awful; I wonder what mamma will say

'Bout the water I 'pilled on the tarpet, when I'se taten' the tubs away.

B'ess me! if Lottie hain't wakin', and kien and kien to be taked;

And I ain't dot dinner ready, the tookies ain't more'n half baked.

O, dear! this world's full of trouble, and baby's as cross as a bear

With a sore head; and my life is chuck full of sorrer and tare.

Tum to your muzzer, you dear 'ittle wose-bud, you're sweeter than whole lots of pinks,

Be a dood dirl now and keep very quiet and muzzer will sing "Cap'n Jinks."

THE PRESENT AGE. .

(Prize Declamation, May, 1890, N. Mo. State Normal.)

The Present Age. In those brief words what a world of thought is comprehended! What infinite movements! What joys and sorrows! What hope and despair! What faith and doubt! What silent grief and loud lament! What fierce conflicts and subtle schemes of policy! What private and public revolutions!

In the period through which many of us have passed, what thrones have been shaken! What hearts have bled! What millions have been butchered by their fellow men! What hopes of philanthropy have been blighted!

At the same time what magnificent enterprises have been achieved! What new provinces won to science and art! What rights and liberties secured to nations! Aye-it is a privilege to have lived in an age so stirring, so eventful! It is an age never to be forgotten. Its voice of warning and encouragement is never to die. Its impression on history is indelible.

Amid its events the American Revolution-the first distinct, solemn assertion of the rights of men-and the French Revolution-that volcanic force, which shook the earth to its very centre-are never to pass from men's minds. Over this age the night will indeed gather more and more as time rolls away; but in that night two forms will appear. Washington and Napoleon! The one a lurid meteor, the other a benign, serene, and undecaying star.

Another American name will appear in history. Your Franklin; and the kite which brought lightning from heaven, will be seen sailing in the clouds by remote posterity when the city where he dwelt may be known only by its ruins.

There is, however, something greater in the age than its greatest men; it is the appearance of a new power in the world, the appearance of the multitude on the stage, where as yet the few have acted their parts alone. This influence is to endure to the end of time. What more of the present is to survive? Perhaps much of which we now take no note. The glory of an age is often hidden from itself. Perhaps some word has been spoken in our day which we have not deigned to hear, but which is to grow clearer and louder through all ages. Perhaps some silent thinker among us is at work in his closet, whose name is to fill the earth. Perhaps there sleeps in his cradle some reformer who is to move the church, and the world; who is to open a new era in history, who is to fire the human soul with new hope and new daring.

What else is to survive the age? That which the age has little thought of, but which is living in us all; I mean the soul, the immortal Spirit! Of this, all ages are the unfolding, and it is greater than all. We must not feel in the contemplation of the vast movements in our own and former times, as if we ourselves were nothing. I repeat it, we are greater than all. We are to survive our age, to comprehend it, and to pronounce its sentence.-W. E. Channing.

MR. HORNER ON GRUMBLE CORNER.

I knew a man and his name was Horner,
Who used to live on Grumble Corner;
Grumble Corner in Cross Patch Town,
And he never was seen without a frown.
He grumbled at this; he grumbled at that;
He growled at the dog; he growled at the cat;
He grumbled at morning; he grumbled at night;
And to grumble and growl was his chief delight.