FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE Who presented to me, on my seventy-second birthday, February 27, 1879, this chair, made from the wood of the Village Blacksmith's chestnut-tree. Am I a king, that I should call my own Or by what reason or what right divine Only, perhaps, by right divine of song Only because the spreading chestnut-tree Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made There by the blacksmith's forge beside the street, Its blossoms, white and sweet, Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, And murmured like a hive. And when the winds of autumn with a shout THE fortitude, patience, and cheerful resignation of Pio Nono in his last illness were above most human comprehension. He even The shining chestnuts, bursting from the indulged in an occasional jest, of which the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath. following is a fair sample: A lady suffering from a white swelling in the leg, was condemned by her physician to its amputation. And now some fragments of its branches bare, She insisted upon a delay, which allowed her Shaped as a stately chair, to write to a friend living in Rome, and ask Have by my hearthstone found a home at her to solicit from the pope a stocking which last, And whisper of the Past. The Danish king could not in all his pride But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees, had been worn and not washed. In due time she received the precious stocking, put it on, said her prayers, had faith, and was cured. In the gratitude of her heart she made a pilgrimage to Rome, and, obtaining an audience of the pope, recounted her miraculous cure, and thanked him on her knees. His holiness gave her his blessing, and added, laughingly, "Le bon Dieu is more generous to you than to me, my child. One stocking has cured And hear the children's voices shout and call, you, whereas with two I am in a miserable THE DEACON AND THE IRISHMAN. As Deacon Ingalls, of Swampscott, was travelling through the western part of the State of New York, he fell in with an Irish- | man who had lately arrived in this country, and was in quest of a brother who had come before him, and had settled in some of the diggings in this vicinity. Pat was a strong, athletic man, a true Catholic, and had never seen the interior of a Protestant church. It was a pleasant Sunday morning that Brother Ingalls met Pat, who inquired the road to the nearest church. He Ingalls was a good and pious man. told Pat he was going to church himself, and invited his new-made acquaintance to keep him company thither (his destination being a small Methodist meeting-house near by). There was a grand revival there at the time, and one of the deacons (who, by the way, was very small in stature) invited Brother Ingalls to take a seat in his pew. He accepted the invitation, and walked in, followed by Pat, who looked in vain to find the altar. After he was seated, he turned to Brother Ingalls, and in a whisper which could be heard all round, inquired, FROZEN BITS. AN APPEAL TO HOSTLERS AND TEAMSTERS. - Let any one who has the care of a horse these cold frosty mornings, deliberately grasp in his hand a piece of iron, — indeed, let him touch with it the tip of his tongue, and then let him thrust the bit into the mouth of his horse if he has the heart to do it. The horse is an animal of nervous organization. His mouth is formed of delicate glands and tissues. The temperature of the blood is the same as in a human being, and, as in man, the mouth is the "Hush," said Ingalls; "if you speak a warmest part of the body. Imagine, we reloud word, they will put you out." peat, the irritation that would be caused the "Divil a word will I spake at all, at all," human, and consider that, if not to the same replied Pat. "Sure, an' is n't this heritick?" degree, still the suffering to the animal is very great; and it is not a momentary pain. Food is eaten with difficulty, and the irritation, repeated day after day, causes loss of appetite and loss of strength. Many a horse has become worthless from no other cause than this. Before India-rubber bits were to be had, I myself used a bit covered with leather, and on no account would have dispensed with it in freezing weather. But when these are not to be had, holding the iron in the hand a moment or two costs but little trouble, while it saves the horse much pain, and proves a great gain in the end. - Boston Herald. BAYARD TAYLOR. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. DEAD he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks. As the statues1 in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves. Ah! his hand will never more Turn their storied pages o'er; Never more his lips repeat Let the lifeless body rest! Traveller! in what realms afar, In what vast aërial space, Shines the light upon thy face? In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night? Poet! thou whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse, Thou hast sung with organ-tone On the ruins of the Past 1 In the Hofkirche at Innsbruck. À PROPOS OF A PEN. It was announced not long ago that the poet Longfellow was to be the recipient of a unique pen made of a bit of iron from the chain of the Prisoner of Chillon, the pen stock from a fragment of the frigate "Constitution." This splinter of "Old Ironsides," as if proud of its destination, took a polish that rivalled ebony. In a heavy band of gold encircling it were set three rare stones, red, yellow, and white, a tourmaline, a zircon, and a phenacite. On May 22 this pen was presented to Professor Longfellow by Miss Helen Hamlin, of Bangor, Me. As she is a member of Miss Johnson's school, the poet gave a reception to her teachers and schoolmates on the same occasion. He met his young guests on the threshold of his home with a cordial welcome, and conducted them into the study. Here, among other things, his guests were interested in seeing the manuscript of "Hiawatha," written with a pencil in a clear and legible hand. Here, also, were portraits of his chosen friends, Hawthorne, Felton, Charles Sumner, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, - not the faces that we have known later, but with the tender grace of youth looking wistfully into the unknown years. He called attention, with evident gratification, to the carved arm-chair, the gift of the children of Cambridge. Next came the room where Lady Washington received her guests in days of yore, and a large parlor where officers, civil and military, used to wait upon General Washington. But it is not easy to think back to Washington in a house so full of poetic inspiration. Everything in it is eloquent of its living owner, loved and revered. Each bust and picture, exquisite souvenir or rare object of virtu, had something to tell of his tastes and preferences. Then the genial host led his visitors into the grounds, where refreshments were served under the thick shade of trees, with a vista of gay flower-beds brightening through the grass. The walk ended at the old willow, with its eighteen trunks, a tribal tree, a vegetable Fourierite. The moment came too soon when the guests must take leave of him whom many of them had never seen before, but who had been to them all a friend and benefactor. THE IRON PEN. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. [Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the frigate "Constitution," and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.] I THOUGHT this Pen would arise When you gave it me under the pines, That this iron link from the chain That this wood from the frigate's mast As it used to write on the sky But motionless as I wait, Then must I speak, and say In the garden under the pines I shall see you standing there, I shall hear the sweet low tone And in words not idle and vain I shall answer, and thank you again And forever this gift will be As a drop of the dew of your youth AN incident is related by Mr. Murdoch, |