running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think on what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull."

The counsel for the boat observed that the bull should be non-suited, because, in his declaration, he had not specified what color he was of; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel: "My lord, if the bull was of no color, he must be of some color; and, if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be of?" I overruled this motion myself by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white was no color; besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color in the law, for the law can color anything. This cause being afterward left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff.

My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring that, for his client, he would swear anything.

The water-bailiff's charter was then read, takep out of the original record in true law Latin; which set forth in

their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. The charter of the water-bailiff was as follows: "Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in choisi, sapor omnibus fishibus qui habuerunt finos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus, et well-boat, sive oysteri, prawni whitini, shrimpi, turbutos solus;" that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together. But now comes the nicety of the law; the law is as nice as a new-laid egg, and not to be understood by addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood to avoid quibbling; but it being proved that they were carried away neither by tide of flood, nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were non-suited; but such was the lenity of the court, upon their paying all costs, they were allowed to begin again, de novo.-STEVENS.

SONG OF THE WINTER WINDS.

OH, what is the song that the winter winds sing,

As earth they are robing with snows that they bring From the crystalline realms of the stern ice-king? "Oh, pity the poor! oh, pity the poor!"

Adown the dark street they are rushing along,
And into the ears of the hurrying throng,

They, determinate, shout the words of their song,
Oh, pity the poor! oh, pity the poor!"

66

They rattle the shutters of the rich millionaire,
To knock for the mendicant, shivering there,
And are whispering through, on the cold, cold air,
"Oh, pity the poor! oh, pity the poor!"

They part the white curtains, and hover beside
The pillow of one in her maidenhood's pride,
And breathe to her gently, "The Lord will provide.
Oh, pity the poor! oh, pity the poor!"

Have ye not heard it, this song born of love,
Sung by His messengers sent from above
To tell us our duty, our stewardship prove?
Then pity the poor, then pity the poor!

"The poor ye have always," let love then prevail,
Lend to the weak, the distressed, and the frail,
Whom society has shut without her white pale,

Because they are poor, because they are poor.

Is this the glad song that the winter winds sing
As back they are soaring with unwearied wing,
To the crystalline realms of the stern ice-king?
"Earth pities her poor, earth pities her poor!"

WILLIAM M. CLARK,

JEAN ANDERSON, MY JOY, JEAN.

EAN ANDERSON, my joy, Jean,

JEAN

Just lay your loof in mine,

An' let us talk thegither

O' the days of auld lang syne.
The sun is gettin' low, Jean,

An' death is drawin' near.

'Tis growin' hard for baith to see,
'Tis growin' hard to hear.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
I kenn'd ye lang ago,
When ye were but a wee thing,

That toddlin' roun' did go.

An' I was but a child, Jean,
A boastfu', boist'rous boy,
That pulled ye in his wooden cart,
Jean Anderson, my joy.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
I 'comp'nied ye to school;
Your basket hung between us,

To keep the gowden rule;
An' hameward when we strolled, Jean,
It was a joy fu' sweet

For us to gang our lane, and pluck
Spring violets at our feet.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
When first we twa were wed,
Your cheeks were like the blush rose,
As dewy and as red;

Your e'en were like the sky, Jean,

As gentle and as blue;

An' oh, your trustfu', wifely touch,
It thrilled me through and through.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
Ye've been my anely lo'e;
I lo'ed ye in your bairnheid;
I've lo'ed ye steadfast through;
I lo'ed your girlhood curls, Jean;
I lo'e the locks of snaw
That Time has drifted on your head,
An' spring will never thaw.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,

Our bairns, they too are grown;

An' roun' the cheerfu' ingle,

Have wee things o' their own:

Three lives, I think, we've lived, Jean,
Since we were girl and boy-

Our ain, our bairnies', and their bairns'-
Jean Anderson, my joy.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
There is ane life beyon',

An', though I'm dull o' hearin',

I seem to catch its soun';
An', through the mist, I see, Jean,
Heights o' that gowden lan',

Up which we baith shall mount to God,
Led by His lo’in han'.

Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,

It makes cauld bluid leap warm,
To think that Hame we're nearin',
Beyon' life's beatin' storm;
To think that there, at last, Jean,
We'll lean upon His breast,
Who gathers wearie, waitin' anes,
An' gi'es them His ain rest.

J. E. RANKIN.

THE MODERN CAIN.

"AMI my brother's keeper ?”

Long ago,

When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers-when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose :-" My son, my son!