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Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;
Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile.”

In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled A voice pursued him to the wilderness : " Where is thy brother, Cain ?"

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O black impiety! that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin-
That cries with the ever-warning voice:
Be still-away, the crime is not my own-
My brother lived—is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall ?"

“Am I my brother's keeper ?"

Cain, Cain,
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to Heaven against thee; every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
“ Where is thy brother ?'' Every sight and sound
Will mind thee of the lost.

I saw a man
Deal death unto his brother. Drop by drop
The poison was distilled for cursèd gold;
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor trembling slave.

He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Rushed forth into the streets-home had he none
Staggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him-ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.

Once had he friends,
A happy home was his, and love was his.
His Mary loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big “Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: “Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art;
Save us from sin, and let us ever be
United in Thy love, and may we meet,
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he-thus lived he-years passed,
And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.
A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.

His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. Mary died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
His friend was gone-he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!
He died.

Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
Lives he still-if dead, still where is he?
Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:
“No drunkard ever shall inherit there."'.
Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
His gold-his health-his life--his hope-his all ?
Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who saw
His beggared children wandering in the streets ?
Speak-Coward-if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.
“Where is my brother ?''

“Am I my brother's keeper ?'' Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow Than that of Cain. Accursèd was the name Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul Was ripe for Heaven ; thrice accursèd he Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.

E. EVANS EDWARDS. MY MULE.

TOWN a mule. It is the first mule I ever had, and 1 will be the last one. My mind is my mule.

I suppose many other people have mules of the same kind. I notice that in every phrenological picture-chart of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.

A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does not regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.

Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazing-stock on Broadway, hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.

I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now, I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength ; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. Forward I am carried with a rush. I am going-going. I am not just sure where I am going .-I add one word after another, and suddenly—the mule stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence-yip-yip—

“Now it goes, now it goes,—

Now it stands still." The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully. My mule is troublesome in another way. He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.

Bed-time comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep. Whoa! whoa !--but on the mule goes and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the circulation of the blood by a mandate of the will. I am astride the mule, and the mule is going on the jump.

I pull back with all my might, but it avails nothing. Through the city, through the country, here and there and everywhere I am carried, in spite of my protesting that I don't want to go, till the mule is exhausted-I was exhausted long ago—and down he tumbles, and I drop into uneasy slumber in the scary dreamland just where the mule stops with me.

Again, mules are often seen, especially in pictures, with their heels at an angle of elevation which intimates that it is best to keep at a respectful distance. In other words, mules sometimes kick. This is the case especially when people take unbecoming liberties with their heels. My mental mule has heels, and it is difficult sometimes to keep them from flying in the faces of people that tempt them.

When some self-conceited creature, with an air of selfimportance that is almost unbearable, solemnly and majestically begs leave to inform you that you are seriously mistaken in some unimportant little opinion which you

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