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he caused him to be arrested, and put his accounts into the hands of one of his secretaries for inspection, who returned them the day after with the information that the deficiency arose from a miscalculation ; that in multiplying, Mr. Lange had said, once one is two, instead of once one is one.

7. The poor man was immediately released from confinement, his accounts returned, and the mistake pointed out. During his imprisonment, which lasted two days, he had neither eaten, drank, nor taken any repose; and when he appeared, his countenance was as pale as death. On receiving his accounts, he was a long time silent; then suddenly awaking, as if from a trance, he repeated, “Once one is two."

8. He appeared to be entirely insensible of his situation; would neither eat nor drink, unless solicited; and took notice of nothing that passed around him. While repeating his accustomed phrase, if any one corrected him by saying, “Once one is one,” his attention was arrested for a moment, and he said, “Ah, right, once one is one;" and then resuming his walk, he continued to repeat, “Once one is two." He died shortly after the traveler left Berlin.

9. This affecting story, whether true or untrue, obviously abounds with lessons of instruction. Alas! how easily is the human mind thrown off its balance; especially when it is stayed on this world only, and has no experimental knowledge of the meaning of the injunction of Scripture, to cast all our cares upon Him who careth for us, and who heareth even the young ravens when they cry.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ex-tē'ri-or, outward appearance. De-pyet'ed, painted, represented. 3. Côn-tem-plā’tion, continued attention of the mind to one subject. 4. Rěv'e-nūeş, the annual income from taxes, public rents, etc. Seru'pu-loŭs-ly, carefully. As-sựd'ū-oŭs, constant in attention. Fy-nănçe', the income of a ruler or a state. 5. Děf'i-çit, lack, want. Důc'at, a gold coin worth about $2.00. 6. De-fault'er, one who fails to account for public money entrusted to his care. 9. Ob'vi-ods-ly, plainly. In-jůne'tion, a command.


William Allingham (b. 1828,

was born at Ballyshannon, Ireland. His father was a banker, and gave him a good education in Irish schools. He showed his literary tastes at an early date, contributing to periodicals, etc. In 1850 he published his first volume of poems; in 1854 his “Day and Night Songs” appeared, and in 1861 a poem in twelve chapters entitled “ Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland." His reputation has been established chiefly through his shorter lyrics, or ballad poetry. Since 1861 he has received a literary pension.

1. GOOD-BYE, good-bye to Summer!

For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away,
But Robin's here in coat of brown,

And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

0 Robin dear!
Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

2. Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts;
The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,

’T will soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!
And what will this poor Robin do?

For pinching days are near.

3. The fireside for the cricket,

The wheat-stack for the mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle

And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,-
Alas! in winter dead and dark,

Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer.

NOTE.—The Old World Robin here referred to is quite different in appearance and habits from the American Robin. It is only about half the size of the latter. Its prevailing color above is olive green, while the forehead, cheeks, throat, and breast are a light yellowish red. It does not migrate, but is found at all seasons throughout temperate Europe, Asia Minor, and northern Africa.


John Greenleaf Whittier was born near Haverhill, Mass., in 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, N. H., in 1892. His boyhood was passed on a farm, and he never received a classical education. In 1829 he edited a newspaper in Boston. In the following year he removed to Hartford, Conn., to assume a similar position. In 1836 he edited an anti-slavery paper in Philadelphia. In 1810 he removed to Amesbury, Mass. Mr. Whittier's parents were Friends, and he always held to the same faith. He wrote extensively both in prose and verse. As a poet, he ranked among those most highly esteemed and honored by his countrymen. “Snow-Bound": is ne of the longest and best of his poems.

1. OUR bachelor uncle who lived with us was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the

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Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook. We were quite willing to work hard in the corn-field or the hayinglot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside.

2. I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing-pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows.

a still, sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before.

3. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. “ Try again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. “Now for it,” thought I; “here is a fish at last.”

4. I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked at my uncle appealingly. “Try once more," he said; “we fishermen must have patience.”

5. Suddenly something tugged at my line, and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pick

I erel wriggling in the sun. * Uncle!” I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, “I've got a fish!” “Not yet,” said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream, my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my prize.

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6. We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience,


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