The stui went down and evening - came,
A lot too soon they said ;
Too-long they tarried on the way
The cloitdsJgrew black o’erhead.
Down dashed the rain ! They homeward flew,
Till one unlucky miss
Slipped sideways—Crash ! Great Scot !
The lot
Instead of using only a poem now and then from-our ex
changes, it may be well to have a variety for this month.
The following is from the Amherst Literacy Monthly.
Abner Green was as odd an old stick as ever breath
ed the pure air of heaven. His strong point was story tell
ing, and he used to appear regularly each night at the little
grocery store on the corner, where tlie farmers of the village
were wont to discuss all subjects from the likeliest candi
date for President df these “YeWnited Stdtes, ” to the
value of a certain kind of patent fertiliser in raising cab
bages.
1 happened to be one night in the circle around!the red
hot iron stove which stood in‘the' centre of the small, stuffy
room, and heard one of Abner’s atdries, Which, though it
may seem to lack particular merit, still reveals the old man’s
characteristic style bf droll, dry Wit.
“Waal, Mr. Green,” said the g-rocer—tliey always called
him Mr. Green—“lt’s about time for yew ter make a state
ment, aint it? Ye haint so much es opened yer head this
Wereallmixeduplikethis !
SUGGESTIONS.
—California Critic.