Follers his plaough, perdooces corn 'n' taters.
He don't resk nothin' 'ith them speckleaters.
Gold up er daown, he hain't no call t' worry;
They wun't git red o' hiz'n in a hurry.
No, no, White's keerful; l'arns us suthin', r'ally;
Wun't drive a hoss t' death he hopes t' sell ye;
But drives a bargain pooty keen, I tell ye.

Green-wonder ef ye know wut's ailin' Green?
He works like blazes, fur ez I hev seen;
No better farm 'n' hiz'n in Saughconic,
Er savin'r wife from Kersnop to Hustonic;
Sober'z a deacon on a Sabba'-day-

Can't tell rye from Jamaiker, so they say;
Stays to his hum; lives low. Wut hinders, naow,
Thet Green c-a-n-'t git a livin' et th' plaough?
Wa'al, we've hed dealin's some; I'll tell ye, then-
No jedgment, more'n a settin' Brahmer hen,
An' thet's the nub on't. Ef ye plan ez he doos.
Yer poor ez Laz'rus wuz-whoever he wuz.

Don't know Brown much, ner mean ter-grumpy feller! All his hard cider couldn't make him meller;

But they du say he's savin' up at las',

Supplyin' village folks with gardin sass:
He'd orter lay some by, fer yew may bet

He don't fool much on't off t' pay a debt

Owes me three shillin'. Wa'al, it ain't no gre't.

Le's look et Grey: wust thing 'baout Grey is-books;
Grey reads t' much, 'n' keers t' much fer looks;
Believes in puttin' picturs up in haouses,

An' puts on airs, 'n' dassn't wear patched traouses:
Ef 'twan't fer money lef' him, goodness knows
He might be naow a-wearin' poor-'aouse clo’es.
Wa'al, nut thet I've gut anythin' agin 'im,
On'y I du say they ain't nothin' in 'im;

No dicker in 'im, sartin-not a hooter;

C-a-n-'t swop 'n' make a cent--a cent o' pooter.
Sech farmers scurcely make the salt they're eatin';
They 'pear t' think thet hag'lin's'z bad ez cheatin';
Mebby it is: ef thet's the way t' figger,

We'd ciphered aout aour jail a leetle bigger;
High-Sheriff Root he'd jist rej'ice t' du it,
App'int more depooties, an' put us thru it.

Ha, wa'al, wa'al, it takes all kin's o' folks, abaout,
T' make a warld. I've guessed the reason aout.
Time wuz I wished some on 'em hadn't come

Till arter I wuz borned, an' dead, I vum.

Ye see, these puzzlin' p'ints I understan'
Sence they made ch'ice o' me fer Selec'man.
Can't all on us be rulers-sakes alive!
'Twun't work t' hev all king-bees in a hive.
Dung 'em an' cultivate 'em ez ye will,
The's alluz some small taters in a hill,
An', p'int o' fac', yer small-p'tater men
Will kin' o' work t' th' bottom uv the ben.

Wut tickles them is traouts 'n' shutin lots,
Nice air, red claouds, 'n' awful sightly spots;
Yer poorest pastur' hill where wind is ha'sh
More'n likely is the one thet takes their cash.

But naow them days come on wut teched my pride:
Hanner gut off the hooks, an' up an' died.
Thet wuz a durn hard blow. I jes clean lost
The smartest help I ever come acrost.

I vow I thought I'd ruther 'twould ha' ben
My twenty head o' fattin' steer. But then
She'd gut the young uns pooty well along;

The h'use-work wa'n't a-pressin' quite s' strong;

Aour Jane could cook fer men, 'n' wait upon 'em,

'N' Silas hoe his row 'ith any on 'em:

Might ha' ben wuss; but this 'ere loss, ye see,
Wuz suthin more 'an money aout t' me.

T' show ye, naow, she's hed some posies come,
An' wastes her val'able time a-tendin' 'em.
Naow blows thet don't bring fruit, t' my idee,
Air wuthless, even ef ye git 'em free,

An' so I tell her: don't du any good;

She'd craowd my onions with 'em ef she could;
I hain't a daoubt she'd chuse a posy bed
Afore a patch o' solid kebbege head.
Wusst on it is, my gals l'arn arter her-
C-a-n-'t go t' meetin', 'n' c-a-n-'t hardly stir,
'Ithout admirin' suthin, I declare,
Thet ain't no airthly 'caount t' eat 'r wear.
Sech conduc's sinful, 'n' thet's wut I say:
Live clus, an' lay by fer a rainy day.
Yis, brother farmers, it's the good ol' way:
Workin' an' savin', thet makes farmin' pay.

THE METROPOLIS OF THE PRAIRIES.

"THE

on the sunset side of the Alleghanies; but we are nothing if not geographical, and can not impeach our own maps. Since you have built those great railroads the star of empire has been availing itself of the express trains, and our real northwestern frontier is now only separated from Asia by Behring Straits."

Call it what we may, it is assuredly one of the wonders of the world, in its rapid growth, in its recovery from disaster, in its greatness to-day, and in its prospects for the future.

New York and Boston, about 250 years old, have respectively 1,000,000 and 350,000 inhabitants. Chicago made up her half million in little over forty years. In New York and Boston one sees the graves of eight generations, and the relics of times. In Chicago Mr. Gurdon S. Hubbard is now living, an active man, seventy-eight years of age (and looking sixty), who came to the spot when there were but two houses there.

HE metropolis of the Northwest, | colonial you mean," I hear a resident of Chicago say.

"No, my friend, that is what you were, not what you are. You are undoubtedly the metropolis of what was the Northwest, and you are the most splendid city

The site of this great city, a favorite one with the Indians, was early visited