The Printer.

He stood there alone that shadowy hour By the swinging lamp dimly burning; And silent within, save the ticking type, All without, save the night watching turning; And heavily echoed the solemn sound, As slowly he paced o'er the frozen ground. And dark were the mansions so lately that shone, With the joy of festivity gleaming. And hearts that were beating in sympathy then, Were now living it o'er in their dreaming; Yet the Printer was there in his shadowy room, And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom! The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound The ties that death only can sever; And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile, For she thought they were parted for ever! But the Printer was clicking the types that would tell, On the morrow the truth of that midnight spell! And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow And restless, the pillow was pressing, For he felt, through the shadowy mists of his dream, His loftiest hopes now possessing; Yet the Printer worked on, mid silence and gloom, And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb. And slowly that workman went gathering up His budget of grief and of gladness; A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low For the happy a full cup of sadness; Strange stories of wonder to enchant the ear, And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear. Full strange are the tales which that dark hour shall bear, To palace and cot on the morrow; Oh welcome, thrice welcome, to many a heart! To many—a bearer of sorrow; It shall go like the wild and wandering air, For life and its changes are impressed there.

Be Kind.

Be kind to thy father—for when thou wert young, Who loved thee so fondly as he? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, And joined in thine innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with grey, His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold; Thy father is passing away. Be kind to thy mother—for lo! on her brow May traces of sorrow be seen, O, well mayest thou cherish and comfort her now, For loving and kind hath she been. Remember thy mother—for thee will she pray, As long as God giveth her breath, With accents of kindness, then cheer her lone way, E'en to the dark valley of death. Be kind to thy brother—his heart will have dearth, If the smile of thy love be withdrawn; The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, If the dew of affection be gone. Be kind to thy brother—wherever you are, The love of a brother shall be An ornament purer and richer by far, Than pearls from the depths of the sea. Be kind to thy sister—not many may know The depth of true sisterly love; The wealth of the Ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above. Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours, and blessing thy pathway to crown; Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, More precious than wealth or renown.

THE LENGTH OF A MILE—In England and America, a mile contains 1,760 yards; in Russia, 1,100; in Italy, 1,476; in Spain, 5,028; and in Ireland, 2,200. An Englishman traveling on a bad road in Ireland, inquired why the miles were so excessively long? "An surely we thought the road rather deficient in quality, and therefore made it up in quantity, jist," was the ready reply.

A man, with a large family, was complaining of the difficulty of maintaining all. "But you have sons big enough to earn something, and help you now," said a friend. "Ah, there's the difficulty," replied the poor man, "they are too big to work."

A GOOD CONSCIENCE.—James, said a good woman to her husband, I can't sleep tonight; I keep thinking about that dollar that you promised for the paper, the man wants the money, and I shall never have any peace till it is paid.

A man, Maxwell, in England, lately ran twenty miles in 1 hour 58 minutes and 20 seconds, on a wager of 200—, to 100—, that the distance could not be run in two hours.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.—The following "conversation" was original in the N. Y. Mechanic about four years ago. It has subsequently appeared n more than 100 different papers, (without credit of course,) and is still traveling. Having found it in one of our new exchanges, we have decided to clip it and give it another push.

HOOSIER CONVERSATION.—"Hallo stranger, you appear to be traveling?"
"Yes, I always travel when on a journey,"
"And pray, what might your name be?"
"It might be Sam Patch, but it isn't."
"Have you been long in these parts?"
"Never longer than at present—5 feet 9."
"Do you get anything new?"
"Yes, I bought a new whetstone this morning."