pake the poet in the Devil's stead.
Let Virtue be our helmet and our shield,
And Truth our weapon--weapon sharp and strong
And deadly to all error and all wrong.
Yea, armed with Truth, though rogues and rascals throng
The citadel of Virtue shall not yield,
For God's right arm of Truth prevails in every field.

[Illustration: THE DEVIL AND THE MONK]

THE TARIFF ON TIN

Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair,
With unclipped beard and unkempt hair,
Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire,
Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet,
Jo Lumpkin perused the _Daily Liar_--
A leading and stanch Democratic sheet,
While Hannah, his wife, in her calico,
Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo.

"Hanner," he said, and he raised his eyes
And looked exceedingly grave and wise,
"The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs:
Them durned Republikins, they air hogs:
A dev'lish purty fix we air in;
They've gone un riz the teriff on tin."

"How's thet?" said Hannah, and turned her eyes
With a look of wonder and vague surprise.

"Why them confoundered Congriss chaps
Hez knocked the prices out uv our craps:
We can't sell butter ner beans no more
Tu enny furren ship er shore,
Becuz them durned Republikins
Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins."

Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees,
And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease:
She gazed profoundly into the fire,
Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher,
And said as she glanced at the _Daily Liar_
With a sad, wan look in her buttermilk eyes:
"I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies,
Fer they know we allers bakes 'em in
Pans un platters un plates uv tin."

"I wouldn't agrumbled a bit," said Jo,
"Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich;
But I swow it's a morul political sin
Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch
With thet pesky teriff on tin.
Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal
Un hides un taller un hemlock bark,
Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole
By buildin uv mills un givin uv work,
Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul
By raisin the price of pertaters un pork:
But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin--
They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.
I wouldn't wonder a bit ef Blaine
Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine;
Er else he hez foundered a combinashin
Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin.
I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,'
Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust;
Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in
They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.
What'll we