, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats for us His story.
Go, take him where 'such things' are done--
For he sat in the seat of the scorner--
To where they have room, for we have none,
To 'that little church 'round the corner.'"

So spake the holy man of God,
Of another man, his brother,
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite
Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, "Brethren, love one another";
Had only asked that a prayer might be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead.

Whilst his spirit looked, with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies;
But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner;
And they looked for Christ and found Him--where?
In "that little church 'round the corner."

Ah, well! God grant, when with aching feet
We tread life's last few paces,
That we may hear some accents sweet
And kiss to the end, fond faces;
God grant that this tired flesh may rest
(Mid many a musing mourner),
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read,
In no church where the heart of love is dead,
And the pastor a pious prig at best,
But in some small nook where God's confessed--
Some "little church 'round the corner."

Captain Obstinate.

ANONYMOUS.

One fine evening in the month of July, an old soldier of the "grand army,"
who had left one of his arms on the field of battle, was seated at the
door of his pretty cottage.

He was surrounded by a group of young villagers, who were clamorously
reminding him of his promise to tell them some of his military adventures.

After a moment of pretended resistance to their wishes, the old man took
his pipe from his mouth, passed the back of his remaining hand across his
lips, and thus commenced his tale:

"In my time, my friends, the French would have disdained to fight against
Frenchmen in the streets, as they do in these days. No, no, when we fought
it was for the honor of France, and against her foreign enemies.

"But my story commences on the 6th of November, 1812, a short time after
the battle of Wiazma. We beat a retreat, not before the Russians, for they
were at a respectful distance from our camp, but before the sharp and
bitter cold of their detestable country, a cold more terrible to us than
the Russians, Au