study up
somethin' to preach to this dying congregation-ah; and as I rid up by
the old mill pond-ah lo and behold! there was an old snag a sticking
up out of the middle of the pond-ah, and an old mud turtle had clim
up out uv the water and was a settin' up on the old snag a sunnin' uv
himself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah! when I rid up a leetle nearer to
him-ah, he jumped off of the snag, 'ker chugg' into the water, thereby
proving emersion-ah!"

Our brains _are_ clocks, and our hearts are the pendulums. If we live
right in this world, when the Resurrection Day shall come, the Lord God
will polish the wheels, and jewel the bearings, and crown the casements
with stars and with gold. And the pendulums shall be harps encrusted
with precious stones. They shall swing to and fro on angel wings, making
music in the ear of God, and flashing His glory through all the blissful
cycles of eternity!

THE PANIC.

Happy is the man who lives within his means, and who is contented with
the legitimate rewards of endeavor. The dreadful panic that checks the
progress of civilization and paralyzes the commerce of the world, is the
death angel that follows speculation. Everything is staked and hazarded
on contingences that are as baseless as the fabric of a dream. The day
of settlement comes and nobody is able to settle. The borrower is
powerless to meet his note in the bank; the banker is powerless to pay
his depositors, and confidence is stampeded like a herd of cattle. The
timid and suspicious old farmer catches the wild note of alarm, and
deserting his plow and sleepy steers in the field, he mounts his mule,
and urging him on with pounding heels, rushes pell-mell to the bank, and
with bulging eyes, demands his money. The excitement spreads like fire.
The blacksmith leaves his anvil, the carpenter his bench, and the tailor
his goose. The tanner deserts his hide, and the shoemaker throws down
his last to save his all. The mason with his trowel in his hand, rushes
from the half-finished wall; Pat drops his hod between heaven and earth
and slides down the ladder, muttering: "Oi'll have me moaney or _Oi'll_
have blood!" The fat phlegmatic Dutchman, dozing behind his bar, wakes
to the situation and waddles down the street, puffing and blowing like
an engine, and muttering: "Mine Got in Himmel--mine debosit ish
boosted!" And thus they make the run on the bank, gathering about it
like the hosts of Armageddon. The bottom drops out, and m