prinkled or plunged--may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"_Thus_, with a few drops on my brow";
"But I have been _dipped_, as you'll see me now.

"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you.
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

And straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left--his friend at the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But how did the brethren "enter in"?

And now where the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down;
Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree,
The _old_ or the _new_ way, which it could be;
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true":
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,
_That_ is the false, and _this_ is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak,
Modest the sisters walked, and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul?
'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'"

I watched them long in my curious dream.
Till they stood by the border of the stream,
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met.
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side;
Side by side, for the way was one,
The toilsome journey of life was done,
And priest and Quaker, and all who died,
Came out alike on the other side;
No forms or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,
For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."

_Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland._

The Railroad Crossing

I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick;
But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick:
It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out.
But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about.

You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine,