A BEECHER OUTWITTED.

It is not very often that anyone gets the best of the tribe of the Beechers. But the following story, told by the Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, shows how he met his match in Brudder Anderson :

I was to preach for Brother Anderson. He was a good pastor. Almost the last time I saw him he had just called upon a lamb of his flock to ask after her spiritual welfare, and for fifty cents toward his salary. He had left his tub and brushes at the foot of the hill, and he resumed them when he had made his call; for, like the great apostle, he used to labor, working with his own hands.

Punctual to the hour, Brother Anderson came rolling across the street, and up to the door, and we went in together. After the usual songs and prayers, I took my text, Paul's counsel to the Corinthians as to their disorderly meetings and meaningless noises. The sermon was, in the main, a reading of the fourteenth chapter of Paul's first letter, with comments and applications interspersed. I spoke for half an hour, and, while showing consideration for the noisy ways of my audience, exhorted them to cultivate intelligence as well as passion.

"When you feel the glory of God in you, let it out, of course. Shout 'glory,' clap your hands, and all that. But stop now and then, and let some wise elder stand up and tell what it all means. Men and boys hang round your windows and laugh at you and religion, because they don't understand you. Some men have religion all in the head — clear, sharp, dry and dead; others, all in the heart. They feel it in their bones. Now I want you to have religion in your heads and hearts. Let all things be done decently and in order."

I was very well satisfied with my effort; at the time it seemed a success. As I sat down, Brother Anderson got up and stood on the pulpit step to give out a hymn :

Let saints below in concert sing."

I am not certain that he could read, for he stood book in hand, and seemingly from memory gave the number of the hymn, and repeated the first two stanzas with deep and growing feeling. Of the third he read three lines —

Here he stopped, and, after swallowing one or two chokes, went on to say:

"I love Brudder Beecher. I love to hear him preach dis afternoon. He's told us a good many things. He's our good fr'en. An' he sez, sez he, dat some folks goes up to glory noisy 'n shoutin', and some goes still-like, 'z if they's 'shame of wat's in 'em. An' he sez we'd better be more like de still kind, and de white folks will like us more. An' then I thinks 'taint much 'count no way, wedder we goes up still-like or shoutin', 'cause heaven's a mighty big place, brudders, an' when we all goes marchin' up to see de Lord, an' am so full of de lub, an' de joy, an' de glory, dat we mus' clap our han's an' shout, de good Lord's got some place whar we won't 'sturb nobody, an' we kan shout, Glory! glory! Bless de Lord! I'm safe, I'm safe in de glory at las'! I tell you, brudders an' sisters, that heaven's a mighty big place, an' dar's room for Brudder Beecher an' us, too."

"Dat's so ! Bless de Lord! Amen! Glory!" (From the people).

"An' Brudder Beecher sez dat 'tisn't de folks as makes mos' noise dat does do mos' work. He sez de ingins on de railroad only puff-puff-puff- reg'lar breathin' like, wen dey's at work a haulin' de big loads, an' dat de bells an' de whistles don' do no work; dey only make a noise. Guess dat's so. I don' know 'bout ingins much, an' I don' know wedder I's a puff, puff ingin, or wedder I blow de whistle an' rings de bell. I feels like bofe (with a chuckle) sometimes! An' I tell you what, wen de fire is burnin', an' I gets de steam up, don't dribe no cattle on de track; de ingin's comin', cl'ar de track!" (This with a voice that shook the little house, and a "magnetism" that thrilled and fixed me. course, his hearers were by this time swaying, shouting and amen-ing splendidly).

Of

"An' de boys an' de gals an' de clarks an' young lawyers, dey come up yar watch-night, an' dey peep in de windows, an' stan' roun' de doors, an' dey laff an' make fun of 'lig'n! An' Brudder Beecher sez, why don't we stop de noise now'n den, an' go out an' tell 'em 'bout it — 'splain it to 'em. An' I members wot de Bible sez 'bout de outer darkness, an' de

weepin' an' de wailin' an' de gnashin' ob de teeth. An' if dese boys an' gals stan' dar, outside a laffin', bimeby dey'll come to de wailin' and de weepin' 'fus dey know. An' den wen they stan' roun' de great temple ob de Lord, an' see de glory shinin' out, an' de harpers harpin', an' all de music an' de elders bowin', an' all de shoutin' like many waters, an' all de saints a singin' Glory to de Lam'!' 'spose God'll say, 'Stop dat noise dar, Gabriel! You, Gabriel, go out an' 'splain!'

"Yes, I see dem stan' las' winter 'roun' de door an' under de windows an' laff; an' dey peek in an' laff. An' I'member wot I saw las' summer 'mong de bees. Some ob de hives was nice and clean an' still, like 'spectable meetin's, an' de odders was a bustin' wid honey! an' de bees kep' a goin' an' a comin' in de clover; an' dey jes kep' on a fillin' up de hive, till de honey was a flowin' like de lan' of Canaan. An' I saw all roun' de hives was de ants an' de worms an' de great drones an' black bugs, an' dey kep' on de outside. Dey wasn't bees. Dey couldn't make de honey for darselves. Dey couldn't fly to de clover an' de honeysuckle. Dey jes hung roun' de bustin' hive an' live on de drippin's.

"An' de boys an' gals come up yar, an' hang roun'. Jes come in an' we'll show you how de gospel bees do. Come in an' we'll lead you to de clover! Come in- we'll make your wings grow. Come in! won't ye? Well, den, poor things, let 'em stan' roun' de outside an' have de drippin's. We's got honey in dis hive!"

Raising the hymn-book, and with tender voice, he took up the stanza just where he had left it

"Part of 'e hos' av cross 'er flood,

An' part are crossin' now."

"Sing, brudders," said he; and to his "lining out" they sang the whole hymn only as they can sing.

ANONYMOUS.

POOR LITTLE JOE.

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,

Fur I've brought you sumpin' great.

Apples? No, a heap sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait!

Flowers, Joe-I know'd you'd like 'em -
Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high?
Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?
There-poor little Joe! - don't cry!

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes

Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it

Pretty! Mebbe not! Oh, no! Wish you could a seen 'em growin', It was sich a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,

Lyin' here so sick and weak,

Never knowin' any comfort,

And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus-
Never seed one, I suppose.'

Then I told her all about you —

How I bringed you up-poor Joe! (Lackin' women folks to do it.)

Sich a imp you was, you know

Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,

So's you couldn't hyper much

Joe, it hurted when I seen you

Fur the first time with yer crutch. But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'Pears to weaken every day";

Joe, she up and went to cuttin'

That's the how of this bokay.

Say! It seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yerself to-night;
Kind o' chirk-it's been a fortnit

Sence yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?

Well, I thought it would, you know!

Never see the country, did you?

Flowers growin' everywhere!
Some time when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M-I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful-

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever-
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little sing❜ler.

Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is—
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here- wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers- you dropped 'em, Joey!
Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?

PELEG ARKWRIGHT