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Of it?Certainly.Isn't that enough? That was the only distinctly popular platform effort I ever made.I am proud of it now.I was proud of it then.But the news of my triumph was coldly received at home.

I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading in concert.The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it could be, and yet not mash the ren out of shape, and a whole lot of young ones would read a piece together.Fine? Finest thing you ever heard.I remember one time teacher must have calculated a leetle mite too close, or else one girl more was in the class than she had reckoned on; but on the day, the two end girls just managed to stand upon the platform and that was all. They recited together:

"There was a sound of revelry by night And Belgium's capital . . . . "

I forget the rest of it.Well, anyhow, they were supposed to make gestures all together.Teacher had rehearsed the gestures, and they all did it simultaneously, just as if they had been wound up with a spring.But, as I said, the two end girls had all they could do to keep on the platform, and it takes elbow room for: "'T is but the car rattling over the stony street," and one girl - well, she said she stepped off on purpose, but I didn't believe her then and I don't now.We had our laugh about it, whichever way it was.

We had our laugh . . . . Ah, life was all laughter then.That was before care came to be the shadow at our heel.That was before black Sorrow met us in the way, and would not let us pass unless we gave to her our dearest treasure.That was before we learned that what we covet most is, when we get it, but a poor thing after all, that whatsoever chalice Fortune presses to our lips, a tear is in the bottom of the cup.In those happy days gone by if the rain fell, 't was only for a little while, and presently the sky was bright again, and the birds whistled merrily among the wet and shining leaves.Now "the clouds return after the rain."

It can never be with us again as once it was.For us the bell upon the Old Red School-house calls in vain.We heed it not, we that hearkened for it years ago.The living tide of youth flows toward the school-house, and we are not of it.Never again shall we sit at those old desks, whittled and carved with rude initials, and snap our fingers, eager to tell the answer.Never again shall we experience the thrill of pride when teacher praised us openly. Never again shall we sit trembling while the principal, reads the note, and then scowls at us fiercely with: "Take off your coat, sir!"Ah, me!Never again, never again.

Well, who wants it to be that way again?We're men and women now. We've duties and responsibilities.Who wants to be a again? Not I.Let me stick just at my present age for about a hundred years, and I'll never utter a word of complaint.

THE SABBATH-SCHOOL

"We-a love the Sunday-school. We-a love the Sunday-school. (Girls) - So do I. (Boys)-So do I. (School) - We all love the Sunday-school."

SPARKLING DEWDROPS."

Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to the Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given unto them to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry that might look to them to be a little run over on one side.If they felt as I do about the lines that head this article they would have "Sunday" scratched out and "Sabbath" written in before you could bat an eye.The mere substitution of one word for another may seem a light matter to a man that has never composed anything more literary than an obituary for the Western Advocate of Sister Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at a tender age to New Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc.If he wanted to extract a word he would do it, and never even offer to give the author gas.But I know just how it hurts.I know or can imagine how the gifted poet that penned the deathless lines I have quoted must have walked the floor in an agony until every word and syllable was just to suit him, and so, though I feel sure he meant to write "Sabbath-school," I don't dare change it.

To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn to be careful how you talk before them.Now, I would not go so far as to say that "Sunday" is what you might call exactly rowdy, but er . . . but . . . er . . . Let me illustrate.If a man says, "It's a beautiful Sunday morning," like enough he has on red-and-green stockings, baggy knickerbockers, a violet-and-purple sweater, a cap shaped like a milk-roll, and is smoking a pipe.He very likely carries a bagful of golf-sticks, or is pumping up his bicycle. But if a man says, "This beautiful Sabbath morn," you know for a certainty that he wears a long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, and a white tie.He is bald from his forehead upward, his upper lip is shaven, and his views and those of the late Robert Reed on the disgusting habit of using tobacco are absolutely at one.

Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be historically accurate, urges me to make the change I s.