The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and browbeat an impudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen at once? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much _to_ know, and knows how to not know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim? If so, we perhaps can be makin an editor 'outen of him.'" The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread; And he said, "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head." But lo! on the rickety stair-case, another reliable tread, And entered another old farmer, and these are the words that he said: "Good-morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day? I owe you for next year's paper; I thought I'd come in and pay. And Jones is agoin' to take it, and this is his money here; I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try it a year. And here is a few little items that happened last week in our town: I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just jotted 'em down. And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly for you; And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie--she thought she must send somethin' too. You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family agree; Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a good one for me. And now you are chuck full of business, and I won't be takin' your time; I've things of my own I must 'tend to--good-day, sir, I b'lieve I will climb." The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist with a thump: "God bless that old farmer," he muttered, "he's a regular Editor's trump." And 'tis thus with our noble profession, and thus it will ever be, still; There are some who appreciate its labors, and some who perhaps never will. But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the trumpet shall sound, And they who have labored and rested shall come from the quivering ground; When they who have striven and suffered to teach and ennoble the race, Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his God-given place, As they pass through the gates of The City with proud and victorious tread, The editor, printer, and "devil," will travel not far from the head. THE HOUSE WHERE WE WERE WED.