If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel. You needn’t try your luck at Epply’s or the ‘Buck,’ Though the Father of his Country liked them well. It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos, Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed--so You must treat as out-of-date the story I relate Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so. He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Luther (Never say I didn’t give you warning). In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) alive, But he’s not in Philadelphia this morning. If you’re off to Philadelphia this morning, And wish to prove the truth of what I say, I pledge my word you’ll find the pleasant land behind Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way. Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the cat-bird sings his tune; Still Autumn sets the maple-forest blazing. Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-compelling musk; Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing. They are there, there, there with Earth immortal (Citizens, I give you friendly warning). The things that truly last when men and times have passed, They are all in Pennsylvania this morning! Brother Square-Toes It was almost the end of their visit to the seaside. They had turned themselves out of doors while their trunks were being packed, and strolled over the Downs towards the dull evening sea. The tide was dead low under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled waves grieved along the sands up the coast to Newhaven and down the coast to long, grey Brighton, whose smoke trailed out across the Channel. They walked to The Gap, where the cliff is only a few feet high. A windlass for hoisting shingle from the beach below stands at the edge of it. The Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an old ship’s figurehead of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall. ‘This time tomorrow we shall be at home, thank goodness,’ said Una. ‘I hate the sea!’ ‘I believe it’s all right in the middle,’ said Dan. ‘The edges are the sorrowful parts.’ Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, levelled his telescope at some fishing-boats, shut it with a click and walked away. He grew smaller and smaller along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of white chalk every few yards show the path even on the darkest night. ‘Where’s Cordery going?’ said Una. ‘Half-way to Newhaven,’ said Dan. ‘Then he’ll meet the Newhaven coastguard and turn back. He says if coastguards were done away with, smuggling would start up at once.’ A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing: ‘The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye-- On Telscombe Tye at night it was-- She saw the smugglers riding by, A very pretty sight it was!’