Our Query Column is, then, in its place. After the news and notes will be a place for the interrogation marks. Who will ask the questions? We suppose it will be he that wants to know. And who will answer them? We do not profess to know everything at the New York office; but we have a wise man in the East, at Boston, and one who may _occidentally_ know a thing or two at Chicago, a royal correspondent in the South, who will be everywhere, and a whole corps of intelligent teachers and pastors on the field, who, best of all, can answer each other’s questions. Seriously, then, we welcome the idea. We hereby open and inaugurate “Our Query Column,” for all our friends and co-workers. Let the questions be “practical,” germain to our distinctive work. Let them be the real questions on which you desire light for yourselves, and from some source we will try to secure you answers which shall be “concise, clear, and to the point.” Of course, we (for the editorial, like the kingly, “we” is a cover for much irresponsible authority) shall answer, or cause to be answered, only such queries as, in our judgment, will be helpful to the work we have in hand. Who asks first? THE PRESS. * * * * * UNCLE REMUS’ REVIVAL HYMN. O, whar’ shall we go when de great day comes, Wid de blowin’ ob de trumpets an’ de bangin’ ob de drums? How many po’ sinners ’ll be cotched out late, An’ fin’ no latch ter de golden gate? No use fer ter wait twel ter morrer, De sun musn’t set on yo’ sorrer; Sin’s ez sharp ez a bamboo brier— O Lord, fetch de mo’ners up higher! When de nations ob de earth are standin’ all aroun’ Who’s a gwine ter be chosen fer ter war de glory crown? Who’s a gwine fer ter stan’, stiff-kneed an’ bol’, An’ answer ter deir name at de callin’ ob de roll? You’d better come now ef you’s comin’, Ole Satan’s a loose an’ a bummin’, De wheels ob destruction is a hummin’— O, come along, sinner, ef you’s commin’. De song ob salvation is a mighty sweet song, An’ de Paradise wind blow fur an’ blow strong, An’ Aberham’s buzzum is safe an’ its wide, An’ dat’s de place whar de sinners orter hide. No use ter be stoppin’ an’ a lookin’, Ef yo’ fool wid Satan you’ll get took in; You’ll hang on de edge an’ get shook in, Ef yo’ keep on a stoppin’ an’ a lookin’. Jes now is de time, an’ dis yer is de place, Let de salvation sun shine squar’ in yo’ face; Fight de battles ob de Lord, fight soon an’ fight late, An’ you’ll always fin’ a latch ter de golden gate. No use fer ter wait twel ter morrer, De sun musn’t set on yo’ sorrer; Sin’s ez sharp ez a bamboo brier— Ax de Lord fer ter fetch yo’ up higher.—_Exchange._