THE WISCONSIN FARMER.



glorious tri-color, I would like to speak, and
may in the future.
  Have I forgotten the White House and Mrs.
Lincoln? I had, nearly.
  As for the White House, it is a substantial,
good sized, well furnished stuccoed dwelling,
not a bit too good for you, or me, or our neigh-
bors: provided always that we are entirely
loyal and not, in our personalities, evidence
of the doctrine of total depravity. As for the
Madam, I was two weeks within crossing of
her threshold, but did not see her. Why not?
I didn't want to. I have not forgiven, shall not
forgive that lady who, having the best chance a
woman ever had to display all womanly and
high qualities of soul, has, instead, by the lit-
tleness and frivolity of her course, touched
with the blush of shame the cheek of every
noble woman of the land.
  One thing more that asks for a word in the
future: It is the unfinished monument that
stands looking down upon the waters of the
beautiful river that, not far below, murmurs
along the satred shores ofwiount Vernon.
                               MRS. HOYT.

TE RAM-TE AAIL             D TA N PiAYER&
                BY I. F. TATLOR.
      We heard a dozen men complain,
        When Wednesday it began to rain
      Just as before when It was dry,
      They mourned a drought with many a sigh,
      And seemed most strangely to forget
        The Lord made water rathei wet!
      If all men's prayers were beard together,
        The world would have the queerest weather.
        My mill stands still-Oh, Lord, give rain In
        "My grain is down-Oh, Lord, refrain I"
        My corn is parched I'-' Ah, Susan's bonnet-
      Don't let a drop of water on it I "
      'Oh, not to-day our washing 'a out 1'
      o' toll up, ye clouds, I go for trout 1"
      The hen's come off-the brood Is drowned!
      "Al., let It pour I my boat's aground

      so, 'mid the murmunrs of the world,
      The clouds like banners are unfurled
      The rain descends, the bow is bent,
      The sky smiles clear, God's azure tent;
      And rain or shine, 'tis pleasant weather
      The sower's hopeful sesi is flung,
      And harvest songs are always sung.



           XI  Anna E. Dickinson.

  This somewhat noted-perhaps we should
say distinguished-political speech-maker has
attracted so much attention by her public ad-
dresses at different points, east and west, du-
ring the past few months that we have pre-
sumed many of our readers to be interested
in some reliable account of her history and
personnel.

  In times past there have not been wanting
women with the courage to invade the profes-
sions of literatue, of medicine, of theology and
social reform; but, so far as we know, Miss
Dickinson has been the first of her sex to en-
ter the arena of politics and to take the stump.
She is therefore a prodigy among women, and,
of course, a marvel among men.



  We are not going to say that she has no
right thus to leave her own more modest and
restricted sphere, for we believe it to be the
prerogative and duty of every human being
to do that work in the world which he or she
is best fitted to perform: provided, always
that that work is honorable and needs to be
done. We have no Procrustian rule to which
every individual of the race must conform.
We have no anxiety lest the whole race of
women unsex themselves and become monsters



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