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40 Tenors to right of him, Trebles to left of him, Discords behind him
 * Bellowed and thundered.

Oh the wild howls they wrought! Eight to the end they fought! Some tune they sang, but not,
 * Not the Old Hundred.

— Audre's Journal.

FILLING HIS PLACE.

Rip Van Winkle took into his head To go on a cruise round the world, he said;

And in three years' time he would come once more, And all would go on as it had before.

What a blank he left, alack and alack! But the years went round till they brought him back.

And one lazy day in the last of June Stood a sunburnt sailor, humming a tune,

And watching them play on the cricket-ground. He was champion once of the country round;

But that brawny lad with the laughing face, It was plain to see, was filling his place;

And with half a sigh he turned him away, Saying, "It matters not, it is naught but play."

And he took the road to the old grist-mill, Where his place, he knew, they could never fill;

For he'd miss him sore, the miller declared, And his own right hand could be better spared.

The miller had found, on the day he sailed, A good honest lad, who had never failed.