Fundamentals of Corporate Finance 9th Edition Brealey

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Chapter 08 Test bank - Static

Student: ___________________________________________________________________________

1. As the opportunity cost of capital decreases, the net present value of a project increases.

True False

2. The IRR is the rate of return on the cash flows of the investment, also known as the opportunity cost of capital.

True False

3. Projects with an NPV of zero decrease shareholders' wealth by the cost of the project.

True False

4. When calculating IRR with a trial and error process, discount rates should usually be raised when NPV is positive.

True False

5. Unlike using IRR, selecting projects according to their NPV will always lead to a correct accept-reject decision.

True False

6. For mutually exclusive projects, the project with the higher IRR is the correct selection.

True False

7. When using a profitability index to select projects, a high value is preferred over a low value.

True False
8. A project's payback period is the length of time necessary to generate an NPV of zero.

True False

9. The payback period considers all project cash flows.

True False

10. Both the NPV and the internal rate of return methods recognize that the timing of cash flows affects project value.

True False

11. If a project has multiple IRRs, the lowest one is incorrect.

True False

12. Because of deficiencies associated with the payback method, it is seldom used in corporate financial analysis today.

True False

13. A risky dollar is worth more than a safe one.

True False

14. When choosing among mutually exclusive projects with similar lives, the choice is easy using the NPV rule. As long as at least
one project has positive NPV, simply choose the project with the highest NPV.

True False

15. When we compare assets with different lives, we should select the machine that has the lowest equivalent annual cost.

True False

16. For many firms the limits on capital funds are "soft." By this we mean that the capital rationing is not imposed by investors.

True False

17. Soft rationing should never cost the firm anything.

True False

18. For most managers, discounted cash-flow analysis is in fact the dominant tool for project evaluation.

True False

19. The payback rule states that a project is acceptable if you get your money back within a specified period.

True False

20. The payback rule always makes shareholders better off.

True False
21. When you have to choose between projects with different lives, you should put them on an equal footing by computing the
equivalent annual annuity or benefit of the two projects.

True False

22. When you are considering whether to replace an aging machine with a new one, you should compare the equivalent annual cost
of operating the old one with the equivalent annual cost of the new one.

True False

23. A project's opportunity cost of capital is:

A. the return that shareholders could expect to earn by investing in the financial markets.
B. the return earned by investing in the project.
C. equal to the average return on all company projects.
D. designed to be less than the project's IRR.

24. Which one of the following statements is correct for a project with a positive NPV?

A. The IRR must be greater than 0.

B. Accepting the project has an indeterminate effect on shareholders.
C. The discount rate exceeds the cost of capital.
D. The profitability index equals 1.

25. If the net present value of a project that costs $20,000 is $5,000 when the discount rate is 10%, then the:

A. project's IRR equals 10%.

B. project's rate of return is greater than 10%.
C. net present value of the cash inflows is $4,500.
D. project's cash inflows total $25,000.

26. What is the NPV of a project that costs $100,000 and returns $50,000 annually for 3 years if the opportunity cost of capital is
14%?

A. $13,397.57
B. $14,473.44
C. $16,081.60
D. $33,748.58

27. The decision rule for net present value is to:

A. accept all projects with cash inflows exceeding the initial cost.
B. reject all projects with rates of return exceeding the opportunity cost of capital.
C. accept all projects with positive net present values.
D. reject all projects lasting longer than 10 years.

28. If a project’s NPV is calculated to be negative what should a project manner do?

A. The discount rate should be decreased.

B. The profitability index should be calculated.
C. The present value of the project cost should be determined.
D. The project should be rejected.
29. Which one of the following changes will increase the NPV of a project?

A. A decrease in the discount rate

B. A decrease in the size of the cash inflows
C. An increase in the initial cost of the project
D. A decrease in the number of cash inflows

30. What is the maximum that should be invested in a project at time zero if the inflows are estimated at $50,000 annually for 3
years, and the cost of capital is 9%?

A. $101,251.79
B. $109,200.00
C. $126,564.73
D. $130,800.00

31. When a manager does not accept a positive-NPV project, shareholders face an opportunity cost in the amount of the:

A. project's initial cost.

B. project's NPV.
C. project's discounted cash inflows.
D. soft capital rationing budget.

32. What is the maximum amount a firm should pay for a project that will return $15,000 annually for 5 years if the opportunity cost
is 10%?

A. $24,157.65
B. $56,861.80
C. $62,540.10
D. $48,021.19

33. Which of the following projects would you feel safest in accepting? Assume the opportunity cost of capital to be 12% for each
project.

A. "A" has a small, but negative, NPV.

B. "B" has a positive NPV when discounted at 10%.
C. "C's" cost of capital exceeds its rate of return.
D. "D" has a zero NPV when discounted at 14%.

34. As the discount rate is increased, the NPV of a specific project will:

A. increase.
B. decrease.
C. remain constant.
D. decrease to zero, then remain constant.

35. A project requires an initial outlay of $10 million. If the cost of capital exceeds the project IRR, then the project has a(n):

A. positive NPV.
B. negative NPV.
C. acceptable payback period.
D. positive profitability index.
36. The modified internal rate of return can be used to correct for:

A. negative NPV calculations.

B. multiple internal rates of return.
C. undefined payback periods.
D. borrowing projects.

37. The internal rate of return is most reliable when evaluating:

A. a single project with alternating cash inflows and outflows over several years.
B. mutually exclusive projects of differing sizes.
C. a single project with only cash inflows following the initial cash outflow.
D. a single project with cash outflows at time 0 and the final year and inflows in all other time periods.

38. When a project's internal rate of return equals its opportunity cost of capital, then the:

A. project should be rejected.

B. project has no cash inflows.
C. net present value will be positive.
D. net present value will be zero.

39. Firms that make investment decisions based on the payback rule may be biased toward rejecting projects:

A. with short lives.

B. with long lives.
C. with late cash inflows.
D. that have negative NPVs.

40. One way to increase the NPV of a project is to decrease the:

A. project's payback period.

B. profitability index.
C. time until the receipt of cash inflows.
D. number of project IRRs.

41. What is the IRR for a project that costs $100,000 and provides annual cash inflows of $30,000 for 6 years starting one year from
today?

A. 19.91%
B. 16.67%
C. 15.84%
D. 22.09%

42. What is the IRR of a project that costs $100,000 and provides cash inflows of $17,000 annually for 6 years?

A. 0.57%
B. 1.21%
C. 5.69%
D. 12.10%
Another document from Scribd.com that is
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prejudice nor bias,—no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of
these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest and
rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American
arm and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that promethean
fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country, which
his words have commended, which his example has consecrated. Well
did Lord Byron write:
“Where may the wearied eye repose,

When gazing on the great,

Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state?—

Yes—one—the first, the last, the best,

The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

Bequeathed the name of Washington,

To make man blush, there was but one.”

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL

BE PROUD?
.

A favorite poem with Abraham Lincoln, who often repeated it to his friends.

H! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant’s affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,—

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.
.

ND this, O Spain! is thy return

For the new world I gave!

Chains!—this the recompense I earn!

The fetters of the slave!

Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea,

Rises on realms I found for thee.

I served thee as a son would serve;

I loved thee with a father’s love;

It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,

To raise thee other lands above,

That thou, with all thy wealth, might be

The single empress of the sea.

For thee my form is bowed and worn

With midnight watches on the main;

For thee my soul hath calmly borne

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain;

Through life, what’er my lot might be,

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.

My guerdon!—’Tis a furrowed brow,

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,

And blighted hope, and broken vow,

And poverty for coming years,

And hate, with malice in her train:—

What other guerdon?—View my chain!

Yet say not that I weep for gold!

No, let it be the robber’s spoil.—

Nor yet, that hate and malice bold

Decry my triumph and my toil.—

I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame;

I weep but for her blackened fame.

 No more.—The sunlight leaves the sea;

Farewell, thou never-dying king!

Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee,

And thou—and thou,—grim, giant thing,

Cause of my glory and my pain,—

Farewell, unfathomable main!

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

’ .

Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Alabama, 1867. This famous poem was written
in honor of a comrade of the author, a Kentucky soldier, who fell mortally wounded in the battle
of Buena Vista.

HE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat

The soldier’s last tattoo;

No more on life’s parade shall meet

The brave and fallen few.

On fame’s eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe’s advance

Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow’s strife

The warrior’s dream alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,

Their plumed heads are bowed,

Their haughty banner trailed in dust

Is now their martial shroud—

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms by battle gashed

Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle’s stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are passed—

Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain

Came down the serried foe—

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o’er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a mother’s breath hath swept

O’er Angostura’s plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its moldered slain.

The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,

Or shepherd’s pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o’er that dread fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land’s heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil—

The ashes of her brave.

Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Shines sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes’ sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave!

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While fame her record keeps,

Or honor points the hallowed spot

Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone

 In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,

Nor time’s remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF

GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.
.

Born 1809; died 1865. Mr. Lincoln always spoke briefly and to the point. The following
short oration, delivered at the dedication of the Gettysburg Cemetery, is universally regarded as
one of the greatest masterpieces, of brief and simple eloquence, in the realm of oratory.

OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth

upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty,
and dedicated to the proposition that all men are
created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war,
testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived
and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of
that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place
of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a

larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow
this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have
consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little
note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what
they did here.
 It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished
work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here
dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored
dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last
full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead
shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a
new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the
people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.

MEMORY.
. .

Born 1831; died 1881. The following poem was ♦ written by the late President Garfield
during his senior year in Williams College, Massachusetts, and was published in the Williams
“Quarterly” for March, 1856.

♦ “writen” replaced with “written”

IS beauteous night; the stars look brightly down

Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.

No lights gleam at the windows, save my own,

Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.

And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes

And leads me gently through her twilight realms.

What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,

Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed

The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells;

It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,

Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;

And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed

In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,

Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,

Are clustered joys serene of other days.

Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend

The weeping willows o’er the sacred dust

Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,

Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust

Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand

As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.

The heavens that bend above that land are hung

With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,

Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade

Upon the sunny, joyous land below.

Others are floating through the dreamy air,

White as the falling snow, their margins tinged

With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall

Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,

Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,

And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell

Upon the ear in childhood’s early morn;

And, wandering thence along the rolling years,

I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate;

The path of youth winds down through many a vale.

And on the brink of many a dread abyss,

From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,

Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf

And beckons toward the verge. Again the path

Leads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall;

And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,

Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.

 ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.
.

Born in New York, 1827; died in New Jersey, 1879. The following poem first appeared in
“Harper’s Weekly” in 1861, and being published anonymously its authorship was, says Mr.
Stedman, “falsely claimed by several persons.”

LL quiet along the Potomac, they say,

“Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost—only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain.

And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,

For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken;

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

 It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night—

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—

The picket’s off duty forever.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

.

Born 1813; died 1880. The following beautiful and popular song, sung all over the world,
like “Home, Sweet Home,” is by an American author. It is one of those bits of lyric verse which
will perpetuate the name of its writer longer, perhaps, then any of the many books which he gave
to the world.

LIFE on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep;

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

Like an angel caged I pine,

On this dull, unchanging shore:

O, give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand,

Of my own swift-gliding craft:

 Set sail! farewell to the land;

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam,

Like an ocean-bird set free,—

Like the ocean-bird, our home

We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew,

We’ll say, “Let the storm come down!”

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

. . .

Born in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. Many of the women of the South, animated by noble
sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead.
They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

Y the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep on the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,

All with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,

The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain

With an equal murmur falleth

The cooling drip of the rain:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,

No braver battle was won:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

ROLL-CALL.
. .

Born in New York, 1835; died 1869.

ORPORAL GREEN!” the orderly cried;

“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near—

And “here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear-man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded, he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!” and a voice answered, “here!”

“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.

 They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke:

“Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;

“Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink;

He murmured his mother’s name, I think,

And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—

For that company’s roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!”

THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS.

. . .

Born in Alabama, 1851.

Author of “Uncle Gab Tucker.”

The following dialect verses are a faithful reproduction, not only of the negro dialect of the
cotton sections of the South; but the genius of Mr. Macon has subtly embodied in this and other
of his writings a shadowy but true picture of the peculiar and original philosophy and humor of
the poor but happy black people of the section with which he is so familiar.
 OW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when you come
to die,

An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house in de

sky,

You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s gwine to ax

When he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to de fac’s;

’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s in de

night,

An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a sight!

Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’

When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat happened long

ago!

De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky Way

Keep a-watchin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ hearin’ what you
say;

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you’s gwine,

Dey’s mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de line;

An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ laugh,

Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden telegraph;

Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate,

Jes’ reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de slate!

Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your conscience
clear,

An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar you steer;
’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de lan’,

An’ dey’ll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on de stan’;

Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty straight,

Ef you ebber’ spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate!

RUIN WROUGHT BY RUM.

( .)

O, feel what I have felt,

Go, bear what I have borne;

Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt,

And the cold, proud world’s scorn.

Thus struggle on from year to year,

Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept

O’er a loved father’s fall;

See every cherished promise swept,

Youth’s sweetness turned to gall;

Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the way

That led me up to woman’s day.

Go, kneel as I have knelt;

Implore, beseech and pray.

Strive the besotted heart to melt,

The downward course to stay;

Be cast with bitter curse aside,—

Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.

Go, stand where I have stood,

And see the strong man bow;

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,

And cold and livid brow;

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see

There mirrored his soul’s misery.

Go, hear what I have heard,—

The sobs of sad despair,

As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred,

And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been,

Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.

Go to my mother’s side,

And her crushed spirit cheer;

Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,

The gray that streaks her dark hair now,

The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,

And trace the ruin back to him

Whose plighted faith in early youth,

Promised eternal love and truth,

But who, forsworn, hath yielded up

This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,

From all that made her pathway bright,

And chained her there ’mid want and strife,

That lowly thing,—a drunkard’s wife!

And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild,

That withering blight,—a drunkard’s child!

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know

All that my soul hath felt and known,

Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;

See if its brightness can atone;

Think of its flavor would you try,

If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.

Tell me I hate the bowl,—

Hate is a feeble word;

 I loathe, abhor, my very soul

By strong disgust is stirred

Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell

Of the !

A .

TO A SKELETON.
The MS. of this poem was found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in
London, near a perfect human skeleton, and sent by the curator to the “Morning Chronicle” for
publication. It excited so much attention that every effort was made to discover the author, and a
responsible party went so far as to offer fifty guineas for information that would discover its
origin. The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered.

EHOLD this ruin! ’Twas a skull,

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life’s retreat,

This space was thought’s mysterious seat.

What beauteous visions filled this spot,

What dreams of pleasure long forgot?

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,

Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this moldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye;

But start not at the dismal void;

If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed,—

That eye shall be forever bright

When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood’s honey it disdained,

And when it could not praise was chained;

If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,—

This silent tongue shall plead for thee

When time unveils eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with the envied rubies shine?

To hew the rock or wear a gem

Can little now avail to them.

But if the page of truth they sought,

Or comfort to the mourner brought,

These hands a richer meed shall claim

Than all that wait on wealth and fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod

These feet the paths of duty trod?

If from the bowers of ease they fled,

To seek affliction’s humble shed;

If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned,

And home to virtue’s cot returned,—

These feet with angel wings shall vie,

And tread the palace of the sky!

 PLEDGE WITH WINE.
( .)

LEDGE with wine—pledge with wine!” cried the young

and thoughtless Harry Wood. “Pledge with wine,” ran
through the brilliant crowd.

The beautiful bride grew pale—the decisive hour

had come,—she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her
bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her
heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly
opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.

“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge
in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it; do not
so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in your own house act
as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles
were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends
noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits—and to-
night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied
down to a woman’s opinion so soon.

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward

Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook
not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and
raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was
arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible!” “What is it?”
cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass
at arm’s length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some
hideous object.

“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark
eyes, “wait and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing one
jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars all
description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely