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Best  Things 


^   J*   J*   >   j» 


jt    j»    J*    J* 


Best  Authors 


VOLUME    VIII 

ComprWog:  Numbcn 

Twenty -two,  "Tweaty  -  tiutt,   and   Twenty -four 

of 

SHOEMAKER'S  BEST  SELECTIONS 


PfalUdelphia 

The  Peno  Publishing  Company 

1905 


CONTENTS 


XXIIL 
XXIV. 

AnoUttrDk; 

...Alia  AiMid 

ib 

BabiMira*!)  Grown,  The.. 

I8« 

131 

IBS 
110 

..  G<-ure  JguUar. 

XXIV. 

BelUofBrookUDe.  The 

.  IkaiM  Wdulir 

XXIII. 

XXllI. 

30 

..Otorgt  Sonoigfl 

XXIII 

14S 

OtTHKi'i  Dream  or  Ihe  roin'Ty... 

..e,  W  Fnn 

\XIV. 

1GB 

CoIoieaPhLlowphi 

OODTlel'JCoiliptsh.l.ThB 

..AiialT  Wrktxr'.Z.... 
.  Jamt, M.  Barrir..'.'..'. 

XXIV- 
VtlV 

xxiv! 

8t 

OonitlDf  ofTnoirbcad-i  Bell.  The.... 
CriDM  Bncalad  by  ConxneDce 

IIB 

BXPLa NATION.—"  Bbtt  T^lI^aB  prom  Brar  Author"/'  Volum«  Vlll, 
Mug  compoKd  of  Niimbers  Twsnlj.lwo,  Twenly-thtee.  and  Tweiity- 
(Duf  of  SlioemakeiB  Bfai  Silectiohi  n>B  BEiDiNGS  IHD  Kel-ititioNb, 
ll  IB  Qfcenuiry  lo  tiidiciiU  the  number  sa  well  ax  the  p»ee,  each  uumbar 
UdiiE  paged  Indfgu  ndcnily  of  the  otben. 


C0NTEBT8. 


XXIII. 

XXII. 

Deacou-s  Weelt,  The 

.- Soti  TtTTV  C(x*e 

IS 

XXII. 
XXIV. 

10 

KirlSlgnri-sChrtttDiBB  Bve ...Waimor^tortft Bo(e»fii,XXIII.  I« 

Euter  Eresl  Kcrak-Uosb aititon  ScoUard XXIII.  M 

Baiwrwlth  Parape,  Au Myra  A.  Ddana XXII.  IBS 

EMelweisB Mary  Low Dtckittton...Xyi\U.  IM 

Elocullor  Leason,  The FranonNaik ...XXIII.  m 

EmplT  PrajTM.  An K<Ulvaint  C.  Pcnjldd  ...XXIV,  t& 

EieculiOD  of  KoAn. lUiirt  Pdenum ...XXIII,  108 

Eiecatlor  of  LAd)  De  WliiMr,  The Alaaiulfr  Damai XXIV.  lUI 

Execution  ol  jydnej  canon ..Charla  Dtrkaii XXIII.  4B 

Em  SDd  »«  iDd  the  BuAida Mary  H.  PiAi XXIV.  160 


Uovr  Hankltli  stole  tbe  SpuoiiE XXII. 

How  Uie  La  Hue  amkes  Were  L-i^l rnuite*  Seulon  IfuwI-.-XXlV. 

How  We  Kept  IhB  Dar - WiltCialetm XXIIl. 

u  u  Dt,  Tike - XXII . 


Jimmj  BrowD'i  Attempt  to  Produce 

Jouor  Atc'ar*i«well _ 

Jock  JobnitODe,  the  llnkler _■  Jmmrt  llogg..^ 


LttmelitortbeIii«hKialfrant.Tb«.. 

Land  or  Nod.  The _._ 

Leal  Straw,  Tbe _ 

Leap  Year  Hiibapa..., 


tiMlir  Dagirin XXIV, 

.Ola  n-kerttrWikaL XXII. 

XXIV. 

__ XXII. 


uule  relief.  A 



XXIV, 

Lost  PUFVT.  The. 

LoTe9ceiie,A 

XXIV. 

Ljrlc  of  AcUoa Pavl  IkmVton  Baipit....yLXll.  IH 

Uaideo  Hiuklng  Corn,  Tbe J.  H  Btaa. XXIII.  lU 

MaldcDtoIheUixHi.Tbe ...John  a  San -XXIII.  38 

MammT  Oeti  tbe  Bo;  to  Sleep Oertnidi  Xaaly  Jona.-.XXIV.  UT 

Marguerila „ £rHen  floWt  »ftr<xiitr.,XXlI,  SO 

Haiwlllalaa.  Tbe XXIV.  N 

HMqneaiid  the  Realllf.  The Ker.  irn.  R.  Alger XXIi.  U 

Meeting  or  Erangellne  and  Uabilel, 

Tbe H.  II'.  Lmglellote ..XXII,  14S 

MeiiiarTBrid|la,Tbe JMe  H.  Ij^tpmonn .XXII.  M 

Kin  Etb«  VMI  Io  the Osrc Theodora  C  EbniUe. XXIV.  40 

Mornlni  Bird,  The XXIV.  S7 

Mr,  Krii  Krinile /".  S.  WKr MtlrJirll XXII.  tH 

Mr  PotU'9lorf ...M«r  Aillrr XXII.  ei 

Murderor  Sanpy  'jko. - rharltt  Difkrui: XXIV,  U 

Mr  Double  and  How  He  Undid  Mc EdanTd  ttereaH'Je...    XXll.  IS» 

My  Fonntalii  Pea ICibtitJ.  Burd<IU XXIII.  M 

MyLMt  Ducbeu Rnbert  Rrnmiinp XXII,  lU 

UjMaitoni  Portratt.  Tbe GtorgtJapy. XXII.  loa 

MrVMparaoiis _ ~ -,xxn.  n 


..Ha-tiah  BaUtraorVl. 

.XX.II. 

Old  Flower  B»ds.  The 

.xxiri. 

One-Leraed  Cook,  Tlie 

F.  II-fUBM^amiai... 

..XXIV. 

Pleue  to  RlD)!  ihr  Helle 

Po.WyofCU-.nd  L'flimlry  Mfe 

.  XXIV, 
.XXIll. 

BtaceSlrnch  Hero.  The ^.. 

Hlormor  Delphi,  The ...Mrt.  Hema 

8lor;or»  llclurt,  The fraBfr- W. 


»alclde,or.the»iuDrself 


xxiv.  m 

XXIII.  108 

..XXII.  106 

T.n.fjftf XXIV.  iw 

ft  If.  3f.Vrt'f/ XXIII.  81 

.Rer  He  K'iU  TbJmn.w.   [>.  D. 

XXIII.  «fi 

Tkleof  Hard  TlmM,  A XXIV.  137 

TeiCher'F  Ulwleni XXII.  16S 

TMChlng  I  Suuday  school  Clui J.  P.  Ltaui. XXII.  82 

ThinkAil  9ou1,  A .....PnntkL.  SlinH'm XXIV.  80 

ThankvlHng  DftT Kmrllarlvifli  71u,rj>r.  ..XXII.  IM 

ThemOien XXII.  174 

ThoiiihM  for  Young  Hen Ilomrr  Kana XXIII.  78 

Tommyii  I>e»d SrfiuV  DoIkII XXIII.  I6S 

TimTckr  and  IheTam  pie  of  Kddw  ledge. 

The „ BnUrlr,  f/.imiJ™ XXII.  ISO 

TrlbiiW  [oOlir  Honored  Dead,  A Hmrp  War-I  «rtrAer....XXIV.  Bg 

True  Rloquane^.. Lanli XXIII,  156 

True  Immorlalltr.Tbe Il)nll«  Hunlmm-".  UillrT.XXIV.  US 

TrueWory,  A - .jIMft  Kl«f/ XXIV.  98 

Two  Uvea,  The — „ -XXIV.  SO 


"n XXIV.    IM 

''I  KIJ<^...XXIII,    118 


Warwick,  the  Elnc-Haker lyi"l  Bvlntr  Liiflm XXIII. 

WwhlnglOD'i  Addreailo  ttlrTmopi XXTV.    I 

Wen  de  Darker  md  A-WhliDIa'  In 

deCo'n „ sq  Lapiut XXIII. 

What    Hln    Editfa    Baw    from    Her 

Window.. BM  IlaHi XXIII. 

When!  WaeaBor E«nra/  Flda XXIII.    1 

When  Sommer  Safe  aond-B]w fymt  L  Stanlim XXIV.    I 

When  the  Lljtht  Ooee  Out Monj  S.  ChrHcr XXIII.    1 

Which „ XXIV,    1 

Whtrllnv  Wheel,  The Tviorjnai XXIII. 

wind  and  Ihe  Moon,  The Gto.  MacIXmaU ...XXII. 

Wnrk,  Work  Away.. Viritil  Al-mai  Pt«ltlr>i....X\U 

Wreck  of  the  yonhera  (telle.. FAnitt  AmoUt. XXIII. 

Wrile  Tbem  a  Utlar  To-Nlght — XXIII 


PART  FIRST 


BEST  SELECTIONS 
For  Readings  and  Recitations 

NUMBER  22 


SOME  SENTIMENTS  FROM  PROFESSOR 
SHOEMAKER'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

LEH"  it  be  your  art  rather  to  contribute  to  the  joy 
of  the  world  and  to  the  love  of  truth  than  to 
obtain  its  applause  or  its  treaauree. 

As  truf  onitory  can  only  proceed  from  a  eoul  of 
sympathy  and  inspiration,  ao  ita  teaching  can  only 
be  effective  under  him  who  conveys  ite  principles 
with  faith  in  them  and  a  motive  to  impart  them. 

When  the  man  ia  made  the  orator  is  almost  com- 
plete. Language  and  voice  are  the  easier  attain- 
ments. 

Expression  must  be  an  echo  of  the  state  of  the 
mind,  ;ind  the  mind  is  never  twice  in  the  same  state ; 
therefore  the  expression  cannot  be  true  and  twice 
alike. 

You  can  say  what  nobody  else  can  say.    You  can 
di)  what  nobody  else  can  do  as  yourself.     You  can 
never  do  what  he  does  whom  you  would  imitate. 
6 


BEST  SELECTIONB 


HOME  OF  THE  SOUL. 


I  WILL  sing  you  a  song  of  that  beautiful  land, 
The  far-away  home  of  the  soul, 
Where  no  atorme  ever  beat  on  that  glittering  strand, 
While  the  yeara  of  eternity  roll. 

Oh  I  that  home  of  the  soul  in  my  visions  and  dreams, 

Its  bright  jasper  walls  I  can  see, 
Till  I  fancy  hut  thinly  the  vale  intervenes 

Between  the  fair  city  and  me. 


NDHBBB  TWENTY-TWO 


BY  THE  ALMA. 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 


T 


'OU  have  found  me  out  At  last,  Will,  alt  down 
tide  me  here — 
It  is  not  quite  so  hard  to  die  when  one  we  love  ie 

near: 
You  and  I  have  known  each  other,  since  we  ran 

about  the  glen, 
When  as  bofs  we  played  as  soldiers,  and  wished  that 

we  were  men. 
****** 
But  hark !   I  hear  the  roll  of  drums,  and  at  that 

Svirring  sound 
The  Angel  of  the  Battle  spreads   its  dusky  wings 

around  ; 
I  must  tell  you  of  the  battle  tho'  ray  breath  is  failing 

fast, 
For  within  my  dyii^  spirit  sweeps  the  rousing  battle 

blast 

Well  we  scrambled  through  the  vineyard,  and  wo 

swam  across  the  stream, 
Above,  from  out  the  battery's  smoke  we  saw  the 

lightning  gleam ; 
A  few  fell  by  the  river,  but  we  reached  the  further 

banks. 
And  then  we  halted  for  a  space  to  form  our  broken 

ranks. 


B  BEST  SKLEcnosa 

Sir  CoHii  piUHod  ak>n<;  our  line,  our  grand  old  High- 

hinil  chief; 
He  spoke,  his  words  were  few  and  stem  all  soldiei^ 

like  and  l>rief : 
"  Now,  Kiltiea,  make  me  proud  of  this  my  Highland 

plumed  brigade, 
We  are  going  into  battle  but  let  no  one  be  afraid ; 

"  Don't  Htay  to  tend  the  wounded,  if  any  man  shall 

sliirk 
111  have  his  name  placarded  upon  his  parish  kirk." 
His  parish  kirk — at  these  two  wonis  the  grim  heights 

passed  away 
And  there,  in  all  its  quiet  peace,  our  little  village  lay. 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  9 

For  US  had  true  and  deadly  aim,  each  volley  left  ita 

track, 
And  our  faint'heaxted  ahouted  that  we  might  as  well 

fall  back. 

Sir  Colin  heard  the  coward  cry,  and  quick  and  fiery 

souled, 
Hia  pride  flamed  into  fury,  his  voice  like  thunder 

rolled, 
As  to  the  cry,  he  answer  sent,  a  loud  and  thundering 

"No- 
Better  that  every  man  ahould  be  upon  the  duat  laid 

low 
Than  that  we  now  should  turn  our   backs  to  the 

proud  exulting  foe  I" 
.Still  for  a  space  we  halted,  still  around  the  bullets 

flew, 
And  even  as  the  moiuente  fled  our  wild  impatience 

grew. 
At  last   the  word  waa  spoken,  the  long-looked-for 

signal  made. 
"  Forward  Forty-second  "  waa  all  Sir  Colin  said, 
But  the  visile  of  the  veteran  bore  that  strange  and 

living  light. 
Which  bespeaks  the  soldier's  rapture,  at  the  coming 

of  the  fight. 
As  a  steed  bounds  with  his  rider  when  at  last  he  has 

got  aim ; 
As  a  stemmed  up  river  rushes  when  it  bunts  toward 

the  main, 


10 


BEST  BBLECnoiro 


As  flies  the  unleashed  houod  or  as  'scapes  the  caged 

bird, 
So   the  Forty-«econd   bounded  when  it   heard    its 

leader's  word. 


0  Will !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  a  plumed  and  plaided 

host, 
"Tis  beautiful  at  borne  in  peace,  but  its  grandeur 

shines  the  most, 
When  as  then,  in  all  the  glory  of  its  martial  ardor 


All  swift  and   silent  at  the  foe,  the  Forty-second 


Our  chieftain  half  restrained  us,  our  headlong  valor 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  11 

\n  if  it  were  some  Highland  hill  our  l(ilte<l  lads  up- 

sprunji- 
While  victory   like  an   eagle  poised,   between   the 

armies  hung, 
But  victory  favored  not  the  dense  battalions  of  the 

RU88, 

For  soon  we  saw  her  gracious  wings  would  fall  that 

day  on  us. 
Before  our  fire  those  foemen  dense  began  to  thin  and 

away, 
Till  with  a  groan,  a  wailing  moan,  they  scattered  in 

dismay. 
Then  we  watched  our  brave  Sir  Colin,  and  we  saw  fi 

signal  given, 
And  frona  all  along  our  slender  line  a  shout  went  up 

to  Heaven — 
That  shout  that  comes  from  free-bom  breasts,  which 

foemen  dread  to  hear, 
And  the  Russian  eagles  vanished,  at  a  genuine  British 

cheer  I 

Ah  I  wftr  it  is  a  glorious  thing  but  a  deadly  thing  as 

well: 
One  &ce  it  wears  is  bright  as  Heaven  but  one  is  dark 

as  Hell ; 
Deep  wailing  from  full  many  a  home  of  Russian, 

Frank  and  Turk, 
And  in  England  many  tears  shall  he  the  fruit  of  this 

day's  work. 
Ah  !  me — ray  pulse  beats  faintly,  quicker  and  quicker 

comes  ray  breath, 


f> 


12 


BEST  8B3.E(7nOII8 


And  chill  and  damp  my  forehead  feelB,  damp  with 

the  dews  of  death. 
Draw  closer  to  ray  side,  dear  WiH,  and  bend  thine 

ear  this  way 
While  I  send  by  thee  a  last  farewell  to  dear  ones  far 

away. 
My  father — tell  my  father  that  I  lie  by  Alma's  side — 
That  I  like  a  soldier  fought — that  I  like  a  soldier 

died; 
Tell  him  ('twill  give  his  manly  heart  a  strange  and 

stern  delight) 
That  I  was  first  across  the  stream,  and  foremost  in 

the  fight. 
That  though  my  mortal  wound  I  got  so  early  in  the 


NUMBEE  TWBNTy-TWO  13 

With  calm  and  grand,  yet  tearful  eyee,  in  pride  up- 
lifts her  head, 
That  the  Liion  in  her  son's  red  blood,  yet  swift  to 

battle  leapt, 
That  thro'  the  long  and  peaceful  years,  he  was  not 

dead  but  slept — 
That  still  above  her  bannered  host  goes  victory  like 

a  star, 
And  as  England's  firet  in  peaceful  acts,  she  still  is 

first  in  war. 
And  all  my  friends  and  comrades,  some  I  know  will 

weep  my  &1I, 
Tell  them  I  ne'er  forgot  them,  give  my  kindest  love 

to  all. 
Then,  Will,  with  all  things  under  heaven  I  now  am 

almost  done. 
The  silver  chord  is  almost  loosed — Life's  sands  ore 

all  but  run ; 
Sing  to  me  "  Auld  Lang  Sjme,"  then  repeat  that  sweet 

old  psalm 
Yon  and  I  once  learned  tt^ether,  in  the  Sabbath 

evening's  calm. 

James  Dawson. 


THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 


THE  communion  service  of  January  was  just  over 
in   the  church  at  Sugar  Hollow,  and   people 
»ere  waiting  for  Mr.  Parkee  to  give  out  the  hymn: 


14  BEST  aEI-ECriONS 

but  he  dill  not  give  it  out.  He  laid  his  boob  down 
on  the  table  and  looked  about  on  liis  church. 

His  congregatioQ  was  a  mixture  of  farmers  and 
mechanics,  for  Sugar  Hollow  was  cut  in  two  by 
Sugar  Brook,  a  brawling,  noisy  stream  that  turned 
the  wheel  of  many  a  mill  and  manufactory  ;  yet  on 
the  hilb  around  it  there  was  atill  a  scattered  popula- 
tion, eating  their  bread  in  the  full  perception  of  the 
primeval  curse. 

It  seemed  sometimes  to  Mr.  Parkee  that  nothing 
but  the  trump  of  Gabriel  could  arouse  his  people 
from  their  sitia,  and  make  them  believe  on  the  Lord 
and  follow  His  footsteps.  To-day — no,  a  long  time 
before  to-day— he  had  nmsedand  prayed  till  an  idea 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  16 

to  a  union  meeting  of  this  sort  at  Bantam.  Few  of 
18  can  go  twenty-five  milee ;  let  us  spend  that  day 
in  cultivating  our  brethren  here.  Thursday  is  the 
Jay  for  the  family  relations,  remembering  the  words 
Fathers,  provoke  not  your  children  to  anger;  hus- 
banda,  love  your  wives,  and  be  not  bitter  against 
them.'  Friday  the  church  is  to  be  prayed  for. 
Saturday  is  prayer-day  for  the  heathen  and  foreigo 
miasionB.  Perhaps  you  will  find  work  that  ye  knew 
not  of  lying  in  your  midst  And  let  us  all  on  Satur- 
day evening  meet  here  again,  and  choose  some  one 
brother  to  relate  hie  experience  of  the  week.  You 
who  are  willing  to  try  this  method  please  to  rise." 

Everybody  rose  except  old  Amos  Tucker,  who  never 
stirred,  though  his  wife  pulled  at  him  and  whispered 
to  him  implorii^ly.  He  only  shook  his  grizzled  head 
and  sat  immovabla 

Saturday  night  the  church  assembled  again.  The 
cheerful  eameetness  was  gone  from  their  faces ;  they 
looked  troubled,  weary,  as  the  pastor  expected.  The 
pastor  said,  after  he  bad  counted  the  ballots  which 
had  been  distributed,  "  Deacon  Emmons,  the  lot  has 
fallen  on  you." 

"  I'm  sorry  for't;  I  hain't  got  the  best  of  records, 
now,  I  tell  you.  I'm  pretty  well  ashamed  of  myself, 
and  maybe  I  shall  profit  by  what  I've  found  out  these 
six  days  back.  Monday  I  looked  about  me,  to  begin 
with.  I'm  amazin'  fond  of  coffee,  and  it  aint  good 
for  me ;  hut  it  does  set  a  man  up  good  cold  mornings 
to  have  a  cuji  of  hot,  tasty  drink,  and  I  haven't  had 
the  grit  to  lefuae.    I  knew  it  made  me  what  folks 


16  B£ST  SELECTIONS 

call  nervous,  and  I  call  cross,  before  niglit  comes, 
and  I  knew  it  fetched  on  spells  oi  low  spirits,  when 
our  folks  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  me— not  a  good 
one,  anyway ;  so  I  thought  I'd  try  on  that  to  begin 
with.  I  tell  you  it  came  hard.  I  hankered  after 
that  drink  of  coffee  dreadful  I  Seemed  an  though  I 
couldn't  eat  my  breakfaat  without  it 

"  I  feel  to  pity  a  man  that  loves  liquor  more'n  I  ever 
did  in  my  life  before ;  but  I  feel  sure  they  can  stop 
if  they  try,  for  I've  stopped,  and  I'm  going  to  stay 
stopi»ed.  Come  to  the  dinner  there  was  another  figlit. 
I  do  set  by  pie  the  most  of  anything ;  our  folks 
always  had  it  three  times  a  day.  I  was  reading  tlie 
Bible  that  morning,  while  I  sat  waiting  for  breakfast. 


NUHBEE  TWENTY-TWO  17 

oue  sick  and  was  so  glad  to  see  me  I  felt  aahamed. 
Seemed  as  though  I  heerd  the  Lord  for  the  first  time 
sayin' :  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the 
least  of  these,  ye  did  it  not  to  me.'  Then  another 
man's  old  mother  said  to  me  before  he  came  in  from 
the  shed, '  He's  been  a-sayin'  that  if  folks  practiced 
what  they  preached  you'd  ha'  come  round  to  look 
him  up  afore  now,  but  he  reckoned  you  kinder 
looked  down  on  mill  hands.  I'm  awful  glad  you've 
come.'  Brethring,  so  was  I.  I  tell  you  that  day's 
work  done  me  good. 

"  Now  come  fellowship  day.  I  thought  that  would 
be  all  plain  sailin',  seemed  aa  though  I'd  got  warmed 
up  till  I  felt  pleasant  toward  everybody ;  so  I  went 
round  seein'  folks  that  was  neighbors  and  'twas 
easy ;  but  when  I  come  home  at  noon  spell,  Philury 
says,  Bays  she,  '  'Square  Tucker's  black  ox  ia  into 
th'  orchard  a-tearin  round,  aod  he's  knocked  two 
lengths  o'  fence  down  flat !'  Well  the  old  Adam  riz 
up,  then,  you'd  better  b'lieve.  That  black  ox  has 
been  a-breakin'  into  my  lots  ever  since  we  got  in  th' 
aftermath,  and  it's  'Square  Tucker's  fence,  and  he 
won't  make  it  ox-strong,  as  he'd  oughter,  and  that 
orchard  was  a  young  one  jest  comin'  to  bear,  and  all 
the  new  wood  crisp  as  cracklin's  with  frost.  You'd 
better  blieve  I  didn't  have  much  feller  feelin*  with 
AmoB  Tucker.  I  jest  put  over  to  his  house  and  spoke 
up  pretty  free  to  him,  when  he  looked  up  and  says, 
says  he  t  '  Fellowship-meeting  day,  aint  it,  deacon!' 
I'd  ruther  he'd  ha'  slapped  my  face.  I  felt  as  thougli 
I  should  like  to  slip  behind  the  door.  I  see  pretty 
8 


18  BEST  sELEcnotm 

distinct  what  sort  of  life  I'd  been  livin'  all  the  yean 
I'd  been  a  professor,  when  I  couldn't  hold  on  to  my 
timgue  and  temper  one  day  I" 

■'  Breth — e — ren,"  interrupted  a  slow,  harsh  voice, 
iiroken  by  emotion,  "  I'll  tell  the  rest  out.  Joaiah 
Emmona  came  around  like  a  man  an'  a  Christiaji 
right  there.  He  asked  me  for  to  fo^ive  him,  and 
not  to  think  'twaa  the  fault  of  his  religion,  because 
'twaa  his'n  and  nothing  else.  I  think  more  of  him 
to-day  than  I  ever  done  befora  I  was  one  that 
wouldn't  say  I'd  practice  with  the  rest  of  ye.  I 
thought  'twas  everlasting  nonsense.  I'd  ruther  go  to 
forty-nine  prayer  meetin'e  than  work  at  bein'  good  a 
week.  I  believe  my  hope  has  been  one  of  them  that 
perinii ;  it  hain't  worked,  and  I  leave  it  behind  to- 


KUUBBB  TWENTY-TWO  19 

aches,  and  I  waa  jest  Urgoiii'  to  say  so  when  I  romeiu- 
liered  the  tex'  about  not  bein'  bitter  against  'era,  so  T 
says,  '  Philury,  you  lay  a-bed.  I  expect  Emmy  anu 
me  can  get  the  vittles  to-day.'  I  declare,  she  turned 
aver  and  gave  me  such  a  look !  Why,  it  struck 
right  in !  Thera  was  my  wife  that  had  worked  for 
an'  waited  on  me  twenty  odd  years  'most  scart  be- 
cause i  spoke  kind  of  feelin'  to  her.  I  went  out  an' 
fetched  in  the  pail  of  water  ahe'd  always  drawed  her- 
self, and  then  I  milked  the  cow.  When  I  came  in 
Philury  was  up  fryin'  potatoes,  and  tears  a-shinin' 
on  lier  white  face.  She  didn't  say  nothin' ;  I  felt  a 
leette  uicaner'n  I  did  the  day  before.  But  'twan't 
nothin'  to  my  condition  when  I  was  goin',  toward 
night,  down  the  sutler  stairs  for  some  apples,  so's  the 
children  could  have  a  roast,  and  I  heerd  Joe,  up  in 
the  kitchen,  say  to  Emmy : 

'"I  do  boHeve,  Em,  Pa's  goin'  to  die.' 

"  '  Why,  how  you  talk  !' 

" '  Well,  I  do ;  he's  so  everlastin'  pleasant  and  good- 
natored  I  can't  but  think  he's  struck  with  death.' 

"  I  tell  you,  brethren,  I  set  right  down  on  them 
Buller-stairs  and  cried.  I  did,  reely.  Seemed  as 
though  the  Lord  had  turned  and  looked  at  me  jest 
■w  He  did  at  Peter.  Why,  there  was  my  own  chil- 
ilten  never  see  me  act  real  fatherly  and  pretty  in  alt 
their  lives.  I'd  growled  and  scolded  and  prayed  at 
'em,  and  tried  to  feteh  'em  up— jest  as  tlie  twig  is 
Iwnt  the  tree's  inclined,  you  know — but  I  hadn't 
never  thought  that  they'd  got  right  and  reason  to  ex- 
pect I'd  do  my  part  as  well  as  they  they'm.   Seemed 


aa  though  I  was  gndin'  out  more  about  Joeiah  E!m< 
mons'  shorUcomiiigB  than  was  agreeable. 

"  Come  around  Friday  I  got  back  to  the  stora  I 
began  to  think  'twas  gettin'  easy  to  practice  after 
five  days,  when  in  come  Judge  Herrick'B  wife  after 
some  curtin  calico.  I  had  a  handBoine  piece,  all 
done  oft'  with  roaes  and  things,  but  there  waa  a  fault 
in  the  weavin' — every  now  and  then  a  thin  streak. 
She  didn't  notice  it,  but  she  waa  pleased  with  the 
figures  on't,  and  said  she'd  take  the  whole  piece.  As 
I  waa  wrappin'  of  it  up,  what  Mr.  Parkes  here  said 
about  tryin'  to  act  jest  as  the  Lord  would  in  our 
place  came  acrost  me.  There  was  I,  a  door-keeper 
in  the  tente  of  my  God,  as  David  saya,  really  clieat- 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  21 

thought  I'd  begiu  to  old  Mia'  Vedders.  So  I  put  a 
Teataraent  in  my  pocket  and  knocked  to  her  door. 
Says  I :  '  Good- morn  in',  ma'am,'  and  tlien  I  stopped. 
Words  seemed  to  hang.  I  hemmed  and  ewallered 
a  little,  and,  finally,  I  said :  '  We  don't  see  you  to 
meetin'  very  frequent,  Mis'  Veddera.' 

" '  No,  you  don't,'  aez  she.  '  1  etay  to  home  and 
mind  my  busineus.' 

" '  Weil,  we  should  like  to  have  you  come  along 
with  us  and  do  ye  goo<l,'  says  I. 

" '  Look  a  here,  deacon !'  she  snapped,  '  I've  lived 
alongside  of  you  fifteen  years,  and  you  knowed  1 
never  went  to  meetin'.  We  aint  a  pious  lot,  and  you 
knowed  it  We're  poor'n  death,  and  uglier'n  sin. 
Jim  drinks  anil  swears,  and  Malviny  dono  her  let. 
ters.  She  knows  a  lieap  she  hadn't  ought  to,  be' 
sides.  Now,  what  you  coinin'  here  to-day  for,  and 
talkin'  ao  glib  about  meetin'.  Go  to  meetin' !  Ill 
go  an'  come  jest  as  I  please,  for  all  you.  Now, 
get  out  of  this.' 

"  Why,  she  come  at  me  with  a  broomstick.  There 
wasn't  no  need  on't.  \Vhat  she  said  was  enough.  I 
hadn't  never  asked  her  or  hem  to  so  much  as  think 
of  goodness  before. 

"Then  I  went  to  another  place — there  was  ten 
children  in  rags  an'  the  man  half  drunk.  He  giv'  it 
to  me,  too,  and  I  don't  wonder.  I'd  said  consider- 
able about  the  heathen  in  foreign  parts,  and  give 
some  little  for  to  convert  them,  and  I  had  looked 
right  over  the  heads  of  them  that  was  next  door. 
Seemed  as  if  I  could  hear  Him  eay,  '  Tiieee  ought 


22  BEBT  BELECTIONB 

ye  to  have  done,  and  not  left  the  other  undone.'  I 
couldn't  I'lLoe  another  souL  I  came  home,  and  heie 
1  be.  I've  searclied  me  through  and  through.  God 
be  merciful  to  me,  a  ainner." 

lie  dropped  into  hiB  seat  and  bowed  his  head,  and 
many  anotlier  Wnt,  also.  It  was  plain  that  the 
deacon 'rj  experience  was  not  the  only  one  among  the 
brethren.  Mr.  Paydon  rose  and  prayed  as  he  had 
never  prayeil  before — the  week  of  practice  had  fired 
liis  heart.  And  it  began  a  memorable  year  for  the 
cliun^h  in  Sugar  Hollow.  Not  a  year  of  excitement 
or  entliui^insm,  hut  one  when  they  heard  their  Lord 
saying,  as  to  Israel  of  old,  "  Go  forward."  And  they 
obeyed  His  voice. 

Rose  Tehry  Coogg. 


mniBEB  TWENTY-TWO  2S 

Her  eyea  they  shone  with  willful  mirtti,  and  like  a 
golden  flood 

Her  eonny  hair  rolled  downward  from  her  little  scar- 
let hood. 

I  once  was  out  a-fishing,  and  though  sturdy  at  the 

oar, 
My  arms  were  growing  weaker,  and  I  was  far  from 

shore ; 
And  angry  squalls  swept  thickly  from  out  the  lurid 

skies, 
And  every  landmark  that  I  knew  was  hidden  from 

mine  eyes ; 

The  gull's  shrill  shriek  above  me,  the  sea's  strong 

basa  beneath. 
The  numbness  grew  upon  me  with  its  chilling  touch 

of  death, — 
And  blackness  gathered  round  me ;  then  through  the 

night's  dark  shroud 
A  clear  young  voice  came  swifUy  as  an  arrow  cleaves 

the  cloud. 

It  was  a  voice  so  mellow,  so  bright  and  warm  and 

round, 
As  if  a  beam  of  sunshine  had  been  melted   into 

sound; 
It  fell  upon  my  frozen  nerves  and  thawed  the  springs 

of  life; 
I  grasped  the  oar  and  strove  afresh  ;  it  waa  a  bitter 

strif& 


24 


BEST  SELECTIONS 


The  breakers  roared  about  me,  but  the  aong  took 

bolder  .flight, 
And  rose  above  the  darkness  like  a  beacon  in  the 

night ; 
And  swift  I  steered,  and  safely  struck  shore,  and  by 

God's  rood 
Through  gloom  and  spray  I  caught  the  gleam  of 

Hilda's  scarlet  hood. 


The  moon  athwart  the  darkness  broke  abroad  a  misty 

way, 
The  dawn  grew  red  beyond  the  sea  and  sent  abroad 

the  day ; 
And  loud  I  prayed  to  God  above  to  help  me,  if  He 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  25 

"  Why,  Eric  I"  laughed  a  roguish  maid,  "  your  cheeks 
are  red  as  blood." 

"  It  ia  the  ahine,"  another  cried,  "  from  Hilda's  scar- 
let hood." 

I  answered  not,  for  'tis  not  safe  to  banter  with  a 

girl; 
The  trees,  the  church,  the  belfry  danced  about  me  in 

a  whirl ; 
I  was  as  dizzy  as  a  moth  that  flutters  round  the 

flame; 
I  turned  about,  and  twirled  my  cap,  but  could  not 

speak  for  shame. 

But  that  same  Sabbath  ev'ning,  as  I  sauntered  o'er 

the  beach, 
And  cursed  that  foolish  heart  of  mine  for  choking  up 

my  speech, 
I  spied,  half  wrapped  in  shadow  at  the  mai^n  of  the 

wood. 
The  wavy  mass  of  sunshine  that  broke  from  Hilda's 

hood 

With  quickened  breath  on  tiptoe  across  the  sand  I 

stepped ; 
Her  face  was  hidden  in  her  lap,  as  though  she  mused 

or  slept ; 
The  hood  had  glided  backward  o'er  the  hair  that 

downward  rolled 
Like  some  large  petal  of  a  flower  upon  a  stream   J 

gold. 


26  BEST  SELECTIONS 

"  Fair  HiltU,"  so  I  whiapered,  as  I  bended  to  har  ear : 
She  started  up,  and  smiled  at  me  without  surprise  or 

fear. 
'- 1  love  you,  Hilda,"  said  I ;  then,  in  whispers  more 

subdued,  [hood." 

"  Love  me  f^in,  or  wear  no  more  that  little  scarlet 

'*  Why,   Eric,"  cried  she,  laughing,  "  how  can  you 

talk  so  wild  ? 
I  was  continued  last  Easter,  half  maid  and  half  a 

child ; 
But  since  you  are  so  stubborn, — no,  no ;   I  never 

could, 
Unless  you  gueas  what's  written  inside  my  scarlet 

hood." 


numbbb  nmiTT-Tnro 


RURAL  INFELICITY. 


HE  bad  been  to  town>meeting,  had  once  roya^ea  a. 
hundred  milee  on  a  steamboat,  and  had  a 
brother  who  bad  made  the  overland  trip  to  Cali- 
fornia. 

She  had  been  to  quiltings,  AineralB,  and  a  circus  or 
two ;  and  she  knew  a  woman  who  thought  nothing 
of  settii^  out  on  a  railroad  Journey  where  she  had 
to  wait  fifteen  minutes  at  a  junction  and  change  cars 
at  a  depot. 

So  I  found  them — «  cozy-looking  old  couple,  sitr 
ting  up  very  straight  in  their  seat,  and  trying  to  act 
like  old  railroad  travelers.  A  shadow  of  anxiety 
suddenly  croesed  her  face ;  she  became  uneasy,  and 
directly  she  aaked : 

"  PhiletoB,  I  aotlly  blieve  we've  went  and  took  the 
wrong  train !" 

"  It  can't  be,  nohow,"  he  replied,  seeming  a  little 
startled.  "  Didnt  I  aA  the  conductor,  and  he  said 
we  was  right?" 

"  Yaaa,  he  did ;  bnt  look  out  tiie  window,  and  make 
sure.     He  might  have  been  deceivin'  us." 

The  old  man  looked  out  the  window  at  the  flitting 
fences,  the  galloping  telegraph-poles,  and  the  unfa- 
miliar fields,  as  if  expecting  to  catch  sight  of  some 
landmark,  and  foi^etting  for  a  moment  that  he  was  a 
thousand  miles  firom  home. 

"  I  gneSB  we're  oil  right,  Mary,"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
in  his  head. 


28  BB8T  SBLBonoira 

"  Aak  somebody — ask  that  man  there,"  Bhe  whia* 
pered. 

"  This  ia  the  train  for  Chicago,  hain't  it  ?"  inquired 
the  old  man  of  the  passenger  in  the  next  seat  behind. 

"  This  is  the  train,"  replied  the  man. 

"There!  didn't  I  say  so?"  clucked  the  old  man. 

"  It  may  be — it  may  be !"  she  replied,  dubiously  ; 
"  but  if  we  are  carried  wrong,  it  won't  be  my  fault. 
I  aay  that  we  are  wrong,  and  when  we've  been  led 
into  some  pirate's  cave,  and  butchered  for  our  money, 
ye'll  wish  ye  had  heeded  my  words !" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  again,  opened  his 
mouth  as  if  to  make  some  inquiry  of  a  boy  sitting 
on  the  fence,  and  then  leaned  back  on  his  seat  and 
niifheil  heavilv.     Sliu  shut  hor  teeth   toijether,  a»  if 


NUMBEH  TWENTY-TWO  29 

He  searched  around,  but  it  waa  not  to  be  found. 

"  Waat,  that's  queer,"  he  mused,  as  he  straightened 
up. 

"  Queer  I  not  a  bit  I've  talked  to  ye  and  talked 
to  ye,  but  it  does  no  good.  Ye  come  from  a  heedless 
fem'ly ;  and  ye'd  foi^t  to  put  on  your  boots,  'f  I 
didn't  tell  ye  to." 

"  None  of  the  Harrisons  was  ever  in  the  poor- 
house!"  he  replied,  in  a  cutting  tone. 

"  PhiletuB  I  Philetus  H.  Harrison  1"  she  continued, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  "  don't  you  dare  twit  me 
of  that  ^aJa  I  I've  lived  with  ye  nigh  on  to  forty 
years,  and  waited  on  yo  when  ye  had  biles  and  the 
toothache  and  the  colic,  and  when  ye  fell  and  broke 
your  It^ ;  but  don't  push  me  up  to  the  wall !" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window,  feeling  that  she  had 
the  advantage  of  bim,  and  she  wiped  her  eyes,  set- 
tled her  glasses  on  her  noae,  and  used  up  the  next 
6fleen  minutes  in  thinking  of  the  past  Peeling 
thirsty,  she  reached  down  among  the  bundles, 
searched  around,  and  her  face  was  pale  as  death  as 
she  straightened  back  and  whispered — 

"  And  that's  gone,  too  1" 

"  What  now?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  been  stole !"  she  exclaimed,  looking  around 
the  car,  as  if  expecting  to  see  some  one  with  the  bot- 
tle to  his  lips. 

"  Fust  the  umbreller — then  the  bottle  1"  she 
gasped. 

"  I  couldn't  have  left  it,  could  I  ?" 

''Don't  ask  me!    That  bottle   has   been   in   our 


30  BEOT  BELEcnoire 

family  twenty  years,  ever  since  mother  died ;  and 
now  it'3  gone !  I*and  only  knows  what  I'll  do  for 
a  canifire  Irottle  when  we  git  home,  if  we  ever 
dol" 

"111  buy  one." 

"  Yes,  I  know  ye  are  always  ready  to  buy ;  and  if 
it  wasn't  for  me  to  restrain  ye,  the  money'd  fly  like 
feathers  in  tlie  wind." 

"  Waal,  I  didn't  have  to  mortgage  my  farm,"  he 
replied,  giving  her  a  knowing  look. 

"  Twitting  again !  It  isn't  enough  that  you've  loet 
a  good  umbrellur  and  a  camfire  bottle ;  but  you  must 
twit  me  o'  thia  and  that" 

Her  nose  grew  red,  and  tears  came  to  her  eyea; 
!■  out  of  tlii'  n-inilinv,  shi-  naid 


NUICBER  TWENTY-TWO  SI 

him  for  raorder  afore  we  leave  this  train,  111  mies 
my  guess.     I  can  read  human-natur'  like  a  book." 

There  waa  another  period  of  silence,  broken  by  her 
saying : 

"  I  wish  I  knew  that  this  was  the  train  for  Chicago." 

"  'Course  it  is." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  'Cause  it  is." 

"  Waal,  I  know  it  hain't;  but  if  yoa  are  contented 
to  rush  along  to  your  destruction,  I  sha'n't  say  a 
word.  Only  when  your  throat  is  being  cut,  don't 
call  out  that  I  didn't  warn  ye!" 

The  peanut  boy  came  along,  and  the  old  man 
reached  down  for  his  wallet. 

"  Pbiletus,  ye  sha'n't  squander  that  money  after 
peEinutat"  she  exclaimed,  using  the  one  hand  ta 
catch  his  arm,  and  the  other  to  wave  the  boy  on. 

"Didn't  I  earn  it?" 

"  Yaas,  you  sold  two  cows  to  get  money  to  go  on 
this  visit;  but  it's  half  gone  now,  and  the  land  only 
knows  how  we'll  get  home !" 

The  boy  passed  on,  and  the  flag  of  truce  was  hung 
out  for  another  brief  time.  She  recommenced  hos- 
tilities by  remarking: 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  cum." 

He  looked  up  and  then  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  know  what  ye  want  to  say,"  she  biased ;  "  Imt 
't's  a  blessed  good  thing  for  yon  that  I  did  come!  11' 
ye'd  come  alone,  ye'd  have  been  murdereil  and 
gashed  and  scalped,  and  sunk  iato  the  river  afore 
now  I" 


32  BEST  SELECnOKB 

"Pooh  I" 

"  Yea,  pooh,  'f  ye  want  to,  bat  I  know  1" 

He  leaned  back ;  ahe  settled  herself  anew ;  and  by 
and  by — 

He  nodded— 

She  nodded — 

And,  in  sleep,  their  gray  heade  touched ;  and  his 
arm  found  its  way  along  the  back  of  the  seat,  and 
his  hand  rested  on  her  shoulder.  M,  Quad. 


WORK,  WORK  AWAY. 


KDMBBB  TWB»TY-TWO 

^ougb  the  road  be  hard  and  rough, 

Work,  work  away. 
Every  road  ia  rough  enough ; 

Work,  work  away. 
Life  haa  much  of  light  and  tove, 
l^ere  is  rest  and  peace  above, 
Ouide  us  all,  thou  Ueaveoly  Dove  I 

Work,  woi^  away. 


RECEIPT  FOR  HASH. 

HASH  iz  made  out  ov  kaatroff  vitUes,  homogenins, 
abormal,  and  at  times  uneak  in  ita  natur. 
Hash  haz  dun  more  to  push  the  human  family  than 
enny  other  kind  ot  mixt  phood.  It  will  be  impossi> 
sible  to  lay  down  enny  Hpecifick  rule,  to  kreate  this 
abstruse,  and  at  the  same  time,  gentle  phood.  Enny- 
thing  that  will  chop  fluently  will  produce  hash.  No 
one  has  taken  out  a  pattent  yet  for  the  production 
ov  this  promiykious  viand.  Hash  requires  but  little 
cooking,  but  may  be  compared  to  a  foundered  horse 
— goes  the  best  when  it  ia  well  warmed  up.  For  the 
kreashun  ov  hash,  tallent  is  ov  more  importanse 
than  genius.  Finally,  hash  may  be  likened  unto  the 
human  family — from  sum  stand  pointa  it  iz  fair,  from 
others  it  iz  bad,  and  from  all  suspishua. 

JOBH  BiLLlNOS- 


BEST  SELBimOlli 


A-  GOWK'S  ERRANT  AND  WHAT  CAM'  OT. 


IN  the  village  of  6 ,  PertiiBhire,  lived  Willie 
Waddel,  wright-joiner,  coffia-maker,  etc.  A 
donee,  honest,  hard  working  chiel'  was  Willie.  A 
neebor  o'  his  had  occasion  to  be  owre  ae  momin'  at 
Dauvid  Grant's,  and  fan  him  in  asair  state  about  the 
loas  o'  a  eoo  that  had  choked  herael'  wi'  a  neep  thro' 
the  nicht. 

Dauvid  had  two  or  three  acree  o'  Ian'  about  twa 
miles  frae  8 .  and  was  thocht  tae  ha'e  some  baw- 
bees i'  the  bank,  and  tho'  he  had  only  himsel'  and 


mniBEB  TWENTY-TWO  36 

"  No  muckle,"  gas's  Willie;  "  jist  makin'  a  wee 
chair  for  Sandy  MacQregor's  youngest  ane." 

"  Ye'll  hae  tae  let  that  stan'  the  noo  then,  I  doot, 
an'  tak'  in  han'  wi'  a  job  that's  in  a  greater  hurry, 
bat  ane  yell  no  like  sae  weel,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  Od,  it'll  be  a  queer  job  I'll  no  like  the  noo,  and 
wark  sae  slack.     Let's  hear  what  it  is,  inan." 

"  Weel,  yell  tak'  yer  strauchtin'-boord  and  gae  a 
wa'  ower  tae  Dauvid  Grant's.  He'B  fau'  in  wi  sair 
loss,  pure  man,  och,  hon',  death's  aye  busy." 

"  What !"  cries  Willie, "  is  Janet  dead  ?  What  was 
the  maiter?    What  did  she  dee  of?" 

"  She  choked  herselt" 

"Loeh,  that's  extraordinar'.  Dauvid  will  miss 
her  aair;  she  was  a  clever-handed  woman  was  Janet 
III  awa  ower  this  meenit,"  and,  throwing  down  his 
hammer,  he  hurried  tae  the  boose,  and  bade  his 
mither  mak'  hia  parritch  and  get  oot  his  Sunday 
claes  as  soon  as  possible,  as  he  was  wanted  in  a 
hurry  at  Dauvid  Grant's.  Away  be  gaes,  wi'  his 
boord  ower  his  shouther,  and  wi'  nae  mair  idea  he 
was  gaun  a  gouk's  errant  than  the  man  i'  the  mune. 
When  he  got  tae  the  hoose  he  set  the  boord  doon  at 
the  door,  and  steppin'  in  got  Dauvid  takin'  a  reek  o' 
the  pipe. 

"Who's  a  wi'  ye  the  day?"  quo'  Willie. 

"  Jist  middlin ;  but  tak'  a  sate  an'  rest  ye." 

"  I'm  real  vexed  tae  hear  o'  yer  loss.  Yell  miss 
her  aair,  I  hae  nae  doot" 

"  It's  a  bit  hard  job  for  me,  but  I  maun  try  an'  thole. 
Ye  kea  we're  tell't  tae  bear  oor  triala  wi'  patience." 


36  -BBBT  SELEcnONB 

"  I'm  vera  glad  ye  tak'  that  view  o't,  for  I  was 
feiirt  ye  micht  brak  doon  a'thegither." 

"  Hoot,  Willie,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that.  I  maun 
look  oot  about  an'  see  an'  get  anither,  for  I  canna 
well  want  ane." 

"  'Deed,  that's  true  enough,  but  yell  no'  be  in  a 
hurry  for  awhile." 

"  Od,  I  dinna  ken ;  the  sunner  the  better,  I  think. 
I  dinna  see  ony  use  o'  pittin'  aff  time;  in  fact,  I  hae 
my  e'en  on  ane  already,  but  I  am  feared  she's  a  wee 
ower  auld." 

"  I  would  na  thocht  they  were  sae  easy  gotten," 
says  Willie. 

"  Man,  when  ye  hae  twa  or  three  bawbees  i'  yer 
Kmch,  ye  can  t;et  i^irk  an'  waie  o'  them,     i^'ae,  I'll 


NUMBER  TWENTV-TWO  37 

awa'  over  tae  Daavid  Grant's,  for  I  think  he'a  gaen 
oot  o'  his  judgment" 

"  What  is  wrong  with  David  ?" 

"  Weel,  ye  see,  his  wife  Janet  ia  deid ;  she  choke<l 
herael'  thru'  the  nicht,  an'  I  waa  sent  for  tae  gae  ower 
wi'theatrauchtin'-boord.  Well,  when  I  gaed  injud^je 
o'  my  surprise  when  he  began  tellin'  ine  he  had  the 
thochts  o'  gettin'  anither  wife  as  soon  as  possible — 
in  fact,  he  haa  his  e'en  on  ane  a'ready ;  and  when  I 
telt  him  he  micht  aye  get  the  ane  he  had  awa'  first, 
od,  if  the  man  did  na'  tell  me  he  would  pit  her  in 
a  hole  in  the  yaird  if  he  could  na'  sell  her.  But 
he's  demented ;  his  grief  has  turned  his  hrain,  I 
think." 

"  David's  wife  dead  I  I'm  surprised  that  I  had  not 
heard  of  it.  I'll  get  my  hat  and  go  along  with  you," 
said  the  minister.  When  they  got  back  they  found 
Dauvid  steppin'  thro'  the  floor,  perplexed  at  Willie's 
proceed  uigs. 

"  I'm  grieved  to  hear  of  your  sad  affliction,"  the 
minister  began,  "and  I  am  surprised  you  did  not 
send  for  me." 

"  I  canna'  understandin'  what  ye're  makin'  sic  a 
work  aboot  It's  me  that'll  hae  tae  hear  the  loss,  an' 
I  wus  na  thinkin'  o'  havin'  ony  bother  aboot  it,"  said 
Dauvid. 

"After  what  has  fallen  from  your  own  lipa,  I  see 
there  is  no  uwe  trying  to  reason  with  you.  I  am 
Borry  to  think  such  a  man  as  you  are— a  member  of 
my  church— I  will  call  a  meeting  and  have  you  ex- 
pelled," said  the  miniater. 


38  BE8T   SEt-eCTIONS 

"  Ye  can  ca'  a  meetin'  o'  the  Presbyteiy  gin  ye  lik^ 
for  onything  I  care." 

"  I  shall  stay  here  no  longer  to  be  insulted  I"  cried 
the  minister,  when  he  waa  stojjped  by  \\'illie. 

'  Od  sir,  ye  canna'  richty  leave  the  hoose  until  we 
fcniie  tae  some  kind  o'  an  understand  in'.  Ye  eee, 
I  has  broucht  ower  my  fltrauchtin'-boord,  an'  III 
aivii'  an'  get  some  o'  the  neebora,  an'  get  her  laid  oot 
in  ii  respectable  an'  Christian- 1  ike  manner." 

•'  Strauchtin'-boord  for  a  coo !  Lay  her  oot  in  a 
Cbri^tian-like  manner!  What  on  earth  does  the  man 
mean!"  said  Dauvid. 

"  What  dae  I  mean !  Yer  wife  lyin'  deid  here,  an' 
you  hae  the  impudence  tae  speer  what  I  mean  ?"  said 
Willie. 


HUICBKB  TWENTY-TWO  89 

"  Did  h«  a*y  Jmet  was  deid  ?" 

"  Noo,  he  didna'  Jist  say  that  when  I  mind,  hut  of 
course  I  thoucht  it  could  be  nae  ither  body." 

"  I  see  it  a'  noo  t"  cried  Dauvid,  fa'iii'  into  a  chair 
/oaria'  an'  lauchin'.  "  Low  was  ower  here  this  mornin', 
an'  I  waa  tellin'  him  aboot  the  death  o'  a  coo,  an'  the 
rogue  has  gaen  and  mad§  a  gowk  o'  puir  Willie  ower 
the  head  o'  it  Did  it  never  strike  ye,  Willie,  that 
thia  was  the  first  o'  April  ?" 

"  Never  until  thia  minute !"  exclaimed  Willie. 
"  Weel,  that  cow's  the  gowan.  Od,  he  has  sent  me 
a  gowk's  errant,  an  nae  mistak'." 

"  Good-bye,  good*bye,"  cries  the  minister,  rinnin' 
oo'  at  the  door,  and  they  heard  him  lauchin  a'  the 
way  tae  the  manse. 

"  Weel,  Willie,"  observed  Dauvid," ye haedone me 
mar  guid  than  onything  I  hae  got  this  while.  But 
dinna  look  eo  sheepish,  man ;  there's  nae  harm  done. 
I'm  thinkin'  o'  gaun  ower  tfie  Jaaet's  brither's,  an' 
yell  come  awa  ower  wi'  me,  and  see  Nellie." 

After  some  coazin'  Willie  consented  tae  gae  wi' 
him,  for  he  had  a  soft  aide  tae  Nellie,  and  was  na  ill 
tae  persuade. 

On  the  road  Dauvid  wid  stop  every  wee  bit  and 
ejaculate,  " Stoauchtin'-boord  for  a  cool  Dacency 
and  Christianity  I"  and  syne  roar  as  if  be  was  gaun 
intae  a  fit  At  last  Willie  told  him,  unless  he'd 
compose  himsel'  an'  not  say  a  word  aboot  it  when 
they  gaed  tae  the  house,  he  wadna'  gae  anither  fit 
At  last  Dauvid  promised  to  say  nothing  about  it 
When  they  got  there  Willie  was  puzzled  what  tae 


40  BEST  SELECnONB 

(lie  wi'  the  boord,  for  he  had  brought  it  wi'  him  as 
it  waa  a  bit  on  the  road  hame.  However,  he  got  it 
siiuiggled  in  ahint  the  door,  an'  in  they  went.  Willie 
got  a  hearty  welcome  frae  tiie  old  folks  and  a  kind 
giance  from  Nellie, 

After  they  had  got  their  dinner,  an'  Nellie  an' 
Willie  close  thegither  in  the  comer,  wi'  his  ban'  in 
hers,  the  servant  lassie  cam  in  runnin'  an'  cryin', 

"0  mistress,  wha'adeid?  wha'sdeid?  because  I  was 
ahint  the  door  for  the  besom,  and  there's  a  strautchin'- 
boord  there." 

Dauvid,.wha  was  twistin'  in  his  chair  wi'  a  face  like 
a  nar'waat  win,  buret  out  wi'  a  roar  c'  lauchin'  an' 
screeched  an'  yelled  an'  crie<l,  "  O  Willie  1  hae  mercy, 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO 

THE  LOST  PUPPY. 

by  Ui«  author,  HsDir  Flnh  Wood,  Ksw  Voik. 

SAY !  litUe  Pup, 
What'a  up? 
Your  tail  is  down 

And  out  of  Bight, 
Between  your  legs ; 
Why,  that  aint  right 
Little  Pup, 

Brace  up  I 

Say  I  little  Pup, 

Look  up  I 
Don't  hang  your  head 

And  look  so  aad, 
You're  all  mussed  up, 
But  you  aint  mad. 
LitUe  Pup, 

Cheer  up  I 

Say  I  little  Pup, 

Stir  up ! 
Ib  that  a  string 

Around  your  tail  ? 
And  was  it  fast 
To  a  tin  pail  ? 

Little  Pup, 

Git  up  I 


BEST  8BI£CnOM8 

Say  I  little  Pup, 

Talk  up  t 
Were  those  bad  boys 

All  after  you, 
With  sticks  and  stonee, 
And  tin-cana,  too. 
Little  Pup, 
Spet^  Qp  I 

SayllitUePup, 

Stand  up ! 
Let's  look  at  you ; 

You'd  be  all  right 
If  you  waa  scrubbed 


NUHBBR  TWENTY-TWO 

Let's  wash  and  eat 
And  then  well  eee, 
Little  Pup, 

What's  up  I 


THE  FATE  OP  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

Coonibnled  bj  That.  C.  Trneblood,  A.  U.,  Proteatr  Of  EloonUon  Mtd 
Ontorr  tA  the  UnlTtnlty  o(  HIcbigaa,  Ann  Arbor.  HlcUgM. 


AWAY  1  away !  cried  the  stout  Sir  John, 
While  the  blossoms  are  on  the  treea, 
For  the  auminer  is  short,  and  the  time  speefls  OD 

As  we  sail  for  the  Northern  seas. 
Ho !  gallant  Crozier,  and  hrave  Fitz  James  I 

We  will  startle  the  world,  I  trow, 
When  we  find  a  way  through  the  Northern  seas 

That  never  was  found  till  now ! 
A  good  stout  ship  is  the  "  Erebus," 

As  ever  unfurled  a  sail. 
And  the  "  Terror  "  will  match  as  brave  a  one 

As  ever  outrode  a  gale  I 
So  they  bade  farewell  to  their  pleasant  honiee. 

To  the  little  hills  and  the  valleys  green. 
With  three  hearty  cheers  for  their  native  isle, 

And  three  for  the  English  Queen, 
They  sped  them  away,  beyond  cape  and  bay, 

Where  the  day  and  night  are  one. 
Where  the  hissing  light  in  the  heavens  grew  bright 

And  flamed  like  a  midnight  sun. 


44  BEST  8EI.ECriONa 

There  was  naught  below,  save  the  fields  of  snow, 

That  stretch  to  the  icy  pole; 
And  the  Esquimau,  in  his  strange  canoe, 

Was  the  only  living  soul ! 
Along  the  coast,  like  a  giant  hoat, 

The  glittering  icebergs  frownetl, 
Or  they  met  on  the  main,  like  a  battle  plain 

And  crashed  with  a  fearful  sound  ; 
The  seal  and  the  hear,  with  a  curious  stare, 

Looked  down  from  the  frozen  heights, 
And  the  stars  in  the  skies,  with  their  great  wild  eyes, 

Peered  out  from  the  Northern  Lights, 
The  gallant  Crozier  ami  brave  Fitz  James 

And  even  the  stout  Sir  John 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  45 

For  what  was  fame,  or  a  mighty  name 

When  life  waa  the  fearful  cost ; 
The  gallant  Crazier,  and  brave  Fitz  James, 

And  even  the  stout  Sir  John, 
Had  a  secret  dread,  and  their  hopes  all  fled, 

As  the  weeks  and  the  months  passed  on ; 
Then  the  Ice  King  came,  with  his  eyes  of  flame 

And  looked  on  that  fated  crew ; 
His  chilling  breath  was  cold  as  death. 

And  it  pierced  their  warm  hearte  thro'; 
A  heavy  sleep  that  was  dark  and  deep, 

Came  over  their  weary  eyes. 
And  they  dreamed  strange  dreams, 
Of  the  hills  and  streams 

And  the  blue  of  their  native  skieB, 
The  Christmas  chimes 
Of  the  good  old  times, 

Were  heard  in  each  dying  ear, 
And  the  dancing  feet,  and  the  voices  sweet 

Of  their  wives  and  their  children  dear; 
But  it  faded  away — away — away, 

Like  a  sound  on  a  distant  shore, 
And  deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  sleep. 

Till  they  slept  to  wake  no  more, 
0,  the  sailor's  wife  and  the  sailor's  child. 

They  will  weep  and  watch  and  pray. 
And  the  Lady  Jane,  she  will  hope  in  vain 

As  the  long  years  pass  away. 
The  gallant  Crozier  and  brave  Fitz  Jamee, 

And  the  good  Sir  John  have  found 
An  open  way  to  a  quiet  bay, 


BKST  BELECnOKS 

And  a  port  where  we  all  are  bound; 
Let  the  waters  roar  on  the  ice-bound  shore 

That  circles  the  frozen  pole, 
But  there  is  no  sleep,  and  no  grave  80  deep 

That  can  bold  a  human  sotU. 


S' 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  MOON. 


AID  the  Wind  to  the  Moon,  "  I  will  blow  you  out 
You  8tare 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  47 

The  Wiod  blew  hard,  and  the  Moon  grew  dim. 
"  With  my  sledge 

And  my  wedge 

I  hare  knocked  off  her  edge  I 
If  only  I  blow  right  Serce  and  grim, 
The  creature  will  soon  be  dimmer  than  dim." 

He  blew  and  he  blew,  and  ahe  thinned  to  a  thread. 
"  One  puff 

More'a  enough 

To  blow  her  to  anoffl 
One  good  puff  more  where  the  last  was  bred, 
And  glimmer,  glimmer,  glum  will  go  the  thread  1" 

H«  blew  a  great  blast,  and  the  thread  was  gone ; 

In  the  air 

Nowhere 

Waa  a  moonbeam  bare ; 
Far  off  and  harmless  the  shy  stars  shone ; 
Sure  and  certain  the  Moon  was  gone  1 

The  Wind  he  took  to  his  revels  once  more; 

On  down, 

In  town, 

Like  a  merry  mad  clown, 
He  leaped  and  halloed  with  whistle  and  roar, 
"■  What's  that  ?"    The  glimmering  thread  once  mors  I 

He  flew  in  a  rage — he  danced  and  blew; 
Bat  in  vain 
Was  the  pain 
Of  his  bursting  bnun  ; 


And  slioiu' 

( )ii  licr  tlironc 

In  tlh'  -ky   alone, 
:cliles8,  wonderful,  silvery  light, 
nt  and  lovely,  the  Queen  of  the  Night 

he  Wind — "  What  a  marvel  of  power  am  I 

With  my  breath, 

Good  faith ! 

I  blew  her  to  death — 
Wew  her  away  right  out  of  the  sky — 
blew  her  in  ;  what  a  strength  am  I !" 

le  Moon  she  knew  nothing  about  the  afiJeur, 

For,  high 

In  the  sky, 

With  her  one  white  eye, 
nless,  miles  above  the  air, 
ad  never  heard  the  great  Wind  blare. 

George  MacDonald 


ROMANCE  IN  WORDS  FREQUENTLY 
MISPRONOUNCED 


NCltBEB  TWENTY-TWO  49 

(incomparable  for  squalor)  thronged  &om  a  neigh- 
boring alley,  uttering  hideoua  cries,  accompanied  by 
inimitable  gestures  of  heinous  exultation,  as  they 
tortured  a  humble  black-and-tan  dog. 

"  You  little  blackguards  !"  cried  VVinthrop,  step- 
ping outside  and  confronting  them,  adding  the  in- 
quiry, "  Whose  dog  is  that?" 

"That  audacious  Caucasian  has  the  bravado  to 
interfere  with  our  clique,"  tauntingly  shrieked  the 
indisputable  little  ruffian,  exhibiting  combative- 
ness. 

"  What  will  you  take  for  him  ?"  aaked  the  lenient 
Geoffrey,  ignoring  the  venial  tirade. 

"Twenty-seven  cents,"  piquantly  answered  the 
ribald  urchin,  grabbing  the  crouching  dog  by  the 
nape. 

"  You  can  buy  licorice  and  share  with  the  indec- 
orous coadjutors  of  your  condemnable  cruelty," 
said  VVinthrop,  paying  the  price  and  taking  the  dog 
firom  the  child.  Then  catching  up  his  valise  and 
umbrella,  he  hastened  to  his  train.  Winthrop  satis- 
fied himself  that  his  sleek  prot^  was  not  wounded, 
and  then  cleaned  the  cement  from  the  pretty  collaf, 
and  read  these  words : 

"  Leicester.     Licensed,  No.  1880." 

Hearing  the  pronunciation  of  his  name,  the  donln 
canine  expressed  gratitude  and  pleasure,  and  thon 
sank  exhausted  at  his  new  patron's  feet  and  slept. 

Among  the  other  passengers  was  a  magazine  con- 
tributor, writing  vagaries  of  Indian  literature,  aUo 
two  physicians,  a  sombre,  irrevocable,  irrefragable 


..  ..  .rail,  dolorous    pcrsoii,  wcarii 
las>t's.  altcriiat^'ly  atf  tro»-lirs   and  alnn 
;i\'t'.  an»l  sou-lit  roiitlolciuH'   in  a  liinh    1 
I'Mu  Iroiu  a  k'tliargic  and  somewhat  dt 
te  comrade  not  yet  acclimated.     Near 
ilary   brethren    (probably  sinecurists) 

of   humorous  youths;    and   a  jocose 

from  Asia)  in  a  blouse-waist  and  taq 
ks  amusing  his  patriotic  juvenile  listene 
g  a  series  of  the  most  extraordinary  le 
^  suggested  by  the  contents  of  the  knaj 
he  was  calmly  and  leisurely  arranging 
lidal   form   on   a  three-legged  stool.      A 

figured  placards,  with  museum  and  ly< 
isements,  too  verbose  to  be  misconstrued, 
nature  matron  of  medium  height  and 
y  daughter  soon  entered  the  car  and  took 
nt  of  Winthrop  (who  recalled  having 
on  Tuesday  in  February,  in  the  parquet 
3).     The  young  lady  had  recently  made 

into    society    at    a    musical    soiree    at. 
She  ha^  o**  -- 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  51 

"  Pardon  my  apparent  intrueiveneeB ;  bat,  prithee^ 
have  you  lost  a  pet  dog  ?" 

The  explanation  that  he  had  been  stolen  was 
scarcely  necessary,  for  Leicester,  juat  awakening, 
vehemently  expressed  his  inexplicable  joy  by  buoy- 
antly vibrating  between  the  two  like  the  sounding 
lever  used  in  telegraphy  (for  to  iieitlier  of  them 
would  he  show  partiality),  till  succumbing  to  ennui, 
he  purported  to  take  a  recess,  and  sat  on  his  haunchee, 
complaisantly  contemplating  his  friends.  It  was 
truly  an  interesting  picture. 

They  reached  their  destination  ere  the  sun  waa  be- 
neath the  horizon.  Often  during  the  summer  Win- 
throp  gallantly  rowed  from  the  quay  with  the  naive 
and  blithe  Beatrice  in  her  jaunty  yachting  suit,  but 
no  couiiuetry  shone  from  her  azure  eyes.  Little  Less, 
their  jocuml  confidante  and  courier  (and  who  waa  as 
sagacious  as  a  spaniel),  always  attended  them  on 
these  occasions,  and  whene'er  they  rambled  through 
the  woodland  paths.  While  the  band  played  strains 
irom  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  Bach,  and  others, 
they  promenaded  the  long  corridors  of  the  hotel. 
And  one  evening,  as  Beatrice  lighted  the  gas  by  the 
etagere  in  her  charming  boudoir  in  their  suite  of 
rooms,  there  glistened  brilliantly  a  valuable  solitaire 
diftmoad  on  her  finger. 

Let  us  look  into  the  future  for  the  sequel  to  )ier- 
feet  this  romance,  and  around  a  cheerful  hearth  we 
Bee  a^in  Geoffrey  and  Beatrice,  who  are  paying  due 
attention  to  their  tiny  friend  Leicester. 


BEST  SEIiECTIONS 


LITTLE   BLACK   PHIL. 

CkiQlrlbulcd  by  tb«  aulhoi 


IT  was  during  the  summer  of  '63  with  the  Army  of 
the  Cumlieriand  in  Tennessee,  marchiiitr  every  day 
through  valleys  and  over  hille,  that,  one  nijiht  when 
nciiriy  all  my  command  were  on  picket  duty,  1  con- 
cIiidL'd  to  make  myself  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  built  a 
email  fire  for  that  purpose  in  the  thick  woods  a  few 
rods  distant  from  the  line.  The  fire  burned  brightly, 
li;.'liting  the  shadows  of  the  forest  Busy  with  my 
pl<MMant  duty,  I  forgot  all  else  for  the  moment,  but 
wa'i  atartle<l  by  the  crackling  of  the  twigs  ami  rust- 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  68 

clothing  on  him  to  even  give  dignity  to  rags.  As 
he  stood  there  motionless  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
fire,  he  looked  like  an  imp  from  across  the  river. 
The  blood  in  my  veina  grew  chill,  sending  thrills 
up  my  back  and  caiwiiig  my  hair  to  stand  erect. 
Gradually  my  courage  came  back.  "  Howdy, 
sonny  ?"  "  Right  smart,  massa,"  and  the  rim  of  a 
hat  cut  a  circle  in  the  air,  ns  he  advanced  to  the 
fire  where  the  steaming  coffee  fiUed  the  air  with 
fragrance. 

Seated  on  one  side  of  the  fire  on  the  ground,  I  took 
some  hard-tack  from  my  haversa^ik  and  began  the  re- 
past. Like  a  liungry  dog  his  eyes  followed  every 
motion  of  my  hand,  his  mouth  watering  for  the 
dainty  food  Uncle  Sam  in  his  thoughtful  care  sup- 
plied the  Bitldiers.  I  tossed  him  a  hard-tack  that  he 
caught  on  the  fly.  It  went  between  the  ivories  and 
in  a  moment  disappeared,  then  another,  and  a  third 
one  until  in  desperation  I  passed  the  haversack  to 
him  and  said  "  help  yourself."  He  was  hollow  down 
to  the  heels.  When  he  was  satisfied,  the  haversack 
that  contained  my  three  days'  rations  was  empty. 
The  boy  talked  r  "  Yes  sah,  I  guine  jine  de  army. 
Old  massa,  he  hoppin'  hit  up  wid  de  Confedriti).  Ise 
guine  hitch  myself  to  de  Yanks,  and  go  long  wid  you 
una."  Gradually  the  eyes  closed,  the  head  drooped, 
and,  curled  up  before  the  fire,  the  boy  was  sleeping. 
I  scraped  leaves  over  him  to  keep  off  the  cohl  dews 
of  night,  and  an  hour  later  when  my  duties  were 
done,  t  lay  down,  wrapped  in  my  blanket,  to  sweet 
slumber. 


54  BBBT  SELECnONS 

Daylight  came,  atining  the  camps  and  army  to 
new  life.  Out  of  the  leaves  came  the  most  comical 
(igure  I  had  found  in  many  a  day.  The  boy  hustled 
about,  picking  up  wood  to  build  the  fire,  brought 
water  From  the  brook  near  by,  thus  earning  his 
breakfast.  The  sight  of  him  made  the  soldiers  laugh 
and  he  laughed  with  them.  "  What's  your  name?" 
"Phil."  "Phil  what?"  "Das  all,  jes  Phil.  Data 
all  lie  name  I  has.  White  folks  can't  'ford  to  give 
two  names  to  little  nigga  like  me.  I  never  had  no 
Mammy,  and  I's  foteen  years  old  by  dis  a  time." 
We  took  him  along  and  like  a  faithful  dofj  he  trotted 
behind  the  regiment,  now  carrying  my  blanket,  then 
filling  my  canteen  at  the  springs  with  fresh  water, 
and  gathering  wood  for  tlio  camp  fires  at  night  around 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  55 

Jost  here  Black  Phil  steps  up  near  the  hre  and 
changes  the  programme.  *'  You  better  look  out  dah, 
I's  gwine  to  sing  'bout  my  gal,"  and  the  song  inter- 
rupts the  prayer  of  the  homesick  mule  driver: 

"  A  new  pink  dress  my  gal  puts  on* 

Ho,  ho,  Liza  Jsjie. 
And  followed  off  de  fife  and  drum, 

Ho,  ho,  Liza  Jane. 
De  drum  did  beat,  de  fife  did  play, 

Ho,  ho,  Liza  Jane. 
And  my  sweet  gal  did  run  away, 

Ho,  ho,  Liza  Jane. 

O  Lisa  went  down  de  new  eut  load, 

An'  I  went  down  de  lane, 
An'  wid  de  solgers  will  climb  de  hills, 

0  get  long,  Lisa  Jane. 

Although  he  often  broke  up  the  prayer  meeting 
with  the  songs  about  his  sweetheart,  yet  he  bad  re- 
ligious ideas  and  beliefs,  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind 
and  often  expressed.  "  Laa  winter  wen  de  cotton 
dun  ginned  an'  de  com  shucked,  ole  master  Washing- 
ton, de  preacher,  say  we  uns  must  hab  a  'vival  meet- 
ing. Den  all  the  black  folks  come  and  hear  him  say 
what  we  got  to  do  les  de  debble  catch  us.  De 
preacher  say  dat  hehben  is  a  right  smart  bip;  field 
full  of  'simmon  trees  and  'possums,  and  do  ground  :ill 
kirered  up  with  yams  an'  melons  an'  all  round  de 
field  is  high  palins.     He  say  white  folks  data  right 


S6  BEST  BELE(7rtOIIS 

can  <ro  fro'  the  gate  and  black  folks  dats  good  can 
iiiiiij)  oimr  de  palins,  and  black  folks  date  bad  aiid 
I;i/.y  must  8tay  outeide  de  palins  and  de  debble  will 
thase  dem  round  and  round  an'  roaflt  dem  wid  fire." 
I'hil  usually  acted  the  rest  of  the  story,  rolling  his 
eyes  al)out,  groaning,  shuddering,  then  carefully 
acriitinizing  his  legs  with  reference  apparently  to 
their  fitness  for  high  jumping.  Night  after  night  the 
hoys  used  the  end  boards  of  the  wi^ons  for  Phil  to 
dance  on,  the  champion  of  the  brigade.  In  appre- 
ciation of  his  servicea  they  clothed  him  in  army 
shirt  and  trousers  six  sizes  too  lai^e.  From  this 
time  on  Phil  was  fired  with  a  new  ambition,  eagerly 
looking  forward  to  the  day  when  he  could  be  a  genu- 


NUKBEB  TWENTY-TWO  67 

man  ofT  the  field,  then  for  three  days  his  place  about 
the  camp-fire  was  vacant  A  new  position  in 
Chattanooga  was  selected  for  defense  and  the  men 
were  hard  at  work  with  pick  and  shovel.  The  Con- 
federate batteries  to  our  front  on  Missionary  Ridge 
and  Lookiiut  Mountain  on  the  right,  sent  whistling, 
shrieking  shells  over  our  heads.  Oflicere  standing 
along  the  line  were  on  the  alert  for  these  noisy,  un- 
welcome visitors,  warning  the  busy  workmen  to  get 
down  out  of  range.  A  puff  of  smoke  from  the  base 
of  the  mountain  gave  notice  of  the  coming  missile. 
"  Down  every  one  of  you  !"  commanded  the  officer 
on  duty.  Just  then  I  heard  the  familiar  voice  of 
Phil,  gladness  in  every  tone,  "  Here  I  is,  Maasa,  here 
I  is."  I  turned  about  to  see  him  running  at  full 
speed  toward  me,  his  face  fairly  dancing  wilh  de- 
light. Just  at  that  instant  a  shell  from  a  Rodman 
gun  struck  the  hard  ground  well  out  to  the  front, 
throwing  a  cloud  of  dust  into  the  air,  bounding,  it 
came  tumbling  end  over  end,  striking  the  top  of  the 
earthworks,  burying  half  a  dozen  men  in  another 
cloud  of  dust,  whizzing  past  it  touched  the  ground 
again  at  Phil's  feet,  lifting  and  hurling  him  into  the 
air,  I  reached  the  spot  where  he  fell  in  a  moment, 
to  be  greeted  with  a  smile  and  the  words,  "  Lieuten- 
ant, I's  a  good  nigga  and  I's  guine  to  jump  ober  de 
palins."  He  never  spoke  again.  That  night  when 
the  firing  ceased  Will  Beckley,  the  bugler,  and  I 
wrapped  his  remains  in  a  blanket  and  carried  them 
to  a  garden  spot  on  the  edge  of  the  town.  There  in 
a  grave  we  made  by  the  side  of  a  honeysuckle  we 


68  BEST  SBLECTTOm 

leil  all  that  remained  of  Black  Phil.  At  the  head 
of  the  grave  Beckley  placed  a  piece  of  board  upon 
wliich  he  penciled  "  Here's  PhU.  He  has  Jumped 
over  the  paline." 

THE  MEMORY-BRIDGES. 

Fenniffilon  ot  Vanlh's  CompaQfon,  Boaton,  Uia. 

BUSILY,  busily,  to  and  fro, 
See  them,  the  bridge-builders,  come  and  go, 
Gray-beards  and  binny-eyea,  mothers  and  midg«s, 
All  of  them  busy  a-buiiding  bridges. 
High  be  they?     Low  be  they? 
Who  can  tell? 


NUUBEB  TWENTY-TWO  W 

Ceaselesaly,  ceaselessly,  yeax  by  year, 
Grow  the  abutment,  the  arch,  and  the  pier, 
Grow  on  the  builder's  brow  wrinkles  and  ridges. 
Caused  by  the  rearing  of  memory-bridges. 
Deep  be  they  ?    Slight  be  they  ? 
All  may  see 
What  Bort  of  furrows  these  furrows  be. 

Finally,  finally,  each  must  tread 
Over  the  memory-bridge  he's  made. 
Over  the  deeds  that  are  long  past  doing, 
Over  the  faults  that  are  left  for  rueing. 
Light  is  it?     Hard  is  it? 
They  may  ken 
Who'vfl  crossed  the  bridges  from  Now  to  Then. 
Julie  M.  Lippbiann. 


MARGUERITE. 


IT  was  Decoration  Day,  some  years  ago— that  day 
which  means  so  very  much  and  whose  name 
suggests  BO  very  little.  Marguerite  knew  Uiat  it  was 
"Decoration  Day,"  bi^t  ahe  could  not  tell  what  it 
meant  She  did  not  understand  the  long  procession, 
tiie  music,  the  flowers,  and  nil ;  she  only  knew  that 
she  had  been  sent  to  sell  her  flowers  because  it  was 
some  kind  of  a  flower  day.  Daisies  she  had  in  her 
large  basket — bright  gold  und  white  daisies ;  and  site 
had  a  little  bunch  in  her  tiny  hand  which  she  held 


GO  BEST  SELECnOMB 

out  to  pua^ers-by  as  she  said,  "  Daisies,  iresh  daisieB, 
live  ceuta  a  bunch?" 

4)iG  stood  at  tlie  foot  of  the  beautifully-decorated 
soldicra'  iiionunient  watching  the  crowd  of  people 
ami  the  iiiarcliing  men  with  wide,  wondering  eyes. 
She  did  not  know  what  it  waa  all  for.  She  knew 
very  little,  this  tiny,  ragged  maid.  Had  you 
a^ked  her  name,  ahe  would  have  told  you  "  Mar- 
guerite;" but  she  did  not  know  she  was  named 
for  the  fiowera  she  carried ;  she  did  not  know  that 
her  hair  was  bright  and  sunny  like  their  gold  hearts ; 
she  tlid  not  know  tliat  they  and  her  eyes  were  like 
the  stars  in  their  child-Hkenesa,  nor  that  the  white 
petiils  were  symbols  of  her  own  purity.  She  had 
not  sold  many  Howcrs — she  waj  no  finall   i 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  61 

Howera  on  the  soldiers'  gravee,  because  they  were 
brave  men." 

"Ah!"  said  she,  with  a  satiittied  little  look,  "I'll 
go  too.     Will  you  come  ?" 

[  graspod  the  heuvy  buaktft  and  took  the  little  hand 
in  mine,  and  we  trudged  on  toward  the  city  of  the 
dead.  8he  scarcely  upoke  on  the  way,  but  clung  to 
the  bunch  of  daiaiea  in  her  hand,  and  said  solUy  to 
herself  and  to  her  blossoms,  "  Papa  was  a  soldier." 

When  we  reached  the  quiet  city  she  looked  about 
with  more  wonder  than  ever  in  the  blue  eyes,  and 
asked  me  were  the  people  who  lived  inside  the  white 
doora  angeb,  and  I  said,  "  Yes." 

Pointing  to  the  lot  of  the  unknown  dead,  she  said : 

"Who  is  over  there  under  alt  those  little  flags?" 

I  explained  to  her,  and  she  said  : 

"  He  must  be  there ;  they  never  knew  where  he 
was  killed.  I  think  he  is  there,"  and  she  drew  me 
away  from  the  crowd  toward  the  rows  of  graves  with 
the  flag  at  each  head. 

"  I  don't  know  which  is  his,  but  111  put  the  daisies 
here  by  this  little  flag," 

She  knelt  at  the  head  of  one  grave  and  laid  her 
bunch  of  daisies  down  tenderly,  then  tlie  large  eyes 
looked  up  straight  through  the  sunlight  and  blue 
sky,  and  with  the  little  hands  claspe<l  on  her  breast, 
said: 

"Can  you  see  me,  papa?  I'm  your  own  little 
girl.  If  this  isn't  your  bed,  you  c;in  look  down  and 
know  the  flowers  are  meant  for  yon,  :ind  know  this 
is  your  little  girl,  and  she  love^  you." 


Then,  looking  at  the  basket,  "  I  could  cover  thie 
brown  bed  all  over,  couldn't  I?  There  are  enough 
left,  but  then,  perhaps,  these  other  soldiers  haven't 
:my  little  girt  to  give  them  flowers.  I  guesa  I  had 
better  put  one  bunch  on  every  grave."  So  the  little 
Saint  Mai^uerite  went  about  on  her  own  small  fiower 
mission,  and  only  r^rotted  that  her  daisies  would 
not  go  "  all  around,"  and  then  said  : 

"  I  hope  they  ail  know  we  are  proud  of  them." 
As  I  looked  at  the  hopeful  face,  1  thought  that  if 
the  soldier- father  could  not  see  liis  iitUe  one,  the 
Great  Father  saw  and  blessed  a  new  sweetness  in  life 
even  in  this  tiny  nature,  wliose  true  little  heart  had 
found  the  very  deepest  meaninji  of  this  Decoration 
Din 


NUHBEK  TWENTY-TWO  68 

timl  could  live  about  forty  miltion  miles  abave  Uie 
earth,  if—" 

"  Not  forty  million,  my  dear;  only  forty  miles,  he 
said." 

"  Forty,  waa  it  ?  Thank  you.  Well,  sir,  old 
Green,  you  know,  said  that  waa  ridiculoua  ;  and  he 
said  he'd  bet  Bradley  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand 
dollars  that  life  couldn't  be  sustained  half  that  way 
up,  and  80^" 

"  William,  you  are  wrong ;  he  only  offered  to  bet 
fifty  dollars." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  Bradley  took  him  up  quicker'a  a 
wink,  and  they  agreed  to  send  up  a  cat  in  a  balloon 
to  decide  the  bet.  So  what  does  Bradley  do  but  buy 
a  balloon  about  twice  as  big  as  our  bam,  and  begin 
to—" 

"  It  was  only  about  ten  feet  in  diameter,  Mr 
Adler ;  William  forgets." 

"  Begin  to  inflate  her.  When  ahe  waa  filled,  it 
took  eighty  men  to  hold  her,  and — " 

"Eighty  men,  Mr.  Potts?  Why,  you  know  Mt. 
Bradley  held  the  balloon  himself." 

"He  did,  did  he?  Oh!  very  well;  what's  the 
odda  ?  And  when  everything  waa  ready,  they 
brought  out  Bradley's  tom-cat,  and  put  it  in  the 
basket  and  tied  it  in  so  that  it  coulda't  jump,  you 
know.  There  were  about  one  hundred  thousand 
people  looking  on,  and  when  they  let  go  you  never 
heard  auch  a — " 

"  There  waa  not  more  than  two  hundred  people 
there.     I  counted  them  mysell" 


64  BEST  SELECTIONS 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  me !  I  say  you  never  heard 
Miich  a  yell  aa  the  balloon  went  scooting  up  into  the 
wky,  ]>retty  near  out  of  sighi  Bradley  said  she  went 
ii[)  about  one  thousand  milee,  and — now  don't  inter- 
ni|it  me,  Henrietta;  I  know  what  the  man  said — 
nn<l  that  cat,  mind  you,  a  howling  like  a.  hundred 
fiifi-honis,  bo's  you  could  a'  heard  her  from  here  to 
Peru.  Well,  sir,  when  she  was  up  so's  she  looked  as 
small  as  a  pin-head,  something  or  other  burst.  I 
dunno  bow  it  was,  but  pretty  soon  down  came  that 
balloon  a  flickering  toward  the  earth  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  miles  a  minute,  and  old — " 

"  Mr.  Potta,  you  know  that  the  baUoon  came  down 
as  gently  an — " 

hiiwh  lip  !     ^VlHl)en  don't  know  anything 


NOMBEB  TWENTV-TWO  66 

"  Henrietta,  I  wish  to  gracious  you'd  go  upstairs 
and  look  after  the  children.  Well,  about  half  a 
minut«  after  she  struck,  out  stepped  that  tom-cat 
on  to  the  weathercock.  It  made  Cirucn  yick.  And 
just  then  the  hurricane  readied  the  weathercock 
and  it  began  to  revolve  six  hundred  or  seven 
hundred  times  a  minute,  the  cat  howling  until 
you  couldn't  hear  yourself  speak.  (Now,  Henri- 
etta, you've  had  your  put;  you  keep  quiet.) 
That  cat  stayed  on  that  weatliercock  about  two 
months — " 

"  Mr.  Potts,  that's  an  awful  story ;  it  only  happened 
last  Tuesday." 

"  (Never  mind  her.)  And  on  Sunday  the  way  that 
cat  carried  on  and  yowled,  with  its  tail  pointing  due 
east,  was  ao  awful  that  they  couldn't  have  church. 
And  Sunday  afternoon  the  preacher  told  Bradley  if 
he  didnt  get  that  cat  down  he'd  sue  him  for  a  mil- 
lion dollars'  damages.  So  Bradley  got  a  gun  and 
shot  at  the  cat  fourteen  hundred  times  (now,  you 
didn't  count  'em,  Henrietta,  and  I  did),  and  ho 
banged  the  top  of  the  steeple  all  to  splinters,  and  at 
last  fetched  down  the  cat,  shot  to  rags,  and  in  her 
stomach  he  found  his  thermometer.  She'd  ate  it  on 
her  way  up,  and  it  stood  at  eleven  Iiundre<l  degrees, 
so  old — " 

"  No  thennometer  ever  stood  at  such  a  figure  as 
that." 

"Oh!  well,  if  you  think   you  can  tell  the  story 
better  than  I  can,  why  don't  you  tell  it?     You're 
enough  to  worry  the  life  out  of  a  msa." 
6 


Then  Potts  Blammed  the  door  and  went  out,  and  i 
lefL  I  don't  know  whether  Bradley  got  the  stakes 
or  not.  Max  Adler. 

THE  MASQUE  AND  THE  REALITY. 

Con(ilbal«il  bj  the  auUior,  Rev.  WlllUm  BomuBTlllt  Algir,  Barton, 
Mm 

WHEN  you  and  I  desert  the  ranks 
Of  living  men  that  shout  along, 
The  stream  will  rush  between  its  banks 
With  current  just  as  full  and  strong. 


No  one  will  miss  us  in  the  least, 


NUMBER  TWENTV-TWO 

Believe  we  yonder  graveyard  mounds 
Can,  in  their  BenBeJess  space,  enclose 

The  apirita  which  assert  their  bounds 
Further  than  widest  cosmos  flows? 

The  forms  of  dust  which  once  we  wore, 
Will  there,  indeed,  be  laid  at  rest. 

Where  grief  and  pain  and  burden  sore 
Can  never  vex  the  patient  breast 

But  we  ourselves,  eternal  souls 
Released  from  the  encasing  clod, 

Assume  our  ranlc  as  perfect  wholes 
Of  the  pure  archetype  in  God. 

Maintain  we,  then,  a  life  serene. 
So  long  as  on  the  earth  we  dwell, 

And  let  no  ills  we  meet  demean 
The  self  that  knows  this  miracla 


THE  OLD  WIFE. 

BY  the  bed  the  old  man,  waiting,  sat  in  vig:il  sad 
and  tender, 
Where  his  aged  wife  lay  dying;  and  the  twilight 

shadows  brown 
Slowly  from  the  wall  and  window  chased  the  sun- 
set's golden  splendor 

Going  down. 


68  BEST  SELECTIONS 

"  Ih  it  night?"  she  whiBpered,  waking  (for  her  spirit 
seemed  to  hover 

Ixjst  between  tlie  next  world's  sunrise  and  the  bed- 
time cares  of  this), 

And  the  old  man,  weak  and  tearful,  trembling  as  he 
bent  above  her, 

Answered:  "Yes." 

"  Are  the  children  in?"  she  asked  him.  Could  he 
tell  her?     All  the  treasures 

Of  their  household  lay  in  silence  many  years  be- 
neath the  snow ; 

But  her  heart  was  witli  them  living,  back  among  her 
toils  and  pie: 


inniBBB  TW£NTY-<rWO  69 

Still  the  pale  lips  stammered  questiona,  lullabiee  and 
broken  verses, 

Nursery  prattle — all  the  laogimge  of  a  mother's  lov- 
ing heeds, 

While  the  midnight  round  the  mourner,  left  to  aor- 
row'a  bitter  mercies, 

Wrapped  its  weeds. 

There  was  stillness  on  the  pillow — and  the  old  man 
listened  lonely — 

Till  they  led  him  from  the  chamber,  with  the  bur- 
den on  his  breast. 

For  the  wife  of  seventy  years,  his  manhood's  early 
love  and  only. 

Lay  at  rest. 

"  Fare-you-well,"  he  sobbed,  ■'  my  Sarah ;  you  will 

meet  the  babes  before  me ; 
"Tia  a  little  while,  for  neither  can  the  parting  long 

abide, 
And  you'll  come  and  call  me  soon,  I  know — and 
Heaven  will  restore  me 

To  your  side." 
****** 
It  waa  even  so.     The  springtime  in  the  stepa  of  win- 
ter treading, 
Scarcely  shed  its  orchard  blossoms  ere  the  old  man 

closed  hie  eyes. 
And  they  buried  him  by  Surali — jukI  they  had  their 
"  diamond  wedding  " 

In  the  skies. 

Theson  Brown. 


BEST   SELECTIONS 


CHARACTER  OF  LUCILE. 


She  turned, 
Smiled,  and  passed  up  the  twilight 

He  faintly  discerned 
Her  form  now  and  then,  on  the  flat,  lurid  sky, 
Riae  and  sink  and  recede  through  the  mists;  by 

and  by 
The  vapora  closed  round,  and  he  saw  her  no  more. 
Nor  shall  we ;  for  her  mission  accomplished,  ia  o'er. 
The  mission  of  genius  on  earth  !  to  uplill, 
Purify,  and  confirm  by  its  own  gracious  gift. 


NOMBER  TWENTV-TWO  71 

Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her  sweetness ;  in 

vain 
Judge  her  love  by  her  life,  for  our  life  is  but  love 
In  act.     Pure  waa  hers ;  and  the  dear  God  above, 
Who  knows  what  His  creatures  have  need  of,  for  life, 
And  who6e  love  includes  all   love,  through  much 

patient  strife, 
Led  her  aoul  into  peace.     Love,  though  love  may  be 

given 
In  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  native  Heaven 
More  clearly  she  mirror'd,  as  life's  trctublud  dream 
Wore  away ;  and  love  sighed  into  rest,  like  a  Htreani 
That  breaks  ite  heart  over  wild  rocks  towanl  the 

shore 
Of  the  great  sea  which  hushes  it  up  evermore. 
With  its  little  wild  wailin;:;,  no  stream  from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its  course, 
But  what  some  land  is  gladdened.     No  star  ever  rose 
And  set  without  influence  somewhere.    Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowest  creature?     No 

life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby. 
The  spirits  of  just  men,  made  perfect  on  high, 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  'round  the  Throne, 
And  gaze  into  the  face  that  makes  glorious  their 

Know  this,  surely,   at   last     Honest   love,   honest 

sorrow, 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  iiior 

row  - 


72  BE8T   SELECTIONS 

Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hand  they 

make  weary, 
The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  life  they  leave 

dreary  ? 
The  sevenfold  Heavens  to  the  voice  of  the  spirit 
Answer, "  He  that  o'ercometh  shall  all  things  inherit" 
Owen  Mebedith. 


NOT  ASHAMED  OF  RIDICULE. 

I  SHALL  never  forget  a  lesson  which  I  received 
when  quite  a  young  lad  at  an  academy  in  B , 

Among  my  school- fellows  were  Hartly  and  Jeinsoii. 


miKBEB  TWENTY-TWO  73 

horns  ?  Boys,  if  you  want  to  aee  the  latest  Paris  style, 
look  at  those  boots !" 

Kartly,  waving  his  hand  at  us  with  a  jileasant 
smile,  and  driving  the  cow  to  the  hchl,  took  down 
the  bars  of  a  rail  fence,  saw  her  safely  in  the  enclo- 
sure, and  then  putting  up  the  bars,  came  and  entered 
the  school  with  the  rest  of  ua.  After  school,  in  the 
afternoon,  he  let  out  the  cow  and  drove  her  off,  none 
of  us  knew  where.  And  every  day,  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  he  went  through  the  same  task. 

The  boys  of Academy  were  nearly  all  the 

sons  of  wealthy  parents,  and  some  of  them,  among 
whom  was  Jemson,  were  dunces  enough  to  look  down 
with  a  sort  of  disdain  upon  a  scholar  who  had  to 
drive  a  cow.  The  sneers  and  Jeers  of  Jetnson  were 
accordingly  often  renewed.  He  once,  on  a  plea  that 
be  did  not  like  the  odor  of  the  barn,  refused  to  sit 
next  to  HarUy.  Occasionally  he  would  inquire  after 
the  cow's  health,  pronouncing  the  word  "ke-ow," 
after  a  manaer  of  some  of  the  country  people. 

With  admirable  good  nature  did  Hartly  bear  all 
these  silly  attempts  to  wound  and  annoy  him.  I  do 
not  remember  that  he  was  even  once  betrayed  into  a 
look  or  word  of  angry  retaliation.  "  I  suppose, 
Hartly,"  said  Jemson,  one  day,  "  I  suppose  your 
lady  means  to  make  a  milkman  of  you." 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Hartly. 

"  Oh !  nothing !  only  don't  leave  much  water  in  the 
cans  after  you  rinse  them — that's  all !" 

The  boys  laughed,  and  Hartly,  not  in  the  least 
mortified,  replied,  "  Never  fear;  if  ever  I  ishould  rise 


74  BBBT   SELECnOKB 

to  be  a  milkman,  I'll  give  good  measure  and  good 

milk." 

The  day  after  thia  conversation  there  was  a  public 
exhibition,  at  which  a  number  of  ladica  and  gentle- 
men from  other  cities  were  present  Prizes  were 
awarded  by  the  Principal  of  our  Academy,  and  both 
Hartly  and  Jemson  received  a  creditable  number — 
"or,  in  respect  to  scholarahip,  theae  two  were  about 
equal.  After  the  ceremony  of  distribution,  the  Prin- 
cipal remarked  that  there  was  one  prize,  congieting 
of  a  medal,  which  was  rarely  awarded,  not  so  much 
on  account  of  its  great  cost,  aa  because  the  instances 
were  rare  which  rentlered  its  bestowal  proper.  It 
was  the  prize  for  heroism.  The  last  boy  who  re- 
.-eJ  one  was  yuLiiiK  Maunurn,  wlio,  three  years  ago, 


NUHBKR  TWE(mr-TWO  76 

she  was  the  owner.  Alas  I  what  couM  she  now  do? 
She  was  old  and  lame,  and  her  grandson,  on  whom 
sho  depended  to  drive  the  cow  to  pasture,  was  now 
on  his  back,  helpless.  '  Never  mind,  good  woman,' 
said  the  scholar,  '  I  can  drive  your  cow !'  With 
blessings  and  thanks  the  old  woman  accepted  his 
offer. 

"  But  his  kindness  did  not  stop  here.  Money  was 
wanted  to  get  articles  from  the  apothecary.  '  I 
have  money  that  my  mother  sent  me  to  buy  a  pair 
of  boots  with ;  but  I  can  do  without  them  for  a 
while.'  '  Oh  I  no,'  said  the  old  womao ;  '  I  can't 
consent  to  that;  but  here  is  a  pair  of  cow-hide  boots 
that  I  bought  for  Henry,  who  can't  wear  them.  If 
you  would  only  buy  these,  giving  us  what  they  cost, 
we  should  get  along  nicely.'  The  scholar  bought 
the  hoots,  clumsy  as  they  were,  and  has  worn  them 
np  to  this  time. 

"  Well,  when  it  was  discovered  by  other  boys  of  th« 
Academy  that  our  scholar  was  in  the  habit  of  driving 
a  cow,  he  was  assailed  with  laughter  and  ridicule. 
His  cow-hide  boots  in  particular  were  made  matter 
of  mirth.  But  he  kept  on  cheerfully  and  bravely, 
day  after  day,  never  shunning  observation,  and  driv- 
ing the  widow's  cow,  and  wearing  his  thick  boots, 
contented  in  the  thought  that  he  was  doing  right, 
caring  not  for  all  the  jeers  and  sneers  that  could  be 
uttered.  He  never  undertook  to  explain  why  he 
drove  a  cow;  for  he  was  not  inclined  to  make  a 
vaunt  of  charitable  motives,  and  furthermore,  in  his 
heart  he  had  no  sympathy  with  the  false  pride  that 


76 


BSflT  SELECTIONS 


could  look  with  ridicule  on  any  useful  employment. 
It  was  by  mere  accident  that  his  course  of  kindness  and 
self-denial  waa  yesterday  discovered  by  his  teacher. 

"And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  appeal  to  you, 
was  there  not  true  heroiwm  in  this  boy's  conduct? 
Nay,  Master  Hartly,  do  ii()t  alink  out  of  sight  behind 
the  blackboard !  You  arc  not  afraid  of  ridicule,  you 
must  not  be  afraid  of  praise.  Come  forth,  come 
forth.  Master  Edward  Jajues  Hartly,  and  let  us  see 
your  honest  face  1" 

As  Hartly,  with  blushin^t  cheeks  made  his  appear- 
ance, whiit  a  round  of  ajiiihiuse  in  which  the  whole 
company  joined,  spoke  tlie  f^eneral  approbation  of 
his  conduct!     The  ladies  stood  upon  benches  and 


NUHBEB  TWENTY-TWO 


MY  VESPER  SONG. 

FILLED  with  weariness  and  pain, 
Scarcely  strong  enough  to  pray, 
In  this  twilight  hour  I  sit, 

Sit  and  sing  my  doubte  away. 
O'er  my  broken  [mrpoaea, 

Ere  the  coming  shadowa  roll, 
I^et  me  build  a  bridge  of  song : 
"  Jeeua,  lover  of  my  soul." 

"  Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly !" 

How  the  words  my  thoughts  repeat: 
To  Thy  bosom.  Lord,  I  come, 

Though  unfit  to  kiss  Thy  feet. 
Once  I  gathered  sheavea  for  Thee, 

Dreaming  I  could  hold  them  fast: 
Now  I  can  but  faintly  sing, 
"  Oh  I  receive  my  soul  at  last" 

I  am  weary  of  my  fears, 

Lite  a  child  when  night  comes  on; 
In  the  shadow.  Lord,  I  sing, 
"  Leave,  oh,  leave  me  not  alone." 
Through  the  tears  I  still  must  shed. 

Through  the  evil  yet  to  be, 
Though  I  falter  wliile  1  sinj:, 
"Still  support  and  comfort  me." 


"AU  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed;" 
Does  the  rhythm  of  the  song 
Softly  fallii^  on  my  heart, 

Make  its  pulses  firm  and  strong? 
Or  is  this  Thy  perfect  peace, 

Now  descaoding  while  I  sing, 
That  my  soul  may  sleep  to-aight 
"'NeaUi  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing"? 

"Thou  of  life  the  fountaia  art;" 
If  I  slumber  on  Thy  breast, 

If  I  sing  niyaelf  to  sleep, 

Sleep  and  death  alike  are  rest 

Through  the  shadows  ever  past, 


MUHBSB  TWENTY-TWO 


PRAYEB. 


MORE  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let 
thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  nie  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goata, 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer, 
Both  for  Uiemselves  and  those  who  call  thorn  friend? 
For  so,  (he  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chaina  about  the  feet  of  God. 

Tennyson. 

"SCALLYWAG." 

Oootdbnted  bj  Um  uUm,  HIm  CmroUiM  B.  Le  Ron,  BnwUrn.  N.  T 

I  AM  a  scallywag — that  is  the  truth  of  it 
Wouldn't  believe  iti     Just  look  at  me,  theal 
Kind  of  you,  mister,  to  speak  in  that  way  to  me, 

But  I  dont  belong  with  respectable  men. 
Quite  a  good  coat  and  a  face  that  looks  honest? 

Yea,  but  the  coat  was  a  present  I  got, 
Give  by  the  warden  what  keeps  the  State  Prison, 
Found  in  ike  cellar  among  an  odd  lot 

And  aa  for  the  face — I've  no  wish  to  deceive  you ; 

Tisn't  my  fault, — I  can't  help  it,  you  see. 
S'poM  it's  the  look  that  I  had  when  a  boy,  sir, 

Thought  I'd  a  lost  it, — 'taint  no  good  to  me. 


80  m 

Now  there's  that  chap  who  I  left  in  the  pruoo, 
Him  as  give  me  the  ooit  when  my  time  was  sarve'l 
out, 

He  said  'twant  no  senae  for  a  sqaue  lookin*  tdlet 
To  go  back  on  himself  and  be  knookiiig  about 

P'raps  after  all  I  haint  jest  got  the  rights  of  it, 

But  it  seems  as  if  life  was  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 
You  see  the  fact  is  that  I  git  clean  discouraged ; 

Luck's  all  dead  agin  me, — I  can't  get  no  idiow. 
What  did  I  call  myself?     You  ought  to  know,  air, 

What  is  &e  name  that  such  duffers  as  yon 
Give  to  the  fellers  the  world's  turned  its  baok  <hi? 

You're  an  exception  7    There  may  be  a  faw. 


NUHBEB  TWENTY-TWO  Si 

And  it  seems  sort  of  fanay  when  I've  foced  the 
music, 
And  tried  to  cheer  up  those  whoVe  whined  on  the 
way, 
That  when  I'm  out  at  elbows   and    down  at  the 
mouth,  sir, 
Not  a  man  Jack  among  'em  has  one  word  to 
say. 

Wa  curious,  kinder,  when  I've  been  so  willin' 

To  shoulder  the  load  of  each  man  in  tlie  crowd, 
That  nobody's  ready  to  lend  me  a  hand,  sir, 

And  don't  take  no  notice  I'm  under  a  cloud. 
[  s'pose  it's  all  right  if  a  feller  could  see  it, 

But  it  comes  kinder  tough  though,  and  sometimes 
I  think 
If  good  folks  had  feelin'  for  other  folks'  troubles 

There'd  be  something  to  keep  them  from  taking 
to  drink. 

But  Lor  1    After  that,  sir,  taint  no  use  a  talkin' ; 
It's  all  up  with  a  man  when  the  liquor  goee 

But  the  comfort  I  get  from  a  little  black  bottle 
Can't  be  found  nowhere  else,  sir,  all  over  the  town. 

It's  made  me  the  scallywag  you  are  a  tallcin'  to, 
For  drink  leads  to  doin'  sech  rascally  things. 

That  the  fnet  thing  you  know  you're  shut  up  in  a 
buildin' 
That's  got  what  you'd  like  to  have,  sir,  and  that's 

6 


82  m 

Of  cooiM  I'm  a  hopeless  caw,  juflt  aa  I  told  yoo. 

There  can't  be  no  chance  for  a  loafer  like  m^ 
But  I  hate  to  see  fellerB  aa  might  have  some  shoWi  idr, 

Jest  go  the  devil,  as  I  did,  you  see,  kind  sir. 
If  you'd  please  take  the  trouble  to  speak  to  'em 

And  help  'em  to  kee.j  in  the  regular  way 
Twould  give  me  a  lift,  sir,  at  least  in  my  feeling 

And  do  me  more  good  than  I  know  how  to  say. 


TEACHING  A  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  CLAfla 

fioa" PvtHt."  PmnliJoaof K«pplw*8ch<r»mmia.PnWt*>wi,ll. 


NUMBBB  TWENTY-TWO  88 

Bat  hark  I — a  stealthy  tread — 'tis  the  Superin- 
teDdent  I 

"  I  am  very  much  in  Deed  of  another  teacher ;  one 
of  my  teachers  is  away  to-day,  and  won't  you  be 
good  enough  to  take  hia  place  V 

"Well,  I  should  rather  say  notl"  I  remarked  to 
ray  inner  self,  while  outwardly  I  etammered :  "  Why 
—thank  you,  sir — but,  really — it  has  been  so  long 
since  I  had  such  a  pleasure — that — really,  I  fear  I 
could  scarcely — do  the  subject  justice." 

But  the  Superintendent  was  quite  sure,  eta. ;  and 
after  about  five  minutes  of  this  £ucinating  debate, 
during  which  what  seemed  to  me  about  a  thousand 
eyes  were  feasting  upon  my  glowing  features— my 
temperature  having  gone  from  eighty-five  to  the 
neighborhood  of  eight  hundred — my  charming  sev- 
enth cousin  came  swaying  swan-like  down  the  aisle, 
saying : 

"  Oh !  do  ask  him  to  take  a  class ;  he  teaches  a  clasa 
beautifully;  only  he  needs  a  little  urging  I" 

"  0  Sapphira,  Sapphira !  how  the  modem  nineteen- 
year-old,  brown-eyed  Sunday-school  teacher  can  leave 
you  behind  when  she  wants  to  I" 

"  You  just  take  this  lesson  paper  and  ask  the 
questions;  they're  all  printed  there,  you  see;  and 
they  answer  them,  and  that's  all !" 

I  looked  toward  the  door,  but  two  corpulent  females 
stood  there  in  protracted  converse.  To  squeeze  lie- 
tween  them  was  impossible.  The  lownesa  of  the 
lintel  precluded  a  wild  leap  over  their  heads;  the 
windows  were  closed  and  calked  with  cotton  since  the 


84  BEST   SELECnONS 

winter.     So  I  walked  meekly  down  the  aisle,  my 

heart  throbbing  with  rel^ious  emotion,  and  toot  my 
place  before  ray  class.  There  they  eat — ten  boys  of 
them,  waiting  for  the  fray.  I  seized  the  lesson  paper ; 
there  they  were,  just  ten  questions  of  them,  waiting  to 
be  asked.  With  an  impressive  Sabbatical  intonation 
r  began  dealing  out  the  ten  interrogations  from  left 
to  right.  Regarding  the  accuracy  of  the  answers  the 
brevity  of  my  preparation  did  not  permit  me  to  form 
an  authoritative  opinion.  Regarding  their  speed 
there  oould  be  no  question ;  and  hardly  had  I  begun 
before  I  found  myself  at  the  last  boy,  and  my  last 
question  used  up.  I  looked  around  at  the  Superin- 
tendent to  see  if  he  showed  signs  of  closing  the  office. 


NDHBER  TWENTY-TWO  85 

"  TiU  four." 

I  shot  an  e^er  glance  at  the  ecclesiastical  time- 
l>iece  over  my  head ;  it  was  seventeen  minutes  past 
three. 

"  My  good — "  but  I  checked  myself.  I  was  way 
up  in  front,  where  everj'body  could  see.  I'd  got  to 
keep  things  moving,  or  there'd  be  no  end  of  scandal. 
Calling  up  all  the  resources  of  a  well-disciplined 
mind,  I  speedily  hit  upon  another  plan,  and  asked 
my  ten  precious  questions  all  over  again,  making  the 
boys  answer  in  concert  This  got  rid  of  several 
minutes.  It  was  now  twenty-six  minutes  past  three. 
An  awkard  pause ;  a  moment  of  intense  thought ; 
then  I  had  them  answer,  heginninfr  at  the  last  ques- 
tion and  going  backward.  Then  I  had  all  the  boys 
over  twelve  yeara  of  age  recite  in  turn;  then  all 
under  twelve.     It  was  now  nineteen  minutes  of  four. 

Then  I  began  again  at  the  first  <{uestion,  making 
each  boy  stand  up  and  face  the  opposite  wall,  while 
he  answered.  Thirteen  minutes  and  twenty-nine 
seconds  of  four  I 

"  Boys,"  said  I,  beginning  to  wann  to  the  work, 
"now  stand  up  and  answer  these  questions  again. 
lifting  your  right  foot  off  the  floor  as  you  do  so ;  now 
your  left  foot;  now  both  feet."  Six  minutes  eighteen 
and  nine-tenth  seconds  of  four! 

"  Boys,"  said  I,  mopping  my  dewy  brow,  "  I  will 
ask  you  these  questions  again ;  and,  as  each  one  is 
called  up,  he  must  firjit  .stand  on  his  feet  and  repeat 
his  answer  backward;  and  then  stand  on  his  head 
and  repeat  it  sideways." 


I  had  only,  however,  got  as  fiw  u  the  fboifli  boy 
when  the  bell  mng  aad  the  whool  dond. 

This  happened  three  moDths  ago,  but  107  physi- 
cian tells  me  it  will  yet  be  a  long  time  b^re  I  oui 
endure  any  severe  mental  strain ;  and  that  1  most 
not  think  of  resuming  the  oneroua  daties  of  my  pro- 
fossion.  I  tell  yon  this  is  pretty  hard,  when  I  had 
such  a  fine  start,  with  a  nice,  light  office  and  ap- 
bolstered  swivel  chair;  and  my  letter-heads  all 
printed  and  eveiything  all  ready  Cor  a  oai& 

J.  P.  Ltohl 


NUUBBR  TWENTY-TWO  8 

"Oh,  Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long," 

"  Not  Wisely,  but  Too  Well." 
"  The  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man  " 

He  quick  to  her  did  tell, 
And  how  he  did  "  A  Dark  Night's  Work  " 

To  gain  a  lofty  station. 
"  A  Noble  Woman  "  should  forgive 

"  A  Terrible  Temptation," 

"  Twenty  Years  After  "  the  above, 

"  A  Treasure  Trove  "  he  struck ; 
The  "  Golden  Butterfly  "  was  his — 

Folks  said  'twas  "  Rare  Good  Luck." 
"  Great  Expectations  "  came  at  last 

To  realize  his  wishes. 
He  covered  then  his  "  Queen  of  Hearta," 

With  "  Bread  and  Cheese  and  Kisses." 


Up  in  "  The  Vill^e  on  the  Cliff," 

Stands  a  "  Bleak  House  "  alone ; 
"  Her  Lord  and  Master  "  now  he  is. 

And  this  place  is  their  home. 
For  "  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune,"  yes, 

And  nearly  he  "  Twice  Lost "  her; 
He  has  been  almost  "  Three  Times  Dead  " 

To  find  out  "  What  He  Cost  Her." 


BEST  SEhECIiOm 


HB.  KRIS  KRINGLE. 

Eitnct  from  "  Ur.  Krta  Krlngle,"  hy  permtBBloD  or  the  luibor.  Dr.  S 
Weir  Mitchell.  iikI  ibe  publlahen,  George  W.  Jwwbi&  Co.,  Philadelphia. 
Contributed  by  Charles  C.  ShoemukBr,  llanager  of  The  Peim  Publlih- 

Ing  Company,  Pbiliidelphla. 

IT  was  Chriatmaa  Eve.  Above  the  broad  river  a 
long,  gray  stone  house  lay  quiet;  its  vine  and 
roof  heavy  with  the  softly-falling  snow,  and  showing 
no  sign  of  light  or  life  except  in  a  feeble,  red  glow 
through  the  Venetian  blinds  of  the  many  windows 
of  one  large  room.  Within,  a  huge  fire  of  mighty 
logs  lit  up  with  distinctness  only  the  middle  space, 
and  fell  with  variable  illumination  on  a  silent  group 


NUUBER  TWENTY-TWO  89 

she  waa  close  upon  a  burst  of  tears,  but  the  emotiona 
ate  all  near  of  kin  and  linked  in  mystery  of  relation- 
ship. Pity  and  love  for  the  moment  became  un- 
reasoning wrath.  "  You  are  disobedient,"  ehe  con- 
tinued. 

"0  mammal  we  are  vewy  Borry,"  said  the  lad, 
who  had  been  the  lesa  oETending  culprit. 

•'  Well,  well.  No  matter.  It  is  bed-time,  children. 
Now  to  bed,  and  no  more  nonsense.  I  can't  have  it, 
I  can't  bear  it" 

The  children  rose  submissively,  and  the  girl,  paus- 
ing near  the  doorway,  dropped  a  courtesy. 

"That  wasn't  very  well  done,  Alice.  Ah!  that 
was  better." 

The  little  fellow  made  a  bow  quite  worthy  of  the 
days  of  minuet  and  hoop,  and  then,  running,'  liack, 
kissed  the  tall  mother  with  a  certain  paHsionate  ten- 
derness, sayinj^,  softly,  "  Now,  don't  you  cry  when 
we  are  gone,  dear,  dear  mamma,"  and  then,  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  will  pway  God  not  to  let  you  cwy,"  and 
BO  fled  away,  leaving  her  still  perilously  close  to  tears.  - 

While  the  children  were  yet  too  young  to  rec- 
ognize their  loss  the  great  calamity  of  her  life  had 
come  to  the  mother.  Then  by  degrees  the  wreck  of 
her  fortune  had  gone  to  pieces,  and  now  at  last  t)ie 
home  of  her  own  people,  deeply  mortgaged,  was 
about  to  pass  from  her  forever.  Much  that  wn» 
humbling  had  fallen  to  her  in  life,  but  nothing  as 
sore  as  this  final  disaster.  At  length  she  ro!<e,  took 
a  lighted  candle  from  the  table,  and  walked  slowly 
around  the  great  library  room.     Returning  to  the  fire- 


90  nsar  selectiows 

si'ii'.shc  sat  ilown  and  drew  to  her  a  baaket  of  lett«m 
Willi  lia^ty  hands  she  tumbled  them  over,  and  ai 
lrii;:tli  cuiiio  u[iiin  11  (lackage  tied  with  a  fadeil  ril>- 
hiiu;  (me  of  Uioae  thin,  orange-colore<t  ailk  banda 
with  which  cigars  are  tied  in  bundles.  She  threw  it 
adide  with  a  quick  movement  of  disdain,  and  opened 
the  case  of  a  miniature,  slowly  and  with  deliberate 
care.  A  letter  fell  on  to  her  lap  as  she  bent  over  the 
portrait  of  a  young  man.  For  awhile,  she  steadily 
re-;arded  tlie  relics  of  happier  hours.  Then,  throw- 
ing herself  back  in  her  chair,  she  cried  aloud,  "  How 
long  I  hoped ;  how  hopelesa  was  ray  hope,  and  he 
said,  he  said  I  was  cruel  and  hard.  That  I  loved 
him  no  more.  Oil!  that  was  a  liel  a  bitter  He! 
:i  sot,  a  sot,  and  my  children  to  grow  up  and  see 


mnCBBB  TWINTY-TWO  91 

Sbe  paDsad  a,  raomwit  at  the  nursery  door,  where 
she  heard  voioes. 

"What I  awake Btm?" 

"  We  was  obIj  talking  about  Khwifi,"  said  the 
■mall  boy.  "We  won't  any  more,  will  we,  Alice? 
She  thinks  he  wont  come,  but  I  think  he  will  oome, 
because  we  are  both  so  good  all  to-day." 

"  No,  no ;  he  will  not  come  this  Christmas,  my 
darlings.  Go  to  sleep.  Go  to  sleep,"  and  with  too 
full  a  heart  she  turned  away. 

But  sleep  was  far  from  the  children's  eyes,  and 
presentiy  the  quick  ear  of  childhood  was  aware  of 
other  and  lees  &miliar  sounds.  Was  it  Kris 
Kringlef  Oh  I  if  he  could  only  see  him  once, 
tiiought  Hugh.  He  touched  the  sister  asleep  in  her 
bod  neu  by,  and  at  last  shook  her  gently. 

"  What  is  it,  Hugh  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  hear  Khwia.    I  know  it  is  Khwis !" 

"  O  Hugh  I  I  hear,  too,  but  it  might  be  a  robber." 

"  I  will  look — ^I  must  look,"  cried  Hugh,  slipping 
fiom  his  bed.  In  a  moment  he  had  raised  the  sash, 
and  was  looking  out  into  the  night.  The  sounds  he 
had  heard  ceased.  He  could  see  no  one.  "  He  has 
gone,  Alice."  Then  he  cried,  "  Mr.  Khwis  Kwingle, 
are  you  there?  or  is  you  a  wobber?"  As  he  spoke 
a  cloaked  man  came  from  behind  a  great  pine  and 
stood  amid  the  thickly-fallen  fliikes. 

"  Why,  that  is  Hugh,"  he  aaid.     "  Hugh  !" 

"  He  does  know  my  name,"  whispered  the  lad  to  the 
amiUl  counsellor  now  at  his  side. 

"And  of  coarse  I  am  Kris  Kringle.     And  I  have 


a  bag  full  of  piesents.  But  ooow  aof^  down  and 
let  ine  in,  and  don't  make  a  noise  or  away  I  go;  and 
!)ring  Alice." 

Said  Alice,  "  If  we  go  together,  Hugh,  and  he  takes 
one,  the  other  can  squeal  Oh  I  very  loud,  like  a 
bear — a  big  bear," 

"And,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  will  get  xay  gweat  gwand- 
papa's  sword."  And  with  thia  he  got  apon  a  chair, 
and  by  the  failing  light  of  the  nnraery-fixe  oarefaUy 
took  down  from  over  the  chimney  the  dim  rajder 
which  had  figured  at  peaceful  levees  of  other  days. 
"  Now,"  he  8aid, "  if  you  are  afwaid  I  will  go  all 
alone  myself." 

"  I  am  dreadfully  afraid,"  said  she,  "  but  I  will  go, 
So  she  hiwtilv  sliptiwl  on  a  little  while  v 


mruBBR  rwBNTr-Two  9S 

*yeB,  yes,  Fin  Kris  Kringle,"  and  then,  with 
much  aitiusemeat,  "and  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  your  Bword,  my  little  man?" 

"  It  was  to  kill  the  wobber,  air ;  but  you  mustn't  be 
afraid,  because  you're  not  a  wobber." 

"  May  we  soon  see  the  presents  ?"  said  Alice.  "  They 
did  say  you  would  not  come  tonight  because  we  are 
poor  now." 

"And,"  added  Hugh,  "  my  pony  is  sold  to  a  man, 
and  his  tail  is  vewy  long,  and  he  lovee  sugar — the 
pony,  I  mean ;  and  mamma  says  we  must  go  away 
and  live  in  the  town." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Kris ;  "  I  know." 

"  He  knows,"  said  Hugh. 

"Oh I  they  know  everything  in  Imryland,"  sfud 
Alice. 

"  Was  you  evah  in  faywyland,  sir  ?"  asked  Hugh. 

"Yes." 

"Where  'bouts  is  it,  sir,  and  please  how  is  it 
bounded  on  the  north  ?  And  what  are  the  pwincipal 
wivers?    We  might  look  for  it  on  the  map." 

« It  is  in  the  Black  Hilla." 

"  Oh  I  the  Black  Hilb,"  said  Alice.    "  I  know  I" 

"  Yes,  but  you're  not  sleepy  ?    Not  a  bit  sleepy  ?" 

"  No,  no." 

"  Then  before  the  pretty  things  hop  out  of  my  bag 
let  me  tell  you  a  story,"  and  he  smiled  at  his  desire 
to  lengthen  a  delicious  hour. 

"  I  would  like  that." 

"And  I  hope  it  won't  be  very,  very  long,"  said 
Alice,  on  more  sordid  things  intent 


"That's  the  way  with  giris,  Mr.  Ewingle;  fh^ 

can't  wait" 

"  Ah,  well,  well.  Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  bad 
itoy,  and  he  was  very  naughty,  and  no  one  loved  him 
Ix'CiiUije  he  ^pent  love  like  money  till  it  was  all  gone. 
When  he  found  he  had  no  more  love  given  him, 
111!  went  away,  and  away,  to  a  far  country. 

"  W'ell,  at  Itutt  he  came  to  the  Black  Hilla,  and  there 
ho  lived  with  other  rough  men." 

•'  But  you  did  say  he  was  a  boy,"  said  Alice,  acco* 
riit«ly  critical. 

'■  He  was  gwowed  up,  Alice.  Dont  you  int — 
inter—" 

•'  Interrupt,  you  goosey,"  said  Alice. 

"  One  Christmas  Eve  these  men  feU  to  talking  of 


nniB&B  TWENTT-TWO  95 

he  Bsid, '  I^  not  veil ;  I  vill  go  into  the  air.'  Being 
still  confused,  he  went  over  the  h&rd  enow  and 
amoi^  trees,  not  knowing  what  he  did;  and  at  last 
after  wandering  a  long  time  he  came  to  a  steep  hill- 
side. Here  he  elippod,  and  rolling  down,  fell  over  a 
high  place.    Down,  down,  down  he  fell,  and  he  felL" 

"  Oh !  make  him  atop,"  cried  btUe  Hugh. 

"  He  fell  on  to  a  deep  bed  of  soft  snow  and  was  not 
hurt,  but  soon  got  up,  and  thought  he  was  buried  in 
a  white  tomb.  But  eoon  he  understood,  and  his 
head  grew  clearer,  and  he  beat  the  snow  away  and 
got  out  Then,  firat  he  said  a  prayer,  and  that  was 
the  only  prayer  he  had  said  in  a  long  time. 

"  Soon  he  found  shelter  under  a  cliff,  where  no 
snow  was,  and  with  his  flint  and  steel  struck  a  light, 
and  made  with  sticks  and  logs  a  big  fire.  After  this 
he  felt  warm  and  better  all  over  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  woke  up  it  was  early  morning,  and  looking 
about,  he  saw  in  the  rock  little  yellow  streaks  and 
small  lumps,  and  then  he  knew  he  had  found  a  great 
mine  of  gold  no  man  had  ever  seen  before.  By  and 
by  he  got  out  of  the  valley  and  found  his  companions, 
and  in  the  spring  he  went  to  his  mine,  which,  be* 
cause  he  had  found  it,  was  all  hia  own,  and  he  got 
people  to  work  there  and  dig  out  the  gold.  After 
that  he  was  no  longer  poor,  but  very,  very  rich." 

"  I  like  that  man,"  said  Hugh.     "  Tell  me  more." 

"  But  first,"  said  Alice,  "  oh !  we  do  want  to  see  all 
our  presents." 

"Ah,  well;  that  is  all,  I  tliink;  and  the  presents. 
Now  for  the  presents."     Then  he  opened  a  bag  and 


96  Bsn  BBLBcnoiiB 

took  out  first  a  string  of  great  pearis,  and  said,  aa  be 
hung  them  around  Alice's  neck,  "  There,  these  the 
oysters  made  for  you  years  ago  under  the  deep  blue 
i*oa.  They  are  for  a  wedding  gift  from  Kris.  They 
are  too  line  for  a  little  maid.  No  queen  has  prettier 
puarlu.  But  when  you  are  married  and  some  one 
you  love  vexea  you  or  is  unkind,  look  at  these  pearls, 
anil  foiT^ve,  oh !  a  hundred  times  over ;  twice,  thrice, 
for  every  pearl,  because  Kria  said  it.  You  wont 
understand  now,  but  some  day  you  will.  And,  Hugh, 
here  are  skates  for  you  and  this  bundle  of  books." 

"Thank  you,  air." 

"  And  these — and  these  for  my — for  Alice,"  and 
Kris  drew  forth  a  half-dozen  delicate  Eastern  scarves 

111  cast  thiiin,  laughing',  around  the  girl'a  neck  i 


HDXBEB  TWENry-TWO  97 

"  Tbanfa  yoa,"  he  returned,  "  I  ehaU  remeniber 
that,  and  now  be  still  a  little,  I  must  write  to  your 
mother,  and  you  must  give  her  my  letter  after  sh- 
has  my  present" 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  "  we  will." 

Then  Kris  lit  a  candle  and  took  paper  and  pen 
from  the  table,  and  as  they  sat  quietly  waiting,  full 
of  the  marvel  of  this  famous  adventure,  he  wrote 
busily,  now  and  then  pausing  to  smile  on  them,  until 
he  closed  and  gave  the  letter  to  the  boy. 

"  Be  careful  of  these  things,"  he  said,  "  for  now  I 
must  go." 

"And  will  you  nevah,  nevah  comeback?" 

"  My  God  !"  cried  the  man.  "  Never — perhaps 
never.  Dont  forget  me,  Alice,  Hugh."  And  this 
time  he  kissed  them  again  and  went  by  and  opened 
the  door  to  the  stairway. 

"  We  thank  you  ever  so  much,"  said  Hugh,  and 
standing  aside  he  waited  for  Alice  to  pass,  having  in 
his  child-like  ways  something  of  the  grave  courtesy  of 
the  ancestors  who  looked  down  on  him  from  the  wallti. 

Long  before  their  usual  hour  of  rising,  the  childron 
burst  into  the  mother's  room.  "  You  monkeys,"  she 
cried,  smiling ;  "  Merry  Christmas  to  you  I  What  is 
the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh  1  he  was  here !  he  did  come  I"  cried  Alice. 

"  Khwis  was  here,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  did  hear  him 
in  Uie  night,  and  I  told  Alice  it  was  Khwis,  and  site 
aaid  it  was  a  wobber,  and  I  said  it  wasn't  a  wobbcr. 
And  we  went  to  see,  and  it  was  a  man.  It  was  Khwis 
He  did  say  so." 
7 


98  BEST  BELRcnom 

"  What  I  a  man  at  night  in  the  houae  I  Are  yon 
crazy,  children  ?" 

''  And  Hugh  took  grandpapa's  sword,  and — " 

"  (.ireut-gwaiipapa's,"  said  Hugh,  with  atrict  ao- 
I'll  nicy. 

■  Vou  brave  boy  1"  cried  the  woman,  proudly. 
"  And  he  stole  nothing,  and,  oh  I  what  a  siUy 
tiile." 

"  Jiut  it  was  Khris,  mamma.  He  did  ^Te  us  things 
I  do  tell  you  it  was  Khwis  Kwingle." 

"  Oh !  he  gave  us  things  for  you,  and  for  me, 
and  for  Hucfh,  ami  he  gave  me  this,"  cried  Alice, 
wlio  had  kept  her  hand  behind  her,  and  now  threw 
(lie  ruyal  pearls  on  the  bed  amid  a  glory  of  Eastern 


VOMBEB  IWENTT-TWO  99 

^  What's  the  matter,  mamma,"  cried  Alice,  amazed 
at  the  unusual  look  the  calm  mother's  face  wore  as 
Hhe  arose  from  ihe  bed,  while  the  great  pearls 
tumbled  over  and  lay  on  the  sunlit  Boor,  and  the 
fairy  letter  fell  unheeded.  Her  thoughts  were  away 
in  the  desert  of  her  past  life. 

"  And  here,  I  forgot,"  said  Hugh,  "  Mr.  Khwis  did 
write  you  a  letter," 

"  Quick,"  she  cried.  "  Give  it  to  me,"  She  opened 
it  with  fierce  eagerness.  Then  she  said,  "  Go  away, 
leave  me  alone.  Yes,  yee,  I  will  talk  to  you  by  and 
by.  Go  now."  And  she  drove  the  astonished  chil- 
<bren  from  the  room  and  sat  down  with  her  letter. 

"  Dear  Alice  : — Shall  I  say  wife  ?  I  promised  to 
come  no  more  until  you  asked  me  to  come.  I  can 
stand  it  no  longer.  I  came  only  meaning  to  see  the 
dear  home,  and  to  send  you  and  my  dear  children  a 
remembrance,  but  I —  You  know  the  rest.  If  in 
those  dark  days  the  mother  care  and  fear  instiac- 
tJvely  set  aside  what  little  love  was  left  for  me  I  do 
not  now  wonder.  Was  it  well,  or  ill,  what  you  did 
when  yoo  bid  me  go?  In  God's  time  I  have  learned 
to  think  it  well.  That  hour  ia  to  me  now  like  a 
blurred  dream.  To^lay  I  can  bless  the  anger  and 
the  sense  of  duty  to  our  children  which  drove  me 
forth — too  debased  a  thing  to  realize  my  loss.  I 
have  won  again  my  self-control,  thank  God  I  am  u 
man  once  more.  You  have,  have  always  had,  my 
love.  You  have  to-day  again  a  dozen  times  tbe  for- 
tane  I  meanly  squandered.     I  shall  never  touih  it ; 


100  BEST  SELECTIONS 

it  is  yours  and  your  children's.  And  now,  Alice,  is 
■ill  love  ilcad  for  me?  And  is  it  Yee  or  No?  And 
shall  I  Ije  always  to  my  little  ones  Kris,  and  ton^ht 
•X  iiiyslorious  memory,  or  shall  I  be  once  more 

Your  Hugh  ? 
"  A  letttT  to  the  bank  will  find  me." 

As  Hhc  read,  the  quick  teara  came  aflood.  She 
tiiniwl  to  her  desk  and  wrote  in  tremulous  hoate, 
■■('innt;,  come  at  once,"  and  ringing  for  the  maid, 
sent  it  olV  to  the  ad<iress  he  gave.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  dressed  with  unusual  care.  At  the  sound  of 
tlic  wliislk-  of  the  train  she  went  down  to  the  door. 
I'ri;:-i'iitly,  a  strotig,  erw.t,  eager  man  came  swiftly  up 
tlif  piUliwiLy.     She  wiis  in  his  anna  a  minute  after, 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  101 

JuHt  shut  Up  your  eyea  and  fold  your  hands, 

Your  hands  like  the  leaf  of  a  rose ; 
And  wc  will  go  sailing  to  ihose  fair  lands 

That  never  an  atlas  shows. 
On  the  North  and  the  West  tbay  are  bounded  b\ 
rest, 

On  the  South  and  East  by  dreams ; 
Tis  a  country  ideal,  where  nothing  is  real, 

But  everything  only  seems. 

Just  drop  down  the  curtains  of  your  dear  ojea, 

Those  eyea  like  a  bright  blue-bell ; 
And  we  will  sail  out  under  star-lit  skiea 

To  the  land  where  the  fairies  dwell. 
Down  the  river  of  sleep  our  barque  shall  sweep, 

Till  it  reaches  that  mystical  Isle 
Which  no  man  hath  seen,  but  where  all  have  been, 

And  there  we  will  pause  awhile. 
I  will  croon  you  a  song  as  we  float  along 

To  that  shore  that  is  blessed  of  God, 
Then  ho  I  for  that  fair  land,  we're  off  for  that  rare 
land, 

That  Beautiful  land  of  Nod. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


BEST  B£L£cnojn 


THK  MYSTERIOUS  PORTRAIT:   A  STORY  OF 
JAPAN. 


IN'  the  little  Japanese  village  of  Yowcuski,  a  look- 
iiiff-gla**  was  an  unheard-of  tiling,  and  the  girla 
diii  not  even  know  wha.t  they  looked  like  except  on 
lii'jiring  tilt;  description  their  lovere  gave  of   their 

[HTsonal  beauty. 

Now  it  hapjienod  that  a  young  Japanese  one  day 
I'ii'kvd  up  in  tlie  street  a  small  pocket  hand-mirror. 

It  waa,  of  oourwc,  the  first  tunc  in  his  life  that 
Kiki-Tsum  had  ever  tistzed   on  such  a  thing.     He 


NUMBBB  TWENTY-TWO  103 

the  timfl,  uid  at  intervals  he  would  leave  his  work 
and  suddenly  appear  at  home  to  take  a  look  at  his 
treasure. 

Now,  in  Japan,  as  in  other  countries,  mysterious 
actions  and  irr^ular  proceedings  of  all  kinds  have  to 
be  explained  to  a  wife.  Lili-Tsee  did  not  under- 
stand why  her  husband  kept  appearing  at  all  hoars 
of  the  day.  Certainly  he  kissed  her  every  time  he 
came  in  like  this.  At  first  she  was  satisfied  at  his 
explanation  when  he  told  h^r  that  he  only  ran  in  for 
a  minute  to  see  her  pretty  face,  ^he  thought  it  wa.<i 
really  quite  natural  on  his  part,  but  when  day  after 
day  he  appeared,  and  always  with  the  same  solemn 
expression,  she  b^an  to  wonder  iu  her  heart  of 
hearts.  And  so  Lili-Tsee  fell  to  watching,  and  she 
noticed  that  he  never  went  away  until  he  bad  been 
alone  in  the  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
She  hunted  day  aftei  day  to  see  if  she  could  find 
some  trace  of  ans^hing  in  that  little  room  which  was 
at  all  unusual,  but  she  found  nothing. 

One  day,  however,  she  happened  to  come  in  sud- 
denly and  saw  her  husband  replacing  the  long  blue 
vase.  He  made  some  excuse  about  its  not  looking 
very  steady,  and  appeared  to  be  just  setting  it  right, 
and  Lili'Tsee  pretended  there  was  nothing  out  of  the 
common  in  his  putting  the  vase  straight.  Tlie  mo- 
ment he  had  gone,  though,  she  was  up  on  a  stool  like 
li^tning,  and  in  a  moment  she  had  fished  tlie  look- 
ing-glass out  of  the  vase.  Then  the  terrible  truth 
WM  clear.     What  was  it  she  saw  ? 

Why,  the  portrait  of  a  woman,  and  she  had  b«- 


104  BXST  SELECnONB 

lieved  that  Kiki-Taum  waa  so  good  aod  so  fond  and 
HO  true. 

Suddenly  a  fit  of  anger  seized  her,  and  she  gazed 
at  the  glass  again.  The  same  face  looked  at  her,  but 
sho  wondered  how  her  husband  could  admire  such  a 
face,  so  wicked  did  the  dark  eyes  look. 

She  had  no  heart  for  anj^thing,  and  did  not  even 
make  any  attempt  to  prepare  a  meal  for  her  hus- 
band. She  just  went  on,  nursing  the  portrait,  and 
at  the  same  time  her  wrath.  When  later  on  Kiki- 
Tsum  arrived,  he  was  surprised  to  find  nothing  ready 
for  their  evening  meal,  and  no  wife.  He  walked 
through  to  the  other  rooms. 

"  So  this  is  the  love  you  professed  for  me !     This 


NUMBER  TWKNTY-TWO  105 

"  Hear  him  I  He  wante  to  tell  me  I  do  not  know 
a  woman's  face  from  a  man's." 

Kiki-Taum  waa  wild  with  indignation,  and  the 
quarrel  went  on.  The  loud  angry  words  attracted 
the  notice  of  a  Japanese  priest  who  waa  passing. 

"  My  children,"  he  said,  putting  his  head  in  at  Uie 
door,  "  why  this  unseemly  anger?  Why  this  dis- 
pute ?" 

"  Father,  my  wife  is  mad." 

"  All  women  are  so,  my  son,  more  or  less.  You 
were  wrong  to  expect  perfection.  It  is  no  use  getting 
angry ;  all  wives  are  trials." 

"  My  husband  haa  a  portrait  of  a  woman  hidden 
in  ray  rose  leaf  vaae." 

"  I  swear  that  I  have  no  portrait  but  that  of  my 
poor,  dead  father." 

"  My  children,  my  children,  show  me  the  por- 
trait," 

The  priest  took  the  glass  and  looked  at  it  earnestly. 
He  then  bowed  low  before  it  and  in  an  altered  tone, 
aaid :  "  My  children,  settle  your  quarrel  and  live 
peaceably  together.  You  are  both  in  the  wrong. 
This  portrait  is  of  a  saintly  and  venerable  priest.  I 
know  not  how  you  could  mistake  so  holy  a  face." 
He  blessed  the  husband  and  wife,  and  then  went 
away,  carrying  with  him  the  glass  which  hud 
wrought  such  mischief  to  place  with  the  prucioua 
relics  of  the  church. 

Qeohoe  Japy. 


SE3T   SELECTIOKB 


THE  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 

(-BrmklDgHomarios.'-) 

IT  hanga  'mong  a  hundred  others 
And  many  granticr  far, 
Yet  it  catchee  the  eye  from  a  dislAnoe 

Like  a  luminous  guiding  aUur, 
And  I  feel  as  I  pauae  before  it 

A  flomething  stir  in  my  heart, 
Then  I  know  while  the  tcare  are  starting 
That  this  is  the  trueet  art 

To  show  the  world  how  loreligfat 


NUMBER  TWBSTT-^rwO 

The  boy  stands  in  awkward  sileQce, 

Ash&med  that  he  wants  to  cry, 
Nor  knows  the  depth  of  the  motheivlor* 

From  whose  shelter  he  would  fly. 
I  know  that  be  has  in  the  pockets 

Of  hia  clothes  that  fit  so  ill, 
Money  she's  saved  and  hoarded 

Ab  only  a  mother  wilL 

The  boy  will  find  in  his  ftitare 

Many  hard,  homesick  days, 
Ere  he's  fitted  to  new  surroundings, 

To  city  men  and  ways. 
But  I  feel  that  mother's  anguish 

When  at  last  the  time  shall  come 
That  the  lad  in  the  far-off  city 

Ceases  to  sigh  for  homa 

When,  his  horizon  broadened, 

He  feels  he  has  no  part 
In  the  narrow  life  of  the  farm-house 

Which  used  to  fill  his  heart. 
Tlten  many  times  the  mother 

Will  watch  from  that  door,  I  trow, 
Hoping  to  see  her  absent  boy, 

Who  comes  so  seldom  now. 

To-night  as  the  twilight  deepens, 
They  will  sit  in  that  darkened  room, 

Each  thinking  of  the  future 
Of  him  who  has  gone  from  home. 


<  BEST   BELECTIOMB 

But  at  sunrise  on  the  morrow 
The  farm  work  must  be  done, 

And  there's  more  for  those  remainii^, 
Now  that  one  is  gone. 

So  then  with  a  sigh  the  mother 

Will  turn  to  her  work  again 
And  forget  in  the  long  day's  labor 

A  part  of  her  bitter  pain. 
And  the  thrush  will  sing  in  the  elm  tree 

Beside  the  kitchen  door, 
Nor  miss  the  cheery  whistle, 

Which  answered  her  before^ 


Ah,  ye:*,  the  ties  now  broken. 


HUMBEB  TWIMTT-TWO  iOd 

might  be  termed  a  &ahioiiable  boarding-bouse,  but  it 
was  genteel,  and,  as  the  majority  of  CaUfomia  hotels 
generally  are,  it  waa  comfortable  and  pleasant 

I  soon  made  acquaintances,  anil  among  the  most 
valued  waa  the  family  of  Dr  Blake,  which  consisted 
of  the  doctor,  a  sterling  man  and  skillful  physician, 
hia  wife,  and  only  daughter,  Lilly,  a  lovely  child  of 
eight,  who  was  the  sunshine  of  the  establishment,  a 
general  hvorite,  and  the  special  care  and  idol  of  our 
UtUe  heathen,  Ah  Yet 

A  word  or  two  about  Ah  Yet  He  was  a  "  bright 
little  CU88,"  as  they  say  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
coast,  about  twelve  years  old.  His  parents  were 
drowned  at  Sacramento  in  the  flood  of  1870,  and 
he  had  drifted  down  to  'Frisco,  where  his  "  cousin," 
our  cook,  looked  after  him  in  an  Oriental  way ; 
that  waa  to  ignore  the  child  almost,  but  to  oc- 
casionally see  that  his  wardrobe  was  in  order  and  to 
insist  on  his  being  in  the  house  at  eight  o'clock 
evenings. 

It  was  near  Chriatmas,  and  little  Lilly  was  almost 
wild  with  anticipations  and  plana.  One  day,  mee1> 
ing  Ah  Yet  in  the  hall,  she  said : 

"  Oh  I  Ah  Yet,  Christmaa  is  coming  1" 

"  No  sabbe,"  replied  Ah  Yet.  "  What  you  call  um 
Clismus?" 

Whereupon  Lilly  tried  to  tell  the  poor  little 
heathen  the  beautiful  story  of  the  Babe  of  Bethle- 
hem. I  doubt  if  the  China-boy  was  much  impressed 
with  the  recital  until  our  little  missionary  digressed 
from  the  story  and  endeavored  to  explain  to  the  little 


110  BEST  SELBCTnOm 

Celestial  the  custom  of  giving  aod  recnving  gifia: 
Tliis  fieemed  to  interest  him  greatly. 

'■  Wha'  fo'  you  give  um  plesenta  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  Lilly,  "  we  love  oar  Meads  and 
wish  them  to  know  it." 

"AUee  same,  me  give  pleeeut  my  fland,  bim  know 
I  lubbee  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lilly,  "  papa  is  going  to  have  a  troe  in 
the  parlor,  and  everybody  in  the  bouse  who  wants  to 
can  hang  presents  on  it." 

Ah  Yet  said  nothing,  but  hia  little  black  eyes  lis- 
tened, aTid  something  very  like  a  smile  came  over  his 
yellow  face. 

A  (iiiy  or  two  later  he  met  the  doctor  in  the  ball, 


NL'MBKR   TWENTY-TWO  111 

qaired  if  the  doctor  had  sent  Ah  Yet  anywhere.  The 
doctor  assured  him  he  had  not 

"Him  no  come  back — nine  o'clock.  Maybe  he 
get  hurt.    Suppose  um  cable-car  ketchee  him?" 

The  doctor  told  him  that  probably  the  lad  had 
stayed  longer  than  usual,  being  attracted  by  the 
shop-windows.  The  cousin  left  the  office,  but 
grumbled:  "  No  likee!  Ah  Yet  heap  good  boy.  No 
Ukee  him  get  hurt." 

About  half-past  ten  a  ring  at  the  doctor's  telephone 
interrupted  our  chat     The  doctor  acBwered  it. 

"HeUo!" 

"  Is  this  Dr.  Blake's  office?" 

«Y€8." 

"  This  is  the  Receiving  Hospital.  There  is  a  little 
China-boy  here  who  keeps  asking  for  you.  He  has 
been  badly  hurt;,  and  can't  last  long." 

"  I  will  be  right  down,"  said  the  doctor. 

We  called  the  cousin  and  went  down  to  the  Re- 
ceiving Hospital,  where  we  found  poor  little  Ah  Yet. 
He  had  been  stoned  by  a  crowd  of  hoodlums,  and 
was  sinking  rapidly.  When  he  saw  us  he  brightened 
up. 

"  Doctor,  you  sabbee  Clismus-tlee  ?" 

"  Yea,  Ah  Yet." 

"  Me  ketchee  plesent  for  Miss  Lillee  Clismus-tlee." 
Here  he  took  a  packet  from  the  inside  of  his  blouse 
and  gave  it  to  the  doctor. 

"  You  no  forget  Miss  Lillee  Clismus-tlee  ?"  And 
the  litUe  life  was  ended. 

We  opened  the  packet.     It  contained  some  can- 


112  BEST   3FI,KmONT 

died   citron,    nuttt,   and   Chinese  confectton»,   some 
gaudy  paper  liowcre,  and  a  hideous  doll. 

The  peo[tIe  at  the  lioardin^-houee  thought  it  aii 
unusual  tiling  Uiat  we  gavf  the  little  heathen  a 
Christian  burial,  hut  we  tliouj^ht  Ah  Vet's  cose  un- 
usual.   What  do  ywu  think? 

SHYLOCK  LENDS  THE  DUCATS. 

KitriM  from  "  ThB  UerchHnt  of  Venice.  "  Arruiged  Ibr 

eontrlbuleil  by  Oeor^  B.  UynBou.  Prlaolpal  oT  Ibe  Ni 
ScbDOl  or  EioaaUoD  &nd  Orutur?,  Fhiladslphlk. 

Enter  Bab-^anio  and  Shylock. 
Shyhck. — Three  thousand  ducats, — welL 
Ba»aanio. — Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 


MUHBEB   TWENTY-TWO  113 

another  to  the  Indies :  I  understand,  moreorer,  upon 
the  Rialto,  he  hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a  fourth  for 
England,  and  other  adventures  he  hath  squandered 
abroad ;  but  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men : 
there  be  land-rats  and  water-rata,  land-thieves  and 
water-thievea, — I  mean,  pirates:  and  then,  there  is 
the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks.  The  man  is, 
notwithstanding,  sufficient :  three  thousand  ducats — I, 
think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bagsanio. — Be  assured  you  may. 

Shylock. — I  will  be  assured  I  may ;  and  that  I  may 
be  assured,  I  will  bethink  me.  May  I  speak  with 
Antonio  ? 

Baasanw. — If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shylock. — Yes,  to  amell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habita- 
tion which  your  prophet,  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the 
Devil  into.  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk 
with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so  following;  but  I 
will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with 
you.  What  news  on  the  Rialto  ? — Who  is  he  comes 
here? 

Bnasanio. — This  ia  Signior  Antonio. 

[Erii  Bassanio, 

Shylock. — How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks ! 
I  bate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian ; 
But  more  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brin^  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails, 


114  BGBT  SBLBcnORB 

K\'en  there  where  merchants  most  do  oongregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  wdl-won  thrift, 
Which  lie  calls  interest     Cmsed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  foi^ive  himl 

Enter  Bassahio  and  Antonio. 

BoManio. — [After  a  paw«.]  Shylock,  do  you  hear? 

Shj/lock. — I  am  debating  of  my  present  store. 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe. 
Will  furnish  me.     But  soft!  how  many  months 
Do  j'ou  desire? — Rest  you  fair,  good  signior; 


NUXBEB  TWENTY-TWO  116 

Slii/lock. — When  Jacob  giax'd  Mb  uncle  I^ban'e 
sheep, 
— This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abram  was 
The  third  possessor ;  ay,  he  was  the  third — 

Antonio. — And  what  of  him?  did  he  take  inten.--! 

Shylock. — No,  not  take  interest;  not,  as  you  woul  i 
say, 
Directly  Interest. 

Antonio. — Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 
The  Devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness, 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek ; 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart. 
O,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath  I 

Shyhck. — Three    thousand    ducats; — 'tie    a   good 
round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  rae  see  the  rate. 

Antonio. — Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholdea  to 
you? 

Shylock. — Signior  Antonio,  many  s  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  money  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  suff'rance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spet  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to  then ;  you  corae  to  me,  and  you  say, 
"Shylock,  we  would  have  monies:"  you  say  so: 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 


116  BEST  BBLECTtOHB 

And  foot  me,  as  you  apum  a  stranger  cur 
O^'tT  yuiir  threnhokl :  riionicy  is  your  suit 
What  MhouM  I  say  to  you?    Should  I  not  say, 
•  I  lath  a  do<!  money?  in  it  possible, 
A  tur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats?"  or 
Shall  I  heiid  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key. 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whiap'ring  bumbteneas, 
Say  this: — 

'•  Fair  sir,  you  apet  on  me  on  Wednesday  last; 
Yi>u  spum'd  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
Vim  called  me  dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I'll  lend  you  thus  much  monies?" 

Antonio. — I  am  as  like  to  ciill  thee  so  again, 
To  npet  on  thee  again,  to  apum  thee  too. 
If  thuU  wilt  lend  this  inuney,  Icitd  it  ixU 


KUUBEK  TWENTY-TWO  117 

In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  as9 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  it  pleascth  me. 

Antonu). — Content,  in  faith  :  I'llaeal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say  there  is  much  kindneSH  in  tho  Jew. 

Baaganio. — You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me ; 
I'U  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity, 

Antonio. — Why,  fear  not,  man ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it; 
Within  these  two  months, — that's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires, — I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shylock- — O,  father  Abram  I  what  these  Christians 

Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  tliem  suspect 

The  thoughts  of  others  I — Pray  yon,  tell  me  this ; 

If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  nliuuld  I  gain 

By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 

A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 

la  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  ^onta.     I  say. 

To  buy  his  favor  I  extend  this  friendship: 

If  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not  adieu  ; 

And,  for  my  love,  I  prjiy  you,  wrong  me  not. 

Antonio. — Yea,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Skylock. — Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's. 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  l)ond. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  3traij,dit; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  tbc  fearful  (ruard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave,  and  presently 


118  HBST  sELEcnosa 

I  will  be  with  you.  [Kril 

Antonin. — Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 
This  Hebrew  will  turn  Cliristian :  he  grows  kind. 
Bojsi'tnlo. — I  like  not  fair  t«rma,  and  a  villain'rt 

mind. 
Aiiioiiu). — Come  on ;  in  this  thore  can  be  no  dis- 
may; 
My  HhipB  oome  home  a  month  before  the  day.  [fijriutt 

SHAEESPEARJi. 


OVER  AND  OVER  AGAIN. 
CoDlribuled  br  Un.  E.  B1lerl<:>i,  CUn'm.  Mu 


0' 


VER  and  over  again, 

mattur  which  way  I  tarn. 


ROMBBK  'IHEMTV-TWO  11 

Orer  and  over  again 

The  brook  through  the  meadow  flowa 
And  over  and  over  again 

The  ponderous  mill  wheel  goes; 
Once  doing  will  not  suffice, 

Though  doing  be  not  in  vain ; 
And  a  blessing,  failing  us  once  or  twice, 

May  come  if  we  try  again. 

The  path  that  has  once  been  trod 

Is  never  so  rough  to  our  feet ; 
And  a  leeson  we  once  have  learned 

Is  never  so  hard  to  repeat 
Though  sorrowful  tears  may  fall, 

And  the  heart  to  its  depth  be  riven 
With  storm  and  tempest  we  need  them  all 

To  render  ue  meet  for  heaven. 


HOW  HEZEKIAH  STOLE  THE  SPOONS. 

OMlMbiitad  hj  Hn.  H.  J<nepliliia  Aihlsr,  Columbai,  Ohio, 

Fa  quiet  little  Ohio  village,  many  years  ago,  was  - 
a  tavern  where  the  stages  always  changed,  and 
the  passengers  expected  to  get  breakfast.  The  land- 
lord of  the  sud  hotel  was  noted  for  his  tricks  upon 
travelers,  who  were  allowed  to  get  fairly  seated  at  the 
table,  when  the  driver  would  blow  his  horn  (after 
taking  his  "horn"),  and  sing  out,  "St^e  ready, 
gentlemen !" — whereupon  the  passengers  were  obliged 
to  hurry  out  to  take  their  seaL<4,  leaving  a  scarcely 
tasted  broakiast  behind  them,  for  which,  however, 


120  BEST  SELEcnONB 

they  had  to  pay  over  fifty  cents  I  One  day,  when 
till;  stage  waa  approaching  the  house  of  this  obliging 
htiuUonl,  a  passenger  said  ^at  he  had  often  heard 
ul'  tlie  landlord's  trick,  and  he  was  afraid  they  would 
nut  be  able  to  eat  any  breakfast. 

"What! — how?  No  breakfast!"  exclaimed  the 
re^t. 

"  Exactly  so,  genta,  and  you  may  as  well  keep  your 
seats  and  tin." 

*'  Don't  they  expect  passengers  to  breakfast?" 

"  Oh !  yea !  they  expect  you  to  it,  but  not  to  eat  ii 
I  am  under  the  impreaaion  that  there  is  an  under- 
staiidinf;  between  the  landlord  and  the  driver,  that 
for  MHndry  and  various  drinks,  etc.,  the  latter  starta 


NUHBKB  TWENTT-TWO  121 

to  the  dining-raom,  and  oommencad  a  fierce  on- 
slaught upon  the  edibles,  though  Hez  took  his  time. 
Scarcely  had  they  tested  their  co£Fee  when  they 
heard  the  unwelcome  sound  of  the  horn,  and  the 
driver  exclaim,  "  Stage  ready  I"  Up  rise  eight 
grumbling  passengers,  pay  their  Sfly  cents,  and  take 
their  seats. 

"All  on  board,  gents?"  inquires  the  host. 

"  One  missing,"  said  they. 

Proceeding  to  the  dining-room  the  host  finds  Hez 
very  coolly  helping  himself  to  an  immense  piece  of 
iteak,  the  size  of  a  horse's  hip. 

"  You'll  be  left,  sir  I    Stage  going  to  start." 

"Wall,  I  hain't  got  nothin'  agin  it,"  drawls  oat 
Hez. 

"  Can't  wait,  sir — better  take  your  seat" 

"  111  he  blowed  ef  I  do,  nother,  till  I've  got  my 
breah&st  t  I  paid  for  it,  and  I  am  goio'  to  get  the 
ndee  on't  it ;  and  ef  you  calkelate  I  hain't  you  are 
mistaken." 

So  the  stf^e  did  start,  and  left  Hez,  wlio  continued 
his  attack  upon  the  edibles.  Biscuits,  coffee,  etc, 
disappeared  before  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  land- 
lord. 

"  Say,  squire,  them  there  cakes  is  'bout  eat — fetch 
on  another  grist  on  'em.  You "  (to  the  waiter), 
"  'nother  cup  of  that  ere  coffee.  Paaa  them  egf^a. 
Raise  your  own  pork,  squire?  This  is  'mazin'  nice 
ham.  T^and  'bout  here  tolerable  cheap,  squire? 
Hain't  much  maple  timber  in  these  parts,  hev  ye? 
Dew  right  smart  trade,  squire,  I  calkelate?"    And 


122  HBar  flELEcnom 

lliua  Hez  kept  iimzzin;;  the  tamllord  unti!  lie  had 
made  a  hearty  meat, 

"  Say,  squire,  now  I'm  'bout  to  conclude  paying 
my  devowere  to  this  ere  table,  but  just  give  ue  a  bowl 
i)[  bread  and  milk  to  top  off  with ;  I'd  bo  much 
obleeged  tew  ye." 

80  out  go  the  landlord  and  waiter  for  the  bowl, 
milk,  and  bread,  and  set  them  before  him. 

"  Spoon,  tew,  ef  you  pluose." 

But  no  spoon  could  be  found.  Landlord  was  sure 
hi;  had  plenty  of  silver  ones  lying  on  the  table  when 
llie  stage  stopped. 

"Say,  dew  ye?  dew  ye  think  them  passengers  is 
B'lin'  to  pay  ye  for  a  breakfuas  and  not  ^t  no  com- 
iK'nanshiin  ?" 


MUMBES  TWENTY-TWO  123 

ca&elate  I  got  the  valee  on't  HI    You'll  find  them 
spoons  in  the  coffee-pot." 

"  Go  ahead !    All  aboard,  driver." 

The  landlord  stared. 


THE  HUNT. 

btiaetlhM''TlMLi>TBChue."    Contributed  l>7  HIn  Sua  BlgomiMr 


WHAT  delight 
To  back  the  flying  steed,  that  challenges 
The  wind  for  speed  I — seems  native  more  of  air 
Than  earth ! — whose  burden  only  lends  him  fire  I 
Whose  soul,  in  his  task,  turns  labor  into  sport  I 
Who  makes  your  pastime  his  I     I  sit  him  now  i 
He  takes  away  my  breath ! — He  makes  me  reel 
I  touch  not  earth — I  see  not — hear  not — All 
Is  ecstasy  of  motion  I 
Then  the  leap  I 

To  see  the  saucy  barrier,  and  know 
The  mettle  that  can  clear  it.     Then  your  time 
To  prove  you  master  of  the  manage.     Now 
You  keep  him  well  together  for  a  space. 
Both  hoTse  and  rider  braced  as  you  were  one, 
Scanning  the  distance — then  you  give  him  rein 
And  let  him  fly  at  it,  and  o'er  he  goes, 
Light  as  a  bird  on  wing. 

And  &en  the  hounds,  sir  I  Nothing  I  admire 
Beyond  the  running  of  the  well-trained  pack. 
The  training's  everything!    Keen  on  tliu  scent  I 


124  SEST  SEl.£CriOK9 

At  fault  nonu  lusing  heart  I — but  nil  nt  work  I 

None  leiiving  hia  task  to  another! — answering 

The  watfihful  hwiitaman's  cwition.  (thtx;k.  or  cheer, 

Aa  at«e«J  his  riiler'a  rein  I    Away  they  go ! 

How  doaa  thoy  keep  together  I — What  a,  pack  I 

Nor  tuni,  nor  ditch,  nor  atrearii  divides  them — aa 

They  moved  with  one  intelligence,  act,  will  I 

And  then  the  concert  Ihcy  kiteji  U|i  I—enough 

To  make  one  tenant  of  the  merry  wood, 

To  list  their  jocund  music! 

I  love  it ! 

To  wood  and  glen,  liamleL  and  town,  it  is 

A  laughing  holiiiay  1 — Not  a  hill-top 

But  thon's  alive  I — Footmen  with  horaemea  Tie. 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  125 

Oimmed  the  clear  eyee,  has  bid  the  red  lips  tade, 
And  the  sofl  motion  of  the  lithe,  soft  limbs 
Into  hIow  creepuig,  like  the  tsnail's,  liast  made  ? 

How  shall  I  cheer  thee?     I  will  crowQ  thy  head 
With  gleaming  silver ;  for  youth's  timid  sips 
Of  power  give  thee  the  best  of  all — the  power 
To  comfort;  seam  thy  softly  faded  face 
With  deep  experience ;  make  thy  faltering  step 
Music  most  dear  within  thy  dwelling-place. 

What  wilt  thou  bring  me,  age,  when  from  my  heart 
Thou  tak'st  the  light  of  youth,  who  gives  the  hour» 
Such  brilliant,  rapid  flight ;  where  all  my  powers 
>Shall,  one  by  one,  lose  the  fresh,  vigorous  play 
That  makes  their  excuse  a  pure  delight? 
Oh  I  how  I  dread  to  see  youth  pass  away. 

What  shall  I  bring  thee?    I  will  bring  to  thee 
Long  hours  of  pure  companionship,  whose  wide 
And  perfect  happiness  shall  with  thee  bide 
I^ng  after  earth  has  passed.     I'll  brinj;  tt>  thee 
Fair  memory's  afterglow,  thy  husiiaiurs  trust. 
Thy  children's  love,  thy  friend's  fidelity. 

What  canst  thou  give  me,  age,  to  make  a  life 
With  thee  endurable?    Then  shall  I  know 
The  embers  of  the  passions  that  now  glow 
And  bum  within  my  fenid  heart.    Canst  thou, 
The  forerunner  of  death,  find  aught  to  ea-se 
The  diead  descent  foreshadowed  on  thy  brow? 


126  BEST  8ELECTI0N8 

What  can  I  give  thee?    0,  thou  doubting  hearti 
I'll  lend  thee  (icntly  to  the  welcome  grave, 
Where  thnu  nhalt  leave  thy  hody,  pasaiou'a  slave, 
Worti  lint  luic]  u^clea^  liip[>G<l  in  dreamless  rest, 
Thy  ylon-iitf;  s])irit,  as  it  hursta  ita  cell, 
Shall  own,  exultant,  age's  gifts  are  best. 

A  BIG  ENOUGH  FAMILY. 

Contributed  by  Hn.  A.  M.  Baldwin.  Qraton,  M.  T. 

I  THINK  there  was  iliilens  enough. 
There  was  Kittie  and  I'oinp  and  me; 
A  cut  tiiiil  a  dog  and  a  little  boy 
Are  it  lii;r  enough  faniilj'. 


NDHBEB  TWENTY-nrO  L 

And  when  I  look  in  the  glass  they  Uagh — 

It's  funny,  I  suppose, 
But  nobody  ever  did  that  before 

When  anything  hurted  my  nose. 

When  papa  comes  in  he  Bays,  "  Hullo, 

You  little  rat!  how'a  sis?" 
He  means  that  wiggly  thing  up-ataire 

The  cook  calls  "  Little  Mies," 
That's  got  the  puckera  in  her  skin 

And  squinties  in  her  eyes, 
And  lookij  like  a  'Gyptian  mummy, 

Specially  when  she  cries. 

Her  nose  is  ten  times  hroker'n  mine, 

Don't  look  like  a  nose  a  bit; 
It's  got  little  holes,  but  not  any  bone, 

And  mamma  keeps  pinching  it. 
Jack  Wilder's  got  a  brother  now 

'At  can  walk  and  pitch  a  baJl. 
Why  didn't  they  get  a  child  like  that 

'Stead  of  that  thing  in  a  shawl  ? 

Anyhow,  I've  got  Pomp  and  Kit, 

They  know  a  lot  fer  true. 
They  scoot  when  they  see  that  woman  come 

And  that's  'lactly  what  I  do. 
She  can't  catch  ns,  but  when  she  says 

That  baby's  the  image  of  me, 
I  wish  that  Pomp  and  Kit  and  I 

Was  all  the  lamily. 


BB8T  BELECTIONS 


JOAN  OF  ARC'S  FAREWELL. 

FAREWEL,  ye  mountaina !  ye  beloved  gladee, 
Ye  lone  and  peaceful  valleys,  fere  ye  well ; 
Throujrh  you  Johanna  never  more  may  stray, 
For  aye  Johanna  bids  you  now  ferewell, 
W  iiuMilw  which  I  have  watered,  and  ye  trees 
Wliii'li  I  have  planted,  stUl  in  beauty  bloom  I 
Fiiri'ivcll,  ye  grottoea  and  ye  crystal  spriogs, 
Swiiet  echo,  vocal  spirit  of  the  vale. 
Who  siing'rtt  responsive  to  my  simple  strain, 
Joh.inna  goes,  but  ne'er  returns  again. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  129 

Thou  in  mde  armor  must  thy  limbs  invest, 

A  plate  of  steel  upon  tliy  bosom  wear, 

Vain  earthly  love  may  never  stir  thy  breast. 

Nor  passion's  sinful  glow  be  kindled  there. 

Ne'er  with  the  bride-wreath  shall  thy  locks  hn  dreseed, 

Nor  on  thy  bosom  bloom  an  infiint  fnir. 

But  war's  triumphant  glory  sliall  be  thine  I 

Thy  martial  fame  all  women's  shiill  outehine, 

For  when  in  flight  the  stoutest  hearts  despair. 

When  direful  ruin  threatens  France  forlorn. 

Then  thou  aloft  my  oriflamme  shalt  bear, 

And  swiftly  aa  the  reaper  mows  the  corn. 

Thou  Shalt  lay  low  the  haughty  conqueror. 

His  fortune's  wheel  thou  rapidly  shalt  turn, 

To  Gaul's  heroic  sons  deliverance  bring, 

Relieve  beleagured  Rheims  and  crown  the  King." 

The  Heavenly  Spirit  promised  me  a  sign, 

He  sends  me  the  helmet,  it  hath  come  from  Him. 

Its  iron  fitteth  me  with  strength  divine, 

I  feel  the  coun^e  of  the  cherubim.    As  with  a  mighty 

wind 
It  drives  me  forth  to  join  the  battle's  din. 
The  clanging  trumpets  sound  the  chargers  near, 
And  the  load  war-cry  thunders  in  mine  ear. 


Hl^T  BHL^X-n(>.^8 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  VIOLIN. 

by  Edgftt  8.  Wsraor,  Kditar  ot  •■  WtrBor'i  Hagwdna,* 


Soene.— A  dingy  (Klc  room  in  ■  wreiahed  Mnaneni.  A  bit  ot  ekivllr 
■luck  la  Ml  old  biille  glv«  a  Iiini.  itomnT  light;  nnnnn^  ■tMdu^^l 
mnve  about  Lhe  iciuni ;  u  rlckeiy  chair,  4  UiM».  a  pile  ot  (Iran'  Ilini  >crv» 
for  a  twd  A  msa  auadabytbo  laMe  lining  ■  vliiliii  Irniii  [11  CMte.  He 
loucbealt  lU  Di«n  UiucblliB  IblDgs  thsrlove  b»t  ll«  bolibi  |[  agaliiiil 
big  huagec-iraiteil  hoe,  and  talks  to  it  m  If  It  llTad  and  uiulomood  all 


IT  has  come  at  last,  old  comrade,  it  has  come  at 
last — the  time  when  you  and  I  muat  say  good- 


HUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  131 

wealth!  And  all  for  you — you  thing  without  a 
atomach.  You  cannot  know  hunger,  you,  body 
without  a  soul.     Stay — am  I  aure  of  that?" 

The  man  passes  his  dngers  over  the  strings  and 
bends  hia  head  to  listen.  The  soft  vibrations  follow 
each  other  like  sweet,  half- forgotten  thoughts. 

"  Your  E-9tring  is  a  trifle  flat,"  says  the  man, 
"Well,  it  doesn't  matter." 

He  rises  hastily,  possessed  by  a  sudden  determina- 
tion, opens  the  case,  and  is  about  to  thrust  the  violin 
inside,  when  he  stops.  A  faint  tremor  of  sound  is 
still  audible.  It  seems  almost  like  a  whisper  of 
pain.  The  man  lifts  the  violin  again  in  his  arms  and 
lays  his  cheek  upon  it. 

"  What,  old  comrade,  does  it  hurt  you,  too  ?  Ah ! 
I've  wronged  you.  You  have  a  heart.  You  can 
feel.     I  almost  believe  you  can  rcmeml>er. 

"  Let  me  see.  How  long  has  it  been  ?  Twenty, 
thirty,  thirty-five  years.  Think  of  that,  old  com- 
rade^ Thirty-five  years !  The  average  lifetime  of 
man  we  have  been  together.  And  I  knew  you  long 
before  that  You  were  in  a  funny  old  shop,  kept  by 
a  man  who  had  owned  you  longer  than  I  have.  He 
would  show  you  to  the  people  who  caine,  and  al- 
lowed them  to  read  your  inscription,  'Cremona, 
1731.'  But  he  would  not  sell  you.  It  ia  not  prob- 
able that  he  was  ever  hungry.  I  loved  yoii  then,  you 
inanimate  thing  of  wood.  I  loved  to  hold  you  and 
hear  you  sing.  I  longed  for  you,  as  I  had  never 
longed  for  anything  before.  One  day  the  old  man 
•eat  for  me. 


132  BEST   SKLb-ITIOXS 

" '  Bring  me  your  old  violin,'  ho  Miiid,  '  and  you 
shall  have  the  Cremona.' 

"  '  To  keep !'  I  axclaimud. 

"'Yes,'  said  the  old  man,  'to  keep.  Fori  am 
aure  you  will  keep  it.  I'm  old.  Some  one  else  will 
aooii  take  possession  here,  and  thn  Oemona  might 
be  sold  into  strange  hands.  I  uhould  not  like  that 
I  would  rather  give  it  to  you.' 

"So  I  took  you  home  with  me  and  sat  up  half  the 
night  drawing  the  bow  softly  over  your  strings.  I 
was  the  happiest  l>oy  in  the  world,  I  think.  I  laid 
you  where,  if  I  waked  in  the  night,  I  could  reach 
out  and  touch  you.  1  would  not  have  taken  a  king- 
dom in  exchange  for  you  then.     Ah  1  but  then  I  wrs 


NUXBER  TWENTY-TWO  133 

quivering  of  youi  strings.  There  were  tears  in 
many  eyee  when  we  had  finished,  and  she— I  think 
the  music  had  taken  possession  of  her.  For  shi' 
roee,  crying  out : 

" '  No,  no  1  It  is  not  the  last,  the  world  is  full  of 
rosea.  See !'  and  she  threw  a  great  armfiil  of  white 
and  red  blossoms. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  loved  me  best,  or  you  ?  It  was 
in  the  time  of  roses,  when  she,  the  rose  of  all  the 
world,  lay  dead.  You  must  remember  that,  old 
comrade.  When  it  was  dark,  when  all  the  rest  had 
gone  and  left  her,  we  went  to  say  good-bye.  The 
world  was  full  of  roses  then,  and  I  heaped  them  over 
her.  Then  you  sang.  Oh  !  how  you  sang.  I  have 
always  believed  that  her  soul  was  borne  away  on  the 
winge  of  your  song,  carrying  the  perfume  of  the  rosee 
with  it.  The  next  time  we  played,  someone  threw  a 
rose  and  I  set  my  heel  upon  it  What  right  had 
roees  to  hloom  when  she  was  dead  7 

"  We  have  done  badly  since  then,  you  and  I. 
Someway,  things  ceased  to  seem  worth  striving  for. 
And  you  have  been  dearer,  because  you  were  the 
only  one  who  knew  and  understood.  And  yet  I  said 
you  had  no  soul.  Forgive  me,  old  comrade  I  A  man 
is  not  to  be  blamed  for  what  he  says  when  he's  hun- 

"  Ah,  what  a  fool  I  am  ;  maundering  away  to  an 
old  fiddle  when  I  might  be  filling  my  empty  atom- 
ach !" 

The  man  sprang  up,  thruat  the  violin  rudely  into 
its  case,  closed  the  lid  with  a  bang,  seized  it  and 


134  BEST  sELKfrriONa 

stopped,  listening.  The  strings  were  quivering  from 
his  rough  handling.  He  beard  a  sigh,  faint  as  the 
larewell  breiith  from  the  !ii*3  of  a  loved  one  djTng, 
The  man  set  his  feet  hard,  toiik  another  step,  stopped 
again.  Then,  auddunly,  he  vlaspetl  the  violin  in  hia 
arnjB. 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot.  I  will  not !  It  may 
be  folly ;  it  is  folly.  It  is  nmdneas.  No  matter,  t 
will  not  do  it,  I'm  not  hungry  now." 

The  man  opens  the  case,  lifto  the  violin  again,  and 
holda  it  in  his  arms  as  if  it  were  a  child. 

"  To  think  that  I  over  dreamed  of  selling  you,  my 
treasure  1  But  a  devil  pronipted  nie — the  demon  of 
hunger.  It  is  gone  now.  I  am  quite  content,  quite 
satisfied.     Come,  sing  to  me,  and   I  shall  he  alto- 


NUHBES  TWENTY-TWO  135 

and  how  they  respond!  They  ehiver  with  soba; 
they  vibrate  with  laughter;  they  shout  in  exultji- 
tion. 

"Hear!  hear!  my  comrade!"  cries  the  man. 
"  Bravos !  encores !  Ah,  we  have  conquertxl  the 
world  to-night  How  the  lights  glitter!  Tliis  is 
ecstasy — this  is  heaven !" 

Wilder  and  wilder  grows  the  music.  Faster  and 
faster  flies  the  bow. 

Snap !  a  string  breaks.     Snap !  another. 

The  weird  strains  sink  to  a  wailiii",  minor  key. 
The  arm  that  holds  the  bow  grows  unsteady.  Tlie 
wild  eyes  cease  their  fcvorirfh  sliitlinj:  and  fustf" 
ttiemselves  upon  one  spot  at  the  ri^rlit.  Tlio  tense 
features  relax  into  a  smile.  The  voice  is  very  low 
and  very  tender : 

"  One  more  rose,  my  benuty,  my  queen  of  all  the 
world.  The  lights  are  growing  dim.  My  sight  ie 
failing.     I  can  see  only  you,  only  you." 

Snap !     The  last  string  breaks. 

Scene. — The  same  as  at  first  The  candle,  the 
chair,  the  table,  the  straw — yes,  and  the  man,  too. 
But  be  lies  prone  upon  his  face,  and  under  him  is  a 
handful  of  wooden  fragments,  upon  one  of  which  is 
the  inscription — 

"Cremona,  1731." 

Margaret  Mantel  MERitii.i,. 


BEST  SELEtTIOSS 


THE  BABIES  AI-L  ARE  GROMTN. 

THE  tiny  cradle  is  empty  now, 
For  the  babies  all  are  grown, 
And  the  mother's  fai-e  wetira  a  mournful  smile 

As  she  situ  at  hur  work  alona 
And  thinks  of  the  days,  so  long  gom;  by. 

When  the  houae  was  full  of  noiae. 
And  echoed  and  rang,  from  raom  till  uight, 
With  the  chatter  of  girls  and  boya. 

Thi'v  wprfl  all  no  mprrv  nnd  riheerfnl. 


MUHBER   TWENTY-TWO  1 

Now  she  can  lie  late  in  the  morning, 

And  she's  plenty  of  time  to  sew, 
And  to  read,  and  visit  her  neighboi's. 

And  then — why  she  could  not  go 
To  church  on  a  Sunday  morning, 

Because  of  the  dinner  to  get. 
But  atill,  as  she  thinks  things  ovot,  ' 

Her  tired  old  eyes  are  wet 

For  her  heart  was  filled  with  love  then, 

And  now  it  is  cold  and  drear 
And  empty,  because  the  children 

She  loved  are  no  longer  here. 
They  have  some  of  them  gone  to  Heaven, 

The  others — ah  !  well-a-day, 
They  have  surely  forgotten  mother, 

They  have  been  so  long  away. 

Yet  oft  when  they're  sad  and  careworn 

And  weary  with  life's  long  war, 
They  would  think  it  almost  Heaven 

To  see  the  old  home  once  more. 
To  tenderly  greet  the  mother 

Who  has  loved  them  so  well  and  long. 
And  to  rest  in  the  worn  old  cradle 

While  she  crooned  a  lullaby  song. 

For  the  cradle  is  but  a  symbol 

Of  the  wonderfid  mother-care 
Which  broods  through  the  whole  of  nature 

Like  a  sigh  or  a  wliiapered  prayer. 


j8  bkst  sKLEcrmss 

And  there's  never  a  caro  or  a  trial, 
From  liirth  la  tlic  wrn-Id  above, 

So  stern  that  it  cannot  be  softened 
By  the  biUiti  of  a  mnther's  love 

Ethkl  AL  OoLaoif. 

MY  DOUBLE,  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME. 


I  AM,  or  rather,  was  a  ininistwr,  and  was  settled  in 
an  active,  wide-awake  town  with  a  bright  pariah 
and  a  charming  younp  wife.  At  first  it  was  all 
delightful,  but  OB  my  duties  incrcimwj  I  found  myself 
k'adiiia  a  double  life — one  for  mv  Darish,  whom  1 


NUUBER  TWENTV-TWO  139 

No.  1. — "  Very  well,  thank  you ;  and  you  ?"  (This 
for  an  answer  to  caaual  snlutatioiis.) 

No.  2. — "  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it."  (This  in 
response  to  a  compliment  on  !i  sermon.) 

No.  3. — "  There  has  been  so  niuoli  said,  and  on  the 
whole  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 
(This  for  public  meetings  when  called  upon  to  speak.) 

No.  4. — "  I  agree  in  general  with  my  frionil  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room."  (This  when  asked  for  an 
opinion  of  his  own.) 

Thus  equipped,' my  double  attended  a  number  of 
conventions  and  meetings  which  1  was  too  busy  to 
notice  and  was  very  successful.  He  gainetl  a  good 
reputation  for  me,  and  people  began  to  say  I  was  less 
exclusive  than  I  used  to  be,  and  that  I  was  more 
punctual,  less  talkative,  etc.  His  success  was  so 
great  that  one  evening  I  risked  him  at  a  reception. 
I  could  ill  afford  the  time  to  go,  and  so  I  sent  him 
with  Polly,  who  kept  her  eye  on  him,  and  afterward 
told  me  about  it.  He  had  to  take  a  very  talkative 
lady — Mrs.  Jeffries — down  to  supper,  and  at  sight  of 
the  eatables  he  became  a  little  excitc<l,  and  attempted 
one  of  his  speeches  to  the  lady.  He  trie<l  the  shortest 
one  in  his  most  gallant  manner :  "  Very  well,  1  thank 
you;  and  you?"  Polly,  who  stood  near  his  chair, 
was  much  frightened,  as  this  speech  had  no  connec- 
tion with  anything  that  had  been  said,  but  Mrs.  Jef- 
fries was  so  much  engrossed  with  her  own  talking 
Uiat  she  noticed  nothing.  She  rattled  on  so  busily 
that  Detmis  was  not  obliged  to  aay  anything  more 
until  the  eating  was  over,  when  he  said,  to  fill  up  a 


140  BEST  EIBLECnONS 

pause :  "  There  has  been  bo  much  said,  aod  on  the 
whole  so  well  eaid,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time," 
Tiiia  again  frightened  Polly,  but  she  managed  to 
t;ct  him  away  before  he  had  done  anything  serious. 

After  this  my  double  relieved  me  in  so  many  ways 
that  I  grew  quite  light-hearted.  That  happy  year  I 
began  to  know  my  wife  by  sight.  We  saw  each  other 
sometimes,  and  how  delightful  it  was  I  But  all  this 
could  not  last ;  and  at  length  poor  Dennis,  my  double, 
undid  nie ! 

There  was  some  ridiculous  new  movement  on  foot 
to  organize  some  kind  of  a  society,  and  there  was  to 
be  a  i>ublic  meeting.  Of  course  I  was  asked  to 
attend   and  to  speak.     After  much  ui^ing  I  con- 


NUMBEB  TWENTY-TWO  141 

is  always  prepared,  aod  though  we  had  not  relied 
upon  him,  he  will  aay  a  word  perhaps."  Applause 
followed,  which  turned  Dennis'  head.  He  rose  and 
tried  speech  No.  3 :  "  There  has  been  so  much  said, 
and  on  the  whole  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  longer 
occupy  the  time  I" 

Then  he  sat  down,  looking  for  his  hat — for  things 
seemed  squally.  But  the  people  cried,  "  Go  on !  Go 
OD  I"  and  some  applauded.  Dennis  still  confused, 
but  flattered  by  the  applause,  rose  again,  and  this 
time  tried  No.  2.  "  1  am  very  glad  you  liked  it" 
Which,  alas !  should  only  be  said  when  compli- 
mented on  a  sermon.  My  best  friends  stared,  and 
people  who  didn't  know  me  yelled  with  delight.  A 
boy  in  the  gallery  cried  out :  "  It's  all  humbug !"  just 
88  Dennis,  waving  his  hand,  commanded  silence,  and 
tried  No.  4.  "  I  agree  in  general,  with  my  friend  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room."  The  poor  Governor, 
doabting  his  senses,  crossed  to  stop  him,  but  too  late. 
The  same  gallery  boy  shouted :  "  How's  your 
mother?"  And  Dennis  was  completely  lost,  tried  as 
hifl  last  shot,  No.  1.  "  Very  well !  thank  you  ;  and 
you  ?"  The  audience  rose  in  a  whirl  of  excitem^it. 
Some  other  impertinence  from  the  gallery  was  aimed 
at  Dennis ;  he  broke  all  restraint  and  to  finish  undoing 
me,  he  called  out :  "  Any  wan  o'  ye  blatherin'  rascals 
that  wants  to  fight,  can  come  down  an'  I'll  take  any 
fiveo'yez,  single-handed;  ye're  all  dogs  and  cow- 
ordsl  Sure  an' I've  said  all  his  Riverance  an' the 
mistress  bade  me  say  !" 

That  was  all,  my  double  had  undone  me. 

Edwaicd  Everl-tt  Hale. 


BEST  SELECnONB 


FALL  IN. 

Contributed  by  Un.  EUnbeth  Muiiflcld  Irtiag,  Toledo,  Obto. 

FALL  in,  fall  in,  old  soldieia, 
The  reveille  ia  heard, 
And  bivouac  and  jiicket 

Are  at  the  summons  stirred; 
Fall  in,  that  you  may  answer 
The  roll-call  sounding  clear, 
And  when  the  Sergeant  calls  your  name, 
Prepare  to  answer,  "  Here !" 


KUUBER  TWENTY-TWO 

Fall  in,  £ill  in,  old  soldiers, 

Yon  who  recall  that  day 
At  Corinth,  on  the  battle-held — 

The  dead  around  you  lay — 
When  Rosecrans  rode  down  the  lines 

To  Puller's  old  Brigade, 
"  I  take  my  hat  off  in  the  face 

Of  men  like  these,"  he  said. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers, 

You  who  from  Red  House  Bridge 
Moved  on  to  Ghickamauga 

When  Thomas  held  the  ridge — ■ 
Moved  on  with  gallant  Steedtnan 

That  day  he  hroke  away 
Like  a  lion  from  his  covert, 

When  he  heard  the  cannon's  bray. 

Fall  in,  &U  in,  old  soldiers, 

Perchance  you  followed  well 
At  Kenesaw  with  Harker, 

And  caught  him  when  he  fell ; 
Perchance  you  joined  the  wild,  mad  cry 

That  through  the  army  ran : 
"  McPherson  and  revenge !"  then  smote 

The  foemen  rear  and  van. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers, 

A  glory  crowns  yon  still 
For  marches  under  Sherman, 

For  raids  with  "  Little  PhU;" 


BEST  SELElTIOXS 

Though  you  swear  by  Gmnt,  then  living, 
Or  hy  waintly  Thomas,  dead, 

There  arc  roses  for  each  bosom, 
There  are  laurels  for  each  head. 

Fall  ill,  fall  in,  old  soldiers, 

Each  day  the  lines  grow  small; 
Each  day  a  voice  grows  silent, 

Heard  at  the  last  roll-call ; 
A  comrade's  voice  makes  answer 

Where  was  heard  a  manly  shoal: 
"  Disabled  in  the  service  and 

Awaits  his  muster  out" 


Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers, 


HDICBEB  TWENTYVrWO 


THE  MEETING  OF  EVANGELINE  AND 
GABRIEL. 


IN  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the 
Delaware's  waters, 
Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 

Apostle, 
Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city 

he  founded. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed, 

an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and 

country.  .  .  . 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  thee  and  thou  of 

the  Quakers, 
For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country 
Where  all  men  are  equal  and  all  were  brothers  and 

sisters. 

******  :ii 

Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.  .  .  . 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead  and 

not  absent. 
Patience  and  abn^ation  of  self  aad  devotion  to 

others. 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had 

taught  her. 
Thus  for  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy 

frequenting 
10 


146 


BEST  8ELE0TI0HB 


Lonely  and  wretched  roofe  in  the  crowded  lanes  or 

the  city, 
Where  dieeaae  and  sorrow  in  garrete    languished 

neglected.  .  .  .  When  the  world  was  asleep, 
lli^h  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  her 

til  per, 
Tlien  it  came  to  pass  that  a  peetilence  fell  on  the 

city. 
Wealth  had  no  power  to  hribe  nor  beauty  to  charm 

the  oppressor, 
But  all   perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his 

an^er. 
riiither  by  night  and  by  day  came  the  Siater  of 

Wercy. 
Tlius  on  a  ^'uhhiith  morn- 


NUMBER  TWBNTY-TWO  147 

Long  and  thin  and  giay  were  the  locks  that  shaded 

his  temples ; 
But,  as  he  lay  io  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a 

Ibnment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier 

manhood. 
So  are  woat  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who 

are  dying. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying  he  lay.  .  .  . 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint- 
like, 
*  Gabriel  I  0  my  beloved  I"    and  died  away  into 

silence. 
Then  he  beheld  in  a  dream  once  more  the  home  of 

his  childhood. 

«  *  *  *  IK  «  * 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  hia 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Vainly  he  strove  to  utter  her  name,  for  the  acc^nta 

unnttered 
Died  on  his  lips  and  their  motion  revealed  what  hia 

tongue  would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  rise ;  and  Evangeline  kneeling 

beside  him. 
Kissed  hia  dying  lips  and   laid   his  head  on  her 

shoulder. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes ;  but  it  suddenly  sank 

into  darkness.  .  .  . 
All  WHB  ended  now,  the  hope,  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow. 


148  BEST   8ELE<mON8 

All  the  dull  pain  and  constant  anguish  ot  patience. 
And  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to 

her  bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own  and  murmured  "  Father, 

I  thank  Thee." 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


LEAP-YEAR  MISHAPS. 

Onntilbutad  by  um  Kaij  T  Huthill,  PhlUdelpUa. 

I  HAVE  always  thought  it  strange  that  good,  pious, 
well-meaning  folks  should  always  kinder  look 
down  oil  an  old  maid  aa  if  she  was  to  blame  for 


miHBER   TWENTY-TWO  149 

even  on  trial,  for  fear  all  the  women  will  want  to 
marry  him.  I  thought  over  all  the  unmarried  men 
I  knew ;  there  was  Majur  Webster,  he  had  three 
wives  and  eleven  children,  and  had  lost  a  leg  in  the 
war ;  but  then  a  one-legged  man  ia  better  than  none ; 
half  a  loaf  la  better  than  no  bread.  The  Major  ia 
deaf  and  uaea  an  ear-trunipct  to  talk  with  and  he 
has  a  deaf  houaekeeper,  ao  one  can't  laugh  at  the 
other.  Then  there  waa  Simon  Snazer ;  he  ia  an  old 
bachelor,  and  so  baahfui  that  he  U8e<i  to  stay  out  in 
the  entry  of  the  meeting-houae,  and  bolt  for  home 
the  minute  the  sermon  was  over,  for  fear  that  some 
of  the  female  women  would  be  put  to  sit  beside  him 
in  the  pew.  He  lived  alone,  nnd  cooked  hia  own 
victuals,  and  kept  a  cat  and  dog  for  company,  and  as 
I  got  to  thinking  it  over  I  concluded  that  the  poor 
fellow  woold  be  tickled  to  death  to  change  hia  con- 
dition. 

Then  there  was  Abner  Goldin;; ;  his  wife  ran  away 
with  a  sewing-machine  agent,  and  left  him  a  male 
grass- widower,  with  five  aiiiall  children  and  the  rheu- 
matica  in  his  back. 

Well  I  decided  to  take  the  Major  first.  I  saw  his 
deaf  houaekeeper  going  to  the  aewing  meeting,  ao  I 
fixed  myaelf  up  and  went  over  to  hia  house. 

The  Major  came  to  the  door.  "  She  ain't  home," 
said  he. 

"  I  dont  want  to  see  her,"  said  I,  shouting  into  the 
trumpet  he  put  up  for  me  to  talk  into ;  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

"Got  two,"  said  he,  "  who  has  got  two?" 


150  BE8T  SELECmONS 

"  I  want  to  apeak  to  y-o-u,"  said  I,  standing  on 
tip-toe  and  yelling  ao  that  the  false  bang  on  my  fore- 
}iead  actually  rose  up. 

■'  I  owe  you,"  said  he,  "  It's  a  lie,  I  dont  owe  a 
sixpence." 

"  Let  me  come  in  and  111  explain,"  for  juat  then 
I  t<aw  that  Rimea  boy  coming  up  the  road,  and  I 
know  he  would  listen,  so  I  pushed  right  paat  the 
Major,  he  moving  alowly  with  that  wooden  leg  of 
his.  "  Major,"  aays  I,  filling  myself  full  of  wind, 
'■  have  you  ever  thought  of  marrying  ^ain  ?" 

"  Hey  ?"  aays  he,  pointing  his  trumpet  at  me. 

"  Do  you  want  a  wife  ?"  saya  I. 

"  Where 'a  my  wife?"  says  he;  "  why,  Mary  Anne, 


NUHBER  TWENTY-TWO  151 

"  Good  gracious,  Mary  Anne,  who'd  ever  thought 
of  seeing  you  ?"  and  ahe  was  as  sweet  as  new  milk 
though  she  hates  me  like  all  get  out 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  come,  I  cant  make  the  Major 
understand  nothing ;  I  just  come  over  to  see  if  I 
could  get  some  eggs."  I  hope  the  Lord  as  knows 
how  lonely  it  is  to  be  an  old  maid  will  forgive  me  for 
that  fib. 

"  We  have  none,"  says  she,  and  after  a  few  more 
civil  remarks  I  left. 

Well  I  cut  across  lots  to  Abner  Golding's.  Abner  has 
five  small  children ;  and  the  minute  I  went  in  they 
all  rushed  on  me  and  daubed  me  wit):  molasses  and 
orange-juice,  and  wiped  their  fingers  on  my  shawl 
and  spoilt  my  fixes  generally,  Abner  waa  all 
doubled  up  with  rheumatics  and  walked  with  a  cane, 
and  the  house  smelled  of  arnica  enough  to  choke 
you,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  if  ever  1  did  come 
there  to  live  I'd  fumigate  that  house  and  see  if  I 
could  improve  it  Well,  I  stated  my  business  to 
Abner  and  he  smiled  and  saya,  kinder  sly:  "I'm 
sorry,  hut  the  widow  Pendergast  was  here  last  week, 
and  the  first  come  first  served,  you  know." 

It  didn't  take  me  long  to  get  out  of  there,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  I  made  a  bee  line  for  Simon  Snazer's.  When  I 
got  in  sight  of  the  house  I  saw  that  the  window  blinds 
were  all  shut  up.  Could  it  be  that  Simon  was  dead 
or  moved  away  and  I  not  heard  of  it?  I  rattled  at 
the  gate  but  couldn't  move  a  peg,  and  I  had  to  climb 
over  the  picket-fence;  and  I  tore  the  trimming  off 
the  skirt  of  my  drees.     I  rapped  at  the  front  door, 


.1 


BEST   SKLECTIOKS 


tto  at  the  other,  and  I  rattled  at  the  latch,  and  I 
"lilt  to  the  bani  and  I  yelled  '■  Mr.  Snazer;"  only 
<-<'l)ij  replieii.  I  came  back  to  the  house  and  tried  to 
sliDve  up  the  windows;  I  dragged  an  old  hen-cooi> 
from  the  back  of  the  house,  and  I  think  I  could  have 
ruiinajred  to  liiate  the  kitchen  window,  Imt  just  then 
1  JH-iinl  a  voice,  and  looking  up,  I  spied  Simon, 
pfi'|jiii^'  tlirou^rh  the  attic  window. 

■■  You  can  go  home,"  says  he.  "  I  sha'n't  come 
down,  I  won't.  You  are  the  fifth  woman  here  this 
ncvk,  and  every  one  wanting  to  get  niarrieiL  I  can 
(■iH)k  my  own  victuiila,  mend  my  own  clothes,  and  I 
<lot)t  want  a  wife.  I  am  as  hajipy  as  a  (l.tm,  Go 
lii'Uie;  if  I  WUH  iio'mjx  to  get  niarriwl  I  wouldn't 
in.irrv  an  old  maid  that  was  hald-headetl  and  lank  as 


NUMBER   TWENTV-TWO 


THE  TEACHER'S  DIADEM. 

SITTING  'mid  the  gathering  shadows,  weary  with 
the  Sabbath's  care ; 
Weary  with  the  Sabbath's  burdens,  that  she  dearly 

loves  to  bear ; 
For,  she  sees   a  shining  pathway,  and  she  gladly 

presses  on; 
Tia  the  firet  Great  Teacher's  footprints — it  will  le;id 

where  He  has  gone ; 
With  a  hand  that's  never  faltered,  with  a  love  that's 

ne'er  grown  dim, 
Long  and  faithfully  she's  labored,  to  His  fold  the 

lambs  to  bring. 

But  to-night  )ier  soul  grows  heavy;  through  the 
closed  lids  fall  the  tears, 

As  the  children  pass  before  her,  that  she's  taught 
these  many  years ; 

And  she  cries  in  hitter  anguish :  "  Shall  not  one  to 
me  he  given, 

To  shine  upon  my  coronet  amid  the  hosts  of  heaven  ? 

Hear  my  prayer  to-night,  my  Saviour,  in  Thy  glori- 
ous home  above ; 

Give  to  me  some  little  token — some  approval  of  Thy 
love." 

Ere  the  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  banishing  the 

evening  gloom. 
Came  a  soft  and  shining   radiance,  bright'ning  all 

within  tiie  room ; 


1.54 


BRETT  SEUOnORS 


An<l  an  angel  in  white  raiment,  br^hter  tium  fho 
morning  sun, 

Stood  l>cfore  her,  ])ointing  upward,  while  he  softly 
whimpered, "  Come." 

Ad  he  pimyed,  aha  heard  the  rustle  of  his  starry  pin- 
ions bright, 

And  she  quickly  roee  and  followed,  out  into  the 
stilly  night; 


Up  above  the  dim  blue  ether ;  up  above  the  silver 

stars; 
Oh,  beyond  the  golden  portals;  through  the  open 

pearly  doors; 
Far  across  the  sea  of  crystal,  to  the  shining  sapphire 


ITUMBER   TWKNTY-TWO  155 

Thai-  from  thee  the  end  was  hidden,  did  tixy  faith  in 

me  grow  less  ? 
Thou  hast  asked  some  little  token,  I  wiU  grant  thee 

thy  request." 

From  out  a  golden  casket,  inlaid  with  many  a 
gem, 

He  took — glist'ning  with  countless  jewels — a  regal 
diadem; 

Bright  a  name  shone  in  each  jewel,  names  of  many 
scholars  dear, 

Who  she  thoaght  had  passed  unheeded  all  her  ear- 
nest thought  and  care. 

"But,''  she  asked,  "how  came  these  names  here — 
names  I  never  saw  before?" 

And  the  Saviour,  smiling,  answered,  "  'Tis  the  fruit 
thy  teachings  bore ; 

"  Tis  the  seed  thy  love  hath  planted,  tended  by  my 

faithful  hand; 
Though  unseen  by  thee,  it's  budded,  blossoming  in 

many  lands. 
Here  are  names  from  darkened  Egypt,  names  from 

Afric's  desert  sands ; 
Names  from  isles  amid  the  ocean,  names  from  India's 

sunny  strands ; 
Some  from  Greenland's  frozen  mountains,  some  from 

burning  tropic  plains ; 
Prom  where'er  man's  found  a  dwelling,  here  youll 

find  some  chosen  name. 


ir>6 


BEST  SELECnONB 


When  tliitie  eiirthly  mission's  ended,  that  in  love  to 

thee  was  given, 
Tliis  is  the  crown  of  thy  rejoicing,  that  awaits  thea 

here  in  heaven." 


Smldenly  the  bright  light  feded ;  all  was  dark  within 
the  room ; 

And  who  sat  amid  the  shadows  of  the  Sabbath  even- 
ing gloom ; 

But  a  peacefol,  holy  incense  rested  on  her  soul  like 
dew; 

Thodfih  the  end  from  her  was  hidden,  to  her  Master 
ulie'd  be  true ; 

Siiwinir  need  at  mom  and  even,  pausing  not  to  count 
I  lie  L'aiii 


miHBER   TWENTY-TWO  167 

Whence  the  voice  of  an  angel  thrills  clear  on  the 

soul, 
"  Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press  on  to  the  goal  1" 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy  youth 

Are  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 

What  hope  can  re-bloom  on  the  desolate  waste 

Of  a  jealous  and  craven  deHpair? 

Down,  down  with  the  fetterH  of  fear  I 

In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  manhood  arise, 

Witli  the  faith  that  illumes  and  the  will  that  defies. 

"  Too  late  I"  through  God's  intinite  world, 

From  His  throne  to  life's  nethermost  tires, 

"  Too  late  1"  is  a  phantom  that  flies  at  the  dawn 

Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  aspires. 

If  pure  thou  haat  made  thy  desires, 

There's  no  height  the  strong  wings  of  immortals  may 

gain, 
Which  in  Btriving  to  reach  thou  shalt  strive  for  in 

vain. 

"Hen  up  to  the  contest  with  fat«, 
Unbound  by  the  past  which  is  dead ! 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  and  dust? 
What  though  the  hearts'a  music  lie  fled? 
Still  shines  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead, 
And  eubliinc  as  the  seraph  who  rules  in  the  sun 
Beam?  the  promise  of  joy  wlien  the  conflict  is  won. 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


F  BKLECnONS 


D  of  HoaghUni,  HIOUd  A  Ox,  Boaod,  Ham. 


SPAKE  full  well,  in  languge  quaint  and  oldoi. 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 
When  he  call'd  the  dowers,  bo  blue  and  golden 
St&ra,  that  in  earth's  Qirnament  do  shine. 

Stare  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  hiatoiy, 
As  astrologera  and  seers  of  old ; 


NUKBEB  TWENTY-TWO 

Gorgeous  Sowereta  in  the  sunlight  b1 
Bloesoma  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Treniuloua  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay. 

Brilli&nt  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tiasnee, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light; 

Large  desires,  with  moat  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes  blossoming  at  night; 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming. 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers. 
Which  the  poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everjrwhere  about  us  they  are  glowing — 
Some,  like  stars,  to  tell  us  spring  is  bom ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth,  amid  the  golden  com. 

Not  alone  in  sprinfi's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  summer's  green-cmblazon'd  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  autumn's  wearing 
In  the  centre  of  bis  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequester'd  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to  drink 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory. 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone^ 


luU  BEST  eELBCnONS 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes  carved  in  Btone. 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant; 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towen, 
Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Preeent, 

Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Game  of  flowers. 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seaaons, 
Flovers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  161 

mountain  waa  the  moat  difficult  of  ascent  of  that 
mountain  chain  called  "  The  Ideals."  But  he  had  a 
etrongly -hoping  heart  and  a  sure  foot.  He  lost  all 
seose  of  time,  but  he  never  loat  the  feeling  of  hopp, 

"  Even  if  I  faint  by  the  wayside,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  and  am  not  able  to  reach  the  summit,  still  it 
is  something  to  be  on  the  road  which  leads  to  the 
High  Ideals."  That  was  how  he  comforted  himself 
when  he  was  weary.  He  never  lost  more  hope  than 
that — and  aurely  that  was  little  enough. 

And  now  he  had  reached  the  templa 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  an  old  white-haired  man 
opened  the  gate.  He  smiled  sadly  when  he  saw  the 
Traveler. 

"And  yet  another  one,"  he  munnured.  "What 
does  it  all  mean  ?" 

The  Traveler  did  not  hear  what  he  murmured. 

"  Old  white-haired  iimn,"  he  said,  "  tell  me ;  and 
80  I  have  come  at  last  to  the  wonderful  Temple  of 
Knowledge?  I  have  been  journeying  hither  all  my 
life.  Ah,  but  it  is  hard  work  climbing  up  to  the 
Ideals !" 

The  old  man  touched  the  Traveler  on  the  arm. 
"  Listen,"  he  said,  gently.  "  This  is  not  the  Temple 
of  Knowledge.  And  the  Ideals  are  not  a  chain  of 
mountains ;  they  are  a  stretch  of  plains,  and  the 
Temple  of  Knowledge  is  in  their  centre.  You  have 
come  the  wrong  road.     Alaa !  poor  Traveler." 

The  light  in  the  Traveler's  eyes  had  faded.  The 
hope  in  his  heart  died.  And  he  became  old  and 
withered.     He  leaned  heavily  on  hia  8ta|C^'^ '-' ' 


162  BEST   SELECTIONS 

"  Can  one  rest  here?"  he  asked,  wearily. 

"  No." 

"  U  there  a  way  down  the  otiiier  aide  of  these 
liiiiiiii  tains?" 

■■  No." 

"  What  are  these  mountains  called?" 

'  They  have  no  name." 

"  And  the  temple — how  do  you  call  the  temple?" 

'•  It  has  no  name." 

•  Then  I  call  it  the  Temple  of  Broken  Hearts," 
aaiil  the  Traveler. 

And  he  turned  and  went.  But  the  old  white- 
haired  man  lollowed  him. 

■■  Brother,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  the  first  to  como 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  163 

you  will  not  rise  again.     When  you  once  rest,  you 
will  know  how  weary  you  are." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  go  further,"  said  the  Traveler. 
"  My  journey  is  done ;  it  may  have  been  in  the 
wrong  direction,  hut  atill  it  is  done." 

"  Nay,  do  not  linger  here,"  urged  the  old  man. 
"  Retrace  your  stepa.  Though  you  are  broken-hearted 
yourself,  you  may  save  others  from  breaking  their 
hearts.  Those  whom  you  meet  on  this  road  you  can 
turn  back.  Those  who  are  but  starting  in  this  direc- 
tion you  can  bid  pause  and  consider  how  mad  it  is 
to  suppose  that  the  Temple  of  True  Knowledge 
should  have  been  built  on  an  isolated  and  dangerous 
mountain.  Tell  them  that,  although  God  seems 
hard,  He  is  not  as  hard  as  all  that.  Tell  them  that 
the  Ideals  are  not  a  mountain  range,  but  their  owei 
plains,  where  their  great  cities  are  built,  and  where 
the  com  grows,  and  where  men  and  women  are  toil- 
ing, sometimes  in  sorrow  and  sometimes  in  joy," 

"  I  will  go,"  said  the  Traveler. 

And  he  started. 

But  he  had  grown  old  and  weary.  And  the 
journey  was  long,  and  the  retracing  of  one's  stepa  is 
more  tiresome  than  the  tracing  of  them.  The  ascent, 
with  all  the  vigor  and  hope  of  life  to  help  him,  had 
been  difficult  enough ;  the  descent,  with  no  vigor 
and  no  hope  to  help  him,  was  almost  impossible. 

So  that  it  was  not  probable  that  the  Traveler  lived 
to  reach  the  plains.  But  whether  he  reached  them 
or  iiot,  still  he  had  started. 

And  not  many  Travelers  do  that 

Beatrice  Haeraiji^. 


164  BEST  sEXEcnom 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS. 

FEBBARA. 
Cootribaied  bjQ.  HudMo  Maknen.  M.  D., 

I'HAT'S  my  laat  Duehes3  painted  on  the  wall, 
T,ooking  aa  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
Tliiit  ])ifce  a  wonderj  now :     Fra  Pandolf  8  hands 
Wiirked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will't  plejiseyou  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 
"  Fra  Panddlf "  by  deai^n,  for  never  read 
Wtranfrera  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 
The  depth  and  ]ia,ssion  of  its  oarneat  glance. 
But  to  myself  tliey  turned  (since  none  puts  by 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  166 

The  bongh  of  cherries  some  ofticious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good  I  but 

thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — sa  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-yeara-oltl  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  8too]>  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  nay,  "  Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  diajrustd  me  ;  fiere  you  raise, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  '" — luul  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessened  so,  nor  jtlivinly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
—E'en  then  would  be  some  stoopint; ;  and  I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  aniiled,  no  doubt. 
Whene'er  I  pa^ed  her;  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile  ?  This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  tof^ether.     There  she  stands 
As  if  aliva     Will't  please  you  rise?     Well  meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  maater's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  juat  pretense 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed  ; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity 
Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  I 
Robert  Browning. 


166  BEST  SKL.ECTIONS 

THANKSGIVING  DAY. 
ConUboladbrtheuitboi.  RoMHanwlck  Tboipo,  PudBeBtMb.CM. 

'  j  'HE  floor  had  been  swept  and  the  furniture  'lustvtt, 
1      The  table  white  sprwul  in  the  neat  dining-hall ; 
'I'liu  cakes  on  the  pantry-shelf,  pure  snowy  cruati-il, 
And  pies — custard,  pumpkin,  tniuue,  iipplt\  and 
all, 
W'itli  pana  full  of  doughniitc  mid  cookies,  were  wait- 
ing 
Tn  fill  up  the  table  in  splendid  array. 
The  chickens  and  lurkeys  were  quietly  baking, 
And  all  things  were  ready  for  Thanksgiving  Day. 


innCBBIl  TWENTT-TWO  167 

With    a    stronger;    and    Tom,    from    the    distant 
prairie — 
Ah  I  well,  they'll  be  with  ua  this  Thanksgivii^; 
Day. 

"  And  Dick,  from  down  South,  with  his  fine  pretty 
lady, 
I  hope  she  won't  scorn    us    and    our    humble 
homa" 
"And  Florence,"  said  Grandma,  "  will  come  with  her 
baby. 
And  Susan,  with  all  the  dear  children,  will  come. 
Well,  well!  they  will  find  us  here  ready  to  meet 
them. 
We   keep   the  nest  warm  when  our  birds  are 
away, 
And  in  the  dear  home  of  their  childhood  well  greet 
them 
At  least  once  a  year  on  the  Thanksgivii^  Day. 

"  The  years  seem  so  bright  since  you  brought  me 
here,  Peter, 
Your  love  made  them  peuccful  and  happy  and 
long." 
"  And  May,"  said  he,  "  you  are  dearer  and  sweeter 

Than  ever  you  were  in  the  years  that  are  gone. 
We've  come  down  the  hill  of  life's  journey  together. 
Through  sunshine  and  shade,  side  by  side,  all  the 
way. 
Your  lover,  who  told  you  his  love  by  the  river. 
Is  your  true  lover  still  on  this  Thanksgiving  Day. 


1»8  BEST  SELBCnOIffl 

"  When  onr  last  one  left  ub,  dear  heart,  how  we  inisBed 
her, 
But  now  they're  all  settled  in  homes  of  their  own, 
Our  life  work  is  finished,"  he  bent  over  and  kissed 
her, 
"  In  the  empty  home-nest  we  are  waiting  alone." 
With   his  arm  round   her  waist,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder, 
His  hand  clasping  hers  in  the  old  loving  way, 
They're  roaming  once  more  by  the  stream  where  he 
told  her 
His  love  long  ago  on  a  Thanksgiving  Day. 

He  is  telling  it  over,  the  sweet,  olden  story, 

;;  the  yeiird  imd  the  sorrows  between ; 


mniBEB  TWENTY'TWO  169 

ON  THE  OTHER  TRAIN. 
A  clock's  btory. 

OraitribnUd  br  Hanrjp  Dlzon,  Chicago,  tUlaoli. 

"  fllHERE,  Simmona,  you  blockhead !     Why  didn't 

-L  you  trot  that  old  woman  aboard  her  train  ? 
Shell  have  to  wait  here  now  until  the  1.05  a.  m." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me." 

"  Yee,  I  did  tell  you.  'Twas  only  your  confounded, 
stupid  carelessnees." 

"She—" 

"  She  I  You  fool !  What  elae  could  you  expect  of 
her  ?  Probably  she  hasn't  any  wit ;  besides,  she  isnt 
bound  on  a  very  jolly  journey — got  a  pass  up  the 
road  to  the  poor-house.  I'll  go  and  tell  her,  and  if 
you  forget  her  to-night,  see  if  1  don't  make  mince- 
meat of  you !"  and  our  worthy  ticket-i^ent  shook  bis 
fist  menacingly  at  his  subordinate. 

"  You've  missed  your  train,  marm,"  he  remarked, 
coming  forward  to  a  queer-looking  bundle  in  the 
comer. 

A  trembling  hand  raised  the  faded  black  veil,  and 
revealed  the  sweetest  old  face  I  ever  saw. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  a  quivering  voice. 

"  Tis  only  three  o'clock  now ;  you'll  have  to  wait 
until  the  night  train,  which  doesn't  go  up  until 
1.05." 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  I  can  wait." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  some  hotel?  Sim> 
mons  will  show  you  the  way." 


170  Bi 

"  No,  thank  you,  air.  One  place  u  aa  good  as  an- 
NtlcT  to  me.     Besides,  I  haven't  any  money." 

■■  \'ery  well,"  said  the  agent,  taming  away  indiffei' 
iiuly.     "  Sir.iinona  will  tell  you  when  it's  time," 

All  the  afternoon  she  sat  there  so  quiet  that  I 
thoii^iht  lionietimes  she  must  be  asleep,  but  when  I 
luoked  more  closely  I  could  see  everj'  once  in  a 
rthile  a  great  tear  rolling  down  her  cheek,  which  she 
>vould  wipe  away  hastily  with  her  cotton  handker- 
chief. 

The  depot  was  crowded,  and  all  was  bustle  and 
inirry  until  the  9.50  train  going  east  came  due;  then 
I'v.Tv  passenger  left  except  the  old  lady.  It  is  very 
nirc.  indeeii,  that  any  one  takes  the  night  express. 


NtmBER  TVEMTT'^Tiro  171 

**  I  cav^  bdieve  it,"  she  aobbed,  wringing  her  Ihin, 
white  hands.  "Oh!  I  can't  believe  it  I  My  babies  I 
my  babies  I  how  often  have  I  held  them  in  my  arms 
and  kissed  them ;  and  how  ofWn  they  used  to  say 
back  to  me,  '  Ise  love  you,  mamma,'  and  now,  0 
God!  they've  tamed  against  me.  Where  am  I  go> 
ing  ?  To  the  poor-house  I  No !  no  I  no !  I  cannot  I 
I  will  not  1    Oh  !  the  disgrace !" 

And  sinking  upon  her  knees,  ehe  sobbed  out  in 
prayer, 

"  O  God  1  spare  me  this  and  take  me  home !  O 
God,  spare  me  this  disgrace;  spare  me  I" 

The  wind  rose  higher  and  swept  through  the 
(sevices,  icy  cold.  How  it  moaned  and  seemed  to 
aob  like  something  human  that  is  hurt.  I  began  to 
shake,  but  the  kneeling  figure  never  stirred.  The 
thin  shawl  had  dropped  from  her  shoulders  unheeded. 
Simmons  turned  over  and  drew  his  heavy  blanket 
more  closely  about  him. 

Oh  I  how  cold !  Only  one  lamp  remained,  burning 
dimly;  the  other  two  had  gone  out  for  want  of  oiL 
I  could  hardly  see,  it  was  so  dark. 

At  last  she  became  quieter  and  ceased  to  moan. 
Then  I'  grew  drowsy,  and  kind  of  lost  the  run  of 
things  after  I  had  struck  twelve,  when  some  one  en- 
tered the  depot  with  a  bright  light.  I  started  up. 
It  was  the  brightest  light  I  ever  saw,  and  seemed  to 
fill  the  room  iiill  of  glory.  I  could  see  it  was  a  man. 
He  walked  to  the  kneeling  figure  and  touched  hw 
upon  the  shoulder.  She  stjirted  up  and  turned  bxt 
&ce  wildly  around.     I  heard  him  a&y : 


172  BEST  SELECTION'S 

"  Tis  train  time,  ma'am.     Cornel" 

A  look  of  joy  oame  over  her  face. 

"  I'm  ready,"  ahe  wliiBpered. 

"Then  give  me  your  jiiws,  ma'am." 

She  reached  him  a  worn,  old  book,  which  he  took 
and  &om  it  read  aloud : 

"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

''  That's  tho  jtaas  over  our  road,  ma'am.  Are  you 
ready  ?" 

The  light  died  away,  and  darkness  fell  in  its  place. 
My  hand  touched  the  stroke  of  one.  Simmona 
awoke  with  a  start  and  sniitched  his  lantern.  The 
whistles  sounded  down  brakes;  the  train  was  due. 

H..  mil  tri  thp  onmftr  buH   aViooV  fbi>  n1H  v 


nnCBBB  TWBNTT-TWO 


DOT  DUTCHMAN  IN  DER  MOON. 
Oontofboted  br  the  aoltaor,  B.  CkrMH  Thoipe,  Pulllo  B«>cb,  CA 


»  xa*9  dltcoTer  two  girla'  Qkoea  Initead  of  tlw 

o,] 


I  GOT  Boom  leedle  echokee  to  tells, 
Mit  dot  Dutchman  in  der  moon, 
Vot  noda,  und  schmiles,  und  vinks  bees  eye; 
Heem  got  troubles,  pooty  soon. 

Heem  haf  sooch  roundt  und  jolly  face, 
Dose  Bchmile  heem  vas  ao  schveet, 

Heem  vinks  heea  eye,  und  maken  lofe 
Pj  effery  girl  heem  meet, 

Dhere  mooters  keeps  dhem  in  at  night, 

Und  lock  dhem  in  dher  house ; 
But  oaf  der  vas  soom  vinders  dhere. 

Dot  didn't  mox  nix  ouse. 

Heem  beep  in  through  der  schin^eB^ 

Und  der  vinders  ouf  der  room, 
Und  effery  girl  her  falls  in  lofe 

Mine  dot  Dutchman  in  der  moon. 

Heem  catch  old  Hans  a-napping, 

Und  Gretchen'a  mooter,  too, 
Dnd  maken  lofe  to  Gretchen 

Mine  oop-sthaira  vinder  through. 


I  grab  my  double-gun-parrel-ehot 

Und  point  it  at  heea  eye ; 
Heem  looken  schmart,  und  della  me  '*  i 

Und  pooty  soon,  p)Tu-py, 
Heem  tetls  me  he  haf  gut  soom  fraos, 
Two  ouf  dliem,  in  der  eky. 

"  I  pring  dhem  oud  for  you  to  aee," 
He  achumps  a  cloudt  pehindt, 
Und  Booch  a  sight,  py  echiminyl 
I  dhinks  me  I  gone  blindl 

For  veo  doae  clouds  gone  py,  I  see 

Two  girla,  vot  look  so  echveet, 
Mine  hat  I  dakes  mine  beadt  oo^ 


KUUBEB  TWENTY-TWO  175 

broke  'em  in  with  hia  own  hand,  and  if  ever  a  man 
knew  how  to  break  in  oxen  it  was  Ezckiel  Weeks,  if 
I  do  say  it  myself.  He  used  to  say  that  they  coiiM 
move  anything  that  was  loose — it  was  wonderful 
the  strength  they  did  have,  but  long  ago  they  went 
the  way  of  all  flesh,  same  as  poor  Ezekiel  hisaelf. 
When  E^kiel  Weeks  first  began  to  pay  attention  to 
me,  them  oxen  was  just  in  their  prime,  and  Ezekiel 
hisself  was  just  of  ^e.  Father  was  rether  'posed 
to  our  makin'  a  go  of  it  and  when  finally  Ezekiel  he 
popped  the  question  to  me  and  I  told  hiiu  I  was  will- 
in'  if  he  could  git  father's  consent,  father  he  came  right 
down  flat  on  all  our  hopes  with  a  great  big  "  No !" 
That  was  in  the  spring,  and  it  was  the  last  I  see  of 
Ezekiel  for  a  long  time,  but  I  didnt  feel  a  mite  wor- 
ried, for  at  our  partin'  Ezekiel  had  simply  'lowed 
"  we'd  better  wait  awhile."  In  a  little  while  we 
heard  that  he  had  bought  a  farm  next  to  his  father's 
and  wo8  a  setten'  up  for  hisaelf. 

One  of  the  neighbors  said  that  Ezekiel  allowed  as 
"them  oxen  had  pulled  everything  he'd  ever  hitched 
'em  to  yit,  and  he  reckoned  they  could  pull  the 
mortgage  ofi*  that  farm." 

The  next  isM  father  eet  about  movin'  his  bam. 
Sias  Brown  had  lent  his  oxen  for  a  day  and  with 
father's  yoke  they  thought  they'd  have  no  trouble. 

Well,  they  set  to  work  and  got  the  liam  around  alt 
right  but  about  a  quarter  of  a  turn  and  there  it 
stuck. 

"  If  I  wuz  you,"  says  Sias,  "  I'd  go  over  and  git 
Zeke  Weeks'  yoke,"  says  ba 


176  SEBT  SELECnONS 

"  No,  I  wont  do  it,"  says  father, "  not  if  I  have  to 
let  the  old  bam  stand  right  there," 

But  he  didn't  mean  quite  that,  for  the  bam  had 
pot  lo  be  set  straight  now  that  work  had  begun, 
so  alter  a.  good  deal  of  scolding  father  seta  out  to 
pet  I'^zekiel  and  them  oxen. 

I  shall  never  forgit  them  oxen. 

"  Zeke,"  says  father,  "  my  bam'a  stuck  and  I  want 
you  to  come  over  with  them  oxen  of  youm  and  help 
pull  it  around." 

"  Squire  Runson,"  says  Ezekiel,  "  kin  I  have 
Keziah?"  meanin'  me,  " 'cause  if  I  can't,"  eays  he, 
"  my  oxen  can't  move  your  barn." 

"  Well,  if  tlieni  oxen  of  yourn  can  move  my  bam 
I  kill 


mtHBBR  TWENTY-TWO  177 

itndglitened  like  pump-handles,  70Q  could  &lrly 
hear  their  bonee  crack.  But  I  didn't  know  what 
them  oxen  could  do. 

"  Hoy,"  says  Ezekiel  again,  "  Hoy  I" 

They  waa  a  puUin'  together  like  one  critter  not 
givin'  a  hairabreadth  of  slack  and  something  began 
to  creak. 

"  Hoy,"  saya  Ezekiel,  "  Hoy !" 

And  that  time  told  the  Btory.  Them  oxen  seemed 
to  double  right  up ;  their  noaes  touched  the  ground, 
they  fairly  groaned.  I  reckon  that  effort  would  have 
been  the  last,  but  the  creakin'  suddenly  growed 
loader  and  them  oxen  walked  right  off  with  that 
bam.     I  shall  never  forgit  them  oxen  I 

Father  was  never  no  hand  to  swear  much,  bat  he 
aaid  "  he'd  be  goshed  if  he'd  ever  seen  the  like." 

And  Ezekiel,  after  he  had  got  that  bam  pulled 
around,  he  come  and  took  me  by  the  hand  and  says, 
Bays  he, 

"  Kiziah,  you're  mine  and  them  oxen  have  won 
yet" 

I  never  was  so  proud  in  my  life,  and  father,  as  he 
was  a  man  of  his  word,  he  allowed  it  were  a  fair 
dicker.  No,  I  shall  never  foi^t  them  oxen,  as  I  said 
before,  even  if  I  should  grow  old  enough  to  forgit 
my  name,  I  shall  never  forgit  them  oxen. 


BK^T   SELECTtONB 


of  "TheCo8mo»olltau,"  New  York.   Coatrlbutad  bjUlB 
rioienM  BrwiD.  CbdMd,  Olilo. 

GO  back  [     How  dare  you  follow  me  beyond 
Tbe  iloor  of  my  poor  tent  ?     Are  you  svTraid 
Tbiit  I  have  stolen  something?    Sefl!  my  hands 
Are  empty,  like  my  heart.     I  am  no  thief  I 
The  hracelete  a.nd  the  golden  fingor-ringa 
And  silver  anklotii  that  you  gave  to  me, 
I  east  upon  the  mat  before  my  door, 
And  trod  upon  them.     I  would  »com  to  take 
One  trinket  with  me  in  my  banishment 
That  would  recall  a  look  or  tone  of  yours, 


NUMBER   TWENTY-TWO  179 

Theae  words  that  laah  you  with  a  woman's  Bcom, 
My  teeth  should  bite  them  off,  and  I  would  spit 
Them  at  you,  laughing,  though  all  red  and  warm 

with  blood. 
"  Cease !"  do  you  aay  ?    No,  b^  tiie  gods 
Of  E^ypt,  I  do  swear  that  if  my  eyes 
Should  let  one  tear  melt  through  their  burning  lids, 
My  hands  ^ould  pluck  them  out ,  and  if  these 

bands, 
Groping  outstretched  in  blindness,  should  by  chance 
Touch  yours,  and  cling  to  them  against  my  will, 
Hy  Ishmaei  should  cut  them  off,  and,  blind 
And  maimed,  my  little  son  should  lead  me  forth 
Into  the  wilderness  to  die.    Go  back  I 

Does  Sara  love  you  as  I  did,  my  lord  ? 

Does  Sara  clasp  and  kiss  your  feet,  and  bend 

Her  haughty  head  in  worship  at  your  knee  ? 

Ah !     Abraham,  you  were  a  god  to  me. 

If  you  but  touched  my  hand  my  foolish  heart 

Ran  down  into  the  palm,  and  throbbed,  and  thrilled, 

Grew  hot  and  cold,  and  trembled  there;  and  when 

You  spoke,  though  not  to  me,  my  heart  ran  out 

To  listen  through  my  eager  ears  and  catch 

The  music  of  your  voice  and  prison  it 

la  memory's  murmuring  shell.     I  saw  no  fault 

Nor  blemish  in  you,  and  your  flesh  to  me 

Was  dearer  than  my  own.     There  is  no  vein 

That  branchee  from  your  heart,  whose  azure  couiae 

I  have  not  followed  with  my  kissing  lips. 

I  would  have  bared  my  bosom  like  a  shield 


180  BEST  SELECTIONa 

To  any  lance  of  pain  that  sought  your  breast 

And  once,  when  you  lay  ill  within  your  t«nt, 

No  tiiste  of  water,  or  of  bread,  or  wine 

i'as^ed  through  my  lips ;  and  all  night  long  I  lay 

Ujniu  the  mat  before  your  door  to  catch 

The  sound  of  your  dear  voice,  and  ecarcely  dared 

'I'u  breathe,  lest  she,  my  mistress,  should  come  forth 

And  drive  me  angrily  away;  and  when 

Tin;  stars  looked  down  with  eyes  that  only  stared 

And  hurt  me  with  their  lack  of  sympflthy, 

\W'u[>ing,  I  threw  my  longing  arms  anuind 

Benammi's  neck.     Your  good  horse  understood 

And  gently  rubbed  his  face  against  my  head, 

To  comfort  me.     But  if  you  had  one  kind, 

Oni>  loving  thought  of  me  in  all  that  time. 


TWENTY-TWO  181 

My  breath  and  cai^ht  it  hard  again.    Go  back  I 

Why  do  you  follow  me  ?     I  am  a  poor 

Bondswoman,  but  a  woman  still,  and  these 

Sad  memoriee,  so  bitter  and  so  aweet, 

Weigh  heavily  upon  my  breaking  heart 

And  make  it  hard,  my  lord — for  me  to  go. 

"Your  god  oonunands   it?"     Then   my  gods,  the 

goda 
Of  Egypt,  are  more  merciful  than  yours. 
lais  and  good  Oairis  never  gave 
Command  like  this,  that  breaks  a  woman's  heait, 
To  any  prince  in  Egypt.     Come  with  me 
And  let  ua  go  and  worship  them,  dear  lord. 

Leave  all  your  wealth  to  Sara.     Sara  loves 

The  touch  of  costly  linen  and  the  scent 

Of  precious  Chaldean  spices,  and  to  bind 

Her  brow  with  golden  fillets,  and  perfume 

Her  hair  with  ointment     Sara  loves  the  sound 

Of  many  cattle  lowing  on  the  hills ; 

And  Sara  loves  the  slow  and  stealthy  tread 

Of  many  camels  moving  on  the  plains. 

Hagar  loves  you.     Oh  !  come  with  me,  dear  lord. 

Take  but  your  staff  and  come  with  me;  your  moutll 

Shall  drink  my  share  of  water  from  this  jug 

And  eat  my  share  of  bread  with  Ishmael ; 

And  from  your  lips  I  will  refresh  myself 

With  love's  sweet  wine  from  tender  kisses  pressed. 

Ah !  come,  dear  lord.     Oh !  come,  my  Abraham, 

Nay,  do  not  bend  your  cold,  stem  brows  on  me 

So  frowningly ;  it  was  not  Hagar's  voice 


182  BEST   gELECnoSS 

That  spoke  those  pleading  wonls. 

Go  back  1     Go  back. 
And  tell  your  god  I  liate  him,  and  I  hate 
The  truel,  fj-aven  heart  thsit  worehips  him 
Anil  dares  not  disobey.     Ha!    I  believe 
"ria  not  your  fur-off,  bloodl««»  pot!  you  fear 
But  Sara.     Covrard  1    Cease  to  follow  me  I 
(jo  back  to  Sara.     See  1  she  beckons  now, 
Hagar  lovtis  not  a  cowanl ;  you  do  well 
To  send  mt'  forth  into  the  wildemees, 
Where  hatred  hath  no  weapon  keen  enou^ 
That  held  within  a  woman's  slender  hand 
Could  stab  a  ooward  tti  tbe  heart. 

I  go! 
I  go,  my  lord ;  prouil  that  I  take  with  me 


NUMBER   rWKNTT-TWO  188 

Aye  I  Hagar'e  son  a  desert  prince  shall  ho, 
Whcffie  hand  shall  be  against  all  other  men ; 
And  he  shall  rule  a  fierce  and  mighty  tribe, 
Whose  fiery  hearts  and  supple  limbs  will  scorn 
The  chafing  curb  of  bondage,  like  the  Heeb 
Wild  horses  of  Arabia. 
Igol 
But  like  this  loaf  that  you  have  given  me, 
So  shall  your  bread  taste  bitter  with  my  hate; 
And  like  the  water  in  this  jug,  my  lord, 
So  shall  the  sweetest  water  that  you  draw 
From  Canaan's  wells,  taste  salty  with  my  tean. 

Farewell !  I  go,  but  Egypt's  mighty  goda 

Will  go  with  me,  and  my  avengers  be. 

And  in  whatever  distant  land  your  god, 

Your  cruel  god  of  Israel,  is  known. 

There,  too,  the  wrongs  that  you  have  done  this  da^ 

To  Hf^ar  and  your  firat-bom,  Ishmael, 

Shall  waken  and  uncoil  themselves,  and  hiss 

like  adders  at  the  name  of  Abraham. 

Eliza  Poiti^ve.m  Nicholmh, 


AN  EASTER  WITH  PAREPA. 
Oontrtbuted  by  Frederick  Immen,  Onnd  bplds,  Mlcblgui. 

IITHEN  Parepa  was  here  she  was  everywhere  the 
'•  people's  idol.  The  great  opera  houses  in  all 
our  cities  and  towns  were  thronged.  There  were 
none  to  criticise  or  carp.  Her  young,  rich,  grand 
voice  was  beyond  compare.     Its  glorious  tones  ar« 


184  BEST  SELKCnONfl 

remembered  with  an  enthusiaem  like  that  wliicl 
greeted  her  when  she  sung. 

Her  company  played  in  New  York  during  tin 
Easter  holidays,  and  I,  as  an  old  friend,  claimed 
some  oi  her  leisure  hours.  We  were  friends  in  Italy 
and  this  Easter  day  was  to  be  spent  with  mo. 

At  eleven  in  the  morning  she  sang  at  one  of  the 
lar^e  churches ;  I  waited  for  her,  and  at  la^il,  we  two 
were  alone  in  my  enug  little  room.  At  noon  the 
sky  was  overca.>jt  and  gray.  Down  came  the  anow, 
whitening  the  atreeta  and  roofe.  The  wind  Bwept 
icy  breathe  from  the  water  as  it  came  up  from  the 
buy  and  rushed  past  the  city  spires  and  over  tall 
buildings,  whirling  around  os  the  enow  and  storm. 
We  had  hurried  home,  shut  and  fastened  our  blinds, 


HUHBZB  TWBNTY-TWO  18o 

dovB,  peeping  through  ^e  shutters,  imd  pitying  the 
people  as  they  rushed  past 
A  sharp  rap  on  my  door.    John  thrust  in  a  note. 

"  My  Dear  Fribnd  : — Can  you  come  ?  Annie  has 
gone.  She  aaid  you  would  be  sure  to  come  to  her 
fiineniJ.  She  spoke  of  you  to  the  last  She  will  be 
buried  at  four." 

I  laid  the  poor  little  blotted  note  in  Parepa's  hand. 
How  it  stormed  I  We  looked  into  each  other's  faces 
helplessly.  I  said,  "  Dear,  I  must  go,  but  you  sit  by 
the  fire  and  rest.  I'll  be  at  home  in  two  hours.  And 
poor  Annie  has  gone  I" 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  Mary,  for  I  am  going  with  you," 
she  answered. 

She  threw  on  her  heavy  cloak,  wound  her  long 
white  woolen  scarf  closely  about  her  throat,  drew  on 
her  woolen  gloves,  and  we  set  out  tc^ether  in  the 
wild  Easter  storm. 

Annie's  mother  was  a  dressmaker,  and  sewed  for 
me  and  my  friends.  She  was  left  a  widow  when  her 
one  little  girl  was  five  years  old.  Her  husband  was 
drowned  off  the  Jersey  coast,  and  out  of  blinding 
pain  and  loss  and  anguish  had  grown  a  sort  of 
idolatry  for  the  delicate,  beautiful  child  whose  brown 
eyes  looked  like  the  young  husband's. 

For  fifteen  years  this  mother  had  loved  and  worked 
for  Annie,  her  whole  being  going  out  to  bless  bor 
one  child.  I  had  grown  fond  of  them ;  and  in  small 
ways,  with  books  and  flowers,  outings  and  simple 
pleasures,  I  had  made  myself  dear  to  them.    The 


186  BEST  sELEcnom 

end  of  the  delicate  girl's  life  had  not  seemed  so  neav, 
tliDugh  her  doom  had  been  hovering  about  her  for 
yoiira. 

I  had  thought  it  all  over  as  I  took  the  Easter  lilies 
from  my  window-flhelf  and  wrapped  them  in  thick 
papers  and  hid  them  out  of  the  storm  under  my 
cloak.  I  knew  there  would  be  no  other  flowers  in 
their  wretched  room.  How  endless  was  the  way  to 
thia  Elast-Side  tenement  house!  No  elevated  roads, 
no  rapid  transit  across  the  great  city  then  as  ihwe 
are  now.  At  last  we  reached  the  place.  On  the 
street  stood  the  canvas-covered  hearse,  known  only 
to  the  poor. 

We  climbed  flight  after  flight  of  narrow  dark  stairs 
to  the  small  upper  rooms.     In  the  middle  of  tho 


KUHBER  TWEHTY-TWO  187 

a  few  vffsea  from  the  Bible,  and  warned  "  the  be- 
reaved mother  against  rebellion  at  the  divine  de* 
crees.''    He  made  a  prayer  and  waa  gone. 

A  dreadful  hush  fell  over  the  small  room.  I  whis- 
pered to  the  mother  and  asked :  "  Why  did  yoii 
wait  »o  long  to  send  for  me.  All  thia  would  have 
been  different." 

With  a  kind  of  stare,  she  looked  at  me. 

"  I  can't  remember  why  I  didn't  send,"  she  said, 
her  hand  to  her  head,  and  added :  "  I  seemed  to  di^ 
too,  and  forget,  till  they  brought  a  coffin.  Then  I 
knew  it  all." 

The  undertaker  came  and  bustled  about.  He 
looked  at  myself  and  Parepa,  as  if  to  say :  "  It's 
time  to  go."    The  wretched  funeral  service  was  ovor. 

Without  a  word  Parepa  rose  and  walked  to  th« 
bead  of  the  coffin.  She  laid  her  white  scarf  on  an 
empty  chair,  threw  her  cloak  back  from  her  shoul- 
ders, where  it  fell  in  long,  soft,  black  lines  from  her 
noble  figure  like  the  drapery  of  mourning.  She  l^d 
her  soft,  fair  hand  on  the  cold  forehead,  passed  it 
tcmderiy  over  the  wasted  delicate  face,  looked  down 
at  the  dead  girl  a  moment,  and  moved  my  Baater 
lilies  from  the  stained  box  to  the  thin  fingers,  then 
litted  up  her  head,  and  with  illumined  eyes  sang  the 
glorious  melody : 

"  Angels,  ever  bright  and  fair, 
Take,  oh,  take  her  to  thy  care." 

H«i(  mf^ificent  voice  rose  and  fell  in  all  its  rich- 
ness and  power  and  pity  and  beauty  I    She  looked 


im 


BEST   SELECTIONS 


above  the  dingy  room  and  the  tired  faces  of  men  and 
wimien,  the  hard  hands  and  the  struggling  hearts. 
Silt-  threw  buck  her  head  and  sang  till  the  choirs  of 
[>:irudise  tnust  have  paused  to  listen  to  the  Eaater 
uiuaic  of  that  day, 

'She  passed  her  band  careHSiiigly  over  the  girl's  soil 
dark  hair,  and  sang  on — and  on — "  Take — oh  1  take 
her  to  thy  carel" 

The  mother's  faoe  grew  ra]it  and  white.  I  licW 
her  hands  and  wato.heil  lier  tsyta.  Suddenly  she 
threw  my  hand  off  and  knelt  at  Parepa's  feet,  close 
lo  the  wooden  trestles.  She  locked  her  fingers  to- 
getlier,  t«ara  and  sobs  breakuig  forth.  She  prayed 
uliiud  that  Uod  would  bless  the  tuigel  singing  foi 
Annie.    A  patient  smile  settk'd  about  her  lipe,  the 


MOUBER  TWENTY-TtrO  189 

fight  of  a  tenement  window  the  slnger'e  upliR«d  face, 
the  wondering  countenance  of  the  poor  on-Iookers, 
and  the  mother's  wide,  startled,  tearful  eyes;  I 
could  only  hear  above  Uie  sleet  on  the  roof  and  on 
the  storm  outside  Parepa'u  voice  singing  up  to 
heaven :  "  Take,  oh  I  take  her  to  thy  care !" 

Myra  S.  Delano. 


GOD  of  the  granite  and  the  rose, 
Soul  of  the  sparrow  and  the  bee, 
The  mighty  tide  of  being  flows 

Through  all  Thy  creatures  out  from  Thee. 
It  leaps  to  life  in  grass  and  flowers ; 

Through  every  grade  of  being  runs, 
Till  from  creation's  radiant  towers 

Its  glory  streams  in  stars  and  suna. 
Oh,  ye  who  sit  and  gaze  on  life 

With  folded  hands  and  pensive  will ; 
Who  only  see  amid  the  strife 

The  dark  supremacy  of  ill, 
Know  that  like  birds  and  bees  and  flowers 

The  life  that  moves  you  is  divine. 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  mortal  powers 

Your  godlike  spirit  can  confine. 
God  of  the  granite  and  the  roae, 

Soul  of  the  sparrow  and  the  bee, 


I  BBvr  sELKmova 

The  mighty  tide  of  being  flowa 

Through  all  Thy  creatures  back  to  Thee. 
Thua  round  and  round  the  circle  runs, 

An  endlesa  sea  without  a  shore, 
Till  men  and  angels,  stars  and  suns 

Unite  to  pnuse  Thee  evermore. 


JOCK  JOHNSTONE  THE  TINKLER. 

u  theChinco 


XB.,  came  ye  ower  by  the  Yoke-bum  Ford, 
Or  down  the  King's  Road  of  the  cleuch  ? 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  191 

"  Bat  I  can  tell  thee,  saucy  wight— 
And  that  the  runaways  shall  prove— 

Revenge  to  a  Douglas  is  as  sweet 
As  maiden  charms  or  maiden's  love." 

"  Since  thou  say'st  that,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
Good  faith  some  clinking  there  will  be; 

Beehrew  my  heart,  but  and  my  sword, 
If  I  winna  turn  and  ride  with  thee  I" 

They  whipp'd  out  ower  the  shepherd  cleucb, 
And  down  the  links  o'  the  Corsecleuch  bum; 

And  aye  the  Douglas  swore  by  hia  sword 
To  win  his  love  or  ne'er  return. 

"  Fight  first  your  rival.  Lord  Douglas, 

And  then  brag  after,  if  you  may ; 
For  the  Earl  of  Ross  is  as  brave  a  lord 

As  ever  gave  good  weapon  sway. 

"  But  I  for  ae  poor  siller  merk, 

Or  thirteen  pennies  an'  a  bawbee, 
Will  tak  in  hand  to  fight  you  baith, 

Or  beat  the  winner,  whiche'er  it  be." 

The  Douglas  tum'd  him  on  his  steed, 
And  I  wat  a  loud  laughter  leuch  he  :— 

"  Of  all  the  fools  I  have  ever  met, 
Man,  I  hae  never  met  ane  like  thee. 

''  Art  thou  akin  to  lord  or  knight. 
Or  courtly  squire  or  warrior  leal  f" 


.92  BEST  8ELECTION8 

"  I  am  a  tinkler,"  quo  the  wight, 
"  But  I  like  cromi-crackkig  anco  weeL" 

When  they  came  to  St.  Mary's  kirk. 

The  chaplain  shook  for  very  fear; 
And  aye  he  kias'd  the  cross,  and  said, 

"  What  deevil  has  sent  that  Douglaa  here !" 

"  Come  here,  thou  hland  and  brittle  priest, 

And  t«il  to  tne  without  delay 
Where  you  have  hid  the  I^int  of  Rors, 

And  the  lady  that  oame  at  the  break  of  day?" 

"  No  knitiht  or  lady,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
Have  1  beheld  since  break  of  mom ; 


NOltBBB  TWENTY-TWO  198 

At  this  the  Douglae  was  eo  wroth, 

He  wist  not  what  to  aay  or  do ; 
But  he  strak  the  tinkler  o'er  the  croun, 

Till  the  blood  came  dreeping  ower  his  brow. 

"  Beehrew  thy  heart,"  quo  the  tinkler  lad, 
"  Thou  bear'st  thee  most  ungallantlye  I 

If  theee  are  the  manners  of  a  lord, 

They  are  manners  that  winna  gang  down  wi'  me." 

"  Hold  up  thy  hand,"  the  Douglas  cried, 
"  And  keep  thy  distance,  tinkler  loun  I" 

"  That  will  I  not,"  the  tinkler  said, 

"  Though  I  and  my  mare  should  both  go  down  I" 

"  I  have  armor  on,"  cried  the  Lord  Douglas, 

"  Cuirass  and  helm,  as  you  may  see." 
"  The  deil  may  care  I"  quo  the  tinkler  lad ; 

"  I  shall  have  a  skelp  at  them  and  thee." 

"  You  are  not  horsed,"  quo  the  Lord  Douglae, 
"  And  no  remorse  this  weapon  brooks." 

"Mine's  a  right  good  yaud,"  quo  the  tinkler  lad; 
"  And  a  great  deal  better  nor  she  looks. 

"  So  stand  to  thy  weapons,  thou  haughty  lord; 

What  I  have  taken  I  needs  must  give; 
Thou  shalt  never  strike  a  tinkler  again, 

For  the  langeat  day  thou  hast  to  live." 

Then  to  it  they  fell,  both  sharp  and  snelf, 
Till  the  fire  from  both  their  weapons  flewj 
13 


[  llEST   HKlJHTrlllKS 

But  the  very  firat  Hlnx-k  that  they  lavt  witll, 
The  Douglas  hia  rnshiiiiHti  'gan  to  rue. 

For  tliou^'h  he  hnd  on  a  enrlc  of  mail. 
And  a  cuiraaa  on  his  breast  wore  he, 

With  a  good  steel  bonnet  on  bis  head. 
Yet  the  blood  ran  trinkling  to  hia  knee. 

"  I  care  no  more  for  Lord  Jomee  Douglas, 
Than  Lord  James  Douglas  cares  for  me; 

But  I  want  to  let  hia  proud  heart  know, 
That  a  tinkler's  a  man  aa  well  aa  he." 

So  they  fought  on,  and  they  fought  on, 
Till  good  Lord  Douglas'  breath  was  gone; 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  IG 

But  the  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
That  was  a  debt  he  could  never  owe ; 

He  would  rather  die  at  the  back  of  the  dike, 
Than  owe  his  sword  to  a  man  so  low. 

"  But  if  thou  wilt  ride  under  my  banner, 
And  beaT  my  livery  and  my  name, 

My  right-hand  warrior  thou  ahalt  be, 

And  111  knight  thee  on  the  field  of  &une." 

"  Woe  worth  thy  wit,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
To  think  I'd  change  my  trade  for  thine ; 

Far  better  and  wiser  would  you  be, 
To  live  as  a  journeyman  of  mine, 

"  To  mend  a  kettle  or  a  caaque. 
Or  clout  a  goodwife'a  yettlin  pan — 

Upon  ray  life,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
You'd  make  a  noble  tinkler  man  I" 

The  Douglas  writhed  beneath  the  lash, 
Answerinjj  with  an  inward  curse — 

Like  salmon  wriggling:  on  a  spear, 
That  makes  his  deadly  wound  the  worao. 

But  up  there  came  two  squires  renown'd ; 

In  search  of  Lord  Douglae  they  came; 
And  when  they  saw  tlieir  master  down, 

Their  spirits  mounted  in  a  fiame. 

And  they  Hew  upon  the  tinkler  wight, 
Like  perfect  tigers  on  their  prey; 


i  BEST  SELECnONB 

But  the  tinkler  heaved  his  tru8^  sword. 
And  made  him  ready  for  the  &ay. 

"  Come  one  to  one,  ye  coward  knaves — 
Come  hand  to  hand,  and  steed  to  steed, 

I  would  that  ye  were  better  men, 
For  tiiie  is  glorious  work  indeed !" 

Before  yon  could  have  counted  twelve, 
The  tinkler's  wondrous  chivalrye 

Had  both  the  squires  upon  the  sward, 
And  their  horses  galloping  o'er  the  lea, 

The  tinkler  tied  them  neck  and  heel. 
And  many  a  biting  jest  gave  he ; 


mmBBB  TWENTY-TWO  1) 

"  Tifl  trae,  Jock  Johnstone  is  my  name, 
I'm  a  right  good  tmkler  as  you  see; 

For  I  can  crack  a  casque  betimes, 
Or  clout  one,  as  my  need  may  be. 

"  Jock  Johnstone  ia  my  name,  'tis  trae — 
But  noble  hearts  are  allied  to  me, 

For  I  am  the  Lord  of  Annandale, 

And  a  knight  and  earl  as  well  as  thee." 

Then  Douglas  strained  the  hero's  hand, 
And  took  from  it  his  sword  rgain ; 

"  Since  thou  art  the  Lord  of  Annandale, 
Thou  hast  eased  my  heart  of  meikle  pain. 

"  I  might  have  known  thy  noble  form, 
In  that  disguise  thou'rt  pleased  to  wear; 

All  Scotland  knows  thy  matchless  arm. 
And  England  by  experience  dear. 

"  We  have  been  foes  as  well  as  irienda. 
And  jealous  of  each  other's  sway ; 

But  little  can  I  comprehend 
Thy  motive  for  these  pranks  to-day  f" 

"  Sooth,  ray  good  lord,  the  truth  to  tell, 
'Twas  I  that  stole  your  love  away, 

And  gave  her  to  the  Lord  of  Ross 
An  hour  before  the  break  of  day : 

"  For  the  Lord  of  Ross  is  my  brother, 
By  all  the  laws  of  chivalrye; 


i  BBBT  8ELECnONB 

And  I  brought  with  me  a  thousand  wen 
To  guaxd  him  to  my  own  countrye. 

"  But  I  thought  meet  to  stay  behiod, 
And  try  your  lordship  to  waylay ; 

Resolved  to  breed  some  noble  sport, 
By  leading  you  so  far  astray ; 

"  Judging  it  better  some  lives  to  spare — 
Which  fancy  takes  me  now  and  then-— 

And  settle  our  quarrel  hand  to  hand, 
Than  each  with  our  t«n  thousand  men. 

"  God  send  you  soon,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
To  border  foray  sound  and  haill  I 


NUUBBR  TWENTY-TWO 


In  BlMntlon  at  Booth  Cut) 


BENEATH  the  summer  moon,  the  city  liee      ' 
Bathed  in  a  flood  of  light  that  rivala  day, 
Each  columned  temple  and  star-striking  spire 
Has  now  an  added  beauty,  which  the  noon 
In  all  its  glory  could  not  give. 
The  many  fountained  courts  and  colonnades. 
The  flowered  lawns,  and  lofty  dim-arched  halls 
Seem  chosen  haunts  of  soft-eyed  dreamy  Peace. 
But  on  the  ear  there  falls  the  measure<l  tread 
Of  armed  men ;  and  from  each  moonlit  spot 
Is  fla8he<l  the  silver  sheen  of  spear  and  shield 
That  know  not  peace  ;  the  mighty  gates  are  closed: 
And  from  the  walls  the  weary  warders  watch. 

Before  the  seaward  gates  a  verdant  plain 
Extends  in  grassy  billows  to  the  shore, 
Prom  which  in  other  days  was  beard  the  plaah 
Of  waves  upon  the  beach,  or  low-voiced  cry 
Of  some  sad  sea-bird,  and  no  other  sound. 
And  thro'  the  plains  a  placid  river  winds, 
Its  banks  enriched  with  fairy  fretted  ferns 
And  water  plants,  that  whisper  to  the  winds, 
And  bow  before  the  stream  that  ripples  by. 
Half  loth  to  leave  the  meadows  for  the  sea : 
Time  was,  the  plains  re-echoed  with  the  shouts 
Of  children  at  their  play,  and  on  the  stream 
They  sailed  their  masted  toys  from  noon  till  eve. 


200  BEST  aELEfmONK 

A  host  now  liea  eacaiuped  beneiith  the  wallfl; 
Huge  ahipa  of  war  flimt  iit  the  river's  mouth. 
All'!  all  men  deem  the  eity  ne«r  its  doom. 
How  otherwise,  wlien  half  its  folks  are  slain, 
And  famine,  hullow-ejed,  broods  in  ite  midst? 
Ytt  ou  this  ni^ht,  despite  the  silver  moon. 
The  'leagured  fulkfl  huve  planned  ojie  more  aaeaull 
Upon  the  camp  outaiJe,  if  by  some  chance 
The  God  of  battle  luight  prove  on  their  side, 
And  they  might  conquer  this  last  time  or  die. 

What  tender  partings  are  there  thia  sad  night! 
Paie  wives  and  famiahed  children  clasping  hands 
Of  men  half  mad  with  hunger  and  despair  1 
See  near  the  walls  the  youthfiil  Sigurd  stands. 


NUMBER  TWENTY-TWO  201 

Tb&t  groaned  as  if  forewarned  of  coming  woe — 
Then  to  the  battlements  the  women  ran, 
To  watch  with  anxious  eyes  the  battle-whirl ; 
For  ere  the  camp  was  reached,  the  serried  ranks 
Of  foemen  hurried  forth  in  Btreugthening  lines 
To  meet  this  last  assault  of  desperate  men. 
Sharp  was  the  conflict,  but  the  struggle  short, 
For  worn  and  weak,  the  townsmen  turned  and  fled 
Leaving  one-half  their  number  on  the  ground. 
In  vain  did  Sigurd  and  his  brother  chiefs 
Attempt  to  ateni  the  tide ;  the  men  swept  past 
Like  some  tumultuous  current  to  the  sea. 
Straight  to  the  gates,  they,  panic-stricken,  rushed, 
And  fearful  that  the  foe  was  close  behind 
Shut  the  gates,  nor  waited  to  discern 
If  any  comrades  were  without  or  not. 

Retreating  slowly,  one  heroic  hand 

With  Sigurd  at  its  head,  still  faced  the  foe, 

And  scorned  to  turn ;  but  cried  upon  the  men 

To  rally  once  again  and  conquer  yet. 

This  Hilda  saw  from  where  she  watching  stood 

Gazing  with  scorn  upon  the  hurrying  men, 

And  thus  with  flashing  eyes,  addressed  the  crowd  ^— 

"  Are  you  so  many  now  that  you  could  spare 

The  friends  you  have  shut  out,  or  do  you  deem 

You  are  so  few  you  can  no  longer  fight  as  hitherto  ? 

Cowards,  the  foeman's  steel  had  once  no  terrors  for 

you. 
Is  his  blade  more  keen,  hia  arm  more  strong  than 

erst  it  was? 


202  BEST  6EL1KTION3 

1  lave  you  no  ahame  to  leave  your  cbie&  oatside, 

W'liile  you  in  careless  safety  stand  afar? 

0[H'n  the  gates  there,  warder,  and  let  those 

Who  love  their  gods  and  friends  now  follow  me." 

TliuM  speaking  she  passed  through  the  silent  crowd, 

Scorn  on  her  lip  and  courage  in  her  eye. 

With   spear   and   shield   she   hurried    through   the 

^ates, 
Nor  paused  to  see  if  any  followed  her ; 
And  wonder  fell  on  all  the  weary  folk. 

Liko  ti)  a  star  that  shoots  across  the  sky, 
Britiht  for  a  while,  then  lost  in  utter  gloora, 
Slie  ilarted  o'er  the  plain  engulphed 
Witliin  the  struggling  mass  of  raging  men. 


ITDKBBB  TWEHTT-TWO  208 

Ko  city  now  lies  on  the  widowed  plain, 

And  through  rank  grass,  the  lonely  river  creeps 

In  silence  to  the  sad  deserted  shore. 

How  many  summer  suns  have  risen  and  set  I 

How  many  winter  winds  have  swept  the  plain 

Since  those  two  lovers  were  laid  hreast  to  breast  1 

The  memory  of  the  city  has  long  since  died ; 

But  this  bright  picture  of  a  woman's  love 

Shines  down  the  vista  of  the  years  gone  by 

Dim  with  the  gathered  mist  of  human  tears, 

Like  slanting  sunbeams  through  the  rain-clond'e 

gloom. 
Or  moonlight  bursting  through  the  screen  of  night 


PART  SECOND 


BEST  SELECTIONS 
For  Readings  and  Recitations 

NUMBER  23 


RUTH  PINCH'S  HOUSEKEEPING— AND  WHAT 
CAME  OF  IT. 


Tom  Plneh  mi  a  mknly,  hangaL,  young  fallow,  whose  good  qtullUd 

c«11*d  Ibrtb  the  admirellOD  of  itl  who  knew  him.  By  ui  unfortaDikM 
circunuUnce.  he  wu  discharged  Itota  Ihe  (rchltect's  otiire  In  which  h« 
wu  emplojrd,  uid  ilmllailr  hi*  aliier  Ruih  loat  hur  pcMliluii  u  suvaniM. 
With  tlngularly  happj  he*rU,  ibey  re»lut«1y  deicrmlne  to  overcome 
Ihalr  dlDcuKlM  logethei.  They  real  &  imill  home.  In  which  Rulb, 
wllh  Tery  Ultle  hoonhold  knowledge,  relgna  mlalreu.  The  economical 
amngemenl*  Ihui  fbrced  opon  them  proye  to  be  both  pMhello  uid 
uuuMnf. 

PLEASANT  little  Ruth !  Cheerful,  tidy,  buBtling, 
quiet,  little  Ruth  !  To  he  Tom's  houaekeeper. 
What  dignity !  It  was  auch  a  grand  novelty.  Well 
might  she  take  the  keys  out  of  the  little  chiffonier, 
which  held  the  tea  and  sugar,  and  jingle  them  before 
Tom's  eyes  when  he  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning  1  Well  might  she  put  them  up  in  that 
blessed  little  pocket  of  hers  with  merry  pride ! 

"  I  don't  know,  Tom,"  said  his  sister,  blushing,  "  I 
am  not  quite  confident,  but  I  think  I  could  make  a 
beefsteak -pudding,  if  I  tried,  Tom." 


"  In  the  whole  catalogue  of  cookery  there  Ifl 
notliirig  I  should  like  ao  iimirh!"  criiKl  Tom. 

"  ]>ut  if  it  should  happen  not  to  comi;  right  tlio 
first  time,"  his  eisUtr  fitlturLHl,  "  hut  should  turn  out 
to  lio  a  stew,  or  a  soup  or  somethiag." 

The  serious  way  in  wliieh  she  looked  ut  Tom,  and 
the  way  in  whicli  he  looked  at  her,  and  the  way  in 
which  she  gradually  broke  into  a  laugh  at  her  own 
ex]iense,  would  have  enchanted  you, 

"  Why,  it  gives  ua  a  new  interest  in  the  dinner," 
lauf^lied  Toni ;  "  we  put  into  a  lottery  for  a  beofetoak- 
pudding,  and  we  may  make  some  wim'lerAiI  dis- 
covery, and  produce  such  a  dish  as  never  vraa  known 
before." 

"  I  shall  not  be  surprised  if  we  do,"  returned  hia 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  7 

chin  of  hers  into  a  equally  compact  little  bonnet, 
and  inviting  Tom  to  come  and  ace  the  steak  cut  with 
his  own  eyes.  So  off  they  trotted,  arm  in  arm, 
nimbly  as  you  please.  To  see  the  butcher  slap  that 
steak,  to  see  him  cut  it  off,  so  smooth  and  juicy,  was 
agreeable — it  really  was.  Then  back  to  the  lodgings 
^ain,  after  they  had  bought  some  eggs,  flour,  and 
such  small  matters. 

Ruth  prepared  to  make  the  pudding.  Ay,  ayl 
That  she  did.  Fintt  she  trippe<l  down-stairs  for  the 
flour,  then  for  the  pie-board,  then  for  the  eggs, 
then  for  the  Imttcr,  then  for  a  jug  of  water,  then 
for  the  roUing-pin,  then  for  a  pudding-basin, 
then  for  the  pepper,  then  for  the  salt  Horrified 
to  find  she  had  no  apron  on,  up-stairs,  by  way 
of  variety.  She  didn't  put  it  on  u{>-slairs,  but 
came  dancing  down  with  it  in  her  hand ;  it  took  an 
immense  time  to  be  arranged,  having  to  be  tapped, 
rebuked,  and  wheedled  at  the  pockets  before  it 
would  set  right,  and  when  it  did — but  never  mind ; 
this  is  a  sober  chronicle.  Then  there  were  her  cuffe 
to  be  tucked  up,  and  a  little  ring  to  pull  off,  and 
during  all  these  preparations  she  looked  demurely  at 
Tom  from  under  her  dark  lashes. 

It  was  a  perfect  treat  to  see  her — her  brows  knit 
and  her  rosy  lips  pureed  up,  kneading  away  at  the 
crust,  rolling  it  out,  cutting  it  into  strips,  lining  the 
basin  with  it,  shaving  it  fine  off  around  the  rim, 
chopping  the  steak  into  pieces,  raining  down  pepper 
and  salt,  packing  them  into  the  basin,  pouring  in 
cold  water  for  gravy ;   until  at  last  she  clapped  her 


hiuiils  all  covered  with  paste  and  flour,  and  bnral 
iii1i>  ;i  cbanning  little  laiigli  of  triuiiipli. 

■Where's   the  ijuddiug?"  said   Tom,  cutting  his 

JOICL,. 

"Where?"  she  anewereJ,  holding  it  up.  "  Ltiok 
at  it." 

"  That  a  pudding  I"  said  Tom, 

"  It.  will  bn,  you  stupid,"  giving  him  a  tap  on  tho 
huiid  with  the  rollijig-pin  and  laughing  merrily, 
whi'ii  alio  Bt»rtod  and  tumcii  vi-ry  red.  Tom,  follow- 
ing lior  eyes,  saw  John  Weetlock  in  the  room. 

'■  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  John.  "  Tom,  come  to 
my  relief." 

'•  Mr.  WtsUock — my  sister.    Sit  down." 

John  was  tran^lixed  with  silent  admiration,  but 


ItUUBER  TWENTY-TJIKEB  9 

she  must  have  been  studying  a  Inn;;  time  in  secret, 
and  ur^etl  her  to  make  a  confedxion  of  the  fact. 
John  waa  not  fair  though,  for  after  luring  Tom  on, 
lie  BU<ldenly  went  over  to  the  enemy,  and  awore  to 
everything  hiu  sister  aaid.     It  wad  astonishing! 

Tom !  What  a  short-sighted  Tom — to  be  so  sur- 
prised to  find  that  merry  present  of  a  cook-book 
waiting  Ruth  next  mornhig,  with  the  beefsteak- 
pudding  leaf  blotted  out.  John  AVestlockl  Simple 
in  thee!  Oh  I  wicked,  little  ItuthI  Dear  Ruth  I 
Sweet  Ruth  I 

,  Brilliantly  the  Temple  Fountain  sparkled  in  the 
sun,  and  laughingly  its  liquid  music  played,  and 
merrily  the  idle  drops  of  water  danced  and  danced, 
and  peeping  out  in  sport  among  the  trees,  plunged 
lightly  down  to  hide  themselves,  as  little  Ruth  came 
toward  it  \\'as  anybody  else  there  that  she  blushed 
80  deeply  after  looking  around,  and  tripped  off  down 
the  steps  with  8Ut:h  unusual  expedition  ? 

Why,  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Westlock  was  passing  at 
that  moment.  The  Temple  is  a  public  thoroughfare, 
and  Mr.  Westlock  had  as  good  a  right  to  be  there  as 
anybody  else.  Why  did  she  run  away  ?  Not  being 
ill-dressed,  why  did  she  run  away  ?  The  brown  hair 
had  fallen  down  beneath  her  bonnet,  and  had  one 
impertinent  imp  of  a  false  flower  clinging  to  it,  bul 
that  could  not  have  been  the  cause,  for  it  looked 
charming.  Oh  I  foolish,  panting,  frightened,  little 
heart,  why  did  she  run  away  ? 

John  Westlock   hurried   after  her.     Oh!   foolish, 


10  BEST  SELECTIONS 

panting,  timid,  little  heart,  why  did  she  feign  to  be 
iLiicorisfioua  of  hie  coming?  "I  felt  eure  it  was 
Villi,"  he  said;  "I  knew  I  couldn't  be  mistaken." 
Slir  wiw  SO  burprised.  "  You  are  waiting  for  your 
lir.itlior,"  he  added;  "let  mo  beiir  you  company." 

Merrily  the  tiny  fountain  played,  softly  the  whifl- 
juring  water  broke  and  fell,  as  liuth  and  hercom- 
jianion  came  toward  it.  But  why  they  came  toward 
tht;  fountain  at  all  is  a  mystery ;  for  they  had  no 
IjUi-iiiesa  there,  their  coming  anywhere  near  the  foun- 
tain, was  quite  extraordinary.  However  there  they 
found  themselves.  And  another  extraordinary  part 
of  llie  matter  was,  that  they  seemed  to  have  come 
tJnTi.'  by  a  silent  understanding.  Yet  when  thej'  got 
re,  they  were  a  little   confused  at  being  there, 


NUMBim  TWENTY-THEEE  11 

further.  It  was  inipo^^ilile  to  walk  in  such  a  treni' 
ble.  He  sat  down— !>_v  lier  side,  and  very  near  her; 
very,  very  near  her.  Oh  !  good  gracious !  O  rapid, 
swellinf!,  bursting,  little  heart,  you  knew  that  it 
would  come  to  this,  and  hoped  it  would. 

"  Dear  Ruth !  Sweet  Rutli !  If  I  loved  you  less, 
I  couid  have  told  you  long  ago  that  I  loved  you.  I 
have  loved  you  from  the  first.  There  never  waa  a 
creature  in  the  world  more  truly  loved  than  you  by 

She  claaped  her  little  hands  before  her  face.  The 
gushing  tears  of  joy,  and  pride,  and  hope,  and 
innocent  affection  would  not  be  restrained.  Fresh 
from  her  full  young  heart  they  came  to  answer 
him. 

"  Darling  Ruth !  My  own  good,  gentle,  winning 
Ruth!  I  hope  I  know  the  value  of  your  ang^ 
nature.  Ix)t  me  try  to  show  you  that  I  do ;  and  you 
will  make  me  happier — " 

"Not  happier,"  she  sobbed,  "than  you  make  me. 
No  one  could  be  hai>pier,  John,  than  you  make  me !" 

It  is  of  no  use  .saying  how  that  preposterous  John 
answered  her,  beciiuse  he  answered  her  in  a  manner 
which  is  untranslatable  on  jiaper,  though  highly 
satUfac'tory  in  itself.  He  had  hanlly  time  to  say 
this  much — 1  mean,  do  this  much— when  Tom  was 
seen.  He  wa.s  coming  along  as  usual,  staring  about 
him  in  all  directions.  When  Rutb  saw  his  dear  old 
face,  she  was  so  touched  that  she  ran  into  his  arms, 
laid  her  head  down  on  his  breast,  and  sobbed  out, 
''  Bless  me,  Tom !     My  dearest  brother." 


18 


BEST  9E1.ECTI0XB 


Tom  looked  in  surprUu,  imd  saw  John  Wwtloclt 
stanriiiig  close  Itesiilc  liiin,  "  Door  Tom,"  saitl  liw 
friend,  "give  me  your  hand.  We  are  brotherw, 
T.ini." 

Tom  wrung  it  with  all  his  foroe,  embraced  hi« 
sidtcr  fervently,  ami  put  her  in  John  Weetlock'a 
aniia.     There  let  tlie  record  stand ! 

Charles  Dickens. 

THE  FOOL'S  I'RAYER. 


THE  royal  feast  wa^  done.     The  king 
Sought  some  new  Bporl  tu  baniah  care, 
And  to  his  jeater  crie<i :  "  Sir  Fool. 


NUUBER  TWENTY-THREE  13 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hanl,  well-meaning  handu  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-tiraed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierctKl  and  stung  I 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung ! 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  aak, 

The  chaatening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all; 
But  for  our  blunders — oh  !  in  shamo 
Before  the  eyea  of  Heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord  I 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool." 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 
The  king,  and  sought  hist  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool." 

EUWAHU   KOWLAND   HlIX. 


BEST   BELKCTIONS 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "  NORTHERN  BELLE." 

FAIR  aight  1  for  a  crew  of  Englishmen  true. 
When  homeward  their  course  they  hold, 
AVith  sails  bleached  white  by  the  tropic  light, 

AntI  sheathing  a-glitter  like  gold ; 
Fair  aight!  from  the  raila — iv hen  the  topin an  hails, 

'■  Land  ho !  on  the  larboard !" — to  see 
The  green  waves  leap  at  the  white  cliff's  steep 

On  the  shore  of  the  land  of  the  free : 
Fair  muaic  they  make  together, 

The  clift"  and  the  climliing  foam  ; 
And  it  sounds  in  the  bright  blue  weatliei 

Like  the  wanderer's  welcome  home. 


NUUBEB  TWENTY-THREE  IS 

We  thraahed  our  way  through  Atlantic  spray, 

And  ran  tlie  fhannel  through ; 
Twas  thriiu  on  the  morning  of  Monday 

When  we  let  the  anchors  go 
Ten  cahles  or  more  from  Kingsgate  shore, 

To  ride  out  the  etonn  and  enow ; 
Ten  cables  from  where  green  meadows 

And  quiet  homes  could  be  seen, 
No  greater  space  from  peril  to  peace — 

But  the  savage  sea  between. 

Yet  a  greater  space  to  us  had  been  grace, 

For  still  as  we  neared  the  shore. 
The  wild  white  roll  of  the  wiive.^  on  the  shoal 

Roared  round  us  more  and  more ; 
Roared  out  in  a  ring  around  us, 

You  might  see  them  fore  and  aft, 
On  ragged  ledge  and  splintered  edge, 

All  mad  to  dash  our  cratl; 
While  the  weltering  rocks,  with  their  seaweed  locks, 

Awash  in  the  whirling  froth. 
Stood  up  like  slaves  of  the  winds  and  waves, 

Waiting  to  wreak  their  wrath. 

Not  yet,  brave  ship !  for  the  anchor's  grip 

Is  fast  in  the  noze  and  shell ; 
The  gusta  may  shake,  and  the  great  surge  br*^, 

But  the  iron  holds  her  well. 

***** 
Twas  ten  of  the  day,  and  the  vessel  lay 

Sl«m  on  the  snow-dimmed  shore. 


16 


BEST  SELECTIONS 


And  now  from  tlie  town  they  hurry  down, 

For  tlie  ery  is  "  A  wreck  !"  '"  A  wreck !" 
(Ah!  mulcr  their  tread  is  the  firm  j^reen  mead, 

'Xt-jitli  ours  hut  the  8lipi)ery  deck.) 
Kind  souk!  they  shout!  look!  yonder  comes  uui 

A  lut;i;er  fmni  off  the  land. 
Brave  crew  and  craft! — Ready  fore  and  aft! — 

She  will  lend  us  a  helping  hand : 
Bout  whip!  so,  so!  she  stays— yea !  nol 

I'ort,  port !  ah,  Heaven !  that  sea- 
(ione — verfsel  and  men  white  the  heart  beats  ten ! 

Gone — drowned,  for  their  charity ! 


Rose  from  each  lip  on  aliore  and  ship 


NDHBKR  TWENTY-THREE  17 

And  Btill,  like  a  steed  reined  back  at  speed, 

The  tiliip  did  plunge  and  rear ; 
While  the  burly  main  strove  on  in  vain 

To  crack  our  cable  and  gear : 
Till  the  twilight  gloom,  like  the  earth  on  the  tombj 

Came  over,  and  hid  the  town ; 
And  the  last  we  could  see,  they  were  busy  a-lee 

Dragging  the  life-boats  down. 

Ah  me  t  no  boat  in  tliat  surf  could  Boat, 

No  oarsmen  cleave  a  way ; 
No  eye  so  bright  as  to  pierce  the  night 

That  on  land  and  water  lay. 
Oh !  leaden  dark,  that  left  no  spark 

Of  star  in  the  wild,  wet  aky ; 
Not  one  pale  ray  to  glimmer  and  say 

That  God  and  help  were  nigh. 
The  timbers  racked,  the  cables  cracked. 

Wilder  the  waters  dashed ; 
Ease  her!  no  need — the  ship  is  freed! 

She  strove — she  rose — she  crashed  I 

Then  settled  and  fell  the  "  Northern  Belle," 

As  one  who  no  more  strives ; 
But  the  foremast  stood,  good  Canada  wood, 

With  nine  and  twenty  lives. 
If  dreadful  the  day,  as  none  can  say, 

Oh  !  the  night  was  terribler  far, 
As  each  man  clung  to  the  shrouds,  or  hung 

IceKiold  on  the  icy  spar; 
2 


8  BEST  8ELECTIONB 

And  hearta  beat  Blow,  as  the  night  did  go,  . 

Like  a  lazily  ticking  clock ; 
Till  we  longed  to  drop  from  the  dripping  top, 

Nor  wait  for  the  laat  sure  shock. 

Then,  while  she  did  grind,  we  called  to  mind 

Each  one  his  own  home-place, 
New  Jersey  towns,  and  Connecticut  downs, 

And  the  pleasant  meadows  of  maize. 
^\'c'  thought  of  brothers,  and  wives  and  mothers, 

With  whom  we  should  never  be; 
Of  our  I)abie8  playing,  or  pcrha]i9  a  prayer  saying, 

I'^ir  "  daddy,"  far  off  at  sea; 
Ami  we  said  pmvers  to  mingle  with  theirs, 
"  "   ■Idfort'hLMlavli^ht^till. 


NUHBEK   TWENTY-THBEB  19 

"  Now,  now !  ah,  now !     Pull  bow !  pull  bow  I 

Oh !  yonder  awella  a  sea, 
She  awainpa ! — no  1  no !     Thank  God,  not  bo  1 

She  rounds  beneath  our  lee." 
Thrice  with  a  freight  of  Uvea  they  fight 

Their  way — stern  down  and  stem — 
Then — safe  and  sound,  on  the  English  ground  I 

Thanlca  to  the  Lord,  and  them. 

Look  ye,  mates  mine !  there  be  stories  fine 

Of  Greek  and  Roman  deed  ; 
But  when  all's  done,  there  was  never  one 

Of  better  help  and  need. 
Which  man  of  our  crew,  my  messmates  true, 

But  holds  his  life  a  gift, 
From  those  brave  Seven, henceforward,  pleaae  Heav^ 

To  be  used  with  thoughtful  thrift  I 
To  be  held  on  earth  for  service  of  worth, 

Save  when  Englishmen  cry — and  then 
Come  storm,  come  slaughter,  to  be  spent  like  water 

For  the  sake  of  the  Kingsgate  men. 

***** 
111  aay  one  thing  before  I  bring 

This  plain  sea-aong  to  its  end — 
Such  hearta  of  gold,  more  than  state-craft  <dd, 

Will  help  all  quarrels  to  mend. 
America  sent,  with  warm  intent. 

Your  ship  for  a  New  Year's  token. 
You  give  her  back  our  lives  from  wrack, 

Shall  such  friends  ever  be  broken? 


iU  BEST  SELECnONB 

No !  no !  tliey  shall  etaad  hand  faat  in  hand. 

All  siwk'rly — wide  by  side — 
And  none  ever  tell  of  the  "  Northern  Belle," 
Save  witli  flushes  and  smiles  of  pride. 
***** 

Edwin  Arnold. 


CLOSE  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

rE T  us  go  back  and  place  ourselves  in  the  yeai 
i  1815.  The  scene  is  the  battle-field  of  M'aterloo, 
tlio  strangest  encounter  of  history;  claaaic  war  tak- 
in;;  Imr  revenge;  geniu.s  vanquished  by  calculation; 
\VL*llin;:ton  against  Napoleon.     Here  for  houre  two 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THRBS  21 

to  it8  embrace.  Toward  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
at  the  fout  of  the  plateau,  there  remained  but  one. 

In  tliia  fatal  valley,  at  thi!  bottom  of  that  slope 
which  had  been  climbed  by  the  cuiraasiera  under  tlie 
converging  fire  of  the  victorious  artillery  of  the 
enemy,  amid  a  frightful  storm  of  projectiles  this 
square  fought  on.  It  was  commanded  by  an  obscure 
officer  whose  name  was  Cambronne.  At  every  dia- 
cfaai^  the  square  grew  less,  but  returned  the  lire.  It 
replied  to  grape  by  bullets,  narrowing  in  ite  four 
walls  continually.  Afar  oil',  the  fugitives,  stopping 
for  a  moment  to  take  breath,  heard  in  the  darkness 
this  dismal  thunder  decreasing. 

When  the  l^ion  was  reduced  to  a  handful,  when 
their  flag  was  reduced  to  a  shreil,  when  their 
muskets,  exhausted  of  ammunition,  were  reduced  to 
nothing  but  clubs,  when  the  pile  of  corpses  was 
lar>;er  than  the  groups  of  the  living,  there  spread 
among  the  conquerors  a  sort  of  sacred  terror  about 
these  sublime  martyrs;  and  the  English  artillery 
stopping  to  take  breath  was  silent.  It  was  a  kind  of 
respite.  These  combatante  had  about  them  a  swarm 
of  spectres — the  outlines  of  men  on  horseback,  the 
black  prolile  of  the  cannons,  the  white  sky  seen 
through  the  wheels  and  the  gun-carriages — the 
colossal  death's  bead  whicli  heroes  always  see  in  the 
smoke  of  battle  waa  advancing  upon  them  and  glar- 
ing at  them.  They  could  hear  in  the  gloom  of  the 
twilight  the  loading  of  the  pieces;  the  lighted 
matches,  like  tiger's  eyes  in  the  night,  made  a  circle 
about  their  heads. 


All  the  UnEitocks  of  tlie  English  batteries  ap- 
proached the  guns,  when,  touched  by  their  heroism, 
holding  the  deatli  iiiumcnl  8U8i)eudod  over  these 
men,  an  Knglish  general  cried  to  them,  ''Brave 
Frenchmen  I  Surrender !"  Cambronne  anawerod, 
"  Fudge  I"  To  make  this  answer  to  disaster;  to  say 
this  to  destiny  ;  to  iling  down  thia  reply  at  the  rain 
of  the  previous  night,  at  the  treacherous  wall  of 
Huugomont,  at  the  sunken  road  of  Ohain,  at  ibe 
delay  of  Grouchy,  at  the  arrival  of  Bliioher;  to  be 
ironical  in  the  aepulclire  is  immense. 

Thia  unknown  soldier,  Cambronne,  this  infini- 
tesimal of  war.  fcelfi  that  tliere  is  a  lie  in  a  catastroplie 
doubly  bitter.     And  at  a  moment  when  he  is  burst- 


HUXBER  TWENTY-THREB 


ANNE  HATHAWAY. 


WOULD  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throi^, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  Bong, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway ! 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  inifjlit  wandering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway; 
To  breathe  delight,  Anne  hath  &  way. 

When  Envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care. 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  Orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst. 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay. 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway  I 


BEST  SELECTIONS 

i^he  hath  a  way  with  her  bright  eye, 
l"lieir  \'arioU8  lustres  to  defy — 
The  jewels  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
Ku  sweet  to  look,  Anne  hath  a  way, 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Bnt  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 

To  rate  her  charms,  I'd  call  them  heaven ; 

For  tliough  u  mortal  made  of  clay 

Arifiels  must  love  Anne  Hathaway ; 

h'he  hath  ii  way  so  to  control. 

To  rapture,  tJie  iinjirisoned  soul, 


miMBER   TWENTV-THBEE  36 

la  fancy  I  see  it  when  eve,  dark  and  chilly, 
O'ercasting  the  city,  forhida  inc  to  roam  : 

In  memory  blossom  the  rose  uiid  the  lily 

When  solitude  freshens  the  pictures  of  home. 

I  seem  on  the  garden-gate  swinging  and  singing, 
Or  on  the  bare  leaning  in  summer  eves  long ; 

And,  waiting  my  father  his  team  homeward  bring- 
ing, 
I  list  once  again  to  the  whippoorwill's  song. 

I    remember   the   porch    where    the    woodbine   in 
clusters 

Of  billowy  green  o'er  the  white  rosea  hung; 
The  swallows,  whose  purple  and  emerald  lustres 

Shot  awitt  through  the  air  where  the  orioles  sung. 

O'er  the  old  mosey  wall,  in  tlie  mellow  aire  blow- 
ing, 
The  liliea  madg  fragrant  the  evenings  of  May; 
And  close  by  the  door  where  the  house-leeks  were 
growing. 
My  grandmother's  garden,  ray   pleasure-ground, 
lay. 

Anear  was  the  orchard,  the  moss  to  it  clinging. 

The  home  of  the  birds  and  the  banquet  of  bees : 
I  loved,  in  the  spring-time,  when  church-bells  were 
ringing. 
The  peaceful  white  Sundays  that  came  to  the 
trees. 


26  BEST  SELECTIONS 

My  grandm other's  gartlen  viilh  green  box  wm  bor 
dered ; 

Tliurc  blooiDcd  the  blue  myrtles,  the  first  llowcre 

of  spring; 
There  tlio  ptioriy's  leaves  seemed  with  pansies  era- 

broUlercd ; 
And  bandt)  of  the  feirioB  the  bluebells  to  swing. 


T)k;    balm-bed    waa    thsrej    the    Bwettt^    from    its 
IbiwerB 
The  humming-birds,  gemming  the  air,  came  to 
draw : 

And    peeped    from    the    woodbine    and   jcsaamlna 
bowers 


NUMBER  TWKNTY-THRBB  27 

They  are  gone,  all  are  gone,  whom  that  garden  once 

gladdened : 

No  more  shall  I  see  them — the  yonng  or  the  oM : 

Nor  my  grandmother's  face  with  long  memories  h.iiI 

dcned ; 

Her  crown  of  bright  silver  is  changed  into  gold. 

Dimmer  lights  hare  the  springs  and  the  summera 
that  follow ; 

The  charm  of  the  roses  is  not  now  as  then ; 
In  duller  gold  skies  flits  the  purjde- winged  swallow; 

My  heart  ne'er  will  feel  its  old  freshness  again. 

The  joys  youth  expected  were  lost  in  the  winning ; 

The    distance    enchanting  from   death's  door  is 
gone; 
And  life  a  lost  thread,  like  the  fire-fly's,  is  spinning ; 

1  am  lonely  at  night  and  am  weary  at  mom. 

But  oft,  with  emotion  that  time  doth  not  harden, 
I  turn  to  my  old  home,  its  lessons  recall ; 

And  the  brightest  of  scenes  is  my  grandmother's 
garden. 
Its  pansies  of  spring,  and  its  asters  of  &11. 

And  wherever  I  roam,  in  whatever  bright  harbor 
The  anchor  may  drop,  I  remember  with  joy 

The  hymns  that  in  summer-time  rose  from  the  arbor 
In  that  blooming  garden  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Hezekiah  Buttekwobth. 


28  Bt:iiT  BEhEcnasB 

THE  MAIDEN  TO  THE  MOON. 

I'wd  by  periui-nlon  of  and  &rranj 
A  Co.,  BoatOD,  Hub.,  piiblla 

OMOONl  did  you  see 
My  lover  and  me 
In  Uie  valley  beneath  the  aycamore  tree? 
Whatever  befell, 
0  Moon!  don't  tell; 
'Twas  nothing  amiss,  you  know  very  welL 

0  Moon !  you  know 
A  long  time  ago 
You  left  the  sky  and  descended  below, 


HUHBBR   TWEMTY-THREI  2t 

So,  Moon,  don't  tell, 

Whatever  befell 
My  lover  and  me  in  the  leafy  dell; 

He  is  honest  and  true, 

And,  remember,  too, 
We  only  behaved  like  your  lover  and  yon  1 
John  G.  Saxb. 


THE    HIDDEN   PATH;    OR,  THE  ATLANTIC 
CABLE. 

NO  vulture's  eye  hath  seen  the  path. 
Nor  lion  passed  it  by, 
Far  down  the  deep 
Where  dead  men  sleep 
And  where  tlie  prophet's  eye 
Looked  through  the  veil  of  coming  years, 
And  traced  its  narrow  track, 
And  saw  the  light 
So  swift  and  bright 
Go  forward  and  go  back 
Along  the  line,  the  quivering  line. 
Where  erst  no  path  could  be. 
That  men  have  made 
And  daring  laid 
Acrose  the  pathless  sea. 
There  goes  a  steed 
With  lightning  speed 
Nor  will  his  rider  stay, 


H^^A^^E 

so 

BBBT   SELECTIONS                                                ^M 

'No  rein  hath  he                                      ^^^| 

Says  to  the  deep — make  wtj.  ^^^^| 
With  tirel«u»  feet                                    ^^^1 

The  courser  Heet                                     ^^^1 

Goes  down  the  rolling  main,  ^^^^| 
But  to  our  shore                                      ^^^^| 

He  evermore                                             ^^^^H 

Conies  rushing  back  again ;  ^^^H 
Glad  Udin^H  bearing  near  and  fax,  ^M 
The  sea  hath  passed  away,  ■ 
And  hand  to  hand                                                 ■ 

The  nations  stand 

One  brotherhood  to-day. 

Elizabeth  U.  J.  Cleaveiand. 

NUUBBR   TWSNTY-THBES  81 

and  jamming  his  pen  into  the  comer  of  his  mouth 
previously  occupied  by  hia  tongue,  devoted  himself 
to  silent  meditation.  He  contracted  his  brows  and 
gazed  fixedly  at  the  wall  of  the  library,  and  then 
far  off  into  infinite  space,  in  hopes  of  finding  there 
some  help,  but  it  was  in  vain,  and  he  was  finally 
obliged  to  ask  the  help  of  his  wife. 

"  Hun,"  said  he,  "  how  do  you  spell '  busy '  ?" 

"Why,  b-u-s-y.  How  else  would  you  spell  it?" 
answered  his  wife. 

"  That  ain't  right,"  said  Roger.  "  That  spelis 
hoosey.     Don't  you  think  it's  b-u-i-s-y?" 

"Of  course  it  ain't,  Roger,"  answered  his  wife, 
sharply.     "  It's  b-u-s-y." 

"  Well,"  said  Roger, "  b-u-i-s  spells  biz,  and  I  don't 
see  why  b-u-i-s-y  don't  spell  bizzy." 

"  Well,  it  don't,"  answered  Mrs.  Ringwood. 

"  You  can't  spell  it  b-i-z-y,  can  you  ?"  queried 
Roger. 

"  Why,  no,  certainly  you  cant,"  answered  she. 
"  It's  b-u-z-y,  and  nothing  else." 

"  B-u-z-y,"  repeated  Roger.  "  Why,  that  spells 
boozy.     It  don't  spell   busy.     How  do  you  spell 


"  B-i-z-z-i-n-e-8-s,"  promptly  answered  his  wife, 
who,  however,  was  a  little  unsettled  on  this  point 
herself. 

"  Somehow  or  other  that  don't  sound  quite  right," 
said  Roger.     "  Are  you  sure  it  ain't  b-i-s-n-e-s-a  7" 

"  Certainly  I'm  sure,"  was  the  uncompromising 


Roger  meditated  over  this  for  awhile,  aiifl  Oien  b« 
■■-.li.l : 

■'  How  did  yoii  sfty  yon  apeiled  it,  Mariar?" 

"Spelt  what?"  a»kcd  Marin,  who,  ttiinkltig  the  I 
Iioiiit  settled,  had  returned  to  her  abstruse  cakula>  I 
timia. 

"  Why,  huaioese,"  answered  Roger. 

"  Oh !  why-er-e  b-u-z-z-i-n-e-s-s." 

"  Then  how  do  yon  apell  busy?" 

"  B-u-z-z-y,  of  course." 

"  That  ain't  what  you  said  at  first,  Mariiir."  pro-  ' 
tested  Roger. 

■*  It  ffl,  Roger.     I  know  it  is.     Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  I  said?" 

"Mrv      R.lf  thi.nH-1i.T-7-vHnn'(aTif.|l  iii.^v   .!n«  it  ■>'' 


RDHBER  TWERTY-TRBBB  l» 

"  Then  b-i-a-e-n-e-s-a  spells  business  f" 

"  No,  it  don't  It's  b-u-z-z-i-n-e-«-e  I"  answered 
Maria. 

"Now,  surely  that  ain't  right,"  argued  lU^er. 
"  Because  if  b-i-s-e-y  spells  busy,  then  b-i-s-e-n-e-s-s 
must  spell  business." 

"  It  don't,  I  say,"  answered  Maria.  "  And  there's 
no  use  in  your  sitting  there  contradicting  me.  I 
know  what  I  know,  and  I  know  that  b-i-z-y  spells 
busy  and  b-i-s-n-e-s-s  spells  business.  And  dont 
you  dare  to  say  another  word  to  me  about  iL  So 
there." 

"  But,  hun,"  persisted  Roger,  "  you  spelled  it  dif- 
ferent from  that  before." 

"  I  didn't,  I  didn't,  and  you're  a  brute  for  saying  I 
did.  Don't  you  think  I  know  how  to  spell,  you 
brute?" 

"  But  Mariar — " 

"  Don't  answer  me  another  word  1"  screamed  Maria 
la  tears.  "  I  know  what  you  are  trying  to  do.  You're 
just  trying  to  worry  me  to  death.  You  don't  love 
me  any  more,  and  you're  trying  to  get  rid  of  me. 
M-mother  s-e-satd  I-I'd  better  n-not  m-marry  you, 
and  I-I  wish  I-I  hadn'L     S-so  there  I" 

"  Now,  Mariar,"  pleaded  Roger,  soothingly, "  please 
don't     We  won't  say  any  more  about  it" 

"  I  do !"  she  cried,  "Idol  I  wish  I  was  dead.  Ill 
poison  myself— some  d-day,  and  then  y-youll  be 
Borry !" 

And  with  this  prophecy,  Maria  rushed  from  the 
room  in  tears,  leaving  Roger  in  a  state  of  collapse, 


M  BEST  SELECnONB 

rtuining  against  the  servant  girl,  who  was  listeninf 

lit  tlie  key-hole, 

■  Omfiiund  the  word !"  exclaimed  Roger,  after  she 
liud  gone,  "  It's  a  foolish  word  any  way,  and  I  don't 
-soe  what  people  use  it  for.  It  only  makes  trouble. 
I'll  use  something  else." 

80,  turning  to  his  desk,  he  thought  for  awhile,  and 
then  wrote  the  following: 

"  I  could  not  get  down  to  see  you  last  night,  on 
iiccount  of  numerous  pressing  duties  connected  with 
my  commercial  course,  which  it  wae  necessary  for  me 
Ui  jJiTform  immediately.  Come  and  see  ua  soon. 
.M:iria  is  enjoying  splendid  health,  and  we  are  at 
happy  here  as  two  kittens. 

"  Vours  truly,  Roger  Ringwood." 


NDMBER  TWENTY-THREE  3i 

"Come  back  to  us,  dear  heart."    But,  O 
My  Father,  do  not  let  it  go  I 

"  And  save  me,  Lord,  in  spite 
Of  my  own  self."     For  when 
Sometimes  I  long  for  better  things, 

The  wish  takes  flight  again. 
So,  pitying  Lord,  I  only  pray, 
Cast  not  BO  poor  a  heart  away. 

ViBOINIA  B.  Harbisok. 


WARWICK— THE  KING-MAKER. 

Prom  the  Lu(  of  the  Btvoni. 

KlBB  Ednrd  IV  of  England  imMag  ■□  alliance  belwMn  Fnuwe  and 
llngluid,  dlipatched  hli  prime  mlulxler.  Lord  Warwick,  lo  [he  Froncb 
ODOrt  lo  uggoUate  a  peaca.  one  feature  of  wblch  v/at  IhU  the  hand  of 
King  Edward'a  aiiter,  the  Ladr  Uargaret,  was  U>  be  given  In  maniega  to 
the  Trench  pilnoe.  During  Ihe  absence  of  Warwick,  Burgundy,  the 
enemy  of  Pnace.praralted  upon  Klag  Edward  to  conclude  a  peace  with 
Bnigundy  ItiHeod  of  with  France,  wblch  propoial,  notwltbatanding 
Wanrlck  va*  ihen  engaged  In  making  an  alliance  with  Prance,  King 
EdiTOrd  accepted,  ood  beatowed  the  hand  at  Ibe  Lady  Uarsorel  npoD 
theprlDceof  Burgundy.  The  iceneopeniln  King  Kd  ward'*  tent  with 
tbe  mum  and  enlnnce  of  Lord  Warwick. 

"  ]VI"Y  liege,"  said  Warwick, "  I  crave  pardon  for  pre- 
i-U-  senting  myself  to  your  Highness  thua  travel- 
worn  and  disordered,  but  I  announce  that  news 
which  insurea  my  welcome.  The  solemn  embassy 
of  trust  committed  to  me  by  your  grace  has  pros- 
pered with  God's  blessing ;  and  the  Fils  de  Bourbon 
and  the  Archbishop  of  Narbonne  are  on  their  way  to 
yonr  metropolis.  Alliance  between  the  two  great 
monarchies  of  Europe,  France  and  England,  is  con- 
cluded on  terms  that  insure  the  weal  of  England  and 


36  BEST   HEI-ECnONB 

ttus-'nient  tlie  lustre  of  your  crown.  Your  dniiiifl  un 
Normandy  and  Guiennc  King  I-ouis  conaente  tosub- 
iiilt  lo  the  arbitrament  of  the  Itotnan  Pontiff,  and  to 
|i;iy  to  your  treasury  an nnal  tribute;  tlie*e  advan- 
lixt'us,  greater  than  your  Highness  even  empoweretl 
iiic  to  demfind,  tliUM  ohtjiine^l,  tlic  royal  brother  of 
your  new  ally  joyfully  awaits  the  promised  hand  of 
till.'  Liidy  Margaret." 

"<'ouain,"  said  King  Edward,  "you  are  ever  wel- 
come to  our  preaenco,  no  matter  what  your  newa; 
einru  thy  departure,  however,  readings  of  atat«,  whidi 
we  ivilt  impart  to  thco  at  a  nmcler  geu?on,  have 
fhaii^'od  our  purpose,  and  we  will  now  that  our 
Siwt^T  Margaret  hIiqU  wt^l  with  the  t'ount  of  ClioroloiR, 
of  liiirgnndy." 


miHBER   TWENTY-THREE  87 

Send  me— and  when  the  third  sun  reddens  the  roof 
of  priaon-hou!<e  and  palace — look  round  broad  Eng- 
land, and  misa  a  throne  1" 

"Prince  Richard,"  called  the  King, '■  Lord  High 
Constable  of  England,  arrest  yon  haughty  man  who 
dares  to  menace  his  Hege  and  suzerain  I" 

Prince  Richard  steps  between  them.  "  Edward, 
my  brother,  remember  Teuton,  and  forbear — War- 
wick, my  cousin,  forget  not  thy  King  nor  his  dead 
&ther !" 

At  these  words  the  Earl's  face  fell;  for  to  that 
father  he  had  sworn  to  succor  and  defend  the  sons. 
Controlling  himself,  he  said :  "  My  liege,  it  is  not  for 
me  to  crave  pardon  of  living  man,  but  the  grievous 
affront  put  upon  my  state  and  mine  honor  hath  led  my 
words  to  an  excess  which  my  heart  repents.  I  grieve 
that  your  Grace's  Highness  hath  chosen  this  alliance ; 
hereafter  you  may  find  at  need  what  faith  is  to  be 
placed  in  Burgundy.  My  liege,  I  lay  down  mine 
offices,  and  I  leave  it  to  your  Grace  to  account  as  it 
lists  you  to  the  ambassadors  of  France — I  shall  vin- 
dicate myself  to  their  King.  And  now,  ere  I  depart 
for  my  hall  of  Middleham,  I  alone  here,  unarmed 
and  unattended,  save,  at  least,  by  a  single  squire,  I, 
Lord  Warwick,  say  that  if  any  man,  peer  or  knight, 
can  be  found  to  execute  your  Grace's  threat,  and 
arrest  me,  I  will  obey  your  royal  pleasure,  and 
attend  him  to  the  Tower." 

Proudly  he  bowed  his  head,  and  turning.  Lord 
Warwick,  the  King-Maker,  the  last  of  the  barons, 
■trode  haughtily  irom  the  teat 


38  BBBT  SELECTIONS 

lie  had  not  gone  far  when  the  sound  of  footsteps 
arnstcd  his  attention,  and  turning  he  beheld  a 
;;iH)illy  company  of  knighta  and  gentles,  headed  by 
Sir  liiioul  de  Fulke,  who  thus  addressed  him : 

"  I^  it  possible,  noble  Earl,  that  we  have  heard 
LirLj;iit?  And  haa  Edward  IV  »uii'ered  the  base 
W'ooilvilles  to  triumph  over  the  bulwark  of  his 
nahu?  Return  with  us,  and  we  will  make  Edward 
{k>  thee  justice,  or,  one  and  all,  we  will  abandon  a 
toui't  where  knaves  and  vatleta  have  become  mightier 
tli:in  Enfiliah  valor,  and  nobler  than  Norman  birth." 

■  ily  friends,  not  even  iii  my  just  wrath  will  I 
wrong  my  King.  He  is  j>unished  enough  in  the 
clKiicc  he  hath  made.     Poor  Edward  and  poor  Eng- 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  S9 

unmake  kings.  What  I  who  of  ua  would  not  rather 
descend  from  the  Chiefe  of  Runnymede  than  from 
the  royal  craven  whom  they  controlled  and  chid? 
By  Heaven,  my  lorda,  Ixird  Warwick  hiia  too  proud 
a  soul  to  be  a  king  I  A  king — a  puppet  of  state  and 
form!  A  king— a  holiday  show  for  the  crowd,  to 
hiss  or  hurrah,  as  the  humor  seizes  I  A  king — a  beg* 
gar  to  the  nation,  wrangling  with  his  Parliament  for 
gold  I  A  king ! — Richard  II  was  a  king,  and  Lancas- 
ter dethroned  him.  Ye  would  <lebase  me  to  a  Henry 
of  Lancaster.  I  thank  ye.  The  Commons  and  the 
Lords  raised  him,  forsooth — for  what?  To  hold  him 
as  the  creature  they  had  made,  to  rate  him,  to  chafe 
him,  to  pry  into  hia  very  household,  and  quarrel 
with  his  wife's  chamberlains  and  laundresses.  What ! 
dear  Raoul  de  Fulke,  is  thy  friend  fallen  now  so  low 
that  he — Earl  of  Salisbury  and  of  Warwick,  lord  of  a 
hundred  baronies,  leader  of  sixty  thousand  followers 
— is  not  greater  than  Edward  of  March,  to  whom  we 
will  deign  etiU,  with  your  permission,  to  vouchsafe 
the  name  and  pageant  of  a  king?  And  fear  it  not, 
Raoul !  feat  it  not— we  will  have  our  rights  yet 
Return,  I  beseech  ye.  Let  me  feel  I  have  such 
friends  about  the  Kinj?-  Even  at  Midjleham  my 
eye  shall  watch  over  our  common  cause ;  and  till 
seven  feet  of  earth  suffice  him,  your  brother  baron. 
Lord  Warwick,  is  not  a  man  whom  kings  and  rourts 
can  forget,  much  less  dishonor.  Sirs,  our  honor  in  in 
our  bosoms — and  there  is  tlie  only  throne  armies  can- 
ttot  shake,  nor  cozeners  undermine." 

Lord  Bulwer  Lytton. 


BEST  3ELECTI0M8 

HER   PHOTOGRAPH. 
PcrmlMloii  of  the  Author. 

ris  (ioarer  to  me  than  earth's  treasures 
This  frail  record  of  ha]>i>ier  years; 
I  find  it  loidat  Borrows  aa<i  pleasures 

A  bnlm  for  aad  tnumory'a  tears; 
I  silently  sit  broken  hoarted, 

And  chad6  the  denRo  gloom  with  a  laugh  j  1 
I  curse  the  dark  day  that  we  parted 
Ab  I  gaze  ou  your  fair  photograph. 


You  flashed  a  bright  vision  in  summer, 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREB  i 

Another  will  hold  you  and  cherish, 

He  will  clasp  you  and  call  you  his  own ; 
My  love  for  you  never  can  perish, 

Like  the  Sun-god  who  rests  on  his  throne. 
It  will  blaze  through  all  seasons  vernal, 

And  more  precious  than  grain  is  to  chaff; 
His  will  fade  while  remains  mine  eternal, 

I  swear  by  your  mute  photograph. 

Frank  McHale, 


OWYHEE  JOE'S  STORY. 

IT  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  The  last  tie  of 
the  mighty  Union  Pacitic  was  the  first  tie  in  the 
march  of  civilization  into  the  great  "  West." 

With  the  thunder  of  iron  wheels  and  the  rever- 
berent  screech  of  the  whistle,  the  Indian,  the  buEfalo, 
the  desperado  fled;  the  overland  coach  became  a 
memory,  and  the  cowboy  changed  his  buckskin  for 
New  York  shoddy.  Later,  as  tlie  gigantic  Pacific 
S3%tem  stretched  out  it«  arms  to  the  north  and  south 
and  absorbed  the  alkali  bottoms  of  Wyoming,  the 
Bi^;e  brush  plains  of  Idaho,  the  pine  forests  of 
Or^on,  even  the  lava  beds  of  northern  California, 
the  pioneers  of  '49  and  the  miners  of  '63  became  a 
curiosity ;  and  the  men  who  had  subdued  the  wilder- 
ness, from  the  hack  of  an  untamed  mustang,  were 
styled  "  moss  backs  "  by  the  "  tourist  coach  "  emi- 
grants and  relegated  to  the  background. 

Yet  it  ia  only  a  little  more  than  a  decade  since 


'  BEST  SELECTIONS 

irty  I eather-Bp ringed,  steel- ribbed  overland  Bt^es 
IV,  and  liail  been  lor  year;*  the  one  connecting  link, 
tiveeii  the  hardy  minent  and  pioneers  of  southern 
;ihi>  and  "home."  Their  very  sight  recalls  Indian 
[hts,  highway  robberies  and  dare-devil  flighte.  In 
i*ni  lives  tho  essence  of  the  fast  dying  "Wild 
I'.st."  Tltcir  day  is  past;  their  past  is  but  a  tale; 
lir  present  is  forgotten. 

I  asked  Owyhee  Joe  about  them  once.  Joe  had 
\'i\  a  famous  driver.  Wild  stories  are  told  of  hia 
iriiig  tripa  up  from  Winiiemucca  or  out  from  Boise 
ith  a  coach  well  loaded  with  gold-dust,  prospectors, 
nl  government  mail.  Hia  aehievenieiits  live  in  the 
■  ■iiiory  and  on  the  tongues  of  the  oldest  inhab- 
d  uTow  in  liHtrL-  n>i  the  > 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THSEB  48 

In  the  face  of  that  thar  shootin'  iron,  Mr.  Editor. 
He  took  over  four  thousand  clean  duet  and  made  for 
Salt  Lake  on  the  back  of  my  bee'  leader.  Never 
beam  tell  how  wg  caught  him  ?  No.  Wall,  ye  see, 
I  took  my  wheel  lia'ia  and  made  for  Boiae.  Found 
Bill  McConnell,  governor  and  senator  since  the  same. 
Colonel  Robbing,  Jim  Agnew,  an'  Hank  Fisher.  We 
made  a  bee  line  'cross  country  to  head  him  off. 
Changed  bosses  three  times.  We  struck  hia  trail, 
found  whar  his  boss  bad  broke  down  an'  he'd  stolen 
another.  That  stolen  horse  meant  a  necktie  party. 
Sabe? 

"  In  twenty-four  hours  we  came  in  sight  of  him. 
Hoes  played  out.  Game  up.  Nothin'  but  sand  and 
sage  brush  for  miles,  except  one  lone  tree.  Kindei 
placed  there  by  Providence,  McConnell  said.  Thai 
thet  young  feller  set — one  leg  over  the  horn  of  hia 
saddle.  Fine  looker.  Stood  six  in  his  stockings.  I 
knew  him  the  minute  I  sot  eyes  on  him.  He  knew 
me,  but  never  twigged.  Bill  McConnell  war  ahead, 
and  he  opened  the  meetin'  without  singin'. 

" '  Good-moming,  stranger.' 

" '  Good-moming.' 

" '  Seen  anything  of  a  man  about  your  size,  straddle 
of  a  sorrel  mare  looking  a  heap  like  the  one  you  ride  7' 

" '  No,  I  haven't' 

" '  That's  a  purty  good  mare  o'  youm.' 

" '  Yes,  she  wa.^  worth  a  cool  five  hundred  dollars, 
but  she's  a  little  winded  now;  say,  miatcr,  I'll  jrive 
you  five  hundred  dollars  clear  for  that  one  o'  youm 
mnd  stop  the  deal.'     He  was  making  a  good  bluff. 


44  BEST  SELKCTIONa 

Mons  stoiilin'  in  them  days  was  death  on  the  BiK>t 
lit;  knuw  wu  war  on  him.  liia  offer  would  well  pay 
riT  the  l>roken-<lown  hoaa,  and  he  war  a-bankin'  thai 
in-'  innney  would  pull  him  through.  But,  yer  see, 
.11'  didn'l  know  McConnell.  Mac  had  been  cap'n  of 
:[ii'  v!<;LUuit-i  hack  in  'G'i,  up  in  ther  Baain,  and  had 
:i  i):iiue  tor  keep  white.     He  juat  smiled  at  the  man'o 

■Thiit's  a  straight  blind  o'  youm,  pard,  an'  it 
stiiiiiL-j  us  Ui  come  in,  but  we're  thar  an'  hold  you 
oter.  You  look  a  Icetle  mite  played  out,  aa  well  as 
_vi.T  mare.  If  youll  jest  get  down  an"  jine  our  little 
l>arty,  it'll  atreteli  yer  legs,  an'  niebbe  ye  need 
litretchin"  nil  ovlt.' 

■■  He  got  a  little  white  under  the  gilla,   but  slid 


inrUBEB   TWENTV-THREE  45 

"  That  young  feller  took  hia  eyes  off  a  bit  of  B^e 
brush  fiir  the  Jrst  time  and  looked  ua  straight  in  the 
eyes.  His  eyes  war  blue.  I  took  notice  of  that,  an' 
his  face  was  clean  and  kind  of  pure-lookin'.  He 
didn't  seem  to  be  takin'  much  interest  in  what  war 
goin'  on  'round  him.  Kinder  had  a  far-away,  talkin'- 
ter-the-angels  look.  Made  me  feel  as  though  I  didn't 
count  nohow.  Kept  thinkin'  of  something  I  learnt 
in  Sunday-school  in  Missouri  when  I  warn't  bigger 
nor  that  basket  o'  papers.  Then  he  came  to,  an' 
drawin'  a  crumpled  letter  from  his  pocket,  spoke 
with  a  kinder  tremble  in  his  voice : 

" '  Perhaps  you  are  a  better  scholar  nor  I  be.  If 
you'll  jest  read  that  an'  be  kind  enuf  to  answer  it, 
I'll  tell  yer  what  ter  say.' 

"  McGonnell  had  already  passed  the  coil  of  rope  to 
Jim  Agnew  and  he  had  drawn  it  taut  He  took  the 
letter,  an',  as  we  hung  around  kinder  curious  like, 
he  opened  it  an'  read  out  loud : 

"'Etowah,  Ga.,  January  18,  1874. 
'"My  Dear  Son  James:  For  long  weary  months 
I  have  waited  for  news  from  you,  since  your  last  dear 
letter  to  your  old  mother.  God  bless  you,  James, 
and  answer  my  prayers  that  this  letter  may  reach 
you,  thanking  you  for  your  ever-thoughtful  care  for 
me  in  my  old  &g€.  But  once  more  to  look  in  your 
dear  face  and  feel  that  my  baby  boy  was  near  me, 
would  cheer  my  old  heart  more  than  to  poesesa  all 
the  gold  ia  Idaho.  When  are  you  poming  home? 
You  promised  me  that  in  the  spring  you  would  come 


46  BEST   SELECTIOSB 

liack  to  me.     May  the  good  God  watch  over  i 
iiroaper  you,  and   return  my  dear  l>oy  to  my  old 
arraa  before  I  die.     From  your  loving     Mother,' 


"  McConnell  had  had  a  good  eddication  hack  in 
Michigan,  and  he  commeneod  in  a  stroiiR.  clear  voice. 
but  ftfure  the  clo.sin);  words  war  out,  it  war  all  we 
oould  do  ter  hear  his  voice,  Ves,  sir,  an'  my  eyw 
got  weaker  nor  a  sick  heifer's.  Factl  The  rojie 
filackened  until  it  fell  from  the  hands  of  Jim  Agnew. 
aud  a^  the  breath  of  the  iiiornin'  caniG  a-rushin' 
through  the  leavea  of  that  old  tree,  and  long  shafts  o' 
minlight  kinder  prospected  down  through  the  open- 
ing boughs,  someway,  my  old  throat  caved  in  like  an' 
I   went   ter  thinkio'  o'    long,  sunny  days   on  the 


miHBER   TWENTY-THRBB  *f 

hia  belt  a  small  bag  of  twentiee  an'  offered  it  to 
Mac. 

"'Hobb!' 

" '  No,  take  her,  an' — good-bye.' 

"  He  mounted  the  mare,  while  we  sot  an*  watched 
him  out  of  sight,  an'  then  like  a  pack  o'  starved  coy- 
otes, tnmed  and  silently  sneaked  for  Boise, 

"  Court  was  adjourned,  verdic'  sot  aside,"  he  con- 
cluded, while  I  leaned  back,  my  mind  filled  with  the 
dramatic  rehearsal. 

"  Well,  BO  long,  old  man ;  I'm  off,"  and  the  rough 
old  Jehu  shuffled  out  of  the  room,  all  unmindful  of 
either  the  moral  or  the  artistic  points  of  his  story. 
RODNSEVILLE  WlLDUAN. 


THE  DEAD  PUSSY  CAT. 

Toil's  as  stiff  an'  as  cold  as  a  stoa^ 
Little  cat! 
Dey's  done  frowed  out  and  left  you  alont, 

Little  cat  1 
I's  a  strokin'  you's  far, 
But  you  don't  never  purr, 
Nor  hump  up  any  where, 

Little  cat — 

W'y  is  dat? 
1b  you'a  pmrin'  and  humpin'  up  done  ? 

An'  w^  fei  is  your  lettle  foot  tied. 
Little  cat? 


IlEST   SELEcnOMB 

DM  dey  pixen  yaxi'n  tommick  inside. 

LitUocat? 
Dill  iley  ]ioiin'l  you  wif  brickfl 
Or  wif  big  niwly  Hticki, 
Or  abuse  you  vif  kicks, 

Liltle  cat? 

Tell  me  dat. 
Did  (ley  holler  wVtiever  you  cwied? 


Did  it  Iiurl  very  bad  w'on  you  died, 

Little  cat  ? 
Oh  t  w'y  didn't  you  wuu  off  an'  hide, 

Little^jat? 
I  ia  wet  in  my  eyes — 
'Cause  I  most  alwaya  cwiee 


NUUBEB  TWENTY-THHEE 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  SYDNEY  CARTON. 
Amnged  by  E.  LiTlngnoD  Buboiu. 

[Ctuulw  Dtnuj,  naol  I.  Fianch  Dot)l«mui.  wu  condaniDed  to  death 
during  the  BVTOluUoa  upon  the  chkr^e  of  persecuting  the  poor.  He  wu 
one  al  iwa  lollon  for  (be  hand  o(  Lucie  Uonelte.  a  great  betnty ;  the 
otbet  being  Sidney  Canon.  The  two  rivsLa  bore  ■  strong  resemblance  lo 
•tch  otbcT ;  but  Carton  wu  ■  woriblesa  cbaracler,  and  »u  uninccessfil 
la  bii  iDli.  Coming  to  Puli  vhlle  Uamay  wu  atFallliut  execution,  be 
•ru  Induced,  tbrough  the  love  whlcb  be  biIU  cheriihed  for  Dunay'v 
wife,  to  make  an  attempt  lo  save  hli  life  by  glrtng  his  own  for  II.  Their 
memblance  enabled  him,  wllb  the  eld  of  tbe  jailer,  to  uiryout  bl* 
design-l 

THE  hours  went  on  as  Damay  walked  to  and  fro, 
and  the  clock  struck  tho  numbers  he  would 
never  hear  again.  Nine  gone  forever,  ten  gone  for- 
ever, eleven  gone  forever,  twelve  coming  on  to  pass 
away.  After  a  hard  contest  with  that  eccentric  action 
of  thought  which  had  last  perplexed  him,  he  had 
got  the  better  of  it.  He  walked  up  and  down,  softly 
repeating  the  names  of  his  loved  ones.  The  worst  of 
the  strife  was  over.  He  could  walk  up  and  down,  free 
from  distracting  fancies,  praying  for  himself  and  for 
them.     Twelve  gone  forever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was 
Three,  and  he  knew  he  would  be  summoned  some- 
time earlier,  inasmuch  as  the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily 
and  slowly  through  the  streets.  Therefore,  he  re- 
solved to  keep  Two  before  his  mind,  as  the  hour,  and 
so  to  strengthen  himself  in  the  interval  that  he 
might  be  able,  after  that  time,  tu  strengthen  otliena. 

Walking  regularly  to  and  fro,  with  hie  arms  folded 
4 


no  llESrr  3EJ.ELtlOS8  ^H 

ua  hi*  I/n-afit,  a  veiy  diOennt  man  from  lliu  priioiicr 
wlia  liml  walked  Ui  and  fro  at  Ia  Farce,  lit  litami 
t  >aa  fllruL'k  away  from  iiiiii,  wiUiuut  ^urpriiw.  Tliv 
lioor  tiud  mGloured  likv  niuel  otlmr  lioun.  Devoutlv 
thankrul  to  Heaven  Tor  Kis  reeorered  «elf-[io»«KiiiD, 
liL-  tbuUfiht,  "Tlitrv  ia  bul  ancithtir  now,"  and  tnmeJ 
t<i  waJk  a|;ain.  PiKitAtefiH  \n  Uio  trinoe  iwMUge  out- 
^i'lo  the  door.     He  stoppwi. 

Tho  key  va»  put  in  tlie  Imk  und  tumod.  Before 
the  dirar  was  openei),  or  us  it  upcoed,  a  Tuico  wna 
lieard:  "  I  wiiil  nwr.     I,o»e  »o  time." 

The  door  wa«  quickly  openfld  and  clonerl,  anil 
lliere  nUmd  liefiire  him,  face  to  fwt-,  quiet,  intent 
U]ion  him,  ivtth  the  light  of  a  smite  on  hi^  featurrai 
Aiid  a  cuuUotmry  flngcr  on  his  lip,  Sydney  C'artoa.^_ 


NUICBER  TWENTT-THREB  61 

voice  SO  dear  to  you,  that  you  well  remember.  You 
have  no  time  to  aak  me  why  I  bring  it,  or  what  it 
niiatiM ;  I  have  no  time  to  tell  you.  You  inuat  com- 
ply with  it — take  off  those  bookj  you  wear,  and  draw 
on  these  of  mine." 

There  was  a  chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  be- 
hind the  prisoner.  Carton,  preasing  forward,  had 
already,  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down 
into  it,  and  stood  over  him  barefoot. 

"Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands 
to  them ;  put  your  will  to  them.     Quick !" 

"Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place;  it 
never  can  be  done.  You  will  only  die  with  me.  It 
is  madness." 

"  It  would  be  madness  if  I  asked  you  to  escape; 
but  do  I?  When  I  ask  you  to  pass  out  at  that  door, 
tell  me  it  is  madness  and  remain  here.  Change  that 
cravat  for  this  of  mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine. 
While  you  do  it,  let  me  take  this  ribbon  from  your 
hair,  and  shake  out  your  hair  like  this  of  mine  !" 

With  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a  strength 
both  of  will  and  action  that  appeared!  quite  super- 
natural, he  forced  all  these  changes  upon  him. 
The  prisoner  was  like  a  young  child  in  his  hands. 

"Carton!  Dear  Carton!  It  is  madness.  It  can- 
not be  accomplished ;  it  never  can  tie  done ;  it  has 
been  attempted,  and  has  always  failed.  I  inii>lore 
you  not  to  add  your  death  to  the  bitterness  of 
mine." 

"  Do  I  ask  you,  my  dear  Damay,  to  pass  the  door? 
When  I  ask  ^at,  refuse.   There  arc  pen  and  ink  and 


62  BRST  SF.I.RCT10NB 

pnper  on  this  table.  la  your  haDd  steady  enough  to 
write?" 

■'  It  was  when  you  came  in." 

"Steady  U  again,  and  writ«  wlmt  I  shall  diftatc. 
Quick,  friend,  quink !" 

Presaing  his  hand  to  hie  hewildorwi  h«ad,  Uanmy 
eat  down  at  the  table.  C.'arUin,  with  hiB  right  hand 
in  hia  breast,  stood  close  beside  him. 

"  Write  exactly  ait  I  ojieak." 

"  To  whom  do  I  address  it?" 

"To  no  one." 

"Do  I  date  it?" 

■■  No." 

'"  If  you  reineinber,*"said  Carton,  dictating,"'the 
words  that  parsed  betwccii  us  lim^t  iipi,  you   will 


NDHBER  TWENTY-THREE  53 

hand  slowly  and  soflly  moved  down  close  to  the 
writer's  face. 

The  pen  dropped  from  Damay's  fingers  on  the 
table. 

"  What  vapor  is  that?".he  asked. 

"Vapor?" 

"  Something  that  crossed  me  ?" 

"  I  am  conscious  of  nothing ;  there  can  be  nothing 
here.  Take  up  the  pen  and  finish.  Hurry,  man, 
hurry!" 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper  once  more. 

Carton  continued ;  " '  If  it  had  been  otherwise,  I 
never  should  have  used  the  longer  opportunity.  If 
it  had  been  otherwise ;' "  the  haiid  was  at  the  pris- 
oner's face ;  " '  I  should  but  have  had  so  much  the 
more  to  answer  for.  If  it  had  been  otherwise — '" 
Carton  looked  at  the  pen,  and  saw  that  it  was  trail- 
ing off  into  unintelligible  signs. 

Carton's  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more. 
The  prisoner  sprang  up,  with  a  reproachful  look,  but 
Carton's  hand  was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and 
Carton's  leit  arm  caught  him  round  the  waist  For 
a  few  seconds  he  faintly  stru^led  with  the  man  who 
had  come  to  lay  down  his  life  for  him  ;  but,  within 
a  minute,  he  was  stretched  insensible  on  the  ground. 

Quickly,  but  with  hands  as  true  to  the  purpose  aa 
his  heart  was,  Carton  dressed  himself  in  the  clothes 
the  prisoner  had  laid  aside,  com)>Gd  back  his  hair, 
and  tied  it  with  the  ribbon  the  prisoner  had  worn. 
Then  he  softly  called,  "  Enter  there !  Come  in  1"  and 
the  spy  presented  himself 


»4  BEST   SELECTIONB 

"  You  see  ?"  aaid  Carton,  looking  up,  aa  he  kueeled 
III  one  knee  beside  the  insensible  ligure,  putting  Ihe 
):il>er  in  bis  breast ;  "  is  your  hazard  very  groat  ?" 

■■  Mr.  Carton,  in  the  thick  of  buoinesiS  litre,  my 
lii/.ard  is  notliing,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of 
.■uiir  bargain." 

"  Don't  fear  nic,     I  will  be  true  to  the  death." 

'■  You  muat  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty-two 
a  to  be  right  Being  made  right  by  you  in  that 
irf.ss,  I  shall  have  no  fear." 

"  Have  no  ft-ar !  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  way 
if  harming  you,  and  the  rest  will  8oon  be  far  from 
Lore,  pleaae  God  1  Now,  get  assistance,  and  take  me 
o  the  coach." 

-You?" 


NUMBER  TWXNTY-THBEE  55 

The  apy  withdrew,  but  returned  immediately  with 
two  men. 

"How,  then?"  said  one  of  them,  contemplatin); 
the  fallen  figure.  "  So  afflicted  to  find  tliat  hia  friend 
haa  drawn  a  prize  in  the  lottery  of  Sainto  Guillo- 
tine?" 

"  A  good  patriot,"  said  the  other,  "  could  hardly 
have  been  more  afflicted  if  the  Aristocrat  had  drawn 
a  blank." 

They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a 
litter  they  had  brought  to  the  door,  and  bent  to  carry 
it  away. 

"  The  time  is  short,  Evr^monde." 

"  I  know  it  well.  Be  careful  of  my  friend,  I  en- 
treat you,  and  leave  me." 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  aUine. 
Straining  his  [>owera  of  listening  to  the  utmost,  he 
listened  for  any  sound  that  might  denote  suspicion 
or  alarm.  There  was  none.  Breathing  more  freely, 
he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  listened  again  until  the 
clock  struck  Two. 

A  jailer,  with  a  list  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely 
saying :  "  Follow  me,  Evr^monde !"  and  ho  followed 
into  a  large  dark  room  at  a  distance.  It  was  a  dark 
winter  day,  and  what  with  the  shadows  within,  and 
what  with  the  shadows  without,  he  could  but  dimly 
discern  the  others  who  were  brought  there  to  ha^o 
their  arms  bound.  Some  were  standing;  someseated. 
Some  were  lamenting,  and  in  restless  motion ;  but 
these  were  few.  The  great  majority  were  silent  and 
still,  looking  fixedly  at  the  ground. 


5Q  Best  belectionb 

As  he  stood  by  the  wiUl  in  a  dim  comer,  whil« 
some  of  the  fifty-two  were  brought  in  after  him,  one 
nuLii  stopped  in  passing  to  embrace  him,  a^  having  a 
kriinvledgu  of  him.  It  thrilled  hiin  with  a  great 
ilri'ild  of  discovery ;  but  the  man  went  on.  A  very 
IViv  moments  after  that,  a  young  woman,  with  a 
.-'Hi.'bt,  girlish  form,  a  sweet,  spare  face,  in  which 
llnre  was  no  vestige  of  color,  and  large,  widely- 
()]pi.'ne<l,  patient  eyes,  rose  from  the  seat  where  he 
liiiil  obser^'cd  her  sitting,  and  came  to  speak  to 
him, 

■■  Citizen  Evr^monde,"  she  said,  touching  him  with 
lier  rold  hand,  "  I  am  a  poor  little  seamstreee,  who 
wa.-J  with  you  in  La  Force." 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREB 


you  let  me  hold  your  hand  ?     I  am  not  afraid,  but  I 
am  little   and   wealc,   aud   it  will    ^ive    lue   more 


As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw 
a  sudden  doubt  in  them,  and  then  atttonishmcnt. 
He  pressed  the  work-worn,  hunger-worn  young  fin- 
gers to  his  lipa. 

"  Are  you  dying  for  him  ?" 

"  And  hia  wife  and  child.     Hush !     Yes." 

"  Oh !  you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand, 
stranger  ?" 

"  Hush  I     Yes,  my  poor  sister ;  to  the  la«t" 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some,  seated  with 
drooping  heads,  are  sunk  in  silent  despair ;  several 
close  their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to  get  their  stray- 
ing thoughts  together.  Only  one,  and  he  a  niiserable 
creature  of  a  crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made 
drunk  by  horror  that  he  aings,  and  tries  to  dance. 
Not  one  of  the  whole  number  appeals,  by  look  or 
gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the  people. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the 
furrow  ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning 
round,  to  come  on  into  the  place  of  execution,  and 
end.  The  ridges  thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that  now 
crumble  in  and  close  behind  the  last  plough  as  it 
passes  on,  for  all  are  following  to  the  guillotine.  In 
front  of  it,  seated  in  chairs,  as  in  a  garden  of  public 
diversion,  are  a  number  of  women  busily  knit- 
ting. On  one  of  the  foremost  chairs  stands  The 
Vengeance. 

As  she  descends  from  her  elevation  the  tumbrila 


fiS  BEST  SELECTIONS 

bi'i:in  to  discharge  tlicir  loads.  Tho  ministers  o/ 
S;u]ite  Guillotino  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash! — A 
lir:ul  is  held  up,  and  the  knitting-women,  who 
.-^'■arcely  lifted  their  eyes  to  look  at  it  a  moment  ago 
ivIiL'n  it  could  think  and  speak,  count  one. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on;  the 
third  uonies  up.  Crash! — And  the  knitting- women, 
m;ver  faltering  or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  two. 

'i'ho  supposed  £vremon<le  descends,  and  the  seam- 
stress is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relin- 
<)uished  her  patient  hand  in  getting  out,  hut  still 
liiilds  it  as  he  promised.  He  gently  places  her  with 
Irt  back  to  the  craahiny  engine  that  constantly  whirrs 
nil  and  falls,  and  she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks 


nnilBER  TWENTY-THREE  69 

dark  highway,  to  repair  home  together,  and  to  teet 
in  her  boeom. 

"Is  the  moment  come?    Am  I  to  kiss  you  now?" 

"  Yee." 

She  kisses  hie  lips ;  he  kisses  hers ;  they  solemnly 
bless  each  other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble 
as  he  releases  it;  nothing  worse  than  a  sweet,  bright 
constancy  is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  be- 
fore him — is  gone ;  the  knitting-women  count  twenty- 
two. 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of 
many  faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  footsteps  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a 
mass,  like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away. 
Twenty-three. 

They  said  of  him  about  the  city  that  night  that  it 
was  the  peacefullest  man'u  face  ever  beheld  there. 
Many  added  that  he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic. 
Charles  Dickens. 


MY  FOUNTAIN  PEN. 

ONE  day  a  bookseller,  who  had  grown  rich,  and 
thereby  calloused  his  conscience,  said  to  me: 
"  What  you  want  is  a  good  fountain  pen."  I  resisted 
for  awhile,  but  he  finally  persuaded  me  to  try  one  at 
two  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  I  faltered,  I  lis- 
tened to  the  tempter,  I  yielded.  When  I  went  home 
that  night  I  carried  into  its  brightness  a  shadow  that 
had  never  before  marred  its  pure  serenity. 


60  BE8T  SEt£CTIONB 

I  kept  my  guilty  secret  until  after  8uppw,aDd  thea 
by  a  ck-verly  contrived  accident  that  would  have 
I'onled  any  man  of  my  acquaintance,  but  which  toy 
wilt!  and  Bister  boUi  s&w  at  once  had  been  carefully 
I'ciioarsed,  I  spilled  the  only  bottle  of  ink  in  the 
lumsc.  Waila  of  distress  filled  the  air.  "Oh I  never 
iinnd,"  I  said,  grandly,  "  I  don't  need  it"  Well,  they 
*iiil  they  didn't  need  it  on  the  carpet  either.  I  hadnt 
thought  of  that,  and  it  retarded  my  plans  a  little; 
fur  it  was  half  an  hour  before  the  excitement  died 
diiivu  sufficiently  to  justify  me  in  ringing  up  the 
curtain  on  the  great  fountain-pen  act  I  sat  down 
to  the  table  and  said : 

■'  I  have  a  whole  raft  of  letters  to  get  off  to-night'' 
;  one.  I  think  it  w:i.-j  my  :ii^tt^i',  said  without 


NOMBEH  TWENTV-THBEE  6t 

would  run  a  week  without  filling,  while  I  would  gain 
twenty  minutea  every  hour  by  not  having  to  reach 
for  the  ink-well  at  every  line.  Then  I  made  a  faint 
scratch  on  the  paper  with  the  new  pen.  I  kept  on 
scratching  while  the  girla  looked  on  with  now  really 
awakened  interest.  By  and  by  I  wore  a  hole  in  the 
paper,  and  never  a  stain  of  ink  anywhere  visible. 

"  That's  the  nicest,  cleanest  pen,"  my  sinter  said, 
"  I  ever  saw.  If  you  would  only  use  a  fountain  pen 
all  the  time  I  think  we  might  venture  to  buy  new 
carpets  in  the  other  rooms." 

It  always  makes  my  blooil  run  cold  to  he:ir  quiet 
Barcasm  from  a  woman's  li)>3.  It  is  chillin<;  enough 
when  it  falls  from  the  lips  of  an  avowed  infidel  or  an 
open  idolater.  But  from  a  woman  it  is  terrililc.  But 
I  only  said  the  roo;ii  was  so  stntly  and  warm  the 
pen  had  got  clojtjieil.  It  was  delicate  aa  a  ther- 
mometer, I  said,  and  wasn't  intended  for  use  in  a 
Turkish  bath.  I  would  remove  the  cap  at  the  top, 
thus,  and  clear  the  duct^  by  blowing  into  it,  thus. 

Which  I  did,  and  blew  two  very  slender  but  quite 
powerful  jets  of  ink  up  into  my  face,  on  both  sides  of 
my  nose.  I  never  saw  my  family  so  completely 
overcome.  At  first  I  thought  their  shrieks  were 
caused  by  fright,  and  that  they  were  in  ajfonies  of 
distress  on  my  account.  But  when  I  rubbed  my 
amartiog  eyes  clear  of  ink,  and  began  to  reassure 
them,  I  saw  they  were  in  paroxysms  of  mirth,  whor. 
I  was  stricken  with  blindness  that  might  eventually 
destroy  my  sight.  I  assumed  that  patient,  grievod, 
bmocent,  suGferiug  look  whicli  my  friends  have  told 


62  BEST  SELBCTIONB 

ino  would  make  my  fortune  on  the  stage  if  I  would 
si  irk  to  "  Eiist  Lynne"  antl  "South  Amboy"and 
liiiiLlar  plays.  Then  I  thought  my  family  would  die, 
They  begged  me  witii  swaying  figures  and  broken 
vi>ii-03  to  get  mad  and  break  things  if  I  wanted  to, 
liut  not  to  look  that  way  until  I  had  washed  my 
iM-t:  There  are  circumstances  under  which  pathos, 
liowcver  effective  at  the  right  time,  is  extremely  try- 
iii.LC  to  sensitive  natures. 

Alter  we  got  things  subdued  a  little  bit  I  read  the 
instructions,  and  they  told  me  to  jar  the  pen  slightly 
oil  the  desk.  I  did  so  a  few  times,  and  again  drew 
soirio  nice,  clean  scratches  on  the  paper.  I  fooled 
with  the  thing  until  about  half-past  nine  o'clock, 
I  suddenly,  without   iiny  warning,  it  began   to 


NUUBEB  TWENTY-THBEB  63 

tnblespoonful  of  ink  on  the  table^over,  Bullenly  dried 
up,  and  didn't  ahed  another  teat  for  nearly  two  weeks, 
although  I  did  everything  in  the  way  of  persuasion 
and  compulaion  except  to  blow  in  it.  I  have  blown 
in  a  great  many  things  since  then,  but  never  into  a 
fountain  pen. 

The  next  evening  the  girls  asked  me  if  I  was 
going  to  write  some  more  with  the  new  pen.  I  re- 
plied with  Bomewhat  formal  and  dignified  asperity 
that  I  was.  They  said  they  were  glad  of  it.  That  I 
was  doing  so  much  desk  work  that  I  needed  exer- 
cise. Then  they  left  the  room.  Presently  they 
returned  with  their  gossamers  on.  They  drew  the 
hoods  over  their  heads,  raised  their  umbrellas,  and, 
opening  their  books,  began  to  read.  This  was  annoy- 
ing, but  I  did  not  say  anything.  There  are  times 
when  the  wisest  words  of  man's  wisdom  are  folly. 
But  nothing  happened  that  night.  That  is,  nothing 
that  my  friends  would  like  to  see  in  print.  The  pen 
waa  as  clean  as  a  candidate's  record  written  by  him- 
aelf  Nothing  was  heard  but  its  stainless  scratching ; 
that  is,  nothing  to  speak  of. 

Well,  I  gave  that  pen  to  an  enemy  and  swore  off. 
For  some  montha  I  never  touched  a  fountain  pen, 
but  a  new  one  came  out  and  I  was  induced  to  try  it. 
It  waa  a  "  duster,"  dry  as  good  advice  for  nearly  a 
week.  Then  it  went  off  one  day  in  the  othce  when  the 
city  editor  was  fooling  with  it,  not  knowing  it  waa 
loaded.  I  don't  know  what  became  of  that  pen.  He 
threw  it  out  of  a  six-story  window,  and  I  don't 
know  where  it  went  to.     Since  then  I  have  suffered 


64  BEST  aELKCriuNB 

many  things  of  many  fountain  pens.  The  last  otio  1 
wtraggletl  half  an  hour  with  trying  to  date  this  letter. 
A  fountain  pen  is  a  t;oo<l  Uiinp,  however,  when  yo» 
have  a  bottle  of  ink  to  iHp  it  into  iibout  everj'  secontl 
lin«,  b^inning  with  tbe  first. 

Robert  J.  BoRDBftK. 

EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB. 

1   llnitghinn.    Uifflia    A  Co., 

THE  fiery  mid-March  sun  a  moment  hung  ^ 

Above  the  bloak  Jndean  wililurnoas;  ^H 

Then  darlinusH  swept  upon  us,  and  'twfts  night.  ^H 

The  brazen  dav  had  stifled.     On  our  ovefl.  ^H 


NUMBER   TWENTY-THREE  66 

On  elbow  leaning,  pointed  one  bronzed  hand 
Toward  the  vast,  vague,  and  miety  land  that  lay 
Beyond  the  sacred  Jordan.     "  There,"  he  said, 
A  quaver  breaking  his  deep-chested  voice, — 
"  There,  in  wild  Moah,  Kerak-Moab  lies." 
Ofttimes  before  when  day  had  spent  its  heat, 
And  in  the  wide  tent  doorway  we  reclined 
On  carpets  Damascene,  our  ^uide  had  told 
Strange  tales  adventurous, — of  desert  rides 
Toward  lonely  Todmor  and  old  Bagdad  shrines; 
Of  wanderings  with  the  Meccan  caravan 
Where  to  be  known  a  Christian  was  to  die ; 
Of  braving  Druses  in  their  Hauran  haunts, 
Where  they  kept  guard  o'er  treasures  of  dead  kings 
In  cities  overthtown.     Such  tales  as  these 
Had  livened  many  a  quiet  evening  hour 
After  long  pilgrimi^e.     So  when  the  Greek 
Would  faiu  dispel  our  homeward-turning  thoughts, 
We  gave  him  ready  ear.    This  tale  he  told 
In  clear  narratioQ : — 

"  Nigh  thjee  years  have  seen 
The  olivea  ripen  round  Jerusalem 
Since  from  St.  Stephen's  gateway  I  set  forth 
For  Kerak-Moab  with  young  Ibraini. 
My  cousin  he,  a  comely  youth,  whom  love 
Had  won  with  soft  allurements.     He  would  wed 
A  Kerak  maid  upon  blest  Easter  Day, 
And  I  must  thither  with  him, — such  his  will, 
Which  I  in  no  wise  had  desire  to  thwart; 
For  when  his  mother  lay  at  brink  of  death 
fi 


6f>  BEST  BGLGcnOMB 

(His  father  having  long  put  off  tiiie  life), 
8ho  bade  me  be  a  brother  unto  him, 
And  brother-like  we  were. 

"  Before  U8  rode 
Our  servant,  bearing  on  his  sturdy  beast 
The  needs  for  shelter  on  our  lonely  way, 
And  food  therewith,  and  giils  to  glad  the  bride. 
By  Kedrith's  gloomy  gorge,  and  Jericho, 
And  Jordan's  ford,  we  journeyed ;  then  our  path 
I'u.'^t  Heahbon  led  us,  and  near  Baal-Meon, 
Where,  records  say,  Eiisha  first  drew  breath. 
The  fifth  day's  sun  was  westering  ere  we  saw 


NUHBER  TWENTV-THREE  67 

Along  the  lanelike  streets  in  silvery  pools 

The  moonlight  gleamed.     From   distant  housetops 

hayed 
In  broken  iteration,  Moslem  dogs, 
But  'twixt  their  baying  all  was  desert-still. 
Why  should  we  go  within?    Ibraiin  said, 
'  Come,  dear  Demetrius,  on  this  night  of  nights, 
The  last,  perchance,  that  I  sliall  pass  with  thee, 
In  this  sweet  air  let  ua  remain  awhile, 
And  talk  as  brothers ;  for  my  life  will  soon 
Be  strangely  changed,  and  though  we  oft  may  meet, 
Yet  will  there  be  another  tongue  to  speak ; 
But  now  we  are  alone.' 

"  Arm  linked  in  arm 
We  sought  the  breach,  and  spying  in  the  wall 
A  nook  where  we  could  clamber,  high  above, 
And  wide  o'erlooking  all  the  moonlit  scene, 
We  scrambled  to  it     There  the  hyssop  grew, 
And  rugged  seats  invited  to  recline. 
Then,  while  he  told  me  his  fond  tale  of  love 
Over  again  for  quite  the  hundredth  time, 
I  mused  upon  the  future,  vacant  eyed. 
Beholding  nothing.     When  his  happy  speech 
Had  run  its  course,  and  silence  jarred  me  back 
To  ambient  things,  my  conscious  vision  raught 
A  shadowy  glimpse  of  one  swifl  skulkin;;  form, 
From  Iragment  unto  fragment  of  prone  \fall 
In  phantom  quiet  flitting.     While  I  gazed 
Another  and  another  followed  fust, 
Till,  as  I  gripped  Ibraim's  arm,  a  score 


GR  BEST   BELECTtOHB 

In  sudden  sight  from  block  concealment  rose, 

And  fonvard  gliding  nolselesBly,  below 
Our  lofty  cranny  paused.     Anxious,  alert, 
\\  (■  listened  breathlessly,  and  then  we  beard — 
Just  God!  but  how  we  started  when  we  heard, 
v\nd  horror-mute  stared  in  each  other's  eyes, 
Tliat  moment  hazard  grown! 

"  Then  down  we  slipped, 
And  in  the  shadow  by  the  breach's  edge 
Where  dropped   the  wall   nigh   two   men'a  height 

away 
To  sloping  ground,  with  faces  set,  and  hands 
Fast  clutching  weapon  hilts,  we  stooil  in  wait 


irUUBEB  TWENTI-'^rBREE  69 

In  one  dose  mass  they  rushed  upon  the  breach, 
like  some  huge  wave  that,  when  the  seaa  are  fierce, 
Rolls  OQ  the  ruined  battlementH  of  Tyre, 
Clutchee  their  base,  and  reaches  clinging  anna, 
To  clasp  the  loftiest  stone. 

"  Then  from  its  sheath, 
Where  like  a  coiled  serpent  round  my  waist 
Slept  my  cun'ed  blade  of  keen  Damascus  steel, 
I  whipped  it  forth,  as  drew  Ibraim  his. 
A  deadly  circle  did  we  flash  in  air, 
And  on  that  human  wave  fell  vengefully. 
Twice,  thrice  we  smote,  and  while,  unharmed,  I  clove 
A  fourth  black-turbaned  crown,  I  saw  two  fiends 
Leap  at  Ibraim.     As  he  slew  the  first 
The  other  seized  him  in  his  demon  grasp. 
And,  like  one  frenzied,  sprang  through  middle  Bpac« 
Upon  the  writhing  throng. 

"  Along  the  street 
The  tardy  rescuers  surged.     I  cried  them  on; 
But  when  they  came,  the  wily  Bedouin  foe 
Hod  sought  the  shielding  shadow  of  the  night 

"  I  raised  Ibraim's  head :  his  heavy  lids 
Fluttered  a  moment,  and  around  his  mouth 
A  sad  smOe  hovered,  as  he  breathed  my  name 
And  that  of  his  beloved.     Death  was  bride 
Of  brave  Ibraim  on  that  Easter  Eve." 
Demetrius  paused,  and  leaned  upon  his  palm. 
A  sudden  wind  tore  at  the  tent  above^ 


70  BEST   SBLECnONS 

Black  clouda  had  gulfed  the  star».     A  hodeful  moan 
Grow  momently  amid  the  dark  defiles; 
Tli<;  livid  lightning  rent  the  breast  of  night; 
Tlicn  burst  the  brooding  storm.     But  lo  I  at  dawn 
Peace  smiled  upon  the  plain  of  Jericho, 
And  all  the  line  of  Moab  mountains  lay 
Golden  and  glad  beneath  the  risen  eun. 

Clinton  Soollabd. 


WHAT    MISS    EDITH    SAW    FROM    HER 
WINDOW. 


0' 


UR  window's  not  much — though  it  tronts  on  the 

treet. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-THBEE  71 

And  yet,  as  I  told  you,  there's  only  that  fly 
Buzzing  round  on  the  pane,  und  a  bit  of  blue  sky, 
And  the  girl  in  the  opposite  window,  that  I 
Look  at  when  she  looka  from  her  window  1 

And  yet,  I've  been  thinking  I'd  so  like  to  see 
If  what  goes  on  behind  her  goes  on  behind  me ! 
And  then,  goodness  gracious !  what  fun  it  would  be 
For  us  both  as  we  sit  by  our  window ! 

How  we'd  watch  when  the  parcels  were  hid  in  the 

drawer, 
Or  things  taken  out  that  we  never  see  more ; 
What  people  come  in  and  go  out  of  the  door 
That  we  never  see  from  the  window  1 

And  that  night  when  the  stranger  came  home  with 

our  Jane 
I  might  see  what  I  heard  then — that  sounded  sc 

plain — 
Like  when  my  wet  fingers  I  rub  on  the  pane — 
(Which  they  won't  let  me  do  on  my  window.) 

And    I'd   know   why   papa  shut  the  door  with  a 

slam, 
And    said     something    funny    that    sounded    like 

jam, 
And  said,  "Edith,  where  are  you?"  I  said,  "Here 

I  am." 
"Ah !  that's  right,  dear — look  out  of  the  window." 


72  BEBT  BKLECTIONS 

Tiiey   my  when   I'm  grown   uji   these  things  will 

appear 
-M.-rr  plain  than  they  do  when  I  look  at  ihtin  here; 
lliu  i  think  1  ace  some  tiiiuga  uiicoiunionly  clear 
A.>7  1  dit  and  look  down  from  the  window. 


\\'h:it  things?     Oh  1   things  that  I  make  up,  you 

know, 
Out  of  stories  I've  read— and  they  all  pass  below — 
All  Babd,  the  Forty  Thiov(«,  all  in  a  row, 
Go  liy  aa  I  look  from  my  window. 

Thiit's  only  at  church  time;  other  days  there's  no 
crowd — 


KtlMBER  TWENTY-THREE  7S 

"  Dear  child  1"     Yes,  that's  me !     Oh !  you  aak  what 

that's  for? 
Well,  you  know  papa  says  you're  a  poet — and  more, 
That  your  Poverty's  self!     So — when  you're  at  the 

door — 
I  let  love  fly  out  of  the  window. 

Beet  Habte. 

THE  GLORY  OF  NATURE. 

THE  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  the  great  as  well  as 
numberless  events  which  result  from  the  divine 
administration,  are  in  themselves  vast,  wonderful, 
frequently  awful,  in  many  instances  solemn,  in 
many  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  in  a  great  number 
eminently  sulilime.  All  the^e  attributes,  however, 
they  possess,  if  considered!  only  in  the  abstract,  in 
degrees  very  humble  and  diminutive,  compared  with 
the  appearance  which  they  make,  when  beheld  as 
the  works  of  Jehovah.  Mountains,  the  ocean,  and 
the  heavens  are  majestic  and  sublime.  Hills  and 
valleys,  soft  landscapes,  trees,  fruits,  and  flowers, 
and  many  objects  in  the  animal  and  mineral  king- 
doms, are  beautiful.  But  what  is  this  beauty,  what 
is  this  grandeur,  compared  with  that  agency  of  Ciod 
to  which  they  owe  their  being?  Think  what  it  Ls  for 
the  Almighty  hand  to  spread  the  plains,  to  heave 
the  mountains,  and  to  pour  the  ocean.  Jjook  at  the 
verdure,  flowers,  and  fruits  which  in  the  mild  season 
adorn  the  surface  of  the  earth  ;  the  uncreated  hand 
foshiona  their  fine  forms,  paints  their  exquisite  colors, 


7i  BE8T  SELECTIOSfl 

and  exhales  their  delightful  perfun!i>s.  In  th« 
■;i>ring,  His  life  re-ammates  the  wnrlJ  ;  in  the  summer 
atn!  autumn,  His  bounty  ia  poured  out  U|i(iii  the  hilla 
iirnl  vttlleya ;  iu  the  winter, "  His  wuy  in  in  the  whirl- 
wiixl  and  in  the  Btonti ;  and  the  I'louda  ure  thu  dust 
of  His  feoi"  Hia  hand  "hung  tJio  earth  ujKin 
nothing,"  lighted  up  the  sun  in  tho  heavens,  and 
rolls  the  planets  and  the  comets  through  the  ini- 
nu^iisurahle  fields  of  ether.  Hia  breath  kindled  the 
stars;  Hia  voice  called  into  existence  worlds  innu- 
mt-rahle,  and  filled  the  expanse  with  animated 
beinj;.  To  all  He  is  present,  over  all  He  rulea, 
for  nil  He  providoa.  The  mind,  attempered  to  divine 
contemplation,  fioda  Him  in  every  solitude,  meeta 


NUMBER   TWESTY-THREB 

Cease,  then,  to  praise  good  works  of  such 
An  automatic  kind. 

Nurse. 
Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bit«, 

For  Heaven  hath  made  them  so; 
Let  bears  and  lions  growl  and  fight, 

For  'tis  their  nature  to. 

Baby  [ironicaUy]- 
Indeed  ?    A  brutal  nature,  then, 

Excuses  brutal  ways. 
Unthinking  girl  I  you  little  know 

The  problems  that  you  raise. 

Nurse  [^continuing]. 
But,  children,  you  should  never  let 

Your  angry  passions  rise ; 
Your  little  hands  were  never  made 

To  tear  each  other's  eyes. 

Bahy  [contemptuoudy]. 
Not  "  made  "  to  tear  ?     Well,  what  of  that? 

No  more,  at  first,  were  claws. 
All  comes  by  adaptation. 

No  need  of  final  cause. 
And  if  we  use  the  hands  to  tear, 

Just  as  the  nose  to  smell, 
Ere  many  ages  have  gone  by 

They'll  do  it  very  welL 


BEST  SELECTIONS 

Nurse. 
Toui,  Tom,  the  Piper's  son 
Stole  ii  |)ig|  ami  jiwiiy  he  run ! 

Baiif  [rfprofwhfiJly]. 
Come,  cnuie !     Away  he  "  run  " ! 
Grummar  condeiiiiia  what  you've  just  "done." 
Should  we  not  read,  "  The  piper's  man 
Stole  a  pig,  and  away  he  '  ran '?" 


Ntime. 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  ^tar! 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are  I 


irnUBEB   TWENTY-THREE 

Baby  \stendy\. 
The  cruel  sport  of  hunting 
To  moral  sense  is  stunting; 
And  since  papa's  objection 
To  useful  viviBection 
Convicts  him,  as  it  seems  to  m«, 
Of  signal  inconsistency, 
I  must,  with  thanks,  decline  the  skin 
For  wrapping  baby-bunting  in, 
\Put8  Nurse  to  bed.    Scene  closes^ 


WRITE  THEM  A  LETTER  TO-NIGHT. 

DON'T  go  to  the  theatre,  lecture,  or  ball. 
But  slay  in  your  room  to-night; 
Deny  yourself  to  the  friends  that  call. 

And  a  good  long  letter  write — 
Write  to  the  sad  old  folks  at  home, 

Who  sit  when  the  day  is  done. 
With  folded  hands  and  downcast  eyes, 

And  think  of  the  absent  one — 
Write  them  a  letter  to-night 

Don't  selfishly  scribble :  "  Excuse  my  haste, 

I've  scarcely  time  to  write," 
Lest  their  brooding  thought^]  go  wandering  back 

To  many  a  by-gone  night 
When  they  lost  their  needed  sleep  and  rest, 

And  every  breath  was  a  prayer 
That  God  would  leave  their  delicate  babe 

To  their  tender  love  and  care — 
Write  them  a  letter  to-night 


BEST   8 ELECTIONS 

Pon't  let  them  f««l  you've  no  more  need 

Of  their  love  and  oounsel  wist- , 
For  the  heart  gruws  strangety  senaitive 

When  age  ha»  dimma'i  tlie  eyea. 
It  might  be  well  to  lot  thcni  l>e!ieve 

You  never  fornot  them  (juite^ 
That  you  det>med  it  a  pluiiauro,  whon  far  away. 

Long  letters  horiio  tn  write.     Then — 
Write  thera  a  letter  to-night. 

Don't  think  that  the  young  and  giddy  friends 

Who  make  ymir  iiftstirnu  gay 
Have  half  the  anxiouB  thuughtu  for  you 

TJie  old  folks  hiivu  to  day. 


I 


NUHBER  TWEKTY-THREK  79 

all  honest  efTorte  for  the  acquisition  of  an  indepen- 
dence; but  when  an  iudependenco  ia  acquired,  then 
comes  the  moral  erisia,  Uien  comes  an  Itliuriel  test, 
which  shows  wliether  a  man  is  higher  than  a  com- 
mon man,  or  lower  than  a  common  reptile.  In  the 
duty  of  accumuiatiou — and  I  call  it  a  duty,  in  the 
raost  strict  and  literal  signification  of  that  word — 
all  below  a  competence  is  most  valuable,  and  its 
acquisition  most  laudable;  but  all  above  a  fortune  is 
a  misfortune.  It  is  a  misfortune  to  him  w)io 
amasses  it;  for  it  is  a  voluntary  continuance  in  the 
harness  of  a  beast  of  burden,  when  the  soul  should 
enfranchise  and  lift  itself  up  into  ii  hi}:licr  region  of 
pursuits  and  jtlcasnros.  It  in  a.  perHistuncc  in  tlic 
work  of  providing  poods  for  the  hody  after  the  body 
has  already  been  provided  for;  and  it  is  a  denial  of 
the  hiirher  deniiuids  of  the  sou),  after  the  time  has 
arrived  and  the  niean^  arc  possessed  of  fulfilling 
those  demands.  .  .  .  Because  the  lower  service  was 
once  necessary,  and  has  therefore  been  performed,  it 
is  a  mighty  wrong  when,  without  being  longer  neces- 
iary,  it  usurps  the  sacred  rights  of  the  higher. 

Horace  Mann. 

THE  PARABLE  OF  THE  WRECKS. 


0' 


,N  a  desolate,  storm-beaten  island, 
A  mariner  watched  the  sea 
That  aye,  with  a  dull  and  sullen  plash 
Fretted  the  shore  in  a  ceaseless  dash, 

Murmuring  mournfully ; 


80  BEBT  SELECTIONS 

And  ever  the  mocking  wntor 

Tossed  bits  of  wrecks  on  tlie  land ; 
Tangled  cordage  and  planks  and  spars 
And  timbers,  dinted  with  storm-given  Bcaxa, 
Lay  scattered  along  the  stmnd. 

They  were  memoriw,  they,  of  the  ocean— 
All  that  tlie  grim  sea  keeps — 

Stories  of  many  a  bitter  litrife ; 

Tales  of  the  fatlionilcss  death-in-life 
That  under  its  bosom  sleeps, 

Witli  a  listless  and  weary  footstep 
The  mariner  paced  bis  way, 
And  the  relics  of  ruin  seem  l«  scan 


KUHBBB   TWENTV-THREB  SI 

The  form  of  a  vessel,  strong  and  neir 
Out  of  the  fragmenta  slowly  grew 
Till  he  launced  it  forth  on  the  tide. 

And  the  rough  waves  mocked  no  longer, 
But,  one  bright  sunny  day, 

He  left  the  lonely  and  wreck-strewn  sand, 
Steering  his  bark  with  a  master  hand 
For  a  fair  land  far  away. 

Wm.  0.  Stoddabd. 

THE  STUDY  OF  ASTRONOMY. 

ASTRONOMY  is  no  feast  of  fancy  with  music  and 
poetry,  with  eloquence  and  art  to  enchain 
the  mind.  Music  is  here ;  but  it  is  the  deep  and 
•olemn  harmony  of  Uie  spheres.  Poetry  is  here ; 
but  it  must  be  read  in  the  charactcre  of  light  written 
on  the  sable  garments  of  night  Architecture  is 
here;  but  it  is  the  colossal  structure  of  sun  and 
system,  of  cluster  and  universe.  Eloquence  is  here ; 
but  there  is  neither  speech  nor  language.  Its  voice 
is  not  heartl ;  yet  its  resistless  sweep  comes  over  us  in 
the  mighty  periods  of  revolving  worlds. 

Shall  we  not  1it<ten  to  this  music,  because  it  ia 
deep  and  solemn  ?  Shall  wo  not  read  this  poetry, 
because  its  letters  are  the  stars  of  heaven  ?  Sliall 
•we  refuse  to  contemplate  this  architecture,  because 
its  "  architraves,  its  archways  seem  ghostly  from  in- 
finitude"? No:  the  mind  ia  ever  inquisitive,  ever 
Mftdy  to  attempt  to  scale  the  most  rugged  steeps. 
6 


52  BEST  SELECTI0S8 

(to  with  me  in  imaginiition  and  join  in  the  nightlj 
\-iu,ih  of  the  astronomer;  and  while  hia  mind,  witli 
|iowerfixl  energy,  atruggliM  with  dilTicnlty,  join  your 
3\ni  sympathetic  efforts  with  his;  hope  with  hia 
io|je;  tremble  with  bin  feani;  rejoice  witli  hi^  tri- 


The  aatronomer  hoa  ever  lived  and  never  dies. 
'liL'  sentinel  upon  tlie  wateh-tower  is  relieved  from 
ut,v,but  another  takes  his  pUce,and  the  vigil  is  un- 
rukeo.  No:  the  astronomer  never  dies.  He  com- 
RTices  his  inveatigiition  on  the  hill-tope  of  Eden; 
I-  Mludiea  the  stars  through  the  long  centuries  of 
iiti'ililuvian  life.  The  deluge  sweeps  from  the  earth 
-.-i  inhabitants,  their  cities,  and  their  monuments; 


BCHBER  TWENTY-THREE  88 

nomena;  we  may  equally  stretch  forward  thousands 
of  years ;  and,  although  we  cannot  comprehend  what 
may  be  the  condition  of  astronomical  science  at  that 
remote  periotl,  of  one  thing  we  arc  certain — the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future  constitute  but  one  un- 
broken chain  of  observations  condensing  all  time, 
to  the  astronomer,  into  one  mighty  "  Now." 

O.  M.  Mitchell. 


THE  WHIRLING  WHEEL. 

Permimon  of  The  Outlook,  New  York. 

OH  I  the  regular  round  is  a  kind  of  a  grind  1 
We  rise  in  the  morning  only  to  find 
That  Monday's  but  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday's  the 

And  Thursday's  a  change  in  nothing  but  name; 

A  Friday  and  Satunlay  wind  up  the  week ; 

Otk  Sunday  we  rest,  and  attempt  to  look  meek. 
So  set  a  firm  shoulder 
And  push  on  the  wheel  I 
The  mill  that  we're  grinding 
Works  for  our  weal. 

And  although  the  dull  round  is  a  kind  of  a  grind, 
It  has  compensations  that  we  may  find. 
Famine  and  slaughter  and  sieges  no  more 
Are  likely  to  leave  their  cards  at  the  door. 
Let  others  delight  in  adventurous  lives — 
W«  read  their  sore  trials  at  home  to  our  wivM. 


r  SELECTIONS 


*\ 


So  set  a  6nn  shoulder 
And  push  on  tlie  wheel  I 
The  mill  that  we're  grinding 
Wor(t8  for  our  weal. 


The  rpgular  round,  though  a  kind  of  a,  grind, 
Hriiij;s  thoughts  of  coQtentinent  to  quiet  the  mind : 
The  Itubies  sleep  BOUncUy  in  snug  littla  hede; 
There  H  ii  tight  little  roof  o'er  the  ringleted  heada; 
The  wife's  welcome  comes  with  the  »et  of  the  sun, 
And  the  worker  may  reat,  for  the  day'w  work  is  done 
So  set  a  firm  ahoiildur 
And  pueh  on  tJie  wheel ! 
Tht;  mill  Uiat  we're  grioding 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THBEB  85 

Wbo  can  tell  what  the  Master  shall  say  is  the  best? 
We  but  know  that  the  worker  who's  aided  the  rest, 
Who  has  kept  hia  wheel  turning  from  morning  to 

.       night, . 
Who  has  not  wronged  bis  fellow,  ia  not  far  from 
right 

So  Bet  a  firm  shoulder 
And  push  on  the  wheel  1 
The  mill  tliat  we're  grinding 
Shall  work  out  our  weal. 

Tudor  Jemks. 


SAVED  BY  A  BOY. 

Abridged. 


A  BOOKKEEPER  in  a  certain  large  city  one  day 
aaked  for  a  week's  leave  of  absence,  and  taking 
a  considerable  sum  of  money  belonging  to  the  firm 
that  employed  him,  he  went  to  another  city,  deter- 
mining to  sail  for  South  America  a  few  days  later. 
Under  an  assumed  name  he  engi^ed  a  room  in  a 
poor  lodging-house ;  for  though  there  was  little  risk 
of  hia  act  being  dis^covcred  until  he  was  out  of  hie 
native  country  (for  lie  was  greatly  tru.'ited  by  his  em- 
ployers), yet  his  guilt  made  him  anxious  to  destroy 
alt  traces  of  himself  after  he  had  committed  the  tiiefl. 
For  a  whole  day  he  was  happy;  he  now  hud 
enough  money  to  do  what  ho  liad  long  desired — to 
go  to  a  foreign  country  and  make  certain  invest- 
menta  which  should  in  time  bring  him  great  wealth. 


It  was  early  spring,  and  even  in  that  wretched  and 
noisy  neighborhood  there  was  a  flowery  ewectiiL'SS  in 
llii-  ;iir.  The  bookkeeper  thought  how  pleasant  it 
must  lie  ju  the  country  lane  where  his  mother  liji'wl. 

■■  I'll  make  her  rich  yet,"  and  ho  took  from  hii 
po<'l;('t  the  papera  and  bank-notes  belonging  to  his 
eiiiployera.  Here  was  a  good,  big  sum  of  money, 
anil  he  fairly  laughed  aloud.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
ruetliiig  in  the  room.  He  sprang  to  his'  feet,  crush- 
in<T  iliL'  papers  and  money  into  bia  pocket,  and  glared 
round  him. 

Sliiiiding  in  the  doorway  waa  a  littlo,  thin-&icod 
boy.  He  had  holil  of  a  big  kettle,  which  aeeuied 
heavier  than  he  could  well  carry. 


NUMBER  TWEMTY-THBEB  87 

Then  he  turned  hia  eyes  on  the  man,  and  the  book* 
keeper  smiled  at  the  quaint  little  chap. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  he  aaked. 
, "  Six." 

"  What's  your  name  ?" 

"  Geoi^e." 

"  George !  that's  a  pretty  good  sort  of  name ; 
George  Washington  was  a  fine  fellow." 

"  I  ain't  George  Washington ;  I'm  George  Smith— 
bo's  mother." 

"  Where's  your  father?" 

"  Dunno." 

"  Is  he  out?" 

"  Dead." 

The  bookkeeper  started,  and  looked  a  litUe  more 
curiously  at  tlie  boy. 

"  My  father  is  dead,  too,"  he  said.  "  Who  takes 
care  of  your  mother?" 

"  I  do,"  said  the  boy.     "  The  water's  bilin'." 

He  took  tlie  kettle  from  the  fire  and  staggered  with 
it  out  of  the  room,  setting  it  down  in  the  entry  out- 
side till  he  closed  the  door. 

The  bookkeeper  listened  to  his  retreating  steps, 
"  And,  like  him,  again,  I  take  care  of  my  mother,"  he 
murmured.  "  Queer  little  shaver,  that,  I  wonder — " 
Here  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door ;  it  was  opened, 
and  there  again  was  George  Smith  and  his  kettle. 

"  May  I  heat  this  'ere  kittle?"  he  said,  and  went 
and  put  it  on  the  fire  and  watched  it 

What  a  shabby-looking  child  it  w.isl  how  poor 
and  frail  I 


88  BEST  BELECTI0S3 

The  bookkeeper  had  not  had  a  friendly  word  with 
a  Kiiul  since  he  had  taken  the  money.  He  felt  lika 
tiikiiig  to  some  one — any  one,  and  he  said  ; 

■'  Now,  George,  what  dii  you  mean  to  do  when  you 
grow  up  ?  be  a  tall  man  like  me  ?" 
"  Cioin'  to  take  care  o'  mother." 
'■  Of  coarse,  I  take  care  of  my  mother,  too." 
George  Smith  looked  at  him.    There  waa  a  ]>aiue. 
Tlio  bookkeeper  felt  a  great  pity  enter  hia  heart  for 
thi'  forlorn  child,  30  solemn,  bo  unlike  most  children 
of  his  age,  with  all  the  merriment  stamped  out  of 
hiiH,  and  only  sUmi  duty  to   tako  ite  place.     He 
pitied  the  boy  and  would  have  liked  to  help  bim 

BOUiC-hoW. 

'■  What  do  you  do  all  diiy,  little  man?"  he  aaked. 


MDHBBR  TWENTY-THREE  88 

the  room.  Six  years  old,  no  play,  Bcanty  food,  and 
he  was  taking  care  of  liis  8tck  mother. 

He  wiilkecl  up  and  down,  u|i  and  down  till  evening 
came.  Then  he  lighted  the  lamp  and  attempted  to 
read.  But  again  tliere  came  that  knock  on  the  door. 
And  there  waa  George  Smith  and  his  iron  wate^ 
holder. 

"May  I  heat  this  'ere  kittle  for  mother?"  he 
aaked. 

The  bookkeeper  was  angry. 

"  Are  you  boiling  your  mother?"  he  cried. 

George  Smith  looked  at  him. 

"  She's  sick,"  he  said,  "  and  it  makes  her  feel 
good." 

"Can't  you  see  the  fire's  out?"  snapped  the  book- 
keeper. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  and  he  turned  away. 

The  bookkeeper  stopped  him.  "I'll  make  it  Up," 
he  said,  "  if  your  mother  must  have  hot  water."  He 
kindled  the  fire,  and  the  kettle  was  set  over  it 

Then  a  strange  thought  came  to  the  bookkeeper. 
He  looked  at  George  Smith,  who  watched  the  kettle. 
The  child  looked  nearly  famished,  wholly  exhausted. 
The  bookkeeper  took  a  roll  of  money  from  his 
pocket  and  put  it  on  the  table. 

"  George  Smith,"  he  said,  "  are  you  hungry?" 

The  child  looked  around  quickly :  "  Yes — no,"  he 
Sftid.    "  Mother  is — sometimes." 

"  Then  you  have  no  money  ?" 

"  Mother  sews  for  it  sometimes  when  she's  weU." 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  bad  money?" 


9U  BEST   RELBCTIONB 

"  Buy  chickena  for  mother." 

"  Aiirl  youraelf?" 

■'  She'd  give  mv  aomo." 

"  Kxactiy.  Anii  you  liave  no  money;  rotue- 
(liuiitlv  your  mother  has  no  chicken." 

Tlu.'l.oy  nodded. 

'■  Would  you  like  some  monoy?"  naked  the  hook- 
k».|.,.r. 

Till'  Ihoy  drew  in  his  lirealli  at  the  idea. 

'■  Wult,  here  is  plenty,"  wisiit  on  the  bookkeeper, 
pointin;;  to  the  little  pile  on  the  table ;  "  help  youi^ 


The  l)oy  looked  from  the  money  to  the  man. 

"  'T ain't  mine."  he  rfaid.     "  la  it  youm?" 

Tlir'  dookkceper  started.     "  Whoso  do  yon  think  it 


KDHBER  TWENTY-THKEE  91 

money,  and  taking  care  of  his  injpoTerished,  eick 
mother,  who  would  die  if  he  were  a  thief! 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  rested  hla  head  upon  his 
hand.  He  thought  of  South  America  and  his  sure 
success  there,  his  making  a  fortune ;  he  thought  oi 
a  country  lane  and  a  little  house  there,  and  he 
thought  of  hia  mother. 

"She'd  die  if  1  was  a  thief!"  The  words  rang  in 
his  ears.     "  She'd  die  if  I  was  a  thief!" 

The  oil  in  the  lamp  gave  out;  he  sat  there  in  the 
dark,  the  stolen  money  in  his  hand,  repeating: 
"  She'd  die  if  I  was  a  thief!" 

The  early  morning  came  and  found  him  there, 
haggard  and  worn.  A  great  rage  against  the  boy 
came  to  him ;  he  opened  the  door  of  his  room  and 
determined  even  at  that  early  hour  to  find  the 
mother  of  the  beggarly  boy  who  had  dared  to  rebuke 
him. 

He  had  not  far  to  go.  Up  one  Bight  of  crazy 
stairs  he  found  George  Smith.  It  was  in  a  bare, 
miserable  room,  and  the  child  lay  sleeping  beside  his 
mother.  But  that  mother  was  as  pale,  as  cold  as 
marble,  and  as  motionless.  She  was  free  from  all 
care  and  grief  henceforth  forever.  One  of  her  arms 
was  thrown  across  the  sleeping  child,  as  though  she 
would  protect  him. 

Upon  a  chair  was  a  book  ;  it  was  open,  as  though 
dropped  there  from  the  nerveless  hand  that  hung 
down  beside  the  bed. 

The  bookkeeper  picked  up  the  book.  "  Thou  shalt 
not  steal  I"  he  read.     His  knees  gave  way,  and  he 


H 

92                                       BEST  9E!,l!:.-rJO!l8 

^ 

w.mk  (Jomi   beai.lp  t 

e  b.'d.      His  s 

lbs  wakeil  the     1 

little  boy. 

1 

-  Hush !"  he  BftW, 

"  von'll  wake  i 

lother."     Tlnrn      1 

Il<.'  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "Mother!  mother P  and     | 

tdfd  t»  wake  her. 

I 

The  bookkeeper  put  his  ftniw  around  the  child.           | 

The  next  day  Uu 

bookkeeper  w 

M  iMick  in  the      1 

cily  of  liis  employers 

the  money  waa 

returned  with-      1 

out  any  one  having  i 

ii»sod  it,  and  ir 

a  week  a  little     i 

ln*y  went  to  live  in  a 

itUe  cottage  in 

a  countrr  lane.     1 

'■  Keep  him,"  fl-role  the  bookkeeper  to  hia  m.ithcr.     f 

"  He  ia  all  alone  in 

the  world,  and 

he  has  IxwD  a 

good  friend  to  me." 

■'  I  wonder  how  a  aix-ycar-okl  chile 

could  befrlmd 

111 V  ^nlftndid   aon    w 

O     loVOH     m(!     Ad 

much."  amilp;! 

MUHBEB  TWENTY'THREE  » 

Wen  de  ft^  hab  lef  de  valley, 

An'  de  bine  am  in  de  eky, 
An'  de  bees  am  wo 'kin'  in  de  medder  lot; 
Wen  de  hollyhocks  am  drowsin', 

An'  de  sun  am  ridin'  high, 
An'  de  dusty  country  road  am  blazin'  hot; 
Den  de  darky  'gins  to  listen — 

As  de  catbird  quits  his  song — 
Fo'  de  soundin'  ob  de  welcome  dimier-ho'n, 
Kase  his  knees  am  growin'  wabbly, 

An'  de  rows  am  growin'  long — 
An'  he's  hoein'  an'  a-whis1in'  in  de  oo'nl 

Wen  de  fiery  sun  am  smilin' 

An'  a-sinkin'  in  de  wea', 
An'  de  ahadders  creep  along  de  dusty  road; 
Wen  de  martioB  am  archatter'n' 

An'  dey  hurry  home  to  res', 
An'  de  longes'  row  ob  all  am  nealy  hoed; 
Wen  de  bullfrog  'gins  to  holler, 

An'  de  cowbell  down  de  lane 
'Gins  to  tinkle  in  a  way  dat's  moa'  folo'o, 
Den  amid  de  gloomy  echoes 

Comes  dat  soul-refreshin'  strain — 
Ob  de  darky  as  he  whis'Ies  in  de  co'n ! 

S.  Q.  Lapius. 


B£8T  BKI.ECTIONS 


RULE  BRITANNIA. 


WHEN  Britain  firat,  at  Heaven's  < 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  waa  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain : 
Rule,  Britannia  1  Britannia  ru)es  tho  wares  I 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nalifina  not  bo  blest  as  thee 
Must  in  thnir  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

\Vhi1:<t  thou  HJialt  flourish  great  And  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  tbein  all. 


nnUBER   TWEKTY-THREE  9f 

Bleet  Isle  I  with  matchleaa  beauty  crown'd, 

And  manly  heiirta  to  guard  the  fair : — 
Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  wavesl 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

J.  Thoubon. 


SUICIDE;     OR,     THE     SIN       OF      SELF-DE- 
STRUCTION. 

IN  olden  time,  and  where  Christianity  had  not 
interfered  with  it,  suicide  was  considered  honor- 
able and  a  sign  of  courage.  Demosthenes  poisoned 
himself  when  told  that  Alexander's  ambassador  had 
demanded  the  surrender  of  the  Athenian  orators. 
Isocrates  killed  himself  rather  than  surrender  to 
Philip  of  Macedon.  Cato,  rather  than  submit  to 
Julius  Csesar,  took  his  own  life,  and  after  three  times 
bis  wounds  had  been  dressed  tore  them  open  and 
perished.  Mithridates  killed  himself  rather  than 
submit  to  Pompey,  the  conqueror,  Hannibal  de- 
stroyed hia  life  by  poison  from  his  ring,  considering 
life  unbearable.  Lycurgus  was  a  suicide,  Brutus  was 
a  suicide.  After  the  disaster  of  Moscow,  Napoleon 
always  carried  with  him  a  preparation  of  opium,  and 
one  night  his  servant  heard  the  ex-emperor  arise, 
put  something  in  a  glass  and  drink  it,  and  so6n  after 
the  groans  aroused  all  the  attendants,  and  it  was 
only  through  the  utmost  medical  skill  that  he  was 
resuscitated  from  the  stupor  of  the  opiate. 

Times  have  changed,  and  yet  the  American  con- 
■cience   needs  to  be  toned   up  on  the  subject  of 


6  BEST   SELECTIONB 

iiii'ide.  Have  you  aeen  a  paper  in  the  last  month 
lit  ilid  not  announce  the  passage  out  of  a  life  l>y 
Drsown  behest?  Defaulters,  alarmed  at  the  idea  of 
xjKisure,  quit  life  precipitately.  Men  losing  large 
iitunes  go  out  of  the  world  because  they  cannot 
inliire  earthly  existence.  Frustrated  aflection,  do- 
iistic  infelicity,  dyspeptic  impatience,  anger,  re- 
MVM,  envy,  jealousy,  destitution,  misanthrophy,  are 
iiii^idered  sufficient  causes  for  absconding  from  this 
fv  by  Paria  green,  by  laudanum,  by  belladonna,  by 
illiello'a  dagger,  by  halter,  by  leap  from  tlie  abut- 
ii'iit  of  a  bridge,  by  firearms. 


Would  God  that  the 


would  be  brave  in 


NUHBEB  TWENTT'-THSEB  97 

thy  sentence  I  Down  with  thee  to  the  pit  and  sup 
on  the  sobs  and  groans  of  families  thou  hast  blighted 
and  roll  on  the  bed  of  knivea  which  thou  hast  sharp* 
ened  for  others,  and  let  thy  music  be  the  everlasting 
miserere  of  those  whom  thou  haat  damned !  I  brand 
the  forehead  of  Infidelity  with  all  the  crimes  of  self- 
immolation  for  the  last  century  on  the  part  of  those 
who  bad  their  reason. 

My  friends,  if  ever  your  life  through  its  abrasions 
and  its  molestations,  should  seem  to  be  unbearable, 
and  yon  are  tempted  to  quit  it  by  your  own  behest, 
do  not  consider  youraelves  as  worse  than  others. 
Christ  Himself  was  tempted  to  cast  Himself  from  the 
roof  of  the  temple ;  but  as  He  resisted,  so  resist  ye. 
Christ  came  to  medicine -all  our  wounds.  In  your 
trouble  I  prescribe  life  instead  of  death.  People 
who  have  been  tempted  worse  than  you  will  ever  be, 
have  gone  songful  on  their  way.  Remember  that 
God  keeps  the  chronology  of  your  life  with  as  much 
precision  as  He  keeps  the  chronology  of  nations ;  your 
death  m  well  as  your  birth,  your  grave  aa  well  ai 
your  cradle. 

*  *  *  «  *  nf 

Remember,  too,  that  this  brief  life  of  ours  is  sur- 
rounded  by  a  rim,  a  very  thin  but  very  important 
rim,  and  close  up  to  that  rim  is  a  great  eternity ;  and 
you  had  better  keep  out  of  it  until  God  breaks  that 
rim  and  separates  this  from  that.  To  get  rid  of  the 
sorrows  of  earth,  do  not  rush  into  greater  sorrows. 
To  get  rid  of  a  swarm  of  summer  insects,  leap  not 
into  a  jungle  of  Bengal  tigers. 
7 


98  REST  SELECTIONS 

There  ia  a  sorrowless  world,  and  it  is  so  radiant 
tliiit  tlie  noonday  Ejua  IB  only  the  lowest  dooi^tep,  and 
liiu  uurora  that  lights  Up  our  northern  lieavens,  con- 
Ibuiiding  astrononien  as  tu  what  it  can  be,  ia  the 
wjiviii;;  of  the  banners  of  the  procession  couiy  to 
take  the  conquerors  home  from  duircli  militant  to 
church  triumphant,  and  you  and  I  have  ton  thuu«aiid 
ri;a,Hoiin  for  wanting  to  go  there,  but  wo  will  never 
get  tlicrii  either  by  self-immolation  or  impcnitency. 
All  our  sina  have  been  alajn  by  the  Christ  who  came 
to  do  that  thinp,  and  we  want  to  go  in  at  juat  the 
lime  ilivinely  arranged  and  from  a  coueh  divinely 
flprcLid,  and  then  the  clang  of  the  sepulchre  gatea 
hi-hiiul  us  will  be  overpowered  by  the  clang  of  the 


NUHBEB  TWENTT-THREB  9) 

And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  hare  Bchemedt 

That  miserable  morning  saw 

Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 
To  please  themselves ;  'twas  all  their  deed. 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face : 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous  I     Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 
As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed. 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  etiU  head  I 

But  no :  they  let  me  iaugh,  and  sii^ 
My  birthday  song  quite  through,  acfjaai 

The  last  rose  in  iny  garland,  ding 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-staii»— 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 

Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 
And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 


D  BEST  SELECTIOIU 

Under  the  canopy — (a  atrcuk 
That  pierced  it,  of  tlie  outade  san, 
Powdered  with  gokl  its  ^Iouiu'h  soft  dtm}— 

And  they  could  let  uio  take  my  state 
And  foolish  thnmc  amid  applause 

Of  all  come  there  to  cclobraU) 

5Iy  queen 'a-ilay — Oh !  1  think  the  oaoM 

or  much  mw,  they  forgot  no  crowd 

M:Lke3  up  for  parents  in  their  tjhroiidl 


However  that  be,  all  eyea  were  bent 

npon  me,  when  my  couaine  cast 
'riii'irs  down ;  'twas  time  I  should  present 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THBEE  lOj 

I?    What  I  anawered?    As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  poasible  to  give. 

What  saya  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?     No  more  says  the  souL 

Till  out  strode  Gismond :  then  I  knew 

That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before ;  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 
Himself  to  Satan :  who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end? 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 
Gave  hira  the  lie,  then  struck  his  month 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 
In  blood  men's  verdict  then.    North,  South, 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  o'  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event; 

God  took  that  on  him — I  was  hid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part:  I  did. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 

His  armorer  just  hrace  his  greavM, 
Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  &et 


f> 


I  BEST  BELECnOKB 

The  while !    Hia  foot  .  .  .  my  memorj'  leave 
No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  unon 
He  giulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

Anil  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  Bound 
Was  finished,  pn)n«  luy  Uie  falue  knight, 

Prone  aa  his  lie,  upon  tlie  ground: 
Gismond  flew  lit  hhn,  ui^eil  no  sleight 

0'  the  sword,  but  open-breastud  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove, ' 


Wliich  done,  he  drapged  him  to  my  feet, 
And  said,  "  Here  die,  but  end  thy  hre&th 

In  full  confession,  leHt  thou  fleet 


VUHBER  TWENTY-THREB  103 

Bo  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 

Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 
Their  life,  untroubled  us  before 

I  vexed  them,     Gautbier's  dwelling-place 

God  lighten !     May  his  soul  find  grace ! 

Our  elder  boy  haa  got  the  clear 

Great  brow ;  though  when  his  brother's  blaok 
Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it  .  .  ,  Giamond  here? 

And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back? 
I  was  just  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 

Robert  Brownino. 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  ANDR6. 


THE  hour  of  noon  had  been  appointed  for  Major 
Andrfe's  execution.  Andr^  rose  from'his  bed  at  hia 
usual  hour,  and  after  partaking  of  breakfast — which 
was  supplied  him  as  had  been  the  custom,  from 
Washington's  own  table — began  to  make  his  prep- 
arations for  the  solemn  scene.  His  servant  Laune 
had  arrived  from  New  York  some  days  before  with  a 
supply  of  clothing ;  and  Andr6  this  morning  shave*! 
and  dressed  himself  with  even  more  than  his  usual 
care.  He  wore  the  rich  scarlet  uniform,  faced  with 
green,  of  a  British  officer ;  though  without  the  cus- 
tomary sash  and  sword. 


t04  BEST  SELECnONa 

When  hia  friend  Pemberton  entered,  about  eleven 
>V'l<x-k,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more 
■]>l('niHd  face  and  figure.  The  face  was  of  a  deadly 
;i;Ui-iicsM — the  brow  especially  showing  like  a  clear 
;i;ili-  marble  beneath  the  clustering  ■masses  of  raven 
Kill'.  The  features  appeared  even  more  refined  and 
nlelloctuul  than  was  their  wont;  and  the  beautiful 
-'x|iression  wbidi  sat  upon  them  and  shone  forth 
I'ruiu  his  deep  and  melancholy  eyes  was  such  as  nat- 
araliy  takes  captive  the  hearts  of  men,  and  fills  with 
-Wvoted  enthusiasm  the  souls  of  women. 

■■  He  is  the  handsomest  man  I  evei  saw  I"  ex- 
:]iiiined  one  of  the  officers  in  attendance,  to  Pera- 
iifrlon ;  "  and  the  most  gentle  and  winning." 


HUHBEB  TWENTY-THREE  106 

were  the  firing  party,  aDd  that  his  last  request, 
namely,  that  he  should  be  shot,  had  been  granted. 

An  outer  guard  of  five  hundred  men  also  attended, 
at  the  head  of  which  rode  nearly  all  the  priucijia; 
officers  of  the  army,  with  the  exception  of  Waaii 
ington  and  hia  staff,  who  from  a  feeling  of  delicacy 
remained  in-doorfl.  Large  crowds  of  the  soldiery, 
and  of  the  citizens  from  the  surrounding  country, 
also  were  present. 

As  Andr^  passed  on,  he  retained  his  composure  in 
a  wondcrfiil  degree — nodding  and  speaking  pleaa< 
antly  to  those  ofScers  with  whom  he  was  acquainted; 
especially  to  those  who  had  constituted  the  court- 
martial. 

The  gallows  had  been  erected  on  the  summit  of  an 
eminence  that  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  sii> 
rounding  country.  It  was  also  in  full  view  of  Wash- 
ington's headquarters;  but  the  doors  and  shutters 
of  the  latter  were  closed,  not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen,  save  the  usual  sentinels  pacing  in  &ont  of 
the  house. 

Ab  the  mournful  proceesion  turned  from  the  high 
road  into  the  meadow,  Andr^  first  saw  the  gallows. 
He  suddenly  recoiled,  and  paused  for  a  moment 

"  I  thought  you  meant  to  spare  me  this  indignity !" 
he  exclaimed,  atmost  passionately. 

"  We  have  simply  to  obey  our  orders,"  replied  one 
of  the  officers. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  are  making  a  great  mistake," 
cried  Pemberton  to  a  couple  of  higher  officers,  who 
were  riding  near. 


106  BBBT  SELECnOMI 

"  If  we  are,  we  are  doing  it  lionoslly,  and  becausQ 
we  think  it  our  duty,"  ntpliwl  one  ol'  tlioni. 

Andr6  moved  on.  "  I  must  drink  the  cup  to  the 
dregs,  it  seetna,"  h«  said  with  dt'c|i  emotion.  "  But  it 
will  soon  be  over."  The  pleasant  smile,  however, 
h^id  vaniahed  from  his  face.  It  was  evident  thai 
niiat  he  thought  a  needless  indignity  cut  aharper 
tliiin  the  sentence  of  death  itself. 

The  gallows  was  simply  a  rude  but  lofty  gibbet, 
with  a  wagon  drawn  under  it,  Inside  the  wagon 
wiia  a  roughly-made  coffin,  painted  black.  As  Andr3 
stood  near  the  w^on,  awaiting  some  lirief  prejiara- 
tions,  bia  t^ony  seemed  almost  more  than  be  couhl 
bear;  bis  throat  sinking  and  swelling  aa  though  con- 


KUHBER  TWIUrTY-THBEE  107 

tame  like  a  hero,  mounted  in  the  car  of  triumph,  and 
prepared  to  receive  the  acclamations  of  his  followers, 
than  a  man  ahout  to  aufTer  a  iihameful  death. 

The  executioner  approached  him,  but  he  waved 
him  away  with  a  grand  disdain,  and  tossing  his  hat 
to  the  ground,  removed  his  stock,  opened  wide  his 
shirt-collar,  and  taking  the  noose,  adjusted  it  himself 
properly  about  his  neck.  On  his  face  was  a  proud 
diagust  aa  he  did  tliis — as  if  he  said,  without  useless 
words :  "  You  have  the  power ;  and  though  you  use 
your  power  meanly,  I  am  man  and  soldier  enough  to 
Bubmit  to  it !"  Then  he  bound  hia  handkerchief 
over  his  eyes. 

The  order  of  execution  was  read  loudly  and  im- 
pressively by  Adjutant^General  Scammel.  At  its 
conclusion,  Colonel  Scammel  informed  the  prisoner 
that  he  might  speak,  if  he  had  anything  to  say. 

Lifting  the  bandage  from  his  eyes,  and  gazing 
around  once  more,  as  if  that  last  look  of  earth  and 
sun  and  sky  and  human  faces  was  sweet  indeed, 
AndrS  said,  in  a  proud,  clear  voice : 

"  Bear  witness,  gentlemen,  that  I  die  in  the  service 
of  my  country,  as  becomes  a  British  officer  and  a 
brave  man." 

The  hangman  now  drew  near  with  a  piece  of  cord 
to  bind  his  arms;  but,  recoiling  from  his  snaky 
touch,  Andr4  swept  hia  hand  aside,  and  drawing  an- 
other handkerchief  IVom  his  pocket,  allowed  his 
elbows  to  be  loosely  fastened  behind  his  back.  Then 
he  said  in  a  firm  voice — "  I  am  ready !" 

Almost  at  the  word  the  wagon  was  rolled  swiiUy 


108  BX8T  SELECnONB 

iuvay,  and,  with  a  terrible  jerk  and  shock,  the  noble 
siiiil  of  John  Andrfi  was  suvered  from  the  beautiful 
Ihune  with  which  the  Creator  had  clothed  it. 

And  there  was  a  solemn  stillness  through  all  the 
iimltitude  gathered  around,  broken  only  by  the 
Miiiad  of  weeping.  For  all  felt  that  thia  was  no 
common  man ;  and  that  he  had  done  nothing 
worthy  of  death.  Only  that  It  was  necessary  that 
inj  should  die  for  the  good  of  their  country, 

Henry  Peterson. 


THE  STORM  OF  DELPHI 


mniBBR  TWKRTY-THBBB  109 

With  starry  gems,  at  whose  heart  the  day 
Of  the  cloudless  Orient  burning  lay, 
And  they  cost  &  gleam  on  the  laurel-stems, 
As  onward  hie  thousands  pressed. 

But  a  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way, 

And  a  heavy  moan  went  by  I 

A  moan,  yet  not  like  the  wind's  low  swell, 

When  its  voice  grows  wild  amidst  cave  and  dell, 

But  a  mortal  murmur  of  dismay, 

Or  a  warrior's  dying  sigh  1 

A  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way  I 
Twaa  not  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  dark  pine-boughs,  as  they  crossed  the  blue 
Of  the  Grecian  heavens,  with  their  solemn  hne; 
The  air  was  filled  with  a  mightier  away— 
But  on  the  spearmen  pasaed  I 

And  hollow  to  their  tread 

Came  the  echoes  of  the  ground ; 
And  banners  drooped,  as  with  dews  o'erbom«^ 
And  the  wailing  blast  of  the  battle-hom 
Had  an  altered  cadence,  dull  and  dead, 
Of  strange  foreboding  sound. 

But  they  blew  a  louder  strain, 
When  the  steep  defiles  were  passed  I 
And  afar  the  crowned  Parnassus  rose, 
To  shine  through  heaven  with  his  radiant  snows, 
And  in  the  golden  light  the  Delphian  fane, 
Before  them  stood  at  last 


[10  BEST   SFLECTIONa 

In  golden  li^ht  it  atood, 

'Midiit  the  laurels  gleaming  lone; 
For  the  Sun-god  jut,  with  a  luvcly  smile, 
O'er  its  graceful  pillars  look'd  awhile, 

Though  the  stormy  shade  on  cliff  and  wood 
tirew  deep  round  its  mountain  throne. 


And  the  FeiBians  gave  a  shouti 
But  the  marble  walls  replied 
M'ith  a  olaah  of  steel  and  a  sullen  roar 
Like  heavy  wheels  on  the  ocean  shore, 
And  a  savage  trumpet's  note  pealed  out, 
Till  their  hearts  for  terror  died ! 


KUICBER  TWEHTY-THREB  111 

And  the  hearths  were  k>ne  in  the  city's  towers, 
But  there  burst  a  sound  through  the  misty  noon— 
That  battle-noon  of  fire  I 

It  hurst  from  earth  and  heaven  I 
It  rolled  from  crag  and  cloud  I 
For  a  Tnonient  on  the  mountain  blast 
With  a  thousand  stormy  voices  passed; 
And  the  purple  gloom  of  the  sky  was  riveQ 
When  the  thunder  pealed  aloud. 

And  the  lightnings  in  their  play 
Flash'd  forth,  like  javelins  thrown: 
Like  sun-darts  winged  from  silver  bow, 
They  smote  the  spear  and  the  turbaned  brow ; 
And  the  bright  gems  flew  from  the  crests  like 
spray, 
And  the  banners  were  struck  down  I 

And  the  massy  oak-boughs  crashed 
To  the  fire-bolts  from  on  high, 
And  the  forest  lent  its  billowy  roar, 
While  the  glorious  tempest  onward  bore, 
And  lit  the  streams,  as  they  foamed  and  dashed. 
With  the  fierce  rain  sweeping  by. 

Then  rush'd  the  Delphian  men 

On  the  pale  and  scattered  host 
lake  the  joyous  burst  of  a  flashing  wave, 
They  rushed  fixjm  the  dim  Corycian  cavej 
And  the  sighing  blast  o'er  wood  and  glen 

BolI'd  on  with  the  spears  they  toss'd. 


112  n 

There  were  criea  of  wild  dismay, 
There  were  ahoub  of  wanior-glee, 
lliere  were  tiava^e  iWuniLt  of  the  t^npest's  mirth. 
That  xhrfok  the  realm  of  their  eagle  birth  ; 
But  the  mount  of  t<on};,  when  the;  died  ftwaj. 
Still  rose,  with  its  temple,  free  I 

And  the  Piean  aveli'd  ere  long, 
lo  Patai) !  from  the  fane ; 
lo  P«!an !  for  the  war-array 
On  the  crowned  PamaHaus  riYen  that  day) 
Thou  Hhatt  ri^^e  as  free,  thou  mount  of  aoag 
With  thy  bounding  streams  again. 

Mbs.  Hehahs. 


A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE. 

WILL  the  reader  please  to  cast  his  eye  over  the 
following  verses,  and  see  if  he  can  discover 
anything  harmful  in  them? 

"  Conductor,  when  you  receive  a  fare, 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjarel 
A  blue  trip-slip  for  an  eight-cent  (are, 
A  buff  trip-alip  for  a  aix-cent  fare, 
A  pink  trip-slip  for  a  three-cent  fare. 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  pasaenjaMl 

chorus: 
"  Punch,  brothers,  punch  I  punch  with  care  I 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  psasenjare  I" 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  113 

I  came  across  these  jingling  rhymes  in  a  news- 
paper, a  little  while  ago,  and  read  them  a  couple  of 
times.  They  took  instant  and  entire  possession  of 
me  All  through  breakfast  they  went  waltzing 
through  my  brain ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  rolled  up 
my  napkin,  I  could  not  tell  whether  I  had  eaten 
anything  or  not.  I  had  carefully  laid  out  my  day's 
work  the  day  before — a  thrilling  tragedy  in  the  novel 
which  I  am  writing.  I  went  to  my  den  to  begin  my 
deed  of  blood.  I  took  up  my  pen ;  but  all  I  could 
get  it  to  say  was,  "  Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  pas- 
senjare."  I  fought  hard  for  an  hour,  but  it  was  use- 
less. My  head  kept  humming,  "  A  blue  trip-slip  for 
an  eight-cent  fare,  a  buff  trip-slip  for  a  six-cent 
fare,"  and  so  on  and  so  on,  without  peace  or  respite. 
The  day's  work  was  ruined ;  I  could  see  that  plainly 
enough.  I  gave  up,  and  drifted  down-town,  and 
presently  discovered  that  my  feet  were  keeping  time 
to  that  relentless  jingle.  When  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  I  altered  my  step.  But  it  did  no  good; 
those  rhymes  accommodated  themselves  to  the  new 
step,  and  went  on  harassing  me  just  as  before.  I 
returned  home,  and  suffered  all  the  aflemoon ;  suf- 
fered all  through  an  unconscious  and  unrefreshing 
dinner ;  suffered,  and  cried,  and  jingled  all  through 
the  evening ;  went  to  bed  and  rolled,  tossed,  and  jin- 
gled right  along,  the  same  as  ever;  got  up  at  mid- 
night, frantic,  and  tried  to  read;  but  there  was 
nothing  visible  upon  the  whirling  page  except 
"  Punch  I  punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare !" 
By  sunrise  I  was  out  of  my  mind,  and  everybody 
8 


d 


114  BEST   SBLECTinita 

iiiiirv'oled  and  was  diBtreseed  at  tbe  idiotic  burden  of 
my  mvinga:  "  Piiuuh !  Oh!  puricti!  [mnpli  in  the 
linsoncu  of  the  paasenjare!" 

Two  (layo  lutvr,  on  >jnturdny  morning,  I  arose,  a 
tutlL-ring  wreck,  aud  went  fortli  to  fiilfill  an  ongage- 

iiii  lit  with  a  valued  triend,  the  Rev.  Mr, ,  to 

iviilk  to  the  Taluott  Tower,  ti?n  milee  distant.  He 
stared  at  me,  l)ut  asked  no  qucHtiona.     We  started. 

Mr. talktd,  talked,  talked,  an  is  hia  wont.     I 

mid  nothing;  1  heard  nothing.  At  the  end  of  a 
milu,  Mr. said: 

■■  ^lark,  are  you  sick  ?  I  never  saw  a  mail  look  so 
hiiggard  and  worn  and  absent-minded.  Bay  some- 
thing; do!" 


NUHBEB  TWENTY-TBREB  115 

"  Oh  I  wake  up !  wake  up  1  wake  up !  Don't  sleep 
all  day  1  Here  we  are  at  the  Tower,  man !  I  have 
talked  mynelf  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  and  ne^'cr 
got  a  re»poiide.  Just  look  at  thi»  magnificent  autumn 
landscape!  Look  at  it!  look  at  it!  Feast  your  eyes 
on  it!  You  have  traveled;  you  have  seen  boasted 
landiicapea  elsewhere.  Come,  now,  deliver  an  honest 
opinion.     What  do  you  aay  to  this?" 

I  sighed  wearily,  and  murmured : 

"  'A  bufi'  trip-slip  for  a  six-cent  fare,  a  pink  trip-slip 
for  a  three-cent  fare,  punch  in  the  presence  of  the 
passenjare.' " 

Rev.  Mr. stood  there,  very  grave,  full  of  con- 
cern apparently,  and  looked  long  at  me;  then  h( 
said: 

*'  Mark,  there  is  something  about  this  that  I  can- 
not understood.  Those  are  about  the  same  words 
you  said  before.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  any- 
thing in  them,  and  yet  they  nearly  break  my  heart 
when  you  say  them.  Punch  in  the — how  is  it  they 
go?" 

I  began  at  the  beginning  and  repeated  all  the 
lines.  My  friend's  face  lighted  with  interest.  He 
said: 

"  Why,  what  a  captivating  jingle  it  is  1  It  is 
almost  music,  it  Hows  along  so  nicely.  I  have  nearly 
caught  the  rhymes  myself.  Say  them  over  just  once 
more,  and  then  111  have  them,  sure." 

I  said  them  over.     Then  Mr. said  them.     He 

made  one  little  mistake,  which  I  corrected.  The 
next  time,  and  the  next,  he  got  them  right.     Now  a 


116  BEST  SELECTIONS 

great  burden  Heeraed  to  tumhle  from  my  shoulders 
Tliat  torturing  jingle  departed  out  of  my  brain,  and 
a  (iratefu!  aense  of  rest  and  peivce  d<M«cndcd  upon 
iiiL'.  I  waa  Light-hearted  enough  to  Hint;;  and  I  did 
sill);  for  half  an  liour  straight  along,  ae  wv  went  jog- 
ging homeward.  Th«rt  my  frewl  tongue  found 
hlenaed  speech  again,  and  the  peut-up  talk  of  many 
a  weary  hour  began  U>  guali  iinil  flow.  It  Howod  on 
ami  on,  joyously,  jubilantly,  until  the  fountain  was 
eni|ity  and  dry,  Aa  I  wrung  my  frieud'a  hand  at 
parting,  I  said : 

'■  Haven't  we  had  a  royal  good  time  I  But  now  I 
remember,  you  haven't  Bai<l  a  word  for  two  hours. 
Ctiine,  come,  out  with  Homctliing!" 


HUHBER  TWBNTT-THBEB  117 

had  a  sudden  call  by  telegraph,  and  took  the  night 
train  for  Boaton.  The  occasion  waa  the  death  of  a 
valued  old  friend,  who  had  requested  that  I  should 
preach  his  funeral  sermon,  I  took  my  seat  in  the 
cars,  and  set  myself  to  framing  the  discourse.  But  I 
nevpr  got  beyond  the  opening  part^raph ;  for  then 
the  cars  began  their '  clack-clack-clack  t  clack-clack' 
clack !'  and  right  away  those  odious  rhymes  fitted 
themselves  to  that  accompaniment.  For  an  hour  I 
sat  there,  and  set  a  syllable  of  those  rhymes  to  every 
aeparateand  distinct  clack  the  car-wheela  made.  Why, 
I  waa  as  faf^ged  out  then  as  if  I  had  been  chopping 
wood  all  day.  My  skull  was  splitting  with  headache. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  go  mad  if  I  sat  there 
any  longer;  so  I  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  I 
stretched  myself  out  in  my  berth,  and — well,  you 
know  what  the  result  was.  The  thing  went  right 
along,  juttt  the  same.  '  Clack-clack-clack,  a  blue  trip- 
slip,  clack-clack-clack,  for  an  eight-cent  fare ;  clack- 
clack-clack,  a  buff  trip-slip,  clack-clack-clack,  for  a 
six-cent  (are — and  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  bo  on — 
punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjarel'  Sleep? 
Not  a  single  wink !  I  was  almost  a  lunatic  when  I 
got  to  Boston.  Don't  ask  roe  about  the  funeral.  I 
did  the  best  I  could;  but  every  solemn  individual 
sentence  was  meshed  and  tangled  and  woven  in  and 
out  with  '  Punch,  brother  I  punch  with  care  I  punch 
in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare — a  buff  trip-slip  for 
a  six-cent  fare,  a  pink  trip-slip  for  a  three-cent 
fiire — ' " 
Then,  murmuring  faint  and  &inter,  he  sank  into  a 


118  BI»T  SELECTIONS 

peacefiil  trance,  and  forgot  Ins  sufferings  in  a  blesset] 
re.-liite. 

ll»w  did  I  finally  save  him  from  the  asylum?  I 
toLik  him  to  a  neighboring  university,  and  made  him 
(iHiliargo  the  burden  of  his  peraecuting  rhymes  into 
till.'  va^r  van  of  tliu  poor,  unthinking  atudeut«. 
ilniv  ia  it  with  them,  now?  The  result  is  too  aiul  to 
tell.  Why  did  I  write  this  article?  It  was  for  a 
wiirthy,  even  a  noble,  purpose.  It  was  to  warn  you, 
riMiiur,  if  you  should  oome  across  those  mercileaa 
rljymes,  to  avoid  Uiom — avoid  them  aa  you  would  a 
lit'.stileucel 

Mask  Twjom. 


NDU8ER   TWENTY-THREE  111 

That  dazed  men  with  ita  melody — ■ 
Oh !  such  a  lund,  with  such  a  sea 
Kissing  its  shores  eternally, 
la  the  fair  Used-to-be. 

A  land  where  music  ever  girds 

The  air  with  belts  of  singing  birdH, 

And  BOWS  all  sounds  with  auch  sweet  words, 

That  even  in  the  low  of  herds 

A  meaning  lives  so  sweet  to  iiie, 
Lost  laughter  ri}iples  limpidly 
From  lips  brimmed  o'er  with  the  glee 
Of  rare  old  Used-to-be. 

Lost  laughter,  and  the  whistled  tunes 
Of  boyhood's  mouth  of  crescent  runes 
That  rounded,  through  long  afternoons, 
To  serenading  pleniluncs, 

When  starlight  fell  so  mistily 
That,  peering  up  from  bended  knee, 
I  dreamed  'twas  bridal  drapery 
Snowed  over  Used-to-be. 

0  land  of  love  and  dreamy  thoughts, 
And  shining  fields,  and  shady  spots 
Of  coolest,  greenest  grassy  plots, 
Embossed  with  wild  forget-me-nots, 

And  all  ye  blooms  that  longingly 
Lift  your  fair  faces  up  to  me 
Out  of  the  past,  I  kiss  in  thee 
The  lips  of  Used-to-be, 

James  WBitcxata  Rilet. 


^^^^^^3 

120 

BEST  EKLECTIUMS                               ^^^^H 

OWEN  MOORE.                   ^^^H 

rVWEN  MOORE  went  away 

\J    Owin'  more  than  liu  fiml.i  pay; 

Owon  Moore  cainc  liack  to  stay — 

Owin'  more. 

THE  NATION'S  DEFENDERS. 

ODE    FOB  JULY  4, 

From- 

^- """"■""■- 

innCBER   TWENTY-THKEI  121 

Who  knelt  by  the  Charles  and  our  Ilion  founded 

On  Uic  hills  where  their  laces  were  lifted  to  God  1 
Sing,  sing  them,  tlieae  heroes  of  history  glorious, 

Who  cauglit  the  free  spirit  of  Cromwell  and  Vane, 
And  oAoi  the  foes  of  their  empire  victorious, 
Throned  Liberty  Monarch— awake  the  glad  atrain 
To  the  valor  of  old. 
To  the  flag  we  behold, 
And  the  twice  twenty  stars  that  our  banners  unfold  I 

Defenders  of  Might  to  King  George's  towns  loyal, 
When  o'er  them  the  Red  Cross  of  Albion  blew; 
Defenders  of  Right,  in  humanity  royal. 

Beneath  the  white  stars  of  the  century  new. 
They  stood  as  one  man  when  the  Red  Crosa  was  o'er 

them, 
They  stood  as  one  man  'neath  the  new  flag  ^ain ; 
The  years  glowed  behind  them,  the  years  glowed 
before  them. 
And  shall  glow  forever — awake  the  glad  strain 
To  the  valor  of  old, 
To  the  flag  we  behold, 
And  the  twice  twenty  stars  that  our  banners  unfold  1 

Sing,  sing  them  who  fell  by  each  palm-shaded  river, 
The  Union  to  save  and  the  bondmen  to  free  1 

The  mocking-bird  sings  hy  their  graves,  and  forever 
When  valor  awakes  they  remembered  shall  be. 

Their  deeds  thrill  our  lives,  their  examples  the  ages, 
And  shadowlese  ever  their  fame  shall  remain; 


laa  BEST  SELECTIONS 

The  white  marbles  bloom  for  their  sakeB,  and  tha 

pages 

Of  history  gladden  with  hope — wake  the  strain 

To  the  valor  of  old, 

To  the  flag  we  behold, 

And  the  twice  twenty  stars  that  our  banners  unfold  I 

Tluii  sing  ye  the  song  of  the  nation's  defenders, 
Tlie  wild   roaes  bloom  and   the  Western   winds 
Itlow, 

The  natid  day  hail  that  to  memory  renders 
The  debt  that  to  Liberty's  martyis  We  owel 

III  Kpirit  they  come  wlien  the  bugles  are  blowing 
The  sweet  notes  of  peace  on  our  festival  days ; 


KUHBER  'TWENTT-THREE  12S 

anawer  for  him,  and  say  in  the  dark,  gray  city.  Oh  I 
they  do  greatly  err  who  think  that  the  Btare  are  all 
the  poetry  which  cities  have ;  and,  therefore,  that  the 
}ioet'9  only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes, 
under  the  green  roofe  of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt, 
are  all  the  forms  of  Nature,  when  transfigured  by  the 
miraculous  power  of  poetry ;  hamlets  and  harvests 
fields,  and  nut-brown  waters  flowing  ever  under  the 
forest  va^t  and  shadowy,  with  all  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  rural  life.  But,  after  all,  what  are  these 
but  the  decorations  and  painted  scenery  in  the  great 
theatre  of  human  life?  What  are  they  but  the 
coarae  materials  of  the  poet's  song?  Glorious,  in- 
deed, is  the  world  of  God  around  us,  but  more  glo- 
rious the  world  of  God  within  us.  There  lies  the 
land  of  song ;  there  lies  the  poet's  native  land.  The 
river  of  life,  that  flows  through  streets  tumultuous, 
bearing  along  so  many  gallant  hearts,  so  many 
wrecks  of  humanity ;  the  many  homes  and  house- 
hotda,  each  a  little  world  in  itaelf ;  revolving  round 
its  fireside,  as  a  central  sun ;  all  forms  of  human  joy 
and  suffering,  brought  into  that  narrow  compass,  and 
to  be  in  this  and  to  be  a  part  of  this  :  acting,  think- 
ing, rejoicing,  sorrowing  with  hia  fellow-nien — auch, 
such  sliould  be  the  poet's  life.  If  he  would  describe 
the  world,  he  should  live  in  the  world.  The  mind  of 
the  scholar,  also,  if  you  would  have  it  large  and  lib- 
eral, should  come  in  contact  with  other  minds.  It 
is  better  that  this  armor  should  he  somewhat  bruised 
even  by  rude  encounters  than  hang  forever  rusting 
on  the  wall.     Nor  will  his  themee  be  few  or  trivial 


124 


BEST  SELECT10HB 


tecause  apparently  shut  in   between  the  waltfl  of 

iiousea  ftud  havioK  merely  the  decorations  of  street 
Kronery.  A  riiinwl  cliarBt:t«r  is  m  pictureii<iiie  as  a 
ruined  caetle.  There  are  dark  abyMm  and  yawoiog 
f-'iiife  in  the  huiuun  hciart  which  can  ti«  rcn- 
(iered  paasablc  only  by  bridjiing  tlicm  over  with  iron 
nerves  and  emews,  as  island  channeb  and  torn-nt 
ravines  aro  spanned  with  chain  bridges.  Thcst?  are 
t!ie  great  themes  of  human  thought ;  not  gre«n  iirnsa 
and  flowers  and  moonahine.  Besides,  the  mere  ex- 
lumal  forms  of  Nature  wo  make  our  own,  and  carry 
with  US  into  the  city  by  the  power  of  memory, 

HjiNMY  W.  LUNOFXLLOW. 


NUHBEIt  TWENTY-THREE  125 

She  Spoke  no  word,  but  she  picked  a  speck 

Of  Just  from  hia  coat  lapel; 
So  small,  such  a  wee,  little,  tiny  fleck, 

Twas  a  wonder  she  saw  so  well ; 

But  it  brought  her  face  so  very  near, 

In  that  dim  uncertain  light. 
That  the  thought,  unspoken,  was  made  quite  clear, 

And  I  know  'twaa  a  sweet "  Good-niglit." 

James  Clarence  Harvey. 


TRUE  ELOQUENCE. 


WHEN  public  bodies  arc  to  be  addressed  on  mi>- 
mentous  occnaions;  when  great  interests  are 
at  stake,  anil  strong  {tassions  excited;  nothing  is 
valuable,  in  speech,  farther  than  it  is  connected  with 
high  intellet^tual  and  moial  endowments.  Clearness, 
force,  and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which  pro- 
duce conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed,  docs  not 
consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from  afar. 
Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil 
in  vain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshalled  in 
every  way,  but  they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must 
exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject,  and  in  the  occasion. 
Affected  passion,  intense  expression,  the  pomp  of 
declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  it — they  cannot 
reach  it  It  comes,  if  it  comes  at  all,  like  the  out- 
breaking of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  burst- 
ing forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original. 


126  BEST  SELECTIONS  ^^H 

native  force.  Tlie  grat^es  taught  in  tlio  schools,  lh< 
coaily  iirniimtmlA  mid  atmlieiJ  i-onlrivancii!)  uf  apcoch, 
i^liock  and  ilisKUiift  men,  wlieji  their  own  lives,  and  the 
liile  of  ihtfir  wii-(,i»,  tiieir  i-liildren,  and  their  country, 
hang  on  the  dccinion  of  tlie  Iiuur.  Ilicii,  wnrdti  litive 
!oat  ihcir  powor,  rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elaborate 
oratory  contemptible.  Even  geniuit  it«elf  then  fetli- 
rebuked  and  subdued,  6e  in  the  preaence  of  higher 
qualiti(w.  Then  patriotiain  is  elmiuuit;  then,  wjlf- 
devotion  ia  eloquent  TJio  clear  con(;i;i)tioii,  out- 
running the  deductions  of  logic,  the  liigh  purpitse, 
the  finn  rsfiolvc,  the  dauntleaa  sjnrit,  8|ieAlciiig  on  the 
tongue,  beaming  from  the  eye,  infonninj;  vvviv 
f'-ature,  and  urging  the  whole   man   onward,  right 


NOUBER  TWENTY-THREE  127 

Mark'd  it  a  predestined  hour. 
BroLO  and  trequent  through  the  nighty 
Flash'd  the  sheets  of  levin-light; 
Muskets,  glancing  lightnings  back, 
Show'd  the  dreary  bivouack 

Where  the  soldier  lay, 
Chill  and  stiff,  and  drench'd  with  rain, 
Wishing  dawn  of  mom  again, 

Thougti  death  should  come  with  day. 
Tis  at  such  a  tide  and  hour. 
Wizard,  witcli,  and  fiend,  have  power. 
And  ghastly  forms  through  mist  and  shower 

Gleam  on  the  gifted  ken ; 
And  then  th'  affrighted  prophet's  ear 
Drinks  whispers  strange  of  fate  and  fear 
Presaging  death  and  ruin  near 

Among  the  sons  of  men ; — 
Apart  from  Albyn's  war-array 
Twas  there  gray  Allan  sleepless  lay ; 
Gray  Allan,  who,  for  many  a  day. 

Had  follow'd  stout  and  stern, 
Where,  tlirouKh  battle's  rout  and  reel, 
Storm  of  shot  and  hedge  of  steel, 
Led  the  grantison  of  T-ochiel, 

Valiant  Faaaiefem. 
Through  :jteel  and  shot  he  leads  no  more, 
Low  laid  'mid  friend's  and  foeman's  gore-- 
But  loni^  his  native  lake's  wild  shore, 
And  Sunart  rough,  and  high  Ardgower, 

And  Morven  long  shall  tell, 
And  proud  Ben  Nevis  hear  with  aw^ 


[28  BEST   SULKCnOSS 

How,  upon  blooily  Qiitttre-Braa. 
Brave  Cameron  hoiirrl  Ihu  wild  hurrab 
Oi  wiiqitvHt  (IS  lie  Ml. 


'Lone  on  tlio  imlskirtn  of  Uks  host, 

The  weary  Hentinol  held  post, 

Ami  huuril,  throiiijli  dnrkinww  fur  aXoat 

Thu  freijuent  clans  ol"  coumor'rt  hoof, 

Whertr  huli!  the  dimk'd  palni]  Uii-'ir  coarse. 

Ami  Bpurr'd  'gainst  storni  thf  swiTving  home ; 

IJut  tliere  are  soimdtj  in  Alliuk'a  ear. 

Patrol  nor  eentinel  may  hear. 

And  fiightd  liefore  hia  eye  o^liast 

Invisible  to  them  have  pajw'd. 


BDHBER  TWEilTY-TKREE 


Wheel  the  wild  dance  while  lightnings  glance, 
And  thundtirs  rattle  loud,  and  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave,  to  sleep  without  a  ahroud. 

Our  airy  feet  so  light  and  fleet, 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye  that  sinks  its  head  when 

whirlwinds  rave, 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave,  as  each  wild  gust 

blows  by ; 
But  still  the  com,  at  dawn  of  mom, 
Our  fatal  steps  that  bore,  at  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste  of  blackening  mud  and  gore; 

Wheel  the  wild  dance  I  brave  sons  of  France, 
For  you  our  ring  makee  room ;  make  space  full  wide 
For  martial  pride,  for  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near,  proud  cuirassier! 
Room  for  the  men  of  steel !    through  crest  and  plat6 
The  broadsword's  weight,  both  head  and  heart  shall 
feel. 

Sons  of  the  spear  I  you  feel  ua  near 

In  many  a  ghastly  dream ;  with  fancy's  eye 

Our  forms  you  spy,  and  hear  our  fatal  scream. 

With  clearer  sight  ere  falls  the  night. 

Just  when  to  weal  or  woe  your  disembodied  souls 

take  flight 
On  trembling  wing— each  startled  sprite  our  choir  ol 

deatli  shall  know. 
-    9 


130  BEST  BELECTIONS 

Burst,  ye  cloads,  in   tempest  showers,  redder  rais  j 

shall  soon  be  ours — 
Hee  the  euat  grows  wao — yield  we  pluce  to  Htemei  i 

game. 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  direr  flame  shall  the  welkii 

th undent  ahame ; 
Elemental  rage  is  lame  to  tiie  wrath  of  num. 
Wheel  the  wild  danire  wliilu  lightnings  glance, 
And  thunders  mttio  loud,  and  call  the  bruTO 
Tu  bloody  grave,  1m  sleej)  without  a  shroud. 


At  mom,  gray  Allan's  mates  with  aws 
Heard  of  the  vision'd  nights  he  aaw, 

The  legend  heard  liiin  say ; 
But  the  seer's  liifted  eve  was  dim 


NTTUBBR  TWENTY-THRRB  131 

elevated,  or  d^^aded,  by  its  operation  ?  What  is  our 
condition,  under  its  influence,  at  the  very  moment 
when  some  talk  of  arresting  its  power  and  breaking 
its  unity?  Dc  we  not  feel  ourselves  on  an  enriinence? 
Do  we  not  challenge  the  resjieot  of  the  whole  world  ? 
What  has  placed  us  thus  high '?  What  has  given  us  this 
just  pride  ?  What  else  is  it,  but  the  unrestrained  and 
free  operation  of  that  same  Federal  Constitution,  which 
it  has  been  proposed  now  to  hamper  and  manafile 
and  nullify?  Who  is  there  among  us,  that,  should 
he  find  himself  on  any  spot  of  the  earth  where  human 
beings  exist,  and  where  the  existence  of  other  nations 
is  known,  would  not  be  proud  to  say,  1  am  an  Ameri- 
can? I  am  a  countryman  of  Washington?  I  am  a 
citizen  of  that  Republic,  which,  although  it  has  sud- 
denly sprung  up,  yet  there  are  none  on  the  globe  who 
have  ears  to  hear,  and  have  not  heard  of  it ;  who  have 
eyea  to  see,  and  have  not  read  of  it ;  who  know  any- 
thing, and  yet  do  not  know  of  ita  existence  and  its 
glory?  And,  gentlemen,  let  me  now  reverse  the  pic- 
ture. Let  me  ask,  who  is  there  among  us,  if  he  were 
to  be  found  to-morrow  in  one  of  the  civilized  countries 
of  Europe,  and  were  there  to  learn  that  this  goodly 
fonn  of  government  had  been  overthrown — that  the 
United  States  were  no  longer  united — that  a  death' 
blow  had  been  struck  upon  their  bond  of  union— 
that  they  themselves  had  destroyed  their  chief  good 
and  their  chief  honor— who  is  there,  who^e  heart 
would  not  sink  within  him  ?  Who  is  there,  who 
would  not  cover  hia  face  for  very  shame  ? 

At  this  very  moment,  gentlemen,  our  country  is  a 
general  refuge  for  the  distressed  and  the  persecuted  of 


ISa  BEAT  smjamosB 

ii  111  or  nations.  Whoever  ia  in  afflictinn  from  political 
ijccurroiicea  in  hie  own  counlry  loofcjs  liero  for  sikeltee 
WhtitliiTlie  ha  a  roiml'licati.iljtiiigfrotn  tiioopprfu^sJoOT 
i>f  throncs^r  whether  ho  l>o  monarch  or  monarchist, 
tlying  from  thrones  tliut  r^ruinlvle  and  fall  tindvroc 
iiround  him — he  feels  equal  assurance  that  if  he  get, 
J'oDthoU  on  our  soil,  his  person  is  safii,  anil  his  rights 
will  be  respected. 

And  who  will  venture  to  »ay  that  in  any  govern* 
ment  now  existing  in  the  world,  there  is  greater 
security  for  persons  or  property  than  in  that  of  llis 
United  States?  We  have  tried  these  popular  insti- 
tutions in  times  of  great  excitement  and  coininotion; 
and  Uiey  have  stood  substantially  firm  and  steatiy, 


NUHBEB  TWENTY-^THBEE  IZi 

THE  MAIDEN  HUSKING  CORN. 


"  "VTOW  show  aoniething  not  so  grand, 
■i-*     Some  pleasant  rural  scene ; 
Some  breezy  piiatime,  akel^hed  off-hand. 

Dashed  in  with  green  and  gold. 
For  I  have  seen  Madonnas  smile, 

And  winged  cherubim. 
One  must  desire  to  be  in  style. 

Until  my  eyes  are  dim. 
Ah  I  here  ia  something  pleases  me, 

A  clear-hued  country  morn, 
A  brook  that  lisps,  an  aspen  tree, 

A  maiden  busking  com." 

AriiaL 
**  I  like  that  too ;  it  brings  to  mind 

A  hunting  season  West, 
Some  twenty  busy  years  behind 

When  fortune  was  unguessed. 
I  had  a  silver  fowling-piece, 

A  Jaunty  hunting-dress. 
They  did  small  damage  to  the  geese, 

The  pigeons  suffered  less ; 
But  heart  and  hope  were  on  the  toai, 

And  trouble  was  unborn ; 
And  in  my  strolls  I  came  acroas 

This  maiden  husking  com. 


HKBT  SBLECTIOtia 

"  She  was  an  airy,  wild-bird  thin^ 

Suiibrowned  *"rorii  loji  tii  loe, 
As  swift  as  swallow  on  the  wing, 

Aa  timid  as  the  rue ; 
I  wheedled  her  to  come  and  ait 

Awhile  upon  my  knee ; 
I  kissed  the  dunky,  barefoot  hit, 

She  told  her  grief  to  me. 
They  scolded  her  because  she  screameii 

Because  her  frock  was  torn, 
Because  she  dallied  and  she  dreamed 

When  she  was  husking  com. 

"Her  sorrows  were  bo  very  black 


I 


RDUBBR  TWEMTY-THBEB  IS 

A  child  was  there,  a  gypsy  elf; 

She  met  a  brave  huntsman 
Long,  long  i^o,  who  called  himself 

Prince  Camaralzaman, 
Of  course,  'tis  all  a  freak  of  chance, 

Like  tales,  you  will  be  sworn ; 
But,  as  it  pleases  you,  I  was  once 

A  maiden  husking  com," 

Artist. 
"  Your  portrait,  quick ;  it  ia  the  truth ; 
Yea,  now,  I  see  it  plain. 
You  are  but  little  changed,  in  sooth, 

By  gema  and  velvet  train. 
The  same  deep  eyes,  yet  not  the  same; 

Ah  !  well  a-day,  for  aye. 
If  wishes  came  for  wealth  and  fame 

Where  would  we  be  to-day? 
Far  on  a  Western  grange,  I  wis. 

All  in  a  clear-hued  mom. 
And  you  would  hlush  and  I  would  kiss 
The  maiden  husking  corn. 

J.  H.  Blow. 


GOD  SAVE  OUR  NATIVE  LAND. 

G1 OD  save  our  native  land, 
r     And  make  her  strong  to  stand 
For  truth  and  right 
Ltmg  may  her  banner  wsTC^ 


BEST  SELECriOKS 

Fliig  of  the  freo  and  bravel 

Thou  whu  alone  i^aiist  sai'o^ 

Oraiit  her  Thy  might. 

Erc-r  from  buu  to  sea 
May  law  and  liberty 

O'er  all  pruviiil. 
Where'er  tlie  rivers  flow, 
Whfsrc'cr  the  bnunem  Mow, 
May  love  oiid  justice  gro*, 
Aad  uever  fail 


In  living  unity 

May  all  her  iioople  bo 


NUKBER  TWBNTY-THBEK  187 

SAUNDERS  McGLASHAN'S  COURTSHIP. 

SAUNDERS  McGLASHAN  was  a  hand-loom 
weaver  in  a  rural  part  of  Scotland  many  years 
ago.  Like  many  another  Scotchman,  he  waa  strongly 
impressed  with  the  desire  to  own  tlie  house  he  lived 
in.  He  bought  it  before  he  had  saved  money  enough 
to  pay  for  it,  and  he  toiled  day  and  night  to  clear 
the  debt,  but  died  in  the  struggle.  When  he  was 
dying  he  caUed  his  son  to  his  bedside  and  said: 
"  Saunders,  ye're  the  eldest  son,  and  ye  maun  be  a 
faither  to  the  ither  Itaims ;  eee  that  they  learn  to  read 
their  Bibles  and  to  write  their  names,  and  be  gude  to 
your  mother;  and,  Saunders,  promise  me  that  ye'U 
eee  that  the  debt  is  paid."  The  son  promised,  and 
the  father  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  auld  kirkyard. 
Years  passed ;  the  bairns  were  a'  married  and  awa', 
and  Saunders  was  left  alone  with  his  mother.  She 
grew  frail  and  old,  and  he  nursed  her  with  tender, 
conscious  care.  On  the  evening  of  the  longest  sum- 
mer day  she  lay  dying.  Saunders  sat  at  her  bedside, 
and  they  opened  tbeir  hearts  to  each  other  on  the 
grandest  themes.  Stretching  her  thin  hand  out  of  the 
bed-clothes,  she  laid  it  on  his  head,  now  turning  gray, 
and  said :  "  Saunders,  ye'vc  been  a  gude  laddie,  and 
I'm  gaun  to  leave  ye.  I  Vdess  ye,  and  Heaven  will 
bless  ye;  for  ye  have  dune  Heaven's  biddin',  and 
lionored  your  faither  and  m ither.  I'll  see  your  faither 
the  morn,  and  I'll  tell  him  that  the  bairns  are  a'  weei, 
aad  that  the  debt  was  paid  lang  or  I  left  the  earth." 


138  BEST  SELECnONB 

Sill'  ilied,  and  he  laid  her  in  the  kirkyard  beside  hit 
liiiher,  and  returned  to  the  house  he  was  bom  in — 
:il'K:e.  He  aat  down  in  his  father's  chair,  crowned 
witli  a  priceless  crown  of  deserved  blessing,  but  there 
wn  no  voice  to  welcome  him.  "  What'U  I  dae,"  he 
-niil.  "  I  think  I'll  juBt  keep  the  hoose  mysel',"  This 
\v;is  eaaily  done,  for  he  lived  ver}'  simply — parritch 
or  hroM  to  breakfast,  tatties  and  herrin'  to  dinner, 
aii'l  brose  or  parritch  again  to  supper.  But  when 
uinter  sot  in  his  trials  began.  One  dark  morning  he 
awuke  and  said :  "  What  needs  I  He  gantJn'  here ;  I'll 
rl-i.-  and  get  a  licht."  So  he  got  his  flint  and  steel 
iuul  tinder-box,  and  set  to  work,.  Nowadays  we  strike 
a  ]iiatcb  and  have  a  light,  but  Saunders  had  no  such 
I  the-  Hint  an<lstful 


NUMBER   'nVENTY-THREE  139 

best  dress  should  go  on  ;  and  looking  in  the  glass  he 
said :  "  I  cannii  gang  to  see  the  laasies  wi'  a  beard  like 
that"  The  shaving  done,  he  rubbed  his  chin,  say- 
ing with  great  simplicity,  "  I  think  that  should  dae 
for  the  lassies  noo."  Then  he  tiiniod  and  admired 
himself  in  the  glass,  for  vanity  is  the  lost  thing  that 
dies,  even  in  man.  "  Ye're  no  a  ^ery  ill-looking  man 
after  a',  Saunders ;  but  it's  a'  very  weel  bein'  guid- 
lookin'  and  wee!-<lreat,  hut  whatna  woman  am  I  gaun 
to  seek  for  my  wife  ?" 

He  got  at  length  a  paper  and  pencil  and  wrote 
down  with  reat  deliberation  six  female  names  in 
lai^e  half-text,  carefully  dotting  all  the  "  i's  "  and 
stroking  all  the  "  t's,"  and  surveyed  the  list  as 
follows:  "That's  a'  the  women  I  mind  about 
There's  no  great  choice  among  them ;  let  me  see," 
putting  on  his  spectacles,  "  it's  no  wise-like  gaun 
courtin'  when  a  body  needs  to  wear  specs.  Several 
o'  them  I've  never  spoken  till,  but  I  suppose  that's 
of  no  consequence  in  this  case.  There's  Mary  Young ; 
she's  not  very  young  at  ony  rate.  Elspeth  McFar- 
lane;  but  she's  blind  o' the  richt  e'o,  and  it's  not 
necessary  that  Saunders  McGlashan  should  marry  an 
imperfect  woman.  Kirsty  Forsylh ;  she's  been  mar- 
ried twice  already,  an'  surely  twa  men's  enough  for 
ony  woman.  Mary  Morrison,  a  bonnie  woman ;  but 
she's  gotten  a  confounded  lang  tongue,  an'  they  say 
tlie  hair  upon  her  heid's  no  her  ain  hair,  I'm  certain 
it's  her  ain  tongue  at  ony  rate!  Jeannie  Millar,  wi' 
plenty  o'  siller — not  to  be  despised.  Janet  Hender- 
Hon,  wi'  plenty  g'  love.     I  ken  that  she  has  a  gude 


HO  BEST   SKLECTIOXB 

heart,  for  she  was  kind  to  her  mither  lang  betlGi^l 
Ni"»  which  o'thae  eix  will  I  go  to  first?  1  think  tho 
lirst  fgur  can  bide  a  wee, but  the  laat  twa— siller  antl 
h»vu  1 — love  and  siller !  Eh,  wadoa  it  be  grund  if  » 
jicrson  could  get  them  baithi  but  that's  no  allowt.-*)  in 
tho  Christian  dixpenaalioii.  The  putriurclm  had  niair 
liberty.  Abraham  wud  just  hao  ta'en  them  liaith  ; 
but  I'm  no'  Abraham.  They  say  BilUtr';!  the  jjod  o' 
tho  warld.  I  never  had  any  more  use  for  aiiler  thiin 
to  buy  meat  and  claw,  t")  put  a  penny  in  tho  plate 
on  Sabbath,  and  gie  a  bawbee  to  a  blind  fiddler.  But 
they  say  Heaven's  love  and  love's  Heavwi,  an'  if  I 
bring  Janet  Henderson  tct  my  fireside,  and  she  s\l»  ut 
that  side  darnin'  stockin'  and  I  sit  at  thi»  side  readin' 
itftcr  my  day's  wark,  iin'  I  Iftut^h  ower  to  hfr  anif  .shi- 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  141 

her  first  offer  was  so  near,  was  sitting  spinning,  sigh- 
ing and  saying :  "  Eh !  preserve  me !  It's  a  weary 
warld !  I've  been  thirty  years  auld  for  the  last  ten 
years  (sings) : 


« ( 


Naebody  comin'  tae  marry  me, 

Naebody  comin'  tae  woo  I 
Naebody  comin'  tae  marry  me, 

Naebody  comin*  tae  woo.'  " 

The  door  opened,  and  there  stood  Saunders  Mc- 
Glashan. 

"  Eh !  preserve  me,  Saunders,  is  that  you  ?  A  sicht 
o'  you's  guid  for  sair  een !  Come  awa'  into  the  fire. 
What's  up  wi'  ye  the  day,  Saunders  ?  Ye're  awfu' 
weel  lickit  up,  ye  are.  I  never  saw  you  lookin'  sae 
handsome.     What  is't  yeVe  after  !•' 

"  I'm  gaun  aboot  seeking  a  wife !" 

"  Eh !  Saunders,  if  that's  what  ye  want,  ye  needna 
want  that  very  lang,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  But  ye  dinna  seem  to  understand  me ;  it's  you  I 
want  for  my  wife." 

"Saunders  McGlashan!  think  shame  o'  yersel', 
makin'  a  fool  o'  a  young  person  in  that  manner." 

"  I'm  makin'  nae  fool  o'  ye,  Janet.  This  very  day 
I'm  determined  to  hae  a  wife.  You  are  the  first  that 
I've  spoken  till.  I  houp  there's  nae  offense,  Janet, 
I  meant  nae  offense.  Eh  !  oh !  very  weel,  if  that's  the 
way  o't,  it  canna  be  helped,"  and,  slowly  unfolding 
the  paper  which  he  had  taken  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  "  I  have  several  other  women's  names  markit 
down  here  tae  ca'  upon.'' 


U2 


BEST  KKLKirrrosa 


She  saw  the  nmii  meiiiit  l)iiain#ss,  stopped  Tier 
!<li!niiing,  Irtoketl  down,  waa  long  lost  in  thoui:)i[, 
raised  her  lituul,  und  Imtke  tli«  silence  as  folUm-s; 
■■  Sauiidere  (ahem)  McGIashan  (ulicni),  I've  Kiveii 
your  serious  olTyf  great  wllettioii  j  I've  aiu>k<;ii  to 
iiiy  heait,  and  the  answer's  como  back  to  my  ton^e. 
I  .-^orry  tae  hurt  your  fuelin's,  Soundern  ;  Inil  what 
Ihn  heart  »peaketh  the  tonpue  reimuteth.  A  ln>tly 
iii^iun  aut  ill  tlmu  nmtterH  urcurdiiig  to  thoir  cun* 
pcience,  for  they  maun  ^ie  an  acc-ount  at  the  luiit. 
Sn  r  lliink,  Saundcre— I  think  I'll  just— 111  jUBt  "— 
ciivering  her  face  witli  Iter  apron — "I'll  ju«t  tuk' 
y:.    Eh!  Saunderi!,  guc  'wa'  wi'ycl  gae  'wa'I   gao 

But  the  maiden  did  not  require  to  reaist,  tc 


NUMBKR   TWENTY-THREE  14-1 

be  your  wife,  Saunders,  I'm  determined  to  hae  my 
dues  o'  courtship  a'  the  sauie." 

She  lit  the  lamp  of  love  in  his  heart  at  la-it,  Foi 
the  first  time  in  his  long  life  he  felt  the  unmistak- 
able, holy,  heavenly  glow ;  his  heart  broke  into  a  lull 
storm  of  love,  and,  stooping  down,  he  took  her  yield- 
ing hand  in  his,  and  said : 

"  Yea,  I  wull ;  yes,  I  wull !  I'll  come  twice  every 
day,  ray  Jo !  my  Jo — Jaanet  I" 

Before  the  unhappy  man  knew  where  he  was  he 
had  kissed  the  maiden,  who  was  lont^  ex|>e<'tin<:  it. 
But  the  man  blushed  crimson,  feeling  guilty  of  a 
crime  which  he  thought  no  woman  coulil  forgive,  lor 
it  was  the  first  kiss  he  had  gotten  or  given  in  fifty  hmg 
Scottish,  kissless  years,  while  the  woman  stood  with 
a  look  of  supreme  satisfaction,  and  said  to  hhn : 

"  Eh !  Saunders  McGlashan,  isna  that  rale  r»- 
freshin'  ?" 


THE  CHICKADEBL 


"TITER 


ERE  it  not  for  me," 
Said  a  chickadee, 
"  Not  a  single  flower  on  earth  would  be, 
For  under  the  ground  they  soundly  sleep, 
And  never  venture  an  upward  peep 
Till  they  hear  from  me, 
Chickadee- dee-dee ! 

**  I  tell  Jack  Frost  when  'tis  time  to  go 
And  carry  away  his  ice  and  snow; 


BEST  BBLECTIONS 

Anil  then  I  hint  to  the  jolly  old  eun, 
'A  littltt  spring  work, air,  itliiiuld  )>c  done.* 
Ami  he  nniiles  aromtd 
On  the  frozwi  grouiKl, 
And  I  keep  up  my  cheery,  cheery  sound, 
Till  Echo  doclaros,  in  glw,  in  glee; 
'  'Tifl  he  1  'tis  he  I 
The  chiekadee-<leel' 


"And  then  I  waken  the  Ijiriln  of  spring — 
'Ho,  hoi  'tia  time  to  be  on  the  wing!' 
They  trill  and  twitter  ami  aoar  aloft, 
And  I  send  the  tviads  to  whisper  sofl, 
Down  by  the  little  flower  beda, 
Savins' :  '  Oonie.  show  vour  nri'ltv  heuila  I 


mni^U  TWSItTY-TBREB  14fi 

EARL  SIGURD'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Abridged. 

Pram  "  Idrl*  ot  NoTwa;,"  bj  pcimlulon  of  ChMlM  SeribUM'l  Son^ 

Ktyi  York. 

EARL  SIGURD,  be  rides  o'er  the  foam-creeted 
brine, 
And  he  beeds  not  the  billowy  brawl, 
Por  bs  yearns  to  bebold  gentle  Swanwhite,  tbe  maid, 
Wbo  abides  in  Sir  Burialav's  ball. 

"  Earl  Sigurd,  tbe  viking,  he  comes,  be  is  nearl 

Earl  Sigurd,  the  scourge  of  the  sea ; 
Among  tbe  wild  rovers  who  dwell  on  tbe  deep, 

There  is  none  that  is  dreaded  as  he. 

*'  Oh,  hie  ye,  ye  maidens,  and  hide  where  ye  can. 

Ere  the  clang  of  his  war-axe  ye  hear, 
For  the  wolf  of  the  woods  has  more  pity  than  he, 

And  his  heart  is  as  grim  as  his  spear." 

Thus  ran  tbe  dread  tidings  from  castle  to  hut, 
Through  tbe  length  of  Sir  Burislav's  land, 

As  they  spied  the  red  pennon  unfurled  to  the  breeze. 
And  tbe  galleys  that  steered  for  the  strand. 

But  with  mwiacing  blow,  looming  high  in  his  prow 

Stood  E^l  Sigurd,  and  fair  to  bebold 
Was  his  bright,  yellow  hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  air, 
'Keath  the  glittering  helmet  of  gold. 

****** 
10 


146  BEST  SEtECTIONB 

And  the  light  galleys  bore  the  fierce  crew  to  the  shore, 

And  naught  good  did  their  coming  forbode. 
And  a  wail  rose  on  high  to  the  Btorni-riven  sky 

Ae  to  Burialav'a  castle  they  atrode. 

Then  the  stoutrhvarted  tuea  of  Sir  Burislav's  traia 
To  the  gate-way  caiue  tliniuging  full  fsisl. 

And  the  battle-bliide  rang  with  a  tnurderoiis  clang, 
Borne  aloft  on  the  wings  of  the  blast. 

****** 

Then  came  Burialav  forth ;  to  the  men  of  the  North 

Thus  in  quivering  accents  spake  he: 
"  0,  ye  n-arriors,  name  me  the  ransom  ye  claim, 

Or  in  gold,  or  in  robes,  or  in  foe." 


HUHBBR  TWENTY-THBEB  147 

Bat  amain  in  their  path,  in  a  whirlwind  of  wrath 
Came  young  Harold,  Sir  Burislav's  son  ; 

With  a  great  voice  he  cried,  while  the  echoes  replied : 
"  Lo,  my  vengeance,  it  cometh  anon !" 

"  Hark  ye,  Norsemen,  hear  great  tidings :  Odin,  Thor, 
and  Frey  are  dead. 

And  white  Christ,  the  strong  and  gentle,  standeth 
peace-crowned  in  their  stead. 

Lo,  the  blood  stained  day  of  vengeance  to  the  an- 
cient night  is  hurled, 

And  the  dawn  of  Christ  is  beaming  blesBings  o'er  the 
new-born  world. 

"  See  the  Croas  in  splendor  gleaming  far  and  wide 
o'er  pine-clad  heath, 

While  the  flaming  blade  of  battle  slumbers  in  its 
golden  sheath. 

And  before  the  lowly  Saviour,  e'en  the  rider  of  the 
sea, 

Sigurd,  tamer  of  the  billow,  he  hath  bent  the  stub- 
born knee," 

Now  at  Yule-tide  sat  he  feasting  on  the  shore  of 
Drontheim  fiord, 

And  his  stalwart  swains  about  him  watched  the  bid- 
ding of  their  lord. 

Huge  his  strength  was,  but  his  visage,  it  was  mild 
and  fair  to  see ; 

Ne'er  old  Norway,  heroes'  mother,  bore  a  mightier 
son  than  he. 


148  BEST  SELWnOSS 

with  her  maids  sat  gentle  Swanwhite  'neath  a  roof 

of  gleaming  shields, 
As  the  rarer  lily  blosaoraa 'mid  the  green  herbs  of  the 

fields ; 
T«  and  fro  their  merry  words  flew  lightly  through 

the  torch-lit  room, 
Like  a  shuttle  deftly  skipping  through  the  mazes  of 

the  loom. 


A  11(1  the  scalds  with  nimble  fingers  o'er  the  sounding 

harp-strings  swept ; 
Nnw  the  strain  in  laughter  rippled,  now  with  hidden 

woe  it  wept, 
l-'ni-  they  sang  of  Time's  beginning,  ere  the  sun  the 


nuhbkr  twenty-three  149 

Thoa  ahalt  sit  next  to  my  high-seat*  e'en  though 

lowly  be  thy  birth, 
For  to-night  our  Lord,  the  Saviour,  came  a  stranger  to 

Hia  earth." 

Up  then  rose  the  gentle  Swauwhite,  and  her  eyes 

with  fear  grew  bright ; 
Down  the  dusky  hall  she  drifted,  as  a  ahadow  drifts 

by  night. 
"  If  my  lord  would  hold  me  worthy,"  low  she  spake, 

"  then  grant  me  leave 
To  abide  between  the  stranger  and  my  lord,  this 

Christmas  eve." 

"  Strange,  0  guest,  is  women's  counsel,  still  their  folly 

is  the  staff 
Upon  which  our  wisdom  leaneth,"  and  he  laughed  a 

burly  laugh ; 
Lifted  up  her  lissome  body  with  a  husband's  tender 

pride, 
Kissed  her  brow,  and  placed  her  gently  ui  the  high> 

seat  at  his  side. 

But  the  guest  stood  pale  and  quivered,  where  the  red 

flames  roofward  rose. 
And  he  clenched  the  brimming  goblet  in  his  fingers,  . 

fierce  and  close, 


•Tba  hlgb-aeat  (accent  on  flnt  lylUbte),  (ho  Icelandic  "huaeto,* 
the  Mai  reKrTed  for  (be  master  of  the  boiue.  It  waa  iltuMed  b 
lAlOdtoCf  tlMDWth  wali.fkcliiiMMib. 


150  BEST   SELECTIONS 

Then  he  spake :  "  All  hail,  Earl  Sigurd,  mightieat  of 

the  Norsemen,  hail ! 
I'-ro  I  name  to  thee  my  ti(iing«,  I  will  laste  thy  flesh 

and  ale," 


Quoth  the  raerry  Earl  with  fervor:  "Courteoua  is 
thy  speocli  and  free ; 

Wliile  thy  worn  sou!  thou  refreahest,  I  will  sing  a 
song  to  thee ; 

For  beneath  that  duakj'  garment  thou  mayst  hide  a 
hero's  heart, 

And  my  hand,  though  stiff,  hath  scarcely  yet  un- 
learned the  singer's  art." 


NUHBER  TWEUry-THREE  151 

Sang  of  gods  with  murder  Bated,  who  had  laid  the  lair 

earth  waste, 
Who  had  whetted  sworda  of  Noiaemen,  plunged  them 

into  Norsemen's  breast 

But  he  shook  a  shower  of  music,  rippling  from  the 
silver  strings, 

And  bright  visions  rose  of  angels  and  of  fair  and 
shining  things 

As  he  sang  of  heaven's  rejoicing  at  the  mild  and 
bloodless  reign 

Of  the  gentle  Christ  who  bringeth  peace  and  good- 
will unto  men  I 

But  the  guest  sat  dumb  and  hearkened,  stating  at 

the  brimming  bowl,  ' 

While  the  lay   with  mighty  wing-beats  swept  the 

darkness  of  hia  soul. 
For  the  Christ  who  worketh  wonders  as  of  old,  so 

e'en  to-day 
Sent  hia  angel  downward  ^ding  on  the  ladder  of 

the  lay. 

As  the  host  his  song  had  ended  witii  a  last  resound 
ing  twang. 

And  within  the  harp's  dumb  chambers  murmurous 
echoes  faintly  rang, 

Up  then  sprang  the  guest,  and  straightway  downward 
rolled  hia  garment  dun — 

There  stood  Harold,  the  avenger,  Burislav's  un- 
daunted soa 


152 


BEST   8ELKCTI0N8 


High  he  loomed  alKJve  the  fonstcrs  in  tho  torch-liglii 
dim  and  weird, 

From  hia  eyes  hot  tears  were  streaming,  sparkling  in 
hia  tawny  beard ; 

Sliliiing  in  his  aoii'bluc  mantle  stood  ho  'mid  that 
wondering  throng, 

And  each  maiden  thought  him  fairest,  and  oach  war- 
rior vowed  him  dtroiig. 


Swift  h*  bared  his  blade  of  ImtUe,  Hung  it  iiuivorinji 

on  the  board : 
"  Let  I"  he  cried,  "  I  Cftino  to  bid  ttiee  bftlefVil  groeting 

with  my  sword ; 
Tliiiu  hiisl  dulled  the  edge  that  never  ehrank  from 


iroiCBM  TWESTV-THRBE  15t 

TiuB  my  vengeance  now,  0  brother :  foes  aa  Mends 

shall  hands  unite ; 
Teach  me,  thou,  the  wondroua  tidings,  and  the  law  of 

Christ  the  white." 

Touched,  as  by  an  angel's  glory,  strangely  shone  Earl 

Sigurd's  face. 
As  he  locked  his  foe,  his  brother,  in  a  brotherly  em- 

brace ; 
And  each  warrior  upward  leaping,  swung  his  horn 

with  gold  bedigbt : 
"  Hail  to  Sigurd,  hail  to  Harold,  three  times  hail  to 

Christ  the  white !" 

HjALHAR  HjOBTH  BoYBSEIf. 


EDELWEISS. 


BY  Alpine  road,  beneath  an  old  fir-tree. 
Two  children  waited  patiently  for  hours ; 
One  slept,  and  then  the  elder  on  her  knee 
Made  place  for  baby  head  among  her  Howers. 

And  to  the  strangers,  climbing  tired  and  slow, 
She  called,  "  Buy  roses,  please,"  in  accents  mild. 

As  if  she  feared  the  echo,  soft  and  low, 
Of  her  own  voice  might  wake  the  sleeping  child. 

And  many  came  and  passed,  and  answered  not 
The  pleading  of  that  young,  uplifted  face, 

While  in  each  loiterer's  memory  of  the  spot. 
Dwelt  this  fair  picture  full  of  patient  grace. 


154 


BEST  SELECTIONS 


And  one  took  offered  flowers  with  gentle  hand, 
And  met  with  kindiy  glance  the  timid  eyea. 

And  said,  in  tones  that  children  underaland, 
"  My  little  girl,  have  you  the  Kdelweias?" 

"  Oh  I  not  to-day,  doar  lady,"  said  the  child, 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  little  sistei*  long ; 
I  cannot  cnrry  her  acroaa  the  wild ; 

8he  glows  large  faster  tlian  my  arms  grovr  stnmg.  ~ 


"  If  you  stay  on  the  mountain  all  the  night, 
At  morning  I  will  run  across  the  steep 

And  get  the  mossy  flowers  ere  sun  is  bright, 
And  while  my  baby  still  is  fast  asleep." 


MUHBEB   TWENTY-THREE  156 

At  mom,  with  face  subdued  and  reverent  tone, 
Slow  winding  down,  with  spirit  hushed  and  awed, 

As  from  a  vi»ioQ  of  the  great  white  throne, 
Or  veil  half-lifted  from  the  iace  of  Ood. 

The  blessing  of  the  hills  her  soul  hod  caught 
Made  all  the  mountain-track  a  path  of  prayer, 

Along  which  angel  forma  of  loving  thought 
Led  to  the  trysting-place ; — no  child  was  therel 

The  wind  waa  moaning  in  the  old  fir-tree, 
The  lizards  crawling  o'er  the  mossy  seat; 

But  no  fair  child,  with  baby  at  her  knee. 
And  in  the  mold  no  track  of  little  feet. 

No  faded  flowers  strewing  the  stunted  grass ; 

No  young  voice  singing  clear  its  woodland  strain; 
No  brown  eyes  lifted  as  the  strangers  pass ; 

A  murmur  in  the  air,  like  far-off  rain ; 

A  black  cloud,  creeping  downward  swift  and  still, 
Answered  her  listening  heart,  a  far-off  knell, 

Almost  before  there  8we]>t  along  the  hill 
The  slow,  deep  tolling  of  the  valley  bell. 

Once  mora  there  drifted  'cross  the  face  the  mist; 

Orice  more,  with  trembling  soul  and  tender  eyes. 
She  hurried  on  to  keep  the  half-made  tryst, 

To  meet  the  child,  to  claim  the  Edelweiss. 


Nearer  who  came  and  nearer  ev'ery  liour. 

Her  heart-liott  imsweriiig  quick  tlie  deep  bellt 
ciUl; 
it  lisd  iter  Ui  Uiv  ftfawlow  of  the  tower, 

The  ahiniijg  tower  beside  Uie  churchyard  walL 


Slie  found  her  there — a  croHa  rose  at  her  feet. 

And  burning  taperv  glimmered  at  lier  head : 
Her  white  hands  clinging  still  to  blosaoms  sweet. 

And  God'a  peace  on  bur  ia«t ;  the  child  was  dead. 

Quaint  carven  saints  and  martyrs  stood  around. 

Each  clasped  the  symbol  of  his  saerifice ; 
Hut  this  fair  child,  in  »!iinttv  aweetnea?  crowned. 


I 


NUMBER  TWENTV-THRBE  157 

Crept  silently  adown  the  ahadowy  aisle, 

And,  kneeling,  bathed  with  tears  the  hand  of  ice, 

And  laid  it  on  the  babe,  and  saw  it  smile, 

And  whispered,  "  I  have  named  her  Edelweiss]" 

When  <Hie  more  day  had  seen  its  shadows  fall. 
That  old  stone  tower  gleaming  in  the  sun, 

And  the  great  olive  by  the  western  wall, 

Shaded  two  humble  graves  where  had  been  odcl 

And  by  and  by,  above  the  dear  child's  head, 
Arose  a  little  stone  with  quaint  device. 

When  summer  blossome  died  around  the  bed, 
A  marble  hand  grasped  still  the  Edelweiss. 

Maby  Lowe  Dickinson. 


CHA.RACTER  OF  THE  DECLARATION  OP 
INDEPENDENCE. 

THIS  immortal  State  paper,  which  for  its  compoeei 
was  the  aurora  of  enduring  fame,  was  "the 
genuine  effusion  of  the  soul  of  the  country  at  that 
time,"  the  revelation  of  its  mind,  when,  in  its  youth, 
its  enthuaiasm,  its  subiime  confronting  of  danger,  it 
rose  to  the  highest  creative  powers  of  which  man  is 
capable.  The  bill  of  rights  which  it  promulgates  is 
of  rights  that  are  older  than  human  institutions,  and 
spring  from  the  eternal  justice  that  is  anterior  to  the 
State.  Two  political  theories  divided  the  world :  one 
founded  the  Commonwealth  on  the  reason  of  State, 
the  policy  of  expediency;  the  other  on  the  immu- 


158  BE8T   BELEcnOXa 

t:i)ile  ptinciplea  of  moraJs.  The  new  Republic,  aa  it 
tiiok  its  plaice  umung  the  puv/vra  o(  the  worlij,  pro- 
ilaiined  ite  faith  in  Uie  truth  and  reality  and  un- 
I'haugtiahWneiU!  of  freeilom,  virtuu,  anil  right.  The 
liuart  of  Jefferaon  iu  writing  the  declaration,  and  of 
{ 'otignva  in  adopUii);  it,  buat  for  all  humanity ;  the  aa- 
!-irtion  of  right  waa  niade  for  tlie  entire  world  of  man- 
kind,and  all  coming  gonerations,  without  any  oxrep- 
tiuii  whatever ;  for  the  proposition  which  adniit»  of 
ixiteptions  can  never  be  aelf-evideut.  As  it  was  put 
llirth  in  the  name  of  the  ascendant  people  of  that 
time,  it  was  sure  to  malte  the  circuit  of  tlic  world, 
l^idsing  everywhere  through  the  despotic  countriea  of 
iMirope;  and  the  aatonisherl   nations,  aa  tbpy  read 


miHBER  TWBNTY-THRBB 

It's  hard  to  speak  the  trutli  when  lies 
Would  earn  you  power  and  place ; 
When  Providence  giea  scanty  lare, 
To  say  a  hearty  grace. 

It's  hard  to  be  an  honest  raan, 
When  rascals  rule  the  roast; 

It's  hard  to  make  self-sacrifice, 
And  yet  to  make  no  boast. 

It's  hard  to  hear  lang-winded  men 
Hold  forth  your  ain  conviction, 

And  not,  in  sheer  disgust,  at  last, 
To  gie  it  contradiction. 

It's  hard  to  see  mere  money-b^ 
Tak'  precedence  of  brains ; 

To  find  broadcloth  will  win  a  place 
That  broad  sense  never  gains. 

It's  hard  to  hear  some  preachers  ban 
'Gainst  worldliness  and  wine, 

When  a'  the  time,  ye  brawly  ken, 
They're  o'  anither  min'. 

It's  hard  to  be  a  man  at  a'. 
And  waur  to  be  a  woman, 

But  things  will  maybe  tak'  a  turn. 
So  better  days  are  comin'. 


BEST   BELECTI0N8 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP. 


1 


NEARt 
lull 


TEAR  tiie  caiiiii-fire's  flickttring  light, 
u  luy  blanket  bed  1  Ho. 
Gazing  tliroagh  the  Bhadc-s  of  itigbt 
And  the  twinkliog  stars  on  bigb ; 
O'er  me  spirits  in  the  air 

SUent  vigils  seem  to  keep, 
As  I  breathe  my  childhood's  prayer, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep.' 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  161 

Fainter  grows  the  flickering  lights 

As  each  ember  slowly  dies ; 
Plaintively  the  birds  of  night 

Fill  the  air  with  sad'ning  cries; 
Over  me  they  seem  to  cry : 
"  You  may  never  more  awake." 
Low  I  lisp :  "  If  I  should  die, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  take." 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep ; 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep. 

If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  take. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  GREAT  ACTION^ 


GREAT  actions  and  striking  occurrences,  having 
excited  a  temporary  admiration,  often  pass 
away  and  are  forgotten,  because  they  leave  no  last- 
ing results,  afTecting  the  welfare  of  communities. 
Such  is  frequently  the  fortune  of  the  most  brilliant 
military  achievements.  Of  the  ten  thousand  battles 
which  have  been  fought ;  of  all  the  fields  fertilized 
with  carnage;  of  the  banners  which  have  been 
bathed  in  blood ;  of  the  warriors  who  have  hoped 
tfeHiie)'^  had  risen  from  the  field  of  conquest  to  a 
glory  as  bright  and  as  durable  as  the  stars,  how  few 
continue  long  to  interest  mankind !  The  victory  of 
yesterday  is  reversed  by  the  defeat  of  to-day ;  the 
star  of  military  glory,  rising  like  a  meteor,  like  a 
11 


162 


BEST   BELECTIOrfS 


nieteor  has  fallen ;  disgrace  and  disaster  hang  on  Lhc 
iicela  of  cDnqueat  and  renowD ;  victor  and  vanquiahi-^l 
[iresenlly  pass  away  to  qbUvion,  and  tbe  world  huida 
•m  ite  course,  with  the  loss  only  of  bo  many  lives 
and  so  much  treasure. 

But  tliere  axa  enterprises,  military  as  welt  as  civil, 
tliat  sometimes  check  the  current  of  evoiit^ ;  lliut 
<^'ive  a  new  turn  to  human  aSairs,  and  transmit  their 
cunsequences  through  agea.  We  sue  thuir  inipurt- 
ance  in  their  results,  and  call  them  great,  bei^uae 
great  things  follow.  There  have  been  battles  which 
liave  fixed  the  fate  of  nations.  These  come  down  to 
ua  in  history  with  a  solid  and  permanent  influence, 
nut  created  by  a  diajilay  of  glittering  armor,  the  rush 
i>l'  adverse  battalions,  the  siukint!  and  rieins  of  nen- 


KUMBEB  TWDKTY-THBEE  163 

architects,  her  government  and  free  institutions 
point  backward  to  Marathon,  and  that  their  future 
existence  seems  to  have  been  suspended  on  the  con- 
tingency whether  the  Persian  or  Grecian  banner 
should  wave  victorious  in  the  beams  of  that  day's 
setting  sun.  And  aa  his  imagination  kindles  at  the 
retrospect,  he  is  transported  back  to  the  interesting 
moment;  he  counts  the  fearful  odds  of  the  contend- 
ing hosts;  his  interest  for  the  result  overwhelms 
him ;  he  trembles  as  if  it  were  still  uncertain,  and 
seems  to  doubt  whether  he  may  consider  Socrates 
and  Plato,  Demosthenes,  Sophocles,  and  Phidias  as 
secure  yet  to  himself  and  to  the  world. 

Daniel  Websteb. 


THE  BELLS  OF  BROOKLINE. 

the  luthor. 


(TtM  newi  of  Lee'i  lamDder  at  Appomattox  flnt  came  to  BiookUne, 
IbB.,  thiousb  K  prlvale  dlipatch  [d  dphei :  *Tid  Immediately  ibe  cbil- 
dran  of  one  of  the  Khooli  ot  th>t  place  lan  to  every  pari  ot  the  lom, 
and  Rarled  all  Ihe  chnrcb  belli  to  rlngiog.  The  wholr  connlry  waa  In  a 
Mate  of  eipectancy,  and  irtieD  the  nelgtiborlng  towns  heard  the  belli 
of  BniokllDe  pealing,  tbey  all  began  to  ring  their  own,  u  that,  almoM 
befiira  the  inteUlgeoce  eould  be  conflnned,  U  had  ipread  thioughont 


ON  wings  of  lightning  the  message  came 
To  Brookline  town,  and  it  spread  like  flame 
That  April  morning ;  for,  two  by  two, 
Over  the  village  the  children  flow, 
And  set  the  bells  in  the  belfries  tall 
Hocking,  and  swinging,  and  ringing  all ; 


I  niCaT   BELECTIOSS 

And  all  the  people,  "  with  one  accorf," 
Halted,  and  liearkened,  and  pnused  the  Lord, 
Ab,  speeding  over  tite  hills  and  dolls, 
The  glad  Bound  went  of  the  Brookline  bella. 

And  other  bells,  in  the  hamlets  near, 
Claniore*!,  and  echoed  the  niuaic  clear; 
And  cities  heard,  and  a  wide  land  knew 
The  import  well  of  the  strange  ado. 
It  meant  that  down  where  the  armies  lay 
At  Appomattox,  that  famous  day, 
The  veteran  leaders,  Grant  and  Lee, 
Had  parleyed  under  the  apple-tree, 
And  signed  the  treaty  that  ushere<l  in 


NUHBBB  TWENTY-THREE  16 

The  shr>t-tom  banners  in  steep  are  furled, 
And  Peace,  like  a  zodiac,  belts  the  world  I 
But  long  will  the  glad  remembrance  Htay 
Of  all  that  happened  that  April  day — 
While  Song  rehearses,  and  History  tells, 
How  the  children  rang  the  Brookline  bells  I 

Andbew  Downing. 


TOMMY'S  DEAD. 

YOU  may  give  over  plough,  boys; 
You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  shed; 
All  the  sweat  o'  your  browa, 

Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 
The  seed's  waste,  I  know ; 
There's  not  a  blade  will  grow; 
Tifl  cropped  out,  I  trow,  boys, 
And  Tommy's  dead. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys ; 

He's  going  blind,  as  I  said; 
My  old  eyes  can't  bear, 

To  see  him  in  the  shed. 
The  cow's  dry  and  spare; 
.She's  neither  here  nor  there; 

I  doubt  she's  badly  bred. 
Stop  the  mill  to-mom,  boya; 
Therell  be  no  more  com, 

Neither  white  nor  red. 
There's  no  sign  of  grass,  boys; 
You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  pig; 


BEST  9 K LECTIONS 

The  land'3  not  what  it  was,  hoy^ 

And  tho  boMta  luuat  be  fed. 
You  may  turn  Fe^  away ; 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned; 
We've  had  a  dull  day,  boye, 

And  Toiiimy'e  dtjad. 
Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boyi; 

Let  me  turn  my  head: 
She's  Htandiii^  there  in  the  door, 

Your  sister  Winifred  1 
Take  her  away  from  rae,  boys, 

Your  sifltor  Winifred  I 
Move  me  round  in  my  plaoa; 

Let  me  turn  my  head ; 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE 

Outeide  and  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 
The  hills  are  wizen  and  thin, 

The  sky  is  shriveled  and  shred ;  . 
The  hedges  down  by  the  loan, 

I  can  count  them  hone  by  bone; 
The  leaves  are  open  and  spread ; 

But  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land, 

And  hands  like  a.  dead  man's  hand. 
And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man's  head. 

There's  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand, 
The  rat  and  the  mouse  have  fed, 
And  the  summer's  empty  and  cold. 
Over  valley  and  wold. 

Wherever  I  turn  my  head, 
There's  a  mildew  and  a  mould; 

The  sun's  going  out  overhead. 
And  I'm  very  old. 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

What  am  I  staying  for,  boys? 

You're  all  born  and  bred. 
Tis  fifty  years  and  more, 

Since  wife  and  I  were  wed; 
And  she's  gone  before, 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys, 

Upon  his  curly  head ; 
She  knew  she'd  never  seet, 

And  she  stole  off  to  bed. 


BEST  SELEcnOHB 

I've  been  sitting  up  alone, 

For  he'd  come  borne,  he  said; 
But  it's  time  I  waa  gone,  boya, 

For  Tommy's  dead. 
Put  up  the  abutters,  boya; 

Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread ; 
Make  haate  and  sup, 

For  my  eyea  are  heavy  as  lead. 
There's  something  wrong  i'  the  cup ; 

There's  something  ill  wi'  the  bread; 
I  don't  care  to  sup,  boys, 

And  Tommy's  dead. 


rm  not  right,  I  doubt,  boys, 


MUUBER  TWENTY-THBEB  In 

All  things  go  amisa ; 

You  Diay  lay  me  where  ahe  is, 

And  I'll  rest  my  old  head: 
Tifl  a  poor  world,  this,  boys, 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

Sidney  Dobell. 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  GOES  OUT. 

THO'  yer  lamp  o'  life  is  burnin'  with  a  clear  and 
steady  light, 
An'  it  never  eeems  t«r  flicker,  but  it's  allers  shinin' 

bright ; 
Tho'  it  sheds  its  rays  unbroken  for  a  thousand  happy 

days — 
Father  Time  is  ever  turnin'  down  the  wick  that  feeds 

her  hlaze. 
So  it  clearly  is  yer  duty  ef  you're  got  a  thing  to  do 
Ter  put  yer  shoulder  to  ther  wheel  an'  try  to  posh 

her  through ; 
Ef  yer  upon  a  wayward  track  you  better  turn  about— 
You've  lost  ther  chance  to  do  it 

When  the 

Light 
Goes 
Out 

Speak  kindly  to  the  woman  who  is  working  fer  yer 

praise, 
Ther  same  way  as  you  used  ter  in  those  happy  courtin' 

days; 


170 


BEST   BEI.KCTIONS 


She  likea  appreciation  jusl  the  umiu:  (>«  me  an'  you, 
Ami  it's  only  right  and  proptr  that  ycr  givo  hur  what 

is  liue, 
Don't  wait  until  her  lamp  o'  life  ia  bumin'  dim  an' 

low, 
A  lore  you  tell  her  what  you  ort^r  told  her  lung  ago — 
No\7'b  ther  time  ter  clieer  her  up 'an  put  her  blues  to 

rout — 
You've  lost  ther  chance  to  do  it 

When  the 

Light 
Goes 
Out. 


I 


SDMBBB  TWENTY-THREE  171 

I'd  rattier  die  with  nothin'  then  ter  hev  tber  peoplA 

say 
Th«t  I  had  got  my  money  in  a  robbin',  graspin' 

way; 
No  words  above  my  restin'-place  from  any  tongue  or 

pen 
Would  hev  a  deeper  meanln'  than  "  He  helped  his 

fellow-men." 
So  ef  you  hev  a  fortune  and  you  want  to  help  the 

poor, 
Don't  keep  a-atavin'  off  until  you  get  a  little  more; 
Ef  yer  upon  a  miser's  truck  you  better  turn  about^ 
Yer  record  keeps  on  bumin' 

When  the 

Light 
Goes 
Out 
Harry  S.  Chester. 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  BOY. 

UP  in  the  attic  where  I  slept 
When  I  was  a  boy,  a  Uttle  boy, 
In  through  the  lattice  the  moonlight  crept, 
Bringing  a  tide  of  dreams  that  swept 
Over  a  low,  red  trundle-bed, 
Bathing  the  tangled  curly  head, 
While  the  moonbeams  played  at  hide  and  seek 
With  the  dimples  on  the  sun-browned  cheek- 
When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy  I 


172  BEST    SELECnONa 

And,  oh  I  the  dreams — the  dre&Eos  I  dreamed  I 

^\'hen  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy  I 
For  the  grace  that  through  the  lattice  streamed 
Over  my  folded  eyelids  seemed 
To  have  the  gift  of  prophecy, 
And  to  bring  the  glimpses  of  time  to  be 
When  manhood'a  clarion  seemed  to  call— 
Ah  !  that  was  the  sweetest  dream  of  all, 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy  1 

I'd  like  to  sleep  where  I  used  to  sleep 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy  1 
For  in  at  the  lattice  the  moon  would  peep, 
Bringing  her  tide  of  dreams  to  sweep 


MUUBER  TWENTV-THRES  1 

Men  say  'twas  Elocution's  tide 
That  swept  the  town  like  tidal  ware; 
But  in  miae  ears  do  still  abide 
The  awful  shrieks  those  people  gave. 
And  there  was  much  of  strange,  beside, 
They  lifted  up  their  hands  and  cried, 
"  Oh,  save  my  brain  I  oh,  save  I  oh,  save  I" 

I  sat  and  read  within  my  door. 
My  specs  fell  off; — I  raised  ray  head. 
Across  the  street  with  yell  and  roar 
Came  voices  that  could  wake  the  dead. 
"  Lift  up  your  heads,  take  one  deep  breath, 
Say  to  the  winda, '  Blow  on,' "  she  saith, 
The  teacher  fair— Elizabeth. 

So  loud,  so  fast  the  shrieking  came^ 
The  heart  had  only  time  to  throb 
Before  another  awful  strain 
Burst  forth  from  that  unruly  mob. 
"  By  torch  and  trumjjet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  pupil  drew  his  battle  blade," 
And  one  more  chaise  for  victory  made. 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago^ 

When  I  begin  to  think  how  long. 

Again  I  hear  those  voices  flow 

In  sharp,  shrill  echoes,  loud  and  strong; 

And  all  the  air,  it  seemeth  true, 

Is  startled  by  that  noisy  crew 

Who  utter,  "A,  E,  I,  0,  U." 


The  maidena  where  those  sofas  are 
Sat  there  like  statues,  still  an  death. 
The  leader's  voice  I  heard  afar, 
Tliat  damsel  mild,  Klizabeth. 
Till  floating  o'er  the  street  to  me 
Came  down  that  kindly  measage  free, 
"  The  class  will  please  arise,"  said  she. 


And  eager  pupils  quickly  stand, 

Make  gestures  with  llieir  might  and  main; 

Then  madly,  at  their  queen's  command, 

Fling  up  their  weary  arms  again. 

Then  feet  came  down  with  ruin  and  rout, 

Then  clench&i  fist«  flew  round  about, 


NDUBER  TWBNTY-THRBB  17£ 

Quit  the  books  your  hands  are  clasping, 
Give  the  gesture  at  my  asking, 
To  the  ceiling  lift  your  eyes; 
Come  up,  Jerry,  come  up,  Mary, 
Come  up,  Sallie,  rise  and  join  us, 
Sallie,  in  this  exercise." 

Frances  Nash. 


VALUE  OF  REPUTATION. 

WHO  shall  estimate  the  cost  of  a  priceless  repu- 
tation, that  impress  which  gives  this  human 
drosa  its  currency,  without  which  we  stand  despised, 
debased,  depreciated?  Who  shall  repair  it  if  in- 
jured? Who  can  redeem  it  if  lost?  0,  well  and 
truly  does  the  great  philosopher  of  poetry  esteem 
the  world's  wealth  as  "  trash  "  in  the  comparison ! 
Without  it  gold  has  no  value ;  birth,  no  distinction ; 
station,  no  dignity ;  beauty,  no  charm ;  age,  no  rev- 
erence. Without  it  every  treasure  impoverishes, 
every  grace  deforms,  every  dignity  degrades,  and  all 
the  arts,  the  decorations,  and  accomplishments  of 
life  stand,  like  the  beacon-blazo  upon  a  rock,  warning 
the  world  that  its  approach  ia  dangerous,  that  its 
contact  is  death. 

The  wretch  without  it  is  under  eternal  quaran- 
tine; no  friend  to  greet,  no  home  to  harbor  him. 
The  voyage  of  his  life  becomes  a  joyless  peril ;  and 
in  the  midst  of  all  ambition  can  achieve,  or  avarice 
omasa,  or  rapacity  plunder,  he  tosses  on  the  surge,  a 


176  BEST   SELECTIONS 

Kuoyant  ptnetilence,  But  let  me  not  degrade  into  the 
■^1 1  lisimese  of  individual  saffity  or  individual  ex- 
I insure  this  universal  principle;  it  testifica  a  higher, 
;i.  more  ennohling  origin. 

It  ifl  this  which,  con9ecrating  the  humble  cirrle  of 
(he  hearth,  will  ftl  times  extend  iteelf  to  the  circura- 
ftrence  of  the  horiaoii,  which  nenes  the  arm  of  the 
patriot  to  save  hia  country,  which  lights  the  lamp  of 
t\\ii  philosopher  to  ammul  man,  which,  if  it  dom  not 
inspire,  will  at  least  invigorate,  the  martjT  to  merit 
inimortality,  which,  when  iine  world's  a^oiiy  la 
piissed,  and  ttic  );h)ry  of  another  is  dawnin)j,  will 
[irmopt  tlie  prophet,  even  in  his  chariot  of  fire,  and 
in  his  vision  of  Heaven,  to  lifsjueath  to  mankind  Uie 
ni:intle   of  hia   niemorv!     O.  divine,  0,  dclichtful 


NUMBER  TWBKTY-THBEE  177 

braids  me  with  that  which  industry  may  retrieve  and 
integrity  may  purify ;  but  what  riches  shall  redeem 
the  bankrupt  fame?  What  power  shall  blanch  the 
sullied  enow  of  character?  There  can  be  no  injury 
more  deadly.  There  can  be  no  crime  more  cruel.  It 
U  without  remedy.  It  is  without  antidote.  It  is 
without  evasion. 

The  reptile,  calumny,  is  ever  on  the  watch.  From 
the  fascimition*of  its  eye  no  activity  can  escape ;  from 
the  venom  of  its  fang  no  sanity  can  recover.  It  has 
no  enjoyment  but  crime ;  it  has  no  prey  but  virtue ; 
it  has  no  interval  from  the  restlessness  of  ita  malice, 
save  when,  bloated  with  its  victims,  it  grovels  to  dis- 
gorge them  at  the  withered  shrino  where  envy  idol- 
izes her  own  infirmities. 

Charles  Philups. 


A  HARVARD- YALE  FOOT-BALL  MATCH. 


ALL  Ihe  morning  the  trains  Irom  New  Haven, 
from  Boston,  from  New  York,  from  everywhere 
within  a  aiz-hour  radius,  had  been  pouring  their 
heavy  loads  into  Springfield.  The  north  side  of 
Hampden  Park  was  a  crimson-dotted  mass,  nearly 
ten  thousand  strong ;  the  south  side  was  equally 
banked  up  with  blue,  and  the  two  colors  ran  info 
each  other  at  the  ends.  It  is  never  weary-waiting 
for  the  foot-ball  game  to  begin  when  tlic  weather  ia 
12 


17S  BEST  SELECTIONS 

L  >'>'!.  It  id  amusing  to  see  the  "  grads  "  come  swarm- 
>ii :  to  til*:  .standard.  Familiar  and  popular  facee  turn 
ii|>,  ilial  lijive  l)cen  out  of  college  only  a  year  or  two, 
a:i'[  tliuir  ownum  are  greeted  enthusiastically  by 
Tiiiir  liUe  coiiipunions.  There,  too,  come  numbers 
111  llici's  far  more  widely  known,  those  of  governors, 
roiiuTrssiiiun,  judges,  arcrhitecta,  and  clergymen. 
i)ilit;r  faces,  not  so  conspicuous,  are  apparently 
i'|iuilly  interesting  over  the  ti»p  of  glowing  bunches 
•  'I  -Nic'iiueiniiiots,  or  of  violeta,  as  the  case  may  be. 
.1,11  k  Unttletou's  terrier,  Blathers,  who  was  rarely 
.-i|Mrjiteil  from  his  master  on  any  occasion,  seemed 
iiimvu  interciituil  in  a  big  dog  with  a  blue  blanket,  on 
till'  other  side  of  the  field,  a  familiar  figure  at  recent 


NUMBER  TWENTV-THREK  179 

of  grinding  canvas  into  the  mass  of  blue-legged  bodies 
that  rushed  to  meet  it 

For  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour  the  mimic 
battle  was  fought  back  and  forth  along  the  white- 
barred  field.  All  the  tactics  of  wiir  were  there  em- 
ployed ;  the  centre  waa  pierced,  the  flanks  were 
turned,  heavy  columns  were  inatantanoously  massed 
gainst  any  weak  spot.  It  was  even,  very  even ;  but 
at  last  a  long  punt  and  a  fumble  gave  Harvard  the 
ball,  well  in  the  enemy's  territory,  A  well-supported 
run  around  the  right  end  by  Jarvia,  the  famous  fly- 
ing half-back,  two  charges  by  Blake,  the  terrible  line- 
breaker,  and  a  wedge  bang  through  tlie  centre  drove 
the  ball  to  Yale's  five-yard  lino.  Another  gain  of  hia 
length  by  the  tall  Rivera.  Another.  Then  with  their 
backs  on  their  very  line  the  Yale  men  rallied  in  a 
way  they  have.  Down,  no  gain.  Now  for  one  good 
push  or  a  drop  kick !  Time.  The  first  half  of  the 
game  was  over  and  neither  side  had  scored. 

****** 

After  fifteen  minutes'  reat  the  giants  lined  up  again. 
The  wind  seemed  to  make  a  diff"crence,  for  the  play 
from  the  start  was  in  Yale's  ground.  Jarvis,  the 
runner,  who  had  been  saved  a  good  deal  in  the  first 
half,  was  now  used  with  telling  effect. 

In  a  short  time  an  exchange  of  punta  brought  the 
ball  to  Yale's  thirty-yard  line.  After  three  downs 
Spofford  dropped  back  aa  though  for  a  kick,  and  the 
Yale  full-back  retreated  for  the  catch.  Instead  of  the 
expected  kick.  Rivers  the  guard  chai^e<l  for  the  left 
md,  and  the  blue  line  concentrated  on  that  point  to 


ISO 


BEST  SELECTIOSB 


I 


meet  him,  when  suddenly  Jarvia,  with  the  l»all 
tucked  under  his  arm,  was  aeon  going  liktf  a  whirl- 
wind around  the  right,  well  covered  by  his  supports. 
The  Yalu  Icft-ond  whb  knotkud  off  hi«  lugs,  and  ll>o 
wliole  crimiion  hank  of  ?|)C«tat<)ni  rose  tti  its  feet 
with  a  roar,  ait  it  roalizod  that  Jiirvja  had  circled  the 
end.  The  Ya1«  halfit  liad  hoen  drawn  to  their  ri^ht, 
and  every  one  knew  that  witli  Jtu-vis  oTioe  post  the 
forwards  no  wno  could  nm  hirn  down. 

On  he>  went  at  top  speed  for  tho  lungwl-for  touph- 
lini!.  Thu  full-back,  however,  was  heading  him  off; 
lip>  had  outrun  his  interfercrs,  and  a  Yale  'Varsity 
lull-hack  is  not  apt  lonii»»  a  dear  tackle  in  the  open. 
They  came  together  dose  to  the  line.  Just  aa  hSs 
iilveraary  crouclied  for  his  hij)a  Jarvis  li^aped  hiril 


KBHBER  TWENTy-THREB  181 

an  anxiouB  murmur.  A  substitute  ran  back  to  ths 
grand-stand  and  shouted,  "  Nothing  serious,  only  his 
collar-bone."  Those  near  the  place  where  the  plucky 
balf-back  was  borne  off  the  field  could  see  that  his 
face  was  pale,  but  supremely  happy,  and  he  smiled 
faintly  as  he  heard  the  cheers  of  thousands,  and  his 
own  name  coupled  with  that  of  his  Alma  Mater. 

The  touch-down  had  been  made  almost  at  the 
corner,  too  far  aside  for  the  try  for  goal  to  succeed. 
Spofford's  kick  was  a  splendid  attempt,  but  the  ball 
struck  the  goal  pant. 

Then  the  battle  began  again.  The  Harvard  team 
had  suffered  an  irreparable  loss  in  the  fall  of  the 
famous  Jarvis,  but  the  score  was  four  to  nothing  in 
its  favor,  and  all  it  needed  to  do  now  was  to  hold  its 
own.  The  Crimson  was  on  the  crest,  and  it  was  for 
the  Blue  to  come  up-hill.  Every  one  on  the  north 
Bide  was  elated  and  confident.  Then  began  a  struggle 
grim  and  great.  Tlie  Yale  men  closed  up  and  went 
in  for  the  last  chance.  There  was  no  punting  for 
them  now,  the  wind  was  against  them ;  but  they  had 
the  heavier  weight,  and  well  they  used  every  ounce 
of  it  Steadily,  as  the  Old  Guard  trod  over  its  slain 
at  Waterloo,  did  the  Blue  wedge  drive  its  way,  rod 
by  rod,  toward  the  Harvard  line.  And  as  the  fierce 
red  Britons  tore  at  Napoleon's  devoted  column,  so  did 
the  Crimson  warriors  leap  on  that  earth-stained  pha- 
lanx. The  rushers  strained  against  it,  Blake  would 
plunge  into  and  stagger  it,  Rivers  and  SpoSbrd 
would  throw  their  great  bodies  flat  under  the  tramp- 
ling feet  and  bring  the  whole  mass  down  over  them. 


At  last  theri'  would  he  h  waver  in  Uie  advance,  threi 
liTwanl  Mtrii};glea  checked  and  simttered,  and  on  the 
linirth  down  t\w  tiall  would  bo  Harvard'e,  On  Ui« 
lirst  line  up  with  tho  ball  in  Harvard's  {loaiiesaion 
ivduld  I'D  htsiril  tho  aouiid  of  Spofford's  uiiorrinj; 
t'liot  against  the  leather,  and  the  brown  ovaJ  would 
i:'i  cnmng  and  apiiining  over  the  heads  of  tiio 
niahera,  far  hack  into  Yale's  territory,  with  the  llar- 
viird  ends  well  undor  it.  A  grojit  "Oh  I"  of  n-liff 
wnnUl  go  uj)  from  the  north  side.  Then  those  Yale 
i'ull-doga  would  begin  all  ovor  ^ain.  Again  and 
ii^'ain  did  they  fight  their  way  almost  to  the  Har- 
vard line,  only  to  be  driven  all  the  way  back  by 
a  long  SpofTord  punt. 


miUBEB  TWENTY-THBEE  ISS 

end.  The  end  braced  himself,  but  tbe  shock  was  too 
severe,  and  he  and  the  little  quarter-back  were  rolling 
on  the  ground. 

But  the  ball  waa  patjt  llie  end,  and  with  two  men 
in  the  interference  and  only  liarvard'a  full-back  to 
pass,  they  could  not  possibly  fail  to  scora  The  full- 
back plunged  bravely  into  the  interference,  but, 
alas  I  too  ]at«.  Yale'a  half  had  [lassetl  him  and  was 
over  the  line,  touchint;  the  ball  in  directly  back  of 
the  goal.  Then  arose  such  a  yell  as  is  heard  only 
when  an  immense  crowd  is  wrouj^ht  up  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm.  The  ball  was  brought 
out  to  tlie  twenty-five-yard  line,  and  the  little  tjuar- 
ter,  lying  down  upon  the  ground,  took  it  between  his 
hands.  After  a  moment's  pause  the  full-back  stepped 
a  few  paces  to  the  rear,  took  a  short  run,  and  his  foot 
crashed  into  the  leather.  It  shot  forward,  and,  de- 
scribing a  lofty  parabola,  passed  between  the  goal 
poats,  winning  for  Yale  the  great  match  of  the  year. 
Score,  six  to  four. 

Waldbon  Kintzung  Post. 


FORESHADOWINGS. 

BjrpannliriODaf  kadunngemenl  wllb  Hougbton,  UlffllnACo., 

BoatoD,  Mun. 

WIND  of  the  winter  night, 
Under  the  starry  skies 
Somewhere  my  lady  bright, 
Slumbering,  lies. 


BEST  BELECriOKS 

Wrapped  in  calm  maiden  dreams, 

Where  the  pale  mootilight  streams^ 

Softly  she  sleeps.  " 

I  do  not  know  her  face, 

Pure  aa  the  lonely  star 
That  in  yon  darkling  space 

Shineth  afar ; 
Never  with  soft  command 
Touched  I  her  willing  haod. 

Kissed  I  her  lips. 

I  had  not  heard  her  voice, 

I  do  not  know  her  name; 
Yet  doth  my  heart  rejoice, 


NUMBER  TWKSTY-THBKB  IBS 

Somewhere  roil  rosew  bloom ; 

Into  her  Wiiriu,  hushed  room, 

Bear  thuu  their  breath. 

Whigper — Nay,  nay,  thou  Bprit«, 
Breathe  thou  no  tender  word; 

Wind  of  the  winter  night. 
Die  thou  unheard. 

True  love  shall  j'et  prevail. 

Telling  its  own  sweet  tale ; 
Till  then  I  wait. 

Julia  C.  R,  Dorr. 


JIMMY  BROWN'S  ATTEMPT  TO  PRODUCE 
FRECKLES. 

PrDiii"Tlis  AdTantoras  of  JlmiD]'  Brown."  Copyright,  U8fi,  br  Hoiper  A 
Urothen, 

I  HAVE  never  aaid  much  about  my  sister  Lizzie 
because  she  is  nothing  but  a  girl.  She  is  twelve 
years  old,  and  of  course  she  plays  with  dolls,  and 
doesn't  know  enough  to  play  base-ball  or  do  any- 
thing really  useful.  She  scarcely  ever  gets  me  into 
scrapes,  though,  and  that's  where  Sue  might  follow 
her  example.  However,  it  was  Lizzie  who  got  me 
into  the  scrape  about  my  chemicals,  though  she 
didn't  mean  to,  poor  girl. 

One  night  Mr,  Travera  came  to  tea  and  everybody 
was  talking  about  freckle!!.  Mr.  Travers  said  that 
they  were  real  fashionable,  and  that  all  the  ladies 
were  trying  to  get  them.    X  am  sure  I  don't  see  why. 


186  BEST  eELECTIONS 

I'vo  momamilUon  fn.'«kles,  and  I'd  bo  glad  In  let 
anybody  have  them  wlm  would  agree  to  Uku  tlicui 
■.iw-.iy.  Sue  said  »he  thought  freckles  wt;re  [lerfeotly 
Invely,  and  it's  a  good  thing  olio  thinka  so,  for  ahe 
\iM  about  as  many  aa  she  caii  uxe ;  and  Lizzie  aaid 
niic-'d  give  anything  if  alio  only  bad  a  few  iiico 
Truckles  ou  her  chix^kt), 

Mother  asked  what  made  freckles,  and  Mr.  Travere 
3;ud  the  huo  made  thutu  just  as  it  iiiake.s  ]>hotograi>hE!. 
'■  Jimmy  will  anderHtaiid  it,"  aaid  Mr,  Travere.  "  Hb 
knows  how  the  sun  imikcs  a  picture  when  it  chines 
on  a  photograph  plate,  and  all  hia  froukioa  were 
made  just  hi  the  same  way.  Without  the  sun  there 
wouldn't  be  any  Ircfkltw." 


NUMBER   TWENTY-THREE.  187 

I  told  her  she  should  have  the  best  freckles  in  town 
if  she  would  come  up  to  my  room  the  next  morning 
and  let  mc  expose  her  to  the  sun  and  then  put 
chemicals  on  her. 

Lizzie  has  confidence  in  nie,  which  ia  one  of  her 
best  qualities,  and  shows  that  she  ia  a  good  girl. 
She  was  so  pleased  when  I  i)romi8ed  to  make 
freckles  for  her;  and  as  soon  as  the  sun  got  up  high 
enough  to  shine  into  my  window  she  came  up  to  my 
room  all  ready  to  be  freckled. 

I  exposed  her  to  the  eun  for  six  seconds.  I  only 
exposed  my  photograph  plates  three  seconds,  but  I 
thought  that  Lizzie  might  not  be  quite  a^  sensitive, 
and  so  I  expose<l  her  longer.  Then  I  took  her  into 
the  dark  closet  and  poured  chemicals  on  her  cheeks. 
I  made  her  hold  her  handkerchief  on  her  face,  bo 
that  the  chemicals  couldn't  get  into  her  eyes  and 
run  down  her  neck,  for  she  wanted  freckles  only  on 
her  cheeks. 

I  watched  her  very  carefully,  but  the  freckles 
didn't  come  out.  I  put  more  chemicals  on  her,  and 
rubbed  it  in  with  a  cloth ;  but  it  was  no  use,  the 
freckles  wouldn't  come.  I  don't  know  what  the 
reason  was.  Perhaps  I  hadn't  exi)osed  her  long 
enough,  or  perhaps  the  chemicals  was  weak.  Any- 
way, not  a  single  freckle  could  I  make. 

So  after  a  while  I  gave  it  up,  and  told  her  it  was 
no  use,  and  she  could  go  and  wash  her  face.  She 
cried  a  little  because  she  was  disappointed,  but  she 
cried  more  afterward.  You  see,  the  chemicals  made 
her  cheek  almost  black,  and  she  couldn't  wash  it 


188  BKiil   8ELEi:T10N8 

oil'.  Mother  and  Sue  mtMle  a  dreadful  fiiss  about  it, 
ami  aent  fur  the  dijctor,  who  aaid  he  thought  it  would 
\M':ir  off  in  a  juar  or  bo,  and  wouldo't  kill  the  child 
ur  do  her  very  much  harm. 

I'hia  is  the  rensoa  why  they  took  my  chemicals 
iiway,  and  promiaed  to  give  my  camera  to  the  mis- 
^iuiiarieti.  All  I  nimiiil  w!ut  U>  pluuse  Li^Kic,  mid  t 
hirer  knew  the  chomicaU  would  turn  her  black. 
l!ut,  it  isn't  the  first  time  I  huvo  tried  to  bo  kind  aud 
hiivc  been  made  to  8U0'er  fur  it. 


HOW  WE   KEPT  THE   DAY. 

t,  by  HupB  * 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  189 

The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  loud  da  capo,  and  brazen  repeat ; 
Tliere  was  Hans,  the  leader,  a  Teuton  bom, 
A  sharp  who  worried  the  E  Hiit  horn ; 
And  Baritone  Jake,  and  Alto  Mike, 
Who  never  played  anything;  twice  alike; 
And  Tenor  Tom,  of  conservative  mind. 
Who  always  came  out  a  note  behind ; 
And  Dick,  whone  tuba  was  seldom  dumb, 
And  Bob,  who  punished  the  big  bass  drum ; 
And  when  they  atojiped  a  minute  to  rest, 
The  martial  band  discoursed  its  best ; 
The  ponderous  drum  and  the  poiuted  fife 
Proceeded  to  roll  and  shriek  for  life; 
And  "Bonaparte  CnwHcd  the  Rhine," anon. 
And  "The  Girl  I  I-eft  Itehind  Me"  came  on; 

And  that  wan  the  way 

The  bands  did  play 
On  the  loud,  high-toned,  hannonious  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  1    Hurray  I    Hurray  I 
(With  some  music  of  hullets,  our  sires  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence  I 

The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  a  wagon  of  virgins,  sour  and  sweet; 
Each  bearing  the  bloom  of  recent  date, 
Each  misrepresenting  a  single  State ; 
There  was  California,  pious  and  prim, 
And  Louisiana,  humming  a  liyum ; 
The  Texas  lass  was  the  smallest  on»— 


190  BE3T  BKLECrlONB 

Rhode  Islanil  weighed  the  tenth  of  a  ton; 

The  Kiiijiire  tjtatc  was  pure  as  a  pearl, 

Add  M;i*-iiidiU!iett8  a  modest  girl ; 

ViTniimt  was  rett  as  the  blush  ()f  a  rose — 

And  tlie  goddess  sported  a  turn-up  nose; 

And  looked,  free  sylph,  where  she  painfully  sat. 

The  worlds  she  would  give  to  be  out  of  that; 

And  in  this  way 

The  maidens  gay 
I'liislied  up  the  street  on  the  beautiful, day 
■I'hat  gave  us— 

Hurray!     Hurray!     Hurray! 
( With  some  saerifiees,  our  mothers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence  1 


KUHBEB  TWENTY-THREE  191 

They  marched  through  the  blaze  of  the  glorious  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray!     Hurray  I     Hurray! 
(With  some  hot  fighting,  our  fathers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence ! 

The  eager  orator  took  the  stand 

In  the  cause  of  our  great  and  happy  land ; 

He  aired  his  own  political  viena, 

He  told  us  all  the  lateat  news: 

How  the  Boston  folks  one  night  took  tea— 

Their  grounds  for  steeping  it  in  the  soa ; 

What  a  heap  of  Britons  our  fathers  did  kill 

At  the  little  skirmish  of  Bunker  Hill ; 

He  put  us  all  in  anxious  douht 

As  to  how  that  matter  was  coming  out ; 

And  when  at  last  he  had  fought  us  through 

To  the  bloodleaa  year  of  '82, 

'Twas  the  fervant  hope  of  every  one 

Tliat  he,  as  well  as  the  war,  was  done. 

But  he  continued  to  painfully  soar 

For  something  lesa  tlian  a  century  more; 

Until  at  Inst  he  had  fairly  done 

With  the  wars  of  eigh teen-sixty-one. 

And  then  he  inquired,  with  martial  frown, 

"Americans,  nmst  we  go  down  ?" 

And  as  if  an  answer  from  Heaven  were  sent. 

The  stand  gave  way  iin<l  down  he  went 

A  singer  '.t  two  hencath  him  did  drop— 

A  big  fat  alderman  fell  atop ; 

Anil  that  was  the  way 

Our  orator  lay, 


li)2  BEST   BELKI^noM 

'I'ill  we  fiahed  him  ont,  on  the  eloquent  dftf, 

I'iiiit  gave  US- 
Hurray  !     Hurray  I     Jlurray ! 

{With  a  clflBh  of  tiniiB,  Put.  Henry  would  say,) 
Our  wortly  Indeiiendence. 

TliL'  inarehal,  hU  hungry  com  patriots  led, 

\\  lure  Freedom's  viands  wcru  thickly  spread, 

W  ith  all  that  man  or  woman  could  eat, 

Trum  criflp  to  stick}' — from  sour  to  swuel. 

Tlii^re  were  chickens  that  aearc«  had  learned  to  crov 

A 1  id  veteran  roosters  of  long  ago ; 

I'liere  was  one  old  turkey,  huge  and  fierce, 

liiiit  waa  hatched  in  the  days  of  President  Pierce ; 


NUMBER  TWENTY-THREE  193 

Not  more  had  the  rocket'^i  sticks  gunc  down 

Than  the  spirits  of  those  who  hinl  "  been  to  town ;" 

Not  more  did  the  fire-balloon  cutluiK^e 

Than  the  pride  of  tliose  who  hiul  known  mishaps. 

There  were  feathers  milled,  and  tempurs  roiled, 

And  several  brand-new  dre-jdos  spoiled ; 

There  were  hearts  that  ached  from  envy's  thorns, 

And  feet  that  twinged  with  tnimpled  corns ; 

There  were  joys  proved  empty,  throut;h  and  through, 

And  several  purses  empty,  too ; 

And  some  reeled  homeward,  muddled  and  late, 

Who  hadn't  taken  their  i'\oTy  straight; 

And  some  were  fated  to  lodge,  that  night, 

In  the  city  lock-up,  snuj;  and  tight ; 

And-  that  was  the  way 

The  deuce  was  to  pay, 
As  it  always  is,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray !     Hurray  I     Hurray  t 
(With  some  restrictions,  the  fault-findera  say,) 
But  which,  please  God,  we  will  keep  for  aye — 

Our  National  Independence ! 

Will  Cablbton, 


PHCEBE'S  EXPLOIT. 

Permlnlonof  Tba  Outlook.  New  York. 

SHE  was  the  daughter  of  John  Artley,  whose  run 
on  the  Western  Division  be^ran  and  ended  at 
Orival  Junction.    The  Junction  consisted  of  a  round- 
13 


104  BK8T  SELECrniOT 

h"U3e,  the  railway  station,  a  few  shantiw.  a  dreary 
buarding-houBe,  and  a  choice  collection  of  future 
|iiMsihiIitics;  but  Phcsbe,  bcint;  mothorlcx!!,  tsjionl 
iiuiL'h  of  her  time  on  her  fnllier'e  engine,  or  in  iier 
imcle'a  office  at  tlie  otoliou,  and  m  got  a  larper  view 
lit'  life  than  the  Juni,-tiori  itsdf  wKild  give. 

At  fourteen  she  had  two  arahitiona.  One  was  for 
her  father,  reuching  out  to  thu  time  whmi  ho  should 
have  a  smart  "  eight-wheelor  "  and  a  paasonger  run. 
The  other  dated  from  ii  trip  to  Cln}ye»n«  with  lier 
father  when  he  was  on  the  Rrievance  coniniittee. 

"  You'll  have  to  jiut  in  your  time  around  the 
hotel  while  I  go  to  the  mwtinp,"  he  had  told  her; 
and   Phtehe  betook  liurBulf  lo  the  parlor,  where  a 


NUMBER   TWENTY-THREE  195 

heard  her,  I  mean  to  learn,  and  I  mean  to  have  a 
piano,  loo,  aometinie.  I  wish  pa  could  get  a  run  eo 
we  could  live  in  a  town ;  then  I  might  hear  mutiic 
once  in  a  while,  anyway." 

"  But  what  would  become  of  me?  I  couldn't  get 
along  without  you." 

"  You'd  come,  too.  As  if  I  didn't  know  that  you 
keep  this  job  just  so's  to  be  with  us !" 

That  was  the  fact  Toin  Nonuan  had  transferred 
his  love  for  his  favorite  sister  to  licr  child,  and  ho 
had  followed  John  Artloy'a  shifting  fortunes  from  one 
desolate  division  station  to  another,  for  the  sole  {)ur- 
pose  of  watching  over  and  caring  for  I'hoebc. 

"Do  j'ou  believe  pa  ever  will  get  a  good  run?" 
asked  Phoebe,  when  the  freight  had  all  been  entered. 

"  Oh !  I  hope  so.  We'll  go  on  hoping  so,  too,  till 
the  end  of  the  chapter,  won't  we  ?  Answer  that  call, 
will  you,  Phoebe?" 

Phosbe  sat  down  at  the  telegraph-table,  snapped 
the  key,  and  wrote  "ce,""cu,"  "ce,"  signing  "oj.'" 
Then  she  took  down  the  message  r 

"  Large  gangs  of  tramps  are  moving  eastward  on 
freight  trains.  Denver  reports  that  more  have  left 
there  to  meet  Califomias  at  Orival.  Watch  incoming 
east-bound  freights  ami  rei>ort  promptly  any  unusual 
number  of  tramps  at  your  station." 

"What's  that — more  trouble?"  asked  Norman, 
catching  a  word  here  and  there  in  the  message. 

Phoelje  sighed  wearily.  "  Oh !  dear,  yes,  it's  more 
tramps;  and  it'll  just  be  pa's  luck  to  catch  them  out 
of  here  on  201  to-night" 


IVli  BEST   SELECTIONS 

Xornian  read  the  uiesaage  and  shook  hie  head 
iliihioudly.  "I've  biieii  ui'mid  of  that  all  oummer,"  ' 
lii'  said.  "  There  hiw  been  a  biggur  t-rowd  thiui  u^uul 
Ji'iiiii  Cftlifornia  tliis  geu-toii,  and  now  tho  Ix'^dviUfl 
LAiitement  ia  dying  dowa  ihoy  11  b«  tiourinn  out  of 
Diiivtir  \>y  the  c-arlortd.  I  hupt!  Uicj'  won't  iimke 
liMuble  here;  it  wouldn't  take  more  liian  twenty-fiv« 
uf  them  to  take  thotown  and  uvi-rylwidy  in  it" 

Fhtebe  bit  the  end  of  her  [M-nliolder  and  thrust  out 
liir  chin  in  a  way  thai  oiade  hi-r  look  very  much 
like  resoluto  John  Artlcy.  "  1  know  one  thing  tliey 
wwn't  do, "she  snid,  with  a  deriant  little  nod.  "Thtty 
»an't  make  {ai  jiull  ^01  unless  he  has  orders,  like 
liii'y  did  Mike  McCiivil'uy  hist  spring." 


NUMBER  TWEWTY-THREB  197 

etay  with  Mrs.  Hannah,"  he  said.  "  This  is  no  place 
for  you  to-night." 

"Please  let  me  stay,"  pleaded  Phoebe.  "They 
won't  hurt  me,  and  I  should  go  crazy  oi'er  there  by 
myself,  and  not  knowing  what  wati  happening  to  you 
and  pa.     Besides,  I'll  be  safer  here  with  you." 

Norman  was  going  to  insiijt,  but  the  wire  called 
him.     He  answered  and  took  the  message  rapidly : 

"  Hold  201  for  orders.  I'ae  all  tncans  to  prevent 
tramps  from  seizing  train  or  engine,  S)iectal  with 
sheriff's  posse  will  reach  you  about  H.'iO  p.m." 

Phcebe  heard  the  message  as  it  clicketl  through  the 
sounder,  and  looked  at  the  station  clock.  It  was 
now  nearly  eight — if  the  men  would  only  keep  quiet 
for  half  an  hour ! 

It  was  a  vain  hope.  Two  minutes  later  there  was 
a  scuffle  on  the  platfonn,  and  Artlcy  and  the  con- 
ductor were  dragged  into  the  waiting-room.  One  of 
the  tramps — a  big,  burly  fellow  with  red  whiskers 
and  flaming  eyes — acted  as  spokesman. 

"  You  shet  up,"  the  spokesman  was  saying  to  her 
father.  "  You  hain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it. 
Wen  you  git  orders  you'll  pull  that  train,  'r  we'll 
chuck  ye  into  yer  own  fire-box.     See?" 

Phoebe  heard  the  threat  in  wide-eyed  horror. 

Norman  for  five  minutes  rattled  away  at  the  key, 
writing  an  endless  string  of  unmeaning  dots  and 
dashes,  to  fill  up  time.  Then  the  red-bearded  man 
interrupted  him. 

"  Gimme  that  time  table,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
sheet  hanging  over  the  operator's  deek. 


Ifif<  BEST  RKLECTIOXS 

Norman  hesitated,  oljeyiiig  Anally  at  the  point  oi 
n  |ii^U)l.  The  man  ran  liU  Hni^cr  up  ani]  down  Uio 
I'lilurnu  of  figures  until  he  fouml  whiit  he  waiitod. 

'  It'a  all  right,  boys;  wc  don't  neud  no  ordcw. 
Ku-t  meetin -point's  fifty  mile  down  the  roiid.  Misttr 
li-litnin'-Blinger,  you  come  out  from  behind  there— 
wi''ll  tako  yuu  'long,  an'  then  you  won't  be  gittin'  ii 
hwiti'h  turned  ag'in'ua  at  the  fuBt  side  tnw:k," 

Niinnan  held  bat^rlc  and  tried  to  gain  more  time  liy 
ar^'iiing  the  case,  but  the  pistol  came  into  play  again, 
iitxi  lie  had  to  go,  without  90  much  as  a  word  to 
riiiibe,  who  W!is  pule  with  indignation  and  fright, 

Wliea  Nonnan  surrendered,  the  man  spoke  again. 
'■  Now,  then,  git  a  move  on  that  ingine-driver,  an' 
w, .ll  go." 


NITHBER  TWENTY-THREE  IV^ 

wrote  "  deth  "  "  deth  "  "  deth  "  between  the  signti- 
turcs,  and  then  the  operator  at  Little  Butte  broke 
in  and  answered.  I'hcebe  began  to  tremble  nerv- 
ously through  her  message,  but  he  broke  in  again: 

"  West-bound  special  passed  here  five  ininutea 
ago,"  came  clicking  back,  and  then  she  knew  that 
if  201  left  Orival  there  would  be  a  collision. 

The  mere  thought  of  it  made  her  sick  and  faint, 
and  the  iiglittj  in  the  office  seemed  to  be  going  out. 
Then  she  gasped  and  came  to  hersell'  with  a  little 
jerk  when  the  crowd  began  to  move  down  the  plat- 
form, and  ahe  heard  tlie  leader  say,  "  All  right,  my 
covey ;  we'll  put  you  on  the  ingine  an'  go  anyway." 

Before  the  crowil  waa  fairly  in  motion  Phoebe  had 
snatched  the  8wit<:h-key  from  its  nail  on  the  wall, 
and,  darting  out  of  the  back  door,  she  skirted  the 
mob  and  flew  through  the  darkness  toward  the  for- 
ward end  of  the  long  freight  train.  As  she  ran  she 
prayed  that  the  engine  might  not  be  beyond  the  end 
of  the  siding,  and  ahe  nearly  cried  with  thankful- 
nosd  when  she  could  see  the  red  eye  of  the  signab 
lamp  peering  around  the  front  end  of  the  big  mogul. 
In  ten  seconds  more  she  was  at  the  switch-sLind,  the 
red  eye  flashed  to  the  east,  and  the  two  lines  of  rails 
glistening  under  the  mogul's  head-light  swerved  to 
the  side  truck.  Knowing  that  there  wiis  a  chance 
for  failure  if  she  tried  to  start  the  heavy  train, 
Phoebe  darteil  hack  and  pulled  the  coupling-pin  be- 
tween the  tender  and  the  first  car,  running  forward 
again  to  climb  into  the  engine  just  as  the  first  strag- 
glers of  the  crowd  began  to  come  up.     They  gave 


BEST   SELECTIOSB 

)jiit  a  tnoineut,  l>ul  tliat  was  enough.  Kngiae 
had  an  easy  Uirottle,  and  Phcpbe  had  opened  it 
\:  than  once.  The  vanguard  of  the  tramp  army 
ii  flutter  ol'  Hkirta  on  the  foot-hoard,  heard  a 
iiij^  of  steani  in  the  cylinders  and  two  or  three 
;'|i  (toughs  from  tlie  exhaust,  jind  then  the  big 
;ul  dropped  fVom  the  end  of  iht'  optn  awitch  and 
Afd  into  tlie  ties, bh>cking  thi;  track  aa  olTectually 
it'ty  tooa  uf  iron  and  steel  cuuhl  do  It 
litehe  did  not  wait  to  see  what  would  happen 
tward.  Shu  had  done  her  part ;  there  would  b« 
uLtllision ;  and  they  could  not  blame  her  fatlier 
siiniothint^  t'li'i''  li<i  ^^'^  ^ii^  DQ  hand  in.  Sho 
Hafe  tn  Mrs.  llannah'3  kitchen  by  the  time  the 
ial  whialh'd  fur  the  sUition  ;  and  when  the  train 


Nn«BER  TWENTY-THREE  201 

Five  minutes  later  a  shy  little  girl  with  a  tear- 
stained  face  was  led  into  the  presence  of  the  Super- 
intendent, who  sat  at  the  telegraph  desk  sending 
messages  right  and  left.  He  rose  and  took  Plioebe's 
hands  in  his  in  a  way  that  made  the  little  group  of 
trainmen  forget  for  the  moment  that  he  was  the 
stern  "  old  man  "  of  the  division. 

"  And  this  is  the  little  girl  who  ditches  oUr  en- 
gines, is  it?"  he  said,  gravely.  "  What  put  such  a 
thing  into  your  head,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh !  it  didn't  have  to  be  put  in.  I  knew  there 
would  be  a  head-ender  if  I  didn't  do  something 
quick,  and  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else." 

Mr.  Johnson  smiled  at  the  ready  relapse  intfl  rail- 
way phrase,  and  said :  "  It  was  a  bright  thought ;  it 
has  saved  us  a  good  many  dollars,  and  probably 
some  lives,  too.  Now  if  the  company  were  a  good 
fairy,  like  those  in  the  story-books,  what  would  yoa 
ask  for  a  reward  ?" 

Phcebe  had  a  sudden  inspiration.  O  Mr.  John- 
son !  there's  one  thing  that  would  make  me  happier 
than  anything  else — if  pa  could  only  have  a  good 
run,  so  we  could  live  in  a  real  town !" 

Mr.  Johnson  looked  around  at  the  circle  of  friendly 
faces.  "  I  think  your  father  has  earned  that  for  him- 
self," he  said.     '■  Is  that  the  only  thing  you  want?" 

"  Oh !  no,  indeed,"  replied  Phwlie  candidly ;  "  but, 
you  see,  if  we  lived  in  a  town,  perhaps  I  could  get 
some  of  the  other  things.  We  might  happen  to  get 
acquainted  with  somebody  that  hatl  a  piano,  and 
then,  maybe,  I  could  learn  to  play,  and — "     Here 


'202  BEST  EELECTIONS 

rinrlic  suddenly  realiztxi  that  eho  nraa  cbattering— 
ji'tiialiy  chattering — U>  tlie  man  of  whom  every  on« 
oil  ilie  division  atood  in  awe,  and  she  ahut  up  like 
:iii  ^iv^terthat  bad  beoa  caught  napping  with  its  shell 

'I'iie  Superintendent  laughed  at  her  confusion,  and 
Silt  ilown  to  finish  hia  telegraphing.  "When  Iho 
*MiiiraI  Manager  hcarx  that,  I'uj  sure  he'll  bo  aorry 
tliiit  the  company  doesn't  run  a  piano  factory,"  he 
w:ii(l,  whereat  tho  men  laughed,  too. 

Mr.  Johnson  had  a  little  private  conversation  witli 
Anloy  and  Norman  that  night  after  I'hcebe  had  gone 
liai.'U  to  Mra.  Hannah,  and  several  things  came  of  it 
Fur  ijue,  the  enginoar  got  hia  smart  "  eight-whoelep  " 
and  !i  passenger  run  with  the  promptness  that  char- 


PART  THIRD 


6  BEST  SELECTIONS 

and  is  nothing;  if  be  bow  to  the  conviction  that  bin 
Tiiind  and  his  person  are  but  cipliers,  and  that  wliat- 
■  'V(  r  he  ia  to  be  and  is  to  win  must  be  achieved  liv 
lun!  work,  there  Ib  abundant  hope  for  him. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  a  huge  Btlf-conceit  Btill  h*jld 
jin^seasion  of  him,  and  he  straighten  stiffly  up  to 
till'  assertion  of  his  old  and  valueless  self,  or  if  lie 
liiiili  discouraged  upon  the  threshold  of  a  life  ol 
ll<'ri:c  competitions  and  more  manly  emulationa,  b<i 
iiiLizhtas  well  be  a  dead  man.  The  world  has  no 
u-iu  for  such  a  man,  and  he  has  only  to  retire  or  be 
Hidden  upon. 

When  a  young  man  has  thoroughly  comprv- 
Iii  iided  the  fact  that  he  knows  noUiing,  and  that  in- 
iniisicallv  he  ia  of  but  little  value,  the  next  thinu  for 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FOCB  7 

ciety  will  not  take  thia  matter  upon  truet,  at  least 
not  for  a  long  time ;  for  it  has  been  cheated  too  fre- 
quently. Society  is  not  very  particular  what  a  man 
does,  80  that  it  prove  him  to  be  a  man;  then  it 
will  bow  to  him  and  make  room  for  him. 

Tliere  is  no  surer  sign  of  an  unmanly  and  cow- 
ardly spirit  than  a  vague  desire  for  help,  a  wish  to 
depend,  to  lean  upon  somebody  and  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  the  industry  of  others.  There  are  multitudes  of 
young  men  who  indulge  in  dreams  of  help  from  some 
quarter  coming  in  at  a  convenient  moment  to  enable 
them  to  secure  the  success  in  life  that  tlicy  c<ivet 
The  vision  haunts  them  of  some  benevolent  old  jien- 
tleman  with  a  pocket  full  of  money,  a  tnniktul  of 
mortgages  and  stocks,  and  a  mind  remarkably  appre- 
ciative of  merit  and  genius,  who  will,  perhaps,  give  or 
lend  them  from  ten  to  twenty  thousand  dollars,  with 
which  they  will  commence  and  go  on  swimmingly. 

To  me  one  of  the  most  disgusting  sights  in  the 
world  is  that  of  a  young  man  with  healthy  blood, 
broad  shoulders,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds, 
more  or  less,  of  good  bone  and  muscle,  standing  with 
his  bands  in  his  pockets,  longing  for  help.  I  admit 
that  there  are  positions  in  which  the  most  inde- 
pendent spirit  may  accept  of  assistance — may,  in 
fact,  as  a  choice  of  evils,  deaire  it;  but  for  a  man 
who  ia  able  to  serve  himself,  to  desire  the  help  of 
others  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  plane  of  life,  is 
positive  proof  that  he  has  received  a  most  unfortu- 
nate training,  or  that  there  is  a  leaven  of  mennness 
in  his  composition  that  should  make  him  shudder. 


5  BEST  SELECTIONS 

When,  therefore,  a  young  man  has  ascertained  and 
fully  received  the  fact  that  he  does  not  know  any- 
thing ;  that  the  world  does  not  care  anything  about 
him :  that  what  he  wins  must  be  won  bv  his  own 
brain  and  brawn,  and  that  while  lie  holds  in  his  own 
hands  the  means  of  gaming  his  own  livelihood  and 
the  objects  of  his  life,  he  cannot  receive  assistance 
without  compromising  his  self-respect  and  selling 
his  freedom,  ho  is  in  a  fair  position  for  beginning  life. 
When  a  young  man  becomes  aware  that  only  by  his 
own  efforts  can  he  rise  mto  companionship  and  com- 
petition w  ith  the  sharp,  strong,  and  well-drilled  minds 
around  him,  he  is  ready  for  work,  and  not  before. 

The  next  lesson  is  that  of  patience,  thoroughness 
of  preparation,  and  contentment  with  the  regular 
channels  of  business  effort  and  enterprise.  This  is. 
perhaps,  one  of  the  most  difficult  to  learn  of  all  the 
lessons  of  life.  It  is  natural  for  the  mind  to  reach 
out  eagerly  for  immediate  results. 

As  manhood  dawns,  and  the  young  man  catches 
in  its  first  light  the  pinnacles  of  realized  dreams,  the 
golden  domes  of  high  possibilities,  and  the  purpling 
hills  of  great  delights,  and  then  looks  down  upon 
the  narrow,  sinuous,  long,  and  dusty  path  by  which 
others  have  reached  them,  he  is  apt  to  become  dis- 
gusted with  the  passage,  and  to  seek  for  success 
through  broader  channels,  by  quicker  means.  Be- 
ginning at  the  very  foot  of  the  hill  and  working 
slowly  to  the  top  seems  a  very  discouraging  process ; 
and  precisely  at  this  point  have  thousands  of  young 
men  made  shipwreck  of  their  lives. 


NUUBER  TWBSTY-FOOB  9 

Let  tbia  be  understood,  then,  B.t  starting ;  that  the 
patient  conquest  of  difficulties  which  rise  in  th/> 
r^ular  and  legitimate  channels  of  business  and  en- 
terprise is  not  only  essential  in  securing  the  suceessee 
which  you  seek,  but  it  is  essential  to  that  prepara- 
tion of  your  mind  requisite  for  the  enjoyment  (rf 
your  successes  and  for  retaining  them  when  gained. 
It  is  the  general  rule  of  Providence,  the  world  over 
and  in  all  time,  that  unearned  success  is  a  curse.  It 
is  the  rule  of  Providence  that  the  process  of  earning 
success  shall  be  the  preparation  for  its  eonservatlMi 
and  enjoyment. 

So,  day  by  day  and  week  by  week ;  so,  month  after 
month  and  year  after  year,  work  on,  and  in  that 
process  gain  strength  and  symmetry  and  nerve  and 
knowledge,  that  when  success,  patiently  and  bravely 
worked  for,  shall  come,  it  may  find  you  prepared  to 
receive  it  and  keep  it.  The  development  which  you 
will  get  in  this  braYe  and  patient  labor  will  prove, 
itself  in  the  end  the  most  valuable  of  your  successes. 
It  will  help  to  make  a  man  of  you.  It  will  give  you 
power  and  self-reliance.  It  will  give  you  not  only 
self-respect,  but  the  respect  of  your  fellows  and  the 
public  J.  G.  Holland. 

SEEIN'  THINGS. 

rram  "Lon-Songs  of  Cbtldbood,"  b;  permlMlou  o<  Chulea  Scrlbner'b 
Sau,  dew  York. 

r  AIN'T  afraid  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or   bugs,  or 

-*-        worms,  or  mice, 

An*  things  'at  girls  are  skeered  uv  I  think  are  awful 

nice  I 


lO 


BBST  SELECTIONS 


I'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess,  an'  yet  I  hate  to  go  to  bed, 
Fu],  when  I'm  tucked  up  warm  an'  «nug,  an'  wheix 

my  prayers  are  said, 
MuUier  telle  me  "Happy  Dreams!"  and  takes  away 

the  light 
All'  leaves  me  Ijnn'  all  alone  an'  seein'   things   at 

night! 

Sometimes  they're  in  the  comer,  aometinies  they're 

by  the  door, 
Soiiietiraes  they're  all  a-atandin' in  the  middle  ut 

the  floor; 
S-Kiiftimee  they  are  a-aittin'  down,  Bometituea  they're 

walking  'round 
So  -Hottly  an'  so  creepy-like  they  never  maltj 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FOOB  11 

Lucky  thing  I  ain't  a  girl  or  I'd  be  Bkeered  to  death  I 
Bein'  I'm  a  boy,   I   duck   my  head  an'  bold  my 

breath ; 
An'  I  am,  oh  I  ao  Boiry  I'm  a  aaughty  boy,  an'  then 
I  promise  to  be  better,  an'  I  say  my  prayers  again  ! 
Gran'ma  tells  me  that's  the  only  way  to  make  it 

right 
When  a  fellei  has  been  wicked  an'  sees  things  at 

night  I 

An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would  coax  me 

into  sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at  urges  me 

within ; 
An'  when  they's  pie  for  supper  or  cakes  'at'a  big  an' 

nice 
X  want  to — but  T  do  not  pass  my  plate  Vt  them 

things  twice ! 
Xo,  mther  let  starvation  wipe  me  slowly  out  o'  sight 
Than  I  should  keep  a-livin'  on  an'  seein'  things  at 

night  I 

EuQENE  Field. 


BATTLE  OF  ZARAILA. 

Abrf  dsed,  from  "  Under  Two  FUpk" 

rE  African  day  was  at  ite  noon. 
From  the  first  break  of  dawn  the  battle  had 
raged ;  now,  at  midday,  it  was  at  its  height.     Far 
in  the  interior,  almost  at  the  edge  of  the  great  desertj 


12  BEST  BEi.ErTiosa 

ill  th&t  terrible  aesHOQ  wbun  the  air  tliat  b  flame 
Itv  day  is  ice  by  night,  ami  wliuii  tbe  scorch  of  a, 
liliuing  sun  may  be  followed  in  an  hour  by  the 
Minding  fury  of  a  saow-fltomi,  the  slnughter  hwl 
^'oiie  on  hour  through  hour  undur  a  shadowlesB  shy, 
bhie  aa  ateel,  hard  as  a  sheet  of  brass.  The  Arabe 
liin!  surprised  the  French  encampment  where  it  lay 
in  ibe  centre  of  an  arid  plain  that  was  called  Zaraila. 
The  outlying  vidcttes,  the  advanced  seotjnels,  had 
Firutinized  so  long  through  the  night  every  waver- 
ing; )shade  of  cloud  and  moving  form  *)f  btiffalo  in 
l|]f  dim  distance,  that  Ibeir  sleepless  ey«*,  atraiut'd 
iind  aching,  failed  to  distinguish  this  moving  maaa 
tli;it  was  80  like  the  brown  plains  and  stiu-less  sky 
tliat  it  could  scarce  be  told  from  them.     The  nifsbt. 


HDBIBEB  TWENTY-FOUR  13 

poodle  growling  on ;  that  cloud  ao  dim,  bo  distant, 
caught  hia  sight.  Was  it  a  moving  herd,  a  shifting 
mist,  a  shadowy  play  between  the  night  and  dawn  ? 

For  a  moment  longer  he  watched  it;  then  what  it 
was  he  knew,  or  felt  by  such  strong  instinct  as  makes 
knowledge ;  and  like  the  blast  of  a  clarion  his  alarm 
rang  over  the  unarmed  and  slumbering  camp. 

An  instant,  and  the  hive  of  men,  so  still,  ao  mo- 
tionless, broke  into  violent  movement,  and  from  the 
tents  half-clothed  sleepers  poured,  wakened,  and 
fresh  in  wakening  as  hounds.  Perfect  discipline  did 
the  rest.  With  marvelous,  with  matchless  swiftness 
and  precision  they  harnessed  and  got  under  arras. 
They  were  but  fifteen  hundred  or  so  in  all— a  single 
B<iuadron  of  Chasseurs,  two  battalions  of  Zouaves, 
half  a  corps  of  Tirailleurs,  and  some  Turcos,  only 
a  branch  of  the  main  body  and  without  artillery. 
But  they  were  some  of  the  flower  of  the  army  of 
Algiers,  and  they  roused  in  a  second,  with  the  viva- 
yious  ferocity  of  the  bounding  tiger,  with  the  glad, 
eager  impatience  for  the  slaughter  of  the  unloosed 
hawk.  Yet,  rapid  in  its  wondrous  celerity  as  their 
united  action  was,  it  was  not  so  rapid  as  the  down- 
ward sweep  of  the  war-cloud  that  came  so  near, 
with  the  tossing  of  white  draperies  and  the  shine  of 
countless  sabers,  now  growing  clearer  and  clearer  out 
of  the  darkness,  till,  with  the  whirr  like  the  noisii 
of  an  eagle's  wings  and  a  swoop  like  an  eaglu's 
seizure,  the  Arabs  whirleii  down  upon  them,  met  a 
few  yards  in  advance  by  the  answering  charge  of 
the  Light  Cavalry. 


14 


BEST   Hfil.KfTlOXfl 


• 


There  was  a  crash  as  if  rock  were  hurled  tipotr 
rrM'k,  as  the  Chadspurs,  scarce  seated  in  saddle,  rushed 
fiinvard  to  save  the  pickets,  to  eucountiT  Uin  fiix 
ljliiidforo«  of  the  attack,  unil  to  give  the  infantry. 
further  in,  more  time  for  harneaa  and  defense.  Out 
of  the  cavema  of  the  night  lui  aniiod  multitude 
nii'nied  to  have  suddenly  poured.  A  moment  agi) 
lliey  had  slept  in  security ;  now  thousands  on  thon- 
Miuids  whom  they  could  not  number,  whom  they 
niuldbut  dimly  even  perceive,  were  thrt)wn  on  lh(ini 
ill  immenaurable  hoste,  which  the  encircling  chiud 
r>(  dust  served  but  to  Hinder  vnetor,  ghastlier,  and 
more  majestic. 

The  Chasaeura  could  not  charge ;  they  wera 
hi  Himed  in,  packed  between  bodies  of  hontcmon 


KUHBER   TWENTY-FOCR  15 

cut  down,  singled  out  by  the  keen  eyes  of  their  eae- 
mies.  At  last  there  remained  but  a  mere  handful 
out  of  ail  the  brilliant  squadron  that  had  galloped 
down  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn  to  meet  the  whirlwind 
of  Arab  fury.     At  their  head  was  Cecil. 

Two  horses  had  been  killed  under  him,  and  he 
had  thrown  himself  afresh  across  unwounded 
chargers,  whose  riders  had  fallen  in  the  m6l6e,  and 
at  whose  bridles  he  had  caught  as  he  shook  himself 
free  of  the  dead  animal's  stirrups.  His  bead  was 
uncovered ;  his  itniform,  hurriedly  thrown  on,  had 
been  torn  aside,  and  bis  chest  was  bare  to  the  red 
folds  of  his  sash ;  he  was  drenched  with  blood,  not 
his  own,  that  had  rained  on  him  as  he  fought,  and 
his  face  and  hia  hands  were  black  with  smoke  and 
with  powder.  He  could  not  see  a  yard  in  front  of 
him ;  he  could  not  tell  how  the  day  went  anywhere, 
save  in  that  comer  where  his  own  troop  was  hemmed 
in.  As  fast  as  they  beat  the  Arabs  back  and  forced 
themselves  some  clear  space,  so  fast  the  tribes  closed 
in  afresh.  All  he  could  see  was  that  every  officer  of 
Chasseurs  was  down,  and  that  unless  he  took  the 
vacant  place  and  rallied  them  together,  the  few  score 
troopers  that  were  still  left  would  scatter,  confused  and 
demoralized,  as  the  best  soldiers  will  at  times  when 
they  can  see  no  chief  to  follow. 

He  spurred  the  horse  he  had  just  mounted  against 
the  dense  crowd  opposing  him,  against  the  hard,  black 
wall  of  dust,  and  smoke,  and  steel,  and  savage  faces, 
and  lean,  swarthy  arms,  which  were  all  that  his  eyes 
could  see,  and  tliat  seemed  impenetrable  aa  granite, 


16  BEHT  aEi^cnoxa 

moving  B,nd  cliauging  though  it  was.  He  thrust  tfae 
giuv  agaitist  it,  while  he  waved  hia  sword  ahore  hie 
heii'l  : 
"  KnavantjUiesfrferes!  France  1  France!  France  I" 
Hia  voice,  well-known,  well-loved,  thrilled  ihe 
liL'iirts  of  his  comrades,  and  hrought  thwr  together 
likv  :i  trumpetrcall.  They  had  gone  with  him  luiuiy 
:i  tiiiie  into  the  hell  of  battle,  into  the  jaws  of  death. 
Tiifv  surged  about  him  now,  Ptriking,  thriuiting, 
fttrriiig  with  blows  o[  thi-'ir  sabers  or  their  lani-CH  antl 
hlowa  of  Uteir  hea^tt*'  forefeet,  a  passage  one  to 
anniher,  until  tliey  were  reunited  once  more  as  one 
trui>p,  while  their  shrill  aliout8,  like  an  oath  of 
ven;;eunce,  echoed  after  him  in  the  butchery  that  haa 
t>u;ilcd  \-ictoriou»  over  so  many  fields  from  the  soldiery 


NUMBEB  TWEMTY-FOUB  17 

For  the  moment  the  Ambs  recoiled  ander  the  shock 
of  that  fiery  onaUught ;  for  the  moment  they  parted 
and  wavered  and  oucilluted  beneath  the  impetua  with 
which  he  hurled  his  hundred  Cbaaseure  on  them, 
with  that  light,  swift,  indescribable  rapidity  and  re- 
aistleesneea  of  attack  cbaracteristic  of  the  African 
Cavahy. 

But  in  another  minute  the  Arabs  closed  in  on 
every  aide ;  wheeling  their  swift  coursers  hither  and 
thither ;  striking  with  lance  and  blade ;  hemming  in, 
beyond  escape,  the  doomed  fragment  of  the  Frankish 
squadron  till  there  remained  of  them  but  one  small 
nucleus,  driven  close  together,  rather  as  infantry  will 
form  than  as  cavalry  usually  does — a  ring  of  horse- 
men, of  which  every  one  liad  his  face  to  tlie  foe ;  a 
BoUd  circle  curiously  wedged  one  against  the  other, 
with  the  bodies  of  chargers  and  of  men  deep  around 
them,  and  with  the  ground  soaked  with  blood  till 
the  sand  was  one  red  morass. 

Cecil  held  the  Eagle  still,  and  looked  round  on  the 
few  left  to  him. 

"  You  are  the  sons  of  the  Old  Guard ;  die  like 
them." 

They  answered  with  a  pealing  cry,  terrible  as  the 
cry  of  the  lion  in  the  hush  of  night,  but  a  shout  that 
bad  in  it  assent,  triumph,  fesity,  victory,  even  as  they 
obeyed  bim  and  drew  up  to  die. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Arabs  honored  these 
men,  who,  alone  and  in  the  midst  of  the  hostile  force, 
held  their  ground  and  prepared  thus  to  be  slaught^Ted 
one  by  one,  till,  of  all  the  squadron  that  had  ridden 


18  BEST  eELECTIOKS 

out  in  the  darkness  of  tlie  dawn,  tliere  should  be  only 
a.  black,  liuddlud,  stiffenetl  leap  of  dead  men  j 
(if  dead  beaets.     The  chief  who  ltd  them  preee^I  i 
llicm  back,  wilhholding  tliem  from  the  end  tliat  wta   i 
^i>  near  to  their  hands  when  they  should  slrctch  that   . 
^jingle  ring  of  horsemen  all  lifeteas  in  the  dust. 

■■  You  are  great  warriors,"  he  criod,  in  the  Sabir 
tongue ;  "  surrender,  we  will  apare !" 

Cecil  looked  back  once  more  on  tlie  fragment  of 
liifl  troop,  and  raised  the  Eagle  higher  aloft  where 
the  wings  should  glisten  in  the  fuller  day.  Half 
naked,  scorched,  blinded,  with  an  ojicn  ga«li  in  hie 
fchoulderwhere  a  lance  had  struck,  and  with  hie  brow 
wet  with  the  great  dews  of  the  noon  heat  and  the 
bri'alhleaa  toil,  his  eyes  were  clear  aa  they  flashed 


KDHBER  TWENTY-FODB  19 

out  the  "  fair  Frank  "  with  a  violence  ot  a  lion  fling- 
ing himself  on  a  leopard.  One  instant  longer,  one 
flash  o!  time,  and  the  tribes  pressing  on  them  would 
have  massatjred  them  like  cattle  driven  into  the  )><'iii= 
of  slaughter.  Ere  it  could  be  done,  a  voice  like  tlit. 
ring  of  a  silver  trumpet  echoed  over  the  field  ; 

"  En  avant  1     En  avant  I    Tue,  tue,  tue !" 

Above  the  din,  the  ahouta,  the  tumult,  the  echoing 
of  the  distant  musketry,  that  .'^ilvcry  cadence  rang; 
down  into  the  midst,  with  the  tricolor  waving  above 
her  head,  the  bridle  of  her  fiery  mare  between  her 
t;eth  and  her  pistol  leveled  in  deadly  aim,  rode  La 
I'.igarette. 

The  lightning  fire  of  the  crossing  swords  played 
round  her,  the  glitter  of  lances  dazzled  her  eyes,  the 
I'eek  of  smoke  and  of  cam^e  was  round  her ;  but 
the  dashed  down  into  the  heart  of  the  conflict  as 
gayly  as  though  she  rode  at  a  review,  laughing, 
shouting,  waving  her  torn  colors  that  she  grasped,' 
with  her  curls  blowing  back  in  the  breeze,  and  her 
bright  young  face  set  in  the  warrior's  lust.  Behind 
her,  by  scarcely  a  length,  galloped  three  squadrons 
of  Chasseurs  and  Spahis,  trampling  headlong  over 
.the  corpse-strewn  field,  and  breaking  through  the 
masses  of  the  Arabs  as  though  they  were  seas  of  com. 

She  wheeled  her  mare  round  by  Cecil's  side  at  the 
moment  when,  with  six  swift  passes  of  his  blade,  he 
had  warded  oft  the  chiefs  blows  and  sent  his  own 
sword  down  through  the  chestrbones  of  the  Bedouin's 
mighty  form. 

"  Well  struck  1     The  day  is  turned !    Chaise  I" 


20  BEST  f-KUEt^TKINa 


aarslLal     I 
ere  she     1 


She  gave  the  rffder  ili  thnii);h  nlw.  were  a  marshal 
iif  ilie  £mpire;  the  suD-bltuv  ioll  on  hit  where 
vM  on  the  reariUR,  frettiiin,  half-lire<l  gray,  with  tlic 
ti'iiulor  folds  above  her  huiul  and  her  tveth  ti^lit 
i;ri)jfjed  on  the  chain-bridle,  and  her  face  all  glowing 
mill  warm  and  full  of  the  flert-e  fire  of  war — a  little 
Amazon  in  scarlet  and  blue  and  gold. 

(.'igarette  had  saved  the  day. 


OmuA. 


THE  TWO  LIVES. 


rWO  babee  were  bom  in  the  self-same  town. 
On  the  very  same  bright  day  ; 


MUIIBXB  TWIMTT-rODB 

The  other  bew,  through  the  curtain'i  part, 
The  world  where  her  sinter  moved. 

And  one  was  smlUog,  a  happy  bride, 
llie  other  knew  care  sad  woe, 

For  one  of  them  lived  in  the  terraced  houM 
And  one  in  the  street  below. 

Two  women  lay  dead  in  the  self-same  tosnif 

And  one  had  tender  care; 
The  other  was  left  to  die  alone 

On  her  pallet  so  thin  and  bare. 
One  had  many  to  mourn  her  loss, 

For  the  other  few  tears  would  flow, 
For  one  had  lived  in  the  terraced  house 

And  one  in  the  street  below. 

If  Jesus,  who  died  for  rich  and  poOTj 

In  wondrous  holy  love, 
Took  both  the  sisters  in  His  arms 

And  carrie<]  them  above ; 
Then  all  the  difference  vanished  quite, 

For  in  Heaven  none  would  know 
Which  of  them  lived  in  the  terraced  honm 

And  which  in  the  street  below. 


A  CHANGE  OF  LOCAL  COLORING. 

I  KNEW  a  lass,  her  eyes  were  blae^ 
Her  lipfl  were  red, 
Her  teeth  were  white, 
And  her  hair  was  of  a  golden  hiM 


BEST  BELECTION* 

But  now,  alas !  her  lips  are  blue, 

Her  eyes  are  red, 

Her  hair  is  white. 
And  her  teeth  are  of  a  golden  hue. 

For  Father  Time,  the  mean  old  thing, 
Haa  changed  the  local  coloring. 


THE  SCHOOL  BOYS'  STRIKE. 

I  MONO  the  aunny  memorieB  of  my  own  echool 
I  days  there  glows,  bright  and  soft  as  summirr 
nset,  the  great  strike  at  Hiuman's  in  Peoria,  way 
u  k  in  1853.     Hinman's  was  the  ereatest  achool  in 


NUHBEB  TWENTY-rOUB  2S 

"  Bpeakin' pieces."  Upon  that  we  struck.  We  en- 
dured it  three  weeks,  and  then  we  determined  to 
boycott  the  whole  busineBs.  All  the  boys  went 
into  it  Bill  Smith  and  Hub  Tuttle,  Bob  Gregg, 
E^  Easton,  Steve  Bunn,  Bill  Rodecker,  Hen  Keener, 
and  all  the  big  boys,  too.  The  first  boy  called  on  to 
''speak"  was  to  announce  the  strike,  and  as  my 
name  came  pretty  well  up  in  the  alphabet,  I  stood  a 
good  chance  of  being  leader,  a  distinction  for  which 
I  was  not  at  all  ambitious,  being  of  tender  years  and 
of  a  ruddy  countenance  and  sensitive  feelings.  But 
a  boy  named  Allen,  who  was  called  ahead  of  me, 
flunked,  and  said  his  piece, "  Hohenlinden,"  although 
we  made  such  suggestive  gestures  at  him  that  he  forgot 
half  of  it  and  broke  down  and  cried.  When  I  was 
called  I  refused  to  speak.  Being  pressed  for  a 
reason,  I  said,  in  faltering  accents,  that  "  there  wasn't 
goin'  to  be  no  more  spcakin'."  When  the  old  man, 
with  unfeigned  surprise,  asked  me  who  said  so,  I 
said  "all  of  us  did."  Then  he  said  there  would  be 
"  a  little  more  speakin' "  before  the  close  of  the  ses- 
sion, and  so  ho  led  me  out  upon  the  rostrum.  Then 
and  there,  with  feelings  which  I  now  shudder  to 
recall,  I  did  my  first  song  and  dance  act.  I  bad 
often  before  performed  my  solitary  caehuca  to  the 
lascivious  pleasing  of  "  Old  Hininan's  "  slate  frame, 
but  never  had  I  accompanied  myself  with  words. 
Boy  like,  I  had  selected  for  my  piece  a  poem  ex- 
pressive of  those  peaceful  virtues  I  most  heartily 
despised,  so  that  my  performance,  at  the  inauguration 
of  the  strike,  ran  something  like  this  : 


24 


BEST  SEI.KCnOH!! 


Oh,   not  for  me  (whadc)   is  tbe  roUing   (whack) 
dniDi,— 
Or  the  (whack,  whack!)  trumpet's  wild  appeal 
(boo,  hoo  1) 
Or  the  cry  (boo,  hoo  I)   of  (whack)  war  whi'ti  the 
(whack)  foe  is  come, 
Or  the    (ow!)   briglitly   (whapk)    thi»hii])f    sled 
(whack,  whack). 

T  cannot  convey  to  the  most  vivid  imagination  the 
Kentures  which  accompanied  the  seven  stantos  of 
tliiH  lieautiful  poem.  Saffice  toaay  that  they  kept  pace 
witti  the  old  man's  peculiar  system  of  ptmctaation, 

uiitil,  at  la&i,   overcome  with  conflicting  einotinm, 
r   wt^nt  sohhin?   to  itiv  spjLt.  and    wondered   whv   an 


KUUBER  TWENTT-FOUB  3* 

poshed  Bill  Haskell  into  a,  seat  and  the  bench  broke ; 
he  shook  Dan  Stevens  eo  that  his  feet  didn't  touch 
the  floor  for  five  minutes  ;  he  ran  across  the  room 
and  reached  out  for  Lem  Harkins,  and  Lem  had  a 
fit  before  the  old  man  touched  him ;  he  whipped  the 
two  Knowltona  with  both  hands  at  the  same  time, 
and  the  Gibbon  family,  five  boya  and  a  big  girl,  he 
hit  all  at  once  with  a  girl's  skipping-rope,  and  they 
raised  such  a  united  wail  the  clock  stopped ;  he  kept 
the  atmosphere  of  that  old  school-room  full  of  dust 
and  splinters  and  lint,  weeping  and  wailing,  until 
his  arms  ached  and  all  hearte  wearied  of  the  in- 
human strife  and  wicked  contention,  and  then  he 
ii'xxid  up  before  us,  in  a  sickening  tangle  of  strap  and 
c'Uie  and  slate  frame,  rattan  and  skipping-rope,  and 
Alked,  in  clear,  triumphant  tones  : 

"  Who  says   there   isn't  going  to  be   any  more 
tpeakin'  ?" 

And  the  boys  of  that  school  rose  up  as  of  one 
lieing,  and  shrieked  in  tones  of  anguish  : 

"  Nobody  I" 

And  I,  who  led  (hat  strike,  and  was  Hs  first 
martyr,  I  have  been  speaking  ever  since. 

R-  J.  BUBDETIK. 

THE  ORGAN-TEMPEST  OF  LUCERNE 

Permtadon  ol  the  Author. 

WE  came  to  fair  Lucerne  at  even — 
How  beauteous  was  the  scene  I 
The  snowy  Alps  like  walls  of  He*VflO 
Rose  o'er  the  Alps  of  green ; 


BIST  SELECTIONS 

The  damask  sky  a  roseate  light 
Flashed  on  the  lake,  and  low 

Above  Mt.  Pilate's  shadowy  height 
Night  bent  her  silver  bow. 

We  turned  .toward  the  faded  fan^ 

How  many  centuries  old  I 
And  entered  as  the  organ's  strain 

Along  the  arches  rolled ; 
Such  as  when  guardian  spirits  bear 

A  soul  to  realms  of  light, 
And  melts  in  the  immortal  air 

The  anthem  of  their  Sight; 
Then  followed  sin 


mrUBEB   TWENTY-POUB 

ndr  rose  die  Alps  of  white 

Above  the  Alps  of  green, 
The  slopes  lay  bright  in  the  sun  of  night, 

And  the  peaks  in  the  sun  unseen. 


A  deep  sound  shook  the  air, 

As  when  the  tempest  breaks 
Upon  the  peaks,  while  sunshine  bit 

Is  dreaming  in  the  lakes. 
The  birds  shrieked  on  their  wing; 

When  rose  a  wind  so  drear, 
Ita  troubled  spirit  seemed  to  bring 

The  shades  of  darkness  near. 
We  looked  toward  the  windows  old. 

Calm  was  the  eve  of  June, 
On  the  Bummite  shone  the  twilight'i  gold, 

And  on  Pilate  shone  the  moon, 

A  sharp  note's  lightning  flash 

Upturned  the  startled  face ; 
When  a  mighty  thunder  crash 

With  horror  filled  the  place! 
From  arch  to  arch  the  peal 

Was  echoed  loud  and  long ; 
Then  o'er  the  pathway  seemed  to  steal 

Another  seraph's  song, 
And  'mid  the  thunder's  crash 

And  the  song's  enraptured  flow, 
We  still  could  hear,  with  charmed  eai; 

The  organ  playing  low. 


BEST  SKLEcnOM 

As  passed  the  ihunder-peal, 

Came  raindrops,  faUiug  near, 
A  raiD  one  could  not  Ie«l, 

A  rain  that  smote  ttw  ear. 
And  Ke  turned  to  look  again 

Toward  the  mountMn  wall, 
Whuii  a  deep  tune  shook  the  fane, 

Like  the  avalanche's  fall. 
Loud  pii)ed  the  wind,  fa»t  poured  tile  run, 

Tlie  v«ry  earth  seoniftd  riven, 
And  wildly  daahed,  and  yet  again, 

The  smiting  fires  of  heaven. 
And  cheeks  that  wore  the  light  of  amiles 

When  alowly  rose  the  gale, 
like  piilEieless  statues  lined  the  aisles 


MOKBEP  TWENTy-FODK  * 

"  Fear  not,  God'g  1ot«  is  wHb  thee, 
Though  tempeete  round  thee  blow  I" 

And  the  Boul'a  grand  power  'twas  cure  to  trao^ 
And  its  deathless  hopes  disc^n, 

As  we  gazed  that  night  on  the  living  face 
Of  the  Organ  of  Lucerne. 

Then  from  the  church  it  paBsed, 

That  stcange  and  gfaoetly  atotm, 
And  a  parting  beam  the  twilight  out 

Througb  the  windows,  bright  and  warm. 
The  music  grew  more  clear, 

Our  gladdened  pulses  swaying, 
When  Alpine  horns  we  seemed  to  hear 

On  all  the  hillsidee  playing. 

We  left  the  church — bow  fair 

Stole  on  the  ere  of  June  I 
Cool  Righi  in  the  dusky  air, 

The  low-descending  moon  I 
Mo  breath  the  Lake  cerulean  stirred, 

No  cloud  could  eye  diBcem; 
The  Alps  were  silent— we  had  heard 

The  Organ  of  Lucerne  1 

Soon  passed  the  night — the  high  peaka  ahona 

A  wall  of  glass  and  fire, 
And  Morning,  from  her  summer  ttfoa. 

Illumined  tower  and  spire; 
I  walked  beside  the  Lake  again. 

Along  the  Alpine  meadowy 


JO  BEST   SRl.ErTION'S 

Then  soiigbt  the  old  melodioue  fane 

Beneath  ihe  Bighi's  ahsidowa. 
The  organ,  spanned  by  arches  quaint, 

Rose  eUent,  cold,  and  bare, 
Like  the  pulseless  tomb  of  a  vanished  eaint—- 

The  Master  was  not  there  1 
But  the  soul's  grand  power  'twas  mine  to  trace 

And  ita  deathless  hopes  discern, 
As  I  gazed  that  mom  on  the  still,  dead  face 

Of  the  Organ  of  Lucerne. 

HezEKIAH    BtnTBHWOBTH, 


THE  DRUNKARD'S   DEATH. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FOOB  81 

alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  lonely  chamber.  And 
when  at  last  the  mother's  grasp  relaxed,  and,  turning 
one  look  from  the  children  to  their  father,  she  vainly 
strove  to  speak,  and  full  backward  on  the  pillow,  all 
was  so  calm  and  tranquil  that  she  seemed  to  sink  to 
sleep.  They  leant  over  her ;  they  called  upon  her 
name,  softly  at  first,  and  then  in  the  loud  and  pierc- 
ing tones  of  desperation.  But  there  was  no  reply. 
They  listened  for  her  breath,  but  no  sound  came. 
They  felt  for  the  palpitation  of  the  heart,  but  no 
faint  throb  responded  to  the  touch.  That  heart  was 
broken,  and  she  was  dead  ! 

The  husband  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside, 
and  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead. 
He  gazed  from  child  to  child,  but  when  a  weeping 
eye  met  his  he  quailed  beneath  its  look.  No  word 
of  comfort  was  whispered  in  his  ear,  no  look  of  kind- 
ness lighted  on  his  face.  All  shrunk  from  him  and 
avoided  him ;  and  when  at  last  he  stt^^gered  from 
the  room,  no  one  sought  to  follow  or  console  the 
widower. 

The  time  had  been  when  many  a  friend  would 
have  crowded  round  him  in  his  affliction,  and  many 
a  heart-felt  condolence  would  have  met  him  in  his 
grief.  Where  were  they  now?  One  by  one,  friends, 
relations,  the  commonest  acquaintance  even,  had 
fallen  off  from  and  deserted  the  drunkard.  His  wife 
alone  had  clung  to  him  in  good  and  evil,  in  sickness 
and  poverty;  and  how  had  he  rewarded  her?  He 
had  reeled  from  the  tavern  to  her  bedside  in  time  to 
nee  her  die. 


82  Bi 

Ke  rushed  from  the  booae  and  walked  svifUy 
through  the  streets.  Remorse,  fear,  shame,  all 
cniwded  on  his  mind.  Stupefied  with  drink,  and 
liLwildered  with  the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed,  he 
ri-uiitcred  the  tavern  he  had  quitted  shortly  before, 
<i|ass  succeeded  glass.  His  blood  mounted,  and  hie 
bruin  whirled  round.  Death !  Every  one  must  die, 
uiiil  why  not  she?  She  was  too  good  for  him ;  her 
relations  had  often  told  him  so.  Curses  on  them! 
ll;td  they  not  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to  whine 
aiv;iy  the  time  at  home?  Well — she  was  dead,  and 
)ia;>py,  perhaps.  It  was  better  as  it  was.  Another 
jriasii — one  more !  Hurrah !  It  was  a  merry  life 
wiiiie  it  lasted,  and  he  would  make  the  most  of  it. 

Time  went  on;  the  three  children  who  were  left 


HUHBEB  TWENTY-FOUR  S9 

to  hftTfi  seen  it  last,  aad  there  were  no  sign  ol  $ny 
one  aave  himself  having  occupied  the  room  during 
the  night.  He  inquired  of  the  other  lodgers,  and 
of  the  neigbore,  but  his  daughter  had  not  been  scuu 
or  heard  of.  He  rambled  through  the  streets,  and 
scrutinized  each  wretched  face  among  the  crowds 
that  thronged  them,  with  anxious  eyes.  But  his 
search  was  fruitless,  and  he  returned  to  bis  garret 
when  night  came  on,  desolate  and  weary. 

For  many  days  he  occupied  himself  io  the  same 
manner,  but  no  trace  of  his  daughter  did  he  meet 
with,  and  no  word  of  her  reached  his  ears.  At 
length  he  gave  up  the  pursuit  as  hopeless.  He  had 
long  thought  of  the  probability  of  her  leaving  him 
and  endeavoring  to  gain  her  bread  in  quiet  elsewhere. 
She  had  left  him  at  last  to  starve  alone.  He  ground 
hia  teeth  and  cursed  her ! 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Every 
halfpenny  he  could  wring  from  the  pity  or  credulity 
of  those  to  whom  he  addressed  himself  was  spent  in 
the  old  way.  Another  year  passed  over  bis  head. 
And  at  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a 
doorstep,  faint  and  ill.  The  premature  decay  of  vice 
and  profligacy  had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  livid  ;  his  eyes  were  sunken 
and  their  sight  was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath 
his  weight,  and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  every 
limb. 

And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  missponl 
life  crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought 
of  the  time  when  he  had  a  home — a  happy,  cheerful 
8 


34  BEST  SELECTIOXS 

home— and  of  those  who  peopled  il,  and  flocked 
:iliouthini  then,  until  the  forms  nf  hia  elder  oMlcirpn, 
now  dead,  seemed  to  rise  from  the  grave  and  stand 
nli^iut  hira — so  plain,  so  clear,  and  so  distinct  they 
wure  that  he  could  touch  and  feel  ihem.  Looks  that 
III'  had  long  foi^otten  were  fixed  upon  him  once 
nil  ire ;  voices  long  since  hushed  in  death  sounded  in 
Ills  ears  like  the  music  of  village  bells.  But  it  waa 
only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  beat  heavily  upon 
lihn,  and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his  heart 
flKJiin. 

He  rose  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  fen*  paces 
further.  The  street  was  silent  and  empty;  the  lew 
[lasnengers  who  passed  by  at  that  late  hour  hurried 
quii'kly  on,  and  his  tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  ihe 


SOMBER  TWENTY-FOCB  S5 

Suddenly  he  started  up  in  the  extremity  of  terror. 
He  had  heard  hia  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night 
air,  he  knew  not  what  or  why.  Hark !  A  groan  I — 
another  1  Hia  aenaea  were  leaving  him ;  half-formed 
and  incoherent  words  burst  from  hia  lips,  and  his 
hands  sought  to  tear  and  lacerate  hie  flesh.  He  was 
going  mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his  voice 
failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  the  long  and 
dismal  street.  He  recollected  that  outeasts  like  him- 
self, condemned  to  wander  day  and  night  in  those 
dreadful  streets,  had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with 
their  own  loneliness.  He  remembered  to  have  heard, 
many  years  before,  that  a  homeless  wretch  had  once 
been  found  in  a  solitary  comer  sharpening  a  rusty 
knife  to  plunge  into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death 
to  that  endless,  weary  wandering  to  and  fro.  In  an 
instant  his  resolve  was  taken,  his  limbs  received  new 
life ;  he  ran  quickly  from  the  spot,  and  paused  not 
for  breath  until  he  reached  the  river-side. 

He  stood  beneath  the  gloomy  arch  that  forms  the 
landing-place  from  the  river. 

Strange  and  fantastic  forms  rose  to  the  surface 
and  beckoned  him  to  approach ;  dark  gleaming  eyes 
peered  from  the  water,  and  seemed  to  mock  hia  hesi- 
tation, while  hollow  murmurs  from  behind  urged 
him  onward.  He  retreated  a  few  paces,  took  a  short 
run,  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the 
water's  surface — but  what  a  change  had  taken  place 
in  that  short  time  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  1 


Life — life— in  any  fofoi,  poverty,  misery, idAtratian— 
anything  but  cli:i{itli.  liu  fuugljt  uu<i  struggled  with 
tliu  water  that  cltutKl  uver  hie  head,  ami  Ncreained  in 
jguaiee  of  terror.  The  shore — but  oiiv  foot  of  dry 
:;roiiaiI — be  could  almost  touch  the8t«)>.  Que  band's 
lireiidth  luforer  tind  hu  vrne  snTeil— but  the  tid«  bore 
liiin  ooward,  under  thn  dArlc  arcbeii  of  tb«  bridg«. 
and  ho  sank  to  the  bottom. 

Again  he  rose  and  strugifled  for  life.  For  one  in- 
stant— for  one  brief  instant — the  buildings  on  the 
river's  banks,  the  bglite  oit  the  bridge  throuKh  wbich 
llie  current  had  borne  him,  the  black  water,  and  thu 
fLL*t-flying  clouda  were  diatincUy  viaible— on«  tiKtn 
ht'  «unk,  and  once  ajrain  he  rose.  Bright  flamei  of 
fire  shot  ui>  from  earlb  to  heaven  and  recced  bvfon 


NTTXSBB  TWIiNTI'VODB 

Ibe  corn  was  ^ringia'  fneh  and  gnoBf 
And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  bigb; 

And  the  red  waa  on  your  Kp,  Mary, 
And  the  lo^e-hght  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changied,  Maiy ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  tben. ; 
111*  lark's  loud  Bong  is  in  my  etv^ 

And  the  com  is  green  again ; 
Bat  I  miss  the  b^  dasp  of  yonr  hiwJ, 

And  your  breath,,  warm  on  my  diecft ; 
And  I  still  keep  list'nni*  for  the  wordi 

You  nevermore  will  speak, 

lis  but  a  step  down  yontler  laae^ 

And  the  little  dmreb  stands  nssp— 
Tbe  chuneh  wbeve  we  ware  wed,  iiarf; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graTeysffd  lirt  between,  lAsryt 

And  my  st^  migiA  bresfk  your  rsBl^— 
For  I've  laid  yon,  darHsg,  down  to  AlMi^ 

With  your  baby  on  your  broart, 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Muy, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  frieodt 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  stiU 

The  few  our  Father  sends ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Maiy— 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  tor  nov, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


BEST  SELECnon 

Yotin  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on ; 
When  the  truat  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  yon,  Mary,  for  Uiat  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 

When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  thet^ 
And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 

I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 
WTien  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 


MUHBER  TWGNTY-rom  89 

And  III  think  I  see  the  litUe  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  mom, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

IjAdy  Ddvvsbih. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 

AbbnvUted  from  Ibe  Frencli  of  BoDgst  da  Uda^ 

YE  8ona  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory  I 
Hark  1  hark  I  what  myriads  bid  you  rise! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandaires  hoary, 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries  I 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding, 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band. 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding  ? 
To  arma  I  to  arms  I  ye  brave  I 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe; 
March  on  I  march  on  I  all  hearts  reeolvfld 
On  victory  or  death. 

Now,  now  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling. 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling, 

And  lo  I  our  fields  and  cities  blaze ; 
And  shali  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  strid^ 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide. 
With  crime  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing. 
To  arms  I  to  arma  I  ye  brave,  etc. 


BEST  SELECTfONB 

O  liberty  I  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  ^nerous  flame? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bare  confine  Ihee^ 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing 

That  falsetiood's  dagger  tyrants  wield. 
But  treedora  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  tlieir  arts  are  luiavailing. 

To  arms  I  to  arms  I  ye  brave,  etc 


MISa  EVA'S  VISIT  TO  THE  OGRE. 


HTJHBER  TWXNTr-romt  41 

peated  in  a  rdce  of  surprise ;  then,  his  tone  chang- 
ing to  exasperation,  he  added — 

"  You  have  my  orders.  Why  do  you  come  here 
fidgeting  me  ?  Don't  you  know  it's  as  much  as  your 
place  is  worth  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  man  desperately,  "  the — the  young 
lady  is  a  little  girl — quite  a  little  girl — and  I  thought 
maybe — "  he  paused,  covered  with  confusion  at  his 
own  audacity. 

He  expected  that  he  would  immediately  receive  a 
cushion  at  his  head,  or  a  string  of  abuse  that  would 
be  even  more  unpleasant  than  that  missile. 

He  looked  his  surprise  when  his  master  said  in  a 
perfectly  calm  tone,  and  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  course,  "  You  can  show  the  young  lady  in  hera" 
But  he  did  not  give  time  for  a  countermand  of  the 
order,  and  swiftly  left  the  dreaded  presenca  in  search 
of  the  visitor. 

A  moment  later  the  door  of  the  library  was  thrown 
wide,  and  John  Thomas  ceremoniouBly  announced 
"  Miss  Evangeline  Herbert." 

The  master  of  The  Turrets  turned  curiously  to  look 
at  his  visitor.  A  little  girl,  John  Thomas  had  said; 
yes,  she  was  quite  a  little  girl  certainly — a  very  little 
girl. 

This  was  what  Captain  Ransom  saw.  A  tiny 
maiden  of  some  seven  summers,  dressed  in  a  neat 
and  business-like  looking  riding  habit  of  Lincoln 
green,  with  a  neat  jockey  cap  of  the  same  color  on 
her  head,  and  a  smart  little  hunting  crop  in  her 
hand.    A  little  maiden  with  large  serious  eyes,  and 


42  BEST  SELECTIONa 

Inig  golden-brown  curie,  which,  ban^ag  over  hei 
^liouUlcr,  framed  her  pretty  face. 

SIiu  advanced  toward  him  with  outstretched  hand 
,11  ni  ii  friendly  confiding  manner  which  was  very  SUT- 
]irising  indeed  to  Captain  Ransom. 

"  Hyw  do  you  do,  your  highness?"  she  said  with  an 
uir  of  polite  interest.  "  I  am  ao  glad  I  have  found 
you  at  home." 

■'How  do  you  do?"  responded  the  astonished 
master  of  The  Turrets,  as,  too  much  taken  by  surprise 
ti>  do  anything  else,  he  feebly  returned  her  cordial 
liamkhake. 

'■  Very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Eva  in  her  old- 
fa-ihioned  way.  "  But  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  feel- 
iiL'  quite  well.     Have  you  got  a  cold?" 


HDMBEE  TWENTY-POUB  48 

dear  ?  How  are  you  ?  What's  it's  name,  if  you 
please,  your  highness  ?"  she  asked  very  politely  of 
Captain  Ransom. 

"  Her  name's  Julia,  Don't  you  mind  her  ?  Aren't 
you  frightened?"  asked  the  master  of  The  Turrets, 
noticing  with  surprise  that  Julia,  who  was  by  no 
means  a  friendly  animal  as  a  rule,  was  licking  the 
little  girl's  hand  and  making  other  sociable  canine 
demonstrations. 

"Afraid?  Oh,  no,"  said  Eva.  "I  like  dogs,  I 
have  three  of  my  own  at  home.  Do  you  like  dogs, 
your  bighneaa  7" 

"  Um — I  prefer  them  to  human  beings,"  replied 
Captain  Ransom. 

"  But  what  do  you  call  me  '  your  highness '  for, 
eh?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

Eva's  pretty  face  flushed  rosy  pink. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  she  said,  "  The 
ogres  in  my  fairy-tale  book  at  home  always  liked  to 
be  called  '  your  highness.' " 

It  was  Captain  Ransom's  turn  to  flush  then. 

"  Oh — er — the  ogres  liked  it,  did  they  ?"  he  said 
in  a  peculiar  tone.  "  And  who  told  you  I  was  an 
ogre — eh  ?" 

"Was  it  a  secret?"  Eva  asked  naively.  "I'm  so 
sorry.  I  didn't  know,  you  see.  But  I'm  afraid  every 
one  in  the  village  knows." 

"  Ah  I  I  dare  say,"  said  the  master  of  The  Turrets 
with  a  grim  smile. 

He  looked  very  hard  at  Eva,  but  there  was  nothing 


a  BEST  SBLEcnONI 

but  aweet  simplicity  to  be  read  in  hw  fnuik  and 
pri'lty  littk:  face.  No,  she  was  evidently  in  eameet 
!rliL-  WI13  not  laughing'  at  him. 

'■  Aren't  you  very  dull,  your  highness,  in  this 
gruat  hig  house  all  alone?"  Eva  asked.  "In 
my  book  the  ogre  lived  with  hie  nine  brothers,  and 
they  n'cre  all  ogree,  too.  It  was  nice  for  him  to  have 
companions,  but — but~"  She  paused  in  some  em- 
barrassnient. 

"  But  what?"  asked  the  invalid  curiously. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Eva  rather  timidly, 
■  tliat  if  there  were  ten  ogres  living  here  I  don't  think 
I  nhould  much  like  coming  to  this  house.  You  see, 
I  daresay  ogree  are  very  nif^e,  very  nice  indeed  when 
:^ed  to  tlR-ni.''  ?^lie  a^bk-d  h.^.'^liiv.  "  But  ther 


NUMBER  TWINTY-70UB  tt 

"  Please  let  me  hear  it,"  said  the  ogi«  of  The 
Turrets ;  "  I  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  subject,  I 
assure  you." 

Eva  hesitated.  She  Telt  that  this  waa  a  delicate 
matter. 

"Perhaiw  you  won't  think  it  polite?"  she  said 
questioningly,  "  It  isn't  a  bit  like  you,  though.  The 
person  that  wrote  that  story  could  never  have  seen 
a  real  ogre.     I  shall  know  now  what  they're  like." 

"  Pray  let  me  Imve  the  description.  I  shall  not  be 
offended.  I  am  unaocustomed  to  having  my  feel- 
ings spared,"  said  the  master  of  The  Turrets  with  a 
grim  smile. 

"  Well,  the  pereon  that  wrote  that  atory  (it  was  very 
silly  of  them,  and  of  course  I  know  now  they  could 
never  have  seen  a  real  ogre) — but  they  said  that  an 
ogre  was  a  person  with  red  hair  and  big  green  eyes 
and  a  hump  on  his  back,  and,"  continued  Eva,  warm- 
ing  to  her  subject,  "  they  said  that  ogres  spoke  in 
roicea  that  were  so  loud  that  they  could  be  heard  a 
hundred  miles  off,  and — and — " 

"  And  ?"  inquired  her  listener. 

"  That  they  quickly  swallowed  up  all  the  little 
children  that  came  in  their  way,"  concluded  Era 
with  dilating  eyes. 

"  And  that  was  the  sort  of  person  you  expected  to 
see  when  you  came  to  my  house  ?"  asked  the  master 
of  The  Turrets  curiously. 

Eva  nodded  her  head  vigorously. 

"  That  was  just  it,"  she  said.  "  And  it  made  me  feel 
a  tiny  bit — only  a  tiny  bit — nervous,  you  aae,"  ehe 


i6  BEST  BELECTIONB 

.iilile<l  confidentially.  "  But  when  I  saw  what  kmi 
.>f  an  ogre  you  were,  then  I  wasnt  inthe  least  frights 
.mil,  your  highness." 

( ':ipt.-iin  Random  indulged  in  a  grim  smile. 

■  Ymi  needn't  feel  nervous,"  he  said.  "I've  not 
I'liii'Tiiiny  little  girls  yet  I'm  afraid  of  them.  They're 
toil  iniiijiestible." 

Kva  pave  a  short  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I'm  po  glad!"  she  said.     "  Awfully  glad.     Now 
wi'  <".in  feel  quite  pleasant  and  comfortable  together, 

The  ii]:isler  of  The  Turrets  gave  a  grunt  of  acqui- 
e-'i-i-iKT  that  was  almost  gracious. 

■  What  maile  you  come  to  see  me,  when  you  had 
nl  such  alarming  descriptions  of  me?"  he  asked 


KUMBER   TWENTV-FOUR  47 

you'd  like  him.  He'e  such  a  good  boy — that  is,  gen* 
erally.  He  ia  a  great  comfort  to  his  old  granuy  and 
his  little  brothers;  and  now  they  are  very,  very 
unhappy  about  him." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  murmured  Captain  Ransom.  "But 
what  haa  Davy  done?"  he  continued. 

"  Why,  he's  tlie  boy  who  sliot  your  rabbit,'^'  sud 
Eva  in  a  rather  tremulous  voice. 

It  was,  she  felt,  a  critical  moment,  and  she  watched 
the  ogre's  face  with  very  anxious  eyes. 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  her  when,  instead  of 
springing  off  the  sofa  like  a  jack-in-the-box  and 
immediately  swallowing  her  whole,  he  merely  re- 
marked— 

"So  he's  the  boy  who  shot  my  rabbit,  ie  he?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  he  is  very  sony  now,"  said  Eva 
gently. 

"  Ah  I  I  warrant  be  is,"  assented  Captain  Ransom 
grimly. 

"Oh,  I  am  eo  glad  you  think  so,"  cried  Eva, 
clasping  her  little  bands  eagerly.  "  I'm  so  glad. 
I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  believe  he  was  really 
sorry," 

Captain  Ransom  was  silent.  Turning  his  face  to 
the  window,  he  avoided  the  child's  straightforward 
gaze,  which,  he  could  not  tell  why,  made  him  feel 
uncomfortable. 

"  I  came  here  to-day,"  said  Eva,  in  her  clear,  eweet 
voice,  "  to  ask  you  to  foi^ve  Davy.  I  thought  p'r'apa 
if  you  knew  that  he  was  generally  m  good  boy  yoQ 
would  let  him  off  this  once." 


48  BEST  EiXECnOS* 

C'aptun  Ranaoiu  turneti  hiti  he&d  and  looked 
sharply  at  Uie  eager  litUe  lace. 

■  Who  sent  you  hure  ?''  he  asktsd  gruffly. 

■  No  ooe  sent  me,"  Eva  replied  id  a  surprised  time, 
while  her  candid  eyen  ni«t  hU  Bcrutiniziug  gaze  uii- 
ilimhingly.  "  I  oanie  hecuttse  I  wanted  to  help  Dary 
itiiil  his  little  brothvra  and  his  poor  old  granny.  I 
am  so  eorrj-  for  tliem — you  see  they  are  old  friends 
oE  mine.  No  one  knows  I  have  come  except  Dickie, 
ami  he  will  heop  it  a  secret." 

Vhe  ogro  u[  Tbo  Turreta  Htill  watched  her  (acu 
narrowly. 

"  And  you  came  bore  alone,  and  expecting  to  B&e 
l\i<-  Icrrihle  pcrnuniige  whom  you  bo  graphically  de- 
SLTihed  to  me,  jUHt  for  thie  lad'e  sake— to  plead  foi 


NOMBBR  TWENTY-FOOB  W 

lada — ^young  scoundrels — will  be  quick  to  follow  hia 
example." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  won't,"  said  Eva  with  conviction. 
"  The  boys  of  Lavender  aren't  so  bad  as  that  They 
will  all  be  grateful  to  you  if  you  forgive  Davy,  and 
they  will  try  to  show  you  how  grateful  they  are — I 
am  BUre  of  that,"  she  added  earnestly. 

"  H'm.  I  have  not  much  confidence  in  human 
gratitude,"  the  master  of  The  Turrets  remarked 
dryly.  "  Listen,  child.  If  I  let  this  young  scatnp 
go,  I  only  do  so  because  you  ask  me,  and  beoause 
you  seem  so  anxious  for  his  liberation.  I  deteetboys 
— nasty,  mischievous  monkeys;  and  they  might  all 
go  to  prison  and  stay  there,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
Well,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Davy  shall  be 
set  free  because  you  ask  me — does  that  please 
you?" 

"  Oh,  yoQ  good,  kind  ogre !"  cried  the  little  girl, 
clapping  her  hands  for  joy.  "  Oh,  how  kind  you 
are  I  I  should  think  you  are  the  kindest  ogre  that 
ever  lived !" 

Then  she  slid  down  from  the  big  armchair. 

"  Oft  already?"  the  master  of  The  Turrets  asked, 
with  actually  a  touch  of  disappointment  in  his 
tone. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why,"  said  Eva.  "  I  want  to  ride 
down  and  tell  Davy's  granny  before  I  go  home  to  tea. 
Oh,  you  can't  think  how  lighted  she  will  be  when 
she  hears  how  kind  you  are ;  I  am  sure  she  won't 
know  what  to  do  for  joy." 

"  Well,  you  must  explain  to  her  that  it  ia  yoti  ih* 
4 


50  BEST   SEIJICTIOSS 

has  to  thantc ;  and  that  it  it  had  not  been  for  join 
intervention  her  precious  grandson  would  Iiace  put 
llie  punishment  he  dcHcrres,"  said  the  ogre,  "It^ 
iiiily  your  pleading  thitt  him  oaved  him.  Someone 
c'iae  called  on  the  same  mattor  this  tnoming  and  1 
declined  seeing  hira.     I  never  sae  any  one." 

•'  Is  that  because  you  ara  outrof-doons  so  much  ?" 
Kva  asked  innocentjy. 

"  Um — yes,  I  euppoae  so,"  replied  the  ogre  in  a 
nither  embairasaed  tone. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Ogre,  and  thank  you  very 
much  for  being  bo  kind  to  Davy ;  I'm  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  you,"  said  Kva,  extendinj;  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  the  master  of  The  Turreta  "  If 
you  ring  that  bell  a  servant  will  get  your  p<mj^__ 


NUMBER   TWENTT-FODR  01 

The  Ben-ante  at  The  Turrets  found  ample  fund  for 
l^osMip  in  the  visit  of  an  intrepid  little  girl,  who  dared 
to  beard  the  ogre  in  hia  caRtlc.  Eva's  visit  was  a  nine 
days'  wonder  in  Captain  Ransom's  establishment. 

TllKODORA    C.    ElHSLIE. 

THE  CONVICT'S  COMPLAINT. 

PeniilMlon  of  iha  Autboi. 

FROM  a  dungeon  permitted  to  go, 
After  years,  to  the  world  .of  the  free; 
Where  the  birds,  as  they  swept  to  and  fro 

I  had  envied ;  it  seeming  to  me 
That  their  songs  were  songs  always  ol  freedom 

Wliile  they  mocked  me  with  madness  of  gleet 
Permitted  at  last  to  depart. 

My  joy  seemed  to  leap  with  the  light 
Till  earth's  beauty  placed  a  prayer  in  myheaxL 

I  was  free  from  my  long  prison  night: 
I  was  free  from  its  woe,  and  its  darknees, 

And  again  in  the  world  of  delight! 

Yea,  was  free ;  but  forgot  that,  a  felon, 

I  walked  among  freemen  again, 
Till  the  birds,  whose  songs  died,  as  I  passed  Qata 

Made  all  hope  for  glad  greetings  seem  vain. 
As  the  Court  had  recorded  forever 

What  the  world  would  forever  maintun. 

It  was  hard  in  a  world  filled  with  brightneea 
Where  the  doga  even  barked  in  their  glee 

That  the  deeds  of  the  past  should  be  blood-honndi 
From  which,  through  my  life,  I  moit  flee 


BEST  BELECTIOKB 

Or  be  driven  again  back  to  prison. 
The  one  hajbor  ot  refuge  for  me. 

For  those  whom  the  law  is  employing 

Are  forever  recalling  the  past, 
And  that  past  rises  up  as  a  shadow 

In  my  pathway,  whereit-r  'tia  cast, 
And  it  stands  there  and  mocks  me  with  ruin 

And  my  heart,  which  is  sick,  dies  at  laat 

From  a  dungeon  permitted  to  no 
To  the  world,  never  more  to  be  free, 

With  a  heart  that  is  dead ;  to  and  fro 
I  wander,  and  mark  the  world's  glee, 

And  it  jars  me  :  being  dead  now  to  laughter, 


NDUBBR  TWENTY-rOUR  61 

And  08  it  slowly  fell, 
So  sftnk  my  heart  is  deep  humility; 
I  longed  to  burst  ray  fetters  and  be  free; 

I  longed  in  Christ  to  dwelL 

I  crushed  it  where  it  lay ; 
And,  lo  1  from  out  its  fragments  seemed  to  grow, 
An  incense  rising  from  an  altar  glow, 

The  blessed  power  to  pray. 

The  fragrance  of  my  prayer, 
It  floated  now  on  wings  of  faith  and  love; 
It  reached  the  Father  on  His  throne  above: 

It  bore  my  spirit  there. 

Henceforth,  be  this  ray  strife; 
That  all  ray  failures,  lying  at  my  feet, 
Hay  be  the  rounds  by  which  I  climb  to  meet 

My  higher,  fuller  life. 

Katharine  C  PENnEUk 


THE  MURDER  OP  NANCY  SIKES. 

IT  was  nearly  two  hours  before  daybreak — the  tirae 
which  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  may  be  truly 
called  the  dead  of  night ;  when  the  streets  are  silent 
and  deserted,  when  even  sound  appears  to  slumber, 
and  profligacy  and  riot  have  staggered  home  to 
dream—  it  was  at  this  still  and  silent  hour  that  the 
Jew  sat  watching  in  his  old  lair,  with  face  so  dis- 


M  BEST   SELECTIONS 

torttid  and  pale,  and  eyes  so  red  and  bloodshot,  thst 
he  looked  k-ss  like  a  man  than  wonie  hideous  phan- 
liiiii,  nioiBt  from  tbe  gnive,  and  worried  by  ail  ovil 
spirit. 

Stretched  upon  a  mattress  ujion  the  Hoor  lay  Noah 
Uluypole,  fast  asleep.  Toward  him  the  old  man 
soiiietimeB  directed  tiie  vyes  fur  an  instant,  then 
)>njught  them  back  again  to  the  candle,  which,  with 
long-burnt  nick  drooping  almo^^t  double,  and  hot 
greaiie  falling  down  in  clots  iijion  thn  tiible,  plainly 
showed  that  his  thoughts  were  busy  elsewliero. 

"At  last,"  muttered  the  Jew,  wiping  his  dry  and 
fevered  mouth.     "At  last." 

The  bell  rang  gently  as  he  spoke.  He  crept  to  tlio 
donr,  and  presently  returned,  accompanied  by  a  man 


NOHBEB  TWENTY-rODX  66 

every  mark  that  they  might  know  us  by,  and  the 
crib  where  we  might  be  most  easily  takea.  Suppose 
he  was  to  do  all  this,  and,  besides,  to  blow  upoa  a 
plant  we've  all  been  in,  more  or  less — of  hia  own 
fancy;  not  grabbed,  trapped,  earwigged  by  the 
parson,  and  brought  to  it  on  bread  and  water — but 
of  his  own  fancy  ;  to  please  hi»  own  taste ;  stealing 
out  at  nights  to  find  those  moat  interested  against  us, 
and  peaching  to  them.  Do  you  hear  me?"  cried  the 
Jew,  his  eyes  flashing  with  rage.  "  Suppose  he  did 
all  thie,  what  then  ?" 

"  Wot  d'ye  mean  ?"  asked  Sikea. 

The  Jew  made  no  answer,  but  bending  over  the 
sleeper  again,  hauled  him  into  a  sitting  posture. 
Noah  rubbed  hia  eyes,  groaning  and  giving  a  heavy 
yawn,  looked  sleepily  about  him. 

"  Tell  me  that  again — once  again,  just  for  him  to 
hear,"  said  the  Jew,  pointing  to  Sikes. 

"Teil  yer  what?"  asked  the  sleepy  Noah,  shaking 
himself  pettishly. 

"That  about — Nancy,"  said  the  Jew,  clutching 
Sikes  by  the  wrist,  as  if  to  prevent  his  leaving  the 
house  before  he  had  heard  enoi^h.  "  You  followed 
her?" 

"Yes." 

"To  London  Bridge?" 

"Yea." 

"  Where  she  met  two  people?" 

"  So  she  did." 

"  A  gentleman,  and  a  lady  that  she  had  gone  to  of 
ber  own  accord  before,  who  asked  her  to  give  up  all 


56  BEET   eivLEi'TtnN'8 

1<;lI3  and  MonKa  first,  which  she  did;  a,nd  to  descrih* 
liiin,  which  she  did;  mid  to  tell  her  what  house  it 
w.is  that  we  met  at,  and  go  to,  which  she  did ;  and 
where  it  could  be  host  watched  from,  which  she  did ; 
and  what  tirae  the  people  went  there,  wliich  she  did. 
Slie  did  all  this.  She  told  it  all,  every  word,  without 
:i  thn^at,  without  a  murmur — she  did — didn't  she?" 
t'lied'the  Jew,  half  mad  with  fury. 

"Ail  right,"  replied  Noah,  scratohing  his  bead. 
"  That's  just  what  it  waa." 

"  What  did  they  say  about  last  Sunday  ?"  do- 
iiiaiided  the  Jew. 

"About  last  Sunday?"  replied  Noah,  considering 
"  W'hy,  I  told  yer  that  before." 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FOUK     ■  A7 

anless  be  knew  wh«re  she  was  going  to,"  said  NoKb ; 
"  and  80  the  first  time  she  wont  to  see  the  lady,  she— 
ha  I  ha  I  ha!  it  made  me  laugh  when  ahe  said  it, 
that  it  did — she  gave  him  a  drink  of  laudanum." 

"  Let  me  go,"  cried  Sikes,  breaking  fiercely  from 
the  Jew, 

Flinging  the  old  man  from  him,  he  rushed  from  the 
room,  and  darted  wildly  and  furiously  up  the  stairs. 

"  Bill,  Bill  I"  cried  the  Jew,  following  him  hastily. 
"A  word.    Only  a  word." 

The  word  would  not  have  been  exchanged,  but 
that  the  housebreaker  was  unable  to  open  the  door, 
t»n  which  he  was  exi)ending  fruitless  oaths  and  vio- 
kmce  when  the  Jew  came  panting  up. 

"  Let  me  out  I"  said  Sikee.  "  Don't  apeak  to  me- 
at's not  safe.     Let  me  out,  I  say." 

"  Hear  me  speak  a  word,"  rejoined  the  Jew,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  lock,  "  you  won't  be — " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  other. 

"  You  won't  be — too— violent,  Bill  ?"  whined  the 
Jew. 

The  day  was  breaking,  and  there  waa  light  enough 
for  the  men  to  see  each  other's  faces.  They  exchanged 
one  brief  glance ;  there  waa  a  fire  in  the  eyes  of  both 
which  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Fagin,  showing  that  he  felt  that  all 
disguise  was  now  useless,  "  not  too  violent  for  safety. 
Be  crafty,  Bill,  and  not  too  bold." 

Sikes  made  no  reply,  but  pulling  open  the  door, 
of  which  the  Jew  had  turned  the  lock,  dashed  into 
the  silent  street 


68  BEST  aELECTlONI 

Without  one  pause  or  moment'E  consideration, 
without  once  turning  his  head  to  the  right  or  left,  or 
raiding  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  or  lowering  them  to  tha 
^■ruiuid,  but  looking  straight  before  him  with  savagu 
rt-sulution,  his  teeth  so  tightly  couipressed  that  the 
atrained  jaw  seemed  starting  tlirough  hia  akin,  tho 
robber  kept  on  his  heivllun^  trourse,  nor  nmttereil  a 
word,  nor  relaxed  a  nmsole,  \intil  he  reai-hed  hia  own 
diior.  He  opened  it  softly  with  a  key,  strode  lightly 
u|i  the  stairs,  and  entering  hia  own  room,  double- 
!ui:ked  the  door,  and  lifting  a  heavy  table  against  it, 
rlrew  back  the  curtain  of  the  bed. 

The  girl  was  lying  half  dressed  upon  it.  He  had 
ivakened  her  from  her  sleep,  for  she  raised  heraelf 
with  a  hurried  and  startled  look. 


miMBER   TWENTY-FOUR  59 

toward  th«  door,  placed  his  heavy  hand  upon  her 
mouth. 

"  Bill,  Bill—"  gasped  the  girl,  wreatling  with  the 
itrength  of  mortal  fear — "  I — won't  scream,  or  cry — 
not  once — hear  me — speak  to  me — tell  me  what  have 
I  done?" 

"  You  know  "  returned  the  robber,  suppressing  his 
breath.  "  You  were  watched  to-night ;  every  word 
you  said  was  heard." 

"  Then,  spare  my  life,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  as  I 
apared  yours,"  rejoined  the  girl,  clinging  to  him. 
"  Bill,  dear  Bill  I  you  cannot  have  the  heart  to  kill 
me  1  Oh,  think  of  all  I  have  given  up  only  this  one 
night  for  you.  You  shall  have  time  to  think,  and 
save  yourself  this  crime.  I  will  not  loose  my  hold. 
You  cannot  throw  me  off.  Bill,  Bill  1  for  dear  God's 
sake,  for  your  own,  for  mine,  atop  before  you  spill 
my  blood.  I  have  been  true  to  you ;  upon  my  guilty 
soul  I  have." 

The  man  struggled  violently  to  release  his  arms, 
but  those  of  the  girl  were  clasped  round  his,  and, 
tear  as  he  would,  he  could  not  tear  them  away. 

"  Bill,"  cried  the  girl,  striving  to  lay  her  head  upon 
his  breast,  "  the  gentleman,  and  that  dear  la<ly,  told 
me  to-night  of  a  home  in  sorae  foreign  country 
where  I  could  end  my  days  in  peace.  Let  me  see 
them  again,  and  beg  them  on'  ray  knees  to  show  the 
?arae  mercy  and  goodness  to  you,  and  let  us  both 
leave  tliis  dreadful  place,  and  far  apart  lead  better 
lives,  and  forget  how  we  have  lived,  except  in 
prayers,  and  never  see  each  other  more.     It  is  never 


Kj  best  SELEcnoira 

'"1  late  lo  repent.  They  told  me  bo — I  feel  it  now — 
ml  we  must  have  tinn.i^fi  UmIp,  little  time." 

Hill  freod  one  arm,  and  graaped  his  pistol.  Thn 
I'l'hiinty  uF  iiniiiGdiute  duteotioii  if  he  firdl  tlnshed 
ii'ri>H3  his  mind,  even  in  the  midst  of  bis  fury,  and 
11'  hint  it  twice  with  nil  the  force  he  could  summon, 
1 1 II  (11  the  upturned  (ace  that  almost  touched  hia  own. 

Slie  staggered  Bnd  tell,  nearly  blinded  with  Uio 
jltiwl  that  rained  down  from  a  deep  jjash  in  her  fore- 
iriiii,  hut  rising  with  difficulty  on  her  kneea,  drew 
iiKii  her  boHom  a  white  handkerchief — and  holding 
I  up  in  her  foldc-d  bunds  as  high  towaM  Heaveu  as 
icr  feeble  Btrensth  would  lot  hor,  breathed  one 
-niycr  for  mercy  to  her  Maker. 

It  was  a  ghastly  tigure  to  look  upon.     The  m\xt- 


KUlfBKR  TWENTV-POOR 


Spring  or  winter,  Buminer,  ikll, 
I^  jeet  thankful  fer  'em  all  I 

Folks  say  this  world's  full  of  strife; 
That  jeat  'livens  up  my  life ! 
When  the  good  Lord  made  it,  He 
Done  the  best  fer  you  an'  me — 
Saw  the  sky  had  too  much  blue, 
An'  rolled  up  a  cloud  or  two. 
Give  U8  light  to  eow  an'  reap, 
Then  threw  in  the  dark  fer  sleep. 
Every  single  drop  of  dew 
Twioklee  on  a  rose  fer  you. 

Tell  you  I  ihis  world's  full  o'  light- 
Sun  by  day  and  stars  by  night ; 
Sometunes  sorrow  comes  along, 
But  it's  all  mixed  up  with  song. 
Folks  that  always  make  complaint 
They  ain't  healthy — that  they  ainti 
Some  would  jest  live  with  the  chilli 
If  it  wam't  fer  doctors'  bills  I 
Always  findia'  fault  with  thin^p- 
Kill  a  bird  because  it  sings. 

I  take  life  jeet  as  I  find  it ; 

If  it's  a  sunshiny  day, 

Hot  or  oold,  I  never  mind  it^ 

That's  my  time  fer  makin'  hay; 

If  it's  rainin',  fills  my  wish — 

Makes  the  lakes  jest  right  fer  8ili( 


BE8T   fiELECTIONB 

WHien  the  snow  fallit  whit«  n»  foam, 
Then  I  track  the  rnbbite  Iioiiie. 
Spring  or  winter,  aiimmer,  fall, 
I'm  jeet  thankful  fi-r  'cm  all  1 

Frank  L.  Stantoh. 


HOW  THE  LA  RUE  STAKES  WERE  LOST. 

PennlBloii  of  }.  B.  Uppinratl  Compui;,  PbltadeliibU. 

""IJARDON  me  for  disturbing  you,  sir,  but  there  is 

i     a  little  fellow  here  who's  called   about  a  dozen 

tiiiivs  to  aee  you."     MacMasters  was  Btanding  in  the 

(Iniinvay  of  Mr.  Burnett's  study.     "Wo'vo  sent  him 


inntBER  TWBSTT-POO*  DO 

"  "E'b  dead,  air.  Died  comin'  over.  'E  adn't  been 
well  for  some  years,  sir,  and  the  steamer  doctor  said 
'e'd  trained  Hner'n  'e  could  stand.  'E  was  buried  at 
sea,  sir." 

"  And  are  you  all  alone  over  here,  without  anj- 
friends  ?" 

"  Only  me  mother,  if  you  please,  sir.  I'll  be  'avin 
to  support  'er  now." 

"  That's  so ;  you  will,"  responded  Buhiett,  with 
the  shade  of  amusement  as  courteously  concealed  aa 
if  he  had  been  discussing  the  great  game  of  base- 
ball with  the  Chinese  Minister,  "  And  what  is  your 
particular  profession?" 

"  I  'aven't  none,  sir ;  but  if  you  please,  sir,  me 
father  always  said  I  was  'andy  with  'osses." 

"  You  inherit  it,  I  presume.  I'm  sorry  your  father's 
dead.  It's  hard  to  lose  fathers.  He  was  one  of  the  best 
men  in  a  crowd  after  the  pole,  MacMasters,  I  ever 
saw."  And  young  Burnett  mused  so  long  over  the 
treasure  he  had  lost  that  the  younger  Billy  ventured 
to  break  in : 

"  Don't  you  need  another  lad  around  your  stables, 
air?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  A  boy  can't  support 
his  mother  unless  he  has  something  to  do,  can  he?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Where  are  you  now?" 

"  We  'as  a  little  room  down-town,  sir,  but  we  'asn't 
much  money  left,  an'  the  chap  wot  owns  it  'e  says 
I'll  'ave  to  'ustle  round  an'  get  the  rent,  or  bout  we 
goes." 


£ 

^^1^1 

M 

BUST   iKLECTIOKS                                                  ^ 

'  WeU,  well, 

that  is  a  financial  crisis,  isn't  it?" 

'  I  ain't  juat 

sure  wot  thai  is,  sir,  but  I  knowe  ifi 

h\; 

iidy  tough." 

'  They  all  are,  these  financial  trouhles.— MacMas- 

ten 

^  you  might  run  down  with  this  lad  and  see  if 

IV  1 J 

!it  hesaysif 

1  all  straight ;  and  if  it  is,  pay  up  their 

n-ii 

t  for  a  few 

weeks,  and  tlien  take  him  up  to  the 

Bt.l 

hies  and  tell  Mr.  Yorke  to  give  hiin  something  t« 

do. 

He  may 

make  a  rider  yet."     And  the  young 

Mr 

.  liurnett  turned  to  his  letters  once  more. 

ilftcM  asters 

found   everything  "all    straight"   at 

Billy'a  home. 

When  it  became  known  at  the  stables 

tli:( 

,t  Mr.  Burnett   himself  had  engj^ed  Oie  lad  he 

[in 

.iiiptly   betiame  an    objwt  of   tjonsiderable  en\y 

niii 

iiiitr  the  little  fainilv  of  stable-boys,  rubbers-down, 

mniBBR  TWENTY-FODB  86 

T«T7  moment  that  the  animal  had  been  assigned  to 
Billy  to  care  for  and  exercise. 

A  splendid  mare  was  Seltzer,  and  great  things  were 
expected  of  her.  What  hours  Billy  spent  in  fussing 
over  the  thoroughbred's  toilet !  And  then  the  glory 
of  the  early  morning  exercise  spin  and  the  warming 
up  before  Humber,  the  jockey,  got  around  to  put  in 
the  fine  work  on  the  mare's  training. 

"  There's  things  I  knows  about  that  mare  wot  even 
'Umber  don't,"  he  had  remarked  to  Mr.  Yorke  one 
day  after  he  had  made  a  little  private  test  of  Seltzer's 
gait  on  the  stretch  of  the  practice  track  which  lay 
around  out  of  sight  behind  the  woods.  And  Mr. 
Yorke  had  only  smiled  good-naturedly. 

It  was  the  evening  before  the  great  race  for  the  La 
Rue  stakes,  and  all  the  town,  seemingly,  was  waiting  on 
the  result.  Seltzer  wns  a  big  favorite,  with  David  only 
a  point  less  popular,  Rainbow  next,  Max  O'Rell  next, 
and  a  big  field,  with  some  rumore  of  "  dark  horses." 

Billy  was  asleep,  curled  up  like  a  little  ball  in  his 
bed,  when  he  awoke  suddenly  to  find  Bumeti  bend- 
ing over  him. 

"  Don't  be  alaimed,  my  boy,"  said  his  employer, 
kindly,  as  the  lad  rose  up  quickly  in  a  tremor  of 
apprehension.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  you  could 
ride  Seltier  in  the  race  to-morrow?" 

Billy  was  too  much  surprised  to  speak,  and  could 
only  gaze  open-moused. 

"What  do  you  think?"  remarked  young  Burnett, 
smiling. 
6 


6  BEST   SELECTIOSB 

"  I  don't  know,  air.     I  could  ride  'er,  yon  know, 

ir,  all  right,  but  I  dont  know  whether  I  could  ride 
T  tu  win  or  not,  air.  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  try, 
ir.  An'  I'd  try  'ard,  air,  bloomin'  'ard."  And  as 
i(^  hid  became  more  and  more  awake  to  a  realiza- 
iiii  of  what  it  all  meant,  his  voice  became  eager, 
liiioat  pleading. 

"  Yorke  aaya  that  no  one  can  ride  Seltzer  unless 
III.'  is  well  acquainted  with  them,  and  that,  for  six 
lontha,  only  you  and  Humber  have  had  much  of 
iiything  to  do  with  her." 

"  ^Ve  knows  each  other,  Seltzer  and  me  do,  all 
ij;ht,  sir.  She's  a  wonder,  sir,  Seltzer  ia.  Wy,  that 
w^, — that  '068 — w'y — "     And  Billy's  command  of 


NUMBER   TWRNTY-FOUB  67 

"  Indeed  I  vill,  air,  an'  I'll  aak  Seltzer  to  do  'er 
best  too,  air." 

"AH  right.  I  trust  you,  remember.  Now,  you 
won't  see  me  until  after  the  race.  Mr.  Yorke  will 
understand,  and  take  care  of  you  about  your  colors 
and  all  that.  These  are  the  only  instructions  for 
you  to  remember  :  Let  her  go  for  the  first  quarter 
then  if  you  are  well  up  among  the  leaders  hold  her 
in  a  bit  until  you  round  into  the  stretch,  and  then 
push  her  to  win.     Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Yea,  eir." 

"  They're  off  I" 

The  flag  had  dropped  almost  before  Billy  had  ex- 
pected, and  the  race  for  the  La  Rue  stakes  began. 

At  the  first  turn  it  ia  Rainbow,  Max  O'Rell,  David, 
and  Seltzer,  with  the  field  hunched  close  behind. 
Billy  drew  a  poor  position  for  the  start,  but  he  has 
pushed  Seltzer  for  the  pole  at  the  turn  in  an  almost 
miraculous  way.  He  is  lying  close  over  the  mare's 
neck,  and  is  talking  to  her  eagerly  :  "  Run,  darlin', 
run.  We've  got  to  win.  We've  jest  got  to.  Dad's 
watchin'  U3,  you  know.     Go !     Hi !     Hi !     Go !" 

The  mare  seenia  to  understand,  for  she  almost 
flies.  Past  David,  past  Max  O'Rell,  past  Rainbow,  a 
leni^th  ahead  as  the  quarter-pole  flashes  by.  Now, 
little  by  little,  the  mare  drop.'}  hack  again.  Billy  ia 
following  instructions.  It's  taking  big  chances,  he 
thinks,  in  his  secret  soul,  to  do  it  It  wouldn't  be  his 
way  ;  but  it's  what  Mr.  Burnett  said. 

The  terrible  pace  is  b^inning  to  affect  the  tern- 


fifl  BEat   SELECTIONS 

porary  leaders.  Max  O'Rell  and  Rainbow  are  being 
L'utfooted  by  the  rushing  David.  Now  he  is  ahead, 
anil  Rainbow  and  Max  O'Rell  and  Seltzer  are  ahroaet 
ilii^e  behind.  But  Billy  baa  taken  advantage  of  the 
laumentary  lead  to  snatch  the  pole,  and  is  close  be- 
hinil  the  leader.  Now  they  are  near  the  laat  turn. 
R;iinbow  and  Max  O'Rell  are  beginning  to  pound 
heavily,  and  are  dropping  farther  and  farther  hack. 
But  what  black  nose  is  this  which  has  come  up 
clof^e  to  Beltzer'a  flank?  Billy  glances  around. 
Wonder  of  wonders,  it  is  Mortality — a  rank  outsidei. 
It  looks  as  though  tfiere  was  to  be  a  surprise- party. 
Incii  by  inch  the  new-comer  is  gaining.  How  Billy 
loiipa  to  get  into  the  home-Btretch,  bo  that  he  can 


NUHBBB  TWBNTY-rOUB  09 

her  ean  lud  back  and  her  noee  stretched  out  almost 
on  a  line  with  her  neck.  Billy  swings  her  out,  and 
they  come  straiiiing  down  the  stretch,  with  the  mare 
gaining  inch  by  inch  on  the  leader ;  now  she  is  on 
his  quarter — the  saddle;  a  few  bounda,  and  it  is 
neck  and  neck. 

Mortality  has  swung  out,  and  is  following  close 
behind,  third  from  the  pole.  The  wire  is  terribly 
near.     Whoever  wins  will  win  by  a  short  head. 

Suddenly  something  happens.  A  nurse-girl  with 
her  escort  down  close  by  the  fence  baa  become  too 
deeply  interested,  and  her  little  charge  baa  toddled 
out  upon  the  track,  and  stands  piteouoly  helpless 
right  in  the  path  of  the  flying  racers.  Billy  sees  it 
all  in  an  instant — the  horrified  expression  on  the 
nurse-girl's  face  and  the  dated  look  of  the  little  tod- 
dler on  the  track  ahead.  He  can  guide  Seltzer  around 
her,  he  thinks,  but  nothing  can  save  the  baby  from 
the  rushing  "  field  "  behind. 

What  can  he  do?  A  single  false  move,  and  the 
race  is  lost  It  won't  be  his  fault  if  the  child  ia 
crushed,  anyway,  and  to  win  the  race  means  bo  much ' 
But,  someway,  something  in  the  appealing  face  of 
the  baby  makes  him  think  of  the  little  sister  asleep 
in  the  tiny  English  church-yard  so  far  away  over  the 
water,  and — he  cant  help  it,  he  must  do  something. 
But  what? 

Like  a  dash  he  remembers  a  picture  he  once  saw 
of  a  brave  hussar  who  snatched  a  little  child  from  in 
front  of  a  flying  raiment  of  hoise ;  but  this  was  so 
different  I     He  knew  he  would  fail ;  but  he  must  try. 


TO  BK5T  eELEimosa 

With  one  hard  puU  on  the  reins  he  drops  them, and 
with  a  cry  to  Seltzer  he  slips  liis  left  foot  through 
iIji^  stirrup  and  draws  the  slender  iron  uji  to  hiM 
kiR'e,  kicks  his  other  foot  clear,  imd  throws  himself 
uihlly  to  the  right,  straight  down  over  the  horse's 
^iili\  There  he  hangs,  by  one  knee,  head  down,  his 
unijs  outatret^^hed,  and  hia  Utile  body  swinging  wildly 
;i;-'!iiii8t  the  nwer's  side  at  every  bound. 

SeltMr  falters  in  her  jiate  and  drops  baefc.  With 
;i  wild  sweep  of  his  arms  Billy  dasjis  the  little  fonii 
I'lose  and  lifts  the  baby  clear  of  the  ground  as  the 
linraes  hurl  by.  The  strain  is  a  terrible  one,  and  he 
u;in  only  drag  himsell'  up  a  little  way.  His  leg  ia 
almost  broken  by  the  sharp  stirrup.     He  can  only 


miUBER   TWENTY-FOUa  71 

Billy  does  not  look  up,  "  I'm  eorry  I  lost  the  race, 
sir,"  he  sobs.  "  I  couldn't  'elp  it,  you  know,  air. 
She'd  'a'  been  killed,  sir — tiic  buby." 

'■  Well,  I  should  say  she  would.  And  how  in 
heaven's  name  it  happened  that  you  weren't  beats 
rae," 

"  I'm  sorry  sir,  I  didn't  win." 

"Eh?  What?— didn't  win?  Why,  boy,  I'd 
rather  have  my  jockey  do  that  thing  than  have  my 
horses  win  a  dozen  races.  Yea,  a  hundred,"  adds 
young  Mr.  Burnett,  after  computing  the  matter  more 
carefully. 

"  But  the  money,  sir,  wot's  been  lost?" 

"  Not  a  cent,  except  the  purse.  All  beta  on  Seltzer 
declared  off.  Come  along  up  in  the  stand,  now; 
they're  all  howling  for  you." 

And  Billy  went. 

Charles  Newton  Hood. 


THE  ART  OP  BOOK-KEEPING. 

HOW  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wiah 
To  lend,  thus  lose,  their  books, 
Are  snared  by  anglers — folks  that  fish 

With  literary  hooks. 
Who  call  and  take  some  favorite  tom^ 

But  never  read  it  through  ; 
They  thus  complete  their  set  at  home 
By  making  one  at  you. 


r2  nrafT  SELEcnoNB 

I,  ol  tny  "  9peii»er  "  (juite  bereft, 

Last  winter  eore  wiut  elinkcu ; 
Of  '■  Luiiih  "  I've  but  a  quarter  left, 

Nor  could  I  aave  niy  "  Bacun  ;" 
Aad  then  I  naw  my  "  Cmblw  "  at  last, 

Like  Hamlet,  liuckwiird  go. 
And,  as  the  tide  wan  ebliinf;  fatit, 

Of  course  I  lost  my  "  Kowti." 


My  "  Mallet "  served  to  knock  me  down. 
Which  makea  me  thus  a  talker, 

And  once,  when  I  was  out  of  town, 
My  "  Johnson  "  proved  a  "  Walker." 

While  studying  o'er  the  fire  one  day 
My  "  Hobljes  "  amidst  the  smoke,        


NTTMBSB  TWXKTT-TOUB  1 

Ky  UtUe  "  Sucklii^  "  in  the  grave 

Is  Bunk  to  swell  the  rayage, 
And  what  wa«  Crusoe's  fate  to  sare, 

'Twas  mine  to  lose— a  "  Savage." 

E'en  "  Glover's  "  works  I  cannot  put 

My  frozen  hands  upon, 
Though  ever  since  I  lost  my  "  Poote" 

My  "  Bunyan  "  has  been  gone. 
My  "  Hoyle  "  with  "  Cotton  "  went  oppreawd, 

My  "  Taylor,"  too  must  fail, 
To  save  my  "  Goldsmith  "  from  arreet, 

In  vain  I  offered  "  Bayle." 

I  "  Prior  "  sought,  but  could  not  see 

The  "  Hood  "  so  late  in  front, 
And  when  I  turned  to  hunt  for  "  Le^* 

0,  where  was  my  "  Leigh  Hunt"? 
I  tried  to  laugh,  old  Care  to  tickle, 

Yet  could  not "  Tickell "  touch, 
And  then,  alack  1  I  missed  my  "  Uutkl^" 

And  surely  mickle'a  mach. 

Tis  quite  enough  my  griets  to  fead^ 

My  sorrows  to  excuse, 
To  think  I  cannot  read  my  "  Reid," 

Nor  even  use  my  "  Hughes." 
My  classics  would  not  qui«t  lie*' 

A  thing  ao  fondly  hoped ; 
Like  Dr.  Primrose,  I  may  ciy^ 

My  "  Livy  "  has  eloped. 


I'm  far  from  ''  Young,' 
I  see  my  "  Butler  "  f. 

And  when  they  asked  a 
Tis  "  Burton  "  I  replj 

They  still  have  made  mc 

And  thus  my  grie&  di^ 
For  0,  they  cured  me  of  i 

And  eased  my  "  Akensi 
But  all  I  think  I  shall  not 

Nor  let  ray  anger  bum, 
For,  as  they  never  found  m 

They  have  not  left  me  " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BEAU 


SEVENTEEN  hundred  and 
That  was  the  date  of  thi 

First  great  George  was  K"-'   ' 


KTTHBEB  TWENTY-FOUB  76 

Walpole  talked  of  "  a  man  and  hia  price  ^ 
Nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice  : — 

Those,  in  fine,  were  the  brave  days  when 
Coaches  were  stopped  by  .  .  .  HighvaymMi  t 

And  of  all  the  knights  of  the  gentle  trade 
Mobody  bolder  than  "  Beau  Brocade." 

This  they  knew  on  the  whole  way  down 
Best,  maybe,  at  the  "  Oak  and  Crown." 

(For  timorous  cite  on  their  pilgrim^e 
Would  "  club  "  for  a  "  Guard  "  to  ride  the  stage; 

And  the  Guard  that  rode  on  more  than  one 
Was  the  Host  of  the  hostel's  sister's  son.) 

Down  the  road  on  a  March-day  fine, 
Under  the  oak  with  the  hanging  sign. 

Straining  and  creaking,  with  wheels  awry, 
Lumbering  came  the  "  Plymouth  Ply ;" 

Lumbering  up  from  the  Bi^hot  Heath, 
Guard  in  the  basket  armed  to  the  teeth  ^ 

Passengers  heavily  armed  inside ; 

Not  the  lees  surely  the  coach  had  been  tried  t 

Tried ! — but  a  couple  of  miles  away, 

B;  a  weU-dreseed  man  I — in  the  open  dayt 


Tried  sQcceeafuIlj',  Dever  a  doubt, 
Pockete  of  passeDgera  all  turned  out  I 

Cloak-bags  rifled,  and  cushiotta  ripped. 
Even  an  Enaigii's  wallet  stripped  I 

Even  a  Methodist  homer's  wife 

Otlcred  the  ctiuice  of  bor  iiiLKMy  or  life  I 

Hi^waj-man's  tnantiftrs  nu  loss  i>olit« 

Hoped  that  thoir  coppers  (returned)  were  xight  j 

Sorry  to  find  the  company  poor, 

Hoped  next  time  they'd  travel  with  mora; 


NCMBEB  TWKOTY-FOtm  77 

DeroiiBhite  Dolly,  plumb  and  red 
Spoke  from  the  gallery  overhead  ;— 

Spoke  it  out  buldly,  staring  hard: — 

"  Why  didu't  you  ehoot  then,  George,  Uie  Guard?" 

Spoke  it  out  bolder,  seeing  him  mute: — 

"  George,  the  Guard,  why  didu't  you  shoot?" 

Portly  John  grew  pale  and  red, 
(John  was  afraid  of  her,  people  said ;) 

Gasped  that  "  Dolly  was  surely  cracked** 
(John  was  afraid  of  her — that's  a  laotl) 

George  the  Guard  grew  red  and  pale. 
Slowly  finished  his  quart  of  ale: 

"  Shoot?  Why— Rabbit  him  1— didn't  he  shoot?" 
Muttered — "  The  Baggage  was  far  too  cute  I" 

"  Shoot  ?  Why,  he'd  flashed  the  pjui  in  his  eye  I" 
Muttered — "  she'd  pay  for  it  by  and  hy  I" 
Farther  than  this  made  no  reply. 

Nor  could  a  further  reply  be  made 

For  George  was  in  league  with  "  Beau  Brocade !" 

And  John  the  Host,  in  his  wakefullect  state, 
Was  not,  on  the  whole,  immaculate^ 

But  nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice 

When  Walpole  talked  of  "amaaaodbiaprice;" 


BEST  aELEcnONB 


And  wherever  Purity  found  abod^ 
'Twaa  oertainly  not  nn  a  poeting  road. 


"  Forty  "  followed  to  "  Thirty-niDe." 
Glorious  dav8  of  the  Hanover  line  I 


Princes  were  born,  and  drums  were  banged ; 
Now  and  tlien  batches  of  Highwaymen  hanged 


Glorious  iiewal  from  the  Spanish  Main; 
Porto-Bello  at  last  waa  U'en. 


GloriouB  news!  for  the  liquor  trade 
Nobody  dreamed  of  "  Beau  Brocade." 


RUHBEB  TWBNTY-FOOB  79 

Lingering  only  at  John  hie  door, 
Just  to  make  sure  of  a  jerky  snore; 

Saddling  the  gray  mare,  Dumpling  Star; 
Fetching  the  pistol  out  of  the  bar; 

(The  old  horse-pistol  that,  they  say, 
Came  from  the  battle  of  MaJplaquet;) 

Loading  with  powder  that  maids  would  va*. 
Even  in  "  Forty"  to  clear  the  flues; 

And  a  couple  of  silver  buttons,  the  Squiie 
Gave  her,  away  in  Devonshire. 

These  she  wadded — for  want  of  better — 
With  the  B-sh-p  of  L-nd-n's  "  Pastoral  Letter;" 

Looked  to  the  flint,  and  hung  the  whole, 
Ready  to  use,  at  her  pocket-hole. 

Thus  equipped  and  accoutred,  Dolly 
Clattered  away  to  "  Exciseman's  Folly^ 

Such  was  the  name  of  a  ruined  abode 
Just  on  the  edge  of  the  London  road. 

Thence  she  thought  she  might  safely  try, 
As  soon  OB  she  saw  it,  to  warn  the  "  Fly." 

But,  as  chance  fell  out,  her  rein  she  drew, 
Aa  the  Beau  came  cantering  into  the  -new. 


By  the  light  of  the  muon  she  could  aee  him  dretn 
la  his  faznoas  gold-afirigged  tauibuur  vest; 

And  vindor  his  silver-gray  surtout, 
The  laced,  historiutl  coal  of  blue, 

That  he  wore  when  he  went  to  London  Spaw, 
And  robbed  Sir  Mongo  Mucklethrsw. 

Ont  epolte  Itolly  the  chambermaid, 
(Trembling  a  little,  but  not  afmid,) 
"Stand  and  deliver,  0  'Beau  Brocade  I'" 


But  the  Beau  rode  nearer,  and  would  not  speak, 
For  he  saw  by  the  moonlight  a  rosy  cheek  j 


BUHBKR  TWKNTT-rODB  fl 

Button  the  second  a  circuit  made, 
Glanced  in  under  the  shoulder-blade; 
Down  from  the  saddle  fell  "  Beau  Brocaded 

Down  from  the  saddle  and  never  stirred ; 
Dolly  grew  white  as  a  Windsor  curd. 

Slipped  not  less  from  the  mare,  and  bound 
Strips  of  her  kirtle  about  his  wound. 

Then,  lest  hia  Worship  should  rise  and  Am, 
Fettered  his  ankles — tenderly. 

Jumped  on  his  chestnut,  Bet,  the  fleet 
(Called  after  Bet  of  Portugal  Street;) 

Came  like  the  wind  to  the  old  Inn-door; — 
Boused  fat  John  from  a  three-fold  snore ; — 

Vowed  she'd  peach  if  he  misbehaved  .  .  . 
Briefly,  the  "  Plymouth  Fly  "  was  saved  I 

Staines  and  Windsor  were  all  on  Are:— 
Dolly  was  wed  to  a  Yorkshire  squire; 
Went  to  town  at  the  K^'s  desire ! 

George  the  Guard  fled  over  the  sea: 
John  had  a  fit — of  perplexity ; 

Turned  King's  evidence,  sad  to  state ; — 
But  John  was  never  immaculate. 

As  for  the  Beau,  he  was  duly  tried, 

When  tuji  wound  was  healed,  at  Whiteuntide ; 

e 


Served,  for  a  day,  a&  the  last  of  "  eighta," 

To  the  world  of  St  James's  Street  and  "White's," 


Wont  on  hia  way  to  Tyburn  Tree, 
With  a  pomp  befitting  his  high  degree. 

Every  privilege  rank  confers : — 
Bouquet  ot  pinka  at  St.  Sepulchre's; 

Flagon  of  ale  at  Holborn  Bar ; 
Friends  (in  mourning)  to  follow  his  car 
("  t "  is  omitted  where  Heroes  are  I) 

Every  one  knows  the  speech  he  made ; 
Swore  that  he  "  rather  admired  the  Jade  I" — 


KUHBEB  TWENTY-FOUB 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  OUR  HONORED  DEAD. 

HOW  bright  are  the  honora  which  await  those  who, 
with  sacred  fortitude  and  patriotic  patience, 
have  endured  all  things  that  they  might  save  theix 
Dative  land  trom  division  and  from  the  power  of 
comiption  1  The  honored  dead !  They  that  die  for 
a  good  cause  are  redeemed  from  death.  Their  namee 
are  garnered.  Their  memory  ia  precious.  Each 
place  grows  proud  for  them  who  were  bom  there. 
There  ia  to  be,  ere  long,  in  every  village,  and  in  every 
neighborhood,  a  glowing  pride  in  its  martyred  heroee. 
Tableta  shall  preserve  their  names.  Pious  love  shall 
renew  their  inscriptions  as  time  and  the  unfeeling 
elements  efface  them.  And  tlie  national  festivals 
shall  give  multitudes  of  precious  namee  to  the 
orator's  lips.  Children  shall  grow  up  under  more 
sacred  inspirations,  whose  elder  brothers,  dying 
nobly  for  their  country,  left  a  name  that  honored 
and  inspired  all  who  bore  it  Orphan  children  shall 
find  thousands  of  fathers  and  mothers  to  love  and 
help  those  whom  dying  heroes  left  as  a  legacy  to  the 
gratitude  of  the  public. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  they  are  dead — that  generous 
host,  that  airy  army  of  invisible  heroes.  They  hover 
as  a  cloud  of  witnesses  above  this  nation.  Are  they 
dead  that  yet  speak  louder  tlian  we  can  speak,  and  a 
more  universal  language?  Are  they  dead  that  yet 
act  ?    Are  they  dead  that  yet  move  upon  society  and 


84  BBST   SELECTIONS 

iii'^liire  the  people  with  nobler  motives  and  men 
lirioio  patriotism? 

\'e  that  mourn,  let  gladness  mingle  with  your 
t(  ;ii-^.  It  was  your  eon ;  but  now  he  is  the  nation's. 
I  [<'  made  your  household  bright;  now  his  example 
inspirea  a  thousand  households.  Dear  to  his  brothers 
:niil  aiatera,  he  is  now  brother  to  every  generous 
yiiiiih  in  the  land.  Before,  he  was  narrowed,  appro- 
jirinied,  shut  up  to  you.  Now  he  is  augmented,  set 
fn  I',  and  given  to  all.  Before,  he  was  yours;  he  is 
''<ur-.  He  has  died  from  the  family  that  he  might 
llv  u  to  the  nation.  No  one  name  shall  be  forgotten 
nr  iK'glected;  and  it  shall  by  and  by  be  confessed 
•  if  our  modem  heroes,  as  it  is  of  an  ancient  hero,  that 
111'  ilid  more  for  hia  country  by  his  di'ath  than  by 


NOIfBBB  TWENTY-FODB  oS 

nation  honors.  Oh,  moumers  ol  the  euly  dead,  they 
shall  lire  again,  and  lire  forerer.  Your  sorrows  are 
our  gladness.  The  nation  lives  heoaiiee  you  gave  it 
men  that  love  it  better  than  their  own  lives.  And 
when  a  few  more  days  shall  have  cleared  the  perils 
from  around  the  nation's  brow,  and  she  shall  sit  in 
unsullied  garments  of  liberty,  with  justice  upon  her 
forehead,  love  in  her  eyes,  and  truth  upon  her  lips, 
she  shall  not  forget  those  whose  blood  gave  vital 
currents  to  her  heait,  and  whose  life,  given  to  her, 
shall  live  with  her  life  till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

Every  mountain  and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured 
name,  every  river  shall  keep  some  solemn  title,  every 
valley  and  every  lake  shall  cherish  its  honored  reg- 
ister ;  and  till  the  mountains  are  worn  out.  and  the 
rivers  forget  to  flow,  till  the  clouds  are  weary  of 
replenishing  springs,  and  the  springs  forget  to  gush, 
and  the  rills  to  sing,  shall  their  names  be  kept  fresh 
with  reverent  honors  which  are  inscribed  upon  the 
book  of  National  Remembrance. 

HsMBT  Ward  Beecheb. 


ANOTHER  DAV. 

PennlMbiB  o(  tbs  AUbak 

ANOTHER  day ! 
Oh  holy  cfjm, 
This  hour  of  dawn  t 
A  prelude  grand 
To  Nature's  Psalm  1 


BEST  SELECTIOEtS 

Anotlier  day ! 

Oh  aoleinn  thought 
That  singing  birds 
And  wakening  Earth 

To  mo  hatli  brought! 

Anothfir  clay  1 

Oh  gladsome  light. 
Benign  an']  giKHl  I 

80  mystic,  strange, 
Evolved  from  nigbtl 

Another  day  I 

Oh  rested  Earth 
All  Uirilled  with  joy. 


KOUBER   TWEJJTY-FOD»  8 

To  this  new  d&y, 
E'er  blessed  be 
Thy  natal  mom  I 

Another  day  I 

Oh  may  it  be 
The  gladdest,  beet, 
That  ever  dawned 

For  you  and  me  I 

Alice  Arnold. 


THE  MORNING  BIRD. 

k  Posm  br  Eugene  Field'*  fktlwr. 

A  BIRD  sat  in  a  maple  tree 
And  this  waa  the  8ong  he  sung  to  toe ; 
"  0  litile  boy,  awake,  arise  1 
The  sun  is  high  in  the  morning  skieB ; 
The  brook's  a-play  in  the  pasture  lot 

And  wondereth  that  the  httle  boy 
It  loveth  dearly  eometh  not 

To  share  its  turbulence  and  joy; 
The  grass  has  kissea  cool  and  sweet 
For  truant  little  brown  bare  feet; 
So  come,  0  child,  awake,  arise ! 
The  sun  is  high  in  the  morning  sides  P* 

So,  from  the  yonder  maple  tree, 
The  bird  kept  singing  unto  me; 
But  that  was  very  long  ago^ 
I  did  not  think — I  did  not  know 


Bjnr  fiELEcnoNB 

Eke  would  I  not  have  longer  slept 

Aad  dreamt  the  precious  hours  away ; 
Elae  would  I  from  my  bed  hove  leapt 

To  greet  anoUier  happy  day — 
A  day  uiitouehed  of  care  and  ruth, 
With  sweet  compauionHhip  of  youth — 
Tlie  dear  old  friends  wliich  you  and  I 
Knew  in  the  happy  days  gone  by  I 


Still  in  the  mB4)Ie  can  be  heard 
The  music  of  the  morning  bird, 

And  fltill  the  song  is  of  the  day 
That  runneth  o'er  with  chltditih  pky ; 
Still  of  each  pleasant  old-tinae  iilaca 


NDHBBR  T/ntNTY'WOm 


0  child,  the  voice  from  yonder  tree 
Calleth  to  you  and  not  to  me ; 

So  wake  and  know  those  friendehips  all 

1  would  to  God  I  could  recall  1 


C0NSTANTIU8  AND  THE  LION. 

A  PORTAL  ot  the  arena  opened,  and  the  combat- 
ant, with  a  mantle  thrown  over  hie  face  and 
figure,  was  led  into  the  Burroundery.  The  lion 
roared  and  ramped  against  the  bars  of  his  den  at 
tbe  Bight  The  guard  put  a  sword  and  buckler  into 
tlie  hands  of  the  Christian,  and  he  was  left  alone. 
He  drew  the  mantle  from  his  face,  and  beat  a  slow 
mad  firm  look  around  the  amphitheatre.  Hie  fine 
countenance  and  lofty  bearing  raised  a  universal 
shout  of  admiration.  He  might  have  stood  for  an 
Apollo  encountering  the  Python.  His  eye  at  last 
turned  on  mine.  Could  I  believe  myBensee?  Con- 
atantius  was  before  me. 

All  my  rancor  vanished.  An  hour  past  I  ooidd  - 
have  struck  the  betrayer  to  the  heart ;  I  could  have 
called  on  the  severest  vengeance  of  man  and  heaven 
to  smite  the  destroyer  ot  my  child.  But  to  see  him 
hopelessly  doomed,  the  man  I  had  honored  for  his 
noble  qualities,  whom  I  had  even  loved,  whose 
crime  was,  at  the  worst,  but  giving  way  to  the  strong- 
est temptation  that  can  bewilder  the  heart  of  man ; 
to  see  that  noble  creature  Bung  to  the  savage  beast, 
dying  in  toituree,  torn  piecemeal  before  my  eyea,  and 


90  BEST  BELECriONB 

lii^  misery  wrought  by  me!     I  would  havt  obtested 
hiaven  and  earth  to  save  him.     My  llmba  refused  to 

The  gate  of  the  den  waa  thrown  back,  and  the  lion 
iiHhed  in  with  a  roar  and  a  bound  that  bore  him 
ii:ilf  across  the  arena.  I  saw  the  sword  glitter  in 
tin;  air;  when  it  waved  again  it  was  covered  with 
Mood,  A  howl  told  that  the  blow  had  been  driven 
liume.  The  lion,  one  of  the  largest  from  Numidia, 
and  made  furious  by  thirst  and  hunger,  an  animal 
«l  prodigious  power,  crouched  for  an  instant,  as  if 
to  make  sure  of  his  prey,  crept  a  few  paces  onward 
ami  sprang  at  the  victim's  throat.  He  was  met  by 
a  second  wound,  but  hia  impulse  was  irresistible.     A 


NUMBER   TWENTY-POUR  91 

mane,  and  the  conqueror  was  dragged  whirling 
through  the  dust  at  his  heeb.  A  univereal  outcry 
now  arose  to  save  him,  if  he  were  not  already  dead. 
But  the  lion,  though  bleeding  from  every  vein,  waa 
still  too  terrible,  and  all  shrank  from  the  hazard.  At 
last  the  grasp  gave  way,  and  the  body  lay  motionless 
on  the  ground. 

What  happened  for  some  moments  after  I  know 
not.  There  was  a  struggle  at  the  portal ;  a  female 
forced  her  way  through  the  guards  and  flung  hei^ 
self  upon  the  victim.  The  sight  of  a  new  prey 
roused  the  lion ;  he  tore  the  ground  with  his  talons ; 
he  lashed  his  streaming  sides  with  his  tail ;  he  lifted 
up  his  mane  and  bared  his  fangs ;  but  his  approach- 
ing waa  no  longer  with  a  hound ;  he  dreaded  the 
sword,  and  came  snufling  the  blood  on  the  sand,  and 
stealing  round  the  body  in  circuits  still  diminishing. 

The  confusion  in  the  vast  assemblage  was  now  ex- 
treme. Voices  innumerable  called  for  aid.  Women 
screamed  and  fainted,  men  burst  into  indignant 
clamors  at  this  prolonged  cruelty.  Even  the  hard 
hearts  of  the  populace,  accustomed  as  they  were  to 
the  sacrifice  of  life,  were  roused  to  honest  curses. 
The  guards  grasped  their  arms,  and  waited  but  for  a 
sign  from  the  Emperor.     But  Nero  gave  no  sign. 

I  looked  upon  the  woman's  face  ;  it  waa  Salome ! 
I  sprang  upon  my  feet.  I  called  on  her  name — 
called  on  her,  by  every  feeling  of  nature,  to  fly  from 
that  place  of  death,  to  come  to  my  arms,  to  think  of 
the  agonies  of  all  that  loved  her. 

Sh«  had  raised  the  head  of  Constantius  on  h«r 


knee,  and  wtte  wiping  the  pale  visage  with  her 
hair.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  she  looked  up,  and 
I'iilmly  casting  back  the  lockfi  from  her  forehead,  fixed 
lifT  eyee  upon  rae.  She  etill  knelt;  one  hand  «up- 
lnjrted  the  head — with  the  other  she  pointed  to  it  aa 
]ier  only  anewer.  I  again  adjarod  her.  There  wm 
thu  silence  of  death  among  the  thousands  around  me. 
A  (ire  flashed  into  her  eye — her  check  bum«d — sho 
waved  her  hand  with  an  air  ol  superb  sorrow. 

'■  I  have  Qome  to  die,"  she  uttered,  in  a  lofty  tone. 
"This  bleeding  body  was  my  hueband — I  have  no 
t;ither.  The  world  contains  to  me  but  tlii*  clay  in  my 
iirnis.  Yet,"  and  she  kissed  the  ashy  lips  before  her, 
"  yet,  my  Conatantiud,  it  was  to  save  that  father  that 
sftTt  rleficH  tbe  Tieril  of  ibia  hnnr       H 


mniBER   TWENTY-FOUB  93 

upon  me.  I  lay  helpless  under  bim ;  I  heard  the 
gnashing  of  his  white  fangs  above. 

An  exulting  shout  arose.  I  saw  him  reel  as  if 
struck — gore  filled  bis  jaws.  Another  mighty  blow 
was  driven  to  his  heart  He  sprang  high  into  the 
air  with  a  bowl.  He  dropped ;  he  was  dead.  The 
amphitheatre  thundered  with  acclamations. 

With  Salome  clinging  to  my  bosom,  Constantius 
raised  jne  from  the  ground.  The  roar  of  the  lion 
had  roused  him  from  his  swoon,  and  two  blows  saved 
me.  The  falchion  had  broken  in  the  heart  of  the 
monster.  The  whole  multitude  stood  up,  supplicat* 
ing  for  our  lives  in  the  name  of  filial  piety  and  hero- 
ism. Nero,  devil  as  he  was,  dared  not  resist  the 
strength  of  popular  feeling.  He  waved  a  signal  to 
the  guards;  the  portal  was  opened,  and  my  children, 
sustaining  my  feeble  steps,  showered  with  garlands 
from  innumerable  hands,  slowly  led  me  from  the 
arma.  Qeoboe  Cboly. 


A  LITTLE  FELLER. 

SAY,  Sunday's  lonesome  fur  a  little  feller, 
With  pop  and  ma'am  a-readin'  all  the  while, 
An'  never  sayin'  anything  to  cheer  ye, 

An'lookin'  's  if  they  didn't  know  how  to  smile; 
With  hook  an'  line  a-hangin'  in  the  wood-shed. 
An'  lots  o'  'orms  down  by  the  outside  cellar, 
An'  Brown's  creek  just  over  by  the  mill-dam — 
Say,  Sunday's  lonesome  fur  a  little  fellu. 


94  BEST   HI!I.IvtTIO«« 

W'iiy,  Sunday's  lonesome  fur  a  litUe  feller 

Highl  on  from  Huii-up,  when  the  day  commenceB; 
Fur  little  fellers  don't  have  much  to  think  of, 

'Cvyil  chaein'  gophent  'long  the  cornfield  fences, 
Or  liiggin'  after  molea  down  in  the  woodlot, 

( ir  climhin'  after  Jipples  what'a  got  meller, 
Or  tishin'  down  in  Brown's  creek  an'  mUl-poud — 

.Say,  Sunday's  loneeon)*  fur  a  little  feller, 

Bvit  tiundfty'B  never  loneBO'OB  tur  a  little  feller 
When  he's  stayin'  down  to  Uncle  Ora's  : 

III'  took  hie  book  onct  right  out  in  the  orchard. 
An'  told  us  little  chaps  just  lotx  of  storiee ; 

All  truly  true,  that  happoned  oiict  for  holiest, 


KDHBEB  TWENTY-FODB 

A  LOVE  SCENE. 

THEY  were  sitting  aide  by  aide, 
And  she  sighed  and  then  he  sighed; 

Said  he,  "  My  darling  idol," 

And  he  idled  and  then  she  idled ; 
"  You  are  creation's  belle," 

And  she  bellowed  and  then  he  bellowed ; 
"  On  my  soul  there's  such  a  weight," 

And  he  waited  and  then  she  waited ; 
"Your  hand  I  ask,  so  bold  I've  grown," 

And  he  groaned  and  then  she  groaned  j 
"  You  shall  have  a  private  gig," 

And  she  giggled  and  then  he  giggled; 

Said  she,  "  My  dearest  Luke," 

And  he  looked  and  then  she  looked; 
"  Shan't  we  ?"     And  they  shantied ; 
"  I'll  have  thee  if  thou  wilt," 

And  he  wilted  and  then  she  wilted. 


CRIME  REVEALED  BY  CONSCIENCE. 

THE  deed  *  was  executed  with  a  degree  of  seir-pos- 
session  and  steadiness  equal  to  the  wickedneaw 
with  which  it  was  planned.  The  circmnstance.i,  now 
clearly  in  evidence,  spread  out  the  whole  scene  he- 
fore  us.     Deep  sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  vic- 


*The  murder  of  Joseph  White,  E§q.,  <rf  Salem,  Man., 

April  6,  laaa 


96  BEST  BKLEcnon 

tiin  and  on  all  beneath  hia  roof.     A   healthful  old 

iLJun,  to  whom  sleep  was  sweet,  the  first  sound  slum- 
In  in  of  the  night  held  him  in  their  soft  but  strong 
■  iLilirace.  The  assassin  enters,  through  the  window 
Mlniidy  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartments 
Willi  noiseless  foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half 
liirlited  by  the  moon;  he  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the 
^t:\ir3  and  reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber.  Of  this 
liL'  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continoed  pressure, 
till  it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise;  and  he  en- 
tiTH  and  beholds  hia  victim  before  him.  The  room 
wan  uncommonly  open  lo  the  admission  of  light 
Till)  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  turned  from 
till'  murderer,  and  the  beam  of  the  moon,  resting  on 
the  ijr.iy  locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where 


NOMBEB  TWKKTY-FOCB  97 

Ah,  gentiemen  1  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake  I 
Such  a  secret  can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  crea- 
tion of  God  has  neither  nook  nor  comer  where  the 
guilty  can  beetow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not  to  apeuk 
of  that  eye  which  glances  throngh  all  di^uises,  aod 
beholds  everything  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such 
secrets  of  guilt  are  never  safe  from  detection,  even 
by  men.  True  it  is,  generally  speaking,  tliat  "  mur- 
der will  out."  True  it  is  that  Providence  hath  so 
ordained  and  doth  so  govern  things,  tliat  those  who 
break  the  great  law  of  Heaven  by  shedding  man's 
blood  seldom  succeed  in  avoiding  discovery.  Espe- 
cially in  a  case  exciting  so  much  attention  as  this, 
discovery  must  come,  and  will  come,  sooner  or  later. 
A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  explore  every  man, 
every  thing,  every  circumstance  connected  with  the 
time  and  place ;  a  thousand  ears  catch  every  whis- 
per ;  a  thousand  excited  minds  intensely  dwell  on 
the  scene,  shedding  all  their  light,  and  ready  to  kin- 
dle the  slightest  circumstance  into  a  blaze  of  discov- 
ery. Meantime,  the  guilty  soul  cannot  keep  its  own 
secret.  It  is  false  to  itself ;  or,  rather,  it  feels  an 
irresistible  impulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to  itself. 
It  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows  not 
what  to  do  with  it  The  human  heart  was  not  made 
for  tlie  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant 

It  finds  itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment  which  it 
dares  not  acknowledge  to  God  nor  man.  A  vulture 
is  devouring  it,  and  it  can  ask  no  sympathy  or  assist- 
ance either  from  Heaven  or  earth.  The  secret  which 
the  murderer  possesses  soon  comes  to  possees  him, 
7 


98  BEST   SELECTIONS 

and,  like  the  evil  spirits  of  whi(;h  we  read,  it  ovvt- 
••n\iiea  tiim,  and  leadn  liitn  whithemoever  it  will.  Me 
Iri'ls  it  beating  a.t  his  bcnrt,  rising  to  his  throul,  ami 
i!i.iiiandiiip  disclosure.  He  tliinka  tlie  whole  worM 
•iii.-y  in  it  his  fiice,  reads  it  in  his  eyes,  iviul  ulmo'iit  hour* 
iN  \yorking9  in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts.  It 
lijH  become  hia  maat«r.  It  boimys  his  discretion,  it 
I'C'ika  down  his  eottnige,  it  conquers  hia  pnideiicp- 
\\  )ien  auspiciona  from  without  begin  to  embarrass 
liini  and  the  net  of  cin^uni stance  to  entangle  him, 
till- fatal  secret  stnigglea  with  still  greater  violence 
|.i  liLirst  forth.  It  must  be  wnfessed,  it  will  be  eon- 
I'l  -r^fd ;  there  is  no  refuge  from  confession  but  suicide, 
ami  suicide  Is  confession. 

Daniel  Webster. 


NUMBER  TWENTY -FODB 

All  through  house  and  garden, 

Far  out  into  the  field, 
They  searched  each  nook  and  comer. 

But  nothing  is  revealed. 

And  the  mother's  face  grew  pallid; 

Grandmamma's  eyea  grew  dim ; 
The  father's  gone  to  the  village ; 

No  use  to  look  for  him. 
And  the  baby  lost :  "  Where's  Rover?* 

The  mother  chanced  to  think 
Of  the  old  well  in  the  orchard, 

Where  the  cattle  used  to  drink. 

"Where's  Rover?  I  know  he'd  find  her  I" 
"  Rover!"   In  vain  they  call. 
They  hurry  away  to  the  orchard ; 

And  there  by  the  moss-grown  wall, 
Close  to  the  well  lies  Rover, 
Holding  to  baby's  dress ; 
She  was  clean  over  the  well's  edge. 
In  perfect  fearlessness  I 

She  stretched  her  little  arms  down, 

But  Rover  held  her  fast, 
And  never  seemed  to  mind  the  kicks 

The  tiny  bare  feet  cast 
So  spitefully  upon  him. 

But  wt^ged  his  tail  instead, 
To  greet  the  frightened  searchers, 

While  naughty  baby  said : 


BEST   BELEtTIONS 

*There'a  a.  'ittle  dirl  in  the  'ata^ 

Sho'a  dust  sm  big  aa  me, 
MamiDa ;  I  w&iit  to  help  hor  oat 

And  take  her  botne  to  tea ; 
But  Hover,  he  won't  let  me, 

And  I  don't  love  him.     Go 
Away,  you  naughty  Rovorl 

Oh,  wy  are  you  crying  so?" 

The  mother  kissed  her,  saying : 
"  My  darling,  understand, 
Good  Rover  saved  your  life,  my  deaiv— 

And  see,  he  licks  your  hand ! 
Ki89  Rover."     Baby  struck  him, 

But  grandma  undGrstood ; 


nUVBER  TWBNTf-rOITB  101 

What's  become  o'  a  digger?    You're  his  father?  I 
guess 

That's  a  yam  here — away,  that  won't  do  I 
Why,  I  were  his  pard,  an'  he  let  on  to  me 

That  his  father  and  mother  was  dead, 
An'  hia  sweetheart   had    pitched   'ea  to  marry   a 
swell — 

Not  true?    Wal,  that's  what  he  eaid, 
An'  you  don't  think  I'm  going  to  fancy  as  you 

Knows  anything  more  o'  my  pal 
Then  he  did  hisself  I     Hie  father  yon  are, 

But  'twas  right  what  he  said  'bout  the  gal? 
Wal,  wal,  p'raps  Joe  didn't  want  to  tell  me 

He'd  left  an  old  dad  'way  at  home. 
But  it  don't  matter  now  he's  out  of  it  all — 

Yc8,  the  wnst  o£  the  yam  is  to  come. 
Got  a  knife  ?    Don't  you  chaw  ?    Guees  111  take  a 
bit 

Afore  I  lights  out  with  the  tale. 
You  see,  twur  like  this,  Joe  were  but  a  lad, 

But  wiry,  although  he  wur  pale ; 
An'  we  hitch'd  up  together  at  Devil's-hoof  Goloh 

An'  tramped  it  to  this  very  place. 
Got  perspectin'  aroun'  an'  settled  to  work — 

You  needn't  make  up  sich  a  face. 
He  catched  right  on  to  it  'thout  any  fues, 

Tho'  he  found  that  a  shovel  and  pick 
Wur  mighty  hard  fits,  to  soft  sorter  handa, 

But  he  got  over  that  putty  quick, 
Tho'  he  never  got  over  the  loss  o'  the  gal ; 

When  the  rest  of  us  laughed  at  a  joke 


102  B 

Ho'tl  smile  a  little,  then  suck  at  his  pipe — 

(  He  ulliis  war  pun'kina  oil  smokej. 
I  ii^ed  to  let  out  at  the  laddie  sometimes, 

An'  call  'en  all  sorts  o'  darn'd  iooh, 
liut  he  ntiver  got  wkeart :  he'd  say  "  Dry  up,  Zeph," 

An'  set  to  a  cleanin'  the  tools — 
We  had  middlingish  luck  an'  pann'd  out  aome  (last 

By  working  hard,  early  and  late, 
All'  little  we  spent  at  the  shanty  above, 

i'ur  liquor  were  cut  by  my  mate. 
V't  he  never  wur  one  to  say  to  a  Boul 

An  they  oughtn't  to  drink — if  they  would, 
A  u'  he'd  stroll  up,  wi'  me  o'  !:?aturday  nights  j 

When  I  got  as  much  as  I  should 
Ih/il  see  me  cl'ar  out,  an'  many'a  ^ 


MnUBKK  TWBNTY-rOUB  103 

I  didn't  say  much  to  Joey  jis  then, 

Fur  the  new  un  call'd  drinks  fur  the  crowd, 
An'  we  jined  in  to  show  we  wur  friendly,  an'  aich, 

But  they  soon  started  talking  it  loud, 
And  some  o'  the  boys  got  chaffin'  a  few. 

An'  the  new  un,  be  got  rather  riled ; 
D'rektly  the  pistols  were  handled,  an'  then 

That  new  un  went  right  at  it,  wild  I 
Thar  wur  two  of  'em  on  him,  but  Joey  sprang  by 

As  they  tumbled  the  strange  feller  down, 
An'  knocked  over  one,  but  the  'tother  man  fired, 

An'  before  I  had  time  to  look  roun', 
Joe  fell.     The  bullet  had  gone  through  his  lungs. 

Two  or  three  of  us  soon  cl'ared  the  bar 
An'  eased  Joey  up,  but  he  whisp'red,  "  Say,  Zeph, 

Jis  stay  right  thar  whar  you  are. 
I'm  just  about  finished.     But  whar  is  that  man?" 

I  told  him  I'd  sent  'en  safe  out, 
An'  then  I  sed,  "  Joe,  you  saved  that  chap's  life ; 

Why,  what  were  you  thinking  about 
To  make  one  in  a  muss  that  wur  nothin'  to  you  ? 

The  bullet  you  got  were  clean  meant 
Fur  the  '  new  un  ; ' "  and  I  sea, "  Sarve  'en  well  right" 

He  signed  me  to  stop  an'  I  bent 
My  ear  to  bis  lips,  his  voice  wur  got  weak. 

An'  the  last  words  he  managed  to  say 
Wur,  "  Good-bye,  Zeph,  you're  grit  as  a  pard, 

I'm  glad  that  man  got  away, 
Tia  true  I'm  going,  but  don't  matter  much, 

P'raps  she'll  give  me  a  sigh 
When  she  hoars  I  wa,4  killed  in  a  quarrel  to  save 

The  life  of  ber  husband.     Good-bye." 


^  ».\J  H\^A.       XXCVVl  l^yV^VylX 


A      had  sent  word  tliat  I  an 
was  .serving  tlie  coiTee.     "  . 
marked,  tilling  the  cup  with 
^'  never  drank  nuffin'  but  U 
ners  when  all  de  gemmen 
cups— dat's  one  ob  'em  you'fc 
dey  ain't  mo'  dan  fo'  on  'em  i 
have  his  pot  of  tea.     Henny  u 
J  makes  it  now  for  Miss  Nancy. 

t  "  Henny  was  a  young  gal  dei 

ried.     Henny  b'longed  to  Colo 
de  next  plantation  to  oum. 
}]  "  Mo'  coffee,  Major?"    I  hai 

I  cup.    He  refilled  it,  and  went 

drawing  breath. 

"  Wust  scrape  I  eber  got  intc 
was  ober  Henny.  I  tell  ye  sh 
dem  days.  She  come  into  de  ki 
I  was  helpin'  git  de  dinner  re 
gone  to  de  spring-house,  an'  sh 
;  "*Chad.  wi--*  - 


NUMBEB  TWENTV-KOUK  106 

"  Wid  dat  she  grabe  &  caarvin'  knife  Irom  de  table, 
opens  de  do'  ob  de  big  oven,  cuta  off  a  leg  ob  de 
gooae,  an'  die'pears  round  de  kitchen  comer  wid  de 
leg  in  her  inouf. 

"  'Fo'  I  knowed  whar  I  waa  Marsa  John  come  to 
de  kitchen  do'  an'  saye,  '  Gittin'  late,  Chad ;  bring 
in  de  dinner.'  You  see,  Major,  dey  ain't  no  up  an' 
down-atain  in  de  big  house,  like  it  ia  yer;  kitchen 
an'  dinin'-room  all  on  de  same  flo'. 

"  Well,  sah,  I  waa  scared  to  def,  but  I  tuk  dat  goose 
an'  laid  him  wid  de  cut  side  down  on  de  bottom  of 
de  pan  'fo'  de  cook  got  back,  put  some  dreaain'  an' 
stuffln'  ober  him,  an'  shet  de  atove  do'.  Den  I  tuk 
de  sweet  potatoes  sin'  de  hominy  an'  put  'em  on  de 
table,  an'  den  I  went  bjick  in  de  kitchen  to  git  de 
baked  ham.  I  put  on  de  ham  an'  some  mo'  dishaa, 
an'  marsa  says,  lookin'  up  : 

" '  I  t'ought  dere  was  a  rooKt  goose,  Chad  ?' 

" '  I  ain't  yerd  nothin'  'bout  no  goose,'  I  eaya.  *  111 
ask  de  cook.' 

"  Next  minute  I  yerd  old  marsa  a-hollerin : 

"'Mammy  Jane,  ain't  we  got  a  goose?' 

" '  Lord-a-maasy !  yea,  marsu.  Chad,  yon  wuthlees 
nigger,  ain't  you  tuk  diit  goose  out  yit?' 

" '  Is  we  got  a  goose  ?'  said  I, 

"'la  we  got  a  goose?  Didn't  you  help  pick 
it?' 

"  I  see  wliar  my  hair  waa  short,  an'  I  snatched  up 
a  hot  dish  from  de  liearth,  opened  de  oven  do',  an' 
slide  de  goose  in  jcs  as  he  waa,  an'  lay  him  down 
b«fo'  Marsa  John. 


iNo,  f^lie  says,  lookin' 
sat;  *  I  think  I'll  take  a  le<^ 
*'  Well,  mansa  cut  off  de  1 
an'  gravy  on  wid  a  spoon,  a 
what  dat  gemman'll  have.' 

" '  VVhat'll  you  take  for  dir 
breast  o'  goose  or  slice  o'  hai 
"*No;  I  think  ril  take  ah 
"  I  didn't  say  nuffin',  but  . 
wa'n't  going  to  git  it 

"  But,  Major,  you  oughter  6 

for  der  udder  leg  ob  dat  goose 

on  de  dish,  dis  way  an'  dat  w 

dat  ole  bone-handled  caarvin 

him  up  ober  de  dish  an'  lookei 

ob  him,  an'  den  he  says,  kinde 

"  *  Chad,  whar  is  de  udder  le 

" '  It  didn't  hab  none,'  says  1 

" '  You  mean  ter  say,  Chad 

plantation  on'y  got  one  leg  ?' 

**  *  Some  ob  'em  has  an'  o^*" 


NUMBER    TWENTY-FOUR  107 

table-cloth,  I  was  dat  shuck  up ;  an'  when  de  dinner 
was  ober  he  calls  all  de  ladies  an'  gemmen,  an'  says, 
'  Now  come  down  to  de  duck-pond.  I'm  gwinetcr 
show  tlis  nigger  dat  all  de  gooses  on  my  plantation 
got  mo'  den  one  1^.' 

"  I  followed  'long,  trapesin'  after  de  whole  kit  an' 
b'ilin',  an'  when  we  got  to  de  pond  " — here  Chad 
nearly  went  into  a  convulsion  with  suppressed  laugh- 
ter— "  dar  was  de  gooses  sittin'  on  a  log  in  de  middle 
of  dat  ole  green  goose-pond  wid  one  leg  stuck  down- 
so — an'  de  udder  tucked  under  de  wing." 

Chad  was  now  on  one  leg,  balancing  himself  by 
my  chair,  the  tears  running  down  hia  cheeks. 

" '  Dar,  marsa,'  says  I, '  don't  ye  see?  Look  at  dat 
ole  gray  goose  I  Dat's  de  berry  matiih  ob  de  one  we 
had  to-day.' 

"  Den  de  ladies  all  hollered  an'  de  gemmen  laughed 
so  loud  dey  yerd  'em  at  de  big  house. 

" '  Stop,  you  black  scoun'rel '.'  Marsa  John  eaya,  hia 
face  gittin'  white  an'  he  a-jerkin'  his  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket.     '  Shoo  I' 

"  Major,  I  hope  to  have  my  brains  kicked  out  by 
a  lame  grasshopper  if  ebery  one  ob  dem  gooses  didn't 
put  down  de  udder  leg ! 

" '  Now,  you  lyin'  nigger,'  he  says,  raisin'  his  cane 
ober  my  head, '  I'll  show  you.' 

" '  Stop,  Marsa  John  1'  I  hollered ;  '  't  ain't  fair,  't 
ain't  fair,' 

" '  Why  ain't  it  fair  ?'  says  he. 

" '  'Cause,'  says  I, '  you  didn't  say  "  Shoo  1"  to  d« 
goose  what  was  on  de  table.'  " 

F.  HoPKiNsoN  Smith. 


BEST  EELECnOKS 


FOR  THE  SLUMBER  ISLANDS,  : 


A  LITTLE  song  for  bedtime, 
When,  roheJ  in  goWHH  of  white. 
All  sleepy  littlo  childrpn 

Set  sail  across  thi;  niglit 
For  that  pleasant,  pleaeaiit  country, 

Where  the  (irL'tty  dream -flowers  blon 
'Twixt  the  FUDset  and  the  sunriws, 
"For  the  Slumber  I&Iands,  ho!" 

When  the  little  ones  get  drowfty, 

And  the  heavy  lids  droop  down 
To  hide  blue  eyes  iind  black  eyM^g 


NITHBEB  TWENTV-FOna 

In  the  boat  of  dreamB  that's  waiting 

To  bear  me  o'er  the  eea. 
Oh !  take  a  kisa  and  give  one, 

And  then — away — you  go — 
A-sailing — off — to — Dreamland  I 
"For  the  Slumber  Islanda,  hoi" 


THE  LAST  STRAW. 


THESE  are  the  letters  she  Bent  me 
—Sad  little  spendthrift  of  ink- 
Vowing  her  love,  to  content  me, 
Fifty  times  over — on  pink. 

These  are  my  foolish  old  letters, 
— All  that  I  wrote  her — returned. 

Shackled  in  dainty  silk  fetters 
Captives  condemned  to  be  burned. 

Pleas  for  forgiveness  or  pity. 
Questions,  and  tender  replies, 

Miaaivea  inclined  to  be  witty. 
Dozens — and  none  of  them  wise. 

Stay  I  here's  a  senBible  billet  ] 
Ah  I  'tis  her  ultimate  note — 
*  We  have  been  long  enough  silly, 
Please  return  all  th«t  I  wzotft" 


110  BEST  SELECnOMS 


THE  EXECUTION'  OF  LADY  DE  WINTER 


L«i]y  de  Winter,  who  hAs  committed  numberles  crimes  and  who  bai 
heretofore  eec*ped  punishment  hy  reeaon  of  her  beauty  and  aedncdTt 
{i«)wer».  i5  dnallj  taken  priaoner  in  a  little,  uniued  cottage  near  Armen- 
tiirv«  by  the  three  men  whom  ahe  has  moat  cruelly  wronged.  They 
organixe  as  a  court  of  Justice  and  pronounce  upon  her  the  aentanoeof 
death.  They  then  proceed,  accompanied  by  their  lackeya,  to  the  banks 
of  the  River  Lys.  which  has  been  chosen  as  the  place  of  execution. 

IT  wad  near  midnight ;  the  moon,  lessened  by  its 
decline  and  reddened  by  the  last  traces  of  the 
storm,  arose  behind  the  little  town  of  Armenti^res, 
whicli  showed  apiinst  its  pale  light  the  dark  outline 
of  its  liouses,  and  the  outline  of  its  high  belfry.  In 
front  of  the  little  troop,  with  its  central  figure  en- 
shrouded in  black,  the  Lys  rolled  its  waters  like  a 
river  of  melted  lead  ;  whilst  on  the  other  side  was  a 
black  mass  of  trees,  cutting  a  stormy  sky,  invaded 
by  large  coppery  clouds,  which  created  a  sort  of 
twilight  amidst  the  night. 

From  time  to  time  a  broad  sheet  of  lightning 
opened  the  horizon  in  its  whole  width,  darted  like  a 
serpent  over  the  black  mass  of  trees,  and,  like  a  ter- 
rible scimiter,  divided  the  heavens  and  the  waters 
into  two  parts.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  now  disturbed 
the  heavy  atmosphere.  A  death-like  silence  op- 
pressed all  nature,  the  soil  was  humid  and  glittering 
with  the  rain  which  had  recently  fallen,  and  the 
refreshed  herbs  threw  forth  their  perfume  with  addi- 
tional energy. 

Two  of  the  lackeys  now  led,  or  rather  dragged 
along  Milady  by  her  arras ;  the  executioner  walked 
b«hind  them,  and  Lord  de  Winter,  D'Artagnan,  Por- 


RUUBER   TWENTY-FOUB  111 

thoB,  uid  Aramis  walked  behind  the  executioner. 
Planchet  and  Bazin  came  last. 

The  two  lackeys  led  Milady  to  the  banks  of  tlie 
river.  Her  mouth  was  mute ;  but  her  eyes  spoke 
with  their  inexpressible  eloquence,  supplicating  by 
turns  each  of  those  she  looked  at. 

Being  a  few  paces  in  advance,  she  whispered  to 
the  lackeys — 

"  A  thousand  pistoles  to  each  of  you,  if  you  will 
assist  my  escape ;  but  if  you  deliver  me  up  to  your 
masters,  I  have,  near  at  hand,  avengers  who  will 
make  you  pay  for  my  death  very  dearly." 

Grimaud  hesitated  ;  Mouequeton  trembled  in  all 
his  members. 

Athos,  who  heard  Milady's  voice,  came  sharply  up, 
Lord  de  Winter  did  the  same. 

"  Change  these  lackeys,"  said  he,  "  she  has  spoken 
to  them,  they  are  no  longer  safe." 

Planchet  and  Bazin  were  called  forward,  and  took 
the  places  of  Grimaud  and  Mousqueton. 

When  they  arrived  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  the 
executioner  approached  Milady  and  bound  her  hands 
and  feet. 

Then  she  broke  silence  to  cry  out — 

"  You  are  base  cowards,  miserable  assassins,  ten 
men  combined  to  murder  one  woman ;  beware  !  if  I 
am  not  saved  I  shall  be  avenged." 

"  You  are  not  a  woman,"  said  Athos  coldly  and 
sternly,  "  you  do  not  belong  to  the  human  species ; 
you  are  a  demon  escaped  from  hell,  to  which  place 
we  are  going  to  send  you  back  again." 


112  BEST  sELEcnom 

"  Ah !  you  virtuous  men  1"  said  Milady,  "  but 
please  to  reineinher  that  he  who  shall  touch  a  hair 
of  mv  head  is  himself  an  assassin.'^ 

''  The  extH^utioner  can  kill,  madame,  without  being 
on  that  acc'Dunt  an  assaasin/' said  the  man  in  the  red 
cloak,  striking:  upon  his  immense  sword ;  "  this  is 
the  last  judge  ;  that  is  all  :  Nachrichter,  as  our  neigh- 
bors, the  Gennans,  say." 

And,  as  he  bound  her  whilst  saying  these  words, 
Milady  uttered  two  or  three  wild  cries,  which  pro- 
duced a  strange  and  melancholy  effect  in  flying 
away  into  the  night,  and  losing  themselves  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods. 

"  If  I  am  guilty,  if  I  have  committed  the  crimes  you 
accuse  me  of,"  shrieked  Milady, '^  take  me  before  a  tri- 
bunal ;  you  are  not  judges,  you  cannot  condemn  me !" 

"  Why,  I  did  offer  you  Tyburn,"  said  Lord  de 
Winter,  "  why  did  you  not  accept  it  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  not  willing  to  die !"  cried  Milady, 
struggling,  "  because  I  am  too  young  to  die  I" 

"  The  woman  you  poisoned  at  Bethune  was  still 
younger  than  you,  madame,  and  yet  she  is  dead," 
said  D'Artagnan. 

"  I  will  enter  into  a  cloister,  I  will  become  a  nun," 
said  Milady. 

"  You  were  in  a  cloister,"  said  the  executioner, 
"  and  you  left  it  to  destroy  my  brother." 

Milady  uttered  a  cry  of  terror,  and  sank  upon  her 
knees. 

The  executioner  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  was 
carrying  her  toward  the  boat 


RUMBER  TWENTY-FOUR  118 

"Oht  my  God!"  cried  she,  "my  God  I  are  you 
going  to  drown  me  ?'' 

Theae  erica  ha<l  something  bo  heartrending  in 
tliein  tliat  M.  D'Artagnan,  who  had  been  at  tiret  the 
most  eager  in  iiur»uit  of  Milady,  Rank  down  on  the 
Btuiiij)  of  a  tree,  and  leant  down  liin  head,  covering 
his  enra  with  the  palms  of  hia  hands ;  and  yet,  not- 
withstanding, he  could  not  help  hearing  her  cry  and 
threaten. 

D'Artagnan  was  the  youngest  of  all  these  men; 
his  heart  failed  him. 

"Oh  I  I  cannot  hehold  this  frightful  spectacle  I" 
8aid  he ;  "  I  cannot  consent  that  this  woman  should 
die  thus !" 

Milady  heard  theae  few  words,  and  caught  at  a 
shadow  of  hope. 

"  D'Artagnan !  D'Artagnan  J"  cried  she,  "  remem- 
ber that  I  loved  you  !" 

The  young  man  rose  and  made  a  step  toward  her. 

But  Athoa  arose,  likewise,  drew  his  sword  and 
placed  liimeelf  l>etween  them, 

"  One  step  further,  M.  D'Artagnan,"  said  he,  "and 
dearly  as  I  love  you,  we  cross  swords," 

M,  D'Artagnan  sank  on  his  knees  and  prayed. 

"Come!"  continued  Athos,  " executioner, do  your 
duty." 

"  Willingly,  monseigncur,"  said  the  executioner ; 
"  for  as  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  I  firmly  believe  I  am  act- 
ing justly  in  performing  my  functions  on  this  woman." 

"That's  well." 

Athos  made  a  step  toward  Milady. 


cast  nie.      Die  in  j)eace  I'' 
Lord  (le  Winter  advanced  ii 
"  I  pard»)n    yon,"  said   he,  '* 
brother,  the  assassination  of  h 
Buckingham  ;  1  pardon  you  th 
ton,  I  pardon  you  the  attempts  \ 
Die  in  peace !" 

"And   I,"   said   M.   D'Artagi 
madame,  for  having  by  a  trick  ui 
man,  provoked   your  anger;  ar 
pardon  you  the  murder  of  my  j 
cruel  vengeance  against  me.     I 
weep  for  you.     Die  in  peace  I" 

"  I  am  lost !"  murmured    Mila 
must  die  !" 

Then  she  rose  up  herself,  and  c 
of  those  piercing  looks  which  se< 
an  eve  of  flame. 
She  saw  nothing. 
She  listened,  and  she  heard  not 
"Where  am  I  to  dip  ">"-•'    " 


HUHBER   TWENTY-FOUB  115 

"  That  i8  correct,"  said  the  executioner ;  "  and  now 
in  her  turn,  let  this  woman  see  that  I  am  not  fulfill- 
ing my  trade,  but  my  duty." 

And  lie  threw  the  money  into  the  river. 

The  boat  moved  off  toward  the  left-hand  shore 
of  the  Lys,  bearing  the  guilty  woman  and. the  execu- 
tioner; all  the  others  remained  on  the  right-hand 
bank,  whore  they  fell  on  their  knees. 

The  boat  glided  along  the  ferry-rope  under  the 
shallow  of  a  pale  cloud  which  hung  over  the  water 
at  the  moment. 

The  troop  of  friends  saw  it  gain  the  opposite 
bank  ;  the  persons  cut  the  red-tinted  horizon  with  a 
black  shade. 

Milady,  during  the  passage,  had  contrived  to  untie 
the  cord  which  fastened  her  feet;  on  coming  near 
to  the  bank,  she  jumped  lightly  on  shore  and  took  to 
flight. 

But  the  soil  was  moist ;  on  gaining  the  top  of  the 
bank,  she  nlipped  and  fell  upon  her  kneee. 

She  was  struck,  no  doubt,  with  a  superstitious  idea ; 
she  conceived  that  heaven  denied  its  succor,  and  she 
remained  in  the  attitude  she  had  fallen  in,  with  her 
hea<l  drooping  and  her  hands  cla.'iped. 

Then  they  saw  from  the  other  bank  the  execu- 
tioner raise  both  his  arms  slowly,  a  moonbeam  fell 
upon  the  blade  of  the  large  sword,  the  two  arras  fell 
with  a  sudden  force;  they  heard  the  hissing  of  the 
soimiter  and  the  cry  of  the  victim,  then  a  truncated 
mas.'i  sunk  beneath  the  blow. 

The  executioner  then  took  off  his  red  cloak,  spread 


» 


\ 


I 


ivGt  the  justice   of  God  be 
a  loud  voice. 

And  he  let  the   l)ody  drop  i 
waters,  which  closed  over  it. 

A 


WHEN  SUMMER  SAYS 


THE  cane  is  growin'  juicy  for 
mill, 
An'  the  punkin's  like  a  big  an' 
An'  the  "  Mountain  Dew  "  is  dripp 
o'  the  still, 
An'  the  fiddle  strings  are  twang 

"  Summer,  sweet  summ 

The  windy  bugles  a 

But  we're  rollin'  on  to 

An'  good  times  in  tl 

The  fireplace  is  ready  for  the  hea^ 
An'  the  hi^l*-'- — 


ITUMBER  TWENTY-FOUR  117 

But  we're  rollin'  on  to  glory 
An' good  tinic!)  in  the  fall  1 

Oh  I  Georgia — ahell  be  jolly  wJien  the  melon  crop 

When  there's  little  less  o'  summer  an'  o'  sun ; 
So  balance  to  yer  partner,  fer   the   dance'll   soon 
begin, 
An'  the  fiddle's  in  a  fidget  (or  the  fun  1 

"Summer,  sweet  summer  I" 
The  windy  buglee  call ; 
But  we're  rollin'  on  to  glory 
An'  good  timea  in  the  fall ! 

Frank  L.  Stanton, 


PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLE. 

I'LL  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  told  in  Tom  Moore ; 
Young  love  likea  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's  door ; 
So  he  called  upon  Lucy — 'twas  just  ten  o'clock — 
Ijke  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double 
knock. 

Now,  a  handmaid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at. 
Will  run  like  a  puss,  when  she  hears  a  rat-tat ; 
So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 
Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answered  the  door. 

The  meeting  was  bliss,  but  the  parting  was  woe; 
For   the    moment  will   come  when    such    eomen 
must  go; 


^n  4he  iciMflri  him.  uui  '▼hiaiieced.- 

*  Tiif:  At^xt  •.ime  ;'«iii   *oine.  li^v-.*.  Twaj*  .^oiiift 


THIE  COrRTTXrr  oP  ryrjWHEAD^  hftt 


T h  I-!  ^ .'  * '  I  r*  *  /i  if  .-■  -ill  •  ti n  I  ;  L*  ■  ".r..^irf  •  n  i  .t:u j  i)aiii  oi*  n- 
.ntf.  fr,  VIA  \  t\T.f.{\i\  Tiri batii  fur  "Taowheoii**  E«til 
*ri*i  ;t»rr  '•^riiivi.  xvni  i»tj»tint»*i  :u>  lie  reineiiir>*ini«i  t.r 
*r.«*  ofi.i'.f;;.  -w-arnlit.   vhir.h  they  perpHtraCcti  in  tiirrir 

fcri.  :v,w  .v*r.  ifi  r.h»i  kirk.  There  beiii;r  in.  infiint 
of  41  z  rri'iriti..-  .n  rhe  h»<»Sj*e.  it  va.-*  a  iiafastioQ  or 
<^i*her  Li.-*H*^.h  ^r  •h*^  !-i.«»rii*t  •*  -ttirin:!  at  h«ini»r  wich 
hirr*.  ^r.d  V.o'i/h  f^i-tiieth  "v.w  ■m.-^lfidh  in  a  ^a»rnu 
7P';ij'',  ■•he  '':0'iM  fion  r-^.i.-t  the  'leli^rht  of  g«)in2  to 
rhir'-h. 

The  fif^t  half  of  the  *er.'ice  h.a*l  h«en  zone  thr.)Uirh 
on  thl.M  p-irtir-iUr  SurflAV  'witho'it  anvthinssj  reniark- 
ahle  hApp^enin/.  It  WiW  at  the  en-l  of  the  {»<«a.Ini 
whiV-ii  i,rf'/:f'j]f-A  the  aerrnon  that  San«lers  EI.shioner, 
who  «»at  near  the  (Wtr,  Iowere«l  hi-*  head  until  it  was 
no  higgler  than  the  pewj^  and  in  that  attitade,  look- 


JTOMBER  TWKNTY-FOUR  119 

fng  almost  like  a  four-footed  animal,  Blipped  out  of 
the  church.  In  their  e^emeaa  to  be  at  the  eermon, 
m:my  of  the  congregation  did  not  notice  him,  and 
those  who  did,  put  the  matter  by  in  their  minds  for 
future  investigation.  Sam'l,  however,  could  not  take 
it  so  coolly.  From  his  seat  in  the  gallery  he  saw 
Sanders  disappear,  and  his  mind  misgave  him. 
With  the  true  lover's  instinct,  he  understood  it  all. 
Sanders  had  been  struck  by  the  fine  turn-out  in  the 
T'nowhead  pew.  Bell  was  alone  at  the  tami.  San- 
ders, doubtless,  was  off  to  propose,  and  he,  Sam'l, 
was  left  behind. 

The  suspense  was  terrible.  Sam'l  and  Sanders 
had  both  known  all  along  that  Bell  would  take  the 
first  of  the  two  who  asked  her.  Even  those  who 
thought  her  proud,  admitted  that  she  was  modest. 
Bitterly  the  weaver  repented  having  waited  so  long. 
Now  it  was  too  late.  In  ten  minutes  Sanders  would 
be  at  T'nowhead;  in  an  hour  all  would  be  over, 
Sam'l  rose  to  his  feet  in  a  daze.  His  mother  pulled 
him  down  by  the  coat-tail,  and  his  father  shook  him, 
thinking  he  was  walking  in  his  sleep.  He  tottered 
past  them,  however,  hurried  up  the  aisle,  and  was 
gone  before  the  minister  could  do  more  than  stop 
in  the  middle  o!  a  whirl  and  gape  in  horror  after 
him. 

A  number  o!  the  congregation  felt  that  day  the 
advant^e  of  sitting  in  the  loft.  What  was  a  mys- 
tery to  thote  down-stairs  was  revealed  them.  From 
the  gallery  windows  they  had  a  fine  open  view  to  the 
•outh ',  and  aa  Sami  took  the  common,  which  was  a 


120  BEST  SELECTIONS 

short  cut,  though  a  steep  ascent,  to  T^owhead,  he 
w:is  never  out  of  their  Ime  of  vision.  Sanders  was 
not  to  be  seen,  but  they  guessed  rightly  the  reason 
why.  Thinking  he  had  ample  time,  he  had  gone 
round  by  the  main  road  to  save  his  boots — perhaps 
a  little  scared  by  what  was  coming.  Saml's  design 
was  to  forestall  him  by  taking  the  shorter  path  over 
the  burn  and  up  the  commonty. 

It  was  a  race  for  a  wife,  and  several  onlookers  in 
the  ^Uery  braved  the  minister's  displeasure  to  see 
who  won.  Those  who  favored  SaniTs  suit  exultingly 
saw  him  leap  the  stream,  while  the  friends  of  Sanders 
fixed  their  eyes  on  the  top  of  the  common  where  it 
ran  into  the  road.  Sanders  must  come  into  sight 
there,  and  the  one  who  reached  this  point  first 
would  get  Bell.  The  chances  were  in  Sanders- 
favor. 

Had  it  been  any  other  day  in  the  week,  Sara! 
might  have  run.  So  some  of  the  congregation  in  the 
gallery  were  thinking,  when  suddenly  they  saw  him 
bend  low  and  then  take  to  his  heels.  He  had  caught 
sight  of  Sanders'  head  bobbing  over  the  hedge  that 
separated  the  road  from  the  common,  and  feared 
that  Sanders  might  see  him.  The  congregation  who 
could  crane  their  necks  sufficientlv  saw  a  black 

* 

object,  which  they  guessed  to  be  the  carter's  hat, 
crawling  along  the  hedge-top.  For  a  moment  it  was 
motionless,  and  then  it  shot  ahead.  The  rivals  had 
seen  each  other.  It  was  now  a  hot  race.  Sauil,  din- 
sembling  no  longer,  clattered  up  the  common,  be- 
coming smaller  and  smaller  to  the  onlookers  as  he 


nUHBER  TWENTY-POUB  121 

□9ared  the  top.  More  than  ono  person  in  the  gallery 
almost  rose  to  their  feet  in  their  excitement.  Sami 
had  it.  No,  Sanders  was  in  front.  Then  the  two 
figures  disappeared  from  view.  Ttiey  seemed  to  run 
into  each  other  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  no  one 
could  say  who  was  first  The  congregation  looked 
at  one  another.  Some  of  them  perspired.  But  the 
minister  held  on  his  course. 

Saml  had  just  been  in  time  to  cut  Sanders  out 
It  was  the  weaver's  saving  that  Sanders  saw  this 
when  his  rival  turned  the  comer;  for  Saml  waa 
sadly  blowiL  Sanders  took  in  the  situation  and 
gave  in  at  once.  The  last  hundred  yards  of  the  dis- 
tance he  covered  at  his  leisure,  and  when  he  arrived 
at  his  destination  he  did  not  go  in.  It  was  a  fine 
afternoon  for  the  time  of  year,  and  he  went  round  to 
have  a  look  at  the  pig,  about  which  T'nowhead  was 
a  little  sinfully  puffed  up. 

"  Lord  preserve's  I  Are  ye  no  at  the  kirk  ?"  cried 
Bell,  nearly  dropping  the  baby  as  Sam'l  broke  into 
the  room, 

"  Bell !"  cried  Saml. 

Then  T'nowhead's  Bell  knew  that  her  hour  had 
come. 

"  Saml,"  she  faltered. 

"  Will  ye  hae's,  Bell  7"  demanded  Saml,  glaring  at 
her  sheepishly. 

"  Ay,"  answered  Bell. 

Sam'l  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  Bring's  a  drink  o'  water.  Bell,"  he  said. 

Sanders  remained  at  the  pig-sty  until  Saml  left 


122  BEST  SELEcnONa 

tlio  fann,  when  he  joined  him  at  the  top  of  the  bnte, 
iuiii  thuy  went  home  together. 

"  It'll  yersel,  Sanders,"  said  SamT 

"  It  is  so,  .Sain'l,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Very  cauld,"  said  Sam'l, 

"  Blawy,"  otisented  Sanders. 

After  a  pause — 

"Sam'l,"  said  Sanders. 

"Ay." 

"  I'm  liearin'  yer  to  be  mairit* 

"Ay." 

"  Wed,  Sami,  she's  a  snod  bit  laede." 

"  Thank  ye,"  said  Sani'l. 

'■  I  had  ance  a  kin'  o'  notion  o'  Bell  mysel,"  con- 
tinued Sunders. 


nuHBER  TWENTY-FOUR  123 

can  get  the  upper  han'  o"  the  wife  for  awhile  at  first, 
there's  a  mair  chance  o'  a  harmonioUB  exeestence," 

"  Bell's  no  the  lassie,"  said  Sam't,  appealingly, "  to 
thwart  her  man." 

Sanders  smiled, 

"  D'ye  think  she  is,  Sanders?" 

"  Weel,  Sam'I,  I  d'na  want  to  fluster  ye,  but  she's 
been  ower  lang  wi'  Lisbeth  Fargus  no  to  hae  learnt 
her  ways.  An'  a'body  kins  what  a  life  T'nowhead 
has  wi'  her." 

"  Guid  sake,  Sanders,  hoo  did  ye  no  speak  o'  thia 
ftfote !" 

"  I  thocht  ye  kent  o't,  Sam'I." 

"  But,  Sanders,"  said  Sam'I,  brightening  up,  "  ye 
was  on  yer  way  to  spier  her  yereel." 

*'  I  was,  Sam'I,"  said  Sanders, "  and  I  canna  but  be 
thankfu  ye  was  ower  quick  for's." 

"  Gin't  hadna  been  you,"  said  Sami, "  I  wid  never 
hae  thocht  o't." 

"  I'm  aayin'  naething  agin  Bell,"  pursued  the 
other,  "  but,  man.  Sam'I,  a  body  should  be  mair  de> 
leeberate  in  a  thing  o'  the  kind." 

"  It  was  michty  hurried,"  said  Sami,  wofully. 

"  It's  a  serious  thing  to  spier  a  lassie,"  said  San-  . 
ders. 

"  It's  an  awfu  thing,"  said  Saml. 

"  But  we'll  hope  for  the  beat,"  added  Sanders,  in  a 
hopeless  voice. 

They  were  close  to  the  Tenements  now,  and  Sami 
looked  as  if  he  were  on  his  way  to  be  hanged. 

"Sam'i?" 


...  itii  uor, "  said  hancle: 

"  Was  there  ?     Man,  Sanden 
never  thcx't  o't." 

Then  the  soul  of  Sanders  Elt 
contempt  for  Sam'l  Dickie 

The  scandal  blew  over.  At 
that  the  minister  would  intei 
union,  but  beyond  intimating  1 
the  souls  of  Sabbath-breakers 
for,  and  then  praying  for  Sam'l 
length,  with  a  word  thrown  in  U 
take  their  course. 

"  I  hav'na  a  word  to  say  agin 
Sanders ;  "  they're  gran'  prayers 
mairit  man  himsel." 

"  He's  a'  the  better  for  that,  Sf 

"  Do  ye  no  see,"  asked  Sande 
"  'at  he's  tryin'  to  mak  the  best  c 

"  Oh,  Sanders,  man  !"  said  San 
\  "  Cheer  up,  Sam'l,"  said  Sane 

(  ■  ower." 


HWMBER  TWENTT-FOUR  125 

thftt  when  they  could  not  get  a  room  to  themBelves 
they  wandered  about  t<^ether  in  the  church-yard. 
When  Sam'l  had  anything  to  tell  Bell,  he  sent  San- 
ders  to  tell  it,  and  Sanders  did  as  he  was  bid.  There 
was  nothing  that  he  would  not  have  done  for 
Sam'l. 

The  more  obl^ing  Sanders  was,  however,  the  sad- 
der Sam'l  grew.  He  never  laughed  now  on  Satur- 
days, and  sometimes  his  loom  was  silent  half  the 
day.  Sami  felt  that  Sanders'  was  the  kindness  of  a 
friend  for  a  dying  man. 

It  was  to  be  a  penny  wedding,  and  Lisheth  Fargus 
said  it  was  delicacy  that  made  Sam'l  superintend  the 
fitting-up  of  the  ham  by  deputy.  Once  he  came  to 
see  it  in  person,  but  he  looketl  ao  ill  that  Sanders 
had  to  see  him  home.  This  was  on  the  Thursday 
afternoon,  and  the  wedding  was  fixe<l  for  Friday. 

"  Sanders,  Sanders,"  said  Saml,  in  a  voice  strangely 
unlike  hia  own,  "  itil  a'  be  ower  by  this  time  tiie 
mom.** 

"  It  will,"  said  Sanders. 

"  If  I  had  only  kent  her  langer,"  continued  Sami. 

"  It  wid  hae  been  safer,"  said  Sanders. 

"Did  ye  see  the  yallow  floor  in  Bell's  bonnet?" 
asked  the  accepted  swain. 

"  Ay,"  said  Sanders,  reluctantly. 

"  I'm  dootin' — I'm  sair  dootin'  8he*8  hut  a  flichty, 
licht-hearted  oritur  after  a'." 

"  I  had  ay  my  suspeechuns  o't,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Ye  hae  kent  her  langer  than  me,"  said  Sami, 

"  Yes,"  said  Sanders,  "  but  there's  nae  gettin*  at 


:2<i  BEST  8ELE47nONa 

hu  heart  o'  women,     Man,  Sami,  they're  deflperalc 
■iiimiii'.'' 

■  I'm  dootin't;  I'm  eair  dootin't" 

•'  It'll  l>f  n  warnin'  to  ye,  Sam'l,  no  to  be  in  sic  a 
Liirry  i'  the  liitur',"  said  Sanders, 
Sani'l  groan  od. 

■  It  may  ii"  be  for  the  best,"  added  Sanders,  "an' 
hro  ivid  be  a  michty  talk  i'  the  hale  countiy-side 
rill  ye  illdna  fling  to  the  minister  like  a  man." 

'  I  maun  hue  langer  to  ttiink  o't,"  said  Saml. 

•  Bell'd  nmiritch  is  the  morn,"  said  Sanders,  de- 

S:itn'l  glanced  up  with  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes. 

■■  Sanders  1"   he  cried. 


NUMBER   TWBNTY-rODB  127 

"She  wid  malt  ye  a  guid  wife,  Sanders.  I  hae 
studied  her  weel,  and  she's  ■&  thrifty,  douce,  clever 
lasHie.  Saiiderc,  there's  no  the  like  o'  her,  Mony  a 
time,  Sanders,  I  hae  said  to  mysel,  There's  a  lass  ony 
man  micht  be  prood  to  tak,  A'body  says  the  same, 
Sanders.  There's  nae  risk  ava,  man ;  nane  to  speak 
o'.  Tak  her,  laddie,  tak  her,  Sanders,  it's  a  grand 
chance,  Sanders.  She's  your's  for  the  spierin.  11] 
gio  her  up,  Sanders." 

"  Will  ye,  though  ?"  said  Sanders. 

"  What  d'ye  think  ?"  asked  Sam'I. 

"  If  ye  wid  rayther,"  said  Sanders,  politely. 

"  There's  my  ban'  on't,"  said  Sam'I.  "  Bless  y^ 
Sanders;  ye've  been  a  true  frien'  to  me." 

Then  they  shoijk  hands  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives;  and  soon  afterward  Sanders  struck  up  tiie 
hrae  to  T'nowhead. 

Next  morning  Sanders  Elshioner,  who  had  been 
very  busy  the  night  before,  put  on  his  Sabbath 
clothes  and  strolled  up  to  the  manse. 

"  But — but  where  is  Sam!  ?"  asked  the  mitmter. 
"  I  must  see  himself." 

"  It's  a  new  arrangement,"  said  Sanders. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sanders  ?" 

"  Bell's  to  marry  me,"  explained  Sanden. 

"  But — but  what  does  Sam'I  say?" 

"  He's  willin',"  said  Sanders. 

"And  Bell?" 

"  She's  willin',  too.     She  prefers  It.* 

"It  is  unusual,"  said  the  minister. 

"  It's  a'  richt,"  said  Sanders. 


128  BEST  8ELECnONB 

"  Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the  minister. 

'^  You  see,  the  hoose  was  taen  at  ony  rate,"  con* 
tinued  Sanders.  ^  An'  I'll  juist  ging  in  tilt  instead 
o'Saml." 

"  Quite  80." 

^  An'  I  cudna  think  to  disappoint  the  lassie." 

"Your  sentiments  do  you  credit,  Sanders,"  said 
the  minister ;  '^  but  I  hope  you  do  not  enter  upon 
the  blessed  state  of  matrimony  without  full  conseed- 
eration  of  its  responsibilities.  It  is  a  serious  busi- 
ness, marriage.'' 

« It's  a'  that,"  said  Sanders ;  "  but  I'm  wiUin'  to 
Stan'  the  risk." 

So,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  done,  Sanders  Elshionei 
took  to  wife  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  on  that  day  Sam'] 
Dickie  was  seen  trying  to  dance  at  the  penny  wed- 
ding. James  M.  Babreb. 


THE  TRUE  IMMORTALITY. 


LONG  years  a  sculptor  wrought. 
Slowly  to  carve  upon  the  pulseless  stone 
The  glowing  vision  in  his  heart  that  shown ; 

Then  dying  proudly  thought, 
"  Long  as  the  heavens  endure,  a  glorious  fame 
Shall  keep  the  deathless  memory  of  my  name.** 

A  poet  sang  such  songs, 
Where,  with  his  dreaming  soul  he  sat  apart. 
As  thrilled  the  great  world  to  its  mighty  heart. 

And  swayed  the  listening  throng ; 


HUUBBB  TWERTY-rODB  129 

Then  dying  thought, "  While  bud  and  stars  shall  ehine 
All  men  shall  sing  these  deathless  lays  of  mine.* 

Beside  a  sleeping  child, 
In  the  still  twilight  of  a  summer  day, 
A  mother  knelt  with  folded  hands  to  pray ; 

Saying  in  accents  mild, 
"Ah,  loving  Christ,  how  blest  my  life  would  bt 
Might  I  but  lead  my  little  child  to  Thee." 

Ages  have  passed  since  then : 
The  sculptor's  marble  is  a  shapeless  thing; 
The  poet's  song  all  lipe  forget  to  sing, 

And  from  the  hearts  of  men 
The  mother's  name  has  faded  with  the  reet^ 
And  only  daisies  grow  above  her  breast 

Yet  in  the  world  of  light. 
The  child  she  prayed  for  by  the  cradle  Ado 
Is  singing  now  among  the  glorified. 

Praise  God,  both  day  and  night. 
And  80  shall  sing  a  seraph  high  and  pore, 
Long  as  the  years  of  God's  right  hand  endure^ 

Emily  Huntikoton  Mulbr. 


COLORED  PHILOSOPHY. 

TTTHEN  de  worl'  don'  go  to  suit  yon, 
*  V      An'  yer  feelin'  kin'  o'  blue; 
An'  everybody  seems  to  have 
Er  special  pick  at  you, 


ISO  BEST  SELECnONS 

Jeet  because  yer  hair  is  kinky. 
An'  yer  hide  is  kin'  a'  black ; 
You  jest  wanter  mosey  forards,  an' 
d<mt 
hoi' 
backl 

An'  whea  you  tries  to  lift  a  pullet, 
When  the  pullet  man's  asleep ; 
An'  you  git  yer  head  stuck  in  the  fencc^ 
Through  which  you's  tried  t«r  creep, 
An'  you  feel  de  bulldog  at  yer  panta, 
A-takin'  in  de  slack ; 
Yer  jest  wanter  mosey  forards,  aji' 
dont 


NUMBER   TWEMTY-FOUB  lo 

An'  if  you  memorize  it, 
Itll  do  you  good  some  day  ; 
You  can't  git  a  watcrmillion 
By  jest  peekin'  through  de  crack. 
So  you  wanter  moaey  forarde,  an' 
don't 
hoi' 
backl 

W.  Edgene  Cochram. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BANNOCKBURN. 

EARLY  on  the  morning  of  the  23d,  intelligence 
was  brought  King  Robert  of  the  march  of 
the  English  army  from  Falkirk,  and,  without  a 
moment's  delay,  the  patriot  sovereign  drew  forth 
his  rejoicing  troops,  to  fonn  tiiem  in  the  line 
of  battle  on  which  he  had  resolved.  The  drume 
rolled  to  arms;  the  silver  clarions  and  deeper 
trunipels  eclK)e<l  and  re  echoed  from  various  sides, 
and  under  cacti,  the  gallant  soldiery  sprung  up 
around  their  rcs])ective  leader^!.  Slowly  Bruce  rode 
along  the  line  once  and  again,  tlien  he  paused, 
and  a  deep,  breathless  ntjlhiessfor  a  brief  minute  pre- 
vailed. It  was  broken  by  hi.s  i-oice,  clear,  sonorous, 
rich,  distiufiuished  for  many  paces  round  : 

"  Jlcn  of  Scotland  :  We  .stand  here  on  the  eve  of  a 
mighty  struggle.  Slavery  or  freedom  are  in  the 
balance;  misery  or  joy  hinj^e  on  the  result.  I  hesi- 
tate not  to  avow  there  are  odds,  fearful  odds  against 


1-19  ntST  aEI-ECTIO.V3 

u^.  England  hath  moro  than  treble  our  nuitibtf^  " 
but,  si'Miors,  your  monart:h  foaw  not — the  leww 
iium,  the  greater  glory !  We  shall  win,  wo  juliall  glwt 
fri^tMlorn  tu  our  country,  fling  fronn  ua  her  last  chain, 
oniahed  to  atoms,  into  dual;  and  to  do  thia,  whaCdn 
we  need  ? — bold  hearU  and  willing  hands,  and  tho« 
wlio  have  theiu  not,  let  thein  duw  depart.  Friends, 
lubjects,  Tel  low-soldi  ere,  if  there  be  any  amongst  ye 
whose  hearts  fail  thein,  who  waver  in  their  deter- 
mination to  conqueror  die  with  Robert  Bruce,  Igii'e 
ye  libertj',  perfect  liberty  to  depart  benee.  Our  hearte 
iire  not  all  owt  in  tho  same  inoM,  and  if  there  b«  wiy 
ixcuae  tor  wavering  spirits,  men  of  Scotland,  boholil 
it  in  tho  whelminis  flood  that  Englnnd'a  power  hath 
g:ithered  to  appall  m.    Be  this  procUimcKl:  I  woi 


NUHBER  TWBHTV-FOUR  133 

moving  pavilions,  ere  their  bearera  could  be  distin- 
guished. Bruce,  riding  forward,  hia  lightning  glance 
seeming  to  rest  on  every  point  at  once,  fancied  he 
perceived  a  large  body  of  men  detaching  themselves 
from  the  main  body  of  the  English,  and  advancing 
cautiously  through  some  low,  marshy  ground  in  the 
direction  of  the  castle. 

"Ha!"  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  that  called  the  atten- 
tion of  his  leaders  at  once.  "  Randolph,  Randolph  I 
See  yon  cloud  of  dust  and  lances ;  they  have  passed 
your  ward." 

"  But  gained  not  the  goal,"  answered  Randolph, 
the  red  flush  of  indignation  mounting  to  his  cheek ; 
"  nor  shall  they,  my  li^e.  Follow  me,  men !"  And 
with  about  fourscore  spearmen  he  dashed  onward, 
halted  in  the  spot  the  English  must  pass,  and,  in 
that  compact  circle  of  three-lined  i)ointed  spears — 
one  rank  kneeling,  the  next  stoopinp,  the  last  up- 
right— awaited  the  charge  of  eight  hundred  horse. 

On  came  the  English  cavalry,  but  unable  to  pen- 
etrate the  sharp  phalanx  presented  to  them,  they  fell 
back  in  complete  disorder,  like  a  repelled  tide,  amid 
whose  retreating  waves  Randolfih's  men  stood  like  a 
stubborn  rock.  Horses,  speared  and  terrified,  fell, 
crush'jig  many  a  gallant  knight  beneath  them,  and 
effeclaally  barring  the  onward  charpe  of  their  com- 
panions ;  while,  without  the  slightest  change  in  rank, 
position,  or  steadiness,  Randolph's  patriot  band  re- 
mained, and  the  first  day's  fight  was  ended. 

There  was  deep  silence  on  the  plain  of  Bannock- 
bom — silence,  as  it  not  a  breathing  soul  were  there ; 


134  BFJIT   SKI,»TIO\» 

yi>t  when  the  shrouding  drapery  ul  night  wu  dfni' 
:i.^i(J*!,  wlicn  the  df«|)  rosy  tint  of  tht^  ciwtcni  rkm 
{•niclainied-  the  Rwift  advance  of  tho  goil  of  lin  v,  ntiat 
■■i  glorioua  sccoe  wa^  there  I  Both  artnicB  vrcrv  dnm 
lorth  facing  eocli  other.  'Iliv  vatigiunrd  of  the  Engliafa, 
nirapoaeti  of  the  archera  and  MUmen,  under  eom- 
iimniiof  01ouoe«t«r  and  HiL^rt-ford,  funning  an  imjiim- 
einiblu  tiiasHof  above  twenty  thotuantl  infaiitrj-,  witii 
;l  strong  tiody  of  gUtteriag  niitivat-arniH  ta  i<ii|>pait 
lliem,  occupied  the  foremost  space,  directly  in  ths 
ruar,  and  partly  on  their  right.  In  front,  and  »hghu; 
ill  the  rear  of  Olouceeter's  infantrj-,  stood  a  r«gvllr 
iittirod  group  of  aliuiil  four  huiidn^d  vhevaliera,  ill 
llie  contm  of  which,  gallantly  mounted  uiid  splen- 
didly accoulrod  ia  golden  armor,  hin  charger  bwdflJ 


MUHBER   TWEN'TY-FOUB  135 

earth,  flung  headlong  back  by  the  massive  spears, 
leaving  their  masters,  often  unbounded,  to  the  mercy 
of  their  i\>ee.  Fiercely  and  valiantly  the  earls 
atrugjjled  to  retrieve  their  first  error,  and  restore  order 
to  their  men-iit-tirms.  Indignant,  almost  enraged, 
(Iloucester  fought  like  a  young  lion,  and  little  did  his 
enemies  imagine  the  youthful  knight,  whose  mighty 
eSorts  excited  even  their  admiration,  was  the  very 
noble  for  whose  safety  their  monarch  was  80  anxious, 
that  almost  his  last  command  had  been  to  spare  the 
Earl  of  Gloucester. 

Meanwhile,  taking  advantage  of  this  confusion, 
Douglas  and  Randolph,  at  tlie  head  of  their  re- 
spective divisions,  attacked  with  skill  and  aduiir.tbly 
tempered  courage  the  mass  of  infantry,  who  stood 
bewildered  at  the  unexpected  diticomfitiireof  thehody 
they  had  looked  to  tor  support ;  the  charge,  however, 
roused  them  to  their  wonted  courage,  and  they  re- 
sisted nobly.  Again  the  archers  raised  their  deadly 
weapons  to  the  ear,  and  again  the  air  became  thick 
with  the  Sight  of  arrows,  longer,  heavier,  more  con- 
tinued than  before.  Their  effect  was  too  soon  per- 
ceived in  the  ranks  of  the  spearmen ;  many  places 
left  void,  which  had  received  unmoved  the  charge  of 
the  men-at-arms.  Quick  as  the  lightning  flash  King 
Robert  darted  along  the  line-  "  Now,  then,  on  for  Scot- 
land— the  Bruce  and  liberty !"  he  shouted,  and  quick 
as  the  words  were  spoken,  the  Marshal  of  Scotland,  nt 
the  head  of  four  hundred  men-at-arms,  wheeled  round 
full  gallop,  and  charged  the  Kngliah  bowmen  in  the 
flank   and   rear   with  such  vigor  and  precision  as 


136  nesT  sklkctions 

npeedily  to  turn  tlieui  Trom  their  (aUU  attack  npos 
(lie  Scobs  to  Uipir  own  (lufLtiHc.  It  vraa  now  thf 
Scottish  arnhent'  turn  t^i  giiU  tlii^ir  nd\-or8aries,  and 
tiie  flight  of  arrowa  fell  swift  and  true. 

The  Bnice  retuniftd  to  bin  post ;  Iiih  eo^le  glmate 
moved  not  for  an  instant  from  the  field.  Orrler  had 
Jiaappuared  fn>ni  the  En^li^h  ranks,  their  tnaJMire 
Ijands  broken  through  and  through,  tottering.  rAUinft 
like  gigantic  coluninft  i«liiikvn  by  mighty  wind*; 
while  firm,  cool,  inflexible,  tha  bodiex  of  ihe  8cotch 
rushed  amongst  tbeiu,  dradii))i  dostructiun  at  every 
Htep,  proving  euporiority,  valor,  Btrenjitb  in  the  tiht 
face  of  numbers. 

The  strife  waa  becoming  morfl  and  more  goneral. 
more  and  more  deadly,  dc§piU!  the  multitude  fn  raid^^ 


MCHBEB  TWENTY-FODR  137 

thus  he  seemed,  alike  in  view  of  friends  and  foee,  the 
spirit  of  that  mighty  strife,  the  soul  of  victory,  on 
wliich  no  mortal  hand  had  power.  Again  the  ter- 
rible war-crj'  sounded  ;  new  shouts  aroBc  of  triumph, 
the  dosing  ranks  of  the  English  fell  back,  appalled 
by  the  sound,  then,  panic-stricken,  fled ;  the  last  link 
of  slavery  was  broken  and  Scotland  was  tree. 

Gkace  Aqdilab. 


A  TALE  OF  HARD  TIMES. 

rO  gay  young  frogs,  from  inland  bogi, 
Had  spent  the  night  in  drinking; 
As  morning  broke  and  they  awoke, 
While  yet  their  eyea  were  blinking, 
A  farmer's  pail  came  to  the  swale, 
And  caught  them  quick  as  winking, 
Ere  they  could  gather  scattered  senses, 
Or  breathe  a  prayer  for  past  offenses. 
The  granger  grave — that  guileless  man^ 
Had  damped  them  in  the  milkman's  can. 
The  can  filled  up,  the  cover  down. 
They  soon  are  started  off  to  town. 
The  luckless  frogs  begin  to  quake, 
And  sober  up  on  cold  milk  shake. 
They  quickly  find  their  breath  will  stop 
Unless  they  swim  upon  the  top. 
They  swim  for  life  and  kick  and  swiiQf 
Until  their  weary  oyee  grow  dim ; 


Of  kirks  for  life.      No  n 
I  was  not  raised  (^n  a  mi 
"Tut,  tut,  mv  lad,"  the  oti 
*^  A  frog's  not  dead  until  h 
Let's  keep  on  kicking,  thi 
We  yet  may  see  outside  tl 
"  No  use,  no  use,"  faint-hea 
Turned  up  his  toes  and  ge 
The  braver  frog  undauntec 
Kept  kicking  with  a  right  [ 
Until  with  joy  too  great  to 
He  found  he'd  churned  a  lu 
I  \  And  climbing  on  that  chunl 

He  floated  round  with  great 

MORAL. 

When  times  are  hard — no  ti 
Don't  get  discouraged  and  g 
But  struggle  still — no  murn 
A  few  more  kicks  may  brinj 


r 

\ 


I 

I 

•  I 

i 

\  i 


BUMBER  TWENTTf-POUB 

On  the  sonnet, 
Not  the  bonnet 
Nothing  loth. 

And,  as  it  it  were  high  treason. 
He  said,  "  Neither  rhyme  nor  reauK 
Has  it,  and  it's  out  of  season." 

Which  ?    The  Bonnet 

Or  the  bonnet? 

Maybe  both. 

"  Tie  a  feeble  imitation 
Of  a  worthier  creation — 
An  fftsthetic  innovation  I" 

Of  a  sonnet, 

Or  a  bonnet  ? 

This  waa  hard. 

Both  were  put  together  neatly, 

Harmonizing  vorj'  sweetly, 

But  the  critic  crushed  completdj, 

Not  the  bonnet 

Or  the  sonnet, 

Bat  the  bard. 


WASHINGTON'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  TROOPS. 

BBFOBB  THS  BATTLE  OF  LONG  ISLAtTD,  17T8. 

THE  time  is  now  near  at  hand  which  mast  prob- 
ably determine  whether  Americans  are  to  be 
freamen  or  slaves;  whether  they  are  to  have  any 


•    V 


late  of  unborn  millions 
on  the  courage  and  cond 
and  unrelenting  enemy 
a  brave  resistance,  or  tl 
We  have,  therefore,  to  res 

Our  own,  our  country's 
vigorous  and  manly  exerti 
fully  fail,  we  shall  beconQ 
world.     Let  us,  then,  rely 
cause,  and  the  aid  of  the  I 
hands  victory  is,  to  animi 
noble  actions.     The  eyes  of 
now  upon  us,  and  we  shall  1 
praises,  if  happily  we  are  th 
them  from  the  tyranny  med 
\  us,  therefore,  animate  and  ei 

show  the  whole  world  that  8 
liberty  on  his  own  ground,  i 
mercenary  on  earth. 

Liberty,  property,  life,  an( 
upon  your  conro 


\rr^ 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FODB  141 

pulaeil  on  various  occasioiia  by  a  few  brave  Ameri- 
o;iii.-i.  Their  cause  in  bad — their  iiicii  are  conscious 
of  it,  ami,  if  opposed  by  firmneHa  and  coohieya  on 
tlicir  first  onset,  with  our  advantage  of  works  and 
knowlwlge  of  the  ground,  the  victory  is  most 
assuredly  ours.  Every  good  soldier  will  be  silent 
and  attttutive — wait  for  onlere— and  reserve  hia  fire 
until  he  in  sure  of  doing  execution. 

THE  SPELLING  BEE  AT  ANGEL'S. 

BKPOBTED    BY    TKUTHKUL   JAMES. 

Bj  permlnlon  ot  uxi  arrangement  with  UooghtoD,  HlffllD  A  Co., 
UntDn,  Hub. 

WALTZ  in,  waltz  in,  ye  little  kids,  and  gather 
round  my  knee, 
And  drop  them  books  and  first  pot-hooks,  and  hear 

a  yam  from  me. 
I  kinnot  sling  a  fairy-tale  of  Jinny's  *  fierce  and  wild, 
For  I  hold  it  is  unchristian  to  deceive  a  simple  child ; 
But  as  from  school  yer  driftin'  by  I  thowt  ye'd  like 

to  hear 
Of  a  "  Sjielling  Bee  "  at  Angel's  that  we  organized 

last  year. 

It  wam't  made  up  of  gentle  kids — ot  pretty  kids — 

like  you, 
But  gents   ez  hcd  their  reglar  growth,  and  some 

enough  for  two. 

•Qy.  Genii. 


1  ou  stiirt,  you  little  kids;  yoi 

l)rt'tty  names. 
But   each    had    a    man  behin* 

Truthful  James. 

Thar  was  Poker  Dick  from  Whi 
of  Shooter's  Bend, 
\  And  Brown  of  Calaveras — whic 

!  ^  friend — 

si 

i  Three-fingered  Jack — yes,  pretty 

\  —you  have  five. 

Clapp  cut  off  two — it's  singlar,  t* 

now  alive. 
'Twas  very  wrong,  indeed,  my  de 

much  to  blame ; 
Likewise  was  Jack,  in  after  years, 
same. 

The  nights  were  kinder  lengthen! 
jest  be^un. 


^  M 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FODE  148 

"  Thar'a  a  new  game  down  in  Frisco,  that  ez  far  ez  I 

kin  see; 
Beats  euchre,   poker,  and  van-toon,  they  calls  the 
'SpelUn'  Bee.'" 

Then  Brown  of  Calaveras  simply  hitched  hia  chair 

and  spake : 
"  Poker  is  good  enough  for  me,"  and  Lanky  Jim  sez 

"Shake!" 
And  Bob  allowed  he  wam't  proud,  but  he  "  must  say 

right  thar 
That  the  man  who  tackled  euchie  hed  his  eddication 

squar." 
This  brought  up  Lenny  Fairchild,  the  schoolmaster, 

who  said 
He  knew  the  game,  and  he  would  give  instructions 

on  that  head. 


"  For  instance,  take  some  simple  word,"  sez  he,  "  like 

'  separate,' 
Now  who  can  spell  it?"     Dog  my  skin,  ef  thar  was 

one  in  eight. 
This  set  the  boys  all  wild  at  once.    The  chairs  was 

put  in  row, 
And  at  the  head  was  Lanky  Jim  and  at  the  foot  was 

Joe, 
And  high  upon  the  bar  itself  the  schoolmaster  was 

raised, 
And  the  bar-keep  put  his  glaases  down,  and  aat  and 

silent  gazed. 


;1 


\ 

\ 

\ 

\ 
\ 


Thar  warn't  no  prouder  man  gc 

that  night — 
Till ''  rhythm  "  came !     He  tried 

"  they  had  him  there," 
And  Lanky  Jim,  with  one  long 

took  his  chair. 


Oh  I  little  kids  I  my  pretty  kids 

sur\"ey 
These  bearded  men,  with  weppin 

boys  at  their  play. 
They'd  laugh  with  glee,  and  shout 

lead  the  van, 
:  {  And  Bob  sat  up  as  monitor,  with  a 

j  Till  the  chair  gave  out  "  incinerate, 

he'd  be  dumed 
If  any  such  blamed  word  as  that  ii 

learned. 

When   "phthisis"  came  thev  «ii 


NimBER  TKESTY-TOVR  145 

And  when  &t  last  Brown  slipped  on  "  gneiss  "  and 

Bilaon  took  his  chair, 
He  dropped  some  cutiual  words  about  some  folks  who 

dyed  their  hair. 

And  then  the  Chair  grew  very  white,  and  the  Chair 

said  he'd  adjourn, 
But  Poker  Dick  remarked  that  he  would  wait  and 

get  his  turn ; 
Then  with  a  treinblin'  voice  and  hand,  and  with  a 

wanderin'  eye, 
The  Chair  next  offered  "  eider-duck,"  and  Dick  began 

with  '■  I," 
And   Bilson    smiled — then   Bilson   shrieked  I    Just 

how  the  fight  begun 
I  never  knowed,  for  Bilson  dropped  and  Dick  he 

moved  up  one. 

Then  certain  gents  arose  and  aaid  "  they'd  businesa 

down  in  camp," 
And  "  ez  the  road  was  rather  dark,  and  as  the  night 

was  damp, 
They'd  " — here  got  up  Three-fingered  Jack  and  locked 

the  door  and  yelled  : 
"  No,  not  one  mother's  son  goea  out  till  that  thar 

word  is  spelled !" 
But  while  the  words  were  on  his  lips  he  groaned  and 

sank  in  pain, 
And  sank  with  Webster  on  his  chest  and  Worcestei 

on  his  brain. 
10 


146  BBST  SELECTIONS 

Below  the  bar  dodged  Poker  Dick,  and  tried  to  look 

ez  he 
Was  huntin'  up  authorities  thet  no  one  else  could 

see ; 
And  Brown  got  down  behind  the  store,  allowin'  he 

"  was  cold," 
Till  it  upsot,  and  down  his  l^s  the  cinders  freely 

rolled, 
And  several  gents  called  "  Order !''  till  in  his  simple 

way 
Poor  Smith  began  with  "  0,"  "  R  "— "  or  "—and  he 

was  dragged  away. 

Oh  I  little  kids,  my  pretty  kids,  down  on  your  knees 

and  pray, 
YouVe  got  your  eddication  in  a  peaceful  sort  of 

way ; 
And  bear  in  mind  thar  may  be  sharps  ez  slings  their 

spellin'  square, 
But  liki'wise  slings  their  bowie-knives   without  a 

thoujxht  of  care — 
You  want.s  to  know  the  rest,  my  dears  ?     Thet's  all ! 

In  me  you  see 
The  only  gent  that  lived  to  tell  about  the  Spellin' 

Bee! 


He  ceased  and  passed,  that  truthful  man ;  the  chil- 

(Irt'n  went  their  way 
With  downcast  heads  and  downcast  hearts — ^but  not 

to  sport  or  play. 


NUMBER   TWENxy-FOUR  M7 

For  when  at  eve  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  snpperleea 

to  bed 
Each  child  waa  sent,  with  tasks  tmdme  and  lessons 

all  unsaid, 
No  man  might  know  the  awful  woe  that  filled  their 

youthful  frames, 
As  they  dreamed  of  Angel's  Spelling  Bee  and  thought 

of  Truthful  James. 

Bret  Habtk. 


THE  SHERIFF  OF  SAUMUR. 

By  penninlon  or  &nd  urtngement  nitb  Hongbloa,  HUBln  A  Oo , 

Boston,  Uui. 

ONCE,  when  the  King  was  traveling  through 
His  realm,  as  kings  were  wont  to  do 
In  ancient  times  when  royalty 
Was  deemed  a  goodly  sight  to  see. 
It  chanced  the  Sheriff  of  Saumur, 
A  city  in  the  royal  tour, 
Was  chosen  by  the  magistrates 
To  meet  the  monarch  at  the  gates, 
And  in  a  handsome  speech  declare 
How  glad  and  proud  the  people  were 
To  see  his  Majesty ;  and  say 
Such  compliments  as  subjecte  pay^ 
Aa  being  but  the  proper  thing, 
On  such  occasions  to  the  King. 
"  Sire,"  said  the  Sheriff  (so  the  speech 
Began,  of  course),  "  Sire,  wc  beseech 
Your  gracious  Majesty  to  hear 
The  humble  words  of  hearty  cheer 


.i 


\ 


That— that— "     And  h 
Whereat  a  courtier  said 
These  worthy  people  of 
Are  glad,  my  liege,  to  se 
That  seems  to  me  extren 
And  don't  his  Honor's  sp 
So  glad,  indeed,  they  can 


■  i 


I 


r 


DEATH  OF  CARA 


VARIOUS  occurrences  had 
citement  about  my  w( 
heard  that  people  meant  to 
thirty   miles   around,  upon 
stature  and  Lorna's  beauty ; 
of  sheer  curiosity  and  the  lov 
Dear  mother  arranged  all  t 
way  in  which  it  was  to  h^ 
Lizzi**  «•*-' 


NTJHBER  TWENTY-FOtm  149 

My  darling  looked  so  gloriouB  that  I  was  afraid  of 
glancing  at  her,  yet  took  in  all  her  beauty.  She  was 
in  a  fright,  no  doubt,  but  nobody  should  see  it ; 
whereas  I  said  (to  myself,  at  least),  "  I  will  go 
through  it  like  a  grave-digger. " 

Lorna's  dress  was  of  pure  white,  clouded  with  faint 
lavender,  and  as  simple  as  need  be,  except  for  perfect 
loveliness.  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  her,  as  I  said 
before,  except  when  each  of  us  said,  "  I  will ;"  and 
then  each  dwelt  upon  the  other. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  who  have  not  loved  as  I 
have  to  conceive  my  joy  and  pride  when,  after  ring 
and  all  was  done,  and  the  parson  had  blessed  us, 
Loma  turned  to  look  at  me  with  her  glances  of 
subtle  fun  subdued  by  this  great  act. 

Her  eyes,  which  none  on  earth  may  ever  equal  or 
compare  with,  told  rae  such  a  depth  of  comfort,  yet 
awaiting  further  commune,  that  I  was  almost  amazed, 
thoroughly  as  I  knew  them.  Darling  eyes,  the 
sweetest  eyes,  the  loveliest,  the  most  loving  eyes — 
the  sound  of  a  shot  rang  through  the  church,  and 
those  eyes  were  filled  with  death. 

Ixtma  fell  across  my  knees  when  I  was  going  to 
kiss  her,  as  the  bridegroom  is  allowed  to  do ;  a  flood 
of  blood  came  out  upon  the  yellow  wood  of  the  altar 
steps ;  and  at  my  feet  lay  Loma,  trying  to  tell  me 
Borne  last  message  out  of  her  faithful  eyes.  I  lifted 
her  up,  and  petted  her,  and  coaxed  her,  but  it  waa 
no  good ;  the  only  sign  of  life  remaining  was  a  spirt 
of  bright  red  blood. 

Some  men  know  what  things  befall  them  in  the 


ITiO  BRBT  PEI.RCTION8  ^^| 

-iipreme  time  of  their  life — far  above  the  time  ol 
li'Ulh — but  tu  uitt  eumee  biii-k  iw  a  huzy  dntuni,  witli- 
mit  any  knowledge  in  it,  what  1  did,  or  felt,  or 
iljought,  with  my  wife'B  uririB  fliigginji,  Qugginji, 
uround  my  neck,  as  I  raised  lier  up,  and  softly  put 
thcni  there.  She  sighed  a  long  gigh  uii  my  bruist, 
fur  her  last  farewell  to  Uf e,  und  then  she  ^rew  tto 
njld,  and  cold,  that  I  aaked  tli«  time  of  year. 

It  waa  now  Whit^ Tuesday,  and  the  lilacs  all  hi 
llosaom;  and  why  I  thought  of  the  time  of  yuar, 
with  the  young  death  in  my  amis,  God  or  His  angtls 
may  decide,  having  ao  strangely  given  ue.  Enough 
ihiit  so  I  did,  and  looked  ;  and  our  white  Ulace  wt-rt- 
liiautiful.  Then  I  laid  my  wife  in  my  niotht-r's 
ariiid.  and  heairine  that  no  one  would  make  anv 


NUHBEIt  TWENTY-FOOB  151 

"  Your  life,  or  mine,"  I  said  to  myself;  "  as  the 
will  of  God  may  be.  But  we  two  live  not  upon  this 
earth  one  more  hour  together." 

I  knew  the  strength  of  this  great  man ;  and  I  knew 
that  he  was  armed  with  a  gun — if  he  had  time  to 
load  again,  after  shooting  my  Loma — or  at  any  rate 
with  pistols,  and  a  horseman's  sword  as  well.  Never- 
theless, I  had  no  more  doubt  of  killing  the  man 
before  me  than  a  cook  has  of  s|>itting  a  headless  fowl. 

Sometimes  seeing  no  ground  beneath  me,  and 
sometimes  heeding  every  leaf,  and  the  crossing  of  the 
grass-blades,  I  followed  over  .the  long  moor,  reckless 
whether  seen  or  not.  But  only  once  the  other  man 
turned  round  and  looked  back  again,  and  then  I  was 
beside  a  rock,  with  a  reedy  swamp  behind  me. 

The  man  turned  up  the  gully  leading  from  the 
moor  to  Cloven  Rocks.  But  as  he  entered  it,  he 
turned  round,  and  beheld  me  not  a  hundred  yards 
behind.  With  a  vile  oath,  he  thrust  spurs  into  his 
figging  horse,  and  laid  one  hand  on  a  pistol-stock, 
whence  I  knew  that  his  slung  carbine  had  received 
no  bullet  since  the  one  that  had  pierced  Loma.  And 
a  cry  of  triumph  rose  from  the  black  depths  of  my 
heart  What  cared  I  for  pistole?  I  had  no  spurs, 
neither  was  my  horse  one  to  need  the  rowel ;  I  rather 
held  him  in  than  urged  him,  for  he  waa  fresh  as 
ever ;  and  I  knew  that  the  black  steed  in  front,  if  he 
breasted  the  steep  ascent,  where  the  track  divided, 
must  be  in  our  reach  at  once. 

His  rider  knew  this,  an<l,  having  no  room  in  the 
rocky  channel  to  turn  and  fire,  drew  rein  at  the  crosB- 


V_     1^*.X      »     ^    * 


I    i 


I    foll()we<l    mv    enemy  ca 
leisurely  ;  for  I  had  him  as  ii 
escape  might  be.     He  thought 
proach  him,  for  he  knew  not  m 
low  disdainful  laugh  came  ba 

•  I  wins,"  thought  I. 

1  [  ;  A  gnarled  and  half-starved  oi 

own  resolve,  and  smitten  by  son 

!    [  from  the  crag  above  me.     Risi 

back,  although  I  had  no  stimi] 
and  tore  it  (like  a  mere  wheat-a^ 
Men  show  the  rent  even  now 
with  more  wonder  than  myself. 
*'  Carver  Doone  turned  the  com 

black  and  bottomless  bog:  with 
reined  back  his  horse  and  I  tho 
turned  upon  me.  But  instead  o; 
on,  hoping  to  find  a  way  round  t 
Now  there  is  a  way  between  c 
those  who  know  the  ground  thorc 
j  \i  enough  to  searp>^  '*  •  ' 


1 


i-i 


iniHBER  TWENTY-FOHB  158 

hone  across  the  w&y,  and  with  the  limb  of  the  oak 
struck  full  on  the  forehead  his  charging  ateed.  Ere 
the  slash  of  the  sword  came  nigh  me,  man  and  horse 
rolled  over,  and  well-nigh  bore  my  own  horse  down 
with  the  power  of  their  onset. 

Carver  Doone  waa  somewhat  stunned,  and  could 
not  arise  tor  a  moment.  Meanwhile  I  leaped  on  the 
ground  and  awaited,  smoothing  my  hair  back,  and 
baring  my  arms  as  though  in  the  ring  for  wreetUng. 
There  and  then  I  might  have  killed  mine  enemy 
with  a  single  blow  while  he  lay  unconscious,  but  it 
would  have  been  foul  play. 

With  a  sullen  and  black  scowl,  the  Carver  gath- 
ered his  mighty  limbs  and  arose,  and  looked  round 
for  his  weapons ;  but  I  had  put  them  well  away. 
Then  he  came  to  me  and  gazed,  being  wont  to 
frighten  thus  young  men. 

"  I  would  not  harm  you,  lad,"  he  said,  with  a  lofty 
style  of  sneering.  "  I  have  punished  you  enough, 
for  most  of  your  impertinence.  For  the  rest  I  forgive 
you,  because  you  have  been  good  and  gracious  to  my 
little  son.     Go  and  be  contented." 

For  answer  I  smote  him  on  the  cheek,  lightly,  and 
not  to  hurt  him,  but  to  make  bis  blood  leap  up.  I 
would  not  sully  my  tongue  by  speaking  to  a  man  like 
this. 

There  was  a  level  space  of  sward  between  us  and 
the  slougli.  With  the  courtesy  derived  from  Lon- 
don and  the  processions  I  had  seen,  to  this  place  I 
led  bim.  And  that  he  might  breathe  himself,  and 
have  every  fibre  cool,  and  every  muscle  ready,  my 


...J    .'ictt.'iL,  iiim  Liiu  » 


I 


i 


., 


ft 


t 


'.  It 


most  of   all  from  mv  stern 
found  his  master.     At  any  n 
ashy  paleness  on  his  cheeks,  ar 
legs  bowed  in  as  if  he  was  out 

Seeing  this,  villain  as  he  w 
chance.  I  stretched  forth  my  h 
weaker  antagonist,  and  I  let 
me.     But  in  this  I  was  too  gen 
ten  my  pistol-wound,  and  the  c 
short  lower  ribs.     Carver  Doo 
the  waist  with  such  a  grip  as  m 
upon  me. 

I  heard  my  rib  go ;  I  grasped 
muscle  out  of  it  (as  the  strin 
orange);  then  I  took  him  by  th- 
allowed  in  wrestling,  but  he  ha 
and  now  was  no  time  of  dalliance 
and  strained,  and  writhed,  dash 
into  my  face,  and  flung  himself 
jaws.  Beneath  the  iron  of  vai 
that  dav  woo  ^^al 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FODR  158 

It  was  all  too  late.  Even  if  he  had  yielded  in  hia 
ravening  frenzy — for  his  beard  was  like  a  mad  dog's 
jowl — even  if  he  would  have  owned  that,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  had  found  his  master ;  it  was  all 
too  late. 

The  black  bog  had  him  by  the  feet;  the  sucking 
of  the  ground  drew  on  him,  like  the  thirsty  lips  of 
death.  In  our  fury,  we  had  heeded  neither  wet  nor 
dry;  nor  thought  of  earth  beneath  us.  I  myself 
might  scarcely  leap,  with  the  last  spring  of  o'erlabored 
legs,  from  the  ingulfing  grave  of  Blime.  He  fell  back, 
with  his  swarthy  breast  (from  which  my  gripe  had 
rent  all  clothing),  like  a  hummock  of  bog-oak,  stand- 
ing out  the  quagmire ;  and  then  he  toR^ed  his  arms 
to  heaven,  and  they  were  black  to  the  elbow,  and  the 
glare  of  his  eyes  was  ghastly.  I  could  only  gaze  and 
pant ;  for  my  strength  was  no  more  than  an  infant's, 
from  the  fury  and  the  horror.  Scarcely  could  I  turn 
away,  while,  joint  by  joint,  he  sunk  fnim  sight. 

I  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  blood,  and  was  rather 
faint  and  weary.  And  it  was  lucky  for  me  that 
Kickums  had  lost  spirit  like  hia  master,  and  went 
home  as  mildly  as  a  lamb.  For  when  we  came 
toward  the  farm,  I  seemed  to  be  riding  in  a  dream 
almost;  and  the  voices  both  of  men  and  women 
(who  had  hurried  forth  upon  my  track),  as  they  met 
me,  seemed  to  wander  from  a  distjint  muffling  cloud. 
Only  the  thought  of  Loma's  ilcath,  like  a  heavy 
knell,  was  tolling  in  the  belfry  of  my  brain. 

When  we  came  to  the  stable  door,  I  rather  fell 
from  my  horse  than  got  off;  and  John  Fry,  with  a 


b 

I 
t 


killed  Lorna.    Now  let  me  see 
beloniz;.s  tome  none  the  less,  th 

''  You  cannot  see  her  now,  d 

Iluckal^ack,  coming  forw^ard,  s 

the  courage.     "Annie  is  with  h 

ill  "  What  ha^  that  to  do  with 

dead  one,  and  pray  to  die." 

All  the  women  fell  away  and  m 
at  me  with  side  glances,  and  so 
face  was  hard  as  flint.     Ruth  ale 
I    ^  dropped  her  eyes,  and  trembled. 

of  hers  stole  into  my  great  shaking 
was  laid  on  my  tattered  coat ;  yet 
shunned  my  blood,  while  she  wh 

"  John,  she  is  not  your  dead  o 
be  your  living  one  yet — your  wi 
your  happiness.     But  you  must 

"  Is  there  any  chance  for  her? 
for  me,  I  mean  ?" 

"  God  in  heaven  knows,  dear  J 
of  you,  and  in  f>^i°  ^'^^    '" 


■•1 
i 


I 


N01tBKB  TWENTY-FOUB  167 

Ten-fuld,  ay,  and  a  thouaand^fold,  I  prayed  and  I 
believed  it,  when  I  came  to  know  the  truth.  If  it 
had  not  been  tor  this  little  maid,  Tjoma  must  have 
died  at  once,  an  in  my  arms  she  lay  for  dead,  from 
the  daiitard  and  murderous  cruelty.  But  the  mo- 
ment I  left  her  Ruth  came  forward,  and  took  the 
command  of  every  one,  in  right  of  ber  firmness  and 


And  whether  it  were  the  light  and  brightness  of 
my  Loma's  nature,  or  the  freedom  from  anxiety — 
for  she  know  not  of  my  hurt — or,  aa  some  people  said, 
her  birthright  among  wounde  and  violence — I  leave 
that  doctor  to  determine  who  pronounced  her  dead. 
But  anyhow,  one  thing  is  certain ;  sure  as  the  stars 
of  hope  above  ue,  Loma  recovered  long  ere  I  did. 
R.  D.  Blackmobe. 


MAMMY  GETS  THE  BOY  TO  SLEEP. 

COME  erlong,  you  blessed  baby, 
Mammyll  tell  you  story,  maybe; 
Dat's  right ;  cla'm  up  in  my  lap 
Lak  er  man,  an'  tak  er  nap. 
Wuk  so  hard  he  almos'  dead; 
Mammy's  arm  will  res'  his  head- 
Pore  chile  oughter  bin  in  bed 

An  hour  ago. 
Tell  you  "bout  de  possum,  honey  t 
De  mammy  possum  got  er  funny 
Leeile  pouch,  er  bag  o'  skin 
LeJt'  you  totee  yore  marbles  in— 


BEST  8ELECTIOMB 

All  along  her  underside, 
Whar  de  baby  possums  hide 
When  dey's  skeered,  er  wants  ter  ride- 
Quit  wigglin'  so ! 

Some  time  dat  mammy — pore  old  critter- 
Has  sixteen  babies  at  one  litter ; 
Wide-mouf,  long-nose,  squirmin'  things, 
Wid  tail8  dat  twist  lak  fiddle  strings. 
Sixteen  lak  you  ter  mek  er  fuss, 
Ter  tote,  an'  feed,  an'  rock,  an'  nusa^ 
Keep  still !    Hit's  no  'sprise  ter  us 
Possum's  hair's  gray  I 

Honey,  when  de  houn'  dawgs  ketch  'im 
Dere  nose  an'  paw  ain't  more'n  tech  'im 
Tell  drop,  dat  possum  he  done  dead ; 
No  sign  er  life  from  foot  ter  head ; 
Wid  eyes  shet  tight,  he  lay  and  smile, 
An'  fool  dem  houn'  dawgs  all  de  while. 
Play  lak  you's  er  possum,  chile — 
Yes,  dat's  de  way. 

Possum  in  de  oven  roastin', 
Slice  sweet  taters  roun'  'im  toastin', 
Taste  so  good  when  he  git  done ! 
Mammy'll  give  her  baby  some. 
Eyes — shet — tight — yes,  dat's  de  way— 
Houn'  dawgs  goin',  goin'  er  way — 
Bless  de  boy,  no  possum  play 
In  dat  sleep ! 

Gertrude  Manly  Jones. 


MUUBBR  TWENTV-FOUR 


CITY  MAN'S  DREAM  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 

I  WOULD  flee  from  the  city's  rule  and  law, 
From  its  fashion  and  form  cut  loose, 
And  go  where  the  strawberry  grows  on  its  straw, 

And  the  gooaeherry  grows  on  its  goose ; 
Where  the  catnip  tree  is  climbed  by  the  cat 

As  she  crouches  for  her  prey — 
The  guileless  and  unsuspecting  rat 

On  the  rattan  bush  at  play. 
I  will  watch  at  ease  the  saffron  cow, 

And  her  cowlet  in  their  glee, 
As  they  leap  in  joy  from  bough  to  bough 

On  the  top  of  the  cowslip  tree ; 
Where  the  musical  partridge  drums  on  his  drum, 

And  the  woodchuck  chucks  his  wood. 
And  the  dog  devours  the  dogwood  plum 

la  the  primitive  solitude. 

Oh,  let  me  drink  from  the  mose-grown  pump 

That  was  hewn  from  the  pumpkin  tree, 
Eat  mush  and  milk  from  a  rural  stump, 

From  form  and  fashion  free. 
New-gathered  mush  from  the  mushroom  vine. 

And  milk  from  the  milkweed  sweet. 
With  luscious  pineapple  from  the  pine — 

Such  food  as  the  gods  might  eat  I 
And  then  to  the  whitewashed  dairy  111  turn. 

Where  the  dairymaid  hastening  biei. 


J  BEST  8EI.Kt:TI0Sfl 

Her  ruddy  and  goldun  red  butter  to  chain. 
From  the  milk  of  hvt  l)Utt«rf1ie«] 

And  111  riae  at  nmrn  with  the  early  bird, 
To  the  fragrant  fiimiyard  pane, 

When  the  farnitT  turns  his  beautiful  herd 
Of  grasBhoppera  out  to  gross. 

S.  W. 


EZRA  AND  ME  AND  THE  BOARDS. 

tWmtMloQ  at  tbt  Net!  Vnrk  ObHrrrr. 


WE'RE   plain   old-fftshioned  folks,  my  liusbani) 
and  me,  and  we're  getting  along  into  yt-ar*. 

Ezra  I*  pai^t  .-levciily,  iind  Ptn  no  neiir  it  there  ain'l 


mniBEB  TWBNTY:700B  161 

causes— that's  the  way  we  were  both  brought  up. 
But  goodness  me,  how  the  causes  do  glow  and  mul- 
tiply I  Once  there  was  only  fore^!;n  missions  and 
home  mlBsions  and  the  Bible  society  and  the  tract 
society,  but  now  there's  the  women's  boards,  too,  and 
the  freedmen  and  the  old  ministers  and  church  ex- 
tension and  the  Sunday-school  and  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and 
W.  C.  T.  U.,  and  land  knows  what.  Of  course  we 
couldn't  give  only  a  mite  to  the  old  Boards,  and  the 
only  way  we  can  do  anything  for  all  these  new 
causes  is  too  keep  crowding  on  a  little  more  load 
every  time — same  as  the  man  who  got  so  he  could 
carry  an  ox  just  by  beginning  with  it  as  a  calf. 

Well,  we  were  thinking  and  talking  a  great  deal 
about  the  debts  of  the  Boards,  three  years  ago  this 
summer,  and  casting  about  to  see  what  we  could  do. 
Of  course  I've  always  had  missionary  eggs ;  every 
fifth  e^,  is  my  rule.  If  the  old  Jews  gave  a  tenth, 
pity  if  the  Christians  can't  give  a  fifUi  I  And  there's 
my  cherrj'  and  apricot  trees.  Some  years  they've 
helped  me  out  ever  so  much ;  but  what  was  it  all 
among  the  causes  when  each  wanted  an  extra  effort, 
and  deserved  it,  too?  It's  the  extras  that  make  the 
trouble  always.  What  was  left  tor  the  debts  ?  On 
our  mite-box  it  says,  "  Freely  ye  have  received,"  and 
I  hope  I'm  not  a  stock  or  a  stone  not  to  know  that  I 
had  mercies  enough !  Just  to  be  well  and  breathe 
is  a  pretty  big  blessing,  Ezra  says.  But  it's  when 
he  goes  to  talking  about  history  that  Ezra  gets  real 
eloquent.  Why,  he'll  go  on  by  the  hour  about  what 
the  early  Christians  went  through,  just  to  spread  the 
11 


162  BEST  SELECnONB 

Gospel,  and  the  way  they  crept  here  and  there  with 
their  little  rolls  of  Scripture,  even  across  the  sea,  into 
England,  among  the  awfullest  heathens  that  ever 
wa£i,  if  they  was  our  ancestors ;  and  about  the 
Waldenses,  and  the  Huguenots,  and  the  C^ovenanters. 
I  declare  for  it,  when  Ezra  gets  to  telling  these 
stories  I  feel  so  worked  up  I'm  ashamed  to  think 
I've  had  my  bonnet  done  over  at  all. 

But  to  go  back  about  those  debts.  When  mother 
came  to  live  with  us  she  brought  from  the  old  home 
the  things  her  mother  gave  her  when  she  was  mar- 
ried— an  old  cherry  desk  and  an  eight-day  clock  and 
a  spinning-wheel,  if  you'll  believe  it — a  little  old- 
fashioned  flax-wheel,  spindle,  distaff,  and  all.  We 
thought  that  was  a  big  joke,  but  you'll  see.  We  put 
the  wheel  up  in  the  loft,  and  the  children  used  to 
play  with  it.  After  mother  died,  the  young  folks 
used  to  get  it  down  for  tableaux,  and  New  Eng- 
land kitchens,  and  such  things,  and  once  Cora 
Gillette,  the  banker's  daughter,  asked  my  Eliza  if 
we  would  sell  it,  which,  of  course,  Eliza  wouldn't 
listen  to — sell  grandma's  wheel,  indeed  ! 

Talking  about  the  debts — '"  if  we  had  something 
we  could  sell,"  says  Ezra,  and  I  just  laughed,  but  he 
fell  to  telling  about  the  early  Christians  living  under- 
ground and  starving  to  death,  till  I  was  sober  enough 
to  cr}\  I  always  lie  awake  nights  when  anything 
troubles  me — foolishest  thing  in  the  world  to  do ! — 
and  I  w£us  lying  awake  that  night,  and  all  at  once  I 
thougbt  of  the  wheel.  Of  course  I  hated  to  part 
with  it,  but  what  was  that  to  be  thinking  about  at 


NUlfBER  TWENTY-FODK  163 

BUch  a  time  as  this !  So  in  the  morning  I  got  down 
the  wheel  and  cleaned  it  and  oiled  it  and  rubbed  it 
till  it  shone,  and  then  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  went 
over  to  Mrs.  Gillette's,  who  is  such  a  genuine  lady 
that  nobody  is  afraid  of  her,  so  I  just  told  her  I'd 
like  to  sell  mother's  wheel.  Miss  Gillette  was  in  the 
room  and  she  joined  right  in.  "  Of  oo'irse  we  want 
it,  mamma,"  says  she ;  "  do  send  the  man  right  over 
for  it." 

"  I  think  111  st»p  over  to  Mib.  Johnson's  and  look 
at  it  myself,"  say?  her  mother;  and  so  she  came 
home  with  me,  and  when  we  came  in  she  sat  down 
and  we  had  a  nice  visit.  She  said  right  away  that 
she'd  take  the  wheel,  and  would  give  me  ten  dollars 
for  it,  which  I  thought  a  real  good  price.  Then  she 
Bays,  in  her  soft,  beautiful  way  :  "  Dear  Mrs.  John- 
son, you're  not  in  any  trouble,  I  hope,  that  makes 
you  anxious  to  sell  this  wheel  ?" 

"  No,"  says  I ;  "  only  those  Board  debts." 

"Whose  debts?  What  debts?"  says  she,  in  a 
kind  of  surprised,  inquiring  voice. 

"  BoanI  debts,"  says  I,  and  upon  my  word  I  had 
to  explain  it  to  her,  although  she's  one  of  our  church 
members,  and  a  most  lovely  woman,  hut  she  never 
had  an  Ezra  for  a  husband.  AVell,  when  she  under^ 
stood  it,  her  great  soft  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she 
took  out  her  purse  :  "  Dear  Mrs,  Johnson,"  saj  s  she, 
"  I  didn't  offer  you  half  enough  for  (hat  wheel,"  and 
she  just  made  mo  take  twenty  dollars  I 

It's  always  Mrs.  Gillette's  way  when  she's  been 
doing  anything  generoos  to  act  as  if  it  was  nothing 


164  BEST  BELECnONB 

n  markable,  and  so  she  began  to  walk  around  tbc 
r- 11  >m  and  to  look  at  father  and  mother's  pictures  and 
I  Ik-  oM  clock  and  the  desk,  "  You  have  a  fortune  in 
ilu'^e  ([Uaint  old  things,"  says  she,  "People  give  a 
L^iuiit  (leal  for  theni  nowadays,  but  of  course  you^l 
iiiver  part  with  them." 

"  No,  indeed,"  says  I,  and  I  felt  almost  hurt  to 
linve  her  speak  of  it,  but  she  came  and  took  both 
iriy  hands  in  her  soft,  pretty  ones,  and  kissed  me. 
^iiLil  :!iaid  she  was  more  grateful  to  rae  than  she 
could  tell,  for  the  wheel  and  for  a  lesson,  and  then 
sIk;  iveiit  away.  Poor  tiling,  she's  just  crowded  to 
il<'ath  with  her  big  house,  and  her  help  and  her 
lompanv  !  It's  no  wonder  she  hadnt  thought  about 
th.:  dcV.k 


NUMBER   TWEMTY-FOtJB  166 

she  meant  Ezra.  Nobody  ever  thought  of  calling 
me  a  saint ! 

Well,  a  year  went  by,  and  if  those  blessed  old 
Boards  wa 'n't  just  as  bad  off  as  ever!  Some  saya 
they  ain't  mantled  right,  but  Ezra  says,  "  How  can 
they  atop  spending  when  they  get  such  letters,  not 
not  only  from  misaionariea,  but  from  converted 
heathens  ?" 

I'd  noticed  Ezra  looking  at  the  deak,  and  I  just 
felt  in  my  bones  what  was  coming.  It  would  have 
to  go,  much  aa  we  sot  by  it,  and  so  it  did.  Mr. 
Gillette  came  over  himself  and  gave  us  twenty-five 
dollars  for  it.  Of  course,  we  missed  it  some,  but 
what's  that  when  you  think  of  what  you  have  re- 
ceived ?  Mrs.  Gillette  gave  a  hundred  dollars  to 
foreign  missions  and  a  hundred  dollars  to  home 
missions  last  year,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  that  the 
Boards  are  beholden  to  Ezra  for  a  good  share  of  it, 
but  that's  the  last  thing  he  thinks  of. 

And  now  here  is  the  same  old  story  ringing  in 
our  ears  ^ain  about  the  debts !  There's  just  one 
thing  left.  It  did  seem  for  awhile  as  if  I  couldnt 
part  with  it.  I'm  a  natural  born  miser,  I  am  I  I 
was  gazing  at  the  clock  the  other  evening,  and  says 
I  to  Ezra  :  "  What  an  heirloom  this  clock  is !" 

"  Yes,"  says  he,  "  but  the  gospel  is  a  great  deal 
older  and  preciouser  heirloom,  thanks  to  the  mis- 
sionaries who  brought  it  to  England  I" 

I  was  lying  awake  that  night,  and  got  to  think* 
ing  how  I'd  been  blessed  by  my  godly  mother  and 
grandmother,  and  how  glad  they'd  he  to  have  the 


166  BERT  SELECTIONS 

<ild  clock  Hpreiiil  the  gospel,  and  then  the  qaeerwt 
tiling  happened.  The  clock  hogaii  to  tick  :  "  Frep-ly, 
M-httvu,  re-ceived ;  fre«-ly,  ye-have,  re-ceived  !" 

It'e  kept  it  going  ever  aiiice,  till  I'm  most  craay. 
I  told  Ezni  of  it  this  morning,  and  he  says  mnylic  if 
n  wont  over  to  Mr».  Gilletta'ii  and  litood  on  Uiat 
liroad  liinding  up  on  her  stairs,  it  might  kwp  on 
s;iying  the  same  thing  till  even  Mr,  (jillette,  whu 
iiover  goes  to  church,  would  hear  it.  \V!io  knows? 
MaKV  ii.  I''1E1J 


THE  nOCK-A-BY  LADY. 

rt-aa  "  lAv«  SoogB  ot  Childhood,"  b;  penolsioa  at  Charlca  Sorltiau'i 


NUMBER  TWENTY-POOB  167 

And  boats  go  a-floating  on  silvery  streams, 

And   the  stars   peek-a-boo   with    their  own   misty 

gleams, 
And  up,  up  and  up,  where  the  Mother  Moon  beams, 
Tlie  fairies  go  winging  I 

Would  you  dream  all  these  dreams  that  are  tiny  and 
fleet? 
They'll  come  to  you  sleeping ; 
So,  shut  the  two  eyea  that  are  weary,  my  sweet, 
For  the  Rock-a-By  Lady  from  Hush-a-by  street, 
With  poppies  that  hang  from  her  head  to  her  feet, 
Comes  stealing ;  comes  creeping. 

GuoENE  Field. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 


A 


1795. 
DROWSY  drone; 
A  garden  sweet 
And,  all  alone. 

In  kirtle  neat 

So  deft  and  prim, 

To  guide  the  reel. 

With  sunshine  in  her  dove-like  eyes, 

The  maid  Priscilla  daily  plies 

Her  wheel 

1896. 
A  noisy  street. 
Or  lane  or  park, 


I 


\ 


_--^  X  cowi  u.m-»ii   111    11^1 

The  modern  maiden  o 


THE  STRIKE  AT  C 

Permission  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Cc 


THE  United  Sisterhood  of  C 
its  weekly  session.     The  i 
was  large  and  lofty,  its  colorin 
\     1 1  subdued  tones.     There  was  a  bL 

wrought  andirons  of  the  great 

added  a  charm  to  the  crispness 

Afternoon   sunshine   transferret 

stained  glass  in  the  windows  t 

M  and  threw  marvelous  tints  ove 

I  blage.    One  yellow  gleam  transf( 

I  the  president  into  a  saint's  aure< 

to  be  the  presiding  officer  of  so 
certain  serious  enthusiasm  on  he 


'  |j  the  dierniH'  i — 


NUUBER  TWENTY-POUB  169 

bUBiness  of  the  meeting,  she  came  quickly  to  her 
point. 

"  I  am  about,  dear  aistera,"  she  began,  ■'  to  over- 
litep  my  office  and  the  usual  formalities  and  speak  to 
you  as  a  woman  to  women,  as  a  sister  to  sisters, 
heart  to  heart."  The  tender  thrill  in  her  voice 
touched  every  eoul  to  sympathy. 

"  You  all  ktiow  that  our  Sisterhood  is  interested 
in  everything  that  makes  for  the  elevation  and  free- 
dom of  womanhood,  that  we  are  banded  indissolubly 
together  to  this  noble  end.  We  are  a  unit  in  this 
cause.  There  should  be  no  individuality.  What 
hurts  one  hurts  all.  Shall  one  of  the  members  suffer 
and  the  whole  body  not  be  affected  ? 

"  There  has  recently  come  to  my  knowledge  a  tale 
of  wrong  and  outrage  that  baa  wrung  the  very  fibres 
of  my  Boul,  and  awakened  in  me  a  desire  to  aid  the 
unfortunate  victim,  which  I  trust  will  be  shared  by 
all  the  Sisterhood. 

"  In  this  very  town,  one  of  our  very  own  Sister- 
hood, who  would  have  been  with  us  this  afternoon 
had  not  these  unrighteous  circumstances  prevented, 
lies  crushed  under  the  heel  of  household  tyranny. 
Claiming  the  prerogatives  of  man,  her  husband  has 
declared  that  the  present  hard  times  demand  re- 
trenchment in  his  family,  and  has  insisted  that  she 
dismiss  her  servant.  His  pretense  is  that  he  has 
been  thrown  out  of  his  situation ;  that  all  his  reserve 
fund  has  been  used  except  what  is  necesparj-  to  pay 
butchers'  and  grocers'  bills ;  that  he  cannot  pay  a 
servant's  wages.    When  she  protests,  the  monster 


\ 


u 


t  1 


) 


_..  ^MMius  tnat   mere  is  m 
dismisses  the  serviint. 

"  Women    of    I'oleliester,    s 
Shall    we   see   our   sister   thi 
tamely  by  and  make  no  prot 
in  the  might  of  our  woman 
against  the   greed   of  husban 
,  Man  ?" 

^  The  audience   was    much    . 

*  flushed,  eyes  were  brilliant  wi 

i    ^J  pers  passed  to  and  fro.   Several 

to  attract  the  attention  of  the  ch 

attention  was  distracted  by  her 

'^j  she  went  on  with  her  appeal. 

paused  there  was  a  simultaneo 
We  will  I     What  shall  we  do  ?" 
m  The  president's  face  changed 

fll  enthusiasm  it  settled  into  an  e 

Bolve.  The  sweet  mouth  was  fii 
brows  were  knit,  and  under  th 
contracted  to  steely  points  of  li<» 


H  a  J^f rilr/.  »" 


I, 


KDMBEB  TWENTV-FOTJR  171 

"  What  for?  To  express  our  sympathy  with  oui 
injured  sister.  What  use  will  it  be?  It  will  put 
our  husbands  and  brothers  and  fathers  in  such  a 
position  that  they  will  force  tliis  wretched  man  to 
yield  in  order  to  free  themselves  from  discomfort. 
How  and  when?  At  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing we  will  go  out." 

A  little  maid,  in  the  rear  of  the  hall,  jumped  to 
her  feet 

"  Mrs.  President,"  she  said,  without  waiting  to  be 
recognized,  "  I  would  suggest  that  before  we  take 
action  on  this  matter  we  retire  to  some  place  where 
we  can  do  ao  without  infringing  the  laws  of  hospi- 
tality. We  are  here  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Col- 
chester Club  J  we  accept  the  use  of  this  hall  from 
man,  whom  we  are  about  to  boycott."  Then  she 
dropped  into  her  seat  as  suddenly  as  she  had  popped 
up.  It  was  the  longest  speech  she  had  ever  made  in 
public,  and  her  voice  frightened  her. 

The  president  calmly  ruled  her  out  of  order,  and 
went  on. 

"  She  is  a  great  deal  more  out  of  order  herself," 
murmured  the  little  maid.  "The  times  are  out  of 
joint,  too;"  and  there  was  sonicthinR  quizzical  in  hci 
smile  as  she  rose  and  slipped  from  tlio  hall.  No  one 
noted  her  exit  in  the  excitement  consequent  upon  a 
speech  made  by  one  of  the  older  lailics  of  the  club. 

"  The  insult !"  she  said,  under  her  breath,  "  In 
their  own  hall,  too!  I'd  like  to  know  what  my 
lather  has  ever  shown  me  but  kindness,  that  they 
should  think  I  could  be  willing  to  treat  him  so  1" 


.-^vi   luunu    ner  oui,   a 
He  was  a  fine  fellow,  too, 
her;  but  the  little  maid  Wi 
pendent,  and  so  haj)|)y  in  thi 
she  did  not  like  to  think  of 
80  she  had  been  rather  cruel  1 
11  It  was  a  coincidence  that,  \ 

her  in  bubbling  wrath,  looki 
not  seeing  where  she  went,  sh 
:  {|  squarely  into  him. 

He  looked  down  very  kindlj 
\  [  BjJ  feet  of  vantage.     "  I  don't  thi 

down,"  he  said,  smiling. 

In  her  excited  state,  she  tool 
"Oh,  I  don't  want  to,"  she  < 
J'  j  unnecessary  benevolence.     Six 

at  five  feet  three  and  laughed 

never  noticed  it.     "  Why  shot 

1 1  cruel,  so  treacherous,  to  those  w 

j  to  me  ?    It's  an  outrage  and  a  shf 

are  men  wh  o  are  not  good  to  tb  pi ' 
but  f>-«*  *- 


I 


1 


i 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FOUR  172 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said;  and,  as  the  twi- 
light waa  falling  faat,  he  tucked  her  hand  under  his 
arm  and  tihe  let  hiiu  take  her  home.  That  was  a 
privilege  he  had  not  been  allowed  for  a  long  time, 
and  he  waa  very  happy. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  United 
Sisterhood  of  Colchester  went  out  in  a  body. 

The  matron  who  was  baking  bread  left  it  in  the 
oven,  she  who  was  ordering  dinner  left  it  without 
dessert,  she  who  was  darning  her  husband's  socks 
left  the  needle  sticking  in  the  half-mended  hole,  she 
who  was  washing  her  little  boy's  face  left  one-half  of 
it  unwashed. 

The  president  shone  like  a  star  of  the  first  ma^i' 
tude  that  day.  She  was  radiant,  she  gleamed  and 
scintillated,  as  one  after  another  of  the  ladies  who 
had  gone  out  came  into  the  hotel. 

The  hostess  met  them  with  some  concern.  "  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  ever  we  are  to  do,"  she  said. 
"  When  the  servants  heard  about  the  boycott,  they 
said  they  would  willingly  do  all  they  could  to  help 
UB,  they  had  no  great  opinion  of  the  men  anyway ; 
and  so  they  have  all  boycotted  my  husband  and 
gone  off  to  the  city." 

"  We  will  divide  the  work  among  us,"  said  the 
president,  "  and  I  will  take  for  my  share,  if  you  like, 
the  Bystematiiing  of  the  labor.  This  will  save  a 
great  deal  of  time.  Can  any  one  lend  me  paper  and 
pencil?" 

"  We  shall  have  to  buy  supplies,  and  the  provision- 
dealot  is  a  man,"  suggested  one  of  the  Sisterhood. 


i74  BEST  BELECnONB 

How  this  point  of  ethics  of  the  boycott  would 
have  been  got  over  never  appeared,  for  into  the 
midst  of  their  deliberations  rushed  a  breathless 
maid-servant. 

*'l8  Mrs.  Merrill  here?  Oh,  won't  you  please 
come  home  and  look  at  little  Philip,  ma'am?  He's 
all  broken  out  red  and  spotted,  and  he  says  his 
throats  sore." 

Mrs.  Merrill  was  out  of  the  house  before  the  sen- 
tence was  finished,  leaving  behind  her  a  trail  of  dis- 
jointed words — **  He  didn't  seem  well  this  morning 
— How  could  I — boycott '' — that  found  an  echo  in 
the  hearts  of  other  young  mothers. 

"  If  it  is  measles,"  said  one. 

"  Or  scarlet  fever,"  said  another. 

"  Philip  is  in  school  with  all  of  our  children." 

And  forthwith  all  the  young  mothers  stood  not 
ui)on  the  order  of  their  going.  Now,  Colchester  is  a 
favorite  resort  for  young  married  couples,  and  this 
defection  thinned  the  boycotting  ranks  by  at  least 
one-third. 

A  fine  scorn  curled  the  red  lip  of  the  president 
"  It  is  sad,"  she  said,  "  to  see  how  the  most  ordinary 
promptings  of  nature  will  conquer  the  claims  of 
duty." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Green  here?"  Another  maid-servant  ap- 
peared, wearing  her  Sunday  hat  and  gloves.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  glad  to  know,  ma'am,"  she 
went  on,  "  that  a  lot  of  us  girls  has  heard  about  the 
boycott  and  how  the  girls  at  the  hotel  is  going  to 
help  the  ladies  along  by  all  going  out  too;  and  so 


miMBSR  TWENTY-FOnn  175 

we're  going  to  join  the  strike  and  go  out  likewise. 
We  think  we'll  go  out  to  the  city,  ma'am  ;  and  will 
you  please  lend  me  your  ticket-book  ?" 

Thia  unexpected  reinforcement  did  not  seem  tc 
Btrengthen  the  strike. 

"  I  can't  have  my  house  left  alone,"  said  one  lady, 
and  "  there  must  be  some  lunch  for  my  daughters 
when  they  come  home  from  school.  I  didn't  agree 
to  boycott  my  daughters,"  said  another. 

"  We  wish  the  strike  well,  Mrs.  Starr,'"  said  a  third, 
making  herself  spokeswoman  for  the  crowd,  "but 
really — "  And  she  melted  away,  followed  by  an- 
other large  contingent. 

Example  is  as  contagious  among  human  beings  as 
among  sheep.  As  imall  a  thing  as  will  start  them 
in  one  direction  will  bring  them  back  pell-mell  in 
the  other.  By  eleven  o'clock  all  the  ladies  of  the 
Colchester  Sisterhood  who  had  gone  out  at  nine  had 
gone  in  again,  and  the  sympathetic  strike  was  over. 

As  it  had  been  conducted  from  the  beginning  with 
such  secrecy,  and  as  the  Sisters  saw  no  particu- 
lar moral  effect  to  be  gained  by  telling  the  history  of 
the  broken  boycott,  the  men  of  Colchester  never 
knew  anything  about  it  They  came  home  at  night 
to  find  their  good  wives  busy  about  their  sick  chil- 
dren, or  supplying  the  place  of  the  8er\'ant8  who 
were  "  having  a  day  out  in  town." 

"  Don't  read  me  about  the  labor  troubles,"  said 
one  of  them,  when  the  head  of  the  bouse  proposed 
reading  the  newspaper  aloud  that  evening.  "  I  hava 
no  sympathy  with  strikes." 


Il6  B{3T  SRLKCriON'a 

OiiQ  of  the  men  of  Colchester  miicit  he  fxoepM, 
He  luww  ivll  about  the  great  boycott,  how  il  was 
hi'^un  anil  how  it  wtui  ended.  But  the  little  maul 
Hi^ide  bun  proiribe  that  he  would  never  tell. 
"  ISecauae,  after  all,"  she  said,  "  we  are  more  reason- 
!ilile  thttu  wc  seem  9omotimes.  The  women  of  Col- 
L'lic.Hter  have  just  proved  it" 

And  the  young  niun  aatd  he  thought  so  too,  and 
tli:it  he  would  be  glad  to  promifle. 

Now,  this  was  not  pure  nrngnanimity  on  hia  part, 
Thu  little  maid  bad  practically  proved  h«r  reasun- 
jihlenessto  his  mind  half  an  hour  before  by  listeniiL); 
very  kindly  to  something  he  had  to  say  to  her.  And 
this  was  the  only  permanent  rtisult  of  the  atrik«  at 
Colohefltffl,        ^^^^^^^^F^^^ST^^^ 


NUMBER  TWENTY -FOUB 

So  our  littie  man 
An'  our  little  maid 
Ez  anxious  to  Bca  'im — they  ain't  afraid  I 

But  you  better  take  keer,  fer  some  folka  Bay 
'At  ef  yer  naughty  lie'Il  fly  away. 
An'  quicker'n  you  kin  ivhiatle — phew — 
Away  he's  gone  up  the  chimney  flue  I 

So  our  Uttle  maid 

An'  our  little  man 
Ez  tryin'  to  be  jest  ez  good's  they  can. 

But  ef  yer  good  an  "bey  yer  pa 
An'  don't  never  cry  an'  vex  yer  ma 
Hell  fill  yer  stockin's  with  gamea  an'  toys 
An'  nuts  an'  Bweots  an'  all  aorta  o'  joys. 

So  our  little  maid 

An'  our  littk-man 
Wants  Santy  to  come  jea'  as  quick's  he  can. 


ODD  SKE-SAWS. 

I  SAW  A  cow-hide  in  the  grass, 
A  rush  li^ht  on  the  door ; 
I  saw  a  candle-stick  in  the  mud, 
And  a  bell-pull  on  the  door. 

I  saw  a  horse-fly  up  the  creek, 

A  cat-nip  at  her  food ; 
I  saw  a  chestnut-burr,  and  heard 

A  ahell-bark  in  tlie  wood. 


X  8aw  a  monkev-wrenc 
From  a  fair  lady's  pf. 

I  saw  a  rattle-anake  a  b 
And  hogs-head  on  a  \ 

I  saw  a  brandy-smash  a 
j    y j  I  saw  a  shooting-star ; 

I  heard  the  corns-talk  in 
A  pig-iron  crow  bar. 


i " 


'i 


THE  FORGING  OF  TH 


CIOME,  see  the  ''  Dolphin's  "  an 
'  a  white  lieat  now  :  the  t 
flames  decreased — though  on  tl 
little  flames  still  fitfully  play 
mound,  and  fitfully  you  still 
smiths  ranking  round  ;  all  clad  ii 
their  broad  hands  only  bare — sor 
sledges  here,  some  work  the  wi 
windlass  strains  the  tacklp  /»v^«:^- 


NCUBEK  TWENTY-FODR  179 

"  Hurrah !"  they  shout,  "  leap  out— leap  out !" 
bang,  bang  the  sledges  go ;  hurrah !  the  jetted  light- 
nings are  hissing  high  and  low.  Swing  in  your 
strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time ;  your 
blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's 
chime.  But  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing — 
and  let  the  hurden  be,  "The  anchor  is  the  anvil 
king,  and  royal  craftwnen  we!"  Strike  in,  strike 
in  I — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling  red ;  our 
hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon 
be  sped.  Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of 
fiery  rich  array,  for  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows, 
or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay.  In  livid  and  obdurate 
gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ;  a  shapely  on6  he  is, 
and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast.  0  trusted  and 
trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me,  what 
pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep 
green  sea ! 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-kings'  halls !  oouldst  thou  but 
understand  whose  be  the  white  Itones  by  thy  side,  or 
who  that  dripping  band  slow  swaying  in  the  heaving 
waves,  that  round  about  thee  bend,  with  sounds  like 
breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their  ancient  friend — 
oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger 
steps  round  thee,  thine  iron  side  would  swell  with 
pride;  thou'dst  leap  within  the  sea! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the 
pleasant  strand  to  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  tlie 
love  of  Fatherland — who  left  their  chance  of  quiet 
age  and  grassy  churchyard  grave  so  freely,  for  a 
restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave.     Oh,  though  oui 


180  BEST  SELECTIONS 

:iiiohor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung,  hoDOi 
Mill  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  amoogl 
Samuel  Febouson. 


FOREIGN  VIEWS  OF  THE  STATUE. 


AN  the  deck  of  a  steamer  that  came  up  the  Bay 
'  Some  garrulous  foreigners  gathered  one  day, 
To  vent  their  opinions  of  matters  and  things 

On  this  »ide  the  Atlantic, 

In  language  peilantic. 
'Twas  much  the  same  gathering  as  any  ship  brings. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FOUE  181 

The  Englishman  gazed  through  his  watch-crystal 
eye ; 
*  Pon  'onor,  by  Jove,  it  is  too  beaatly  high ! 
A  monatwoaity,  weally,  too  large  to  be  seen  I 
In  pwoportioii,  I  say, 
It's  too  large  faw  the  Bay. 
So  much  larger  than  one  we've  at  'ome  of  the 
Queen  I" 

An  Italian  next  joined  the  colloquial  scrimmage: 
"  I  dreea-a  my  monkey  just  like-a  de  imago, 

I  call-a  '  Bartholdi,' Frenchman  got  simnky— 

Call-a  roe  '  Macaroni,' 
Lose-a  me  plenty  muiiey  ! 
He  break-a  my  organ  and  kecla-a  my  monkey  I 

**  My-a  broder  a  fecsherman  ;  herr-a  what  he  say  : 
No  more-a  he  catch-a  de  feesh  in  de  Bay ; 
He  drop-a  de  sein — he  no  get-a  de  weesh. 

When  he  make-a  de  graba-a. 

Only  catcb-a  de  crab-a, 
D«  big-a  French  iroage  scare  away  all  de  feesh !" 

"  By  the  home  rule !"  said  Pat,  "  and  is  that  Libertec  ? 
She's  the  biggest  old  woman  that  iver  I  see! 
Phy  don't  she  ait  down  ?  'Tia  a  shame  she's  to  stand. 
But  the  truth  is,  Oi'm  towld 
That  the  stone  is  too  cowld. 
Would  ye  moind  the  shillalah  she  holds  in  her 
hand  I" 


I  ^2  i«:sT  

Said  the  ComisluiiEiii :     "  Tliuiil's  noi  '  nhillalali,' 

ye  ecaoinp ! 
Looiika  to  I  like  Piogeuw'  'ere  wi'  'i»  litainp, 
^^earchiu'  hoard  fur  a.  'onc'Ht  niaiin."   "  Faith,  that  it 
true," 

Muttered  Put,  "  iihnt  ye  say,  ^m 

Fur  hes lookin'  ray  way,  ^M 

And  by  the  siiine  favor  don't  rtsROfjnize  you!"      ^| 

" 8hust  vait  unt  I  dolt  you,'' said  Hans;  "vata  der 

matter, 
It  vaa  voii  of  dem  menuaitB  coomed  ouwd  fun  dcr 

vater 
Untahehat  noddingaon;  unt der  vintry  viiid |iIovfs. 
Unt  fur  iihame,  unt  fur  pidy,    .^^^h^h 


NDHBER  TWENTY-FOUR 


THE  DIAL  OF  TIME. 


TWO  slender  hands  upon  Time's  dial-plate 
Go  creeping  round,  and  mark  the  hours  of  man, 
Unconscious  of  his  momentary  plan 
In  all  the  circling  years  of  Time's  estate ; 
Nor  fast  nor  alon-,  nor  pause  for  small  or  great, 
An  hour  for  Ca-sar  or  Napoleon  ; 
And  so  it  was  since  first  Time's  march  began. 
The  lover  cries,"  My  soul,  it  cannot  wait;" 
The  murderer,  "  That  hour  will  bring  my  doom ;" 
The  sick  man  sighs,  "  To-morrow  and  the  tomb ;" 
While  empires  crumble  like  the  cliffs  to  sand 
Before  the  waves  of  years,  and  planets  cold 
Are  clothed  with  life,  and  virgin  spheres  grow  old 
Beneath  the  dial  balanced  in  God's  hand. 

Clarence  Hawses. 


THE  VALUE  OF  LITERATURE. 

THE  literature  of  the  world  is,  in  a  very  deep 
sense,  the  direct  and  most  beautiful  outcome 
of  its  life.  Men  have  had  but  a  partial  success  in 
shaping  their  external  life,  but  their  ideals,  their 
aspirations,  their  highest  thoughts  of  themselves 
are  to  be  found  in  books.  It  is  only  asi  we  unite  the 
actual  which  we  find  in  its  history  with  the  ideal 
which  we  find  in  ita  literature,  that  we  arc  able  to 
get  any  true  understanding  of  an  ^e.     The  value 


184  BEST  8ELECTION8 

and  \ntality  of  great  books  lie  not  so  much  in  their 
art  as  in  the  fidelity  and  completeness  with  which 
they  represent  human  life.  Literature  is,  in  a  word, 
the  best  that  has  been  thought  or  dreamed  in  tin- 
world,  and  must  therefore  remain  to  the  very  end  of 
time  the  most  fascinating  and  the  most  fruitful 
study  to  which  men  can  give  themselves. 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


POINT  SUBLIME,  COLORADO  CASON. 

PermlKion  of  the  Author. 


RAINBOW-HUED,  ragged,  wild,  and  terrible, 
The  giant  gulf  lies  open  at  my  feet ; 
A  wilderness  of  ruins  that  repeat 
All  architectural  forms — pinnacle 
And  pyramid  and  tower;  the  rocky  shell 
And  ribs  of  some  old  crumbled  world,  replete 
With  horror,  scorched  by  an  intolerable  heat  : 
Some  agony  of  Nature  here  befell ! 
The  ponderous  Earth  alone  in  some  fierce  throe, 
Convulsion,  paroxysm,  passion  fit. 
Has  force  to  shatter  thus !     Nay,  far  below, 
The  petty  cause  of  the  enormous  pit. 
Lost,  buried  in  the  gloom  itself  hath  made, 
The  river  burrows  in  eternal  shade. 

The  power  that  built  above  the  cloudy  skies 
Andes  and  Caucasus  with  heads  of  snow, 
Wrought  here  with  equal  strength  in  earth  below, 


NU&ffl£ft  TWEMTY-BtlDB  186 

And  dug  th'  abyss  by  giant  contraries ; 

Opening  the  mouths  of  moDStroua  cayitiea, 

Whose  depths  profound   are  shut  in   walls  which 

throw 
Pefpetaal  gloom ;  driving  the  rocks  to  flow 
Like  Water  to  the  a6as  whence  they  did  rise. 
Nature  here  turned  upon  herself  with  beak 
And  claw,  and  tore  her  breast  in  blind  despair ; 
Her  very  entrails  lie  expos'd  and  bare, 
ThB  stony  strncture  of  a  world  antique, 
Sculptur'd  in  mighty  forms  of  dome  and  peak, 
Uplifted  far  below  in  liquid  air. 

J.  £.  NmuOL 


DON'T  BE  SORRY. 

TWNT  be  sorry  mo'ners,  when  de  sun  don't  shine ; 
-L'     Worl'  is  full  er  trouble  an'  complainin'; 
But  still  dey  ie  a  blossom  what's  a-growin'  on  de  vine, 
De  storm  is  blowin'  over  en  de  weather's  mighty  fine 
En  de  fiel's  is  smellin'  sweeter  fer  de  rainin'  I 

Don't  be  sorry,  mo'ners,  when  de  night  come  down ; 

Worl'  is  mighty  full  er  sin  en  sorrer; 
But  a  little  star's  a-peepin' — des  a-peepin'  all  aroun' ; 
Somewhar  de  day's  a-breakin',  en  de  bells  er  glory 
sonn', 

En  de  birdsll  all  be  singin'  on  tenuorrerl 


-*-     stairway  of  a  down- 
heard  !-oiin;  oiie  s^ay,  "  Oli 
Hill  a  dhow,"  as  a  big  yuu 
out  oE  my  way,  and  then 
hia  comrades.     The  small 
ehrill  voice,  "  Tel'gram — pi 
It  seema  atrange  to  me 
should  call  him  "  Bill."    1 
fellow  to  carry  that  sort  of 

The  next  evening,  on  m, 

I  Btopped  at  the  stand  whi 

papers,  Bill's  sad  little  face 

I    turned    about    without   b 

around  for  him  when  I  cami 

and  there  at  the  foot  of  th< 

bundle  of  news  under  his  e 

member  me,  and  amiled  as  h< 

I  stopped  a  moment  and  spc 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?"  1 1 

"  With  Jim  an'  Bob,  sir." 

"  Haven't  you  a  fBt*!"  — 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FOOB  187 

g«t  out  until  I  heard  the  guard  call  the  station  be- 
yond mine. 

The  next  night  Bill  met  me,  and  held  out  his 
hand  with  Bome  money  in  it. 

"  It's  the  change,"  he  said,  "  from  last  night,  Jim 
said  it'd  pay  best  in  the  end  to  give  it  back.  He 
says,  'hon'flty'a  the  best  pulusy,  'specially  with 
gents.' " 

I  explained  that  I  had  given  the  money  away,  but 
he  looked  at  me  fully  a  minute  before  he  cried,  "  Oh, 
thank  yer!  Hi!  won't  Jim  an'  Bob  an'  I  hev  a 
treat !"  He  put  down  hia  papers  and  flung  up  his 
cap  with  a  "  Hooray !  Whoop  1  Jim !"  And  I  con- 
fess it  was  with  rather  a  thick  voice  I  asked  for  my 
ticket  at  the  station  window,  "  Eight  cents,"  I 
bought,  "  and  it's  a  bonanza  to  him." 

One  night,  not  long  after  this,  no  "  Little  Bill " 
put  in  an  appearance;  instead,  one  of  the  larger 
boya  met  me  with  a  "  Post,"  "  There's  a  letter  writ 
on  the  top,"  he  volunteered.  And  so  I  found  on 
looking : 

"  Dere  Mister  Post.  Little  Bill  is  sorter  sik,  hut 
Jim  will  giv  you  the  paper  every  nite. 

"  P.  S.— 'Taint  ketchin," 

I  read  this  note  through  twice,  and  then,  glancing 
at  Jim,  asked  him  about  Bill.  He  had  a  cold  and 
a  cough  and  was  "  laid  up,"  the  boy  told  me  with  a 
husky  voice  and  in  a  lowered  tone  that  spoke  words 
for  Jim's  own  heart,  beating  away  beneath  his  faded, 
dirty  jacket.  By  him  1  sent  fruit  to  "  Little  Bill " 
several  times,   much   to  Jim's  delight;   he  would 


tS8  BEST  aeLEcnoNB 

\h^l^k  mo  most  profitfely,  &Dd  on  one  oocaainn 
"iiiited  to  infliat  on  ray  taking  n  "  Tclugram ''  fur 
iiottiing.  He  wild  ^waya  wuiting  for  me  with  tuy 
I'-.ipet  and  some  message,  as  "  Little  liil]  saye  a#  ho 
iiiwaya  thinks  to  Itisi^elf  at  ball-iiiwl  five,  now  Mr. 
I'lwt  ia  gettin'  his  )ia])er,  and  he  saya  to  t«ll  yoo  Ijo 
I  Mil  800  you  just  as  if  ho  was  tlicro." 

It  was  more  than  a  wtek  liefore  he  O-anie  hack,  and 
wliL-n  he  did  the  littlo  cliaji  wtw  changed  sadly;  ho 
Inoked  smaller  aiul  frailer  than  ever,  "  I  am  p)«d 
til  have  you  hack  with  my  paper,  Little  Bill,"'  I  iwi<J ; 
:iiiil  he  gave  me  sneli  a  joyful  look  from  his  big 
liiiiwnoypa,  while  two  tcaja  rolled  out  of  thpni,  that 
1  was  glad  a  coming  train  gave  mc  excuw  to  hurry 
:nvav.     He  stirred   in   rae   feelinea,  BenUmenta,   ca 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FOUR  1S9 

of  the  street,  and  fall,  while  a  cab  swung  at  full 
speed  around  the  comer.  I  am  not  a  weak  man,  but 
the  touching  attitude,  the  eager  action  of  this  boy, 
with  a  hint  of  reproach  in  hie  little  voice,  it  all  un- 
nerved me  as  I  have  never  been  moved  before.  1 
clutched  the  side  railing  and  shut  my  eyes.  In  a 
moment  1  opened  them  ;  there  was  already  a  crowd 
in  the  middle  of  the  street.  Through  the  rain  and 
wet  I  strode  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  The  men  and 
boys  fell  back  and  gave  me  way.  I  motioned  Jim 
aside  and  look  the  still  little  form  up  in  my  arms 
without  a  word.  The  crowd  opened  again  and  let 
me  pass  to  the  cab  that  was  already  at  hand,  into 
which  I  stepped  with  my  burden,  giving  orders  to  be 
driven  to  my  doctor's.  The  boy  moved  slightly  as 
he  felt  the  motion  of  the  wheels,  and  opened  his 
eyee. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
fainted.  It  was  when  the  doctor  and  I  were  taking 
off  hie  wet  and  bedraggled  clothing  that  I  found  * 
clutched  tightly  in  his  small  hand  a  stained  and 
ragged  "  Evening  I'owt."  After  a  short  examination, 
the  doctor  said  the  boy  must  be  taken  immediately 
to  the  hospital.  Little  Bill  started  uneasily  at  the 
word,  and  opened  his  eyes;  the  rebellion  fairly 
burned  in  them.  I  was  folding  the  paper  I  found 
in  his  hand.     I  could  not  hesitate. 

"  He  must  not  go  to  the  hoS]iital,"  I  said.  "  I — I 
cannot  explain  now,  but  I  think  I  will  take  him 
home  with  me."  A  most  perfect  sigh  of  relief  from 
the  little  sufferer  encouraged  me  to  insiat. 


J  90 


BEST  8KLECTI0K8 


Mrs.  Rawlston,  my  bouaekiitper,  was  drawn  to  him 
i]iimediat«ly,  and  aaw  that  he  was  nerer  alone  when 
I  ivas  away  down-town.  His  patience  was  marvd- 
iiiis;  be  lay  perfectly  still  all  day  in  the  great  bexl, 
iinil  when  I  ejime  in  ut  inght  would  open  his  eyes 
KtMl  whisper,  "  at  laat,"  and  then  be  perfectly  content 
I'l  lie  with  his  hand  in  mine. 

"Wall,  Little  Bill,  bow  are  we  to-night?"  I  satd, 
.1^  r  entered  my  room  a  few  evenings  later,  with  a 
(•h<'urfulneB8  I  did  not  feel. 

lie  gave  me  his  nsual  smile  of  welcome,  opened 
;nii{  shut  hia  eyes ;  he  seemed  weaker,  and  in  a  few 
(iiMinenta  I  sat  down  by  him  and  took  his  hand  in 
mine.     A  very  feint  pressure  thanked  me.  _ 


NDHBER   TWENTY-FODB  191 

boys,  and  if  we  love  Him  He  will  help  us  when  we 
are  in  pain." 

"  Are  you  God  ?"  asked  the  child. 

The  question  awed  me.     It  was  wonderful. 

"  No,  dear,"  I  answered,  "  God  is  far,  far  better 
than  I,"  and  then  I  went  on  and  told  him  in  the 
simplest  language  I  could  use,  ahout  the  Saviour's 
boyhood,  and  tried  to  interest  him  in  it.  I  told  him 
we  were  to  love  God  because  He  had  suffered  and 
died  for  us.  He  seemed  to  understand,  and  added 
after  me : 

"  Even  for  little  BiU !  Oh  I" 

Then  he  slept  for  awhile.  And  then  he  waked, 
and  dragging  my  hand  to  his  face,  laid  hia  cheek 
against  it  and  said: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Poet — please,  more  about  God — who 
loves— litUe  Bill." 

But  there  was  no  need  to  tell  it 


A  CHANGE  OF  HEART. 

WELL,  Maud,  I'm  twenty-four  to-day. 
Somehow,  a  man  feels  rather  queer 
And  wonders  if  his  hair's  turned  gray, 
The  day  he  adds  another  year. 

No,  I  don't  mind ;  but  then,  you  know. 
Some  things  you  used  to  do  at  ten 

You  can't  do  any  more,  although 
You'd  like  to  better  now  than  thaiL 


I  BKST  S£X£CT10N3 

For  instance?    Well,  1  ue<sl  to  find 
To  kiss  you  wafl  an  an-ful  tiore ; 

But  now  I've  rather  clmngi-d  my  mind, 
Since  I've  grown  up  to  twenty-four. 

I'd  like  to  hear  my  mother  eay 
"  Go  kisp  your  cousin,  dear,"  again. 
But  then  ehe  won't.     Say,  Waud,  let's  play 
That  I'm  both  twenty-four  and  ten  I 


UNCLE  TOMMY'S  PHILOSOPHY. 


MY  old  Uncle  Tonmiy,  why,  he  alius  l»ed  to  ea^: 
"Well,  what's  the  use  to  worry  over  trouble, 


NUMBER  TWENTY-FODR  198 

H«  had  an  wr  for  suflerin',  and  for  every  kind  of 
wrong, 

And  when  he  gave  hie  sympathy,  hie  money  went 
along ; 

They  was  a  mortgage  on  his  farm,  for  twenty  years 
he  owed, 

It  seemed  to  thrive  and  get  ahead  of  every  crop  he 
growed; 

But  when  they  come  to  sell  his  place,  the  Sheriff 
heard  him  say: 

"Well,  what'a  the  use  to  worry  over  trouble,  any- 
way ?" 

Twas  hard  on  Uncle  Tommy,  boys,  when  Aunt 

Eliza  died, 
He'd  tended  to  her  day  and  night,  and  never  left 

her  side, 
And  when  they  tried  to  comfort  him,  old  Uncle 

Tommy  said: 
"  They  ain't  no  use  of  grievin',  for  my  dear  old  wife 

is  dead, 
Them  poor  old  withered  hands  of  hers  has  found  a 

place  to  rest ; 
It  ain't  for  me  to  worry,  for  the  Father  knoweth  best 
It  may  be  lonesome,  but  I  know  she  couldn't  alius 

stay, 
So,  what's  the  use  to  worry  over  trouble,  anyway?" 

Poor  old  Uncle  Tommy  alius  seemed  to  fill  the  place 
With  the  music  of  his  shaky  voice  and  sunshine  of 
his  face, 
18 


194 


B£BT   BELJiCTIONB 


And  when  he  took  to  bed  at  last,  the  preacher  come 

to  pray. 
ll(!  thanked  him  for  hU  visit,  sir,  and  sent  him  or 

Ilia  way. 
"  I  know  one  thing,"  he  said  to  us, "  as  sure  as  Bure 

can  be, 
'lliu  Bdn'  who  has  made  me  is  a-lookin'  out  for  me; 
11  life  was  all  before  me,  boys,  then  1  should  need  to 

pray. 
Now,  what's  the  use  to  worry  over  trouble,  anyway  ?' 


And  when  they  come  to  bury  him,  the  people  comi 

for  miles, 
Tliey  was  Iota  of  tears,  I  reckon,  but  they  wasn't  anj 


*\ 


KHMBEB  TWKNTY-POOB 


THE  STAGE-STRUCK  HEIUX 

A  PEW  daya  ago  young  Gurley,  whoM  father  livw 
on  C Street,  organized  a  theatrical  com- 
pany, and  purchased  the  dime-novel  play  of  "  Ham- 
let." The  company  consisted  of  three  boys  and  an 
hostler,  and  Mr.  Gurley'd  hired  girl,  who  was  to  be 
the  ghost,  if  the  troupe  could  guarantee  her  fifty 
cents  per  night. 

Young  Gurley  suddenly  bloomed  out  a  profes* 
aional,  and  when  his  niotlier  asked  him  to  bring  in 
some  wood,  he  replied  : 

"  Though  I  am  penniless  thou  canst  not  degrade 
me!" 

"  You  trot  out  after  that  wood,  or  111  have  your 
bther  trounce  you !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  The  tyrant  who  lays  his  hand  on  me  shall  die  I" 
replied  the  boy,  but  he  got  the  wood. 

He  was  out  on  the  step  when  a  man  came  along 
and  a^ked  him  where  I^afayetto  Street  was. 

'■  Doomed  for  a  certain  time  to  roam  the  earth  !" 
replied  Gurley,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  and  holding  hie 
arm  out  straight. 

"  I  say,  you  I  where  is  Lafayette  Street?"  called  the 
man. 

"Ah  I  CouM  the  dead  but  speak — ah  I"  continued 
Gurley. 

The  man  drove  him  into  the  house.  Then  faia 
mother  sent  hiui  to  the  grocer's  after  potatoes. 

*'  I  go,  mot^t  noble  duchess,"  he  said,  as  he  took  up 


106  BR8T  SKLECTIOKS 

llie  l)]iMket,  "  but  my  good  sword  shall  some  day 
avt;iij;e  these  itiuulU !'' 

He  knew  that  the  grocer  favored  theatricale,  and 
when  he  got  there  he  sajd  : 

"Art  thou  provided  with  a  store  of  that  vegetablfl 
k  110W11  as  the  'tater,  most  excellent  duke  ?" 

'  What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  do  you 
want,  hoy  ?"  growled  the  grocer,  as  he  cleaned  tlie 
<  li<jL^e  knife  on  a  piece  of  paper. 

•Thy  plebeian  mind  is  dull  of  comprehension  I" 
:inswered  Gurley. 

■'  Don't  try  to  get  oflE  any  of  your  nonsense  on  me, 
or  I'll  crack  your  empty  pate  in  a  minute !"  roared 
the  grocer,  and  Hamlet  had  to  come  down  from  hia 


KDMBEn  TWENTT-FOUE  197 

When  the  meal  was  over  the  father  went  out  to 
his  favorite  shade  tree,  cut  a  sprout,  and  the  boy 
was  asked  to  step  out  into  the  woodshed  and  soc  if 
the  penstock  was  frozen  up.  He  found  the  old  man 
there,  and  he  smd  : 

"  Why,  moat  noble  lord,  I  had  supposed  thee  far 
away !" 

"  I'm  not  so  far  away  but  what  I'm  going  to  make 
you  skip  I"  growled  the  father.  "  111  teach  you  to 
fool  around  with  ten-cent  tragedies.   Come  up  here !" 

For  about  five  minutes  the  woodshed  was  full  of 
dancing  feet,  flying  arms,  and  moving  bodies,  and 
then  the  old  man  took  a  rest  and  inquired  : 

"  There,  your  highness,  dost  want  any  more?" 

"  Oh,  no,  dad ;  not  a  bit,"  wailed  the  young  "  man- 
ager ;"  and  while  the  father  started  for  down-town 
he  went  in  and  sorrowfully  informed  the  hired  prl 
that  he  must  cancel  her  engagement  until  the  fall 
Beoaon. 


gA: 


A  SPRING  MAIDEN. 

^AID  little  Miss  Nancy, 
"  I've  taken  a  fancy 
To  go  to  the  wood  for  some  fiowen ; 
I  really  am  pining 
Green  leav«8  to  be  twining, 
While  sitting  in  wild  woodland  bowen." 

So  she  donned  her  annbonnet 
With  white  frills  upon  it, 


I  BEST   SELECnom 

And  took  up  her  basket  and  spidfl^ 
And  o£E  she  went  skipping, 
A  wood-nymph  a-tripping, 

The  dear  little,  sweet  little  maidl 

Ked  berries  she  found 
On  the  soft  mossy  ground, 

Arbutus  'neath  sweet-ecent«d  pinei. 
Her  basket  o'erflowed, 
Her  cheeks  how  tbey  glowed  I 

As  she  gazed  on  her  rootlets  and  vmoL 

Then  she  hoard  the  birds  sing 
About  "  Spring,  Gentle  Spring" 
As  she  tested  under  the  trees; 
Hilt  thi-  truth  must  he  told. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-FOUE  191 

ThtA  seemed  a  shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  his  nose. 
With  chfierfulness  the  eighteen  pence  he  paid. 
And  proudly  to  himaelf  in  whispera  said, 

"  This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I  suppose. 

"  No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave, 
Pronded  that  the  razors  shave, 
It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 

So  home  the  clown  with  his  good  fortune  went, 

Smiling,  in  heart  and  soul  content, 
And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 

Hodge  now  began,  with  grinning  pain,  to  grub, 
Just  like  a  hedger,  cutting  furze ; 

'Twas  a  vile  razor ;  then  the  rest  he  tried ; 

All  were  impostors.     "  Ah  1"  Hodge  sighed, 
"  I  wish  my  eighteen  pence  was  in  my  purse." 

In  vain,  to  chase  his  beard,  and  bring  the  graces, 
He  cut  and  dug,  and  whined,  and  stamped,  and 
swore; 
Brought  blood,  and  danced,  blasphemed,  and  mada 
wry  faces. 
And  cursed  each  razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er. 
Hia  muzzle,  formed  of  opposition  stuff. 
Firm  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  ruff; 
So  kept  it,  laughing  at  the  steel  and  suds. 

Hodge,  in  a  passion,  stretched  his  angry  jaws, 
Vowing  the  direct  vengeance,  with  clenched  dawi^ 
On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 


200  BETT  8ELECTIONI 

"  Razon !  a  vile,  confounded  dog 
Not  fit  to  icrape  a  hog  I" 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow,  found  him,  and  begun 
"  P'rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue !  to  you  'tis  fun 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives. 
You  rascal  I  for  an  hour  have  I  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing 

With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 
Sirrah  !  I  tell  you,  you're  a  knave, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can^  shava" 

"  Friend,"  quoth  the  raa>r-man,  ^  I'm  not  a  knave. 

As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 

Upon  my  soul,  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave." 

^  Not  think  they'd  shave  f"  quoth  Hodge,  with  w(m* 
daring  eyes, 
And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell, 
•*What  were  they  made  for,  then,  you  dog?"  he 
cries. 
**  Made,"  quoth  the  fellow,  with  a  smile,  "  to  selL" 

PiNDAB. 

JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY. 


MANY  a  time  amid  the  roar  of  battle  has  sounded 
the  "Marseillaise."  Many  a  time  have  the 
strains  of  that  glorious  anthem  led  on  the  soldiers 
of  France  "  to  victory  or  death,"  and  struck  terror  to 
itie  hearts  of  her  bravest  foes. 


NUMBER   TWENTT-FOUR  201 

It  was  the  Bpring  of  1862.  Fitz-John  Port«r'i> 
division  of  the  army  of  the  Potomac  was  advancing 
upon  Yorktown.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  of 
April  the  troops  were  marching  through  a  heav)'  belt 
of  timber,  bordered  on  either  side  hy  swamp  lands. 
The  rain  waa  pouring  down  in  torrents.  The  nar- 
row wagon-road  was  one  river  of  mud.  Men  and 
horses  sank  to  their  knees,  and  the  slowly  moving 
guns  trailed  their  muzzles  in  the  mire. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  troops  were  well  in 
the  timber,  and  not  a  hreath  of  air  could  reach  the 
toiling  columns,  the  clouds  broke  away,  and  the  sun 
shone  down  with  all  the  warmth  of  the  Southern 
noon.  Burdened  with  knapsacks  and  cartridge- 
boxes,  the  men  toiled  on.  Up  came  the  deadly 
breath  of  the  swamp.  The  ranks  began  to  lag. 
Laughter  and  jest  were  no  longer  heard,  and  grim, 
dogged  silence  settled  down  upon  the  weary 
troops. 

Boom  I  ahead  of  them  one  of  the  rebel  guns  haa 
spoken;  soon  another,  then  another  gave  forth  their 
angry  defiance.  Away  went  knapsack  and  blanket; 
sullenly  and  silently  the  living  steeam  flowed  on  to 
the  open  country  beyond. 

Half  a  mile  further  and  the  current  slackened. 
OiBcetB  commanded  and  threatened,  but  the  men 
were  weary  to  the  death.  At  that  moment  an  officer 
struck  up  "John  Brown's  Body."  The  tune  was 
new  and  the  words  strange.  As  the  air  became 
familiar,  voice  after  voice  took  up  the  strain.  The 
■truggling  ranks  grew  straight,  and  soon  the  cease- 


L*n3  BEST  BELECTI0N8 

]'-'t  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  marching  feet  roariwd 
t  lie  i[uiok -measured  cadencsof  the  inspiring  chorus. 

'Ihey  neared  the  edge  of  the  timber.  Through  the  ■ 
tii'i^s  iiliove  hissed  the  solid  shot  and  screamed  the 
nlicl  shell.  With  deafening  roar  the  Union  cannon  \ 
niHWcre<l  back.  But  above  the  noise  of  falling  tim* 
Klt.  a)>ove  the  crash  of  bursting  shell  and  the  roar 
i<f  battle,  swelled  high  and  clear  the  grand  old  aong 
of  "John  Brown's  Body."  The  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac  had  found  ita  "Mareeillaise." 

J.  D.  Sherh^h. 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 


Tb«n  off  there  Hung  a,  tiiiiiUng  joy, 

And  held  liiniself  erect 
By  juat  bis  hone's  mane,  a.  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  hia  lips  coniprcssed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  throiinlij 
Vou  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  ahot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  tiod'a  (irac* 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  aee  your  fli^-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him !"     The  chief's  eye  flasheu ;  liis  plana 

Soared  up  again  like  Are. 

The  chieffl  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  in  mother-ef^le's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  Iireathee 
"  You're  wounded  I" — "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said, 
"  I'm  killed,  sire !"     And  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  BnowNiNa 


SKbemttKer'a  3est 


Selections — No.  3 
Uoe*  U 
Maud  A 


inpon's  E 
School  lu 


.   TIr 


rrinff  incident  of  pniirie  life. 
__ a  Clsclc,  Tbc.    Mumoroiu  »nd 

L<u3liiin"  In  '  MMtIa',    by    Harriet 
Beecher  Slowe.      Humorous,  suited 


ShoemaKer's  Best 

ABgMcof  Bucna  VI«U.  Tbe.  byjohn    : 

dTwhittier.    Vor)' dramatic. 
Annuity,  Tha.    Scotch  humoi. 
Bannve  Snuaber,  Ths.    Humorous. 
Battle  si  Bunker  Hill,  The.  Paliiotic. 
Battle    Hi    Lookout     Mountain,    by 

Geori^e    H.    Bokrr.      Thrilling    de- 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  by  Julia 

Ward  Row*.     ReliKious. 
Black  none  and  HU  RMer,  The.    A   , 

allrrinit  natriotic  dHtamatiiin.  ' 

Burning  Prairie,  The,  by  Alice  Cary. 

Causeof  Tenperanc*,Tlie,  hyjohn  B. 

Centennial  OraAon.     Eloquent, 
Chrtotnui  Sheaf.  Tbc.    A^onvcEian 

Christmas  ston-. 
Clarmce'i  Dream.  Intensely  dramatic. 
Ceatratnant.    Rcliglpus.  (Tuatful. 
Curlew  Mual   Not   Itinc  To-nlgbt. 

Thrilline. 
leacon  Munroe'i  Story.    Humorous 

Don,  by  Alfred  fennj-son.    A  power- 
ful 8lon-- 
Dot  Larabc  Vot  Mary  Haf  Oot.    Ger- 

PaKh  and  Reaaon.     Moral. 

Fire,  The.    Dramatic. 

OaBhler'*  WH*.  Tf,    FUhctlc  tnd 


Old     Forsaken 

Reminisccril, 
Pelnlerof  Seville,  The.  Vcrypopular. 
Parrhaalu*  and  the  Captive,  by  M.  P 

Poor  Utile  Jim.     A  [lalhelii  story  ol 

Pow'er' oP  HaMt,  The,   by  John   B. 

GouEh.     Strong  tsmperaocc  piece. 
PrhhIh,  The.    ^eli^ious. 
Reachlas  Ibe  Eariy  Train.     Humor- 
Reply  to  Mr.  Carry.    A  niasleiplece 
Reverie  In  Church.    HumoroDi.   Fo 
Rock    ol     Asea,      Conlains    Binging 

Senator'*  Dllenima,  The.    Amiulog. 
Three  Fisben,  The.     Paihetlc. 
Ton  Sawyer's  Love  AHaIr,  by  Mark 

Va^boDdt.  The,  by  J,  T.  Trowbridi- 

wJll^nKtl^  the  Children.  Forthanks- 

Wu'v^ork.     Humorous. 

Woman,  hy  Alfred  Tennyson.  Agraie- 

Selections — No.  4" 

dboat.  The.     Quaint  Yankee  humor. 
Qranilmother'*  Story.    Her  account 

ol  Bunl«:r  Hill. 
Qreat  Beel  Contract,  The,  by  Mark 

Judn  l>ltol'ao''oo'vario1Ii"Klnd»  of 
Weather,  by  MaxAdelrr.  Humoroua. 
Kentucky  Belle.     A  plea^ine  incident 
'■■leCiyil  War. 


Man's  a  Mao  for  a' Thai,  A,  by  Rob- 

Maiit  Antony  Sccoe.  Alwai-spopuLir. 
Modaat  Wit,  A.     Humorous. 
Negro  Prayer,  A.    Dialect. 
Ode  lo  the  Leglilature.  by  John  G. 
Saie.    A  fins  satirical  poem. 

Ratknailallc  Cbkken,  Tb*.  '  Philo- 

Raven,  Ttte.    Always  popular. 

Rest,  hy  Father  Rvan,     Deeply  splr- 


Trlbuta  to  WasblngUn.    For 

Ingtoti'*  BInbday. 
UakOiTha.    A  patriotic  pocai. 


A<. 


Sl-ioemaKer*s  Best  Sel«ctiona— No.  3 

r,   111*.     A  liumnrmis  patoily  '-■ 


Bnve  al  HonH,  Tbe.  A  Irlbatt  to 
BMJe'nl'  ihe  flmR  bit,  b>  Mn.  Ht- 
KuJ|E''l  VcnIoB  Of  thePlMMl.    (-'hlld 

cJniennial  HfWI,  b>r  Jobn  U.  Wbll- 

ii.  I      r   ■ij;i"iis»in)pMri°lf'. 
Cuursr  i>f  Lave  Too  AHHtb,     iV  tin- 

1. ...unship. 

Ucillenlion   at  OctlyibarB,  by  Abra- 


Huated  ■  Moaae.  I 
[|  Tibbie's  Mipnte. 
mn.  Till,  R>dt<ni[.  AuimHu 


bbr. 
loNlllii 


1.  '    iijing,    tam  to br  liuu.        ,       HlIUUC.IAtnM 


lUr.-W«ltllnili.r.. 
ItUidalera :  or.  Tto  SdmIM   DnM. 

SwniLtl.mucli-htroic,  banuiiuut, 
MiMMMwm.  Tht.    Atburbtnils. 

MeBbrWoM  CfOap.'h)  Maik'l  »aiO. 
Very  tunnt. 

eniiuia.'  Th^'  ^  i!m4 

i^u>cl>  en>«Iiuii:il  anil  dor 

Aiin'twifo;  _ , 

SctuHlBiuMr'a  OiuaU,  TIh,  br  Will 

Corlnon.    Uiiiiintouii. 
SwallowMB  «  Fly.  by  T.  I>  Win  Tal- 

Tramp.  Tramp,  Tramp,  by  |.  C.  Hut 

Unci*  Umld  Vlatradnctkia  U  •  MI» 

KID  dialicl  >«ln:ilai»  rifr  wriiidi. 
VMiM*Mto«lonary.TlM.  Poidiurch 

Wllan  |«  pip* 


Aldrii 
Caddie. 

■ketch 


ShoemaKer's  Beat 

I  Lbdk  Syne,  by  Robert  Buini. 
vit^giows  o^^.  ^  ^^  [.,,||g(ri|„w. 
liie  Cn>»,  Tbe.  by  T.  B. 


Selections — No.  7 

Before  Sanrta*.  by  5.  T. 
luhlim-  -■ — ■■-■  - 


Msnt  BUac 

Coleiiclge. 
M)ht    --^ 


,,i^. 


oo.i  ct 


Dally-l    Fallh.        A    popular    child 

Death  of  tbe  Old  Year,  The,  by  Allred 

TennyBon.    A  good  New  Year  piece. 

IMh  ol  the  Owd  'Squtra.  The.    A 

Pair  Play  for  Women,  by  Geoige  Wll- 


Qlovc 


^igh 


Hanaah  Bladlns  Sboac,  by  Lucy  Lar- 

How  ton  Sawyer  Whilewu^d  HI* 

Feoco,  by  Murk  Twain.    Funny. 
Lcnw,  file,  by  N.  P.  Willis.   SlionRly 


Muter'*   Toncb,    TIw.     Lolly,  ipli 

Mllklaa  TIbm.     Ruilic  humor. 
Mine  Kalrliw.     Dialect,    Funny. 

SKoetnaKer's  Best 

AflerDeath.byEdwin  Arnold.    Spir-    1 


Old  RoMllVb"j'"f.Truv'htidge.  An 
Our  Traveled  ParMn.  b>  Will  Carlo- 
Owl  Critic,  Thef  b"  JnuHs^-f' Field!.. 

ParmiM.  A  KIX.A  selection  lor  em-ore. 
,    Royal  Prince**,  A.     A  Inn-  drniiiatlc 

I    Savinf  Ml**kin  ol  Intoncy,  The.    In- 

I    SherMI  Vfcor'no.'bi  J-^.Tvuwbridp. 

Ship  of  Faith,  The.     Ricellent  negro 

'    Sliter  and  I.    Passion  and  palho*. 
I    Surly  Tim'*  Trouble.      Lancublre 
'       dialect.   Very  nalhetk- and  touching. 
ThMHIrodaM.     Humorous. 
'om'i  Ultl*  Stw.    Exiierlenct*  of  a 
slaee-slrDcl(,wonun.   ilunu 


eaverfchi 


Amw  and  the  9oB|,  The.    A  choice 

B^k'baaded  Man,  Th*.  Leurbable. 
Bay  Bdly.  Suited  to  Decoration  Day. 
Boecbar  SB  En*.  Hamonius. 
Better  hi  tfaelHomlna.  Ti 
Beaala   Koadrlck'i  Joumt 

C*S'.'"A'ip',..^  ™.,™  -«,.«. 

Chrlalaa*  Canil,  A.    For  Christmas. 

Coney  i*land  Down  dar  Pay.    Very 

Defence  of  Lncknow,  The.  Stitring. 
Bmlgrafll'*  Story,  The,  by  J.  T.  Trow- 
brirtgc,  Thnlling  incident  ol  a  pralr.e 

PIre-bcil'*  Story.  The,     A  tale  ol  he- 

Flr*t  Ouarrel,  The,  by  Tenn>ion.  A 
dranialic  nnd  pHlhetlc  stor>-. 

Orin'ma  Al'at  Doe*.      Child  dialect. 

Her  Letter,  bv  Bret  Harle.  Sior^'  ol 
e^irlv  Caliroinia. 

How    Raby   Played.        A    humorous 


-,  The.     Pathetic  In- 

Selections — No.  8 

I    Kins'*   MiMlve.    The.    by    lobn    G. 
millii;!.   Asturyoieacl)  New  Eng- 

UtlloFect.    Veiyialhetit 
I    Mr*.   MaeWllllan»  and  the  UgkU 
I       ning.  by  Maik  Twatii.    Very  lunny. 

Nations  and   Hunanlly,  hv  George 

,   Order  for  a   PIclure.   An.   by  Alice 

Gary,  A  poiiulai  [nlhetic  selection. 
I  Over  the  fflll  from  the  PoorhoBM, 
I       by  Will  Ceilrton.  A  stquel  to  "  Ovei 

the  Hi]]  to  Ihc  Pnnihouse." 
I    Practical  Voang  Woman,  A.  Humor- 

I   ReckonlngwItbtheOldYear.  Agood 

j    Reoly  toMayoc.  hv  Daniel  Webster. 

_    ':a?nen.      .w.     or   cac  _ng^^^^^ 


SccD*  fi 

Siau"^l 


acDonn 
"Leah  the 


Chief's  Daughter. 


An.     Agood    I 


deir Philli 


QuefllDn.  The,  by  Wen- 


SKoemaKer's  Best 

Anr,   The.     A  humorous  parody  on    i 

Arclila   Dean.     A   vivacious,  cDqiK-i- 

Betly  La*.   A  ideasioe,  old-iimfcoun- 

thfp. 
BnvB  t  Home.  The,     A  inbuie  to 

BrMe  ol  tbc  Onak  l(k,  b^-  Mts.  He- 

Budsc'iVaniosafthePlooil.    Child 

chatacteiiulion.    Very  amusing, 
CatlltM'i   DrflUKC.     Strongly  emo- 

Cenleniiial  Hyna,  by  John  G.  Whit- 

Counc  of  Love  Too  Saaoth.    A  hu- 

Oedlutiod  ol  Oeltyibarg,  bj-  Abia- 

Fliwd  Df"v«n.  The,  by  Wimam  Cut- 

len  Biyanl.   A  lolly  oraloricaL  poem, 

Oood  Readtni.    A  iribule  to  true  elo- 


Selections — No.  3 

I    Lost  ood  Fouad.    A  pathetic  tiory 

MiliUlcnu  :"'arrtlM  SpanKh   Dw 

Sill  t  it. .1   1 1  lock- heroic,  humoroua. 
\    Maiden  Martyr,  The.     A  touching 


Only  a  Batiy.    E'or  mothers'  nicetiliK. 
Over  the  Hfll*  aod  Fur  Away,  hv  Mlsa 


JoliD  and  TIbbI*'*  DItpatc. 

Lart'liyan.  The.  FicitinK.  Su 
church  tcadine.    Putts  to  be  i 

Leak  In  tbe  Dyke.  The.  Sttrrir 
ol  Holland. 

ShoemaKer's  Best 

ArtemiH   Ward'i    London    Lectnre.    I 
t  the  Switch.    Thrillini!  fx-    i 
~.   B.   Ma.   j 


Atkwp  at  the  Sw 
Batae"^  lyJ;^.*Thi'."by   1 


The,  by  Thorn; 
d  populat  po. 
■.The,  bv  V 


_  __     tottaowd 

lianiM   Thackeray,    Rcmjnitcent. 
Cblldnn'i  Hour.  The.  by  H.  ^V.  I.nni:- 

Dsv  aT'NIagara.^S.'^by  Mark  Twain! 

Doctor  Mari| 

Good  lor 


Ready  for  ■  Klu.     Child  character- 
Samaiitha    Smith    Become*  Joalali 

Allen'lWlle.     Humorous. 
Schoolmaaler'*  Queala.  Tbe,  by  Will 

Carlelori.     Humorous, 
SwallowlniaFly.  byT   DeWilETal- 
mane,     Humoruuj, 
I   Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  by  J   C,  Hoi- 
1       laiirT    Temperance, 
Uncle  Dankra  talrodnctloataaMI*- 
•iislppi  SleaiiMr.  Oneol  the  best  ne- 

Vaodolf  Mlutonary, The.  Fotchurch 

'    Wherv  IsPapaTo-nJgbl?     Tender, 

IKithctic,  iialriotic,  and  teligiou*. 
Why  Biddy  and  Pal  Married.     Irish 

Selections — No.  6 

LIttk  Allie.  by  Fannie  Fern,   Atonclv 

Utile  Hatchet  Story,  Tbe,  by  R,  J. 

Bnrdetle.      Hume '- 

Mallbran  and  the 

Mill  Edllh^Helpe  T%in^'AI«w^ 


irifold,  bv  Charles  Dickc 
eslinovni>8';Che»pJac 

Dnitile  inake,  The.   Aniniensely. 


A  ten 


I  KasK 


Extract  ItHD  '-The  Lait  Day*  ol 
Hercalaneuni."  Fine  drnmalu:  de- 
Father 'phil'*  CoHecllon.     One  of  the 

best  Irish  |)ieces  ei  er  written, 
Oeltlns  Underway,  by  Mark  Twain, 

Green  Mountain  Juitke,  The.    A  bit 
Jtnt  ConquMt.    A  dntmatic  story  of 


Nae  Luck  A  boot 

oid'"slrmnt,  Thi 

■   -eri>illVnr. 


MM.      Scotch 

:otich  Ins  Story 


Oratory,  h--  Hcnr>  War.l  Beecher.    A 

RMe  ol  Jennie  McNeai.  The,  by  Wll 
Carleton,     A  siirrlnjt  story  of  early 

Robert  ol  Lincoln,  h.  William  Culleti 

Brvant.    InlroducinE  bird  sonRS, 
Aatan  and  the  Orof-Seller.    A  iln>ni{ 


St.  John  the  A^ed.     Spirilually  im- 

Thankaclvlng.  A.    Suited  lo  the  dav, 
Tom.    AdramaUcsiorvof  BdoK. 
Tribata  to  Eaat  Tenneuee.  Intensely 

Valley  For«.    Good  lor  icaohiiiK, 
Zthl*.  by  fames  RusMll  Lowell.     An 
o\d^lme  Vsnkee  courtship. 


SHoeinaKer*8  Best  Selections — No.  7 


Aeld  Luif  Syne,  by  Robert  Bums. 

Never  grows  old. 
BalldMV,  The,  by  II.  W.  LotiKlellow. 

A  choice  gem. 
Cfeecent  and  the  Cross,  The,  by  T.  B. 

Aldrich.    A  good  church  selection. 
CmMle  Doon.  A  pleasing  Scotch  home 

sketch. 
OaJsy's    Faith.       A    popular    child 

piece. 
Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The,  by  Alfred 

Tennyson.    A  good  New  Year  piece. 
Death  of  the  Owd  'Squire,  The.    A 

stirring,  dramatic  poem. 
Pair  Play  for  Women,  by  George  Wil- 
liam Curtis.    An  eloquent  plea. 
Olove  and  the  Lions,  The,  by  Leigh 

Hunt.    E>ramatic. 
Oray  Honors  the  Blue,  The.  Patriotic. 

For  Decoration  Day. 
Hannah  Binding  Shoes,  by  Lucy  Lar- 

com.    A  sad  but  pleasing  story. 
How  Ton  5awyer  Whitewashed  His 

Pence,  by  Mark  Twain.    Funny. 
Leper,  The.  by  N.  P.  Willis.   Strongly 

dramatic. 
Lighthouse  May.    A  tale  of  heroism. 
Masters  of  the  Situation,  by  James  T. 

Field.    Excellent  for  teaching. 
Master's  Touch,   The.    Lofty,  spir- 
itual. 
Mllklnff  Time.    Rustic  humor. 
Mine  Katrine.    Dialect.    Funny. 


Mont  Blanc  peffore  Sunrise,  by  S.  T. 

Coleridge.    Sublime  description. 

Ni^^ht  Before  Christmas,  The.  A 
lively  Christmas  selection. 

Night  After  Christmas,  The.  A  hu- 
morous scqufl  to  tilt  forcjfDing  piece. 

Old  Qrimes.    Mcnrk-serious. 

Old  Robin,  by  J.  T.  Trov bridge.  An 
intensely  intt^iesting  story. 

Our  Traveled  Parson,  by  Will  Carle- 
ton.     Humorous  and  {)nthetic. 

Owl  Critic.  The,  by  James  T.  Fields. 
Fine  liuinoi. 

Paradise.  A  ^ood  selection  for  encore. 

Royal  Princess,  A.  A  fine  dramatic 
poem. 

Saving  Mission  of  Infancy,  The.  In- 
terestinjg:  and  uplifting. 

Sheriff  Thorne,  by  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 
An  interesting  story,  showing  the  In- 
fluence of  woman. 

Ship  of  Faith,  The.  Excellent  negro 
dialect. 

Sister  and  I.    Passion  and  pathos. 

Surty  Tim's  Trouble.  I^ncashire 
dialect.   Very  |)athetic  and  touching. 

That  Hired  Qlrl.    Humorous. 

Tom's  Little  5tar.  Exi)eriences  of  a 
stage-struck  woman.    Humorous. 

Yolce  in  the  Twilight,  The.  Suited  to 
church  or  Sunday  schbol. 

Wounded  Soldier/  The.  Pathetic  in- 
cident of  a  dying  soldier. 


SHoemaKer's  Best  Selections — No.  8 


After  Death,  by  Edwin  Arnold.  Spir- 
itual.   For  church  or  Sunday  school. 

American  Specimen,  An,  by  Mark 
Twain.    Humorous. 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The.  A  choice 
gem. 

Bald-haaded  Man.  The.    Laughable. 

Bay  Billy.    Suited  to  EXecoration  Day. 

Beecher  on  Eggs.    Humorous. 

Better  in  the  Morning.    Touching.       . 

Bessie    Kendrick's  Journey.     Very    i 
pathetic  story  of  a  bereavetf  child.         ' 

Carl.    A  spirited  escape  from  wolves,      i 

Christmas  Carol,  A.  For  Christmas. 
Part  to  be  chanted.  | 

Coney  island  Down  der  Pay.  Very 
funny.  I 

Defence  of  Lncknow.  The.    Stirring. 

Bmigcant's  Story,  The,  by  J.  T.  Trow- 
bridge. Thrilling  incident  of  a  prairie 
storm . 

Fire-bell's  Story,  The.  A  tale  of  he- 
roism . 

First  Quarrel,  The,  by  Tennyson.  A 
dramatic  and  pathetic  stor>'. 

Clrnn'ma  Al'as  Does.     Child  dialect. 

Her  Letter,  by  Bret  Harte.  Stor>' of 
carlv  r.ilifornia. 

How  Ruby  Placed.  A  humorous 
HI:  fie  (k'5;<.rii)ti(in  of  Rubenstcin's 
plavitm. 

International  Episode,  An.  A  good 
encore. 


King's   Missive,   The,    by   John    G. 

WTiittier.   A  stor>  of  early  New  Eng* 

land. 
Little  Feet.    Very  pathetic. 
Mrs.  MacWilllams  and  the  Ught- 

ning,  by  Mark  Twain.    Very  funny. 
Nations  and   Humanity,  by  George 

William  Curtis.    Oratorical. 
Nebuchadnezzar.    Ncg^ro  dialect. 
Order  for  a   Picture,  An,  by  Alice 

Carv.    A  i)or)ular  j»athetic  selection. 
Over  the  Hill  from  the  Poorhonse, 

by  Will  Carleton.  A  sequel  to  *'  Over 

the  Hill  to  the  Toorhouse." 
Practical  Young  Woman,  A.  Humor- 
ous. 
Reckoning  with  the  Old  Year.  A  good 

New  Year  select i<  ii. 
Reply  to  Hayne,  hv  Daniel  Webster. 

Oratorical.    Goo<l  lor  teaching. 
Rest,  by  Geori^e  MacDonald.    Suited 

to  rclJKious  cTilcrtainments. 
Scene  rrom  "Leah  the  Forsaken." 

StronKl>  'Iraiualii  . 
Setting  a  Hen.     Kioh  German  dialect. 
Sioux  Chlef'5  Daughter,  by  Joaouin 

Miller.    Verv  flrarnatic  and  popular. 
Tale  of  the  Yorkshi.T  Coast.  Dialect. 

Pathcti*  . 
Temperance  Question,  The,  by  W^- 

dell  Phillips.    A  \  igorous  argument. 
Vashtl,  by  Julia   C.  R.  Dorr.    Very 

popular. 


ShoemaKer's  Best  Selections — No,  9 

red  Stronger,  The,  by  Bret  Hi 


lalniheLane.    Pleibing pathos. 
e  Jadpacnt  Scat,  Tbe. 


RovWfPMItkHl.byJamaT.  Fieldk 
SuufagofKlBgSlta,Tlkt.    Dnnutlc, 

Sun'*  Lcftcr.'^C^aTBCIcrintion.  Very 

School  Begin*  To-day.    Good  boy'i 

'im.    Palhc. 
Camp,  The. 
luu^jui,.™  with  music  or  i™..». 
Saint  Oeorc*  and  tbe  Dra|«a. 

Tcr^Eborc  In  the  Plat  Craak  Qaar- 

Tbsaaiul  Now.    

Thoasbt*  for  ■  New  Yaar.   Eloque 
Tribute    to  Washtngton.    Patriot.^. 

Suited  lo  Washianon's  Btrlbday. 
Ttnlh   of  Trulfa*.  The,  hy  Ruskin 

UBBOticed    and   Onbo 

by  ChstiniDK.    Oratoncal. 
White  ft^BaJI,  The,  by  W.  M,  Thack- 

■rbi?'b"w»«h. 


ShoemaKer's  Best  Selections — No.  11 


ApMtroplM  to  the  Ocean,  by  Byron. 

Superior  for  vocal  iraininu. 
Baballnk.  The.  Livrl)  ,ind  liumoious. 

CntchlnE  the  Colt.  For  young  [oiks. 
Child  Martyr,  The.    A  story  ol  Scolch 

Clawn's  Bat^.  The.    A  pleasing  Iron- 

Coovkt'*  Sollloqay,  The.     Intensely 

Death  ot  Uttta  Dombcy.  Palhelic. 
tatchauw'*  Snake,  The.  Amusing. 
echo  and  the  Perry,  by  jean  Ingelow. 

A  beautiful  descriptive  poem, 
Flaah.— The   Plmnan'a    Story,    by 

Will  Carlelon.   A  humorous  story. 
PoiM'   Taih,   The;   also  known   ai 

Sandy  MacDoaald'iSignal.  Scotch. 

Veryamuiine.  EicMd ing I >  popular 
Pred(led>toced  airl.  The.    A  humor- 


I    LtttleaotlllBb-aChrMBW«.byPhcebe 
I       Cary,    A  Cemun  Cbrislmns  uory. 
I   Mice  at  Play.    A  very  amusing  story. 
Mona'a  Water*.     Dramatic  and  pa- 

<    Nlcodema*  Dodse,   by  Mark  Tvalo. 
Verylunny. 
NoKlH.    Retaliation.    Encore. 
I    Old   Year    and   the   New,  The,    by 
I       Josei>hine  TollarU.    For  New  Year, 
I    Om  Plawer  for  Nelly.     A  touching 

I   Qneeo    Vaahtl'a    Lament,     Pathetic 

I    Rock  Ale'to  Sleep.    Musi tal.  lender. 


L'cci.ly  siilriliial  and  of  rare  beauty.' 
Sunday  Hahin'.  Dialect,  amusing. 
Suppoaed   Speech^ot  John  Adamt. 


Front  Oate,  The.    A  hum 
a>  told  by  the  Rate. 

Jerry.     A   spirited   story  o 
LtaJJ'nV^ver.  The.   Hum 

lous  Blory 
R,  J.  Bur- 
Tile,    by 

orous.  Ea- 

Thora.    A  Norwegian  love-story. 
TkJiet-o'.Leave.T.y  George  R.  Simi. 

A  thrilling  BLory. 
Weddlaso? Shan  Maclean.  Attlning 

slorv  oT  a  Scolch  wedding. 

ShoemaKer' 

8  Beat  Selections — No. 

12 

Aunty  Dolcfal-i  VIdl.     i. 

ockconso- 

'•,':;i'"ri"'Sr,.^"i!;. 

Spiritual 

Aui'lTiJlMii,  by  I.ord  l-Ulo 

n.  Singing 

jCii'Sii;  S^iiM'/'vm 

BS£\A^'''ciiS&  Bm 

wn.    The. 

li£.".""f., ..,   ,    T, 

.1,  caule 

BMb.  The.  hv  F.<lKar  Allen  P 
cellent  for  vnral  <<rtl1. 

Bella  Acroai  the  Snow. 
rhrislm.niwern. 

Bllhon's  Visit,  Ttie.    A  tny'i 

Blind  Poet-*  Wile,  The.    1 


Country  School,  The.  A  llvelyschool 
Duelist'*  Victory,  The.    A  noble  re- 

Enrloeer'a   Making  Love,   The.  by 

R'j.Burdctlc.     Courting  on  the  tail. 
Fall  of  Pemberton   Mill,  The,   by 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.     Unusually 

Fe'lon'''s  cHil'a?"  Very  dramatic. 
Fly'*  Co«l(atlon*.  A.     Amusing. 

How  alrl*  Study!"'im[^7Bonati'mi. 
How  the  Ooepal  Carae  to  Jlra  Oaks, 


and  mtlii't... 

'    Lcsend  of  the  Beautiful,  b,v   H.   W. 

'    Lincoln'*  Last  Dreanl    Pathetic. 
L    MalaterandtheEUIms.The,   Sdtch. 

Sj.iritual. 
'    Newsboy's  Debt,  The.    Fathclic  and 

Old  Letter's.    Sad  niemuiies  tbcy  re- 
call. 
Over  Iha  Orchard  Pence.    The  old 

Poor-House  Nan.    A   strong  temper- 

Pajpular  Science  Catechism.   Humor- 

R^'vln^'t^jls.'"' "       ' '™"' 


ig  Chris 


wife. 


F.nV. 


Skeleton's  Story,  The.  \'erv  diamalic 
Teddy  Mcaulrc  and  Paddy  O'Flynn, 

Tcr'Me  'Sperlsnce,  A.   Negro  dialed. 
Total  Aanlhllatlon.     Encore. 
Wendell  PlilUlp*.    A  noble  Itibule. 


ShoemaKer'a  Best  Selecti 

iicit:r<l  Miner'* 511x7,  ^*-  '"  ^^ 
ritlnr.lui-'StUdlMEIOCytlUI.    II 

I'uisi'. !..  i<.iit>i:  w)iiii»t.  siiiiituj 

unl  fu\].-^   ticnrffs   WMhlnttW 

noiorJ-  lliirulnt  AUnn.     \iiiii'in 


&'"ii'. 


■y  la  the  Cou 


NUnt  and  1.    A  J. lull  1 
■■Nuin    M<!"''(Mrilnl 

K  love  tlDTT- 

V  r.r.oK.  vr, 

|ll.lhnrtl=«  CI...  ,'Vlccl 

Il«.  A.     Vork. 

Mo'ihJr  !,„"iv,,.,'."i;"\ 

1  -     Krr.»nUie 

NrJcu'rc'k'iRl,™n,u 

l'.m,''A."bV  ». 

asssssS'.i!:; 

'v;rKs.« 

PUylni  School.     A  \hMu  pit 

Pybllc  SpMCh.     IniiiiHiivc. 
Rmilui  10  tht  C«nh«tlalat 


Rrlu  Ptwl.  Tht.    HniRotnat. 
'0  SiBnneren.  The,  Verr  unit 
UKle  Ben.    A  f]>irliol  child't  1 


with  Lovar'B  Twain.    A 

JT  mile  folks.  Maybrtung 


ShoemaKer's  Best  Selections — No.  1^ 

I    Utlla  FoxH.  b^  R.  ].  Uurdcue.   ^ 

Llltle 

Lullaby.  Pot  lllile  I 

MaaboodVh)  licurKc  K.  Morrli.    Vo- 
li[(inKaii<linsi>iriV 
I   Mr.BeecherandthaWalb.  AtfndcT 

I   Mr*.  PlEkel('>  mtMk^^'soi.  For 

'  MuMc  In  CamD:  frrqucnlly   called 
Muilc  on  the  Rappahannock.     An 

'    Old  RouadHun'i  Stan.  Ad.     Fut 

I       ChrMnias. 

'    Oar  FlratEiperlrace  with  ■Watefa- 


Concord  Love  Sons.  A. 
David'i  Uunent  for  Al 

P.  Willis.  Pathelii.- aiK 
DratbolJezabel.  The.  \ 
DerOak  Und  dar  Vine. 

lecl. 
Fndlns  Leaf,  The.  by  G 

Abnutiful  description 
Fall  lal  1860.  b,'  tito, 


in.  The,  by  Natluiniel 
.  Historic.  intercslinK. 
atlolialltlM.    by     Mark 

la  Ibe  Cbltdrra'a  ItMpltal^.fay  T«nV- 

IrSaad  Io'iic'rbImI  ^  IriahnMS.  by 

William  E.  r.laHslonc-.     Elmiuent. 
Jen-aLaatRlda.    EvritinK- 
KlDEArthar  and  Qneen  OBlnevere, 

Kb*  De'hmd.  the.     A  pleasing  and 


l'    ■ 

..:andbei,^,:r— - 

Three  KlDEa.Tha.1>yl^nKlellov.     A 

fine  Cliri^lmas  Hkilion. 
Traicdy    on    Paal    PartldplM,   A, 

Two  Runaway!,  The.     NeRro  dialed 

Walcli  Nisbt"^')  lloi 


R«- 


Shoemaker's  Best  Selections — No.  16 

Ul  y  Servos*'*  RIde.hy  J  uilge  Tourgee. 


n.The.  Lofly,  itnpreisivi 


Charkit  Race.  The,  li 
Irom-IknHur.-  E 
CbrtatralnE.  The.     / 


iy- 


he.byT.V.Powde 


LR  plea  lor  1 


Day  of  judsnwnt.  Tlie,  by  Gliiabeih 

Dacoratlofi  Day.      A  palriailc  tribute. 
at  Child.  The.     Fy  James  Whiltomb 

Rilev,  "  TheGobble-un»  'II  Gil  Vou," 

Popular. 
FIrat  view  of  th*  Haavan*.    Lolly 

Pnm  iSt  Shore  ol  Bteraity. ,  Relleci- 

Oenaral  Qrant'*.  Engllih.  by  Mark 


'ndlcat 


-land  of  the  L. 
AtoflydeKtipl 


I   Lo*t  Child,  The.    An  eiciilnKpocni, 
'    Meaaasc  of  the  Dova,  The.  An  inspir- 

Mourner  a  la  Mode.  Tha,  by  Jobn  a 

New  Sou(ii,^The',"iy  W.  11.    Grady. 

Patrtolic.  ffrapbic,  Klowinp. 
OM  Fireplace,  The.    Plejsing  picture* 

of  childhou.t. 
Old  Man  and  Jln.  An  OM  Swa*t> 


Tell'T^c  Haart.  The,  bv  Hdcar  Allen 
Foe.  Dramatic  conlcaiion  •.(  a  mur- 
der. 

Tluakiglvint  In  Botloo  Harbor.  For 

ThanksKiviiie  Day. 
Tlm*y;«  PlratLtaaon.     Frnin  "  t'ncle 

TouaaaJnt  L'Ouverttire.  In  Wendell 

Phillips.     An  elnqui-nt  Iribule. 
Two   Queeni    In  Wcatmlnalcr.     A 

Uncle,  ^hcf    liilcnsely' dran';<iic. 
While  We  May.    Patbetlc,  tender 
WladaM  DMriy  Purcbaaed,  by  Ed- 
muad  Burke.     Lofly  patrlotiam. 


KoemaKer's  B«8l 

il   ihe   PutonuK.  ti;r   Jiuqii-B 


,   l.r  J. 


sin^z^ 


undScliaa.    f'-i  tatthtn' 
ih*  FMd  Of  Moaor.   toOf 

tnrnlng,    by    Henry   Wild 

KlftcnldC  KlCCllOR. 


S)  inw,  Tlw,  bvGcovrr  Clev» 

<>  ilue^,  TMa,  by  Cc[biTiiiuc 
.■  roHght  the  Pli*.  by  Will 


Selections —No.  17 

Lfilttfton,  hv  -Wv-r  Woidfll  Holme 

t*nl     i^ >'■..'■.   -    1...MIC.'.      D 

Li^il'       i...ig     I 

Mhmct^Ttie.     l>il[n.1»cinjcilitniUi 

A^'wiuHiS^'aad  Mr.  ThWlH 
by  HI,  Bui^rit,..  H,™»  ttiy 
lUiDed  lo  tann, 

--»l,TI»»,  Imiodu. 

The,  Ay  mia  Wliwlcr 


InjiC.   llir     liny    t 


.  dI  Orttyaburs,  1.; 
s-aMd'-io,  The.  bv 


Levi.  The.  by 


WIICOK.     TbcWttrl 

"    ImwaHMlUeli 
t  Winnie  Oulci  B 


BlMppIng,     tiiih 


Raver  la  Churcli.    A  plenilDi  story 

im  tWIdren. 
SeatbwkbytliaAanla.    mhellt. 
Vmal  Way,  The.     Ajrod  uitfure. 
WiiIpole'lAltMskaaPttt.  Omorlnl 
What   ti   ■   Mloofllr  ?  by  Julia    K 


Hume 


SKoemaKer'a  Beat  Selections — No.  19 

~  I    LictBTe  by  tbc  Nmv  Mai*  Star.    Ef- 

Mary  Alkc  Salth.  by  i;its^iL"wiiii- 
I       cotub  RiJcy.    A  qunlnl  Mory. 
'   midnlsbt  la  Umi^.    \'ivi<l  docrip- 
,       lum  ot  ihi.-  Kf.  ai  ciiv  hv  ;;:«  liehl. 

Mother'!  Mendlns  Baikat.  A  delight- 

Oh,  tbe  aol'den7oiawlns  MarDlDEt 

I       K.ir  i--ist«<lav. 

■    Queer  Boy,  A.     Humninus. 

'    Reuben  Jaoiee.    A  Iribuii:  to  the  coui- 

Slei*  ol  the  Aliimo. 


Brilad  of  tbe  Wayterer, 
'  Bnchanan.    Pathetic  and 

BrMsel'  o'piBaBnii'7  t  ri  s 
Cold,  turn  Cub.  Kncuie. 
CourtlBS  In  Kentucky. 

DIvWrXbiJ^nlNKclQw, 

and  pathelTC  dcsciit>Liv<^  p 
Doctor'*  Story.  The.    Am 


aSoai'da''  An  old  man's  reveria. 
Olader  Bed,  The.    A  thrilling  slory  ol 

an  Aluine  guide. 
Her  Luigb— In  Four  Pita.    Encore. 
How  Unde  Podger  Hunf  a  Picture, 

by  Jerome  K.  lerome.    Very  latigh- 

Jaequeninot-Roae  Sunday.    A  pleas- 
ing hospital  incident. 
JoaSieg.  A  stDryufau  heroic  railroail 

Ladj  of  Shalotl,  Tbe.  by  Tenn]-!an. 

Leil  Lcuoa,  The.    A  touching  school 

ShoemaKer's  Best 

All  Thing*  Shall  P*«*  Away.     An 

Aunt  Ph'll^*'*  Oucati    Si.iriiu.^l. 
Billy.    \Vh«»:.sn'iguod  like  his  bro- 

Boy*  Wanted.    A  good  ijiri«  for  bo>-s. 
BrMgM'a  Soliloquy.   Dialect.   Eiiicr- 


ael  Folk*.  Tbe.    l£nc. 


,    Humor. 

Doctor'*  Story ^  The.  hv  BrM  Haile, 
Early  Stiff, "An.'"A'' mini sIcVb  p'ro^ 
Bkipeneat  In  '7S.  A  stirring  Lovt 
Fortune*  of  War,  The.  A  tad  siory 
Pollowlng  the  Ad  vies  of  a  Phyaidan. 
aetting  Acquainted.    Ei 


[e  Worried  About  It,  by  S.  W.  Kus 
Dmll  humor. 
Hullo.    ChwrinR.    Vcn' nonular. 
1  WIN  Not  Leave  Yon  CoiDfartlMi 

Joaiar.    rminin'coiiitshi|..    Emore. 
Jady  O'Shea  S«  Hamlet.     ?he  .t 

Uttle  ftUrie^*.'"  Chfldhl^^s"  fail 


the  nowKtmVH  "  chi|i|red  iu 
Tobogtwi  Slide,  Tbe.    An  cmuiiiiiii 

Tohf  of  Mu'^ard  Seed.  The,  by  $ 


Tragedy  In  the  S 

True  BoetDnian  at  Heaven'*  (late.  A. 
Twilight  at  Nazareth.     Fini^  ilLScrip- 
War-hom  of  the  Elflngs.  I>v  William 
Morris.     lU'Uuliful  .k-»'ripti.m. 

Selections— No.  20 

I    utile  Busy  Bees.     Iluw  they  gather 

Me  and  Jim.    KuMi^  charsclt'riialiun  ; 

i    Millal*'* '"^Hngu'anota."    A  pat  little 
loi-t  stur)-  ol  Ok  eve  of  SI.  Bartholo- 

Nausb'ty   Kitty   Chiver.     I'ur   little 

'    Not  in  tba  PngraoDW.   An  a  fleet  I  nj; 

incident  in  the  lite  ol  an  aclrrss. 
I    Obstmctlve  Hat  In  tbe   Pit.     Very 

I    Perte«',l^ife,_Tbo,_A  valuable  lesson, 
mold. 


Sklmpiey.     A  thrilling  and  pniheiic 
Jong  of  tbe  Markat  Piace.    A  IMintt- 


Talc  ol  Sweetheart*,  A.  hv  Crorgi 
Rimi,    A  thrilling  hr.irl  iHor; .     I 

Their  First  Spat.     A  young  cou) 

Uncle  Noah'*  abo«t."iliw'hcNKir. 


SVioemaKer'a  Best  Selections — No.  2] 


■■>  Kutlnnl  i 


WiImii  1iTumiln»,   Vtry  ilra- 
1.1  ruecertliigly  |opul»t. 
icni.     Rcfln-llwi*  ol  *  l*(y 

(tie  Bar,  hi'  Tcnnynn.  Oni 
e^t  in<1  m«t  bMalllulpaon*. 
t  DnIincM,  The  -THe  Sea> 

Alarvi.     A  Htnry  ol    tndinn 


t>*pa  W»i  Slumped,    ift  couTda'i  da 

PuTxIe^A.    Eiicon. 
Itovuite.  TIM.  bjr  Tmnvxai, 

St««e(4,    A  hninilliil  fandfnl  |nnw,^ 
Mr  Huio'i  Cbulec.    A  utmng  novf^ 


[xacon'iUawnfail.Tbr.  How 


filiMny  ScbeVM,  I 

-■-'tiippUi.udht' 


Huw 


:,'vsi 


,  sirKltriek'* t>«x.    j.lihdJiDea 

hcan  otuit  Slrandsd  Bii|l(,  The    A  (ilcatiqh 

.  ..— .~.  .■~..  lam-UuI  iKiim. 

ShMM«Mh,  ThB.  by  JnwiBljD  Thar  Wa*  Jtai. 

PjltMrtunlo-'— ■-  '  .^..^ B-™ 

iiisWy  llnililillfc'  I  __nwro  chiinitlirt«8li<ni. 


c  IjiMr  0>i**- 


I'ncartala  I^^C.  Ad-     Itnc 
LInnefiterM  Renml,  An. 

WhatetaeConId  HoDof  Ki 
,    Winnie'*  Walcome.  ' ' 

WataaD'e  Carmr.     , 

I    Worae  Tbaa  Marrlan.     b'.i 


Shoemaher's  Best 

Bant «(  fcmfcUDa,  The. 


Dramatic  and  cl 


nd,  by  Robert  BtowninK. 

ITbcatb,  The,  by  Sir  Walter 
SCOII,    A  weird  bailie  description. 
Dtad  PuMjF  Cat,  Tha.    Child  cbarac- 


Selections— No.  23 

'    Literary   NlEhtnan.   A,   by    Maik 


Lay  M*  I 

li(ufm,;ipl, 


>llis. 


Slfunt'a    Chiiati 


Sliunt'a 
riled  Norse 


BucHthn  ot  Sydney  Carina,  by 
Charles  Dickens.  An  iiileiisvly  dra- 
matic slory  of  Ihel'tench  Revulution. 

Itow  Wa  Kept  the  Day,  by  Will 
Carieton.  For  Fourlh  oi  July.  Hu- 
morou*,  rolliFking. 

WkMOca  ol  Qrcat  Aetloiia,  The,  by 
Dan  lei  Webster.  Inslructive.eloqucnt. 

Jtaay  Brawn's  Attempt  to  Produce 
Praekles.    Very  amusing. 

SKoemaKer's  Best  Selections — No.  Z^" 

Art  of  BookheeplDg.  The,  by  Thonins 
Hood.  A  liumorous  anil  cceetliiigly 


L  very  [Mi.ulaT 
ived  by  a  Bo] 


hone 


'  lilllr 


Dead.     I'aiht'Ii 


7,^     - ., 

UMd-to-bc,  Tbe,  by  J:init-s  \Miitiijnib 

Warwidc.  the''Klng'' Maker" bvLurd 
Uylton.     liisloiii  :in,!  ilT.iiiialic, 

Wben  dc  Darkey  am  a-WhlBllhi'  !■ 
deCo'o.     Al;];,„lali. 

What   Mia*   Bdlth   ! 
WlBiT 


When  1  Wa*  ■  Boy.  bv  Kut-t-nc  Fldd. 

Pleading  nieiiitiric^  c,(  U.jhcfld. 
When  the  U^hl  Ooei  Out.    Whole- 

WMrilns  "whUi/,'  The.'*'  MIJh"  to  Ihe 

Wreck  of  "Tbc   Northern  Bella," 

by  F^lwiN   .\m>,\<\.     A  lale  of    ih* 


Balfidoil  Beau  Brocade,  ilie.  Ancient 
Battto  of  bannockbum.Tbe.  Vlvtd 
Battle  of  ZMIla.  by  Ouida.  A  Ihrill- 
Black''zeph^'s  Pard.     A  miner's  lale. 


itlua  and  tbe  Lion,  by  lleuree 
Croly.     Dramailc  and  ibrillfng. 
CMrttag  atT'iiawbcad'*  Bdf,  The. 

CriiM  Ibeveakd  by  Coojdeoce,  by 

Daniel  Wi-bst.T.    Oriiioriial. 
Dntb  of  Carver  Doon,  The.  by  R.  D. 

Blackimire.    \'cry  druinalir. 
eneutloa  of   Lady  De  Winter,  by 

Alexander  Dnni.is.    A  eruesone  tale. 
FordKO     VIewa    of    lb*     Slalue. 

"ThoURhU   suKKested  tn   the   immi- 

Kranls  .m  '—    -  -'-        '■'-■■■- 

OettlattiN  Wilt  ^tiirt,' 

land.  Eacellent  advire  to  founir  men. 
How  the  La  Rm  StakM  Wcn^.a«t. 

A  touihlnc  and  thrlltinfi:  itoiy  of  the 


i,'l^i?M!'H'.i. 


f  the  Fr«i 

John'Bnwn'a  EtodJ."  An  incident  of 

Mapmy    Oet*    tbe    Bay    (o  Sleep. 

,  MtM'^Eva'll'vMt  'to""tlM  Oft*.  A 
veri-  pleafing  slory  for  children. 

Murder  of  Nwicy  Sykea,  Tha,  t>y 
Chailes  Dickiiis.      [fi^blv  dramatic. 

One-lened  Oooae,  The.      A  pl.inia- 

Organ-tenipesl    <if    IjiieriM.'    The. 

Point '  SubllnM?  Colorado    Cafloa. 

I.ofiy  and  impressive  dt.'urlplioii. 
Rock-a-bv    Lady.   Tbe,    by    Eugene 

Field.  ApleaiinB»i>nEforliMlefoTk». 
School -boy*'  SUilw.  liy    K.  J.   Bur- 

dette.    Very  amu-.irK- 
Seeln'Thlafl.byFiiKMi.'Field.    Bed- 

SpellltiE    Bee    at    Anitel'*.   bi-  Bret 

spellinKbce'         ■'"•«" 
Strike  at  Colcbrstcr,  The.     How  the 

women  went  i>n  a  nHke-and  how 

Tribute  to  Our  Honored  Dead,  A.  by 

Washlriclon's      Addre** '  io      Hli 

Tmns.    Patiiolii  .-itid  in^niiinE- 
WhenSanmerSay*  Ooad.by.     Rol- 


''  Tliloksi.  Tbc.    Iluo 


ShoemttKer'a  Best  Selectlona — No.  23 

luw  JuH  FnuBd  Mum  Llakan.    i 

On'^iSllun''."'  flireiroui, 
'.iNC'i  Decree  The. 
SIvnI-        

U'tiUe  Vt^lOf-V.'  Fi 
My  Um  Di    ' 

Oflarlnr   JU'^Cuba.  Ao.     A    lata  cJ 

Napolt 
C-Ou 


Utile    Bvflcr'e' Vlii'rin,    fb*.     J 
toochlns  aary  uf  ilic  Kituii  wii. 
ItUcVMIOf.A.    Fur  i^uKK  l<>U:>, 
|y  Lent  DuchNe,  by  R»U  ri  nniwo- 


I 


i