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Full text of "The speaker's garland and literary bouquet. v. 1-10. : Combining 100 choice selections, nos. 1-40. Embracing new and standard productions of oratory, sentiment, eloquence, pathos, wit, humor and amateur plays"

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3 1924 091 864 425 

Cornell University 

The original of tiiis book is in 
tile Cornell University Library. 

There are no known copyright restrictions in 
the United States on the use of the text. 

t-C^^T H: 23 '^SJ 

^<)IW^ IX- 

:Coa!«iBlisriiira- = 

100 Choice Selections, k 33,34,35,36 


New and Standard ProducHons of 

Oratory, Sentiment, Mioquence, 

Pathos, Wit, Mttimor and 

AmatsMr Plays. 


The Penn Publishing Company 



Notice. — Many of the articles herein presented were 
written especially for this collection ; others are used by 
special arrangement with their respective owners ; the pub- 
lic are hereby cautioned against their use in any other form 
without permission. 



the Millions 

of Intelligent (Readers and Speakers 

throughout our Country, and to all who 

appreciate Choice Literature, either 

in the fparlor. School (Room, 

Library or Forum, 

G^^%M %^]m i? |??p?#lf!i |f^i??¥.^ 



^ pS 

xxxiii. 44 

xxxiv. 15 

xxxiv, 34 

xxxiv. 44 

xxxiv. 09 

xxxiv. 78 

xxxiv. 80 

xxxiv. 215 

XXXV. 14 

XXXV. 49 

XXXV. 112 

XXXV. 146 

XXXV. 184 

xxxvi. 33 

xxxvi. 38 

xxxvi. 60 

xxxvi. 100 

xxxvi. 190 

xxxvi. 205 

Burton's Curtains Udb&ri C. Y. Meyers, xxxiii. 33 

Building Susan CooUdge. xxxiii. 63 

Blessing of Song, The xxxiii. 125 

Banner that Welcomea the World, The HezeMah Butterworth. xxxiv. 82 

By the Sea xxxiv. 84 

Beyond .*. xxxiv. 93 

Brown Stout ■ -. xxxiv. 1.15 

Buster, The Sam Walter Foss. xxxiv. 166 

Bu Robert C. V. Meiiers. xxxiv. 194 

"Abide with Me" .^ S. H. Tliaijer. 

At Bethlehem K W. Rand. 

Adown the Years Ada SimpBon Sheinoood. 

Adam Never was a Boy T. G. Harbaugh. 

Arithmetic in Life M. Truesdell Cooper. 

Attempted Suicide Thomas t\-ost. 


As She Says Joseph Bert Smiley. 

A-Visitin' the School 

After the Opera Ben Wood Daris. 

A-Soak in " Wum Barrels " Delia A. Heywood. 

Are You Ready? Louia Eisenbds. 

As Seen in Later Years Delia A. Heywood. 

As Ye Would Edith Virginia Bradt. 

After the Waltz Ben Wood Dmis. 

Against License George G. Aundble. 

Alameda Mary Stewart. 

At the Camp-Fire Sarah F. Meader. 

All the Same F. E. Weatherley. 

Note.— As each of the four Numbers (of the "100 Choice Selections" Series) 
contained iu this volume is paged independently of the others, the index must 
necessarily accord therewith. The column of Roman Notation designates the 
different Numbera of the " Series" (viz., 33, 34, 35, 36; ) and the^^rea refer to 
the page of the corresponding Number. Take, for instance, "At Bethlehem," 
the characters XXXIV, show that it will be found in No. 34, and the figures fol- 
lowing give the page. The different Numbers are given at the top of every 
right-hand page throughout the book. 

-e®"FoR Selections in Prose, see page xii.— Foe Dramas and DiALoatrES, 
SEE page xit. 


No. I 

Bresca Luei/ Barbour Ewmg. xxxlv. 

Bells of Notre Dame, The ^^^t- 

Bessie's Christmas Dream xxxt. 

Bessie's First Party Bdfo Marshall Locke, xxxy. 

Bacbelor's Dream, The Thomas Hood. ixxt. 

Barcarolle Ben Wood Dads. xxxv. 

Bunch of Primroses, A George B. Sims, xxxvi. 

Be Careful What yon Say xuiri. 

Ben Hassan's Dream Waldo Messaros. xxivi. 

Columbia's Jubilee Granville B. Putnam, xxsiii. 

Compassion Marion P. Biche. xxxiii. 

Columbus Ben Wood Davis, xxxiii. 

Circus Boy, The A. A. Vyvyan Tlt&inson. xxxiii. 

Church in Lucre Hollow, The Louis Eisenbeis. xxxiii. 

Christmas-tide Shadow, A Norman Howard, xxxiii. 

Coriolanus WiU Victor McGuire. xxxiv. 

Child's Tear, A T. Teignmouth Shore, xxxiv. 

Chief Mourner, The Francis S. Smith, xxxiv. 

Christmas Legend, A xxxiv. 

Critical Moment, The Theron Brown, xxxiv. 

Child's Prayer, The Hodges Beed. xxxv. 

Casey at the Bat Phineas Thayer. xxxv. 

City Tale, A Alfred H. MUes. xxxv. 

Counting the Seeds xxxv. 

Crowning of the King, The Bobert Southei/. xxxv. 

Christmas WiUiam Sawyer, xxxv. 

Cupid Peeped in Through the Blinds Bichard Casper Dillmore. xxxv. 

Coward, The Bobert G. V. Meyers, xxxv. 

C-ome Unto Me L. L. Benson, xxxv. 

Candor xxxv. 

Coronation of Inez De Castro, The Felicia Hemans. xxxvi. 

Candidate, The xxxvi. 

Chimes of Amsterdam, The Mrs. George W. PauU. xxxvi. 

Drinking-house Over the Way, The Jlf. L. Niilting. xxxiii. 

Drummer of Company C, The Bobert C. 7. Meyers, xxxiii. 

De Lord am Coming Elhm Murray, xxxiv. 

Dead Man's Gulch George M. Vickers, xxxv. 

De Ole Elder's Mistake .'. EUen Murray. xxxv. 

Dying Chief, The William Sawyer, xxxv. 

Dirty Old Man, The WiUiam Attingham. xxxv. 

Decoration Ode Ben Wood Davis, xxxv. 

Dream Rambles j. Edgar Jones, xxxv. 

Dog Kindergarten, The xxxvi 

I^='''<='1 Mary.McGuire. xxxiv. 

Fair Enthusiast, A«. xxxiii 

"From Shadow-Sun" Agnes L. PralL xxxiii. 

Flower Girl, The Edm Wordsworth. xixiiL 

"Faultless" Mrs. Herrick Johnson, xxxiit 









































Face Upon the Floor, The H. Antoirte D'Arcy. 

Four Mottoes Alice Freeman Pahner. 

Farmer Stebbina at Football Will Carleton. 

Four Sunbeams, The 

Four Pictures „ Harrietl E. Durfee. 

Farmer's Soog Bird, The George Morion. 

"Flat" Contradiction, A S. Jennie Smith. 

Fourth of July at Ripton Eugene J. HaU. 

Four Kisses, The George M. Vickera. 

First Chriatmaa Tree, The Myra A. Goodwin. 

Feru and the Moss, The Eliza Cook. 

Friend Death Stockton Bates. 

Grammar Lesson, A A Helen W. Grove. 

Geography Demon, The ._ 

Grandma's Wedding-Day 

Go Forward EUen Murray. 

God's "Wonders Eliza Latrib Marlyn, 

Glacier-bed, The Emilia Aylmer Blake. 

Grandfather's Clock Robert C. V. Meyers. 

Galesburg Fire Department Joseph Bert Smiley. 

Golden Scepter, The Mahel S. Merrill. 

Grandnla's Surprise 

Garden Path, The Joseph Bert Smiley. 

Gentleman Jim Daniel O'Connell. 

Grandfather's Story Mary H. Field. 

Grandpa and Baby 

Hagar's Farewell Augusta 3Ioore. 

House Not Made with Hands, The S. E. Gordon. 

Hands Drop off— the Work Goes on, The A. F. KeyU Bradley. 

Hymn for America, A Susie M. Best. 

How we Killed the Booster 


Hoeing and Praying 

How Larry Sang the "Agnus" Jeannie Pendleton Ewing, 

Horse-Thief Jim Robert C. V. Meyers. 

How the Kefugees were Saved Ellen Knight Bradford, 

Horatii and Curiatil, The T. D. Suplee. 

How we beat the Favorite Adavi Lindsay Gordon. 

How we Played ** King William" Jeannie Pendleton Ewing. 

If we Knew Virginia May Maynard^^ 

In the Elevator Robert 0. V. Meyers. 

Is Freedom a Lie? J. M. Munyon. 

Ideal is the Real, The Ann ^Preston, M. D. 

International Band, The Oliver Harper. 

I Haven't Much Religion J. L. Scott, D. D. 

Irish Widow to her Son, The EUen Forrester. 

Inventor's Wife, An ....» Jeannie Pendleton Eiving, 

Ivan the Czar Felicia Hemana. 




































































































No. Page. 

Into the Sunset xxxTi. 81 

In the Hall xxxvi. 191 

In the Looking-Glaas Priecilla Leonard, xxxri. 201 

John White's Thanksgiving xxxiii. 159 

Jim A. W. Bellaw. xxxiii. 208 

Judge Lynch I. Edgar Jones, xxxiii. 220 

Jane Jones Ben King, xxxiv. 33 

Just What I Wanted xxxiv. 49 

John Alcohol xxxiv. 138 

Jes' 'Fore Christmas Eugene Field, xxxiv. 198 

Justice, not Charity Ella Wlieeler Wilcox, xxxt. 210 

Juat Like a Man '. xxxvi. 43 

Jack xxxvi. 213 

Kiss in the Tunnel, The xxxiii. 47 

Kingdom of Sham, The J. Edgar Jones, xxxiv. 197 

Keep to the Line Ellen Murray, xxxv. 124 

King's Daughter, The Rebecca Palfrey TJUer. xxxv. 135 

Keep up with the Times Arthur J. Bwrdiclc. xxxvi. 65 

Katie's Questions xxxvi. 207 

Living Stones xxxiii. 49 

Little Feller. A xxxiii. 64 

Legend of the Fleur-de-lis, The Mahel Cronise. xxxiii. 97 

Langley Lane Bohert Buchanan, xxxiii. 104 

Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomh Riley, xxxiii. 198 

Last Battle, The Ellen Murray, xxxiii. 199 

Lost Page, The xxxiv. 96 

Last Tudor, The Annie M. L. Sawea. xxxiv. 103 

Life's Weaving Millie Colcord. xxxiv. 126 

Little Miss Trot Eben E. Sexford. xxxiv. 150 

Legend of King Nilue, The Edith Wordsworth, xxxiv. 181 

Lost Chord Found, A Willard Holcomb. xxxiv. 205 

Love's Caramels Lost Castle Layne. xxxiv. 210 

Lady From the West, The Robert C. V. Meyers, xxxiv. 225 

Little Joe Boheit G. V. Meyera. xxxv. 105 

Let Down the Bars xxxv. 116 

Lecture, The E. T. Gorbett. xxxvi. 29 

Legend of Easter Eggs, The xxxvi. 47 

My First Kecital ', W. A. Eaton, xxxiii. 14 

Matildy Goes to Meetin* Lmds Eisenbeia. xxxiii. 61 

My Boy ^ r M. Gilbert, xxxiii. 96 

My Country Louis L. Amonson. xxxiii. 126 

More Cruel than War W. 8. JIawTcins. xxxiii. 192 

Mournful Tale, A U. EllioU McBride. xxxiii. 207 

My Mother's Hymns Emily Greene Wetherbee. xxxiii. 210 

My Ships WiUimn M. Bitnn. xxxiv. 23 

Miracle of the Egg, The xxxiv. 104 

Mortgage on the Farm, The « xxxiv. 144 

Meetiu'-house is Split, The Louis Eiseribeis. xxxiv. 147 



No. Page. 

MinetrelH of the Marahes, The xxxv. 27 

Mid the Breakers Ernest Aye-WUliams. xxxv. 86 

More in the Man thau in the Land xxxv. 89 

Mulline the Agnostic A. T. Warden, xxxv, 104 

Mister, Yer Gittiu' Old , Lu B. Cake. xxxv. 182 

Mine Own Countree Eatherine Lee Bates, xxxvi. 7 

Mariar in Heaven Mather D. Kimball, xxxvi. 72 

Maatpr'a Toucli, The xxxvi. 76 

Moor'8 Revenge, The Mickieivicz. xxxvi. 107 

Miss Agnee ..Lucy Barbour Ewing. xxxvi. 119 

Motlier'a Songs Alonzo Washington Smith, xxxvi. 193 

Name Tour Poison George SennoM. xxxiv. 137 

Nine Suitors, The « xxxv. 47 

Needles and Pins xxxv. 53 

Not Understood Thomas Bracken, xxxv. 113 

Night Mail North, The Benry Ckohnondeley-PenneU. xxxv. 119 

Not Wanted xxxv. 171 

Nat Ricket at Cricket Alfred H. Miles, xxxvi. 132 

Old School Exhibitions, The xxxiii. 45 

Other one was Booth, The J. Edmund V. Cooke, xxxiii. 103 

On the Road to Dreamtown Eben E. Rexford. xxxiii. 118 

Optimism xxxiii. 147 

O'Flaherty and John Stubhs Barti Walter Fosb. xxxiv. 100 

Overdone Economy ....John WalcoU. xxxiv. 172 

Only a Drunkard xxxiv. 173 

Our Christmas JuliaWalcoU. xxxiv. 219 

Out of the Window S. A. Brock, xxxv. 39 

Out of the East Stockton Bates, xxxv. 59 

or Tunes, The.., Paul Dunbar, xxxv. 117 

Old Wife, The Theron Bromi. xxxv. 123 

Our Ranks are Getting Thin Louis Eisenbeis. xxxv. 187 

Old Canteen, The George M. VickerB. xxxv. 203 

Origin of Shoes, The Edmund J. Burlce. xxxvi. 44 

On the Sunset Line Beaumont Claxton. xxxvi. 45 

Old Sermon, The xxxvi. 98 

One of Many ', Minnie D. Baleham. xxxvi. 127 

Old Violin, Tlie Mary Stewart, xxxvi. 150 

Penny Showman, The , H. CJiance Newton, xxxiii. 109 

Prisoner of the Bastile, The Mrs. J. 0. Warner, xxxiii. 112 

Plato and Diogenes James F. Gm-e. xxxiv. 121 

PicuicatSelina.The F7-ank L. Stanton, xxxiv. 128 

"Pitty Fower," The j •• Augusta Moore, xxxiv. 184 

Picture of the Last Supper Louise E. V. Boyd. xxxv. 42 

Postilion of Nagold, The George L. CatUn. xxxv. 50 

Prosperous Couple, A xxxv. 118 

Parrots, The Robert C.V. Meyers, xxxv. 212 

lUpe of the Bell, The Augusta Moore, xxxiii. Ill 

Reuben James xxxiii. 134 


No. Page. 

Singer of the Chimes, The JeamUe Pendleton Mwmg. xxxiv. 42 

Rusty Sword, The George M. Vickera. xxxiv. 176 

Bover in Church i.:L^iY. 176 

Kiiesian Courtship, A.. 

xxxiv. 193 

Bight Building William J. Duncan, xxxv. 191 

llest Amy Ella Blanchard. xxxv. 204 

Kizpah Oeorge M. Yichers. xxxvi. 117 

Baggies BoleH O. V. Meyers, xxxvi. 142 

Siege of Calais, The WUl Yiclor McGuire. xxxiii. 8 

Simon Grubb's Dream xxxiii. 18 

Solomon Grubb Jonas Cook, xxxiii. 89 

Susceptible Parson, The xxxiii. 94 

Sand xxxiii. 119 

Story of Good little Vincent Joseph Bert Bmiley. xxxiii, 188 

Smith's Bargain Day Eobei-t C. V. Meyers, xxxiv. 13 

Saved by a Hymn xxxiv. 68 

Story of Two Little Shoes, The Jeannie Pendleton Ewing. xxxiv. 139 

Story of a Stowaway, The Clement Scott, xxxv. 34 . 

Sermon in Flowers, A Addie F. Davis, xxxv. 91 

Song of the Bicycle, The xxxvi. 11 

Sarah Ann Miranda xxxvi. 13 

Stranger and his Friend, The James Montgomery, xxxvi. 82 

Spellin' School, A David K. Buchanan, xxxvi. 84 

Sambo's New Year's Sermon J. Edgar Jones, xxxvi. 97 

Ship-boy's Letter, The xxxvi. 110 

Stage oi Destiny, The Beaumont Claxton. xxxvi. 138 

Song of the Sea Wind. The xxxvi. 201 

Told at " The Falcon " Edwin Collier, xxxiii. 37 

Trip to the Stars, A Horace B. Durant. xxxiii. 84 

These Dreadful "Hard Times" xxxiii. 86 

Two Men Cliarles Noble Gregory, xxxiii. 139 

Tim Titua J. Fox Abrahams, xxxiii. 148 

Triumph of the Bicci, The Ediih Wordsworth, xxxiii. 215 

Tiger Bay Robert Buchanan, xxxiv. 35 

True Contentment Henry S. Kent, xxxiv. 151 

True Worth xxxiv. 166 

Touch of Nature, A William H. Bushnell. xxxiv. 220 

Tommy and the Crocodile Eobert C. V.Meyers, xxxv. 31 

Tom's Thanksgiving George M. Vickera. xxxv. 137 

Turuing Carrie E. Bronson. xxxv. 169 

That Whistle saved my Life Balph Bingham, xxxvi. 14 

Twin Ballots, The xxxvi. 15 

Them Dear Old Garret Things Eliiabelh Carpenter, xxxvi. 22 

Two Little Stockings, The Sarah SeahUs Hunt, xxxvi. 80 

That's Baby xxxvi. 103 

Troublesome Wife, The xxxvi 116 

Tale the Titles Told, The Kate A. Davis, xxxvi. 125 

Tumbler of Claret, A Ella Wheeler, xxxvi. 180 



No. Page. 

Temperance Ship, The , xxxvi. 104 

To Absent Frienda xxxvi. 194 

They Will Never do so Again xxxvi. 215 

Undertow, The Carrie Blake Morgan, xxxiii. 

Universal Prayer, The Alexander P<ype, 

Under th« Purple and Motley Uobert J. Stvrdette. 

Unequal Partnerabip, An Louise B. Upham. 

Unsophisticated Emile Pickhardt, 

Under the Old Oak Tree— A Garland HarrieU E. Iktrfee. 

Uncle Jotham'B Boarder A. T. Bhaeon, 

Under the Snow Robert Collyer. 

Vision, A Jessie T. Craig. 

"Vanity of Vanities" M I. Edgar Jones. 

Veteran, A Robert G. V.Meyers. 

Value of Education, The .^ 

Visit to the Sea, A John Troland. 

Victor and Vanquished Harry Thurston Peek. 

When Mandy Brings the Kids A. T. Woiden. 

Why Uncle Ben Back-slid Ralpli Bingham. 

When the Light Goes Out / Harry S. CJiester. 

W'en Bill Smith Gits his 'Cordeen Out 

Washington HezeJdah Butt&-worth. 

Weird Warble, A H. Cliance Newton. 

Water Eliza Cooh. 

Wopsenonic Louise E, V. Boyd. 

Wife's Prayer, The Annie D. G. Van Sickle. 

Won't Ton Follow Me Bamuel Lover. 

Work that is Best, The CarloUa P&ry. 

Yankee Boy, The John Pierpout. xxxv. 


















































Supplementary Pages. 
Sentiments, Life Thoughts, Witticisms and Funny Sayings. 



Ah in a liOoking-Glaaa Grace Dinhelspiel. xxxv. 87 

Approach of Night, The William H. Powell, ixxv, 114 

Aunt Sophronia Tabor at the Opera xxxvi. 121 

Andre and Hale Ckauncey M. Depew. xxxvi. 188 

Beethoynti's Moonlight Sonata xxxiii. 106 

Bobby Shaftoe Homer Greene, xxxiii. 180 

Big Mistake, A xxxiii. 194 

Busy Edmwnd J. Burh xxxiT. 20 

"Bud of Promise" Racket, The xxxiv. 40 

Bangs Family tell a Story, The....* Bam Walter Foas. xxxiv. 125 

Brightest Gift, The xxxiv. 145 

Buzby's Coat George M. Vtckera. xxxv. 54 

Beating a Conductor xxxv. 110 

Christmas Angel, The BossUer W. Raymond, xxxiii. 27 

Conjugating Dutchman, The ThomMs Holmes, xxxiii. 46 

Cartwheels Madge Elliot, xxxiv. 167 

Calls xxxv. 120 

Comal and Galbina Ossian. xxxvi. 10 

Dream of a Smart Boy, The xxxiii. 4] 

Daybreak in the Camp xxxiii. 92 

Death of Steerforth, The Charles Dickens, xxxiv. 27 

Dime Supper, A Oscar F. Hewitt, xxxiv. 94 

Drunken Engineer, The xxxvi. 146 

Easter Lily, An A. W. Hawks, xxxiv. 45 

Folded Hands, The xxxiii. 59 

Oirlatthe Book-Counter, The xxxiii. 20 

Gowk's Errant and what Cam' o't, A John Ferguson, xxxiv. 186 

How Mrs. O'Doolahan had Mike Arrested S. Jennie Smilh. xxxiv. 177 

Honk! Honk ! Edmund J. BurJc. xxxv. 28 

Her First Baby xxxv. 135 

How to Get Rich xxxvi, 184 

In a Horse Car Will H. Semple. xxxv. 174 

Johnny and the Teacher xxxiii. 88 

" Jumped "—The Story of Ben Fargo's Claim T. P. Morgan, xxxiii. 120 

Karl the Fiddler Homier W. Raymond, xxxiii. 150 

tast of the Choir, The M. J. Kimball, xxxiii. 81 

Little Heroine, A Belle Marshall LocJce. xxxv. 126 

*See Explanatory Note on page v. 


No. Page. 

Little Efrum'K Bide Patience Oriel, xxxv. 163 

Last Rull-Oall, Tho 0. B. Lewis, xxxvi. 26 

Mrs. Jones's PudUiag xxxiii. 114 

Military Steepie-Cliase, Tlie Louise De hi Uamee. xxxiii. 203 

My Fountain Pen BobertJ. Burdelle. xxxiv. 106 

My Wife's Husband Charles B. Bisley. xxxiv. 140 

Mrs. Quptill Gets Ahead of the Grip S. Jennie Smith, xxxiv. 216 

Marriage Tour, A 8. J. Pardesms. ixxv. 21 

Mrs. McShane's Shopping Expedition S. Jennie Smith, xxxvi. 18 

Mr. Meek's Dinner xxxvi. 00 

Mrs. Tubbs at liie Sewing-circle Belle Marshall Locke, xxxvi. 77 

My Great Mistake Carmen Golden, xxxvi. 92 

Making him Feel at Home Belle Maraliall Locke, xxxvi. , 208 

No. B Collect Street S. J. Pardessns. xxxiv. 71 

Nautical Conversation, A xxxiv. 80 

Newsboy's Funeral, A xxxiv. 98 

No Saloons up There xxxiv. 222 

Nature's Monotony xxxvi. 86 

Obstructive Hat in the Pit, The F. Anstetj. xxxiii. 51 

Old Minstrel, The xxxiv. 85 

Over the Eange xxxvi. 172 

Picture on the Wall, The '. A. W. Hawks, xxxiii, 11 

Proctor Kuott on Duliith xxxiv. 51 

Palace of the Days, The Eosaiter W. Raymond, xxxv. 43 

Private Rehearsal, A Belle Marshall Locke, xxxv. 178 

Panther's Choice, The xxxvi. 70 

Rev. John Smith of Arkland Prepares his Sermon S. B. Crockett, xxxv. 60 

Runaway Boy, The James ^Vhitcomb Biley. xxxvi. 141 

Showing off an Elocutionist A. Miner Griswold. xxxiii. 100 

Squire's KoostSr, The W. H. Neall. xxxiii. 136 

Serious Mishap, A '■ S. Jennie Smith, xxxiii. 212 

Santa Claus in Spite of Himself Bossiler W. Bapmond. xxxiv. 120 

Sunday Question of To-Day, The Edmn Eirkman Hart, xxxiv. 206 

Stage-struck Hero,Th6 xxxv. 210 

Sister Ernestine's Beau Belk Marshall Locke, xxxvi. 34 

Story ot a Great Artist, The Elizabeth P. Allen, xxxvi. 41 

Storming of the Castle, The Sir Walier Scott, xxxvi. HI 

Song-Bird of the Princess, The Boherl C. V: Meyers, xxxvi. 202 

They Met in Death xxxvi. 214 

Uncut Diamond, An xxxiii. 222 

Uncle Peter and the Trolley Car W. H. NeaU. xxxiv. 190 

Unknown Speaker, The xxxv. 11 

Uncle Peter at the " Big House " W. H. NeaU. xxxv. 205 

" Well, Then I'm Tourn " Joseph Berl Smilaj. xxxiii. 144 


No. Page. 

"Wish Dearer than the Crown, The NeUie V. Braidxm. xxxiv. 11 

What Three Women Said xxxv. 37 

WheelaudI, The xxxv. 94 

Waudering Jew, The xxxv. 99 

White Lily, A Mary L. Wright, xxxv. 141 

Wayback Temperance Lecture Ckarlea E. Bialey. xxxv. 189 

Within the Fold xxxv. 195 

Wisdom of Krishna xxxvi. 130 

Supplementary Pages. 
Seutiments, Life Thoughts, Witticisma and Funny Sayings. 


Dad Says So, Anyhow H. EllioU McBride. xxxvi. 105 

Friar Tuck Sidford F. Samp, xxxiv. ^ 55 

Go Robert G. V. Meyers, xxxiii. 65 

Hiartville Shakspeare Club, The Belie MarBhall Locke, xxxv. 149 

Jewels of My Aunt, The Bdberi C. V. Meyers, xxxiv. 153 

Letters for Mr. Smith Hohert C. V. Meyera. xxxvi. 49 

Liquor-Seller's Dream, The Etten Murray, xxxiii. 140 

Musical Threnody, A xxxvi. 136 

Matrimonial Mix, A Bob«rt C. V. Meyers, xxxv. 73 

Raising the Wind ,.W. H. NeaU. xxxiii. 163 

To the Palace of the King S. Jennie Smith, xxxiii. 127 

Turning the Tables S. Jennie SmitJ^. xxxvi. 159 

Uncomfortable Call, An xxxvi. 195 

Way to Freedom, The 8. Jennie Bmith. xxxiv. 114 

kxt C|}rt5-C|irk 

JScLcTh of tTie FozLT' JVu-jribers of 
" lOO Choice Selecttons" corhtcLtned 
in this volTzme is paged, sepavateZj/, 
and the Irtde^: is made to corres- 
pond therewith. See explanation on 
first page of Contents, 

The entire hook contains nearly 
100 O pages. 



No. 33. 

COLUMBIA'S JUBILEE.*— Gkanvillk B.Pdtnam, Boston. 

Blest of God, the God of Nations, 
Hail ! Columbia, Hail to thee ! 
Let the lips of happy millions 
Sound the notes of Jubilee. 
Northern breezes, waft the anthem! 
South winds blowing, swell the strain I 
While the Eockies catch the echo, 
Sending back the glad refrain. 

Faith, a pilgrim, rocked thy cradle, 
By the sullen wintry sea. 
And the patriot arm of valor 
From each foe defended thee. 
Dews of youth still brightly sparkle 
On thy brow so queenly fair, 
Yet what name in song or story 
Can, to-day, with thine compare? 

Starry banners proudly waving, 
Greet the rosy morning light. 
From Katahdin's cloud-capped summit 
To Tacoma's snow-crowned height. 
Fertile plains and teeming waters 
Fill thy lap with wealth untold, 

♦From American Patriotic Songs by arrangement with Oliver Ditson Com- 
pany, owners of copyright ; also published separately ae No. 7980 Ditaoa*0 
Sacred Selections, with music by J. E. Trowbridge. 



But thy children's fond devotion 
Far outweighs thy treasured gold. 

Filial souls, with love adore thee, 
Where palmettos arch the glade. 
Loyal sons proclaim thy glory, 
'Neath the mountain pine-tree shade. 
One in heart, with voices blending. 
North and South, your tribute raise ! 
Sound aloud the mighty chorus ! 
Shout ! O shout Columbia's praise ! 

THE SIEGE OF CALAIS.*-Will Victor McGcire. 

In 1347, after a twelve month's siege, Calais was captured by Edward III o« 
England, and the prisuuers whom he had taken were condemned to death. The self, 
devotion shown by six of tlie citizens, who otTcred themselves as hostages, and 
whoso Uvea were saved by the entreaties of Queen Philippa, forms one of the 
noblest passages in history. 

When haughty Edward with his sword and lance 

Regained his laurels on the field of France, 

And everywhere destructive armies led. 

That heaped her soil with mountains of the dead, 

A cry of vengeance rose, more fierce by far 

Than all the attitudes of foreign war ; 

And noble heroes, now besmeared with blood, 

Who long against the English king had stood, 

Looked at their slaughtered brothers on the field 

Of dread Calais, and vowed they would not yield. 

But yield they must for famine round them spread. 
Their wives and children faint for want of bread. 
And their brave leader captive to the king — 
Still of his deeds both bard and minstrel sing. 
'Twas then that England's rose was blooming red 
While the French lily bowed her drooping head. 
With sad and heavy hearts the conquered host 
Gathered around, the hope of victory lost. 
Brave St. Pierre then cast a pitying look 
O'er that vast throng, and, rising, thus he spoke : 

" My noble friends, we know that it is vain 
To weep for those who lie among the slain ! 
Bravely they fought, till yielding up their breath 
They sank— to slumber in the peace of death. 

•Written expressly for this Collection. 


Oh, would to God that I had also died 

And now lay buried by some hero's side ! 

But to be living, conquered and depressed. 

While France, our France, is everywhere oppressed — 

Nay, nay, my friends, for them we must not weep, 

They sleep in honor— honored let them sleep! 

Far better mourn for those who captive stand 

In silence waiting for the king's command, 

But not in fear. What! trembling? well ye may, 

For death awaits them ere another day 

If we to his demand do not comply. 

This is his message : i^U my captives die 

To-day at noon, unless without delay 

Six of the noblest men of all Calais 

With halters round their necks be led to me, 

To ransom these I have in custody.' " 

A silence fell — that direful feelings gave, 

And touched with awe the bosoms of the brave. 

Then St. Pierre, his voice grown hoarse with pain, 

Raised his bowed head and proudly spoke again. 

" I will be first to offer up my life 

For those who suflfered in the dreadful strife. 

Plebeians though they are, they fought and bled, 

And laurel bloom should crown each hero's head 

To tell of noble deeds that they have done ; 

For many battles have they fought and won. 

Though now they stand as captives chained and bowed. 

Heroes of whom a nation may be proud. 

My life to ransom theirs I freely give — 

Who will be next to die that they may live 

Who would have died for France ? " A voice replied 

" I— I, your son ! " and quickly to his side 

A youth stepped forth, who had until that hour 

Seemed but a modest boy— now man's full power 

Shone on his brow, and his dark kindling eye 

Mirrored a martyr's soul to do, or die 

If need be. On his son brave St. Pierre 

Cast one fond, lingering look, then turned away. 

" Twice am I sacrificed," he said, "thy years 

Are few, but full, my son. Who next appears? 

This is the hour for heroes." From the throng 

A voice rang out, "Your kinsman ! " clear and strong, 

And stalwart manhood forward stepped apace 

While swiftly o'er one tender flower-like face 


A waxen pallor spread ; a piteous moan 

Was lost beneath the next exultant tone, 

" Your kinsman ! " ay, "Your kinsman ! " cried a third. 

Sir Walter Manney marveled as he heard. 

" Why was not I a native of Calais ? " 

He said, with misty eyes, and turned away. 

While the sixth victim from the eager throng 

Was chosen now by lot— for to belong 

To that brave band for such a noble cause 

All now were emulous — the grand applause 

Kang loud and clear, and then the parting came, — 

The tears, the fond embrace, love's whispered name. 

As through the English camp the victims went 

With load applause the heavy air was rent, 

And soldiers sallied forth on every side 

To see the band of patriots ; far and wide 

The clamor rose until the very ground 

Seemed to re-echo forth the martial sound. 

The English monarch slowly asked each name 
As they into his royal presence came. 
Then turned around in his cold haughty way : 
"Are these the noblest men of all Calais? " 
" They are," said Manney, leaning on his lance, 
" They are, my lord, the noblest of all France." 
"And were they peacefully delivered ? Were 
There no uprisings from without, no stir ? " 
" Not in the least, my lord, the people would 
All- all liave gladly perished if they could 
But save your captives ; self delivered ? Ay ! " 
" Take them away," said Edward, "let them die." 

The echo of that fiat scarce had died 

Before a murmur rose on every side, — 

A thrill of triumph 'twas, and far and near 

Arose the joyful cry, "The Queen is here ! " 

With powerful re-enforcements she had come ; 

But soldiers were not needed. Pale and dumb 

Lay conquered France ; Sir Walter Manney flew 

To her and told her all, for well he knew 

The tender heart of Philippa. When she 

Her welcome had received from royalty, 

She asked a private audience with the king. 

■* My noble lord," she said, " to thee I bring 

M.y heart's petition." Edward, as he heard 

Her gentle voice, smiled kindly, "Speak the word." 


" My king, my husband, noble, brave and true, 

The boon I aak will honor bring to you, — 

Yea, honor bring to England and my lord, 

For well is known the power of Edward's sword ! 

My noble husband, hear me, heed my prayer. 

And grant full pardon to the captives there. 

For they themselves condemn themselves, — not thou. 

Then stay the axe, and show all nations how 

Generous is England. Thus you conquer more 

Than you have conquered in this land before." 

Her noble words touched even Edward's heart. 

" I yield to thee," he said, " 'tis true. Thou art 

Eight now as ever. Bring in haste to me 

The captives then. The Queen will set them free." 

When they were brought Queen Philippa arose 

And thus addressed her country's strongest foes : 

" Natives of France — inhabitants of Calais — 

A worthy lesson do you teach this day 

When you to us do show as you have shown, 

That excellence is not of blood alone. 

Ye now are free — we spare the fatal blow. 

Rivals for fame, but friends to virtue, go ■ 

Back to your homes, your wives and children dear." 

" Oh, now my France, 'tis now for thee I fear 1 " 

Said St. Pierre, "for Edward only wins 

Our towns and cities ; but to-day begins 

A richer conquest ; though we now depart 

Queen Philippa has conquered every heart." 


Not a fine work of art ; the keen critic would have 
pronounced it a daub. It did not cost much money and 
the frame was of plain, uncarved wood. But the pic- 
ture told a story and told it well. 

Tor the background a rough stone wall, above it a 
leaden sky ; in the foreground a pale, sad-eyed, weary 
looking girl had fallen on a stone bench and in her 
arms she held a sick boy, a white band around his fore- 
head just aljove the su nken, faded eyes. And just in 

♦Used by permisiinn of Professor Hawks, Public Keader and Lectorer. 


front of them the Christ stood, the patient, ever-suffer. 
ing, ever-loving Christ, and His hand, not yet pierced, 
rested upon the head of the sick boy, and His eyes, so 
tender, so loving, so true, caught the upturned eyes of 
the lad and in the faded eyes of the boy the light was 
beginning to come back. 

The picture hung in a hospital on the dead, bare 
whitewashed walls. And on a bed right opposite the 
picture, tossing in fever, wild with delirium, was a wolf- 
reared boy of the slums. Born of rum-cursed parents, 
nursed at a rum-scented breast and tossed in the nerv- 
ous arras of a drunken mother, the boy was born to the 
heritage of woe. He knew nothing of what the word 
father meant, he knew the " old man " well enough to 
keep out of his way, he carried marks of his brutal beat- 
ings on his face, and when the fever came, the blue- 
coated policeman found him alone in the straw on the 
damp floor of his cellar. 

They brought him here and hands soft and delicate 
ministered to him, while the white-souled nurse trem- 
bled with fear at his fearful oat! s. 

He grew better; the doctor said he would pull through. 

One morning the nurse came, and pulling up the 
blind let the light fall upon his face. She said : ''Shall 
I read to you ? " 

" No," said the boy, and his eyes sought the picture. 
" No, tell me about that picter ; who is he ? " 

" He is the Christ," she said, and then with a prayer 
in her heart she told the story of His life to the boy, 
and as she closed she said, " Do you believe in hira ? " 

" I believe in you," said the boy, and the next morning 
he said to the nurse, "Tell me more about Him." 

How glad the sad-eyed nurse was to tell hira. Her 
life had been one of trial, but now she was anchored in 
a haven of rest, and the Christ's voice had brought a 
calm to the troubled waters of her life. 

As she told the old, old story the boy said : " You 
know Him, don't you ? " 


« Yes," she said, " thank God, I do." 

"And He loves boys ? " 

" He loves everybody." 

" Rough boys like me ? " 

" Everybody." 

And so, day by day, she talked of Him, and at last 
there came a time when she said again : " Do you be- 
lieve in Him ? " 

And he said " I believe." 

And two faces bathed in tears were lifted up to the 
picture. • 

The boy went from the hospital carrying next his 
heart a small Bible, and in his heart the Christ. 
* * * * 

As the years rolled on the nurse thought often of the 
boy, but she was shut out from the world and her hours 
were all loug hours, so she heard nothing of him, but 
when, gray-haired and bent with age, she finally fell in 
the harness, they brought her, at her request, and placed 
her on the bed opposite the picture of the Christ and 
the child. She was fading away as a cloud at sunset is 
kissed by the dying sun into the glory of heaven. Her 
eyes often rested upon the picture and her pale hands 
were lifted toward it. 

So many came to see her ; old men and women she 
had nursed back to life, children who loved her because 
her love had stood between them and death, and white- 
capped nurses crowded around her, for her life had 
blessed them. 

The gray light of a new-born day stole through the 
window ; all was still in that quiet ward ; around the bed, 
dewy-eyed, stood the nurses, for she was dying. A young 
clergyman from the next ward had been called in ; he 
looked upon the face on the pillow, then his eyes sought 
the picture, then as he fell upon his knees he said : 
« Thank God." 

The eyes of the dying sought his. " Who are you ? " 
she said. 


Oh, how her face was glorified with glory not of earth 
as she listened, for he said, " I am the boy to whom you 
told the story of the picture. My work is with the 
poor. We shall meet again." 

" Lift me," she said. 

"Ah," he whispered, " you lifted me." 

His strong right arm lifted her up ; together their eyes 
sought the picture. The first ray of the rising sun fell 
upon the face of the Christ, and when he gently lowered 
the dead face to the pillow he knew that she saw " face 
to face." 


I was seized with an ambition to appear in public once, 
I was youiii^ and not bad looking, nor by any means a 

dunce ; 
But I little knew the trouble my wild desire would cause, 
Or the woes of those who try to win the " popular applause." 

I had no voice for singing, so my fancy took its flight; 
I would study elocution and in public would recite ; 
So I bought a recitation, and I read it night and day, 
Until without a single break, I every word could say. 

I bought a book on action, and studied ease and grace, 
And practised well, before the glass, each tragical grimace. 
For I was of a sombre turn and loved dramatic rhyme, 
Of haunted towers, and lover's sighs, and deeds of horrid 

I moved my eyebrows up and down, as tragic actors do, 
And eat a pound of acid drops, and sticky jujubes, too ; 
I practised deep tones, very deep, and growled like any 

Until my landlady would ask, "What is that noise up 

there ? " 
I joined a concert company, and had my name put down, 
And thought my first appearance was the talk of half the 

town ; 
The piece I had selected was a splendid one to "go," 
I had beard it oft recited by a fellow that I know. 

And when you hear the title, I am sure you'll say " that's 

'Twas the most dramatic poem ever written by Tom Hood ; 


I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and give a little 

scream — 
Now, can't you guess the title ? It was " Eugene Aram's 

Dream" ! 

It's rather difficult because of the recurring rhyme, 

But I thought I had quite mastered that and now could 

bide my time. 
My name upon the programme gave me quite a sudden 

But I knew my words correctly, so I cheered my drooping 


And I practised more than ever in deep tones that tragic 

And related all the details of the usher's horrid crime. 
And at last the wished-for evening came, as evenings ever 

For whatever we are doing time is never standing still. 

The spacious hall was crowded with an audience most 

And some most distinguished visitors whom we did not 

expect, — 
A real live Lord and Lady, and the Mayor of Blanktown, 

With a fierce moustachioed Captain of the Royal Horse 

Guards Blue, 

The Vicar of the parish and Church wardens in a row. 
With crowds of gushing ladies, each with her special beau, 
And one, I must confess it, the adored one of my heart. 
It was for her I tried to shine in this most tragic part. 

There was carpet on the platform, and banners trailed the 

And a scented water fountain threw its perfumed spray 

around ; 
And plants of tropic beauty in pots were blooming there, 
You scarcely could imagine a scene more wondrous fair. 

I looked at my adored one, with the glorious hazel eyes. 
And felt that her applause would be an all-sufficient prize. 
First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by the choir, — 
I always had a notion that sweet music could inspire. 

And give a soldier courage ; but the more I now reflect, 

I am quite sure that the music had an opposite effect, 

For although my head was burning I was trembling like a 

Then I thought the songs might soothe nje, but the songs 

were all too brief. 


When I looked upon the programme, and had marked off 
every name, j. ,- t, • 

It seemed as if my time t' appear like a flash of lightning 

I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't care, 

But I felt my face was burning right away into my hair. 

I stood just behind the platform, trying vainly to keep cool, 
And whispering softly to myself, " Be calm ; don't be a fool ! " 
When, smiling, our conductor round the corner popped his 

" Come, look sharp, Mr. Whiffim, the platform waits ! " he 


Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly falling on my face. 
And stood before the audience, glaring wildly into space. 
When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have given the world 

to say, 
" Please don't stare at me so rudely ! Oh, do look the other 

way ! " 

Where were all my tragic actions, which their feelings must 

have stirred ? 
And, O horror! more important, where, oh where, was 

the first word ! 
Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly stared I at the floor. 
Yes, the words were quite forgotten, I had known so well 


And I saw my own adored one hide her face behind her 

And a stout old lady murmured, " Dear me, what can ail 
the man?" 

Then suddenly I remembered part of that most tragic 

And I waved my arms and shouted, " In the prime of sum- 
mer time." 

Why the audience laughed I know not, but they did, and I 

got mad. 
It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was much too bad ; 
Then I thought about my action, when "some moody turns 

he took," 
And I tramped along the platform till the very rafters shook. 

Then I reached the thrilling portion where the ladies ought 

to scream, 
Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is nothing but a 

But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, alas ! too true ; 
How I wished the creaking platform would but break and 

let me through. 


Oh ! but for one drink of water, one to cool my burning 

Then I stooped to lift the body, then again I upward sprung ; 
I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my shoulder held it 

Then I plunged into the audience, scattering wildly left and 


And I dropped that splendid rose-bush on a stout old lady's 

And the branches got entangled with the ribbons of her cap. 
Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a palm-branch high 

in air. 
Wig and cap hung in the branches,— the old lady's head 

was bare. • 

Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere I turned and fled, 
And it struck the portly Rector, struck him on his shiny head. 
Then the fierce moustachioed captain seized me with an 

angry shout, 
Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really, kicked me out. 

Angelina, my adored one, passes me and does not bow, 
Angelina goes out walking with another fellow now. 
How I hate ijiy wild ambition ! I detest dramatic rhyme, 
And the art of elocution I would punish as a crime. 
For reciting may be pleasant if you don't aspire too high, 
But before you say it's easy, do as I did — go and try. 


The tossing, frothing, raging sea, 

Together side by side, 
They stood and gazed upon with awe ; 

" Oh, aint that sweet ? " she cried. 

A story he narrated of 

A sailor brave, who died 
In saving others from the waves. 

" How jolly nice ! " she sighed. 

He pointed to the red sunset. 

So gorgeously outspread, 
And asked her if it wasn't flne ; 

" Oh, yes, so cutel " she said. 
He then proposed they write their names 

With sticks upon the sand ; 
She clasped her hands and cried with glee ; 

" Oh, that will be just grand ! " 



The text was this : " Inasmuch as ye 

Have done it to these ye have done it to me." 

Soon Simon slept, for 'twas sultry weather, 

And the dream and the sermon went on together. 

He dreamed that he died and stood at the gate 
Of the outer court where the angels wait 
For those who hear the glad " well done," 
And can enter the realms of the Holy One. 

While Simon waited and wondered if he 

Had forgotten the password, or lost the key, 

A voice above him said, loud and clear, 

" Do you know you must bring your witnesses here ? " 

" Of witnesses there are many,'' said he ; 
" My brethren and neighbors will all speak for me." 
But the brethren and neighbors came not near. 
And he heard only a whinny, familiar and clear ; 

And old Grayfoot, the horse, stood just at his right. 
While around on the other side, just coming in "sight. 
Was a crowd of dumb creatures so forlorn and so poor 
That the angel wept as he opened the door. 

Then Simon grew pale, and trembling with fear 
Said, "0 why are not some of the brethren here? 
Pray wait, pray wait, they'll surely come." 
'Twas Grayfoot that spoke then, and Simon was dumb : 

" On wintry nights I've stood in my stall 

When the cold winds blew through the cracks in the wall 

Till every joint and sinew and bone 

Seemed frozen and dead as the coldest stone. 

" I've shivered the dreary time away 
With only some wisps of the poorest hay ; 
Then put to work with shout and blow, 
So hungry and faint I could scarcely go." 

Then old Brindle came, and with soft brown eyes 
Fixed on her master in sad surprise. 
Told a pitiful tale of starvation and cold. 
And how he had sold her food for gold. 

*Ueed by poruiissioii of the '• American Humane Education Society " owuera 
of copyrigl*t. ' 


The pool sheep told their story, too, 
Of bitter wrongs their whole life through ; 
Turned out in cold and stormy weather 
To starve and freeze and cry together. 

They were lowly cries, but they turned to prayer, 

And floating upward had rested there 

Close by the ear of Him who says, 

" I will hear the cries of my poor always." 

The old house dog, though treated ill, 
Came near and fawned on his master still, 
Because the love these dumb things know 
Is more than human, more faithful, more true. 

Then conscience woke, like some torpid thing 
That is brought to life by the sun in spring. 
And it lashed and stung him like poisoned thongs 
As memory brought him his train of wrongs, 
Forgetting nothing of word or deed, 
Of cruel blows or selfish greed. 

His cruelly-treated friends that were dumb, 
Would they follow him on through the ages to come? 
Must he see them forever gaunt, hungry and cold? 
For " Time and eternity never grow old." 

How oft in dumb pleading they'd ask a caress 

From his hands that had beaten andstarved them! Ah, yes, 

He remembered it all, and it stung him to know 

That the love they had craved had met only a blow. 

Oh, could he live over the life that was past. 

And leave out its sins, to stand here at last 

"With a soul that was white for a happier fate : 

Was it conscience that whispered, "Too late, too late ! " 

He'd cruelly passed over life's narrowing track. 
Till remorse claimed its own — for that never turns back — 
And sins scarce remembered, remembered too late. 
Grew black as he saw them from heaven's barred gate. 

'Twas in vain that he strove to speak, to say 
Those sweet old words; " Forgive, I pray ; " 
Sin's last sad cry : he was silent there ; 
He was dumb, with such woful need of prayer. 

Then voices seemed floating on every breeze : 
" Ye did it to these, ye did it to these ! 


Go hence, be homeless, go starve and freeze : 
Ye did it to these, ye did it to these ! 

" And when you are faint and weary with woe 
You will still hear the shout, you will still feel the blow, 
While a voice from which you shall never be free 
Will whisper beside you, 'Ye did it to me.' " 

But hark 1 What melody over him rolls ? 
Do the angels sing requiems over lost souls? 
His last hope had fled. In an agony new 
He awoke — to find himself safe in his pew. 

What his dumb friends thought none ever knew 
When food was plenty and blows were few. 
But the teacher who follows us ever, it seems. 
Gives his strongest lessons, sometimes, in dreams. 

Remember, dear friends, that the lij^s that are dumb 
May be those that will speak when our time shall come 
To stand at the entrance, and watch and wait 
For the angel to open or close the gate. 


Some of the downtown merchants put ia a stock of 
books just before the holiday season, and sell the vol- 
umes at waydown prices that would make the authors 
groan. Sometimes these book counters, or stalls, are 
placed in charge of a young lady who has all the neces- 
sary qualifications for making one buy, but is utterly 
destitute of the sort of information the buyer wants be- 
fore he makes a purchase. It isn't the fault of the young 
lady. She could puzzle a man very quickly if she were 
over in the embroidery department, and a man -went there 
to purchase. But she is sent to the book stall by the man- 
ager, who doesn't stop to inquire whether she knows any- 
thing about books, and the result is that the young lady 
is often quizzed in a way that makes her cheeks tingle. 

A gentleman was at one of these book stalls, "look- 
ing over the bargains." 

" Have you seen the beautiful books which we adver- 
tised to-day ? " asked the young lady behind the books. 


The gentleman said he had seen the advertisement in 
the papers, but not the books. 

" Indeed," the young lady replied. " Well, they are 
here. Have you seen our beautiful Romeo and Juliet? 
Here it is. Only three dollars — "and the odd cents, 
whatever they were. 

The gentleman concluded he would have some fun 
quietly, so he looked over his glasses and asked : 

" Who is the painter of this Romeo and Juliet ? " 

" Painter ! " exclaimed the young lady. " It isn't a 
painting, it's a book." • 

"Ah, I beg your pardon. Who is the author — I didn't 
mean painter — I meant author ? " 

The young lady blushed and then rallied. 

" Well," she said, meditatively, " if you don't know 
who wrote Rorueo and Juliet, I don't think there is 
much use showing you the book." 

" Possibly not," the gentleman replied. " But I am 
a stranger in the city and I have been fooled so much 
since I came to Chicago that I thought I might venture 
to ask who wrote the beautiful book which you have 

This was a long speech. The gentleman intended it 
should be, for during its delivery the young lady peeped 
into the front of the book, and, shutting it quickly, said 
in a decided and exasperating way: " Mr. Shakespeare 
wrote it. Maybe you have heard of him." 

She uttered the last sentence in a mean way,— the way 
in which only a woman can utter a mean sentence. It 
was scorn and hatefulness and triumph all in a heap. 

The gentleman replied : " It seems to me I have. 
Have you his other works ? " 

There was no impropriety in the query, and yet the 
young lady blushed again and looked at the man as if 
she could kill him. Then a light broke over her face, 
and the look of triumph came back to her eyes, — the 
look which comes into the cat's eyes when it discovers 
that the canary is asleep. 

" I will see," she said, and in her face was a you- 


haven't-got-me-yet expression. Then slie glided to the 
end of tlie counter where the hairless-headed floorwalker 
was posing in his Sunday-school attitude. She whis- 
pered to him and he shook his head. She glided back 
to the place of beginning and said in a firm, you-are-a- 
wretch tone of voice : " No, sir ; we had his other works, 
but they have all been sold." 

" I am very sorry indeed to annoy you," said the gen- 
tleman, "but can you tell me where I could get Shake- 
speare's Hiawatha in the same binding as this ? The 
publisher's list must be in your house." 

The young lady bit her underlip until all the blood 
in her beautiful face — for she is a beautiful girl — rushed 
to the place of attack. A woman's intuition is quick. 
She knew this man was intent upon mischief, and yet 
there was nothing in his speech or manner to which she 
could take exception. 

She again had recourse to the pious-looking floorwalk- 
er, who said something and smiled. She returned to 
confront the man whom she now hated. She informed 
him in a hurrying way that this Romeo and Juliet was 
the only one of Mr. Shakespeare's works in the house, 
and that the house had no publisher's list. 

" Very well," said the gentleman. " I will look at 
this, if you please, and see whose version it is — that is, 
if you have no objection." 

" Certainly," she replied. And the way she said it! 

He looked at the copy for a half-hour. It seemed a 
whole afternoon to the young lady. Then he said to her: 
" Of course it is not your fault. I don't blame you or 
your house. You could not have known this, of course. 
You will, I trust, pardon me." 

This was one time when she had nothing to say. She 
stood like a piece of statuary that is to be raffled off for 
a fair. 

The gentleman, seeing her position, continued : "Ac- 
cording to this edition of Romeo and Juliet, Juliet kills 
herself, when the truth is she was smothered to death 
by Othello with a pillow. The book is a fraud." 


"I had not read it," the young lady answered in a 
subdued manner. " I am here to sell books — not to read 
them," she spitefully concluded. 

" Of course not," the gentleman replied, relenting. 
" Have you Mother Browning's Melodies ? " he asked. 

" You mean Mother Goose?" 

"No. I mean Mother Browning. She used to be 
Mother Goose, but she is married." 

The young lady put a pin in her hair and said some- 
thing about "high time she was." 

" Where is the soap counter ? " asked the wretch. 

" Second aisle to the right. That way." 

The young lady felt relieved when he asked her for 
the soap counter. It was an indication that he was going. 
But he still lingered. 

" Maybe you have it here," he said. " I want a book 
of poetical quotations. I have made a bet with a friend 
of mine that Campbell is the author of the line " "While 
there's life there's soap," and it occurred to me that I 
might find it at the soap counter, but maybe you have 
it here." 

' " I think you will find it in the second aisle to the 
right," she said with indifierence. 

" Find what? " he asked ; "the book on quotations 

"No," she shrieked, "the sflap !" 

And she left him standing there while she went to 
wait on an old gentleman who was looking at the juve- 
nile prints of Noah's ark at the far away end of the 

A GRAMMAR LESSON.— Helen W. Grove. 

The teacher had a class of one — 
A merry, laughing, bright-eyed youth — 

And tried her best, one day, to teach 
This merry youth 
The secrets of grammatic truth. 

" Now o is singular," she said, 
" We say a man, but not a men;" 


" Why, father does," the boy replied, 

"He says Amen, 
' I've heard him time and tim'e again," 

" Come, Henry, do not stop to joke. 
Decline at once the pronoun he ; " 

" Why, he, his, him and they, their, them— 
The pronoun he 
Is just as easy as can be." 

" Well, Henry, let's apply it then ; 

We say his book, but not him book" — 
" Why, yes we do," the boy exclaimed, 
"/say hymn-book," 

And from the shelf a copy took. 

" Nay, Henry, but these tricks of yours 
You must indeed no longer try — 

Now listen to the grammar rules, 

For when you try 
You learn almost as fast as I. 

" The verb two voices has, — the one 

Is active ; thus, I strike ; 
The other passive, / am struck. 

Of course I strike 

And I am struck are quite unlike. 

"You're passive, when you're struck, you know"- 
" Not I," said Henry with a grin, 

" I strike right back, and that's the way 
(A second grin) 
To make the other boy give in." 

The teacher closed the grammar then. 
And darkly frowned behind a smile ; 

Young Henry saw the threatening look, — 
Saw, too, the smile, 
And chuckled to himself the while. 

COMPASSION.— Marion P. Riche. 

"4.8 one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort thee 

Sweet little Bennie, with thoughtful face. 
Sat watching the moon so bright and fair ; 

Watching the dim shadows fill the place 
Where at noon he played in the sun's broad glare, 


And he wondered why day should turn to night, 

As many an older child has done, 
And sighed as he thought of the day's delight, 

And counted the new stars one by one. 

" I haven't been over to grandma's to-day, 

The night is not very dark after all ; 
I wonder what my grandma would say, 

If I should come walking right into her hall. 

"She has lighted her parlor lamp^ I know, 
It shines on the path 'most all the way ; 

I'll run through the shadows quick, as I go, 
I wonder what my mamma will say." 

Then quickly he slippe<l from his window seat, 
And out of doors to the shadowy lawn ; 

But mamma had heard the pattering feet. 
And guessed where the baby boy had gone. 

Out to the gate where the pine tree grew, 
She softly followed and heard him say, 

" I only wish my mamma knew, 
May be she'd go with me the rest of the way. 

" I never did think it would seem so dark ! 

And is that you, Towser, so big and black? 
Oh ! oh ! I hope he wont think to bark ! 

Mamma ! I'm alone and want to go back." 

" Here, Bennie, is mamma," and soft warm arms 
Clasp tenderly round the quivering form ; 

Ah ! sweet as calm after tempest's alarms. 
Or sunshine after the black-winged storm 

Is the peace that qomes to the baby heart 
When safe he lies in her close embrace 

And murmurs her name with sweetest art 
As gently she kisses the tear-stained face. 

It is love like this that our Father gives. 

When we go aside in forbidden way; 
He patiently follows and freely forgives. 

And makes the night-time shine as the day. 

Oh ! love, that is truer than mother's love, 
Oh ! arm, that is stronger than hers to bear; 

Guide our feet in the path that leads above, 
Uphold us and grant us an entrance there. 


COLUMBUS.— Ben Wood Davis. 

Raise thy majestic voice, thou grand old singer, Atlantic ! 
Shout to the heavens with glee, as when, at the birth of a 

Thunder to thunder responds, and the darkness is cracked 

by the lightning ; 
Heave thy tumultuous bosom that almost bursts with its 

rapture ; 
Clap thy thundering, azure hands with their foam-tipped 

fingers ; 
Sing in thy matchless music, thou marvelous ocean poet; 
Thine is the only song that can worthily honor thy hero. 
Linked forever with thee are all his glories immortal ! 

Hearest thou not, Columbus, the many million hosannas? 

Nation with nation vies in thine honor ; the blaze of thy 

Leaps like a flash of lightning, encircling the globe with a 
halo ; 

Spain, four centuries back, consigned thee to dungeon and 
irons ; 

We, in the prison of love, from which there is no escaping, 

Chain forever thy fame in fetters of lilies and roses ; 

This, the worshiping present, time's very latest descendant. 

Strives to atone for the grievous wrong of his ancestor ages ; 

Never, oh, never shalt thou and thy glorious deeds he for- 

Only when Time, in his dotage, has grown too old to re- 

Millions to-day are sailing with thee on that wonderful 

Sailing with thee in the white-winged ship of Imagination, 

Sailing four centuries backwards through Time's invisible 
ocean ; 

Oh that glorious moment, the moment that made thee im- 
mortal ! 

Oh the delicious madness that faints with excess of its rap- 

Such as the martyr feels at his first dazed glimpse of heaven 1 

Not the gift of a goddess was that immortal moment, 

Many a weary year had it haunted thee in thy visions; 

In thy marvelous brain America first was discovered. 

Symbol of life thy voyage ; ah, there thou touchest us 

deeply ; 
We are adventurers sailing the trackless paths of life's 

Seeking enchanted regions of fortune, fame, power and 

pleasure ; 


ChartlesB we sail through the darkness without a beacon for 

Reason, our pilot, is helpless to guard from tempest and 
shipwreck ; 

Patience and genius like thine are not bestowed on all mor- 

Yet through the breakers and rocks, our faith still carries 
us onwards, 

Hoping to find the abodes where Happiness dwells immor- 

Those fair islands of bliss that are only seen in our visions. 

Earth is an infant that stilLo'er its alphabet puzzles and 

struggles. ■ 

Science shall cross the ocean that hides all mysterious 

secrets ; 
Oh, the wonderful sights that shall dazzle the eye of the 

jiach undiscovered America only awaits its Columbus ! 

RossiTEE W. Raymond. 

Once upon a time a little princess, whose name was 
Theodosia, awoke early in the morning, and as she lay 
in her soft bed she heard the chiming of bells, and she 
clapped her hands, and said : " How glad I am ! I 
know what the bells are saying. It is Christmas morn- 
ing ! " And she was so eager that she forgot to say her 
prayers, and she forgot to call good-morning to the king 
her father and the queen her mother, and she slipped 
quickly out of bed, and ran barefooted down the mar- 
ble stairs into the great palace drawing-rooms, to find 
what gifts the Christmas had brought her. As she 
pushed open the heavy door, she heard a sound like the 
rustling of wings, and it frightened her for a minute ; 
but the Christmas bells rang clearly outside, and that 
gave her courage again ; so she went boldly in. Ah, 
that was a beautiful sight ! It was not yet broad day, 
but there was a soft light in the vast room, that seemed 

•Taken, by permission, from "The Man in the Moon, and Other People,'' 
which contains many exceUent stories for reading aloud, as do also ** Two Ghosts," 
and " Brave Hearts," by the same Author. 


to come from a great white pearl that hung from the 
centre of the ceiling, and to be reflected from the broad 
mirrors on every wall. 

" Ah ! " thought Theodosia, " how I wish my present 
might be pearls ! " Then she looked again, and saw 
around the hall tablets with golden letters, and on each 
was a name. There was the king's name, and the 
queen's name, and the name of every one in the royal 
household; and under each was a heap of beautiful 
gifts. Her own name she could scarcely see, for it was 
far at the other end of the long hall ; but she ran 
toward it, saying to herself : " I don't care what other 
folks are going to have, I want to see my pretty gifts." 
So at last she came to the tablet on which her name 
appeared ; but, alas ! there was nothing under it — only 
a black lesCther bag, and upon it these words: "This 
is for selfish Theodosia." 

Still she thought that perhaps it might contain some- 
thing beautiful for her, and she quickly raised it from 
the floor. But it was locked, and there was no key, 
and all she found by looking carefully was another 
inscription, engraved in small, fine letters, in the steel of 
the lock : " I am worth much to him who can open 
me !" The poor little princess stamped her bare feet 
on the cold floor with vexation and rage, and was 
ready to cry, only she was too proud ; when suddenly 
she saw in one of the mirrors a dazzling and beautiful 
angel, standing behind her. She was not frightened; 
for even in the glass she could see that he was kind and 
gentle. His garments were white as snow, and his face 
was fairer than the fairest picture ever thought of in a 
dream. Little Theodosia began to grow calmer as she 
saw his soft, clear eyes fixed upon her, and she turned 
herself to him at once, and said : " I know who you 
are ; you are the Christmas angel." And, strange to 
say, at that moment she perceived that the great pearl 
no longer hung from the centre of the ceiling, but 
shone upon the angel's brow. And he smiled a smile 


like sunshine, and then grew very grave and sad, and 
said to her : " Poor child ! you do not know the secret 
that unlocks all treasures ! But if you will come with 
me, we will find some one who can tell us!" Then he 
held out his hand, and Theodosia put her hand in it at 
once, for she had no fear of him. Out through the 
door they went (it opened and shut of itself), and out 
through the great archway of the palace, into the wide, 
wide world. It seemed to Theodosia that her feet 
scarcely touched the ground, and she did not feel the 
cold, for the warm hand of the angel sent a delicious 
thrill through all her limbs. In one hand she grasped 
tightly the mysterious bag, and every little while she 
looked up at the beautiful face of the angel, upon whose 
brow the great pearl shone serenely like a star. 

As they passed through the quiet streets they saw few 
people stirring. Here and there some good Christian 
hastened to the early Christmas service, and high up in 
the Cathedral tower was a bright light, where the old 
sexton still rang merrily the Christmas bells. And as 
they walked the angel began to tell her the old, sweet 
story of the first Christmas day, and the Christmas gift 
of the child Jesus, which the dear God made to the 
world he loved, and how the kings and wise men came 
from far countries with rich ofierings in their hands, 
and how the very beasts of the stable and the field were 
moved with strange reverence, and how the angels sang 
for joy. Theodosia looked up and said timidly, " And 
were you there ? " The angel seemed to be looking at 
some fair vision a long way off, as he said, low and 
sweetly, "Yes, I was there." And with that he went on 
to tell how lovely was the child Jesus, so that all who 
looked upon him loved him, and began straightway to 
love one another also, and blessed the day when they 
saw the Babe of Bethlehem. And finally he stopped 
and said : " Little Theodosia, do you know the mean- 
ing of Christmas ? " Theodosia was silent, for she knew 
that she had forgotten all this in her eagerness for her 


own pleasure ; but she presently took courage and said, 
"I know it means that Christ is born into the world." 

And the Christmas bells sounded and sounded, and 
seemed to say, " Peace on earth, and good will 


By-and-by the angel stopped at a low cottage, and 
opened the door. They went into the poor, cheerless 
room, but they were not seen, for one cannot see the 
spirits of heaven when they choose to be invisible. As 
for Theodosia, the angel covered her with the corner of 
his robe. There was a tallow candle dimly burning on 
the table, and a pale woman sat by it, sewing fast on a 
piece of work she had risen early to accomplish. A 
little boy, crying silently from cold and hunger, had 
crawled from his miserable bed into the corner, and was 
trying to light a fire of chips and cinders gathered in 
the street. And the pale woman lifted her eyes to 
heaven, murmuring over and over again, as if it were 
the only prayer she could remember, " Give us this day 
our daily bread." Theodosia had never heard of such 
misery before ; all her little troubles melted away from 
her mind, and she thought, " Oh ! why can I not do 
something to help these poor people ? " She could not 
bear to wait until she could ask the king to help them. 
Just then she looked down, and behold the bag had 
opened a little way of itself, and she saw the gleam of 
silver money in it. In an instant, and before it shut to- 
gether again, without stopping to think, she scattered a 
handful of the money in the room. But wonderful to 
tell, the silver shower never struck the floor, but seemed 
to vanish in mid-air ; and lo ! a bright fire went leap- 
ing up the chimney, and on the table was food in plenty,' 
and the little boy and his happy mother were thanking 
God, and blessing their unknown benefactor. Theodosia 
felt happy, too ; and as the angel led her away, she 
thought the Christmas bells were saying : "Naked, and 
ye clothed me ; hungry, and ye gave me meat ; verily 
I say unto you, Ye did it unto me ! " 


Presently they found themselves in an upper cham- 
ber, in another part of the city. It was broad daylight 
now. i?here were a dozen little children in the room, 
with scraps of newspapers and one or two tattered books, 
from which they were learning to read and spell. And 
in the midst stood the teacher, a poor young factory- 
girl, who taught the little ones of the neighborhood 
every morning at daybreak, before going to her work, 
because she would not let them go ignorant for want of 
her help. And Theodosia heard her say : " Now let 
us get through with our lessons quickly, and then we 
will all go and have a Christmas holiday, looking at the 
fine things in the stores and the pretty ladies on the 
street. Who knows, perhaps the king and the queen 
and the princess may ride by ! " When Theodosia heard 
that, she thought, "How I should like to help these 
little ones ! They have no pleasure but in looking at 
the pleasure of other people ! " And the bag opened 
half-way of itself, and she saw there was gold in it. For 
a moment she hesitated, saying to herself: " With this 
gold I could buy myself the necklace of pearls that I 
wish so much to have ! " But just then the bag began 
slowly to shut up again, and she gave one look at the 
little children, and quickly drew from it all the gold, 
which she scattered in the room. And the room 
changed by magic into a beautiful schoolroom, and the 
happy children were wreathing it in green, and the 
teacher, no Icmger a poor factory-girl, but a fair and 
gentle woman, was just about to distribute to them their 
Christmas gifts, and Theodosia wished so much to stay, 
but the angel drew her away. When they were once 
more in the street, the angel said : " Do you know the 
secret now ? " And Theodosia said nothing, but the 
Christmas bells rang out : 

** Not what we get, but what we give 
Makes up our treasure while we live! " 

This time the angel lifted her from the earth, and 
carried her swiftly over the whole land, and over many 


other lands. And she saw how many people there were 
who did not yet know what Christmas meant; yes, 
many thousands of them had never heard of Christ who 
was born in Bethlehem. And her heart, that was so 
warm now with the Christmas love, could not bear to 
think of so much sin and sorrow ; and this time she put 
her hand on the lock of the bag, saying to herself: " If 
there is any more of the magical money in it, I will 
throw it down upon this poor, unhappy, wicked world." 
The bag opened very easily, but there was nothing in it 
save a magnificent necklace of pearls! In vain 
she looked for silver and gold; she must either 
give up the necklace of pearls or nothing. So 
she took one look more at the beautiful gems, and then 
flung them down upon the earth ; and the necklace 
broke as it fell, scattering the pearls far and wide ; and 
where every pearl fell, behold there arose by magic a 
church or a mission-school, and in all languages were 
heard the songs of thanksgiving from children and from 
old people. And the angjl said to her : " Now see, 
your bag is empty : are you not sorry ? " But she 
looked straight into his kind eyes, and said : "I have 
found the secret now ! " And the Christmas bells rang 
out : " It is more blessed to give than to receive ! " 

Then the angel caught her to his bosom with great 
joy, and flying swiftly through the air, he brought her 
back to the palace of the king ; and lo ! in the great 
hall were all the gifts still piled, and the king and the 
queen had not yet come. So he carried Theodosja to the 
place where her name was, and behold ! when she 
looked, there lay the black bag wide open and full of 
gifts innumerable, and on each gift some curious in- 
scription. A beautiful bouquet of flowers bore the 
words, " These are the prayers of the poor ; " and upon 
a crystal goblet, " The disciple's reward ; " but most 
lovely of all was the necklace of pearls that hung from 
the tablet, every pearl bearing a single name like 
Patience, Gentleness, Truth, Innocence ; and three pearls 


larger than the rest, and on the largest pearl, which 
was the very copy of the starry one upon the angel's 
brow, she read, " The greatest of these is Charity." 
Then she knew what was the true name of the Christ- 
mas angel ; and he vanished away and she saw him no 
more. And she saw also that the black bag was like 
her own heart, which, when closed to charity, was of no 
use , but when opened for the sake of others, grew richer 
in treasure all the time. And the Christmas bells rang 
once more : " Gqp so loved the world ! " and 
again, " Beloved, if God so loved us, then ought 
WE to love one anothek." 

May the Christmas angel dwell with every one of us, 
round and round the whole year ! 

BURTON'S CURTAINS.— Robert C.V. Meyers. 

Written expresely for this CoUedion, 

"Any one can hang a curtain,'' 

Said Mr. Burton. 

So Mrs. Burton and all the little Burtons 

Looked at Mr. Burton hanging the curtains. 

"Hold that ladder straight," he cried, 
"A little to the other side- 
Not that side, the other side." 
" Which is the otherf " merrily cried 
Mrs. Burton, holding a curtain. 
" Ask fool-questions," Burton said. 
Overhead, , , „ ^ ^ j 

Fixing a pleat that wouldn't stay fixed 
But always got mixed 
With every other pleat. 
Then Burton's feet 
Trod on a curtain. 
And he made use of certain 
Words which caused a young Burton 
To giggle, and Burton 
Roared, "Go to bed— 
The whole of you. Go!" 
And in a row 
The little B's fled. ^^ 


" I think," ventured Mrs. Burton, 

" That left-hand curtain 

Is a little crooked." 

Burton looked — 

" Your grandmother's crooked," he said, 

" It's straight as 1 am." And just then 

He slipped, and, being like other men. 

He caught at the curtain and dragged it down, 

Looking something like an S 

In his peculiar crookedness. 

"The ladder's short anyhow," he said. 

Mrs. Burton lowered her head. 

" You're laughing," growled Burton, with a frown. 

" If it gives you any pleasure to see 
Your husband kill himself," said he, 
" Laugh all you please." His wife just sighed. 
" Dear," said she, "that's the wrong side- 
Turn the lace the other way." 
" It's plain as day," 
Cried Burton, "that curtain 
Is right as a die." 
" It's wrong," said she. 
"It's right," said he. 
Said Mrs. Burton, " Let me try." 

" I tell you it's right," cried Burton. Then, 

" Dear," said she, "it's surely not." 

" Mrs. Burton," severely said he, 

" I may be hen-pecked as other men, 

But I declare upon this spot 

That curtain's right as right can be." 

" But, love," said she, 

" You'll agree 

The right side's 'broidered, the other's not." 

" 'Broidered, or not," cried Burton, 

" That's the right way for that curtain." 

" To-morrow then," said Mrs. B., 

" I'll fix it myself. It does not match 

The others." Burton, with a catch 

In his breath, said, " Mrs. Burton, 

That curtain stays as it is," and moved, that she 

Might have a better chance to see 

The determination in his eye, 

When the ladder wobbled awfully. 


And Burton caught at the curtain, 

Caught at the air, 

Caught at Mrs. Burton's hair ; 

There was a splash, 

A shriek, a crash — 

Away went the ladder, down came the curtain, 

And down came Mr. and Mrs. Burton. 

Mrs. Burton began to cry. 

" It's all your temper," wept she. " I — I — 

You'll come to a bad end, that's what you'll do. 

You've torn the curtains, and boo — hoo — hoo^ 

You've sent the children hungry to bed, 

And all because you went and said 

'Twas too extravagant to hire 

A man to hang " Hang it! " cried 

Burton with his face on fire, 
" You know, I never have denied 
You anything in reason. So, 
To-morrow, just suppose you go 
And get new curtains,— a better set. 
And, while you're about it, suppose you get 
Yourself a new gown — and a hat." 
At that 

Mrs. Burton's tears were dried. 
"John," laughed she, " I nearly died 
To see you wobble. I declare 
You looked an idiot up there. 
Thanks for the new curtains, also the gown, 
And the hat. I'll go down town 
To-morrow and get 'em. 
Will you let 'em- 
Be hung by a man ?— or will you do it 7 " 
Burton said he'd not, if he knew it. 
" But, it's easy," said Mrs. Burton, 
"And so much cheaper. I am certain 

A curtain's easy enough to hang " 

With a bang 

Mr. Burton opened the door 

And said, "My dear Pray, say no more. 

Let's have supper." Then Mrs. Burton cheerily 

Called the little Burtons to tea. 

And they were all happy. But this is certain, 

Nobody ventured to say "cartain" 

To Mr. Burton. 


"FROM SHADOW— SUN."— Aqnbs L. Pratt. 

I learn, as the years roll onward 

And leave the past behind, 
That much I have counted sorrow 

But proves that the fates are kind ; 
That many a flower I longed for 

Had a hidden thorn of pain ; 
And many a rugged by-path 

Led to fields of ripened grain. 

The clouds but cover the sunshine, 

They cannot banish the sun ; 
And the earth shines out the brighter 

When the weary rain is done. 
We must stand in the deepest shadow 

To see the clearest light ; 
And often from wrong's own darkness 

Comes the very strength of right. 

The sweetest rest is at even. 

After a wearisome day, 
When the heavy burden of labor 

Has been borne from our lieartsaway ; 
And those who have never known sorrow 

Cannot know the infinite peace 
That falls on the troubled spirit, 

When it sees, at last, release. 

We must live through the weary winter 

If we would value the spring ; 
And the woods must be cold and silent 

Before the robins sing. 
The flowers must lie buried in darkness 

Before they can bud and bloom ; 
And the sweetest and warmest sunshine 

Comes after the storm and gloom. 

So the heart from the hardest trial 

Gains the purest joy of all, 
And from lips that have tasted sadness, 

The sweetest songs will fall. 
For as peace comes after sufiering, 
, And love is reward for pain, 
So, after earth, is heaven — 

And out of our loss the gain. 

— Journal of Education. 


TOLD AT "THE FALCON."— Edwin Coller. 

The incidoiit detailed in this poem is one of the many romantic adventures 
which befel the young prince (afterward Charles IIJ subsequent to the battle of 
Worcester, which was fought September 3, 1651. 

Another flagon, old friend? Of course. I knew what you 

would say ! 
Ah, we've drained a few together, Hal, since we knew each 

other, eh ? 
When two old brother soldiers meet to talk of days gone by, 
If they're not to moisten their throats a bit, the devil's in't, 

say 1 1 

Ho, there ! No, tapster, friend, not you ; just send the 

damsel here ! • 

Hi ! Margery — Cicely — -what's your name ? Fill up again, 

my dear : 
There's a good girl ! What eyes she has, and lips more 

charming still ! 
Here, taste, my dear, and pledge us a toast. You wont ; 

well, then, I will : 

Here's health to all the pretty girls ! — Hullo, she's gone, I see ! 
And a double health to our Merry King, Prince Charlie 

that used to be ! 
If it wasn't for me the crown mayhap had never graced his 

brow — 
You smile, but it's true. Here, drink again, and I'll tell 

you the story now. 
You know our place, half-moated grange, half-ruined castle 

My master's, Hubert Moulton's, where you found me out 

to-day : 
There I was born, and thence I went, in youth's all-joyous 

To flght with glorious Capel's host for country and for king. 

'Twas then I met you first, old friend, and ah, what days 

they were ! 
Of fighting, flirting, feast, and fray, methinks we had our 

And when Old Noll* had won the game— oh, cursed, heavy 

hour ! — 
Where should the broken soldier fly, but back to Moulton 

The squire was old and laid aside ; his gallant son was fled ; 
And only Mistress Kate was left to watch beside his bed ; 
And so they 'scaped the Cropheads' ire. E'en Noll, that 

canting churl, 
Could h ardly wreak his wrath upon an old man and a girl. 
♦Oliver Cromwell. 


Time was the squires of Moulton Tower owned all the 

country-side ; 
And now, though gone their ancient power, they kept their 

ancient pride : 
Old state and customs still they loved. My keys hung at 

my breast. 
Half-warder and half-cellarer — I liked the last the best. 

I'faith, our Merry England then was but a gruesome place; 
The man who made his way was he who pulled the longest 

No Maj^-day, Christmas, Martinmas, nor junketings, nor 

fairs ; 
But 'stead of bluff old English sports, long faces and long 


Not long, thought I, will Englishmen 'neath such a thral- 
dom groan. 

The day of reck'ning yet will come, the King will have his 

And when I knew he'd come at last, with Scotland's 

I longed to join his glorious host ; but it was not to be. 

Well do I mind the woful day when, full of throbbing 

Sweet Mistress Kate came down to me, her pale face stained 

with tears; 
" O Michael, all is lost ! " she said ; " our beaten host has 

And left the King a fugitive — a price upon his head ! 

" And, Michael," here her voice sank low, her face was 

ashen white, 
" His Grace, with my poor brother too, will sojourn here 

to-night : 
See the Priest's Hole's prepared ; and, friend, mind, not a 

word nor sign : 
If aught befell him here 'twould break my father's heart 

and mine ! 

" My cousin Hugh is here, you know, and ah, though 

seeming kind, 
I know him for a false, weak man, the sport of every wind. 
'Twas but to-day I heard him say Old Noll was much 

And none but fools were ever found upon the losing side. 

"God grant I do him grievous wrong! — he comes o' loyal 

But well, I wot, he knows of old our ancient hiding-place; 


A.nd much I fear, to serve himself— oh, cruel, bitter shame ! — 
He might be tempted to a deed I hardly dare to name. 

"So vile a sin would stain our race until the end o' time ; 
My cousin must be kept by force from risk of such a crime ! 
I told my father so, and he but laughed at me to-day. 
But I have talked him o'er at last to let me have my way. 

" Listen : Hugh Moulton loves to walk in our old 

Pleasaunce fair. 
It was but now he said to me that I should find him there ; 
Get trusty help, and while mayhap he broods o'er snare 

and plot. 
Seize, gag, and bind him suddenly ; but see you harm him 

" You know the Friar's Cell below ; there he must lie 

Unloose him, mind, and use him well, but see the bolts 

are right. 
Then should the Roundhead bloodhounds come, gag, bmd 

him quick once more, 
And thrust him in the secret vault that opens from the 

"Two days from now his Grace, please God, will be upon 

the sea ; ^ , i , , , 

Two days my cousin Hugh must lie safe under lock and key. 
See he has food and wine to spare. Be wary, fearless, true ; 
No matter how he threats and fumes, no harm shall come 

to you. 
" I know you true as steel of old : oh, fail me not to-day ! 
Here's gold, and when the King— but see, my cousin comes 

this way ! , ., ^. ^ j 

Methinks I read mistrust and guile upon that moody 

brow ! 
Remember, Michael -Ah, good coz, how fares it with you 

. now?" 

Ho, ho! but you should have seen him, Hal,— shall I ever 

forget the sight?— ,.,,_., ^ ,, ,. 

When we loosed him at last in the Friar's Cell, panting, 

disheveled, white! 
I'd hardly thought such horrible oaths from human lips 

could flow, ,„ , ,, i i ,ii_- 

And I used to be pretty fair myself at that sort o thing, 

you know. 
" I only obey my orders," I said ; "'tis idle to rave at me; 
No harm is meant you. Master Hugh, and you'll soon again 

be free. 


But understand me once for all ; you may rave, or swear or 

But here you are, and here you'll stay till my betters let 

you out ! " 

I left him then to sober down, and sought out Mistress 

Kate : 
" Thanks, Michael, thanks ! " she said. " Now list : to-night 

we watch and wait. 
My brother Hubert's message said ere midnight they'd be 

When you shall hear his whistle thrice, then haste to meet 

me here !" 

And faith, at dead o' night as though 'twere some dark 

deed o' sin. 
The signal came, the bolts were drawn, two muffled men 

stole in : 
A moment Mistress Kate's fair head lay on her brother's 

The next she turned with rev'rence meet to greet her 

kingly guest ! 

"Welcome, in my sick father's name and mine, to Moulton 

Tower ! 
God grant your Grace may come again in some more 

happy hour!" 
Then bent to kiss his hand ; but nay : " At beauty's shrine," 

he said, 
" Kings should be worshipers ! " and stooped, and kissed 

her lips instead. 

Young Hubert gave me greeting kind ; then stole they up 

the stair, 
And soon the house was still as though no anxious hearts 

were there. 
But on my watch at dawn I heard a hum o' voices-near. 
And Mistress Kate flew breathless down: "0 Michael, they 

are here ! " 

Too true ! the Crophead curs were out. As swift as words 

can tell, 
The Prince was warned, Hugh Moulton gagged, and in thfi 

secret cell ! 
Then while they thundered at the door I flung it open wide : 
"What would ye here at such an hour?" "Stand back!" 

the leader cried. 

And in they tramped with clash o' steel and torches' lurid 

And swarmed the place, and searched and peered from roof 

to cellar there. 


They sounded panels, hammered walls; and once, with 

gasping start. 
Sweet Mistress Kate turned white as death, and well she 

might, dear heart ! 

But, baffled, beaten, wearied out, at last they slunk away: 
" Hugh Moulton must have played us false ! " I heard their 

leader say ; 
And jNIistress Kate she heard him too, with lips that 

quivered sore. 
And in her eyes I caught a look was never there before. 

Two days his Grace lay hid with us ere yet 'twas safe to go. 
And three days more Hugh Moulton fumed within his cell 

below ; • 

Then when we got the welcome news the King was on the 

Fair Mistress Kate came down herself to set her cousin free. 

He tried to fume, but quailed before her scornful eyes and 

brow : 
" Cousin, I did but doubt you once ; alas ! I know you now. 
Listen : the King was here — is gone — has sailed, while you, 

poor churl, 
Lay quaking in your cull — ha, ha !— outwitted by a girl ! 

" Haste to your Cromwell, if you will, and tell him all you 

And don't forget the Friar's Cell, good cotisin mine. Now, 

And cowering from her splendid scorn, he slunk away for 

That's all ; and faith, I'm mighty dry ! Just pass the flagon 



" Pop," said young Philip Gratebar to his father, " I 
had a dream last night." 

"You don't mean it! " said Mr. Gratebar. 

" Yes, I do," said Philip. " I dreamed I was going 
aloug the street, and I got awful thirsty, and I went 
into a drug store to- get some soda water. The soda' 
fountain there was the biggest one I ever saw, and the 
man tending it vras a giant. He looked down on me 
and asked me what I'd have, and I said I'd like straw- 
berry with ioe-cream in it. 


" The giant set out on the counter a glass about two 
feet high and he put in it a lot of strawberry syrup, and 
then he took the cover off of an ice-cream freezer that 
was pretty near as big aa a barrel and scooped out 
about three platefuls of ice-cream and put that in Then 
he put the tumbler under the soda water spout and 
whirled the wheel around and the soda went sz-z-z-zt ! 
sz ! zt ! and then the giant pushed the glass over in front 
of me, full, and with thick creamy foam running over 
the top, and I didn't touch it." 

" What ! " said Mr. Gratebar. 

" No," said Philip, " I didn't touch it. . I felt in ray 
pocket, and I found I hadn't got a cent." 

Mr. Gratebar understood. 

Then Philip went forth in search of a fountain, — not 
of the fountain he had seen in his dream, but of one as 
nearly like it as he could find in actual life. 


I hate my geography lesson ! 

It's nothing but nonsense and names ; 
To bother me so every morning, 

It's really the greatest of shames. 

The brooks they flow into the rivers. 
And the rivers flow into the sea ; 

I hope, for my part, they enjoy it, 
But what does it matter to me ? 

Of late, even more I've disliked it, 

And more disagreeable it seems, 
Ever since the sad evening last winter. 

When I had that most frightful dream. 
I thought that a most horrid monster 

Stood suddenly there in my room,— 
A frightful Geography Demon, 

Enveloped in darkness and gloom ; 
His body and head like a mountain, 

A volcano on top for a bat ; 
His arms and his legs were like rivers 

With a brook round his neck for cravat. 


He laid on my poor trembling shoulder, 
His fingers, cold, clammy and long, 

And fixing his red eyes upon me, 
He roared forth this terrible song : 

" Come ! come ! rise and come 

Away to the banks of the Muskingum ! 

It flows o'er the plains of Timbuctoo, 

With the peak of Teneriflfe just in view. 

And the cataracts leap in the pale moonshine. 

As they dance o'er the clifis of Brandy wine. 

" Flee 1 flee f rise and flee 
Away to the banks of the Tombigbee. 
We'll pass by Alaska's powerful strand, 
Where the emerald towers of Pekin stand ; 
We'll pass them by and will rest awhile 
On Michilimackinac's tropic isle ; 
While the apes of Barbary frisk around 
And the parrots crow with a lovely sound. 

" Hie I hie ! rise and hie 
Away to the banks of the Yang-tse-ki ! 
There the giant mountains of Oshkosh stand, 
And the icebergs gleam through the falling sand ; 
While the elephants sit on the palm-tree high, 
And the cannibals feast on bad-boy pie. 

" Go ! go ! rise and go 
Away to the banks of the Hoang-ho ! 
There the Chickasaw sachem makes his tea, 
And the kettle boils and waits for thee. 
We'll smite thee, ho ! and we'll lay thee low. 
On the beautiful banks of the Hoang-ho ! " 

These terrible words were still sounding 
Like trumpets and drums through my head. 

When the monster clutched tighter my shoulder. 
And dragged me half out of bed. 

In terror I clung to the bedpost, 

But the faithless bedpost— it broke ! 
I screamed out aloud in my anguish, 

And suddenly — Veil, I awoke. 
He was gone. But I cannot forget him, 

That fearful Geography Sprite, 
He has my first thought in the morning, 

He has my last shudder at night. 


"ABIDE WITH ME."— S. H. Thayek. 

"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide," 

A simple maiden sang, with artless feeling, 
" The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide," 
While in her voice the tender accents stealing, 
Fell, softly as the dying day, 
Erom those sweet lips, and died away. 

"Abide with me" she could not know the plea— 

The utter consecration — in her dreaming ; 
Joy, like a bird, made life a melody, 
And spring, its sun along her pathway beaming. 
Stirred her young heart with gentle fires, 
And quickened her with sweet desires. 

" The darkness deepens," slowly fell the sound. 

As if with plaintive grief the notes were laden. 
Yet not a sorrow had her bosom owned, 
Nor ever sadness touched the lovely maiden ; 
How could she sing "Abide with me," 
Or know its hidden mystery? 

" The darkness deepens," apd the years go by ;' 

The maiden 'neath the shadows oft has wandered ; 
Joy, like a bird, has left its nest to fly. 
And bonds of love and happiness are sundered ; 
Lo, all the friendliness of earth 
Has taken wings, with joy and mirth. 

Despair, the tearless offspring of all woe— 

The lonely progeny of a world of sorrow- 
Has turned upon her, like a sudden foe, 
To snatch Hope's only legacy,— to-morrow ; 
And, shuddering, in her dumb distress, 
She drinks the cup of bitterness. 

O Life ! she knows the anguish of its cross,— 

Love turned to hate and blessings to reverses; 
She, too, has felt the fever of remorse. 
With its deep dregs of agony and curses ; 
" When helpers fail-and comforts flee," 
She dare not ask, "Abide with me." 

Her voice, it will not sing, the notes are dead ; 

But in their stead, like some pale phantom, haunting, 
Weird echoes, through her memory, mocking dread, 


Breathe the dead song her aching heart is wanting ; 
"Abide with me " slie cannot sing, 
But mutely brings the offering. 

" Fast falls the eventide ; " yet, to her eyes, 

The golden light of morn is faintly dawning ; 
"Earth's joys grow dim," but from eternal skies 
Is borne the answer to her spirit's longing ; 
And now, as "falls the eventide," 
She whispers, " Lord, with me abide." 

She knows it now, the faith that comes at last; 

Child of the pang and travail of her spirit, 
Born of the withering passions of the past. 
Its heavenly voice, she lingers long to hear it; 
Lo, through the valley of despair, 
Her song has sung itself to prayer 1 


Oh, the old school exhibitions! will they ever come again. 
With the good, old-fashioned speaking from the girls and 

boys so plain? 
Will we ever hear old " Iser," with its rapid roll and sweep. 
And " Pilot, 'tis a fearful night ; there's danger on the deep!" 
Sweet Mary doesn't raise her lambs like Mary did of old ; 
Their fleece is not " as white as snow ; " they're wandering 

from the fold. 
The boy upon "the burning deck" is not one half as fine- 
He was not "born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine ! " 

The girls don't speak in calico, the boys in cotton jeans ; 
They've changed the old-time dresses 'long with the old- 
time scenes ; , . ,. j i i.i, j 
They smile and speak in ancient Greek, in broadcloth and 

And you can't half seethe speaker for the collar round the 

Oh, the old school exhibition ! it is gone forever more ! 
The old schoolhouse is deserted, and the grass has choked 
the door ; , , • ,_ i ^ 

And the wind sweeps round the gables with a low ana 

mournful whine. , 

For the old bovs "born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine ! 

— Atlanta Constitution. 



Thomas Holmes. 

.Years ago, when every gentleman in western Europe 
wore as a part of his daily dress a sword, two English- 
men one day entered a cafe in Paris, and, seating them- 
selves at a table, fell to conversing. In the course of 
the lunch one of the men told the other that he had 
noticed in a newspaper that morning an account of the 
arrival in the city of a celebrated dwarf 

Upon the speaker concluding his remarks, the En- 
glishmen were astonished to hear a tall, stolid-looking 
man, seated at a table near by, say : " I arrive, thou 
arrivest, he arrives, we arrive, you arrive, they arrive." 

The Englishman whose remark seemed to have sug- 
gested this mysterious speech stepped over to where the 
stranger sat, and asked, sternly : " Did you mean to 
speak to me, sir ? " 

" I speak, you speak, they speak — " said the man. 

" Do you mean to insult me ? " the Englishman cried, 
with rising temper. The stranger calmly replied: "I 
insult, thou insultest, he insults, we insult, you insult, they 

The Englishman's temper gave way at this, and, 
laying hjs hand on the hilt of his sword, he said, hotly: 
" This is too much ! I'll have satisfaction. If you have 
any spirit with your rudeness come along with me." 

The imperturbable stranger arose and followed the 
Englishman, saying, as he did so : "I come, thou comest, 
he comes, we come, you come, they come." 

The men went into a neighboring alley. Unsheath- 
ing his sword, the Englishman said : " Now, sir, you 
must fight me." 

" I fight," answered the stranger, drawing his weapon, 
"thou fightest, he fights, we fight," — here he made a 
thrust, — "you fight, they fight," and at this point he dis- 
armed the Englishman. 

" Well," said the Englishman, " you have the best of 
it, and I hope that you are satisfied." 


" I am satisfied," replied the stranger, sheathing his 
sword, "thou art satisfied, he is satisfied, we are satis- 
fied, you are satisfied, they are satisfied." 

" I am glad," said the Englishman, with a tinge of 
sarcasm in his voice, "that every one is satisfied ; but 
leave off, I beg of you, this quizzing, and tell me what 
is your object in doing so." 

" I am a Dutchman," said the stranger, " and I am 
learning your language. It is very difficult for me to 
remember the peculiarities of the verbs, and my tutor 
has instructed me to conjugate every English verb that 
I hear spoken that I may fix them in my mind. I make 
it a rule to do this, and I do not like to have my plans 
disturbed or I would have told you this before fighting 

The Englishman laughed heartily at the explanation, 
and said : " You must dine with me this evening." 

" I will dine," said the Dutchman ; "thou wilt dine, 
he will dine, they will dine, — we will all dine together." 
They accordingly did, and the Dutchman conjugated 
with as much relish as he ate. 


They were sitting five seats back, but I plainly heard the 

As we dashed into the tunnel near the town ; 
And the currents of my veins ran like gushing April rains, 
Though I'm grave and gray — and wear a doctor's gown. 

Once — alas ! so long ago — on the rails I journeyed so. 
With a maiden in a jaunty jersey sack, 
And I kissed her with my eyes as the timid stars the skies, 
But I longed— oh, how I longed ! — for one real smack ! 

Did she know it? I dare say ! (She'd a sweet clairvoyant 

In the glancing of her eyes so bright and blue.) 
Ne'er a bee such honey sips as the nectar on her lips ; 
But I longed and longed in vain, as on we flew. 


Just as yearning reached its height, lo ! there came a sud- 
den night, 
And like steel to magnet clove my mouth to hers ! 
I shall never more forget how like drops of rain they met, 
In the bosom of a rose that lightly stirs ! 

When we came again to light, both our faces had burned 

white, — 
White as clouds that float in summer from the south, . 
Missed' I glances, missed I smiles, but on air I rode for miles 
With the sweetness of love's dew upon my mouth. 

So the kiss that some one stole, in the rayless Stygian hole. 
While with loud imprisoned clangor on we rushed. 
Caused the sluggish streams of age, with young madness 

leap and rage — 
And my wife, restored to daylight, laughed and blushed. 


You kaint tell how it chirks me up 

When Mandy comes from town, 

An' brings her trunks an' all the kids. 

An' hat and summer gown. 

Tew stay a spell, with Baby Ruth, 

An' Allie, she's three year ; 

You jest kin bet they make things hum 

When all the kids are here. 

They'd ruther set on grandpa's knee, 
Or lop again' his breast 
An' hear him sing his old psalm- tunes, 
Than fool round with the rest. 
They'll walk and talk an' sing fer me 
When other's kaint come near ; 
It's just a picnic all the time. 
When Mandy's kids are here. 

I like tew have 'em fussin' round, 

A-combin' of my hair. 

An' tyin' of my neckercher, 

While standin' on a chair 

They pull my whiskers with a comb 

Until they start a tear ; 

God grant I weep no other kind, 

While Mandy's kids are here. 


A couple on 'em goes tew sleep 
In my arms every night, 
At sundown, as I sit an sing 
An' watch the fadin' light ; 
An' I set there an' hold 'em close , 
Inside the clock ticks clear. 
An' that's the time I like the best 
When Mandy's kids are here. 

The kids they seem tew build a bridge, 

Across from youth tew age, 

An' back an' forth with tremblin' steps. 

Walks childhoodwwith the sage ; 

Age must be beautiful to them, 

An' wrinkled faces dear ; 

An' I rejoice that I am loved 

When Mandy's kids are here. 

These leetle chaps jest startin' out 

Jest off the golden street. 

An' we old fellers limpin' home. 

Jest at the gate we meet ; 

An' we have left so much behind. 

An' they no future fear, 

That really we are of one mind 

When Mandy's kids are here. 

So bring tew me my ole straw hat, 

My coat and hickory staff, 

Le's have your pudgy little hand, 

We'll walk, an' sing, an' laugh. 

I'm twice a child, kids, tew your once, 

So love is doubly dear, 

The fools are those of middle age, 

While Mandy's kids are here. 


My friends, are you growing discouraged 

In fighting the battle of life ? 
Does it seem, in your weakness and darkness, 

A helplessly desperate strife? 
Do you fear that your study and labor 

Are destined to reap no reward ? 


Is the goal of your ardent ambition 
By numberless obstacles barred 7 

Despair not ! true, thorough self-culture 
Is never unwisely bestowed ; 

The stone that is fit for the wall 
Will not always be left in the road. 

Does it seem an injustice that others, 

Whose merits and fitness are less, 
Through chances of fortune or favor. 

Push forward to easy success? 
Eemember that fortune is fickle, 

And friends will not always endure. 
So to those who depend upon either. 

The future is never secure ; 
The tide that is now in their favor 

May sometime ebb as it flowed, 
And the stone that's unfit for the wall 

Will be ruthlessly flung in the road. 

Be patient ; life's loftiest prizes 

Are not to be hastily won ; 
Expect not to gather your harvest 

The moment the seed has been sown; 
A ravenous horde of pretenders, 

A pushing and clamorous crew, 
Will have to be tried and found wanting 

Ere you can be tried and found true ; 
The best by the side of the worthless 

Together may lie in the load ; 
But the stone that is fit for the wall 

Will not always be left in the road. 

Go, read the encouraging story 

Of eminent men of the past, 
Who, long in obscurity toiling. 

Compelled recognition at last ; 
Of men who, in art or in science 

Or letters, have conquered a place, 
Or in the wide realm of invention. 

Have left a rich boon to their race ; 
Their names upon history's pages 

Like stars in the darkness have glowed; 
Like stones that were left for the wall, 

They were not to be left in the road. 


Undoubtedly there have been many 

Who lived, and have passed from the earth, 
And their fellows but ill comprehended 

Their genuine greatness and worth ; 
But the world whereunto we are hasting, 

Our loftiest powers will employ, 
And every iota of culture 

Will brighten and heighten our joy ; 
Doubt not we shall find when we enter 

That shining celestial abode, 
The rock that is fit for the Builder 

Will never be left in the road. 

F. Anstey. 

Scene. The Pit of a London theatre during Panto- 
mime Time. 

An Overheated Matron (to her husband). — Well, 
they don't give you much room in 'ere, I must say. Still, 
we done better than I expected, after all that crushing. 
I thought my ribs was gone once — but it was on'y the 
umbrella's. You pretty comfortable where you are, eh, 
father ? 

Father. Oh, I'm right enough, I am. 

Jimmy (their small boy with a piping voice). — If fa- 
ther is, it's more nor what I am. I can't see, mother, I 
can't ! 

Mother. — Lor' bless the boy ! there aint nothen to 
see yet ; you'll see well enough when the curting 
goes up. (Curtain rises on opening seene.) Look, 
Jimmy, aint that nice, now ? All them himps, dancin' 
round and real fire comin' out of the pot— which I 'ope 
it's quite safe— and there's a beautiful fairy just come 
on dressed so grand, too ! 

Jimmy (whimpering).— I can't see no fairy— nor yet 
no himps — no nothen ! 

Mother (annoyed).— Was there ever such a aggra- 
rsting boy. Set quiet, do, and don't fidget, and look at 
the hactin' I 


Jimmy. — I tell yer I can't see no hactin', mother. It 
aint my fault — it's this lady in front of me, with the 'at. 

Mother. — Father, the pore boy says he can't see where 
he is, 'cause of a lady's 'at in front. 

Father. — Well, I can't 'elp the 'at, can I? He must 
put up with it, that's all ! 

Mother. — No — but I thought, if you wouldn't mind 
changing places with him ; you're taller than him. 

Father. — It's always the way with you — never satis- 
fied, you aint ! Well, pass the boy across ; I'm for a 
quiet life, I am (changing seats). Will this do for you? 
[He settles down immediately behind a very large, 
furry hat which he dodges for some time. 

Father (suddenly). — Blow the 'at ! 

Mother. — You can't wonder at the boy not seeing! 
P'r'aps the lady wouldn't mind taking it off, if you 
asked her? 

Father. — Ah (touching The Owner of the Hat on the 
shoulder) ! Excuse me, mum, but might I take the lib- 
erty of asking you to kindly remove your 'at ? 
[The Owner of the Hat deigns no reply. 

Father (more insistently). — Would you 'ave any ob- 
jection to oblige me by taking off your 'at, mum ? 
(Same result.) I don't know if you 'eard me, mum, hut 
I've asked you twice, civil enough, to take that 'at of 
yours off. I'm a playin' 'ide-and-seek be'ind it 'ere! 
[No answer. 

Mother. — People didn't ought to be allowed in the 
Pit with sech 'ats ! Callin' 'erself a lady, and settin' there 
in a great 'at and feathers like a 'Ighlander's, and 
never answering no more nor a stuffed himage ! 

Father (to the Husband of The Owner of the Hat). — 
Will you tell yourgood lady to take her 'at off, sir, please? 

The Owner of the Hat (to her Husband). — Don't 
you do nothing of the sort, Sam, or you'll 'ear of it ! 

Mother. — Some people are perlite, I must say. Par- 
ties might be'ave as ladies when they come in the Pit! 
It's a pity her 'usband can't teach her better manners ! 


Father. — 'Im teach her ! 'E knows better. 'E's got 
a Tartar there, 'e 'as! 

The Owner of the Hat. — Sam, are you going to set 
by and hear me insulted like this ? 

Her Husband (turning round tremulously). — I — I'll 
trouble you to drop making these personal allusions to 
my wife's 'at, sir. It's puffickly impossible to listen to 
what's going on on the stage, with all these remarks 
be'ind ! 

Father. — Not more nor it is to see what's going on 
on the stage with that 'at in front ! I paid 'arf-a- 
crown to see the Pantermime, I did ; not to 'ave a view 
of your wife's 'at ! . . . 'Ere, Maria, blowed if I 
can stand this 'ere game any longer. Jimmy must 
change places again, and if he can't see, he must stand 
up on the seat, that's all ! 

[Jimmy goes back, and mounts upon the seat. 

A Pit-ite behind Jimmy (touching up Jimmy's father 
with an umbrella). — Will you tell your little boy to set 
down, please, and not block the view like this,? 

Father. — If you can indoocethat lady to take off her 
'at, I will, but not before. Stay where you are, Jimmy. 

The Pit-ite behind. — Well, I must stand myself then, 
that's all. I mean to see, somehow ! 
[He rises. 

People behind (sternly). — Set down there, willyer? 
[He resumes his seat expostulating. 

Jimmy. — Father, the man behind is a-pinching of ray 

Father. — Will you stop pinching my little boy's legs. 
He aint doing you no 'arm, is he ? 

The Pinching Pit-ite. — Let him sit down, then ! 

Father. — Let the lady take her 'at off! 

Murmurs behind.— Order there ! Set down ! Put 
that boy down ! Take orf that 'at ! Silence in front 
there ! Turn 'em out ! Shame ! . . . 

The Husband of the O. of the H. (in a whisper to his 
wife.) Take off the blessed 'at, and 'ave done with it, do I 


The O. of the H.— What, now ? I'd eooner die in 
the 'at ! 

[An attendant is called. 
Attendant—Order, there, gentlemen, please, unless 
you want to get turned out! No standing allowed 
on the seats ; you're disturbing the performance 'ere', 
you know ! 

[Jimmy is made to sit down, and weeps silently ; 

the hubbub subsides, and the Owner of the Hat 


Mother. — Never mind, my boy, you shall have 

mother's seat in a minute. I dessay, if all was known, 

the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at on, pore thing 1 

Father. — Ah, I never thought o' that. So she 

may. Very likely her 'at wont come off—not without 

her 'air ! 

Mother. — Ah, well, then we mus'n't be 'ard on her. 
The O. of the H. (removing the obstruction.) I 'ope 
you're satisfied now, I'm sure ? 

Father (handsomely). — Better late nor never, mum, 
and we take it kind of you. Though, why you 
shouldn't ha' done it at fust, I dunno ; for you look a 
deal 'ansomer without the 'at than what you did in it — 
don't she, Maria? 

The O. of the H. (mollified.) — Sam, ask the gentle- 
man behind if his boy would like a ginger-nut. 

[This olive-branch is accepted ; compliments pass ; 
cordiality is restored, and the pantomime then 
proceeds without any further disturbance in the 


When we were merry children, eyes of blue and hair of 

We listened to a story by a sweet-faced lady told ; 
Yes, in the twilight of her life, when she was old and gray, 
We loved to hear the story of Grandma's wedding-day. 


There was a lack" of bridal gifts,— no gold and silver fine, 

No jewels from across the sea, upon her brow to shine ; 

A man in homespun clothes stood up and gave the bride 

away — 
For all was sweet simplicity on Grandma's wedding-day. 

There was no surpliced minister, no bell above them hung, 
They stood upon the forest sward, this couple,, fair and 

young ; 
And when the parson called them and wished them 

years of bliss. 
The groom received hig only gift, — a soft and holy kiss. 

A cabin in the forest stood to welcome home the pair. 
And happy birds among the trees made music on the air ; 
She was the reigning backwoods belle — the bride so fair and 


And that is why the birds were glad upon her wedding-day. 

Thus life began for Grandma, in the forest dim and old. 
And where she lived a city stands, with stateliness untold ; 
She told us how the Indian came the settler brave to fight, 
And how she rocked the cradle to the wolfs long howl at 

The cradle was an oaken trough, untrimmed with costly lace, 
But in it nestled, now and then, a bright, cherubic face ; 
And Grandma was as happy then as though a mansion 

Above her rose like some we see throughout our lovely 


I cherish now a lock of hair, — 'tis not of silver gray. 

She clipped it in the sunlight fair, though years have passed 

away, — 
It is a tress of Grandma's hair, as bright as when she stood 
And blushing took her bridal vows within the pathless 


On yonder hill, this golden morn, she takes her dreamless 

The wrinkled hands, so often kissed, lie crossed upon her 

breast ; 
And gently on her finger, ere we laid her form away. 
We placed the simple ring she wore upon her wedding-day. 

— Good, Housekeeping. 


IF WE KNEW. — Virginia May Haynaed. 
If we knew what friends who greet us 

With a cordial look and tone, 
And who give us warmest welcome 

Say about us when we're gone ; 
If we only knew their feelings 

AVhen perchance they see us come, 
Or their joy at our departure. 

Don't you think we'd stay at home? 

If you only knew the lover. 

Who in you has " met his fate," 
Tells another that same story 

Down beside the pasture gate ; 
If you met him walking slowly 

Through the fields where daisies grow, 
And you knew where he was going. 

Don't you think you'd " let him go?" 

If you knew the faithful sweetheart, 

Who has sworn she will be true, 
Swears the same thing to another 

Don't you think that you'd swear too? 
If you chanced to see her strolling, 

Bright and gay and all heart-whole, 
With the " other " in the twilight. 

Don't you think you'd let her stroll ? 

If the preacher in the pulpit 

Who with holy zeal is stirred. 
Knew we criticised his necktie, 

And attended not a word ; 
If he knew when, service over, 

And at home we sit and sup. 
How we laugh about his sermons. 

Don't you think he'd give it up? 

If the preacher in the pulpit. 

And his hearers all sedate, 
And the sweetheart in the twilight, 

And the lover by the gate ; 
If the friends who talk about us, 

And if we who all talk too, 
Knew a great deal that we don't know, 

What do you suppose we'd do ? 


HAGAE'S FAEEWELL.*— Augusta Moore. 


Sarah, thine act hath made me what I am, 

'Twas thine own hand, proud mistress, gave me up, 

Thy trembling bondmaid, to thine husband's arms. 

I never asked his love ; I wished it not; 

I feared ye both, for was I not your slave? 

I was an orphan, friendless and forlorn, 

A stranger among strangers and a slave. 

.... My master seemed to love me, and my heart 

Expanded to the warm and blissful light 

Of his affection — fond and foolish heart ; 

Would that its torpor ne'er had passed away ! 

Joy, like the swelling buds of early spring. 
Swelled in my bosom. Peace her dove-like wings 
Spread over me, and promised long to stay. 

false and fatal peace ! What has a slave 
To do with love or joy ? Soon fell the doom. 

The dream of hope is past, and I depart 

To hide me from vindictive hate and wrath ; 

Yet in my aching bosom still I bear 

One ray of comfort which shall strength impart ; 

It was not Abram's will that drove me hence. 

Alas, Abraham ! 
Hath God forgotten mercy ? Must I go 7 
Why did He suffer me to love thee so ? 
Must all the bleeding tendrils of my heart 
Be rudely wrenched and torn from thine apart? 
Thou that didst teach that heart, so sad and lone, 
No love to wish, or suffer, save thine own. 
That blessed love ! its steady, cheering light 
Has strengthened me and made my pathway bright, — 
The only rose in all my thorny way; 
Oh, must its fragrant bloom for me decay ? 

1 may not curse thee, Sarah ; God hath blessed — 
God ! who to Hagar grants not peace, nor rest — 
But wherefore should thy helpless handmaid know 
This fatal agony, this crushing woe ? 

Hath Ishmael mocked ? Were Isaac in his stead, 

•By pcrmisainn of the Author. 


Say, had thine ire upon his youthful head, 
Such scorching, blasting fires of vengeance shed 7 
Or, hadst thou deemed it righteous punishment, 
If he and thou, outcasts from home were sent, 
In yon vast, howling wilderness to rove. 
No eye to pity, and no heart to love? 

I curse thee not, yet in thy sheltered home, 
Where hated Hagar never more may come, 
(If in thy breast there beats a human heart, 

woman, loved and cherished as thou art!) 
Thine must be many a keen, remorseful pang, 
Sharp, stinging as a serpent's venorned fang, 
As midnight dreams, or fancy's pictures wild, 
Show thee the friendless wanderer and her child. 

Look up, my child ! 
It is thy father's hand upon thy brow. 
The hand, all powerless to protect thee now, 

That points thee to the wild. 

Kneel at his feet once more. 
While yet the shadow of his roof is spread 
O'er thy devoted and defenceless head, 

His blessing boy, implore ! 

And now, Ishmael! 
Let us depart. We have no dwelling here ; 
Blighted in heart and life, the desert sere 

Befits us well. 

Oh, Abraham, farewell ! 
The bitterness of death is almost over. 
Farewell, kind master, faithful guide, fond lover! 

1 know, O friend ! thou wilt not dare regret me ; 
But can the father of my child forget me 

Where'er I dwell ? 

Can he forget that in the desert dreary 
There wanders one with footsteps weak and weary, 
Hcjmeless, forlorn, a sad, heart-broken stranger, 
Exposed to want and fear and every danger, 

A mother, with her child ? 
Can he forgot that, while within his dwelling, 
Plenty and joy and mirth their songs are swelling, 
Two wliom lie swore ever to love and cherish 
Are toiling on, ready to fall and perish 

In the rougli, tangled wild? 


Thoti wilt remember me ! 
I see it in the gaze upon me beaming ; 
I know it by the tears so swiftly streaming, 
And by the clasp of that dear hand now pressing 
Upon my head in voiceless, fervent blessing, 

We shall remembered be. 

And for this harsh decree, 

best beloved ! I will upbraid thee never ; 
But through despair and want and anguish ever 

I will be true to thee. 

1 go, I go, the dream of hope is o'er ! 

Hagar shall pain thy heart and eyes no more. 


Some hundreds of years ago in the quaint old city of 
Nuremberg there lived two boys, Franz Kuigstein and 
Albrecht Durer. They wanted to be artists, and en- 
tered Michael Nohlgemuth's studio for instruction. The 
parents of both were poor, and worked hard to provide 
for the boys till they should be able to care for them- 
selves. Both boys were industrious and frugal and aifec- 
tionate, but Albrecht possessed genius, while Franz had 
only an intense love for his art. Shadowy visions of 
beautiful pictures haunted him, but his was neither the 
hand nor the brain to realize them on canvas. 

Years passed, and still the two friends hoped and 
toiled on ; one went to Italy, the other continued his 
studies in Germany. Franz married, and by and by 
Albrecht did the same. Their parents died, and times 
were hard and art was dull. Gradually some measure of 
success came to Albrecht, and he shared his earnings with 
Franz, and still they worked and hoped on. 

So time went by, till one day they planned together 
to make an etching of the Passion of our Lord. When 
they came to compare their work, the drawing of Franz 
was cold and lifeless, while Albrecht's was instinct with 
beauty and pathos. Franz himseifsaw the truth then. He 

•Albrecht Durer'a drawing of "The Praying Hands," Ib in the museum at Vienna. 


had reached middle age, and he knew that his work so far 
had been a failure. He felt now how vain was his hope 
of success, because, as he at last realized, the artist soul 
had not been born in him. It was as if he had' spent 
all these years in standing on a housetop trying to reach 
the stars. But he did not murmur, only for one passion- 
ate moment he buried his face in his hands. Then he 
said in a voice broken and sad, but still full of maaly 
courage : — " The good Lord gave me no such gift as this 
of yours, but something he yet has for me to do, — some 
homely duty is somewhere waiting for me. So long 
have I been blind, and I have lost much time. But 
now, be you the artist of Nuremberg, and I — " 

" Still, Franz ! be quiet one moment ! " cried Albrecht, 
seizing a paper from the table. 

Franz thought he was adding some finishing touch to 
the exquisite drawing, and waited patiently, standing 
with his hands twined and clasped together. Albrecht 
drew a few lines with a swift pencil ; then he showed 
Franz the paper. 

" Why those are only my own hands ; " Franz said, 
" for what — where did you get them ? " 

And there was hardly need for an answer. 

" I took them as you stood making the sad surrender 
of your life so very bravely. And I said to myself, 
those hands that may never paint a picture can now 
most certainly make one. I have faith in those folded 
hands, my brother-friend. They will go to men's hearts 
in the days to come." 

And the words of Albrecht Durer were true. Into 
the world of love and duty has gone the story more 
touching and helpful in its simplicity than any com- 
ment on it could be. And over the artistic world has 
gone the picture, for " The Praying Hands," by Albrecht 
Durer, are but the hands of Franz Kuigstein, once 
folded in sweet, brave resignation as he. gave up his 
heart's desire, and yet had faith that the Lord had some 
homely duty worth his doing. 


MATILDY GOES TO MEETIN'.— Louis Eisenbbis* 

One Sunday mornin' years ago, along in May or June, 
The birds was singin', it seemed to me, a most bewitchin' 

The lilacs, my ! how sweet they smelled, and the apple 

blossoms, too ; 
And the bees was hummin' gaily round 'mong flowers wet 

with dew, 

When Lizer come to the garden gate and says to me, says 

" Matildy, git your bonnet on and go to meetin' with me." 
I studied a bit, and then, says I, " Law sakes ! I've nuthin' 

to wear ; 
Them meetin' folks all look so nice, they'd hardly want me 


" My yaller dress is outer style, my green mantiller, too ; 
My bonnit's faded sorter brown,— 'twas pirty when 'twas 

And to go to meetin' these times, unless yer dressed in style 
They'll look at yer as if they thought the meetin'-house 

you'd spile." 

But, howsumever, I thought I'd wear just what I had, 

and go. 
For laws ! thinks I, is meetin's made to wear good clothes 

fer show ? 
If that's what takes the people there, what's we poor folks 

to do? 
And spose we go, I jest expect they'll put us in some back 


Well, the bell had jest stopped ringin', an' we hardly 

teched the floor. 
When the sextant sort o' smUed and said, "Take that pew 

near the door." 
I looked at Lizer and she at me, we both felt kinder vexed. 
For I was a-gettin' deef and dum, and wouldn't heer the 


We took the seat ; the organ played some high distractin' 

But what it was, we couldn't tell, a bit mor'n the man in the 

moon ; 

♦By permiesion. Mr. Eisenbeis has contributed to this Seriee ; " The Church 
Fair," "The Parson's Vacation," "The Deacon, Me and Him," "Christmas a 
Hiiodred Years to Come," "Joner and the Whale," and other popular recitationi. 


Then the preacher rose, give out his tex ; I whispered, 

" Lizer Jane, 
Jest tell me where that tex is found, 1 couldn't hear it 


Says she, " I didn't hear a word, we're set so fur away. 
We might as well a'most stayed home, fer all we'll hear 

But anyhow the preacher read ; he had his sermon writ ; 
Says I to Lizer, by and by, " Law sakes ! I wish he'd quit." 

At last he did, and then he read a great long list of news; 
When he was through Elizer said, " Tildy, that beats the 

Says I, " I didn't hear a thing. What was he sayin' then?" 
Says she, " He said, to-morrow night, from six to half-past 


"They'd have an ' apern sociable,' let everybody come ; 
They were goin' to have a rite good time, an p'raps a little 

On Tuesday night a Dr. Brown would lectur' (one of his 

On ' Love an' Courtship,' how it was done out in the growin' 


"Wednesday night, the usual time for conference and prayer, 
The preacher said, ' Let one and all be certain to be there ; 
Instead of the prayer meetin', there'll beajuberlee of song; 
A flrst-class orkester'l be there, two hundred woices strong; 

" 'A regler band of music, with fiddles, horns and floots. 
Will jine the mighty korus, if the weather only suits ; 
To git in, is fifty cents, — but a triflin' amount; 
It's to buy a big pipe organ ; the melojun's no account.' 

" Then for Thursday night he said, ' Stead of havin' Bible 

The young folk's Readin' Circle, have a treat for lad and 

They will give a grand cantater— Cinderella's fairy tale— 
And judgin' by the posters, there'll be no sich thing as fale.' 

"For Friday night he told 'em the lyceum would meet ; 
And besides the speakin' pieces there'd be sum thin' good 

to eat." 
"Law sakes! " says I, " Elizer, what denomination's this? 
" Why," says she, " I think they call it Church of Undiluted 

Bliss. " 


He didn't mention Saturday night, there 'peared to be 

uuthin' on hand ; 
I s'pose they thought they'd jest about as mucli as they 

could stand ; 
I thought so, too ; in fact I said, " They's a pleggy lively set 
If they get through with all of that, and any's a-livin' yet." 

So, when the meetin' broke that day, we started for the 

And we run agin jest lots of folks we hadn't seen afore ; 
They jammed and blocked the aisle up so we couldn't git out 

or in, 
And there wasn't one that shook our hand, an, said, "Do 

come agin." * 

But I couldn't help a-laffln when I heerd what Tildy said, 
Fer she talked so awful loud they stared— my face turned 

scarlet red ! 
Says she, " I've heerd Aunt Betsy talk of a sekt, the queerest 


Who preach and pray and sing fer fun ; I think this must 
be it." 

Well ! we've tramped them solemn hills to-day to find a 

house of prayer, 
To git bilt up in livin' faith, for this world's wear and tear. 
" I've learned one thing," she said rite out, says she " Elizer 

I'll never jine this meetin'-house, unless I git insane." 

BUILDING.— Susan Coolidge. 

Souls are built as temples are, — 
Sunken deep, unseen, unknown, 
Lies the sure foundation stone. 
Then the courses framed to bear 
Lift the cloisters pillared fair, 
Last of all the airy spire. 
Soaring heavenward higher and higher. 
Nearest sun and nearest star. 

Souls are built as temples are, — 
Inch by inch in gradual rise 
Mount the lavered masonries. 
Warring questions have their day, 
Kings arise and pass away, 
Laborers vanish one by one, 


Still the temple is not done, 
Still completion seems afar. 

Souls are built as temples are,— 
Here a carving rich and quaint, 
There the image of a saint ; 
Here a deep-hued pane to tell 
Sacred truth or miracle ; 
Every little helps the much, 
Every careful, careless touch 
Adds a charm or leaves a scar. 

Souls are built as temples are, — 
Based on truth's eternal law. 
Sure and steadfast, without flaw. 
Through the sunshine, through the snows, 
Up and on the building goes ; 
Every fair thing finds its place. 
Every hard thing lends a grace. 
Every hand may make or mar. 


Say, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller, 

With pop and mom 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 woodshed. 

An' lots o' 'orms the outside cellar. 
An' Brown's creek just over by the milldam — 

Say, Jbunday's lonesome fur a little feller. 

Why, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller 

Right on from sun-up when the day commences; 
Fur little fellers don't have much to think of, 

'Cept chasin' gophers 'long the cornfield fences. 
Or diggin' after moles down in the woodlot. 

Or climbin' after apples what's got meller, 
Or fishin' down in Brown's creek an' millpond — 

Say, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller. 

But Sunday's never lonesome fur a little feller 
When he's a-stayin' down to Uncle Ora's; 

He took his book onct right out in the orchard. 
An' told us little chaps just lots of stories, 


All truly true, that happened oncffur honest, 

An' one 'bout lions in a sort o' cellar, 
An' how some angels came an' shut their mouths up, 

An' how they never teched that Dan'l feller. 

An' Sunday's pleasant down to Aunt Marilda's ; 

She lets us take some books that some one gin her. 
An' takes us down to Sunday school 't the schoolhouse ; 

An' sometimes she has a nice shortcake fur dinner. 
An' onct she had a puddin' full o' raisins, 

An' onct a frosted cake all white an' yeller. 
I think, when I stay down to Aunt Marilda's, 

That Sunday's pleasantiiir a little feller. 

— Michigan Christian Advocate. 

GO.— Robert C. V. Meyers.* 

[OOPYEIOHT, 1894.) 


S. B. AnMSTRONO, the pOBeesor of great activity, and proud of the possossion. 
Belinda, his maiden sister, who puBsesses ^less activity and upholds her niece's 

lover who has none. 
Bbnnet, the niece's lover, consequently the would-be son-in-law of S. B. A., 

who if he possesses no activity is forced to assert his natural languor in au 

energetic fashion. 
Essie, the daughter, niece and sweetheart, who deprecates the lack of activity 

in her lover and afterward reverses her judgment. 
John, the butler, who is active on provocation. 
Mdlle. Todjoues, a modiste's assistant, who is active without provocation. 

Scene. — Drawing-room. A strong table, left. Entrances right 
andleft. Armstrong and. Belinda discovered. Armstrong walk- 
ing up and down, his hands under his coat tails. Belinda 
resting by table, in an argumentative attitude. 

Armstrong. Don't talk to me, Belinda, it's no use. I 
tell you it is absolutely no use. I have said my say, and I 
stand by it. S. B. Armstrong is not a man to say No 
and mean Yes. My mind has too much activity for that. 

Belinda. Activity! I am sick and tired of the word. 

♦Author of "The Day Before the Weilding," "Ze Modenie English," "The Top 
Landing," "A Bonnet for my Wife," "A Dynnmite Plot," and other Comedies, 
Farces, etc., in previous Numbers of this Series. The leading peculiarity of Mr. 
Meyers' Dramas lies in their sparkling dialogue, quick action and easy adapta- 
bility to place. For a synopsis of these and other new Plays, included in our 
List, send for Catalogue. 


Simply because the world has gone well with you through 
your diligence and incessant alertness you would make 
every one of us parts of a system of perpetual motion. 
Even the butler has caught the mania, and not content with 
breaking all the glassware in the house, he has increased 
the volume of his voice, as though that were a further evi- 
dence of his being always employed. He is another spoke 
in the wheel of perpetual motion. 

Arm. Better perpetual motion than eternal repose. 

Bel. There ! You refer to Mr. Bennet in that remark. 
I tell you, brother, better a thousand times have a languid 
son-in-law than one who is too active. In some men ac- 
tivity carried to excess 

Arm. {stopping in his walk. ) Who wants it carried to ex- 
cess? All I want is an evidence of it. Without that evidence 
in him Essie shall not marry him if you coax till she is as 
old as you are. 

Bbl. Thanks! I am not a fossil, a fern-leaf turned to 
coal. I believe it takes some millions of years to turn a 
fern-leaf into coal. 

Arm. (walking wp and down.) There is a happy medium ! 

Bel. I suppose that means I may only be a female Me- 
thuselah. Is that your happy medium ? 

Arm. I was referring to Bennet. He is as inactive as — 

Bel. The police force, or a messenger boy ? 

Arm. (slopping.) Belinda, I wish when I open my lips you 
would not jump down my throat. I would have said that 
Bennet is as inactive as — {looking at her, and waiting for her 
to interrupt him) as— those things in Egypt where they used 
to bury people. 

Bel. Crocodiles? I believe the Spartan Egyptian moth- 
ers used to bury babies that way. 

Arm. I referred to the pyramids. 
Enter, John, right. 

John {inloud mice). Miss Essie's dressmaker sends word 
Miss Essie's dress will be here in ten minutes, sir. 

Arm. Correct ! Essie expected that dress at eleven, Bel- 
linda, and at eleven I sent word that if it were not here 
in ten minutes Essie should not receive it. I will have 
punctuality, which is another name for activity. You may 
go, John. Have you wound the^clocks ? 


John. Yes, sir. I set 'em a little fast, just to show 'em 
what is expected of 'em. And I've licked the page, sir, for 
saying the pointer was a setter. Nothing so slow as a set- 
ter here, sir. The cook says the yeast is all gone, as she 
uses double the usual quantity, to make the things rise fast. 

Arm. You may go. 

John. I am gone, sir. [Exit. 

Arm. As I was saying, Belinda, Bennet is as inactive as 
an Egyptian pyramid. And such inactivity shall never 
enter the family of S. B. Armstrong. ( Walks up and dovm, 
gesticulating.) What 1 want for a young man is that he shall 
do something. I don't care wtiat he does, so that he does 
not stand still. Let him do something, anything (/aWin^ 
over a chair). 

Bkl. I hope you don't want himhim to do that {laughing)"! 

Arm. {limping.) Belinda, have you no dignity? A wo- 
man of your age should be above flippancy. Bennet is 
about as active as you are sensible. Now I am determined 
Essie shall have nothing to do with him. 

Bel. Simply because you pitched over a chair. 

Arm. It is not the chair, it is your silly merriment over 
an accident. As for you, I shall not be surprised at any- 
thing you might do, old as you are. 

Bel. {indignantly.) Samuel Bartholomew Armstrong, I 
insist that my age be left alone. 

Arm. {limping.) Say not a word about your age, about 
Bennet, or anything. A woman and a sister to laugh at her 
brother for breaking his limbs over the furniture {hicldng 
the chair) need expect little consideration from me. As for 
Bennet, never shall he be anything to Essie until I find in 
him some of that activity which has made S. B. Armstrong 
what he is— no, nor till I find you in as ridiculous an atti- 
tude as that chair has placed me in. [Exit, limping, left. 

Bkl. {soliloquizing.) I suppose he wants that poor young 
man to break his shins over things, that's his idea of activ- 
ity. He wouldn't be surprised at anything I might do, 
wouldn't he ? And at my age ! And poor Mr. Bennet shall 
not be liappy until I am found in as ridiculous an attitude 
as Samuel got himself into, eh ? Oh, Samuel, when you 
jest at a woman's age you forget the capabiUties of her retal- 
iation. Let me think ! Ah, I alrea'dy know how Mr. Ben- 


net shall be active. He and Essie shall elope and I will 
help them, 'fhere ! 

Enier, Essie, right. 

Essie. Essie will do nothing of the sort. 

Bel. So you overheard ? 

Essie. Yes. And what is more, since I have thouglit 
over what papa said at breakfast this morning, I uphold papa. 

Bel. He needs upholding ; he has just been precipitat- 
ing himself over the furniture. 

Essie, He has made me see how extremely inactive 
Harry Bennet is. Harry should show mord animation. 

Bel. Tell him you'll elope with him, that'll show you 
how animated he can be. Animation ! Why he loves you 
to distraction ; hasn't he written to your father he will be 
here to-day to ask for your hand? 

Essie. Do you call it loving me to distraction to take my 
hand and say (imitaiing) " Essie, how are you. There 'san 
awful lot of commotion in this house ; John, the butler 
has a voice loud enough to put out the gas." That was hia 
distracted love last time he came. Do you call that love! 

Bel. Love is not dependent upon mere words. 

Essie (mlh dignity). Aunt Belinda, I quite agree with 
papa, anything you might do would not surprise me. 

John {entering, inaloud voice). Mr. Bennet has came. 

Essie. I am going to papa. \_Exit, left. 

Bel. {excitedly.) John ! 

John. Yes, ma'am. 

Bel. Do you think I am ridiculous? 

John. I have saw more ridiculouser, ma'am. There's 
poor little Mamzelle Toujours having to hurry on Miss 
Essie's buttons so that dress may get here at eleven-ten. l 
have put them clocks so fast they've raced way round the 
day till they've caught up with ten o'clock to-night. Itaint 
a-going to be ten minutes past eleven till that dress gets here. 

Bel. But, John, would you be surprised at anything I 
should do ? — anything ridiculous ? 

John. Ladies never surprise me, ma'am, I've been a but- 
ler fifteen years. 

Bel. Let Mr. Bennet come in. {Exit, John, right.) No I 
cannot see him ; I must calm myself before I can see any 

'number TniHT Y-TH REE. 69 

one. Samuel to insult me thus, and then Essie to insult 
me ! [^Exit, left. 

Enter, Bennet, right, preceded by John. 

Bbnnet {sinking into a chair). John ! 

John (loudly). Yes, sir. 

Ben. Take my hat. And don't rub your fingers across 
the binding ; it will make a squeak, and I am not equal to 
it this morning. And, John I 

John [loudly). Yes, sir. 

Ben. You may go. 

John (loudly). Yes, sir. 

Ben. John ! ^ 

John (loudly). Yes, sir. 

Ben. Don't go in that tone of voice, it goes to my mar, 
row. Try to depart like a zephyr, not like a squall. 

John (angrily, whispering). Yes, sir. 

Ben. That's better; go. [Exit, punching hat. 

Ben. I suppose it's natural for me to feel nervous 
about meeting Essie's father and asking for the dear girl. 
(A clatter heard.) There's something else gone. Oh, this 
painfully active house ! If Essie's father were not so fiend- 
ishly alive I might meet him more like a human being. 

Essie (entering, left). You here, Harry ? 

Ben. (rising and taking her hand.) What's the use of that 
superfluous question ? If I am not here, where am I ? It is a 
waste of nervotis energy, that question, a needless expen- 
diture of vitality. My dear girl, be seated, and I'll tell you 

Essie (coldly, as she takes chair). That will be pleasant. 

Ben. Sarcasm — another sinful waste of brain force. 
Essie ! 

Essie. Well? 

Ben. You know I am here to ask your father to bestow 
you upon me. 

EasiE. What do you bestow upon him in return ? 

Ben. The only rest he will ever have. 

Essie. Suppose he should prefer activity ? 

Ben. He needs rest; he shall contemplate me. 

Essie (rising). He is sufficiently out of humor to contem- 
plate you through a telescope, not any nearer. 

Ben. Simply because I will not use needless exertion. 
My dear girl 

Essie. I am not your dear girl. 


Ben. Then whose dear girl are you ? You've got to be 
some fellow's dear girl, you can't help yourself. 

Essie. Oh, Harry, you know how much I care for you 
and yet you will anger papa so. 

Ben. Simply because I refuse to boil over. What's the use 
of it? If it were necessary I should be as active as 

Essie. Papa ? 

Ben. Heaven forbid ! He is an agitation of spangles, he 
dazzles me. But to gain you I would 

Essie. Yes, what would you do to gain me ? 

Ben. Endure your father — join a foot-ball team. 

Essie. Oh, Harry, if I had never met you when you 
wore those white flannels ! 

Bbs(. Yes, I did become those flannels. I saved a piece 
of them because you liked me in them. It is a book-inark. 

Essie. If you had not made me care for you in that lazy 
country place where you seemed a part of the landscape ! 
For now — well, Harry, I am convinced that papa is right, and 
that you have got to show more activity or we must part. 

Be.v. What shall I do — pump John's voice out of him 
and sell it for fog-horns ? 

Essie. This levity is unbecoming; you are laughing at me. 

Bkn-. I am as serious as an almanac— yes, even as a 
comic newspaper. 

Essie. Harry, I might as well tell you that papa will treat 
you rudely when you ask him for me. 

Ben. AVith his morbid activity I could only expect that 

Essie. But you must not laugh at him. He is my father. 

Ben. Blessed privilege ! 

Essie. You are laughing at me now. I will not stand it 

Ben. My dear girl 

Essie (angri/y). I am not your dear girl. I agree with 
papa, you lack energy, and until you show that you possess 
it, adieu. Here comes papa. [Exit, right. 

Ben. (alone.) It is the spirit of the house. But I thought 
Essie merely a zephyr, with few of the traces of her father. 
He's a blizzard. The temperature's falling— he's coming. 
( To Arrmstrong, as he enters, left.) Good morning, sir. 

Arm. {crustily.) Good morning. I have your letter. I 
know why you are here. I am prepared to answer you. 
We will get it over. At once. Now. It is no — no I 
Ben. Oh, my head / You go at such a rattling pace, sir, 


Arm. That's what a man requires in these stirring times, 
a rattling pace. No mossy stones for me, sir ; I like vim, 
vigor, movement. S. B. Armstrong is built that way. The 
man who marries my daughter must have some of my 
traits. That's the sort of man for me. 

Ben. a very good sort, as a sort. But I've never been 
sorted. I hope you know how much I love your daughter, 

Arm. You and she arc a pair of spoons. 

Ben. Spoons ! 

Ar.m. But there's an end of it. She's a sensible girl. 
She sues as I see. You can occupy your place in her esti- 
mation if you ijrove you hav% some "go" in you. 

BjiN. How can I occupy a place and have "go" at the 
same time? 

Arm. Are you making fun of me, sir ? 

BisN. I never made fun in all my life ; it is too exhaust- 
ing. But I'll tell you this, sir : I may not have unnecessary 
activity, and I may be a snail in your estimation. But did 
you ever notice how a snail holds on to whatever it 
touches? And I am going to hold on to Essie. Good 
morning ! I'll get my hat. lExit, right. 

Arm. {walking up and down.) And that is the man who 
aspires to be S. B. Armstrong's son-in-law — that insipid, 
slow-going creature ! Never — never— I say, never! Never! 
(Mdlle. 2onjours, enters viith bundle, she is weeping.) What is 
this ? What is this ? Calm yourself, madam ! 

McLLE. ToujouRS. Oh, sir, I am so frightened. 

Arm. Who are you? What has frightened you, a mouse ? 

Mdlle. (dropping bundle and screaming.) Oh, where? 
Where (getting on chair)? Where is the mouse? 

AuM. There is none. (Mdlle. gets down.) What's the matter? 

Mdlle. A man with a tall hat frightened me down stairs. 

Arm. a man with a tall hat! That's Bennet; he's the 
only man here with a tall hat. But who are you? 

Mdlle. I am Madame La Tour's assistant. In business 
I am Mdlle. Toujours ; in private life, Sally Smith. I have 
brought home Miss Essie Armstrong's gown. It was to be 
here at ten minutes past eleven or she would not have it. 
It has been ten minutes past eleven ever so long, and I am 
here. I came in when that man 

Arm. AVith the tall hat. 


Mdlle. He looked as though he would eat me, he was so 
angry. I looked at him sweetly too. 

Arm. How did you look ? 

Mdlle. This way [looking sentimental). 

Arm. No, no; how did you say you looked at him. 

Mdlle. Sweetly. He went (loudly) " Boo ! " at me, and 
I ran, and I am so frightened (clinging to him). 

Arm. I didn't think Bennet could say " Boo ! " to a goose. 

Mdlle. (plaintively.) Am I a goose, sir? 

Arm. I meant nothing personal. You — yes, you certainly 
cheer me up as nothing else could. 

MojjIjE. (laying her head on his shoulder.) Oh, sir I (Bennet 
is seen at door, right.) 

Ben. (entering, aside.) Where's my hat ? (Sees the two.) 

Arm. Really, young woman ! 

Mdllk. (clinging to him.) You said I cheered you up. 
I love to cheer people. (Essie seen in door^way, left.) Oh, sir ! 

Arm. I said 

Mdlle. You said that I cheered you up as nothing else 
could. (Bennet, seeing Essie, exiu.) Oh, how kind you are ! 

Arm. I said — (Sees Essie.) There .' I must go. 

Mdlle. Are you wanted ? Oh, are you the head butler? 

Arm. (shaking her off.) Head butler ! 

Mdlle. (seeing Essie.) Oh! [Runs off, right. 

Essie (coming forward.) Papa ! 

Akm. I tell you it is all a mistake. She was complaining 
about a man. He had frightened her. It was Bennet. 

Essie. Harry frightened her ? 

Arm. He said " Boo ! " to her. Now you know it all. I 
told her that she cheered me up 

Essie. Papa ! 

Arm. (roaring.) Pleased me that Bennet had some bold- 
ness in him and — and Mind your business. [Exit, lift. 

EssiK. Can it be that Harry would do such a thing ? (Ex- 
citedly.) No, no, papa turns it oflf on Harry. Who is she? 
And a bundle. Papa is going to elope with her. Aunt Belin- 
da (calling, runs to door, right, as Bennet comes in) ! Harry ! 

Bb.v. Yes, I was a witness, too. Now you see what comes 
of too much activity. 

Essie (coldly). Yet maybe she told the truth. She said 
you had frightened her. 

Ben. I? 

Essie. You said " Boo ! " to her. 


Ben. Never. 1 never said " Boo " to a girl in all my lile. 
1 might have said "Ah ! " once in awhile, but never, " Boo 1 " 

Essie. Why do you return ? 

Bent. For my hat. John took it, and I can't find John. 

Essie. You thought perhaps you would find that young 
woman here ? I believe papa was right after all. 

Ben. In pillowing her head upon his manly breast ? 

Essie. In saying it was you she ran from. Oh, Harry, you 
can be active when you wish to be. This ends all. lExit, left. 

Ben. (stamping his foot.) What does this mean ? 

Bel. {entering.) Ah, Mr. Bennet. So you are here still. 

Ben. I am here, but I don't know that I am " still." No- 
body can be " still " in this house. I feel that I am in the 
most ridiculous position any one could occupy. 

Bel. The most ridiculous position ? My brother would 
like to see me in that position. How shall I gratify him. 

Ben. Die ! 

Bel. Sir! 

Ben. I mean nothing personal. I only wish to see 
something inactive in this house. Even Essie accuses me 
of saying " Boo ! " to a young woman I do not know. I am 
angry enough to dance — yes, to get on that table and dance. 
That would be the most ridiculous thing I could imagine. 

Bel. It would ? {Gets on table and dances.) 

Ben. In the name of all that's crazy ! 

Bel. I'll astonish my brother yet. It will be all the bet- 
ter for you ; he said you might have Essie if he ever saw 
me do anything more ridiculous than tumbling over the 
chairs {dancing). I'm a person whose age must be referred 
to {dancing). Essie would not be surprised, eh {dancing) ? 

Ben. {excitedly.) Stop that break-down, or you'll break 
down the table. {Holds head.) My head's turning ! 

Bel. You're excited. There's activity in you after all. 

3 osit {entering). Here's your hat, sir. {Sees Belinda). Oh \ 

Ben. Give me that hat, and let me go. 

Mdllb. {entering right, seeing John.) Oh {running to Bennet.)'. 
He frightened me so. 

John. He did 7 Who's the man dares to frighten you? 

Mdlle. You did. 

Ben. He did ? John {shaking him), I must do something, 
or I shall go mad. How dare you frighten her ? 



Mdllb. Oh, you'll hurt him, you'll hurt him. Oh ! 

Aem. {enlering, left.) Belinda! What are you doing? 

Bel. (dancing.) Attend to them ; 1 can take care of my- 
self — I'm old enough, and ridiculous enough. 

Mdllb. Oh, he's shaking him all out of shape— he's on 
the bias now. Oh ! Oh ! 

Arm. Mr. Bennet, unhand that man. 

Bes. He frightened her. I am protecting your rights. 

Arm. Protecting my rights ? 

Ben. Didn't I see you with her head on your shoulder ? 

Bel. {screaming.) Oh {jumping down) ! Oh, Samuel Bar- 
tholomew Armstrong! 

John. Mr. Armstrong, how dare you, sir ! Sally and me 
is engaged {squaring at him). I say we're engaged. 

Ben. {running between them.) If you touch him, John, I 
shall be under the necessity of knocking you down. Ees- 
pect him. This young woman does. 

Mdllb. I ? Nothing of the sort. I don't respect anybody. 

John. Did you have your head on his shoulder? 

Mdlle. (whimpering.) He — he pretended there was a mouse. 

Bel. Samuel Bartholomew Armstrong ! 

Arm. (pointing to Bennet.) You said he frightened you. 

John (.squaring at Bennet). Then it was you, was it? 

Mdlle. Oh, John, you know it was not he. 

Aem. You said he (pointing to Bennet) said "Boo ! " to you. 

Bex. I never did. 

Mdlle. I never said so. But he (jtointing to Armstrong) 
said I was a goose. 

John (fiercely). The man that calls her a goose 

Arm. (to Mdlle.) Didn't a man in a tall hat frighten you? 

Mdlle. It was John. He was punching a tall hat, and 
awful mad. He said " Bob ! " to me and frightened me. 

John. Mr. Bennet bad made me mad and made me turn 
off my voice. I took it out of his hat, and then you came 
in, Sally, and I was decomposed, and wasn't responsible. 

Arm. No, no, John. You are screening Mr. Bennet. This 
young woman is also telling an untruth for that purpose. 

Mdlle. Untruth !. I'll have damages, sir ! (Softly.) Any- 
way, you said I pleased you. 

Arm. This is one of Bennet's tricks of revenge on me. I 
can see that. I don't doubt he put it into your head to 
make a spectacle of j ourself on that table, Belinda. 


Bel. I own the suggestion came from him. 

JoHK. And he accused me of having a tone of voice. 

Ben. I can't stand this. It's outrageous ! Miss Belinda, 
retire, and {putting off his coat) I'll have it out with somebody. 

Essie {entering, left). Oh, Harry ! 

Ben. Don't speak to me. Your father and you, hoth, 
accuse me of frightening this young woman. 

Essie. Oh, papa, when I saw you with her head upon 
your shoulder. You are accusing Harry to shield yourself. 
. Bel. Samuel Bartholomew Armstrong ! 

John. Then I'tt have damages. Sarah Smith, our engage- 
ment Is off. * 

Mdllk. Oh, John, you'll break my heart. I tell you you 
frightened me because I never saw you so mad before, and 
I ran in here with Miss Armstrong's gown — that's it, that 
bundle by the door — and I saw this old man 

Arm. Old man ! 

Bel. That's correct. 

Mdlle. I took him for the head butler. 

Bel. You'd better have taken him for a butler without 
a head. This comes of your awful activity, Samuel. 

Arm. You have no activity, have you ? — to go through 
the world dancing on tables. 

Essie. Aunt Belinda dancing on tables ? 

John. I seen her. 

Essie. Oh, Aunt Belinda ! 

Bel. I did it purposely. Your father said nothing I 
might do could surprise him. So did you. He said Harry 
couldn't have you till I'd done more than break myself 
over the chairs. Don't look at me like that or — or [neepivg] 
I'll go and dance on my own grave. (Runs to Armstrong 
throws her arms around him. Armstrong sinks into a chair, left.) 

Arm. After this, I am done. John — Miss Smith, I'll pay 
the consequential damages, only keep silence, I pray. 

Ben. And the consequences will be damaging to John if 
he puts in a claim for consequential damages. 

Essie. Harry, my hero ! 

Ben. And if he says he saw Miss Belinda on that table 
I'll prove he had a fit from imbibing too much voice, and 
took Miss Smith for a goose and said " Boo ! " to her. 

Mdlle. He didn't take me for a goose. I'll swear to it. 

Ben. If that's the case John will take you for a duck. 
And now, Essie, your hero will go. 


Essie. Go? 

Ben. I have no right here. I am not active enough. 

Ahm. {standing up.) Not active enough ? The man who 
can" protect S. B. Armstrong from consequential damages 
for a mistake, must have the activity of a hustler in the far 
West. The man who can make Belinda Armstrong do 
something more ridiculous than anything she has hereto- 
fore done has vim enough to start a car-horse. 

Bel. The man who is active enough to protect Belinda 
Armstrong against her brother's nonsense has the move-, 
ment oi an electric current. 

John {in a loud whisper). The man that doesn't mind his 
tall hat being punched, and pitches my voice down a whole 
flight is so active he wants the earth. 

Mdlle. The man who fights John for frightening me 
has the activity of a sewing machine two days in arrears. 

Ben. Let me have a chair; this is going to my head. 
{John places chair, center. Bennel sinks into it.) It seems I 
have expended sufficient energy to set you all by the ears. 
I did not know my own possibilities. I have made a most 
active man passive {Armstrong goes to him, right), I have 
made a sensible lady ridiculous (Belinda takes Armstrong's 
arm), I have made a Franco-American dressmaker less flirt- 
iah (Mdlle. takes John's arm). Essie, what have I done for 
you in this hour of unforeseen frenzy? 

Essie {going to him, front). Can you ask {giving both hands)! 

Ben. {i^ng and leading Essie front, the rest closing in around 
him.) Yes, I can ask that, but there is no need of expend- 
ing so much exertion on an unnecessary answer. I must 
keep the reserve power for one other question. {To Arm- 
strong.) Is Essie mine ? 

Arm. She is. {All respond in chorus : "She is.") 

Ben. {hand to ear.) Not so loud. And there is just one 
other question — Where's that chair ? (John places it for 
him, and he sinks into it. Essie places her hand on his shoulder, 
the others grouping around.) And that question is {fadng au- 
dience) have we shown enough Go to please you 1 
All (imitating a college yell, as curtain falls). 

Vim Vigor Eush Dash — r— 

Go going ^gone ! 



THE FLOWER GIRL— Edith Woedswoeth. 

Written Expre^ty /or titis Colledion. 

In fair Naples, just at noonday, 
'Neath the clear and azure dome, 

A little maiden turned in sadness 
Toward l)er poor, deserted home. 

From her arms, the tattered mantle 

Fell in many a broken fold. 
And scarce hid the clustering flowers, 

In their basljet worn and old. 

Long and dusky hair half-sheltered 

Soul-lit eyes and lips so sweet; 
All day long the child had wandered 

Up and down the city street. 

All in vain her voice had pleaded. 
In low accents, clear yet shy : 
{Sings.) " Fairest flowers, — roses -lilies- 
Rich acanthus, — will you buy ? " 

None had seemed to see, or listen 
To the child's sad plaintive tone ; 

Tears now fell o'er flower-filled basket. 
All the morning's hope had gone. 

Just once more, just one more efibrt. 
And some tender heart might hear ; 

So the winsome little maiden, 
Sang again in strains so clear: 

{Sings.) " Lilies, cintus, hyacinthus, 

Roses fair, oh, will you buy ? 
Ivy green, and rich acanthus, — 
Please, sir, this one bunch to try ! " 

Just before the sweet-voiced maiden, 

Stood a stalwart form and tall ; 
Low he defied his cap in courtesy, 

Then he said in kindness : " All, 

" Give me all, and take your money, 

Hasten home — avoid the heat, 
'Tis no place for child or flowers 

'Neath the sun's glare in the street." 


' God will bless thee,— surely— surely — 
He will pay thee back souie day, 

He will not forget thy kindness, — 
All that I can do is pray." 

Long the stranger, young, gay-hearted. 
Laughed at earnest voice and word. 

But in truth, his noble nature. 
To its very depths was stirred. 

On the chords of tenderest feeling, 
Played the angel voice and face; 

Such chords rest in joy and pleasure, 
But at length attune to grace. 

On he went to join companions 

Who had watched the pretty scene ; 

Voices praised his chivalrous spirit 
Though they laughed and joked between. 

In his life of wealth and pleasure. 
He forgot both child and flowers ; 

But the maid e'er fondly cherished 
One bright day in childhood's hours. 

And she prayed with heart so hopeful. 
That if e'er this stranger kind 

Needed friend or aid or comfort. 
He might only seek to find. 

Years have passed away. One evening, 

As the prima donna stepped 
To her carriage which stood waiting, 

At its wheel, a poor man slept. 

Worn, exhausted, faint with hunger, 
" Just as I once was," she said. 

And with gentleness she lifted. 
To her arms the weary head. 

Slowly oped the quivering eyelids, 
And he spoke in accents slow, — 

"Have I heard thy voice, or seen thee, 
In Italia,— long ago ? " 

" God be praised ! " the lady answered. 
And the tears rolled down her cheek ; 

"Thou hast found what thou most needed, 
He has shown thee where to seek." 


And she stroked the hair of silver, 

Then her servants, waiting near. 
Raised the worn and weary stranger 

To the carriage. They could hear 

From his parted lips a blessing, 

And the echo of a song ; 
Then he sighed and smiled a little. 

Ere he said, with voice grown strong : 

" ' Ood mil bless thee surety — surely — 

He will pay thee back some day,' 
In my old age He has paid me " 

And the carriage rolled away. 

THE UNDERTOW— Carkib Blakk Morgan. 

You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done, 
Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won ; 
The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun', 
Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down. 

Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life 

It aint been safe, my bretheren, fer to lightly judge a man ; 
He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go, 
And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow. 

He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer 

brains ; 
He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains, 
And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know 
What heights he might have climbed to but fer the under- 

You've heard the Y"ankee story of the hen's nest with a 

An' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' 

Yet never got a settin', not a single egg, I trow ; 
That hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow. 

There's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep 

To see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go. 
Don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown 
Until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down. 


GO FORWARD.— Ellen Murray. 

We will obey. 
Forward we go, although our feet must tread 
The Red Sea sands, yea, through the waters led, 

While round our way 
Thunder the angry waves that toss in wrath 
Their foam upon our long and dangerous path; 
Yet since the Lord has said it, we will go. 
Let all the ocean billows overflow. 

We will obey. 
Forward we go in wisdom. Height on height 
Our feet attain, in pressing to the light. 

And day by day 
Deeps open round us, new mysterious things 
As strange, as vast as rainbowed angel wings. 
The wonders which the sun and moon may teach, 
The learning hidden in the ancient speech. 

We will obey. 
Forward we go in goodness. Every year 
Each step brings Heaven's paradise more near, 

And every day 
We trample underneath our feet sin's mire, 
And grow more perfect, rising high and higher, 
Until our clean feet midst the lilies tread. 
And clean hearts meet God's glory overhead. 

We will obey. 
Forward we go in temperance. Not alone, 
Our little band to many thousands grown ; 

Without delay 
We fight the ranks of evil, keep the vow 
With pledge unbroken and with fearless brow. 
Our young lips taste no foul Egyptian wine, 
Our happy eyes with life eternal shine. 

We will obej'. 
When sinks upon the sand our latest sun. 
When all the travel and the waiting done, 

From far away 
Calls our Lord's voice " Come to fair Canaan's land I" 
We will Tiot fear or linger on the strand. 
But fearlessly across the Jordan's tide. 
We will go forward to the other side. 



There was a gathering a short time ago at a neat 
house in an Ohio village, of about a hundred people. 
The mistress of the house was in the parlor, and one 
by one they went to her side, but she did not speak or 
lift her hands. They were toil-worn hands, that for 
forty years had done daily work for the children, but 
she wore a new dress now, and the work was ended. 

Thirty-five years ago, when the church choir met for 
practice, she played the Kielodeon, while they sang 
" Ware," and " Shirland," and " Dundee." But the 
choir was gone, save two ladies who stood near her hold- 
ing an old singing-book. There was a piano near, but 
it was closed. 

A minister, younger than the book they held, read 
how " Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly up- 
ward," and, closing, looked at the two ladies. Many a 
time since the treble was fifteen and the alto thirteen 
they had sung for their silent friends. The treble 
breathed a low note, that only the alto heard ; and then 
the listeners heard an old melody, with the words : 

'*Tliere is a land mine eye hath seen 

In visions of enraptured thought, 
So bright that all which spreads between 

Is with its vadiant glory fraught." 

Out in the rooms beyond, all was so still that every 
one could hear the voices as they sang the assurance 
that — „ ^ 

" The wanderer there a home may nnd 
Within the paradise of God." 

The voice of prayer rose for comfort and endurance, 
a pleading voice in behalf of the household, and again 
he looked toward the two with the old book. They held 
it open, but they were not looking at it ; they did not 
appear to think of it. They were reviewing the years 
in the moment when they lifted up their voices in the 
words : 

"If through unruffled seas 
Toward heaven we calmly sail. 
With grateful hearts,—" 


How strong their faith ! 

■ '—0 God, to thee 
We'll own thefostering gale I " 

The audience, thinking only of the needs of their 
hearts, noticed not the useless book. 

" But should the surges rise," 

They sang faintly now, for the surges had been over 
them. The alto had bent over a dying husband, and 
had buried him in a distant city. Like a bolt from a 
clear sky came the death of her manly boy one evening 
when he had just left her side. 

Waves of trouble had come upon the treble; fair 
young children had been taken from her embrace, — sona 
and daughters had been swept away. 

The voices faded away, but gained again with the Hue ; 

"And rest delay to come," 

Rest 1 Their hearts were aching and tired. A young 
lady near the door feared they might break down ; but 
her neighbor, who was old, could have told her the old 
choir were never known to break down. Ah, no ! The 
voices are full of hope again as they sing : 

" Blest be the sorrow, kirid the storm, 
That drives us nearer home." 

Home 1 The voices, blended by long practice, lin- 
gered till they died in faint harmony, at last, on ihe word. 

In the evening the two singers sat by the open fire. 
Again, as in childhood, they lived on the same street. 

" We did not need a book to-day," 'said the alto. " It 
would be impossible to forget the songs we learned 
when we were young." 

" Do you know," responded the treble, " that as we 
sing those pieces I hear the voices of those who used to 
be in the choir with us ? Sometimes I hear the tenor 
voice of the leader, then the voice of the bass who used 
to make us laugh so when we ought not ; then the voice 
of the girl who sang with me, and then I hear all of 
them, and see their faces. They are all young. We 
only are old ; but we shall soon rejoin the choir." 


A VISION.— Jessie T. Chaig. 

.the editor ate too much ; the editor ate too Ibng ; 

The turkey was fat and tender, the dressing was rich and 

He went (the editor did), when the succulent feast was 

And sat by the parlor stove, and thereafter began to snore. 

And he dreamed this weird dream ; it seemed that he was 

And stood at tlie judgment place, and quaked with horror 

and dread. « 

The place was a lofty hall, and it did not allay his fear 
That it looked unpleasantly like a criminal court down 


But the judge on the bench (Good lack ! what a strange 

uncanny sight!) 
Was a turkey " gobbler " fierce, just a hundred feet in 

height ; 
And the jury in the box, sheriff, and state's attorney,— all 
Were " gobblers " like the judge, and equally grim and tall. 

He stood in the prisoner's dock (the editor did) and heard 
The state's attorney, a shrewd, a learned and eloquent 

Say : " If it please the court, it becomes my duty to read 
The indictment as herein contained, after which the 

prisoner may plead. 

"Whereas, heretofore, to wit: in November of eighty-eight, 
At the township of Jackson in Shelby, in the common- 
wealth (otherwise State) 
Of Missouri, the defendant, one Richard Eoe, 
Whose proper appellation this affidavit does not know, 

"Then and there being, on the aforesaid day and date, 
Maliciously, unlawfully, and feloniously killed and ate 
One large adult male turkey, Johannes Doe by name, 
Violently and by force of arms ; the same 

" Being directly and expressly against the statutes made 
And provided in such cases ; and beyond the slightest 

shade . 

Of doubt against the peace and dignity 
Of the King of turkeys, his august and gracious majesty. 


"And we further present and charge that the prisoner, 

Richard Roe, 
Who coimiiitt^d this unholy crime was actuated thereunto 
By a false and frivolous pretext that on this most cruel plan 
He was returning thanks to Heaven for its manifold bles- 
sings to man." 

His hair rose up (the editor's did), straight. up on top of his 

For he saw the stern look of the jury and judge when this 

indictment was read. 
" What is your plea ? " said the judge to him, and his voice 

was harsh when he spoke. 
The editor tried to speak and— trying to speak, he — awoke. 

A TRIP TO THE STARS.— Horace B. Durant. 

WriUen expressly for this CoUeclion. 

Oh, star-lit skies, what generations have 
Beheld your splendors with a thoughtful gaze 
Of inquiry ', Thou vivid page of old. 
Imperishable memories ! Thou map 
Of weird mythologies and deeds of past. 
Barbaric fame ! Thou shoreless deep ! To-night, 
Upon imagination's wing I soar 
From earth awhile, to view your mighty realms 
Of mystery ! 

Ye lamps of restless flame. 
That ever swing and circle outwards from 
Creative, central Throne, somewhere within 
Infinite space, when had ye each your far 
' Beginning ? What gives ye your radiance 
That ye are not consumed, although ye burn 
Forever? Do we not here on the earth 
Behold it— aye, e'en harness it to toil. 
Yet fail to see it royally enthroned 
Within the sun, the mighty motor of 
The universe ? 

Amazing, glowing spheres, 
Surrounded each with retinue of worlds! 
Such is that all-resistless element 
Of instant, subtile force, by which ye all 
Were lighted at omniscient touch ; such is 
That force, whatever named, — centrifugal, 


Centripetal, attraction, gravity, 

That moves ye onward in your cycles vast, 

Revolving. With " no variableness 

Nor shadow of a turning," ye are held 

In equilibrium that never swerves 

Nor trembles. 

Sirius, Orion and 
Arcturus, — great electric, dazzling suns. 
Afar, — when flashed your living currents out. 
Completing their vast circuits ? Lo ! I seem 
To see them pulsate, — leaping forth and back. 
With every twinkling spark that ye emit 
From sources inexhaustible. Thus with 
Electric rhythm do they ever go 
And come, betwixt you and dependent orbs 
That circle you about. 'Tis thus they run 
Incessantly in their eternal round 
Of silent, unseen, yet stupendous work. 
That staggers thought ! 

O Earth ! 
How small thou art within that train of which 
Thou art a part, compared with Jupiter, 
With Saturn and with Neptune ! But compared 
With all the starry universe, thou art 
So insignificant that if thou wast 
Destroyed, thy absence never would be missed ! 
Yet thou canst boast of that methinks which they 
May not. When sin-accursed, and Eden's woe 
Hung darkly o'er thy race, to ransom thee, 
God gave his Son a sacrifice ! He died 
For thee, yet triumphed over death and hell ! 
And up-ascending, brought immortal life 
To light! Therefore, O Earth, though 'mongst the least 
Of all the worlds that swing in space, since then. 
Thou hast alone of all been nearest to 
The Throne of Heaven ! 

Illimitable space ! 
I look into your awe-inspiring depths — 
Beyond the Pleiades, and through that dust 
Of stars we call the " Milky Way,"— and still 
Beyond, with all the speed of thought, I fleet 
Past systems, centres, vast ellipses, and 
Parabolas that sweep away into 
Immeasurable distances, around 


Whose awful curves huge comets swiftly fly; 
One moment I flash past some nebula, 
Impending vast, and rolling upwards like 
Stupendous mountain masses ; next, I gaze 
O'er brinks of dizzy precipices down — • 
If up or down there be — as far as earth 
Is from Andromeda, and still the depths 
Unfathomable swim beneath ; across 
Black chasms as it were, amid the maze 
Of wheeling planet, sun and satellite- 
Too wide and deep for finite measurement — 
I leap ! and still before me opens an 
Eternity of space and worlds to come. 
That widens, deepens, lengthens all the more 
That I progress ! 

'Tis vain ! I am appalled ! 
My senses reel, and vision, paralyzed, 
Becomes a blank ! Thought cannot further go ! 
That problem which she started out to solve. 
Unsolved remains. Yet still she asks : " Where is 
That wondrous place that we on earth call Heaven?" 
No answer comes— nought but the gleaming of 
The silent stars, that gaze on me from their 
Eternal depths ! Anon, my baffled muse 

Returns from her far flight, and Here we stand 

Alone beneath the midnight skies, and sigh 
To think their mysteries will never be 
Revealed to mortal eye 1 


This poem appeared in 1820, but is equally applicable to any Beasoo of finan- 
cial depresBion. 

Yesterday I walked down to that part of the town 
Where people collect at the sign of the Inn 
To discuss and debate the great matters of state, 
And show how things that go wrong should be done. 
There was ragged Sam Bent, who is not worth a cent. 
There was idle Dick Lawless, and noisy Jack Grimes, 
And swaggering Jim Bell, who has nothing to sell. 
All cursing the banks and these dreadful hard times. 

There was old Daddy Slop, who has lost his last crop, 
By neglecting to mend up some gaps in his fence ; 


There was shabby Ned Thorn, who had planted his corn, 
But had never put hoe, no, nor plow, to it since ; 
There was dashing Bill Sutton, with his fine, dandy coat on, 
Who was ne'er out of debt, nor was worth twenty dinxes ; 
They, too, joined the throng, and still kept up the song, 
A curse on the banks, and these dreadful hard times. 

Next came in Dick Short, who was summoned to court 
For some hundreds of half-pints of whisky and rum ; 
He had brought the last sack of grain on his back, 
Though his children were crying with hunger at home ;' 
"Here landlord," said Short, come, bring me a quart ; 
I must treat these, my friends, sir, and merry Jack Grimes ; 
I've the corn, sir, to pay — there's no booking to-day." 
Then he fell to cursing the banks and hard times. 

Next came in Tom Sargent, who had lately turned mer- 
And bought a full store, I can scarcely tell how 1 
But this much I know, about twelve months ago, 
That the constable sold at the post his last cow. 
Yet Tom dashed away— spending hundreds each day — 
Till his merchants brought suits for their dry goods and 

wines ; 
So Tom joined the throng, and assisted the song. 
With a curse on the banks, and these dreadful hard 

Next appeared Madam Pride (and a beau at her side), 

With heT silks, spread with laces, quite down to her trail ; 

Her husband that day— unable to pay 

For the dress she then wore— had been locked up in jail ; 

She turned to the throng, as she tripped it along. 

And she hoped that the merchants would swing for such 

As to make people pay their old debts in this way ; 
And she cursed all the banks and these dreadful hard 


"Now," said I, " Mr. Short, you are summoned to court. 

And must soon go to jail for these long whisky scores; 

And you, ■\Ir. Drew, aye, and you, sir, and you. 

Who are hanging round taverns, and running to stores ; 

And you. Madam Pride, must your silks lay aside, 

And you, Mr. Idle, and you, Mr. Grimes, 

Must all to your labors, like some of your neighbors, 

And you'll soon put an end to these dreadful hard times," 



Teacher (in mental arithmetic). — If there were three 
peaches on the table, Johnny, and your little sister 
should eat one of them, how many would be left? 

Johnny. — How many little sisters would be left? 

Teacher.^Now listen, Johnny. If there were three 
peaches on the table and your little sister should eat 
one, how many would be left? 

Johnny. — We aint had a peach in the house this year, 
let alone three. 

Teacher. — We are only supposing the peaches to be 
on the table, Johnny. 

Johnny. — Then they wouldn't be real peaches ? 

Teacher. — No. 

Johnny. — Would they be preserved peaches ? 

Teacher. — Certainly not. 

Johnny. — Pickled peaches ? 

Teacher. — No, no. There wouldn't be any peaches 
at all, as I told you, Johnny- ; we only suppose the 
three peaches to be there. 

Johnny. — Then there wouldn't be any peaches, of 

Teacher. — Now, Johnny, put that knife in your 
pocket or I will take it away, and pay at'tention to 
what I am saying. We imagine three peaches to be on 
the table. 

Johnny. — Yes. 

Teacher. — And your little sister eats one of them and 
then goes away. 

Johnny. — Yes, but she wouldn't go away until she 
had finished the three. You don't know my little sister. 

Teacher. — But suppose your mother was there and 
wouldn't let her eat but one ? 

Johnny. — Mother's out of town and wont be back 
until next week. 

Teacher (sternly). — Now, Johnny, I will put the 
question once more, and if you do not answer it cor- 


rectly I shall keep you after school. If three peaches 
were on the table and your little sister were to eat one 
of them, how many would be left? 

Johnny (straightening up). — There wouldn't be any 
peaches left. I'd grab the other two. 

Teacher (touching the bell). — The scholars are now 
dismissed. Johnny White will remain where he is. 

SOLOMON GRUB.- Jonas Cook. 

Solomon Grub is a peculiar old man, 
Who has growled all his life as hard as he can ; 
He curses and swears that everything's wrong ; 
He grumbles and growls the whole day long. 

He growls in the morning, and grumbles at noon. 
That his breakfast is late and his dinner too soon. 
He scolds all the day from morning till night, 
And gets up the next day and continues his fight. 

He don't like the country in which he resides ; 
He don't like the laws and people besides ; 
He don't like the heat, he don't like the cold, 
He don't like the drought, but he does like to scold. 

He cannot be happy in this world here below, 
Because everything's wrong and it bothers him so. 
He grumbles all day as hard as he can, 
And disgusts every decent, respectable man. 

He finds fault with Peter and Robert and Paul ; 
He finds foult with God who created them all. 
He finds fault with Enoch and Cyrus and Ben ; 
He declares they're the meanest and vilest of men. 

He growls all the day and grumbles all night, 
He rips, roars and snorts and continues his fight ; 
He scolds his dear wife who, by the washtub, 
Has furnished the bread for this Solomon Grub. 

But grim Death will come, like a thief in the night, 
And compel this old man to give up the fight. 
Who has the knowledge or wisdom to say 
That old Solomon Grub was not useful some wav ? 


THE CIRCUS BOY— A. A. Vyvyan Thomson. 

I left the little town behind 
And took the path that led 

Up to the churchyard on the heath, 
The city of the dead. 

In letters plain I found these words 

Upon a cross of wood : 
" Here lies the little circus boy, 

Who did the best he could." 

So strange I thought this epitaph, 

I asked a farmer's wife, 
Who gladly told me all she knew 

Of his unhappy life. 

She said : " The circus came to town 

A year or so ago. 
And so, my husband and myself, 

We went to see the show. 

"A hundred clever things we saw, 
That filled us with delight. 

And then when little Bono came 
We clapped with all our might. 

" He climbed up to a ladder top 

And stood upon his head, 
He danced upon a rope so small 

You'd snap it like a thread. 

"At last they brought two horses in, 
And, climbing up in haste, 

As fast they galloped round the track 
One foot on each he placed. 

" He rode amid the deafening cheers 

Till, on the second round, 
His right foot slipped, and with a shriek 

He fell upon the ground. 

"The manager picked up the boy, 
Wliose limbs were sprained and sore; 

He cried, 'You fell off purposely,' 
And angrily he swore. 


" 'How now,' he said, 'do you suppose 

That you can earn your food 7 ' 
The little fellow answered him, 

' I did the best I could.' 

" The heartless man turned round, when shrieks 

Were heard on every side ; 
'The tiger's loose— the tiger's loose ! ' 

They horror-stricken cried. 

" He looked, right in the tiger's path, 

There sat hisjittle child. 
And, as the tiger crouched to spring. 

Looked round in terror wild. 

'" God ! Oh, save my child,' he cried, 

When, springing to his feet. 
Young Dono rushed upon the beast. 

An awful death to meet. 

" The child was saved, then shots were heard. 

The angry beast was dead. 
They picked poor Dono up all cut 

And torn from foot to head. 

" 'How brave', the weeping father said, 

' How generous and good ! ' 
And dying Dono answered him, 

'I did the best I could.' " 

" VANITY OF VANITIES."— I. Edgar Jones. 

" Vanity of Vanities," the world is full of sin, 

The pot of evil boiling all the time ; 
The big man and the little man in breathless haste to win 

His eagle or his dollar or his dime ; 
And yet, though o'er this desert waste the winds of evil 

There's many a cheerful glimmer shining out above the 

A thousand traps and pitfalls lie about us every day, 

Temptations and delusions by the score ; 
The nabob in his selfishness rolls by us on the way. 

The poor man often bangs his cottage door ; 
And yet there's compensation. Every clumsy mortal 

Who grasps a hornet by its sting or hedgehog by its spines. 


Amid the selfish thousands there are hundreds true and 

With many noble features that redeem ; 
The roughest ore has value if it be but well refined, 

And men are mostly better than they seem ; 
If looking out for brambles you are sure to find their darts; 
Perhaps you'll be as lucky if you closely look for hearts. 

For after all is uttered, we but find that which we seek, 

The searcher after weaknesses will find ; 
Go listen and you'll wonder at the kind words mortals 
speak, ♦ 

No beauties have a message for the blind ; 
The world is but a mirror, and within our neighbor's face 
We see our soul reflected in its ugliness or grace. 

" Vanity of Vanities," the world is full of sin. 

And also full of sunshine and of flowers ; 
The man who works for happiness its smile will surely win. 

The man who seeks shall find its sunny hours ; 
So thrust the little barriers of its selfishness aside. 
And find the hidden blessings lying under all its pride ; 
The sun is always sontiewhere, and the good old world is 


It is still night. In the darkness not a sound can be 
heard save now and then the stamp of a horse's hoof 
on the frozen ground or, faintly, their plucking of the 
grass, for the horses begin to feed early. 

The sounds of the middle night are hushed. The 
owls long ago stopped their hooting, and now on noise- 
less wing are making their last hunting rounds before 
the day shall come. 

Within the lodge it is darker than without. On the 
ground in the middle can be seen a pale shadow, — the 
white ashes of the long-cold fire ; above, through the 
smoke-hole is a patch of sky less black than the invisi- 
ble enclosing walls, and in this bit of the heavens shine 
two stars. In a circle about the fireplace are shapeless 
white masses,— the sleeping forms of men. They are 
silent and motionless. 


Now on the still air very faintly is heard a distant 
tone of music, — a sweet whistle, at first low, rising and 
falling, then gradually becoming more distinct. It 
comes nearer and nearer until it fills the air all about, 
then passing on, recedes, grows fainter, till at last the 
sound is lost. The wild ducks are flying. 

From the lake comes a far-off trumpet note, and then 
another, — the mellow call of the wild geese. 

The world is awakening. The day is near. 

The stars which looked in at the smoke-hole are pal- 
ing now. Upon the horizon in the east lies a line of 
gray which slowly broadens and makes .twilight where 
all before was dark. 

The outlines of the tree trunks are seen standing out 
like ghosts, reaching out shadowy arms as if feeling 
their way through the dimness. The chirp and flutter 
of migrating birds, that through the night slept in the 
low bushes, begin to be heard. 

As the light grows, dusky shapes appear in the little 
park behind the camp, — the horses feeding. Close to 
the lodge door the dogs are curled up in the grass, still 
asleep. Their long black coats are white here and there 
with frost, and in their sleep their muscles twitch as 
they shiver from the cold ; yet their rest is sound. 

Day is at hand. Now a stir is heard within the lodge. 
There are muffled grunts and groans, a yawn or two, 
the rustling of clothing, then the faint sound of foot- 
steps, and suddenly the pale glare of a match — increas- 
ing to a little glow as the shavings catch, and then to a 
bright flicker which lights up the whole lodge as the 
larger sticks take fire and crackle, and white smoke 
and a few sparks float from the smoke-hole. 

Soon the door of the lodge, is thrown back. A man 
steps out and looks about, yawns and shivers. He breaks 
the ice in the water-bucket and pours some in a basin. 

Others in the lodge are getting up. Voices are heard. 
The men of the camp pass in and out the door. 

Some prepare breakfast, others busy themselves about 


the packs and lash the bundles. Two of them build a 
corral of ropes about three trees, and then start off to 
drive in the horses. Soon these are seen coming toward 
the camp. The men spread themselves out and drive 
the animals into the enclosure, where they are caught 
and tied up. 

While this is being done the call to breakfast is heard. 

Meantime the light has spread itself over all the heav- 
ens. In the east the streaky clouds have flushed to deep 
red and paled again to richest gold. To the west the 
snow-clad mountains are wrapped in a garment of rose. 
Looking again toward the east the sun appears over 
the prairie ridge. The day has come. 


They considered the pastor a trifle too young 

For the staid congregation he'd settled among ; 

Yet the deacon acknowledged he never had heard 

Such a natural reading of holy word — 

'Twas the voice of the soul with the tone of the belli 

And the verdict so just 

Was taken in trust 
By the good deacon's daughter, the beautiful Nell. 

This handsome young pastor was modest, devout, 
Always treading the path which he pointed them out. 
But the best of his sermons, by common accord 
Was an able discourse on " The Love of the Lord ;" 
And he treated his subject remarkably well, 

But his thoughts often ran 

On the love of a man, — 
On the love of a clergyman young for Nell. 

His sermons grew tender and so did his heart; 
Shooting arrows of truth, yet receiving the dart 
From the soft eyes of Nell, with their aim double fold; 
Thus love made him timid yet faith made him bold. 
And the, secret remained that he never dared tell. 

He could preach well and pray 

If his heart would but stay 
In the pulpit, and not in the pew there with Nell. 


His preaching became quite a labor of love, 

With its constant communion below and above" 

While he sat in the pulpit ere service begun 

With his head on his hand, as is commonly done ; 

If he peeped through his fingers, why, no one could tell ! 

Though he knew it was human 

To gaze on fair woman, 
He deemed it not wicked to gaze uj)on Nell. 

For the youth of his flock he was fervent in prayer; 
gut one morning in church, certain gossips declare, 
By a slip of the tongue, by au'terror of speech, 
While the pastor undoubtedly meant to beseech 
The good Lord to keep all the young men from— well, 

That eternal shade. 

He certainly prayed : 
" The good Lord would keep all the young men from Nell ! " 

To consult him on matters of church and of state, 

As we term a church fair and no truth violate, 

Nell had called at the study. The door stood ajar ; 

The pastor was kneeling, as often they are, 

And she could not retreat without breaking the spell — 

With her eyes on the floor, 

Waiting there at the door, 
Like a vision of peace, stood the beautiful Nell. 

He was pleading for all, but, as one might infer, 

Grew more eloquent when he was praying for her. 

Why he singled her out she could not understand 

Till she heard him ask Heaven for her heart and her hand. 

No petition e'er suited a maiden so well. 

It is piety rare 

When Cupid's at prayer — 
For he told to his God what he should have told Nell. 

As angels appeared to the sainted of yore, 
She knelt by his side on the carpeted floor. 
Put her soft hand in his as a silent amen. 
He soon found the vision was mortal, and then 
He, blushing, caressed her ; nor could she rebel ; 

For was she not there 

In answer to prayer? 
Thus God joined together the pastor and Nell. 
It was heaven to him gazing into her eyes ; 
It was heaven to him with the blue of the skies. 


In the thought of an angel becoming his bride 
He forgot all the angels but her at his side, 
And love's sweet forgetfulness over them fell, 

Till she said, " I declare, 

We forgot the church fair ! " 
" I'm now holding the fair I " he replied, holding Nell. 

MY BOY.— F. M. Gilbert. 

When home in the evening, from work I am going. 
My step becomes faster, my heart bounds with glee, 
For, oh ! there's a pleasure in certainly knowing 
There's one little rascal who's waiting for me. 
No matter how quietly in I go slipping 
He's certain to see me, his face lights with joy ; 
I open my arms, and quick he comes tripping 
To hug " dear old papa," my darling bad boy. 

Oh, no, he's no angel ; to say so were folly ; 

He's only a child, and a naughty one, too ; 

But his badness is done in a way that's so jolly 

I can't bear to scold him, as I ought to do. 

His hair in confusion is hopelessly flying; 

In one grimy hand is an old broken toy ; 

His face may be streaked, where he's lately been crying; 

But, oh, how I love him, my darling bad boy 1 

His old battered hat is thrown down and forgotten, 
His garters are lost and his stockings are down, 
And one chubby finger is tied up in cotton. 
And the dear little face is all sunburnt and brown. 
He ruins his clothes in a manner appalling ; 
He really don't mean his nice things to destroy. 
But he always is climbing, or running, or falling- 
He's so full of life, my darling bad boy. 

May God in his mercy preserve him and guide him; 
May his troubles be few in this world full of tears. 
May I be permitted to live on beside him. 
When touched by the frosts of the lingering years. 
When feeble old age, with its pains may deject me. 
With what feelings of pride, intermingled with joy, 
I'll lean on an arm that I know will protect me,— 
The strong, manly arm of my darling bad boy. 


Mabel Cronise. 

Sweetest of all the traditions 

Burgundian annals hold, 
Is one of the royal banner, 

With its lilies white and gold. 

Burgundian monks and writers 

Still the legend quaint repeat, 
Of Clovis dauntless and daring. 

And Clotilda fair and sweet. 

This prayer before her altar 

Clotilda offered each day : 
" O Christ, appear to my husband. 

Show him the truth and the way. 

"He worships bis heathen idols, 

Is blind to Thy love divine ; 
On his darkened, inner vision 

Let Thy endless goodness shine 1 " 

Months grew into years, but Clovis 

Still bowed to his idols cold. 
Scorning the Monarch of nations, 

Adoring his gods of gold ! 

One day in a fateful battle 

The Huns made a deadly raid. 
The. King saw his forces scattered 

And his martial glory fade ! 

His men were falling like snowflakes, 

On ev'ry side was the foe. 
Retreat meant death and dishonor, 

Advance meant ruin and woe I 

In vain he cried to his idols. 

In vain implored he their aid. 
The jeweled Ishon was powerless 

To check the terrible raid. 

With despairing, hopeless courage 

He rallied his troops that day: 
" Will you let our nation perish ? 

Charge on that savage array ! " 


Repulsed by myriad lances, 

Forced back through heaps of the slain, 
Wounded, defeated and helpless, 

He cried in his bitter pain : 

" O Christ whom the greatest worship, 

Christ of mercy and love. 
Declare Thy marvelous goodness, 

Send aid to me from above ! 

" The human is weak and erring, 

1 have not seen Thee aright ; 
Grant to me a clearer vision. 

Give to me the inner sight ! 

" I feel Thou art pure and holy. 

Incarnate mercy and right ; 
Invisible power and splendor. 

Ruler of darkness and light I 

"Avenge me of my aggressors. 
Thy glance can put them to flight, 

Speak ! and their legions shall vanish 
In the breath of Thy own might 1 " 

Lo ! as he breathed this petition. 
Halted the Huns in affright. 

And Clovis with heaven-lent valor 
Dashed on with resistless might ! 

Thousands were conquered by hundreds, 
For Christ nerved his hand that day. 

And Burgundy's blood-stained banner 
Waved high in the deadly array. 

At night he knelt by Clotilda : 
" O wife ! thy God shall be mine. 

For He is able to succor, 

He is mercy and love divine ! 

" The son He sent to redeem us. 
My brother and priest shall be ; 

I know His boundless compassion, 
His wondrous beauty I see. 

" O Christ ! by Burgundy's standard, 
I pledge to Thee service true ; 

Omnipotence, might and grandeur. 
Thy mercy ialleth like dew 1 


" Long suffering, kind and patient, 

Tiiy promise never shall fail ; 
Supremest homage I yield Thee, 

My sovereign Divine I hail ! " 

His hand lightly grasped the standard 

As he breathed his solemn vow. 
But lo ! a glory resplendent 

Hath gilded that banner now ! 

A voice of surpassing sweetness 

Speaks low to tl\e startled king: 
" To my brother won from idols 

Good tidings of joy I bring! 

" Your eyes once blind are now opened, 

The truth eternal you see, 
My peace that passeth all knowledge 

On both of you henceforth be ! 

" Your standard shall bear my symbol 

On its field of azure blue. 
Celestial lilies I give you, 

I bring you a banner new ! 

" Transcendently fair and holy. 

Be pure as these flowers divine, 
Be worthy to bear My emblem, 

Be worthy too, to be Mine ! " 

A vision sweet and surprising 

The astonished monarchs see : 
The blood-stained banner grows spotless 

And blossoms with fleur-de-lis. 

Three lilies stately and noble. 

Power and comfort and love, 
Type of the triune Godhead, 

The Father, the Son, the Dove ! 

In awe they knelt by the lilies 
And worshiped the Christ of Love — 

Who is king of all earth's nations, 
And king of the worlds above ! 

Sweet lilies, so fair and stately. 

The pledge of old ye renew. 
For Christ was the Eose of Sharon, 

But the Valley's Lily too ! 


A. Miner Griswold. 

The "fat Contributor," in some recollections of " Artemua Ward," tells the 
following good story : 

In the spring of 1859 I accepted a proffered editorial 
position on the Cleveland National Democrat, and re- 
newed my acquaintance with " Artemus.'' 

On the first evening of my arrival he volunteered to 
show me around, — a very desirable achievement, as I 
was to fill the position of city editor. He " showed me 
around" so successfully that about two o'clock in the 
morning I began to feel almost as much at home in 
Cleveland as though I had lived there all my days, to 
say nothing of my nights. Artemus invited me to 
share his bed with him for the remainder of the night. 

Adjoining his room lodged a young professor of elo- 
cution, who was endeavoring to establish a school. He 
was just starting out in business, and was naturally 
anxious to propitiate the press. 

" Let's get the professor up," said Artemus, " and 
have him recite for us." 

I remonstrated with him, reminded him of the late- 
ness of the hour, that I wasn't acquainted with the 
professor, and all that ; but to no purpose. 

" He is a public man," said Ward, " and public men 
are glad to meet members of the press, as restaurants 
are supposed to get up warm meals at all hours." 

He gave a thundering rap on the door as he shouted : 

" Professor-r-r ! " 

" Who's there ? What d'you want ? " cried a muffled 
voice, evidently from beneath the bed-clothes, for it was 
a bitter cold night in February. 

" It is I — Brown, of the Plain Dealer," said Artemus, 
and, nudging me gently in the ribs, he whispered : 
"That'll fetch him. The power of the press is invinci- 
ble. It is the Archimedean lever which " 

His remarks were interrupted by the opening of the 


door, and I could just discover the dim outline of a 
shirted form shivering in the doorway. 

" Excuse me for disturbing you, Professor," said 
Artenius, in his blandest manner, " but I am anxious to 
introduce my friend here, the new ' local ' of the Demo- 
crat. He has heard much of you, and declares posi- 
tively he can't go to bed until he hears you elocute." 

" Hears me what? " asked the professor, between his 
chattering teeth. 

" Hears you elocute — -recite — declaim — understand ? 
— specimen of your elocution." 

In vain did the professor plead the lateness of the 
hour, and that his fire had gone out. Artemus would 
accept no excuse. 

" Permit me, at least," urged the professor, " to put 
on some clothes and light the gas." 

" Not at all necessary. Eloquence, my dear boy, is 
not dependent on gas. Here," straightening up a chair 
he had just stumbled over, " get right up in this chair 
and give us, ' The Boy stood on the Burning Deck, ' " 
adding, in a side whisper in my ear, " The burning deck 
will warm him up!" 

Gently, yet firmly, did Artemus boost the reluctant 
professor upon the chair, protesting that no apologies 
were necessary for his appearance, and assuring him 
that ''clothes don't make the man, " although the shiv- 
ering disciple of Demosthenes and Cicero probably 
thought that clothes would make a man more comfortable 
on such a night as that. 

He gave us " Casablanca," with a good many qua- 
vers of the voice, as he stood quaking, and then fol- 
lowed : " On Linden when the Sun was Low," 
" Sword of Bunker Hill," etc., " by particular request 
of our friend," as Artemus Ward said, although I was 
too nearly suffocated with suppressed laughter to make 
even a last dying request had it been necessary. It was 
too ludicrous to depict, — the professor, an indistinct 
white object, standing on the chair " elocuting," as 


Ward had it, and we sitting on the floor, holding our 
sides, while A. W. would faintly whisper between his 
pangs of mirth, " Just hear him." 

It wasn't in Ward's heart to have his fun at the ex- 
pense of another without recompense ; so next day, I 
remember, he published a lengthy and entirely serious 
account of our visit to the professor's " rooms," spoke of 
his wonderful powers as an elocutionist, and expressed 
the satisfaction and delight with which we listened to 
his " unequaled recitations." The professor was over- 
joyed, and probably is ignorant to this day that Artemus 
was " playing it on him." 

GOD'S WONDERS.— Eliza Lamb Maklyn. 

Grand the expanse of the heavens, but grander the thoughts 
they suggest ; 

Lovely the blush of the morning, the crimson and gold of 
the west; 

Bright are the stars of the midnight, floating in measure- 
less space. 

But deeper and grander the secret we strive mid their 
brightness to trace. 

Fair is this beautiful planet, its carpet of verdure, its seas. 
Its mantle of life-giving air, its sunshine, its mists, and its 

breeze ; 
Deep the emotions that nature quickens to life in the soul. 
But deeper and grander the glimpses we catch of the infi- 
nite whole. 

Cunning the hand of the artist, a study his thought-chiseled 

face ; 
Bewitching the smile of the maiden, entrancing her beauty 

and grace ; 
Perfect the cup of the lily, sweet is the breath of the rose. 
But deeper and grander tlae spirit that vainly they strive to 


Wondrous the symbol of being spread out on every hand. 
Wondrous the secret of nature, of sky, of the sea, of the 

land ; 
Vast is the outward creation, undiscovered by man, and un- 

Yet ignorance in its presumption familiarly prates about 



THE OTHER ONE WAS BOOTH.*— J. Edmund V. Cooke. 

Now, by the rood, as Hamlet says, it grieves me sore to say 
The stage is not as once it was when I was wont to play. 
'Tis true that Irving, dear old chap, still gives a decent 

And Mansfield and young Willard really act the best they 

'Tis true Dus^ and Bernhardt, for we mus'nt be too hard, 
Are very fair, for women, though, of course, they ought to 

Against some bad-art tendencies ; but, as for all the rest, 
There's hardly one, I may say none, who stands the artist's 

True artists are a rare, rare breed ; there were but two, 

In all ray time, the stage's prime ; and the other one was 


Why, Mac — I mean Macready,but we always called him 

Mac — 
And old Ned Forrest used to say, or so they once told Jack ; 
Or, that is. Jack McCuUough, that— well, this is what they 

There were but two who really knew how Shakespeare 

should be read. 
They didn't mean the younger Kean, or Jack ; and so perhaps 
It caused a little jealousy among the lesser chaps. 
They said that Lawrence Barrett was entitled to respect, 
But as for Tom Salvini, well, his dago dialect 
Would never do for Shakespeare ; so to tell the simple truth 
There were only two men in it ; and the other one was 


Don't think conceit is in me tongue : 'tis something I 

detest ; 
But I may say that in me day I've figured with the best. 
Why Kalamazoo, and Oshkosh, too, and Kankakee as well. 
Went fairly wild, nor man nor child stirred when the 

curtain fell. 
The S. E. O. was hung each night ; our show was such a rage 
They took the ushers off the fioor and ushered from the 

stage ! 
From Kissimee to San Louee, from Nawrleans to Duluth, 
Just two stars hit a little bit ; and the other one was Booth. 

I liked Ed Booth, for he was such a royal-hearted fellow. 
We never had a jealousy. When he put on Othello 

*By permission of the author, J. Edmund V. Cooke, the Poet Reader. For Mr. 
Cooke's poems '-A Patch of Pansies," address 124 Euclid Ave., CleTeland, Ohio. 


His lago was much, like mine, likewise his stage direction ; 
But what cared Ed what critics said, since / made no 

objection 7 
Ah me! that day is past; the play has lost its honored 

station ; 
Who reads aright rage, sorrow, fright, or tragic desolation 7 
Aye, who can reach to Hamlet's speech, "To be or not to be 7" 
Or wild Macbeth's cry, " Never shake thy gory locks at 

Or Lear's appeal : " Oh, let me not be mad, sweet Heavens, 

not mad ! " 
Or Shylock's rage : " I'll have me bond ! " Ah me ! it makes 

me sad 
To think it all, and then recall the drama, of me youth. 
When there were two who read lines true; and the othei 

one was Booth. 

— New York San, 

LANGLEY LANE— Robert Buchanan. 

In all the land, range up, range down, ^ 

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet 
As Langley Lane in London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and street? 
Little white cottages all in a row. 
Gardens where bachelor's-buttons grow, 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
And up above the still blue sky 
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, — 

I seem to be able to see it all ! 

For now, in summer, I take my chair. 

And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
The distant murmur of street and square. 

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ; 
And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
Comes running many a time each day, 

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind ; 
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, 
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, — 

For Fanny is dumb, and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear; 
And I am older by summers three. 

Why should we hold one another so dear? 


Because she cannot utter a word, 
Nor hear the music of bee or bird, 

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ; 
Because I have never seen the sky, 
Nor the little singers that hum and fly. 

Yet know she is gazing upon them all. 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, 

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low ; 
And I hear the wator-cart go by, 

With its cool splash-splash, down the dusty row; 
And the little one close at my side i^erceives 
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 

Where birds are chirping in summer shine, 
And I hear, thouuli I cannot look ; and she, 
Though she cannot hear, can the sinj^eis see ; 

And the little soft fingers flutter in mine! 

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young? 

Hath not my soul an eye to see? 
'Tis pleasur'e to make one's bosom stir, 
To wonder how things appear to her, 

That I only hear as they pass around; 
And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
She is happy to keep God's sight. 

And /am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind ; 

I made it of music long ago, — 
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; 
And when I sit by my little one. 
And hold her hand, and talk in the sun, 

And hear the music that haunts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
And guessing how gentle my voice must be, 

And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayei 

(I know the fancy is only vain), 
I should pray just once, when the weather is fair, 

To see little Fanny, and Langley Lane; 
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, 



The song of the birds, the hum of the street,— 
It is better to be as we have been. 
Each keeping up something unheard, unseen, 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. 

Ah, life is pleasant in Langley Lane! 

There is always something sweet to hear, — 
Chirping of birds, or patter of rain. 

And Fanny, my little one, always near. 
And though I am weakly and can't live long. 
And Fanny my darling is far from strong. 

And though we can never married be, 
What then, since we hold one another so dear 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, 

And the pleasure that only one can see? 


It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's even, 
ing I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a 
walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through 
some dark narrow street he suddenly paused. " Hush ! " 
he said, " what sound is that? It is from my symphony 
in F," he said eagerly. " Hark, how well it is played ! " 

It was a little, mean dwelling ; and we paused outside 
and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of 
the finale there was a sudden break, then a voice sob- 
bing : " I can not play any more — it is so beautiful, it 
is so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, 
what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne ! " 

"Ah, my sister," said her companion, " why create re- 
grets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay 
our rent." 

" You are right ; and yet I wish, for once in my life, 
to hear some really good music. But it is of no use." 

Beethoven looked at me. " Let us go in," he said. 

" Go in ! " I exclaimed. " What can we go in for? " 

" I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. 
"Here is feeling — genius — understanding. I will play 
to her and she will understand it ! " And before I 
could prevent him his hand was upon the door. 


A pale young man was sitting by the table, making 
shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an 
old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a pro- 
fusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were 
cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and 
turned toward us as we entered. 

" Pardon me," said Beethoven, " but I heard music 
and was tempted to enter. I am a musician." 

The girl blushed and the young man looked grave, — 
somewhat annoyed. 

"I — I also overheard something of what you said," 
continued my friend. " You wish to hear — that is, you 
would like — that is — shall I play for you ? " 

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and 
something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the 
speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all 
smiled involuntarily. 

" Thank you," said the shoemaker ; " but our harpsi- 
chord is so wretched, and we have no music." 

" No music ! " echoed my friend, " how, then, does the 
fraulein " 

He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at 
him, and he saw that she was blind. 

" I — I entreat your pardon," he stammered ; " but I 
had not perceived before. Then you play from ear? " 

" Entirely." 

" And where do you hear the music, since you fre- 
quent no concerts ? " 

" I used to hear a lady practising near us, when we 
lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings 
her windows were generally open, and I walked to and 
fro outside to listen to her." 

She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but 
seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to 
play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I 
knew what would follow — how grand he would be that 
night ! And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the 
years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then 


played to that blind girl and her brother. He was in- 
spired ; and from the instant that his fingers began to 
wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument 
began to grow sweeter and more equal. 

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and 
rapture. The former laid aside his work ; the latter, 
with her head bent slightly forward, and her hards 
pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the 
end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating 
of her heart should break the flow of those magical 
sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a 
strange dream, and only feared to wake. 

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, 
sunk, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and 
I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant 
moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, 
and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and 
player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have 
been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon 
his breast ; his hands rested upon his knees ; he seemed 
absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time. 

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached 
him eagerly, yet reverently — "Wonderful man!" he 
said, in a low tone " who and what are you ? " 

The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevo- 
lently, indulgently, kindly. "Listen," he said, and he 
played the opening bars of the symphony in F. 

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them 
both, and exclaiming, " Then you are Beethoven ! " 
they covered his hands with tears and kisses. 

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties : 

" Play to us once more, only once more ! " 

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. 
The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit 
up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "I 
will improvise a sonata to the moonlight ! " looking up 
thoughtfully to the sky and stars — then his hands 
dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and 


infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the 
instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the 
dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage 
in triple time, — a sort of grotesque interlude, like the 
dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift 
agitato finale, — a breathless, hurrying, trembling move- 
ment descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague 
impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling 
wings, and lefl; us all emotion and wonder. 

" Farewell to you," saJH Beethoven, pushing back his 
chair, and turning toward the door ; " farewell to you." 

" You will come again ? " asked they in one breath. 

He paused, and looked compassionately, almost ten- 
derly, at the face of the blind girl. " Yes, yes," he 
said hurriedly, " I will come again, and give the frau- 
lein some lessons. Farewell ! I will soon come again ! " 

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, 
and stood at their door till we were out of sight and 

" Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, " that I 
may write out that sonata while I can yet remember 
it ! " We did so, and he sat over it till long past day- 
dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight 
Sonata which has given infinite delight to thousands. 

THE PENNY SHOWMAN.— H. Chance Newton. 

I'm a showman by purfession, gents, so please to gather 

And see my grand theatrical performance, which is sound ; 
For the charge is but a penny, and the drammer in my 

Is about Mariar Marting, which was settled long ago. 

Come along, my little kiddies, nothing can my show 

Wipe yer heyes an' blow yer noses, do not breathe upon 

the glass ! 
Fix yer hoptics wery careful, and behold the startling play- 
All about Mariar Marting, which was beautiful and gay! 


Scene the Fust : A little cottage, where Mariar may be 

Wery diligently stitching at her Wotsaname's machine ; 
On the left her pore old mother's sittin' graceful on a tub, 
A-peeling of pertaters and attending to the grub. 

Moral : Little gals should alius peel pertaters if they can 
(I alius chucks this in, for I'm a most instructive man). 
Gals should alius fetch a pipe for pa, or tidy up the room. 
And little boys should be like busy bees. But to resoom : 

On the right is William Corder, he's Mariar's nice young 

man ; 
He appears a-ruminatin' and rewolving of his plan. 
And don't Mariar love him, just, 'cos he's so smart and spry ; 
But if you look you'll see a willin's twinkle in his eye ! 

Scene the Second is a garding, where the sweethearts come 

to spoon. 
While up above the chimbley-pots, a-winking, there's the 

The willin arsts her to be his, for better and for wuss, 
And he sayes, " Will you be myern ? " and Mariar whispers 


Scene the Third, I think, my dears, will fill yer 'arts with 

dread ; 
It represents a lonely barn, and people calls it " Red," 
And narsty Mr. Corder, and Mariar, too, is there ; 
If you'll look you'll see a sort of willin's rustle in his hair ! 

On the right is William Corder, with Mariar bavin' words, 
Though only jest before they seemed as happy as two birds, 
And he lands her with a chopper, which is hung • behind 

the door ; 
On the left you see the wretched wictim welt'rin in her 

gore! ' 

The next scene, boys, is Noogate ; the interior inside, 
Where Corder's caged for slaughterin' of his intended 

He dreads the hexecutioner, who shortly will be seen, 
Agoin' to chop his head off with the horrid gelatine! 

The hassassin, William Corder, is endeavorin' to snooze, 
Butalars! that wretched murderer is sufferin' from the 

blues ! 
And 'twill make your hair stand up on end, your blood run 

cold, almost. 
For in tlae middle of the cell's Mariar Marting's ghost 1 

Number thirty-thkkb. Ill 

That's the !ot. my little beauties, go away and tell your pals, 
Say you liked the grand performance, hope it pleased you 

little gals ; 
Say the drammer's wery stirring, and the ghost is also nice. 
And don't forget to tell 'em as a penny is the price 1 

That's the way I rattle on, my friends, in ev'ry street or lane 
But receipts is sadly fallin' off, the drammer's on the wane ! 
The kids is too enlightened now to patternise niy show, 
All a-owing to the School Board teaching 'em sich things is 

Still, I'll stick to my perfession, 'tis the highest form of 

Although the youngsters don't rush up so often now to part. 
No ; I'll defy the workus, gents ; alone I'll toddle on. 
Though, like Otheller in the play, "my occupation's gone ! " 

THE RAPE OF THE BELL.*— Augusta Moore. 

Once upon a time — 'tis to bo hoped it was a long time ago, and a great way 
off— there was a new cliurch builded ; but it had no bell. A mile or two away 
at the foot of the great, beautiful mountains, there was an old church, 
that had a most musical bell. Said the people of the new church, " We are 
the church ; we will have the bell." So they went and took it. But the old 
church cried after the bell, and the bell cried back to them, till the air became 

" Ding dong ! " quoth the bell, " I've a story to tell," 
As it rang through the morning so clear ; 
" Come one and come all, and attend to my call.; 
For I wish all the country to hear. 

" I've a story to tell," quoth the beautiful bell; 
Then it wailed like a creature in pain. 
And it swung and it flung and it beat with its tongue 
As though it would break from its chain. 

" Oh ! my home was most fair, and abroad on the air, 
Right gladly and gaily I swung ; 

And the bridegroom and bride, in their beauty and pride, 
Rejoiced when the marriage peal rung. 

"Then how softly I tolled when the weary and old, 
The dear pilgrim mothers and sires, 
To the village so still, in the side of the hill, 
Went up from their own household fires. 

*£y permisBLon of the Author. 


" In ray tower by the hills where the springs and the rills 

Flow down to the emerald plain, 

I contentedly swung and delightedly rung— 

I now but lament and complain. 

"And morning and eve I will murmur and grieve, 
And thunder shall chorus my tale ; 
I will sigh and will cry to the earth and the sky 
Till the heart of the stoutest shall fail. 

" I will moan and will groan, with despair in my tone, 
And the story of wrong I will tell 
Till the hills and the vales, and the rocks and the gales 
Shall but echo the rape of the bell." 



Far from the glorious light of day. 
Within a noisome dungeon lay 

An ajied man with snow-white hair. 
The dead-like pallor of whose face. 

Of pure, life-giving outer air 
And sun, revealed not e'en a trace ; 

While his gaunt body had become 

Almost as compact as the stone. 

To him had been the passing years. 

One long night filled with wrongs and fears; 

Near half a century time had told 
Since he had been herein immured ; 

A word against his king had sold 
His rights, for chains thus long endured ; 

Had forced him from a happy home, 

Into this loathsome living tomb. 

The seasons gliding swiftly by. 

The briglit sunshine, the clear blue sky, 

Belonged not to his prison life — 
But to the years so long since past. 

When joy and sweet content were rife. 
Each day reflected but the last, 

Their hours did so nearly blend 

They seemed not to begin nor end. 


To him,. the dear old home remained 
As he iiad left it, all unchanged ; 

Those scenes, enacted long ago, 
Were still the burden of his thought ; 

He knew naught of the weal or woe 
Which time to those dear ones had brought. 

By cruel fate so close shut in, 

Life's varied moods came not to him. 

The narrow door was one day thrown 
Wide open, and a voice unknown 

Proclaimed ttie wished-for liberty. 
How wonderful the message seemed ! 

Heard he aright? It could not be! 
Was it not some chimera dreamed ? 

Would he not wake to find that door 

Shut to, and locked as oft before ? 

But soon with trembling steps he went — 
Although his limbs so stiff and bent 

Scarcely could bear this added weight — 
Up through the stairways, courts and halls, 

Which to him were, of vastness great. 
Environed by stupendous walls. 

At first his eyes' enfeebled sight 

Could not endure the day's clear light. 

Beyond the gate, surpassing strange 
The objects in his vision's range ; 

The sky, the earth, all things he saw. 
Were not as in those years agone ; 

They filled his soul with fear and awe. 
While on his sense began to dawn 

The fact, he ne'er again could hold 

Life's place as in the days of old. 

A stranger led his eager feet 
Along the well-remembered street ; 

But of the picture in his mind. 
Through lonely years so often viewed, 

No counterpart his search could find — 
The very place had been renewed ; 

And where was once his own dear home, 

A public building raised its dome. 

The hope of years gone in a breath ; 
Far better dungeon ! better death ! 


Lost to the world, of what, to him, 
The import of its living age ? 

The past with all its shadows dim, 
Was of his life the present page 

Unfinished : thus it would remain — 

No future could its void reclaim. 

Throughout the city none were found 
Who were to him by kinship bound ; 

To silent shores and distant climes, 
Their restless feet had wandered on. 

And saddened memory's doleful chimes 
Alone were left for him to con. 

He, mid the many, stood unknown, 

With every hope forever flown. 

His liberty had brought despair 

To which the cell could not compare ; 

To its precincts he fain would turn, 
Until his wretched life should end ; 

In its dark walls he could discern 
His only home, his only friend ; 

And, till the hour of welcomed death. 

He mourned the dungeon he had left. 


They lived in , and the farmer was well-to-do, 

and all the household were economical, not thinking of 
meat every day, or anything like as often. The two 
daughters were named Reliance and Prudence ; the sons 
Amos and James. Reliance was soon to be married to 
David Thomas, at the next farm. 

" We'll have a hasty pudding for dinner to-day, 
mother," said farmer Jones to his wife, one morning at 

" Very well, Evan," replied Mrs. Jones, for his will 
was law. 

So when it was time, she began to make the pudding. 
Her husband and sons were out at their work, in the 
spring sunshine ; her daughters were making the beds 
up stairs. 


" I mustn't forget the salt this time,'' cried Mrs. Jones 
to herself; " there was a fine fuss from all of 'em about 
the last one." 

Mrs. Jones, good housewife though she was, was apt 
to forget to put salt in her hasty puddings, or not to put 
in enough of it. She put plenty in this time for they 
were all fond of salt. Then she went up to the linen room 
and began laying the winter clothing away in camphor. 

It was only a few moments before Reliance came into 
the kitchen, when, seeiijg the pudding cooking, and 
knowing that her mother was apt to' forget to salt it, 
she put in a handful of salt and stirred it well, so that 
her father would have no occasion to find fault. 

Soon after, Prudence passed through the kitchen on 
her way to the brewhouse. " Mother's sure to have 
forgot the salt," said she, and added a good handful. 

Before long, Amos entered, and soon after, James 
came in. Each of them put in a handful more salt, as 
they had no more faith in their mother's remembering it 
than Reliance or Prudence had. 

Just before dinner, Farmer Jones returned from the 
field and saw the pudding cooking. 

"That pudding smells uncommon good," he said, "but," 
added the farmer, approaching the kettle, " I'll bet a 
sixpence the wife's forgot to salt it,'as she always does. 
I used to depend on Reliance, till she got her head chock 
full of that young man of hern ; no chance of her 
thinkin' on't now. As to Prudence — well, she don't 
meddle much in the cooking ; so I'll put the salt in my- 
self" And taking ofi" the lid, he flung in a handful 
and a half, stirring the pudding briskly. 

Twelve o'clock came, and they all sat down to the 
table. Mrs. Jones helped her husband to a good serv- 
ing ; fijr he loved it well, and had besides a sharp appe- 
tite. Just a spoonful he took, and leaped up. 

" Who on earth salted this here pudding. It " 

Farmer Jones stopped; he suddenly remembered 
that he had salted it himself Just then there was a 
great noise in the stable. 


" I should think that frisky colt's a-tryin' to kick in 
the barn door," said he, and rushed out. 

The next to try the pudding was Amos. No sooner 
had he got it in his mouth, than he leaped up too, and 
went oif to see what the colt could be doing. 

And each one, James, Reliance, and Prudence, 
started away, in like manner, leaving Mrs. Jones in 
amazement. For each one, you see, silently took credit 
for the hard salting. 

" Land o' mercy!" cried Mrs. Jones, swallowing down 
her first mouthful. " This comes o' my having put in 
all that there salt. What could I ha' been thinking 
of? But they used to say I'd a heavy hand at salting." 

The proof of the pudding is in the eating. 


M. L. Nutting. 

The room was cold and cheerless and bare, 
With its rickety table and one broken chair 
And its curtainless windows, with hardly a pane 
To keep out the snow, the wind and the rain. 

A cradle stood empty, pushed up to the wall,' 
And somehow that seemed the saddest of all ; 
In the old rusty stove the fire was dead ; 
There was ice on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

And there, all alone, a pale woman was lying ; 
No need to look twice to see she was dying, — 
Dying of want, of hunger and cold. 
Shall I tell you her story— the story she told? 

" No, ma'am, I'm no better; my cough is so bad. 
It's wearing me out though, and that makes me glad ; 
For it's wearisome living when one's all alone. 
And heaven, they tell me, is just like a home ! 

"Yes, ma'am, I've a husband; he's somewhere about, 
I hoped he'd come in 'fore the fire went out ; 
But I guess he has gone where he's likely to stay — 
I mean to the drinking-house over the way. 


" 'Twas not so always ; T hope you wont think 
Too hard of him, lady, it's only the drink. 
I know he's kind-hearted, for oh, how he cried 
For our poor little baby the morning it died ! 

" You see he took sudden, and grew very bad, 
And we had no doctor — my poor little lad ! 
For his father had gone— never meaning to stay, 
I am sure — to the drinking-house over the way. 

"And when he came back 'twas far in the night ; 
And I was so tired and sick with the fright 
Of staying so long with my baby alone, 
And it cutting my heart with its pitiful moan. 

" He was cross with the drink, poor fellow ! I know 
It was that, not his baby, that bothered him so ; 
But hi swore at the child, as panting it lay. 
And went back to the drinking-house over the way. 

" I heard the gate slam, and my heart seemed to freeze 
Like ice in my bosom, and there on my knees. 
By the side of the cradle, all shivering I stayed ; 
I wanted my mother, I cried and I prayed. 

" Yes, it was easy, — his dying ; he just grew more white 
And his eyes opened wider to look for the light. 
As his father came in 'twas just break of day. 
Came in from the drinking-house over the way. 

" Yes, ma'am, he was sober — at least, mostly I think ; 
He often stayed that way to wear off the drink. 
I knew he was sorry for what he had done, 
For he set a great store by our one little son. 

"And straight did he go to the cradle-bed where 
Our baby lay dead, so pretty and fair. 
I wondered how I could have wished him to stay 
Where there was a drinking-house over the way. 

" He stood quiet awhile ; did not understand, 
You see, ma'am, till he touched the little cold hand ; 
Oh, then came the tears, and he shook like a leaf, 
And said 'twas the drinking h^d made all the grief! 

"Our neighbors were kind, and the minister came, 
And he talked of my seeing my baby again. 
And of the bright angels; I wondered if they 
Could see into the drinking-house over the way I 


"And I thought when my baby was put in the ground, 
And the man with his spade was shaping the mound, 
If somebody only would help me to save 
My husband, who stood by my side at the grave. 

"If only it were not so handy, — the drink. 

The men that make laws, ma'am, sure didn't think 

Of the hearts they would break, of the souls they would slay 

When they licensed that drinking-house over the way ! 

" I've been sick ever since ; it cannot be long — 
Be pitiful, lady, to him when I'm gone ; 
He wants to do right, but you never would think 
How weak a man grows when he's fond of the drink. 

"And it's tempting him here, and it's tempting him there- 
Four places, I've counted, on this very square. 
Where a man can get whisky by night and by day. 
Not to reckon the drinking-house over the way. 

" There's a verse in the Bible the minister read: 
No drunkard shall enter the kingdom, it said ; 
And he is my husband, and I loved him so, 
And where I am going I want he should go. 

" Our baby and I will both want him there ; 
Don't you think the dear Saviour will hear my prayer? 
And please, when I'm gone, ask some one to pray 
For him at the drinking-house over the way ! " 

— Methodist Protestant. 


Come here, my sleepy darling, and climb upon my knee. 
And lo ! all in a moment, a trusted steed 'twill be 
To bear you to that country where troubles are forgot, 
And we'll set off for Dreamtown, 




listen ! Bells of Dreamland are ringing soft and low I 
What a pleasant, pleasant country it is through which we go; 
And little nodding travelers are seen in every spot, 
All riding off to Dreamtown, 





The lights begin to twinkle above us in the sky, 
The star-lamps that the angels are hanging out on high 
To guide the drowsy travelers where danger lurketh not. 
As they ride oflf to Dreamtown, 




Snug in a wild-rose cradle the warm wind rocks the bee ; 
The little birds are sleeping in every bush and tree. 
I wonder what they dream of? They dream andanswernot, 
As we ride bv to Dreamtown, 




Our journey's almost over. The sleepy town's in sight, 
Wherein my drowsy darling must tarry over night. 
How still it is, how peaceful, in this delightful spot. 
As we ride into Dreamtown, 




— Independent. 


I observed a locomotive in the railroad yards one day ; 

It was waiting in the roundhouse, where the locomotives 

It was panting for the' journey; it was coaled and fully 

And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. 

It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip 

On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the wheels are apt 
to slip ; 

And when they reach a slippery spot their tactics they com- 

And to get a grip upon the rail they sprinkle it with sand. 

It's about this way with travel along life's slippery track. 
If your load is rather heavy and you're always sliding back 
(If a common locomotive you completely understand,) 
You'll provide yourself in starting with a good supply of 

If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy grade. 
And if those who've gone before you have the rails quite 

slippery made. 


If you ever reach the summit of the upper table-land, 
You'll find you'll have to do it with a liberal use of sand. 

If you strike some frigid weather and discover to your cost 
That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost, 
Then some prompt, decided action will be called into de- 
And you'll slip way to the bottom if you haven't any sand. 

You can get to any station that is on life's schedule seen. 

If there's fire beneath the boiler . of ambition's strong ma- 

And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed 
that's grand. 

If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of sand. 

CLAIM.*— T. P. Morgan. 

" Just as we go to press," announced the New Boston 
Clarion, in its first issue, " we learn that Ben Fargo's 
claim has been jumped again. Ben's return is expected 
to-morrow, when we predict that he will attend to the 
eviction in his usual prompt and thorough manner." 

No fault could have been found with this item, ex- 
cept perhaps that it might have been a little indefinite 
to the uninitiated. New Boston fully understood it. 

" Who's jumped it this time ? " asked Colonel Pride, 
as Cy Hickson retailed the news to the citizens loung- 
ing on the porch of the Eureka General Store. 

" Dun know," answered the mail-carrier. " Didn't 
stop to find out. Smoke was oomin' out o' the shack, 
an' a scahlous-lookin' linch-pin wagin an' a pair o' 
rickety ole mules was standin' by." 

" Waal," predicted Colonel Pride, " about five min- 
utes after Ben gits there, them rickety mules '11 be pullin' 
that scandalous-lookin' wagon away from that claim." 

" You bet ! " agreed the citizens. 

" 'Pears like Ben Fargo's claim is alius bein' jumped." 

"An' unjumped just as often," said the Colonel. 

•From Harper's Weekly, Copyright, 1889, l)y Harper and Brothen. 


" Had to laugh, th'other day, as I was ridin' past," 
said Mr. Cy Hicksou. " Feller from Mizzury 'd jumped 
the claim that time, an' was bakin' a johuny-cake in 
Ben's skillet. ' Five minutes to git your johnny out o' 
my skillet,' says Ben. 'The year 1901 will find me 
right yere/ says Mizzury. Says Ben, 'This is my claim, 

an' ' 'Mebby 'twuz 'fore I jumped it,' broke in 

Mizzury,' turnin' over the johnny-cake. ' Yes, 'n' 'twill 
be agin soon's you unjump it, which '11 be in 'bout three 
minutes,' says Ben. ' Craek yer whip,' says Mizzury; 
' I'm able fer you, 1 reckon ; 'sides, the law's on my 

side, an' ' 'Hang the law ! ' broke in Ben, and sailed 

in. They tangled, an' in about two minutes Mizzury 
found he'd made a mistake. Fer a while I 'lowed Ben 
W drive his head into the ground. Then, after tunkin' 
him around awhile, Ben sat on him. ' Whose claim's 
this now ? ' says Ben. ' Your title to it 'pears to be a 
mighty strong one,' says Mizzury. A little later Miz- 
zury had his team hitched to his wagin, an' was a-eatin' 
his johnny-cake as he druv away." 

Mr. Ben Fargo, returning to New Boston the follow- 
ing day, became aware that his claim had been jumped. 

" Well," he said, half aloud, " I am in a hurry to get 
to New Boston, but I reckon I can spare time to start 
this jumper on his way. Not overly well fixed," he 
commented, as he left the road. "Wagon don't look 
safe, and the mules seem rickety. But they brought the 
jumper here, and they've got to Hello, hello, here! " 

The presence of the object that he had almost ridden 
over surprised him a good deal more than the presence 
of the jumjjer. It was merely a little grave, roughly 
rounded up in the midst of the long prairie-grass. The 
clods of the ragged little mound showed that it had 
been there only a short while. A tattered little prairie 
rosebush had been planted at the head of the tiny 
mound. The tips of its leaves had withered, and the 
blossoms it had borne at transplanting were yellow and 



shriveled ; but one bud had opened, and the ragged lit- 
tle flower, striving its best to be bright and pure, lay on 
one rough black clod of the ragged little grave. 

" Baby ! " Fargo muttered. 

At that moment a woman left the shack and came 
toward the grave. In her hand she bore a cup of water. 
Her eyes were swollen. Fargo started as he saw her face. 
Scarcely glancing at him, she returned his salutation 
and bent and watered the ragged little rosebush. 

" Your baby? " Fargo asked awkwardly. 

" Yes," the woman answered, choking with her sup- 
pressed feeling. " She was all I had ■ — -" 

She flung herself prone on the grave, embraced the 
little mound, and sobbed aloud. 

Fargo looked uncomfortable. " Now don't cry so ! 
I — you — where's your husband ? In the shack? " 

" No," lifting her face from the clods. " He's dead. 
I was on my way home. The baby — well, I dug the 
little grave myself. I had no coffin, and I buried her 
in her little night-gown. I cannot go on yet — oh ! it 
seems as if I never could go ! Maybe the owner would 
not object if I lived in the shack a little while, till — 

till " Fargo squirmed uneasily in his saddle. 

" After a little I must start on toward Indiana." 

" What part of Indiana ? " Fargo blurted. 

" Champion County. The little cross-road village 
just below Fountainville." 

" Ever know a blamed fool there named Fargo ? " 

" Ben Fargo ? He wasn't a fool, though. He " 

" Yes, he was, too ! Got mad at nothing ! Ought to 
have been shot on the spot." 

" No ! He— we " 

" Mary, don't you know me ? " 

" Ben Fargo ! " 

" Yes ; a blamed fool. Got mad at nothing." 

A little later the dispossessed owner of the shack was 
smoothing up the mound that covered the child of the 
person who had jumped his claim. And thejumpersat 
on the grass near by looking less desolate. 


When, later, Mr. Ben Fargo was passing the Eureka 
General Store, he was stopped by Colonel Pride. 

" Did the jumper cut up rusty, Ben ? " 

" Nope ! " Fargo answered, shortly, moving away. 

" Go without trouble ? " 

" Nope ! " More shortly. 

" Reckoned he was able for you ? " 

" Nope ! " Farther away. 

" Waal, then, what did " 

" Nothing. There yet." Fargo turned the corner. 

Hickson, the mail-carrier, as he was going from New 
Boston, saw Ben Fargo smoothing the baby's grave and 
marveled thereat. When he returned from the trip, 
he retailed the news to the prominent citizens. 

" Waal, I'm beat," announced Colonel Pride. 

" Me too," agreed several. 

The attempt to interview Ben Fargo when next he 
appeared was not a brilliant success. That personage 
informed them, first, that whatever occurred at his 
claim was the business of no one but himself, and sec- 
ond, that he was both able and willing to thrash any 
man who desired to make it his business. 

No one acknowledged to a desire. But, one day the 
Clarion published the following item of interest : 

" Married, this morning, by Rev. Mr. Prouty, at the 
claim given to the bride by the groom, Mrs. Mary Stone 
and Mr. Benjamin Fargo." 

And this time, Ben Fargo 's claim stayed jumped. 


Written expresshj for this Collection. 

I'd rid from far-back Texas in the spring o' '49 

Clear to Californy to grapple with a mine ; 

I'd fit agin the Mexicans, and out on the frontier 

I'd laid low for the Injins for mor'n fifteen year ; 

And on Judge Lynch 's bench I'd set, my country to defend, 

Dispensin' law and order at the lariat's noosey end ; 

But when Sis' Mary's darter she got married in New York, 

A leetle small thin hotel kid he got in his work. 


'Twas this way — ha ! ha I ha ! it makes me laugh down 

till to-day, 
To think o' that there time I reg'lar give myself away. 
You see, Sis' Mary's house was full o' gals and heaux that 

To Sary Ella's weddin', and I knowed there wasn't room 
For me, and so I says to Sis' " Don't bother, I'm as well 
Away from all the fussin'; I'll go to a hotel, 
But to-morrow I'm on hand to see a weddin' in New York." 
That's how that leetle hotel kid he got in his work. 

Says Sis' Mary, " Dan," says she, " you've got a pile o' notes 
In them there trousey's pockets, and there's al ways lots o' 

A-goin' 'bout in New York to fleece the men like you ; 
So look out, and be keerful, Dan, of everything you do." 
" Ho ! Ho ! " says T, " Sis' Mary, I'm up to all that game ; 
We've bunco-steerers West as well, and all their ways is 

I've got a good six-shooter in this hip o' mine, ray dear, 
And the bunco man that tackles me — Well, don't you have 

no fear; 
A man that knows the West I guess can take keer o' New 

And yet that leetle hotel kid he got in his work. 

Well, I went into a big hotel, all glass and marble stone. 
And a gent with a big di'mond pin he says, in this here 

" Number a thousand seventy-two, nine flights up, and back. 
Press the button." But I looked at him ; I hadn't got the 

Of finding out what buttons meant, or what they had to do 
With me a-gittin' up nine flights to a thousand seventy-two. 
But a gent that laughed he touched a spot up there on the 

And Iheerdawheezy-queezy sound that jest did beat 'em all. 
And then an iron door opened in a leetle room all dark— 
And then that thin small hotel kid he got in his work. 

For a leetle small thin kid stood there and asked me to 

come in. 
I done it, and bang went the door, and land o' mortal sin ! 
The hull room riz up in the air, and dark as pitch it was. 
" Ho ! Ho ! " says I, " Sis' Mary was right." I jest got free 

my paws 
By droppin' my old satchel; and reachin' for my hip, 
I got out my six-shooter, and I hollers, "Let her rip ! 

tfUMBER thikty-ihsee. 125 

I'm game for bunco-steerers, and they're game forme as well ; 
The man that thinks he'll sell me I kinder think I'll sell ; 
You needn't swing your old room up, terry firmy'U do ; 
You alleyblaster image of a kid, now what ails yau ? " 
And I put the muzzle 'gin the head o' that there leetle kid ; 
He yelled out bloody murder, and down head-fust he slid ; 
And all the time that dark room riz up and up, and me 
Even with the bunco gang that run that hotel. See ? 
Says I to that thin screechin' kid, "Let her down, pard, do. 
Let her down. These leetle games I'm kinder seein' 

through.". , 

And then there comes a bang, a smash, and that room was 

let down. 
The kid a-screechin' in a fit, and I guess half the town 
Standin' in the entry. I held my shooter out, 
And told 'em I seen through 'em. At that they give a shout, 
And said the room it wa'n't no room, but an elevator that 
Took the place o' stairs and whizzed you clean up to the flat, 
And — But I guess that's all. And that's how in New York — 
Ha ! Ha !— that leetle hotel kid he got in his work. 


" What a friend we have in Jesus" 
Sang a little child, one day ; 

And a weary woman listened 
To the darling's happy lay. 

All her life seemed dark and gloomy, 
And her heart was sad with care : 

Sweetly sang out baby's treble : 
"All our sins and griefs to bear." 

She was pointing out the Saviour 
Who could carrj'' every woe ; 

And the one who sadly listened 
Needed that dear Helper so ! 

Sin and grief were heavy burdens 
For a fainting soul to bear — 

But the baby, singing, bade her 
" Take it to the Lord in prayer." 

With a simple, trusting spirit. 
Weak and worn, she turned to God 

Asking Christ to take her burden. 
As He was the sinner's Lord. 


Jesus was the only refuge, 

He could take her sin and care, 

And he blessed the weary woman 
When she came to him in prayer. 

And the happy child still singing, 
Little knew she had a part 

In God's wondrous work of bringing 
Peace into a troubled heart. 

MY COUNTRY.— Looia S. Amonson. 

Arise, oh, my country ! Arise in thy glory, 
And tell to all races thy mission sublime ; 

Let poets and sages embellish thy story 
In letters of gold on the pages of time. 

Ring out the glad tidings of freedom forever 
To nations still bound in the bonds of the slave, 

And waken the laggards in one more endeavor 
To follow the path of the free and the brave. 

Peal forth the grand summons from tower and steeple, 
Till every land with the message has rung, 

That freedom is born in the hearts of our people, 
And liberty lies in our sweet mother tongue. 

All races will listen — thy people most proudly, 

As patriotism in power awakes. 
Arrayed in thy splendor then speak it out loudly, 

Till every fetter of tyranny breaks. 

Where millions languish thy refuge then lend them. 
And to thy loosed masses thy liberties teach ; 

But while thou dost grandly a welcome extend them. 
Hold fast to thy Sabbath, thy school and thy speech. 

Ring out thy traditions from mountain to ocean. 
That all of thy children remember the tale; 

Inspire them with patriotism's devotion. 
That foreign dominion may never prevail. 

Speak out, oh, my country ! The great God defend thee, 
Thy people, thy language, thy sweet liberty ! 

Unfurl, starry banner ! Our God will befriend thee— 
The hope of the ages, the sign of the free. 


TO THE PALA.CE OF THE KING.*— S. Jennie Smith. 


King's Daughter, No. 1. Doubt. 

Kino's Daughter, No. 2. Worldlinebs. 

Self-sufficiency. Scorn. 

Main road supposed to branch off into several side roads. All 
nharacters wear flowing robes of cheese-cloth; King's daughters, 
white; Doubt, gray; Self-sufficiency, blue; Worldliness, bright 
red; and Scam, deep yellow. Names cm sash or crown. 

Enter King's Daughters. 

No. 1. I wonder if this can bfe the right path. My mind 
is filled with doubts. Let us try another, dear sister, for it 
seems to me there must be more than one way leading to 
our Father's mansion. Hundreds are going in that direc- 
tion, and hundreds in this ; they have cried out to us to 
follow them, and must we go straight ahead, ignoring their 
invitation? Suppose we follow the multitude for awhile, 
and perhaps we shall then be able to decide which is the 
right road to travel. 

No. 2. I have already decided. There is but one way 
leading to the King's house, and that is this path of love 
and faith in which we are walking. If we turn aside either 
to the right or to the left, we shall find our way gradually 
diverging from this one until we are so far in the wrong 
direction that we shall lose ourselves in the mazes of temp- 
tation and sin. Hark to the voices of our sisters who are in 
advance of us. 
Invisible chorus sings: "0 Brother, Life's Journey Beginning," 

found in Gospel Hymns, No. 5; the word sister used instead of 


No. 1. It almost seems like a warning, yet we could re- 
trace our steps if we found that we were wrong. 

No. 2. But think of the time wasted in going and return- 
ing. Many a child has shed bitter tears of repentance over 
time thus thrown away. Besides, dear one, it is far easier 
to do wrong than to undo it. When once you start down 

♦Written Rxpreasly tor this Collection. A beautiful dialogue for Sunday 
Schools, entitled "The Journey of Life," in No. 29, and "The Village Scare," 
in No. 28, are by the aame author, as well as several excellent Irish Dialect 
Becitations in previous Numbers of this Series. 


hill you go with a swiftness that is alarming, but the jour, 
ney up again, oh ! how different ! 

Wo. 1. How are we to know that these other paths lead 
downward ? I am aware that Destruction lurks at the bot- 
tom of the hill, ever ready to seize the unwary, but I should 
be vigilant, and when 1 caught even a glimpse of him, I 
should turn .in haste. 

No. 2. It is unsafe to wait for that glimpse. You do not 
know that you would have strength to return. Come, let us 
go on our way , for delays are dangerous to all those who would 
reach tlie Palace of the King. What ! holding back still ? 
Why are you dissatisfied, sweet sister? We have traveled 
this path hand in liand for many hours, and thus far have 
found in it naught but peace and happiness. 

No. 1. I am afraid I must leave you. I have seen Doubt 
and slie has promised to bear me company. Together we 
will investigate these other roads, and if I discover that 
she is wrong, I will return to you. Farewell, for I see her 
coming now. I am filled with sorrow at thought of parting 
from you, but Doubt is beckoning, and I feel compelled to 
obey her call. 

Enter Doubt. 

Doubt. Are you ready, dear child? Come, let us hasten 
on our way, for I have much to say to you. You have been 
walking in darkness, but I will lead you into light. 

No. 2. (holding out a Bible.) ■ Sister, here are the King's 
directions. Read what he says in regard to our journey 

No. l,.itiinds hesitating between doubt and her sister. 

Doubt. You do not know that those directions were 
written by your Father. How can you believe what you 
did not witness with your own eyes ? 

No. 2. My heart tells me the truth. Besides, I know that 
they are the King's rules, because they are the best that 
could be made for any of his children who would reach 
the Kingdom in safety. Above all, I know they are my 
Father's directions, for no other could understand our 
needs and shortcomings as He does, and, therefore, no one 
else could have written the directions that we require. 

DoUB"-. (taking the hand of No. 1.) Come, child, turn 
aside to this patli with me. 


No. 1. (drawing away from Doubt.) Pardon ille, friend, 
but, after all, I find your touch unpleasant. I believe that I 
would be wrong in listening to you. My sister is right, for 
I felt happier when in her company. 

Doubt. Foolish child ! would you court captivity ? The 
laws of that road are made of cast-iron. You will be bound, 
body and soul, to them, and how do you know that in the 
end they will bring you to your Father's house? 

No. 1. I must ask you to leave me. 

No. 2. {joyously.) I rejgice with you, my sister. 

Exit Doubt, and enter Worldliness. 

WoRLDLiNBss. Why are you lingering here, fair maidens? 
Have you found your chosen path a stony one ? If so, turn 
off here with me and I will give you innumerable pleasures 
that you would have missed had I not come to your rescue. 

No. 1. Suppose we try, dear sister, to see what she can 
do for us. 

No. 2. I think I hear another warning. Hearken to that, 
and then you can decide. 

Invisible chorus sings one verse of " Christian, Walk Carefully," 
Gospel Hymns, No. 5, substituting sister for Christian. 

No. 1. Yes, I was wrong again. Worldliness, I have no 
need of you. Pray depart. 

Exit Worldliness, and enter Scorn. 

Scorn. I see you are waiting for me, and you do wisely. 
You must give up all those silly thoughts and beliefs that 
you have had in the past, and learn of me. I am surprised 
to find you lingering for one moment in this dull and stu- 
pid path. 

No. 1. Now I feel assured that you are wrong. This path 
is neither dull nor stupid. My experience here has been a 
happy one, yet I sometimes fear that we may not be going 
in the right direction to our Father's house. However, we 
can have nothing to do with you. Scorn, for our Father in 
His letters has warned us of your coming, and you may as 
well begone. You are a tool of Satan and would take us 
further from the King's Palace. 

Scorn, (turning to No. 2.) And will ,you not come 
with me? 

No. 2. I must refuse also. I am going straight onward in 
the path of Love and Faith. 


ScoEN. After all, you are but a pair of lunatics, and I am 
well rid of you. \_ExU. 

No. 2. And how you will agree with me that we ought to 
continue our journey. Precious time is going while we 
Ually with the tempter. Will you come ? 

No. 1. One moment. Here comes Self-sufficiency. She 
looks pleasant ; perhaps her path is an easier one than this. 
Enter Self-sufficiency. 

Self. Perhaps you wonder why I am so late in seeking 
you, dear children. My only excuse is that I have been on 
errands of mercy. I have fed the hungry, clothed the 
naked, and comforted the sorrowing. I even tarried to re- 
buke the sinner, and all my way along I found some good 
deed to accomplish. I have heard of you. You are on the 
way to your Father's House and do not feel sure of the 
way. Perhaps you would reach it by following this path, 
but you need a change. I, too, expect to reach the King's 
Palace and in my own way. My good deeds will take me 
there, so you need not be afraid to follow me. Do you see 
that gate in the distance ? Can you read the words that 
tell of the qualifications required to gain entrance ? A 
moral life, a clean record, a charitable disposition. You 
have all of these, so you must come with me. 

No. 1. Yes, you are right ; you make me feel satisfied 
with myself. I understand now that we have already 
earned the right to our Father's Mansion. Come, sister, 
you will accompany her, I am sure. 

No. 2. Never, and I implore you not to listen to the 
Tempter. Think of our Father's goodness to us. Would 
you turn from His love to that of Self-sufficiency ? 

No. 1. I am not turning from Him. I am only taking 
another path to His Palace. All through His directions 
He commands us to lend a helping hand to those who are 
in need. 

No. 2. But He does not tell us that the road on which 
our good actions are esteemed above His love will lead us 
to the Kingdom. List to some of his words. (Reads from Bible.) 

" If sinners entice thee, consent thou not. . . . Walk not 
thou in the way with them." 

" Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be 


" Turn not to the right hand nor to the left ; remove thy 
foot from evil." 

" Obey my voice, and walk in the way that I have com- 
manded you, that it may be well unto you." 

" To love Him with all the heart, and with all the under- 
standing, and with all the soul, and with all the strength, is 
more than burnt offerings and sacrifices." 

" Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angele, 
though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all 
mysteries, though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, 
and though I give my Wbdy to be burned, and have not 
love, it profiteth me nothing." 

Do you see, dear sister, it is only through love to the 
Father that we can reach our Home ? And if we have that 
love we will follow His directions. Then seek that first 
and these good deeds will be added unto us. 

No. 1. (turning from Self-sufficiency.) My time of waver- 
ing is past. I can see my weak, sinful self in the true light 
now, and I know that nothing but a Father's love will lead 
me aright. Had I not neglected the reading of His Word, 
I should never have listened to the voice of the tempter. 
Come, dear sister, we will continue our journey, and though 
temptations assail us, we will be able to say with the saint 
of old, " By the word of thy lips, I have kept me from the 
path of the Destroyer." 

( While she is speaking, Doubt, Worldliness, and Scorn appear in 
the background, as though undecided whether to venture for- 
ward. At the last, Self-sufficiency slinks away, the King's 
Daughters stand hand in hand, and the curtain slowly falls as 
the invisible chorus sings, "The Palace of the King," Oospel 
Hymns No. 2, page 93, children being substituted for pilgrims. 


By permission of the Ayihor, 

The brethering in Lucre Hollow were disturbed a heep in 

* mind ; 
For they was a-goin' backward, and the salary was behind. 
They'd promised the preacher when he come, four hundred 

dollars a year, 
But the way things was a-goin' showed sumthin' out of 



They hadn't pade two hundred yit, an' the year was nearly 

And how to git the balance up, was what they were wor- 

ryin' on. 

The preacher, he was powerful ; his sermons had the ring 
Of solid gospel preaohin' ; they were just the very thing. 
He didn't give 'em flowers, fer to look at an' be saved ; 
To feed on, or to smell at, fer to lift up the depraved ; 
But he give 'em gospel wittles, spreadin' a teraptin' store, 
Enufi'for each, enuff fer all, enufffor evermore. 

I never seen a preacher yit have such a winnin' knack — 
If a wanderin' sheep 'ud git astray, sumhow he'd bring it 

back ; 
He'd git around among the fokes with most amazin' vim. 
An' whether they was rich or poor, it made no odds to him. 
But they was all a-stewin', fer the money didn't cum. 
An' there was a heep o' talkin', jist how to raise the sum. 

They called a 'fishel meetin'; Deekin Pmc/t-GoM, he was 

there ; 
He had lots an' lots uv money, but he'd mity little to spare. 
He riz, an' sed he wanted fer to tell the 'fishel board 
We wus payin' too much sal'ry, more'n we really could 

Says he, "We've raised two hundred, jis a dollar fer us each; 
But to pay four hundred dollars is jis more'n we kin 


Then there was Deekin Blow-hard, he was settin' in the ■ 

cheer ; 
He had sum Bible notions that seemed a little queer. 
He said he 'greed that preachers needed wittles, clothes an' 

" But they orter preach fer nuthin' , cos they say they 

daren't refuse." 
Why, says he, " Paul got no sal'ry, and he even paid his 

An' he preached, an' preached fer nuthin' , an' he didn't 

charge a cent." 

Then Doctor Feel-big riz to speak, an' he hove a heavy sigh, 
An' says he, " The trouble's here. Our preacher is too dry. 
He's way behind the living age, he's neither learned nor 

choice ; 
He mingles with the poor too much, and has a horrid voice ; 
His grammar is outrageous ; his articulation poor ; 
Gesticulation awkvi'ard, too shocking to endure. 
The times demand a cultured head, and logic without flaws, 
A pious heart may be all right ; we want a man that drava" 


Then, Deekin Save-all got the floor ; says he, " Don't think 

me rash ; 
The reason things are going wrong, we're spendin' too 

much cash;. 
We spent five dollars to carpet the floor— t/(a< was a heavy 

An' now we've giv five dollars more to them heathen 

Chinee chaps. 
That's the way our money goes, a-sendin' it all away 
To feed them fellers o'er the seas ; no wonder we've nothin' 

to pay. 
I've told the brethering tyne and agin, it seemed so plaguey 

They didn't lower the sal'ry to three hundred dollars a 


An' now, thinks I, it's my turn to give a word or two ; 
Fer I felt my blood a-bilin' so, I couldn't keep my pew. 
"Brethering," says I, "fer forty years I've trod the King's 

An' I never heerd until to-night, religion didn't pay. 
I'll tell you what the matter is, this church is losin' breath, 
Fer tryin' to keep the meetin's up, by starvin' 'em to death. 
Now wind is good to blow with ; but, I've found it was the 

If yer want to run a raleroad train, yer got to have some 


How's the preacher goin' to preach, if yer give him nuthin' 

to eat? 
Kin he git fat on nuthin' while you must have yer meat? 
You have yer homes of plenty, an' yer stocks an' bonds an' 

deeds ; 
But you love yer clinkin' dollars more'n you do the church's 

I tell you, if yer want to git to heaven, by and by, 
Ye'd better loose yer purse-strings fer yer'll have to when 

yer die. 

"Git yer pocket-books converted! Let the church be 

warmed an' fed ! 
An' yer'll not be goin' backward, but yer'll git away ahead. 
Why the Lord won't let you fellers git too near the golden 

Fer ye'd coin it into dollars to increase yer real estate ; 
Gittin' dollars will not save you ; what's the use of hoardin' 

Quit yer pinchin', stop complainin', pay yer debts like 

honest men." 



Three ships of war had Prgble when he left the Naples 

And t)ie knightly king of Naples lent him seven galleys 

And never since the Argo floated in the middle sea 
Such noble men and valiant have sailed in company 
As the men who went with Preble to the siege of Tripoli. 
Stewart, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur, how their names ring 

out like gold ! 
Lawrence, Porter, Trippe, Macdonough, and a score as true 

and bold ; 
Every star that lights their banner tells the glory that they 

won ; 
But the common sailor's glory is the splendor of the sun. 

Reuben James was first to follow when Decatur laid aboard 

Of the lofty Turkish galley and in battle broke his sword. 

Then the pirate captain smote him, till his blood was run- 
ning fast. 

And they grappled, and they struggled, and they fell beside 
the mast. 

Close behind him Reuben battled with a dozen, undis- 

Till a bullet broke his sword-arm, and he dropped the use- 
less blade. 

Then a swinging Turkish sabre clove his left and brought 
him low. 

Like a gallant bark, dismasted, at the mercy of the foe. 

Little mercy knows the corsair, high his blade was raised 
to slay. 

When a richer prize allured him where Decatur struggling 

"Help ! " the Turkish leader shouted, and his trusty com- 
rades sprung, 

And his scimitar like lightning o'er the Yankee captain 

Reuben James, disabled, armless, saw the sabre flash on 

Saw Decatur shrink before it, heard the pirate's taunting 

Saw, m half the time I tell it, how a sailor brave and true 
Still might show a bloody pirate what a dying man can do. 
Quick he struggled, stumbling, sliding in the blood around 

his feet. 
As the Turk a moment waited to make vengeance doubly 



Swift the sabre fell, but swifter bent the sailor's head 

below ; 
And on his defenceless forehead Eeuben James received 

the blow. 

So was saved our brave Decatur ; so the common sailor 

So the love that moves the lowly lifts the great to fame and 

Yet we grudge him not his honors, for whom love like this 

had birth, 
For God never ranks his sailors by the register of earth. 

— Boston Pilot. 


WriUen expressly for this CoUectUm. 

He was standing on the corner. 
As the snow came gently down ; 
While the wind was keenly blowing 
Over road and field and town. 

He had naught on earth to cheer him. 
Save his fiddle and his bow ; 
By which he earned a pittance 
From the passers to and fro. 

'Twas the merry eve of Christmas, 
And the old man quaked with fear 
When roughly told to " move along 
And keep the sidewalk clear." 

"Aye, 'move on,' 'move on,' he muttered, 
Creeping tremblingly away, 
" Yea, 'move on,' 'move on' forever. 
Without a rest or stay." 

And the old man wept and shuddered 
As he thought of days gone by ; 
While the wind, in mournful cadence, 
Seemed to whisper from on high. 

Then his icy fingers quivered. 
As he clutched the well-worn bow ; 
And his moist eyes shone and glistened 
Through the darkness cold and low. 

Oh the wondrous, wailing music 
That thrilled the midnight air, 


Bespoke in awful harmony 
The depths of wild despair ' 

And the sun on Christmas morning, 
Shining brightly over all, 
Kissed the form of one whose spirit 
Had " moved on " beyond recall. 


Old Uncle Peter had been hired to whitewash the Squire's cellar. After the 
joh was finished and the old negro had disappeared, it was found that one 
of the Squire's clioicest roosters had disappeared also. The Squire called upon 
the old luau to investigate the matter, and the following conversation was the 
result : 

" Uncle Peter, I find that after you finished white- 
washing my cellar and had gone home, that one of my 
finest roosters, a black Java, has disappeared ; do you 
know anything of it ? " 

" For de Ian' sakes, Squire ; did you dun loose dat 
prime rooster ; dat fellow dat held his head so high 
and crowed like to split his sides open ? I dun hear 
a fox bark de udder night, and I shouldn't be s'prized 
but what he got dat bird and eat him up. Marsa 
Fox he mighty fond of poultry, sah ! " 

" Yes, and so is an old negro I know of." 

" Te ! he ! he ! Squire, you dun mean me fo' suah ? 
Yes indeedy, I'm powerful fond of chicken, but it's 
been such a long time since I had one dat I clear forgits 
how him tastes." 

" Well, Uncle Peter, how did my rooster taste, eh ? " 

" Golly, Squire^ how I know dat ? You is a-pokin' 
fun at de ole man. Dere aint been no sign ob a chicken 
round yere for de lass free mouths." 

" Hum, but how do you account for all of those fea- 
thers being in your rubbish heap, there ?" 

'' Fedders ! I reckon dat my ole woman dun empty 
a ole fedder bed out dar ; she's a been a-goin' to fro 
dat ar' ole bed away since Chris'muss." 

" But look ! some of those feathers belong to that 

■* Written exj/reBsly /or Urn CoUectwnf 


identical rooster of mine ; see, there are the beautiful 
tall feathers ; I would recognize them among a hundred." 

" Wal I declar' to goodness, if dem aint de fedders of 
dat ole bird fo' suah. How did they come dar ? " 

" Uncle Peter, I am surprised that you, a member of 
church and a deacon, too, should be guilty of stealing 
my rooster." 

" Deed Squire, dere am some mistake about dis yere — 
I aint hab de faintest rememberation of taking dat 
chicken. I calculate dat dat ar' bird must a flew ober 
yere and got caught in de wire fence and he scraped all 
de fedders ofien him tryin' to git loose." 

" Uncle Peter, I don't believe anything of the kind. 
You stole my chicken." 

" Wal Squire, if you say dat I dun tuck him, ob 
course I'se got to gib in to you — ebbrything seems to 
look agin rac, fo' suah. But Squire, dar were exteni-ga- 
ting circumstances, sah ! dat whitewashing was 'sponsi- 
ble for de wnole affair." 

" Oh, of course, if you had not whitewashed my 
cellar, you would not have been tempted to steal the 
chicken ; a very lame excuse, very." 

" 'Deed, tsah, de 'gredients in dat ar whitewash was 
de cause ol) all de trubble." 

" Oh, come. Uncle Peter, you are drawing the long bow." 

" No indeedy I aint. Squire, I'm a telling youse de 
gos-pell truff". It's all on account ob dat ar glue." 

" Glue ! " 

" Yes, sah ; de glue what I dun use in dat ar white- 
wash, sah ! " 

'' Now Peter, what in the world has glue to do with 
your stealing that chicken ? " 

" Jist wait one minnit. Squire, and I'll 'plain de 
whole circumfenees of dat ar thing. Youse see it war 
like dis ; I war a whitewashing your cellar jess so and 
I put in, dat ar whitewash some ob de bestest glue 
what I could find, to make him stick to de wall so dat 
he wont rub ofien on your clothes." 


" Well — how about the rooster ? " 

" I'm a comin' to dat, Squire, just wait a little niinnit, 
I'll tell you 'bout dat ar thing to your 'tire satisfactory, 
dat I will. When I got froo dat job in your cellar and 
was a gwine home, I dun seed dat ar rooster was loose 
cuten de chicken ya'd ; so I ketched him to fro him 
back agin, and den Squire, what you think dun hap- 
pen ? Dat ar rooster dun stick to my fingers ; 'deed he 
did — kase why"? De glue ob dat ar whitewash was all 
ober my ban's, and dem fedders dun stick so tight dat I 
couldn't git dat fowel offen my ban's, no how; den I went 
home to my ole woman, Mandy, an' axed her to git dat 
rooster ofFen my ban's, kase I knowed dat you set great 
store by dat bird. She tried an' she tried, an' some 
ob de fedders fcome out ; den I tried an' tried an' mo' 
fedders come out ; den we tried to scrape him offen wid 
a knife and mo' fedders came out ; den we tried scald- 
ing water and mo' ob dem fedders came out, at lass 
when I got my ban's loosen dat ar bird was stripped 
bare. Den I set him outen ob de door and dun shooed 
him home." 

" What ! do you mean to say that you set that bird, 
bereft of his feathera, outside of your door and expected 
him to go home ? " 

" Deed I did, Squire, and I war mighty s'prised dat 
he didn't go " 

" Well, I would have been more surprised if he 
hadn't stayed, since you had your hands on him — ^but 
how came it that Mandy roasted that rooster." 

" Dat war another s'prise to me. Squire ; I thought 
dat dat ar rooster had dun gone home, and when 
Mandy she dun bring him in on a platter, all brown, 
wid de juice a running outen him and a-smellin' so 
good, I nearly fainted wid amazement. I 'spostulated 
wiff ISLindy and refused to eat ob him, den she dun 
hypertized me " 

" Hypnotized you ; what do you mean, you rascal?" 

" 'Deed she did, Scjuire, she put dat dar' fowel on de 


table and made dem mestermarized passes. She deu 
mestermarized me wiff her eyes — so ; den she mester- 
marized me wiff her fingers — so ; and den she mester- 
marized me wiff her mouf — so ; till I couldn't resist de 
spell, and I helps eat dat rooster up." 

" Uncle Peter, I am ashamed of you ; trying to put 
the blame upon your good old wife ; I ought to put you 
in jail, but for her sake I wont. Now let me see, the 
bill for whitewashing my cellar amounts to three dol- 
lars and fifty cents ; you can whistle for your money; 
the rooster balances the account." 

" 'Deed, Squire, I wasn't at all 'sponsible for what I 
did ; dat ar glue an' dat ar hypertizem was de cause 
ob me takin' dat ar rooster. Dat's de whole truff, for 
I'm a memba' of church in good standin'." 

" Uncle Peter, you may be a first-class church mem- 
ber, but you are also a first-class liar — good day." 

" Phew! dat was a mighty hard scratch to git outen 
dat scrape. Dat lams me a lessin; I'll nebber steal 
anodder one of de Squire's chickens agin, as long as I lib." 

TWO MEN.— Charles Noble Grkqory. 

One was a king, and wide domain 

He ruled as his sires had done ; 
A wooden hovel, a bed of pain. 

Belonged to the other one. 

The king was ill and the world was sad — 
But the monarch languished, the monarch died ; 

The beggar was sick unto death, but he had 
No one to watch at his low bedside. 

Then under the minster the king was laid, 
While o'er him the marbles were piled ; 

But a shallow grave in the fields was made, 
By careless hands, for poverty's child. 

But now there are those who profoundly declare 
If you opened the tomb and the grave, 

You could not distinguish, whatever your care. 
The dust of the king and the slave. 



Chakactbrs Rbpkesbnted. 



Guardian Angel. 

Scene. — The landlord at his counter— fills bottles, rinses and ar' 
ranges glasses, etc., then puis his head on the counter in sleep. 
All who enter, but the last, form a semicircle on the left. 2he 
Herald stands at extreme left. Mother Earth enters robed in 
green, arms laden with fruit, a sickle in her hand. 

Herald. Says Mother Eartli: 

Earth. I vow, I vow- 

That every man or woman 

Who takes my grapes,-or takes my corn 
To make a drink inhuman, 

My worm shall fatten on his heart, 
My earthquakes spoil his sleeping. 

No green thing grow a-near his grave, 
But gruesome things come creeping. 

Ike Ocean enters, in long sweeping robe of blue. 

Herald. The Ocean lifts his mighty voice; 

Ocean. The man who drugs his fellow 

And leaves him like a sinking wreck 

Upon the raging billow, 
Oh ! fling him to my lowest depths 

And to a millstone bind him. 
That in the awful judgment day 

The reapers may not find him. 

The Sky enters, with crown of stars. 
Herald. The soft Sky speaks from clouds of gray: 

Sky. And can it be, I wonder. 

That man can kill his neighbor's soul 
And him from heaven sunder. 

♦Written expresBly for this Collection. Miss Murray has contributed to this 
Beries, "Resurrection Morn," "Esau and Jacob," " Cain, Ancient and Mod- 
ern," and other beautiful dramatic eketches. 



Ah ! never, never, shall his feet 

My holy arch come climbing, 
And never, never, hear my bells 

The song of welcome chiming. 

The Stale enters vMh Us usual symbol. 

Herald. The State cries out : 

State. Thou evil man, 

And shall my people grovel 
In poverty and wretched plight, 

In many a di^ary hovel, 
That thou mayst flaunt along the way 

And rear thy costly palace? 
My penitentiary at last 

Shall touch thy conscience callous. 

Tlie Church enters, in white, mth cross. 

Herald. The Church looks on with troubled eyes, 
Her white robes backward holding: 

Church. And does he tempt, and does he steal 
The sheep from out my folding? 

Oh, from my high and holy things, 
The taint of evil banish 

And let the tempter's evil art 
In shadowing darkness vanish. 

The Guardian Angel enters, vnih white robe, wings and crown. 

Herald. His Guardian Angel mournfully 
Lifts up a hand attesting : 

Angel. I've reasoned with him day and night, 
I've warned hira without resting; 
Now time to weep and time to pray — 

That time is his no longer ; 
His gains are dust, his sands have run 
For Heaven than man is stronger. 

Enter a form veiled in black from head to foot. 

Herald {in terror, hands uplifted). 
The Fiend has come : 

Mend (to circle, who draw bach). Stand back a space, 
And let me claim my agent. 


Too close I do not care to come 

To your white, holy pageant. 
This man has done my work so well, 

Has tilled my pit with wailing, 
'Tis time that he should go to join 

His customers' bewailing. 

All slowly retire, or withdraw to back of stage as the liquor-seller 
lifts his head and springs to his feet. 

Liquor-seller (excitedly, but impressively). 

'Twas but a dream— to show my crime. 
Thank God ! the lesson comes in time. 

He begins hurriedly to empty his bottles, wash the glasses and 
fill them with water, etc., glancing round now and then as if 
he thought he saw the silent circle, as Owrtain falls. 

" FAULTLESS."— Mss. Heerick Johnson. 

JUDE, verse 24. 

" Faultless in his glory's presence ! " 
All the soul within me stirred, 

All my heart reached up to heaven 
At the wonder of that word. 

" Able to present me faultless ? 

Lord, forgive my doubt," I cried ; 
" Thou didst once, to loving doubt, show 

Hands and feet and riven side. 

" Oh, for me build up some ladder. 

Bright with golden round on round, 
That my hope this word may compass, 

Reaching Faith's high vantage-ground." 
Praying thus, behold, my ladder. 

Reaching unto perfect day, 
Grew from out a simple story 

Dropped by some one in the way. 

Once a queen — so ran the story — 

Seeking far for something new, 
Found it in a mill, where, strangely, 

Naught but rags repaid her view. 
Rags from out the very gutters. 

Rags of every shape and hue, 
While the squalid children, picking, 

Seemed but rags from hair to shoe. 


" What, then," rang her eager question, 

"Can you do with things so vile ? " 
" Mold them into perfect whiteness," 

Said the master with a smile. 

"Whiteness?" quoth the queen, half doubting 
" But these reddest crimson dyes— 

Surely naught can ever whiten 
These to fitness in your eyes ! " 

" Yes," he said, " though these are colors 

Hardest to rei^ove of all ; 
Still I have the power to make them 

Like the snowflake in its fall." 

Through my heart the words so simple 

Throbbed with echo in and out ; 
" Crimson," " scarlet," " white as snowflake," 

Can the man — and can God not ? 

Now, upon a day thereafter 

(Thus the tale went on at will), 
To the queen there came a present 

From the master at the mill. 

Fold on fold of fairest texture, 

Lay the paper purest white ; 
On each sheet there gleamed the letters 

Of her name in golden light. 

" Precious lesson," wrote the master, 

" Hath my mill thus given me. 
Showing how our Christ can gather 

Vilest hearts from land or sea, — 

" In some heavenly alembic, 

Snowy white from crimson bring. 
Stamp his name on each, and bear them 

To the palace of the King." 

Oh, what wondrous vision wrapped me I 

Heaven's gates seemed open wide, 
Even I stood clear and faultless. 

Close beneath the piercgd side. 

Faultless in his glory's presence ! 

Faultless in that dazzling light! 
Christ's own love, majestic, tender. 

Made my crimson snowy white ! 



Joseph Beet Smiley. 

They stood in the moonlight, under a large, spread- 
ing elm. The elm stood near a corner, and its broad 
branches completely hid the window of a second-story 
room in the corner house. The weather was excessively 
warm, and the windows were all open. The moon was 
up, and it was a beautiful, balmy, huudred-and-ten-in- 
the-shade sort of an evening. They came along on the 
sidewalk and stopped under the large elm tree. It was 
very late, and the porches in the neighborhood were all 
deserted. They stood under the elm tree and leaned up 
against the fence. They were talking very earnestly. 
The youth was speaking of the way that the whole 
world would be a blank to him without her beside him, 
and how glorious would be everything if she would 
only consent to become his wife. 

" George," said she tenderly, " George, will you allers 
love me this way ? Wont you never git sick of me and 
go to lovin' somebody else ? " 

" No, Mary, I wont never love nobody else but you." 

" Well, then I'm yourn," she exclaimed, and there 
was a noise as of a five-cent fire-cracker, as they fell into 
each other's arms. Pretty soon she straightened up and 
stood a few feet away from him, eyeing him intently. 
Then she said : " George, are you sure you'll allers love 

George protested that he always would. 

"Well, then I'm yourn!" said the maiden, and there 
was another embrace. After a moment she backed 
away and said, " George, there's lots purtier'n I be, 
and don't you think that some day you'll love somebody 
else mor'n you do me?" 

George protested vehemently that he never would. 

" Well, then I'm yourn 1 " she said, emphatically, and 
there was another tableau. Pretty soon she stepped 

*Froin " A Basket of Chips," by permiasiun of the Author. 

numb;, n THIRTY-THREE. :.'45 

back and said, " George, I don't s'pose I'll allers be as 
purty as I be now. When I get old, there'll be wrin- 
kles on my forehead, George, and maybe I'll look real 
ugly. Do you s'pose that you'll love me then just the 
same, George ? " 

His solemn protestations were renewed. 

" Well, then I'm yourn ! " said the maiden, and then 
followed another explosion, followed by a grizzly-bear 
embrace. In a moment she was struck with another 
thought. Her soul was "harassed with another doubt. 
" George," said she, "when I get old, I 'spect I'll look 
awful. There'll be wrinkles in my fore'd, an' maybe I 
wont have no hair, an' I'll haveter wear store hair, 
George, an' switches. Do you think you will love me 
then, George ? " 

George answered her that he would. 

" Well, then I'm yourn ! " she said with determina- 
tion, and there was another very loud osculation, and a 
tableau with blue lights. In a moment she said : 
"George, I — I — I don't know, but maybe when I get old, 
I may lose my teeth. And I think I'll be very horrid, 
George. Just only think. There'll be wrinkles on my 
fore'd, and I wont have no hair, and wont have no 
teeth, and I'll haveter wear store hair, an' false teeth, 
and — and " 

" What's the matter with a glass eye, and a wooden 
leg ? " observed a bad, wicked reporter, sitting at an 
upper window, by way of assisting the fair damsel. 

Then there was a tableau : A stifled scream, some 
profanity in a base voice and two persons moving down 
the street in a way that would have bankrupted a camel 

IS FREEDOM A LIE ?— J. M. Munyon. 
I want to know, Judge, 
And that's why I'm here, 
If this lad and I 
Can work without fear? 


And I'd like to know 

If a freeborn man 

Must bow to the will 

Of a secret clan — 

Who say we sha'n't work 

Unless to their band 

We pledge them an oath 

And give them our hand 

To stand by their acts 

No matter how wrong, 

To strike when they strike, 

No matter how long 7 

And if we refuse 

Our job we must lose, 

And this is the day 

They say we must choose. 

Must freemen obey 

These insolent knaves? 

Shall Americans cringe 

Like whipped galley slaves ? 

Are heroes no more ? 

Is loyalty slain? 

Is manhood dethroned? 

Does anarchy reign ? 

Is justice so weak 

That mobs may defy ? 

Is liberty dead. 

Is freedom a lie ? 

You know I was born 
In this very place. 
And never a crime 
To me can you trace ; 
For twenty odd years 
I've worked I may say 
At the same old bench 
I'm leaving to-day ; 
I've built me a home 
That stands on the hill. 
And earned every cent 
In the old stone mill ; 
I've children to feed 
And taxes to pay, 
And no lawless gang 
Shall drive me away. 


And I want to say, 
And say it right here, 
'Twill be life for life 
If they interfere. 

I answered the call 
When our country's life 
Lay bathed in the blood 
Of sectional strife ; 
When reasofl was blind, 
When treason was rife, 
When the blue and the gray 
Made war to the knife, 
1 shielded the flag 
From bullet and blow, 
And fell at the front 
As these scars show ; 
And now do you think 
I'll quit home and wife. 
And leave the old friends 
I've known all ray life ? 

No ! No ! I rebel 
And defiantly stand ; 
I'll fight for my rights, 
The law and the land. 


You may reap your harvest of wheat and tares, 

You may gather your cockle and barley, 
You may husband a harvest of joys and cares, 

Laboring late and early ; 
The grain of gold and the poppy bold 

And the cornflower blue for adorning ; 
But the fullest ears of the seven fat years 

Will be gleaned by the gleaner next morning. 

You may draw your nets, you may draw your line, 

Find silvery fish in plenty ; 
You may angle for honor, hook titles fine, 

And of places and posts fill twenty ; 
The fish of weight swallow up your bait. 

Your lures and your wiles not scorning ; 
But the lustiest trout, there's no manner of doubt, 

Will be caught by the fisher next morning. 


You may think out thoughts that are witty and wise, 

You may think some deep, some sliallow ; 
You may store your hrain with truth or with lie's, 

You may let your brain lie fallow. 
Thought is good, be it understood ; 

But this fact on your mind must be borne in. 
That the latest thought that mankind can be taught 

Will be thought by some thinker next morning. 

You may cling to this world of time and sense, 

Y'ou may think of another rarely ; 
You may sigh, "ah, whither?" and ask, "ah, whence?" 

And find life puzzling, fairly. 
Yet life is sweet, we still repeat, 

On this dear old earth we were born in. 
Good bettered to best, best changed into blest 

When we wake to God's cloudless next morning. 
— Blackwood's Magazine. 

TIM TITUS.— J. Fox Abrahams. 

My friend, pray don't hug up your pile, 

Be generous, while you can ; 
Enjoy what God has given you 

And be at once a man. 
A miser spreads his wings for heaven, 

But shapes his deeds for hell ; 
In illustration of the point, 

Let me a story tell : 

Tim Titus he was terrible 

To all with whom he dealt; 
He literally cleaned 'em out ; 

Was bound to take their melt. 
With cent per cent stamped on his face 

And tightly in his fist. 
An animated money-till. 

Whose toll absorbed the grist. 

Tim was a self-denying man, 

As presently you'll find ; 
And all his self-denial was 

The superhuman kind ; 
Whene'er a beggar showed his face, 

Tim promptly shut his door ; 


Denied himself the pleasure, thus, 
Of giving to the poor. 

Full wages to the laborer. 

He always, too, denied; 
He paid much less than others paid, 

To mortify his pride. 
His pigmy market-basket with 

Its closely fitting lid, 
Concealed the luscious liver, and 

Tim's vanity was hid. 

Now, Tim was pious and he felt 

For man an anxious fear ; 
Lest "root of evil" ruin him, 

Tim bagged it, far and near. 
'Twas thus he daily gathered in 

The devil's dirty pelf; 
But well we know he never kept 

A dollar for himself. 

For when the bold assessor came, 

Assessing all around. 
He clapped the screws to Timmy's pila 

And not a dime was found. 
" Can this be so?" the taxman said ; 

A sceptic, nothing loth ; 
Tim Titus proved it clear as mud, 

Tim proved it with his oath. 

To grind the faces of the poor, 

Tim ever kept his mill ; 
And gathered in from year to year, 

The "root of evil" still. 
Mistaken toil of Tim's whole life. 

Now when his breath was riven, 
His hoard was found — a mountain high, 

Just— 'twixt his soul and heaven. 

Dear reader : Here take warning, when 

Eeligiously inclined, 
Be sure you shake the jingle of 

The dollars from your mind ; 
For, 'tisn't in the meetin'-house. 

Nor in the wordy prayer. 
But in your daily walks and works — 

Keligion must be there. 


RossiTER W. Raymond. 

This is a story of strange old times, when beasts and 
birds could talk — as they can still, for all I know — and 
men (that is to say, children) could understand what 
they said, which, I regret to confess, has now become 
impossible. There are a great many respects in which 
the world has improved, no doubt ; but the fact is, the 
locomotives and factories and water-wheels keep up 
such a clatter that we cannot hear any more what flow- 
ers and winds whisper, or birds gossip about among the 
leaves in the sociable twilight, or cattle gravely discuss 
between meals. Things have changed and do change 
wonderfully in this world, and it is a comfort to remem- 
ber that goodness and kindness and happiness do not 
alter — as you will see, dear children, from the story of 
Karl the Fiddler. 

Once upon a time, between the age of Abraham and 
the election of General Grant, there was a boy whose 
name was Karl, and he fiddled for a living. He used 
to play such lively tunes, and nod his head so gayly 
while he played, that no one could hear him without 
desiring to dance ; and whenever he had played for five 
minutes, you could hear all the toes and heels of the 
audience rapping out the tune. He was accustomed to 
travel from one place to another, and to pay for his 
lodging and his meals with his violin. He was welcome 
everywhere. When the children of any village saw 
him coming along the road with his green bag, they 
used to leave their play, and run to meet him ; and the 
old women who sat spinning in the doorways, and the 
old men who were smoking their pipes in the sun, 
greeted him kindly. The pastor, who was a white- 
haired man and loved all children, but especially good 
ones, often said that Karl was the best boy he knew, 

*From " Tile Man iu the Moon, aud Otber People," by permission. 


for he was honest and industrious, and kind to all. 
" He deserves," said the pastor, " to be rich as the 
haron, powerful as the emperor, and happy as a lark at 
sunrise." Then Karl would laugh and answer : " I 
want nothing of your barons and emperors. As for the 
lark, he and I know one another already. I often 
watch his nest in the morning, when the lady-lark and 
all the little larks make the beds and put everything in 
order, while he flies up into the dawn and sings down 
to them how beautiful is rtie world. I understand their 
language, too ; for every one who lives twelve years 
without doing harm to any living thing will have his 
ears open to hear what birds and beasts and trees say. 
And I heard the wise, mother-lark say to the little ones 
yesterday, when they had finished reciting their lessons: 
' Take note of this, my children, for in this we are more 
sensible than men. To be rich is to have food and shel- 
ter ; to be powerful is to do good ; to be happy is to 
love all things and sing.' 

" So you see," Karl would add, " according to the 
philosophy of the larks, I am rich and powerful and 
happy. Only I do not sing ; but my violin does that 
for me." Then he would go merrily on his way. 

One day, in the middle of winter, Karl lefb the inn 
where he had spent the night before to go to the great 
city, miles away, beyond the woods. The guests all 
came to the door to bid him farewell, and the storm 
seemed so dreadful to them that they said : " You must 
not go to-day, Karl ; you will never find your way 
through the wood. You will never get there alive." 
But he shook his curly head, laughing and saying : 
" The cold world is a warm world to me ; I am not 
afraid." Then the landlady put a little bundle of food 
in his hand, for fear he might lose the path and be hun- 
gry; and he slung his green bag over his shoulder, and 
went on his way. The winds blew terribly, and as 
they rushed by him he heard them say: " Is that you, 
Karl? We are very sorry to knock you about so 


roughly, but the fact is we are on a race from the North 
Pole to the Equator ; and we have taken such a long 
start, and got a-going so fast, that we can't stop. Next 
summer we'll come back and play with you among the 
roses." And with that away they went, so fast that 
Karl could not answer them. The snow fell furiously, 
so that he could hardly see ; but as the crystal flakes 
went by, he heard them whisper : " We are sorry, Karl, 
to get in your way ; but the fact is, we were sitting just 
now on the edge of a cloud up there, and those rough 
winds came by and jostled us, and we fell off"; and we 
have been falling so far that we cannot stop.'' Karl 
laughed and said : " No matter, next summer I shall 
find you in the brook, and we'll have good times with 
the frogs and speckled trout." 

Presently he got into the wood. There the wind was 
not so strong, but the snow was very deep. Before long 
he knew that he had lost his way. At first he was not 
frightened, but went bravely on, expecting soon to get 
out of the forest. At last it began to grow dark, and 
he was very cold and tired ; so he sat down in the snow 
by the side of a great tree. But the snow was so deep 
that he sank in out of sight. So he worked away till he 
had scooped out a little cave in it. Into that he crawled 
and ate the supper which the good landlady had given 
him. After supper he felt both numb and sleepy ; and, as 
he did not know how to get any warmer, he thought he 
would go to sleep. Just as he was almost asleep he 
heard the snow-crystals whispering to him : " Karl ! 
Karl ! do not sleep here ! We are doing our best to 
keep you warm ; but the closer we keep to you, the 
colder you grow, and we fear we shall freeze you to 
death ! " When Karl heard that, he resolved not to 
sleep. So, to keep himself awake, he took out his 
violin, and began with his numb fingers to play a lively 
tune. Was not that a strange thing, — a boy playing a 
tune on the violin, at the bottom of a snow-drift, in the 
middle of a forest, on a stormy winter's night ? Not half 


as strange as the next thing that happened ; for just as 
he was growing so faint with cold that he could not 
play much longer, a big, gruff voice said : " Karl, is 
that you ? " 

Karl scrambled out of his cavern, and looked about 
in vain to see who had spoken. There was nothing but 
the silent trees, reaching up from the white snow to the 
black sky, like pillars on a marble floor holding up an 
iron roof. Presently the voice said again : " Karl, come 
in and get warm ! " And this time it certainly came 
from the tree near which he had been lying ; but it 
could not be the tree that spoke, for the voice used not 
tree-language, but animal-language, which is as different 
as can be; and besides, in the winter the trees are so 
cold that they cannot talk at all, but only shiver and 
chatter their branches, as people that are cold chatter 
their teeth. While he looked at the tree and wondered 
what this could mean, he saw that it was hollow, and 
the hole at the bottom was stopped with a great snow- 
ball ; but the snow-ball was strangely agitated, as if try- 
ing of itself to get away. He ran to the spot, and 
helped with all liis might ; and when the ball was a 
little moved, so that he could pass by, he crawled into 
the hole with his violin as quickly as he could, and the 
ball rolled back into its place. 

Now, who should be in the tree but a bear, — a great 
black bear, — who growled out very kindly to him, with 
a long yawn : " You have spoiled my winter nap for 
me, Karl ; I haven't slept more than six weeks, and 
here you come fiddling under ray very nose ! Well, 
never mind ! I'm glad to meet you again. Here, snug- 
gle up, and warm yourself. I haven't forgotten how 
good you were to me when you played the violin for 
me to dance in the menagerie." 

They had a great deal to say about old times, but, un- 
fortunately, they did not say it ; for just as the bear 
was about to relate how he happened to forsake the 
menagerie business and take to the woods, he gave a 



great snore, and went to sleep for the rest of the winter. 
That is a most remarkable thing. I have often seen 
people go to sleep while I was talking, but never when 
it was their own turn. But bears are peculiar ; and 
Karl, understanding their ways, nestled close to his old 
friend, and fell asleep himself In the morning he 
slipped out without disturbing the bear, and found the 
storm was over. Stepping lightly on the tops of the 
drifts, he found his way before long out of the wood, 
and at last into the great city. 

Now, the king of that country was a terrible tyrant. 
Every one knew it but himself; and as no one dared to 
tell him, and he was not acquainted with any other 
kings who could set him a good example and make him 
ashamed of himself, he actually considered himself the 
best and wisest of mankind. Every day he held a court 
in the great hall of his palace, and executed what he 
called "justice." He would listen to each case that was 
brought before him, until he either understood the mat- 
ter, or (what was much the same thing) got tired of 
trying to understand it, and then he would either turn 
his head from side to side, or nod it up and down. If 
the first, the petition was denied, and the petitioner was 
immediately removed to have his head cut off. If it 
was a nod, the petition was granted, and the petitioner 
hurried away as fast as he could, for fear there was 
some mistake about it. In either case all was over in a 
few seconds ; and as the next applicant for justice was 
called in directly, and no time was lost, the amount of 
l)usiness the king would get through with in one fore- 
noon was something quite astonishing. 

As Karl stood in the crowd at one side of the great 
hall, looking on, the first case for that morning was 
called. An Egyptian merchant came forward and fell 
at the feet of the king, declaring his petition. He 
claimed as his slave a poor girl, who was also brought 
before the throne, but in chains. The cruel merchant 
told a false story, but he felt secure of triumph ; for he 


had previously bribed the prime minister, and even 
sent a handsome sacred cat from Thebes to the king 
himself. This cat, which was now walking about the 
hall, was pure white all over, with flaming eyes. As it 
came near Karl, he overheard it purring to itself: 
" How that villain lies ! I am not from Thebes at all ; 
and as for this poor girl, she used to live in the same 
street with me, and I know she is no slave." When 
Karl heard that, he was so impressed with the wicked- 
ness of mankind that, forgetting where he stood, he 
gave a long whistle. Everybody turned that way, to 
see who could be so daring, — the king among the rest ; 
and the obedient guards, who were already watching 
for the slightest sign of the royal decision, when they 
saw the king's head turn aside in that style, at once 
seized the Egyptian merchant, dragged him out of the 
royal presence, and before he could have said Jack Rob- 
inson (if he had tried to do so, which he didn't) cut off 
his ugly head. As for the poor girl, you may well be- 
lieve she did not stop long to see what had saved her. 

But for Karl the situation was embarrassing. He 
thought he would try the eflfect of a little fiddling upon 
the company ; and, just as the soldiers were about to 
take hold of him, he began a lively tune. Everybody 
was delighted ; and the king above all, who, in a few 
seconds, might be seen nodding his head to keep time 
with the music. Now the officers kept bringing in new 
cases for judgment ; and there was the king nodding 
assent to every one. The first was a distressed widow, 
asking protection against her husband's brother; and 
she got what she wanted so quickly that a host of other 
afflicted and oppressed persons, who had been afraid to 
come before the king, crowded at the foot of the throne. 
That was a great morning for business ! By the time 
the tune was over, and the king stopped nodding, no 
less than two hundred and seventy-three poor people 
had got real justice done them. 

A great shouting was then heard from before the 


palace; and when the king went out upon the balcony, 
lo ! there was the population of the city, full of gladness 
and praise, because of the merciful and fatherly conduct 
of their sovereign. This set the king a-thinking. He 
wondered at first what it all meant ; but after several 
days of deep meditation, he began to suspect that he 
had been a tyrant and a fool. So he rang the bell for 
the prime minister, and said to him that his services 
were no longer required. Then he rang again for the 
chief of police, and to him he said : " Bring me the 
fiddler ! " 

That's the way Karl the fiddler came to be prime 
minister ; but how on earth it happened that the lovely, 
lovely daughter of the king fell in love with him, and 
he with her, I never could tell. Everything else can be 
explained, in one way or another ; but that sort of thing 
is quite incomprehensible. It is certain, however, that, a 
few years after the period to which I now allude, a 
portly King Karl used to sit with his peerless bride by 
his royal side ; and a fair-haired little prince used to 
write with great pains in his copy-book the following 
excellent maxim, composed, it is said, by his royal sire : 

"I am rich, but have only food and shelter; 
Powerful, but only to do good ; 
Happy, but only because I love all things." 


Robert C. V. Mkyees. 
Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum, 
The fakir 's to the corner come. 

" Gents and ladies, here you are, 
A. medicine that cures all ills, — 
Corns, consumption, coughs, catarrh, 
Cuts and bruises, fevers, chills. 

_»Written expressly for this Collection. Mr. Meyers has contribnted to this 
Seriesi "When Grandfather Went to Town." "From the Iron Gate," "Gate's 
Christmas Eve," " The Sentinel of Metz," " Tlie Curtsy," "Brother Beii," "The 
Masque," "Jamie," "If I Should Die to-night," "Our C'lumbus,"etc. 


Here you are ! here you are ! 

A lady whose both feet were gone 

Took a dose, and wrote a jig ; 

A gent bald as this cobble-stone 

Smelled the cork, and bought a wig. 

Strike up drummer, strike up there I — 

No more lagging. Everywhere 

This medicine is known. He's dumb, 

That drummer, and blind as a bat ; 

I keep him just to scare the cat." 

Drum, drum^drum, der-um, drum, drum I 

The drummer, old, and thin and weak, 

Beat the parchment, did not speak, 

Did not look up at the jokes 

The fakir told the grinning folks 

About the drummer who had lost 

His throat, and could not take at most 

A drop of the great medicine, 

Or he'd be young and bright again. 

Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum I 

The drummer blind as well as dumb 

Beat the parchment, and the crowd 

Bought the nostrum, laughing loud 

At the flashy fakir who 

From their hands the money drew. 

Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum! 

In his room the Captain lay. 

Seemed to sleep that summer day. 

Suddenly he started. " Hark ! " 

Said he, raising hand. "Hark! Hark I" 

" 'Tis the fakir's drummer," said 

The nurse that sat beside his bed. 

" The fakir's drummer ! " echoed he. 

The Captain. "One man drums like that — 

And that is Brown of Company C. 

Where's my coat ? — and where's my hat 7 " 

" Captain, lie down," said the nurse, 

" Excitement only makes you worse. 

'Tis the fakir's drummer, sir, 

At the corner." With a whir. 

The lame old Captain wildly cried, 

" 'Tis Brown of Company C, I am 

Sure. He drummed like that beside 

Me that day at Antietam. 


My hat! my hat! I must go out. 

Hear 'em shout, say, hear 'em shout — 

They sound like my old Company 

When Brown came back from Malvern Hill 

Beating loud the reveille." 

" Lie still," the nurse said, " sir, lie still." 

But the old Captain had a will : 

" Lead me," cried he, " lead me, do, 

I must see the fakir- too." 

Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum ! 

The people saw the Captain come, 

Almost carried by the nurse, 

His face lit up, his eyes ablaze 

As in the old exciting days. 

The fakir cried, " I've treated worse ; 

I'll cure him." But the Captain urged 

His way, while off the people surged, 

Till near the old blind drummer, who 

Beat his parchment almost through. 

"Attention ! " cried the Captain, loud. 

The drumsticks paused, the blind face seemed 

To wake, the blind eyes almost gleamed — 

And curious was the gaping crowd. 

" 'Tention ! 'Tention, Company C ! " 

Cried out the Captain. " Reveille ! " 

Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum ! 

The blind old drummer beat like some 

Wild spirit ; and the Captain's feet 

Grew firm, his thin form surely swelled, 

It seemed as though a sword he held, 

As with a sudden move, and fleet. 

He left his nurse and rushed and stood 

Beside the fakir's drummer, — stood 

And gazed, then cried with piercing glee, 

" 'Tis Brown, 'tis Brown of Company C! " 

The drumsticks clattering fell, and then 
The people saw these two old men 
Clasp each other, breast to breast. 
Till some one caught the drum up and, 
Crowded round by all the rest. 
Beat on it "Taps." And hand in hand 
Those two old boys of Uncle Sam 
Stood weeping. All at once the Cap 
With one great effort to be calm, 


Straightened himself and " 'Tention ! " cried, 
And Brown grasped at his drum and dried 
His eyes, and gave the warning tap, 
Then limped ahead ; the Captain in 
The rear limped proudly, and the crowd 
Followed, marching, in the din 
The drum made as the sticks rang loud — 
Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum. 

And so they brought the Captain home, 
And in the house limped Brown, his drum 
Beating away. .4nd those outside 
Could hear him, till the fakir cried, 
" Three cheers for Brown of Company C ! 
Three cheers for the Captain too," cried he. 
" All this comes of my medicine, 
It brings old friends together. In 

This bottle " 

But all the crowd would hear 
Was the drum that still beat faint, yet clear, 
Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum, 
Drum, drum, drum, der-um ! 


"Thanksgiving! — for what?"— and he muttered a curse: 
" For the plainest of food and an empty purse ; 
For a life of hard work and the shabbiest clothes ; 
But it's idle to talk of a poor man's woes ! 
Xiet the rich give thanks ; it is. they who can ; 
There is nothing in life for a laboring man." 

So said John White to his good wife Jane, 
And o'er her face stole a look of pain. 
"Nothing, dear John?" And he thought again. 
Then glanced more kindly down on Jane. 
" I was wrong," he said ; "I'd forgotten you ; 
And I've my health, and the baby, too." 

And the baby crowed— 'twas a bouncing boy— 
And o'er Jane's face came a look of joy; 
And she kissed her John as he went away; 
And he said to himself as he worked that day : 
" I was wrong, very wrong ; I'll not grumble again, 
I should surely be thankful for baby and Jane." 


THE GLACIER-BED.— Emilia Aylmbr Blake. 

In a Tillage in Switzerland, a young guide, on the way back from hii wed- 
ding, meta party of tourists, who were loukiug for a guide to ezplorea glacier. 
The bridegroom loft his bride at the clmk-t duor, as they returned frum the 
church, she promising to keep a light in her window until he should come 
home; but he foil through a ravine upon a glacier-bed and was lost. The wid- 
owed wife, having learned that in the course of fifty years the glacier would 
emerge from the ravine, waited, and her lost husband was found frozen iu the 
ice, all those years after his wedding-day. 

Burning, burning, burning for ever, by night and day, 

Let be the ligl^t in my window, don't toucli it, don't take it 


Witli the sap of my life I have fed my lamp that its flame 

should burn 
Till the morn of our bridal night, till my love, my husband, 

What say you ? he is dead ! I ^ ill not believe it ; no I 
We were wedded — who can remember that ? 'tis so long 

At the church of our mountain village : the morning light 

shone down 
From the glittering peaks of the Alps to circle my bridal 


Oh me, the joy of us two that blessed day made one I 

The song of the happy children, the flowers, the dancing sun. 

All these were about us that time he led me home as his 

When the strangers crossed our path, and he heard them 

call for a guide. 

And duty o'ermasters love, and he dared not deny that call, 
For among our Alpine heroes, they knew him, the bravest 

of all: 
With a foot and an eye and an arm to match with his 

dauntless heart ; 
And I knew where his honor led— though loth we were to 


But his honor, his choice, his desire, was mine, for I loved 

him so; 
When I looked in toy darling's face I was brave and I bade 

him go. 
I stayed at our chS,let door, and he tore himself away 
From the virgin kisses of love, and the joy of our marriage 


" I'll come back to thee, dear," he sgiid, " when the mount- 
ain is veiled in night ; 

Set a lamp in thy window to shine as my star, my guiding 


Through the winding paths of the ice, from beneath, from 

Let my eyes be fixed On thy bridal-chamber, my new-wed- 
ded love." 

And fixed as ice was my gaze that followed him as he went; 
And yet, when I saw him go, I was more than happy — 

The warmth of his arms was around me, my lips had 

thrilled to his kiss ; 
My soul had tasted his love — could heaven be sweeter 

than this ? 

And I knew that nothing could part us more, in life or in 

I saw him not— and I saw him again, far down beneath. 
In the bravery of his gay wedding clothes— and my eyes 

grew dim 
With the strain and the dizzy height, as they looked their 

last on him. 

I knew he would hold to his promise — I never woiild fail 

of mine : 
That was our bridal night when I trimmed my lamp to 

Till he came from the fields of ice, to our ch&let safe and 

Closed in from the thickening night, and the smiting blast 

of the storm. 

That was our bridal night — hist! the fiends of the moun- 
tain dance 

To the shrieks of the lost, as they grope their way 'neath 
the lightning's glance ; 

Till the dark and the dawn bring the day, and I wait at 
the chalet door 

For my bridegroom of yester-eve, for my joy that returns 
no more. 

But the sun shines on, and the path is clear from valley to 
peak : 

Whence come ye to look in my face the tale that ye dare 
not speak ? 

All the rest were safe, he had led them bravely through, 
they said : 

But my own true-hearted husband was lost in the glacier- 

He will come again, I whispered, and, pitying, they turned 
away. . 

Arid that light still burns smce we parted, it seems but yes- 


So long ago ! What ? 'Tis fifty years to-morrow, you said : 
That was the time, I heard, when the ice should give back 
the dead, — 

When the glacier that froze his young blood, in the depth 

of the dark ravine 
Where he fell through the rift and perished, should work 

its way unseen 
Towards the mouth of the icy gulf, through the years of 

creeping days ; 
Now, now, 'tis the time, let me go, for I know that my 

bridegroom stays. 

My lamp is alight, I have toiled, I have starved to feed its 

Through a long life slowly wasting in pangs of one desire. 
I thought it was never coming, and now the end is nigh : 
I shall look on his face that I loved in my youth, before 

I die. 

I go to seek him now, where he lies in the glacier-bed — 
Ah, cold and flinty pillow for my darling's golden head ! — 
In his beauty and strength of manhood, frozen to change- 
less stone — 
There, there ! I have found him at last ! oh, my love, my 
love, my own ! 

Now, bear us forth together, the bridegroom and the bride. 
To the church of our mountain village, and lay us side by 

'Neath the stone where God joined us, and bound our souls 

in eternal truth. 
And the virgin widow shall rest with the husband of her 


How long have I wearied for this since that day of bliss 

and woe 7 
Do the cliililren laugh, as they say it was fifty years ago? 
What has time to .do with our love? for the spirit within 

me salth 
I shall meet him for evermore, when I change this body of 


He is calling me now by my name in the voice of the van- 
ished years, 

And my life in its tender music dissolves to a passion of 
tears ; 

The shadows fall from the heights, the lamp in my window 
burns dim. 

The silence quenches my breath as I pass away to him. 



[COPYKIOHT, 1894. ] 


Mr. a. Smart Aleck, an impecunious playwright who is desirous of organizing 

an AmatQur Dramatic Company. 
Mr. Drawit MiLDE, who wutild make an excellent hero but is cast for the 

Michael O'Slitheroan, who knows as much ahout acting as the proverbial 

"Kilkenny cats." 
Miss Lavender Silkk, who dotes upon heroines. 
Miss Posey Blossom, willing to shine as a soubrette. 
Miss Hortensr Van de BELL^who aspires to the operatic stage. 

ScKNB. — A rather poorly famished room, table, step-ladder, chairs, 
etc. Eight and left entrances. Enter right Mr. A. Smart Aleck, 
newspaper in hand; places hat on table. 

Mr. a. S.MART Aleck. Things have certainly come to a 
pretty pass ; bills pouring in and no where-with-all to meet 
them. I've just left ray watch with my " Uncle " to raise the 
necessary filthy lucre to pay for these rooms and get a good, 
square meal, which I needed badly. With the remaining dol- 
lar I have inserted an advertisement in the Daily Theatrical 
News, announcing my organization of an Amateur Dramatic 
Company. It's the only way I have for raising the wind 
necessary to waft my bark o'er life's stormy sea. And the 
very fact that I have used my last dollar may be the ill- 
wind that will blow me some good. {Looks over paper.) Now, 

let me see ; let me see— ah ! here it is " Talent wanted 

for an Amateur Dramatic Company. Mr. A. Smart Aleck of 
No. 40 Highflyer Flats" [looking around), the name is tonier 
than the apartments; however— (flcads.) "will take a few 
more members to complete the company about to produce 
his great American Drama: The Weird Singer of the Tower. 
Call early." 

Enter Michael O Slithergan. 

Michael O'Slitheroan. Good morning to yez, Misther 
A. Smart Aleck ; can I have a word wid yez ? 

Mr. a. (aside.) That confounded servant of mine ; he's 
after that five dollars I owe him — I'll play a trick on him. 
[To Michael.) Well ! what is it? 

MicHAKL. Sure, there's somethin' on me moind that I 
would be afther axen yez about, Mr. A. Smart Aleck ; it is — 

Mr. a. Ah ! something on your mind, eh ? Well, did 
you know that I was a mind reader ? I can tell what it is ! 

♦Author of ",\n Economical Boomerang," in No. 32, and " A Quiet Smoke" 
in No. 31, of this Series. 


Michael. Oh ! yez can. Phwat is it ? 

Mk. a. Allow me — sit down. {Michael does so; Mr. A, 
feels his head.) Now, you were about to ask me 

Michael. For that foive doUyers, yez owes me 

Mr. a. Pray, don't interrupt — ah ! I now grasp your 
thoughts — you were about to ask me for five dollars. 

Michael. Sure and thot's it ; how did yez know it ? 

Mb. a. Merely by reading your mind. 

Michael. Thot was very well done ; Mr. A. Smart Aleck, 
now can yez rade me moind again an' tell me if I am a- 
goin' to ax yez whin yez are goin' to pay thot same foive? 

Mr. a. Remain perfectly quiet — ah ! there it is ! 

Michael. Phwat is? 

Mr. a. What I read in your mind — ^listen ; you are 
about to ask when I will pay you that V. 

Michael (arising). Sure and that's the fact, Mr. A. Smart 
Aleck ; whin will that interesting event happen ? 

Me. a. At present I am not in condition to do so. The 
stringency in the money market has affected my finances, 
but you'll be paid, I give you my word of honor. 

Michael. I'd rayther have the foive dollyers ; it's worth 
more to me. 

Mr. a. What ! this to me —I have a mind to give you 

Michael. Foive dollyers, eh ? 

Mr. a. It is impossible to pay you until I have organized 
a company and produced my great American Drama, " The 
Weird Singer of the Tower." 

Michael. Bad cess to me, for forgittin' it ; there's- a gin- 
tlemon doon stairs a axen for yez— he's a jude. 

Mr. A. A what? 

Michael. A jude, — wan of them fellers wid a silver- 
headed shtick an' an eyeglass. 

Mr. a. Ah ! perhaps he is an amateur ; show him up. 

Michael. Ama-chewer, sure, I would take him for a 
cane-chewer, for he's a-suckin' the brass all off the top of 
his silver-headed shtick. 

Mr. a. (sitting at table.) Show him up— show him up. 
(E.rit Michael.) Ah, my little ad seems to have been pro- 
ductive of results ; there is no use talking, the daily press 
certainly reaches the masses and introduces us to 

Enter Michael and Mr Drawit Milde, the latter has cane to mouth. 

Michael. Misther A. Smart Aleck, this is Misther Jude. 
Mr. a. (aside.) Ssh-h-h ! ! ! Be quiet. 
Michael. Now if it's convanient to yez, will yez hand 
me out that foive dollyers. 



Mr. A. Certainly, certainly, Michael. (Grandly.) When 
I go to bank, you shall have it. {Aside.) Now, get out. 

Michael [aside). Whin he goes to bank ; ha ! ha ! Sure, 
whin he does go " the robins will nist again." [firit. 

Mk. a. Will you be seated, sir. 

Mr. Dbawit Milde. Aw — yaas— you are Mistah A. Smart 
Aleck, I believe. {Mr. A. nods.) Organwizer of aDwamatic 
Company — aw • — — 

Mr. a. The same. 

Mr. M. Aw — yaas— I saw your advertisement in this 
mawning's papah ! I am — aw — Mistah Dwawit Milde — 
dontcher know, I desiafc to join your comiiany, aw. 

Mr. a. I am delighted, Mr. Milde ; there are a few va- 
cancies yet ; you have acted before, I sui)pose ? 

Mr. M. Yaas — somewhat ; that is, 1 wecite befoah the 
boys at the club, dontclier know; they pwaise me highly. 

Mr. a. Will you kindly favor me with a sample of your 
ability, Mr. Milde? 

Mr. M. Yaas— certainly— will I wecite something of 
high twagedy, or something fwora the dwama? 

Mr. a. Make your own selection, Mr. Milde. 

Mr. M. Well, then, aw— I will wecite— a favorwite of the 
boys, dontcher know — called, " The Swell in a Hoire Car."* 

Mr. a. {after the recitation.) Capital ; very good indeed. 
I certainly will assign you a part in my great American 
Drama. By the way, what character do you favor? 

Mh. M. I would wather play the hewo, dontcher know ; 
it's so womantic and I am simply gweat in making impwes- 
sions on the ladies, aw. 

Mr. a. It's really too bad, Mr. Milde, and I am very 
sorry indeed, but I play all the heroic characters myself 
{Looking over sheets of paper.) Now, let me see, yes — I think 
that you could do the villain ; that's it, I'll cast you for the 
double-dyed villain. 

Mr. M. {adjusting glass.) Aw— the villain ; I haven't 
the slightest ideah how the villain should act, dontcher know. 

Mr. a. Now just glance over these pages ; they contain 
the villain's part. It's very easy. Here is a dagger and a 
long cloak. Throw on the cloak, so — and hold the dagger, 
so — stamp your foot and say — "Ha ! Ha! me hated rival is 
now within me power," or words like that ; try it. 

*Thi8 recitation will be found in "One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 29." 
It should be understood, however, that the names of recitations, songs, music, 
etc., are giyen merely as suggestions. They can be changed to suit the fancy of 
the player and the varying circumstances of time and place. For instance, 
in the above case, some speakers might produce more nu-rriment by taking a 
dramatic selection and r.-riting it in an iilfertcd iiinnner. TIn> arrangement of 
fho details is also left, in most cases, to the iugeuuity of the performers. 


Mr. M. {taking cloak and dagger, meekly.) " Ha ! Ha ! me 
hated wival is now within me powah"— dontcher know. 

Mr. a. Very good, very good ; with a little practice you 
will make a first class villain. {Bell rings.) Now, suppose 
that you take those things into the ante-room, there. Bead 
up your part and we will have a rehearsal presently. 

Mr. M. But I weally think that I would make more of a 
success as a hewo — aw — the boys at the club wather expected 
me to do the " Fond Lover," dontcher know. 

Mr. a. Don't think of it for a moment, Mr. Milde, you 
are especially adapted for villainous characters. 

Mr. M. Aw — complimentawy, vewy. [Exit. 

MicHAKL {entering). Sure, Mr. A. Smart Aleck, there's a 
most beautiful leddy, doon stairs ; she was a axen for yez, 

Mr. a. Send her up immediately ; another amateur. 

Michael. Sure, I think this wan is a gum-chewer. I saw 
a package of " Tutti Frutti " under her arm. And I say, Mis- 
ther Aleck, have yez been to the bank yit? 

Mr. a. Certainly not, man ; I've been busy. Do not 
keep the lady waiting ; show her up. 

Michael. Av course ; but I wish that yez'd show up 
the color of yer cash moighty quick. lErit. 

Mu. A. {rubbing hanris.) Ah! favored at last ; with a com- 
pany of unexcelled amateurs ; my great American Drama 
produced — my fortune is made. 

Michael ushers in Miss Lavender Silke. 

Michael. This is the gintlemon who runs the show. 

Miss S. Oh ! thank you, my good man ; thank you. 

Michael. Foive dollyers, please. {She starts.) 

Mr. a. {aside to Michael.) Get out, you ! {Ejsit Michael.) My 
dear lady, pardon my servant. He is rather — {tapping fore- 
head) you understand ? 

Mtss S. Oh! certainly — and have I the pleasure of meet- 
ing the di.-^tinsuished author, Mr. A. Smart Aleck {he bows 
low), writer of the great drama, "The Weird Singer of the 
Tower?" {ffe bows again.) My card — Miss Lavender Silke ; 
I read your announcement in the paper, and hastened to 
present myself. The one longing, burning, passionate desire 
of my heart is to be a member of a celebrated Amateur 
Dramatic Company, such as yours. 

Mr. a. {bowing violently.) Ah ! you do but flatter me. 

Miss S. Not at all, not at all — and have you a heroine 
in your drama? 

Mr. a. I have, and one who is a picture of loveliness. 


Miss S. (clasping hands.) Ah ! I do so dote on heroines ; 
one of the kind who meets her faithless lover with {dra- 
matically), " Avaunt ! base man ; I will have no more of thee. 
E'en though it causes my — heart — to — to — br-r-eak." 

Mr. a. Ah ! charming, charming ! 

Miss S. And you remember the other kind, Mr. Aleck, the 
poor girl turned out into the snowy street; with only a 
ragged shawl to protect her from the chilly blast {dramali- 
cally), " It is bit-ter, bit-ter cold. The snow falls fast and 
thick ; I am faint with hunger. Ah ! must I perish thus, and 
my poor, blind brother at home — crying for br-r-e-ad I " 

Mb. A. {clapping handts.) Bravo! Bravo! You will bean 
honor to my company. 

Miss S. Ah ! and youjjnust not forget the proud and 
haughty beauty, stirred with righteous indignation {dra- 
matically), "Not one step farther — take back your jewels — I 
throw your letters at your feet — I spurn your love — hence- 
forth. Count Frankenfried, we meet as str-r-an-gers ! " 

Mk. a. Grand ! Immense ! Ah ! what talent ! Favor 
me with a recitation. Miss Silke. 

Miss S. If you wisli it; certainly. {Recites a tragic poem.) 

Mr. A. Miss Silke, with you, the part of the heroine, in 
my drama, will be in excellent hands. {Bell rings.) Pray 
take these papers and look them over, in the ante-room 
there, until rehearsal is called. {Exit Miss iS'. Enter Mich- 
ael, laughing.) Well, Michael? 

Michael. Sure, Mr. A. Smart Aleck, there's another 
leddy wants to see yez — and — he ! he! he! 

Mk. a. Well, what are you laughing at ? 

Michael. Be the powers, she's a — she's a— he ! he ! he I 

Mb. a. Stop that nonsense ; what is the matter with her? 

Michael. She's a— she's a— he ! he ! he ! 

Mr. A. {impatiently.) She's a what ? 

Michael. She's a— she's a— a judelette— he ! he! he! 

Me. a. What in the name of common sense is a judelette? 

Michael. She's got on her brotlier's coat, and collar — 
and cuffs— and nick-tie— and— and— (/lidinsr his face) his 
shirt too — he! he! he! 

Mr. a. Well, there's nothing to laugh about ; it is merely 
a tailor-made suit 

Michael. A tahlor-made suit, is it ; then, be the powers 
if the tahlor made it, the woman got it, and phwat's the 
poor mon a wearing— dressis ? he ! he ! he ! 

Mr. a. Show her up, Michael; another one for my 
troupe, probably. 

Michael. And, Misther Aleck, I 


Me. a. Not another word — I know all about that five 
dollars — I've got it in my mind. 

Michael. Faith, I'd rayther have it in my pocket. [Eri(. 

Mr. a. At this rate, 1 will soon have every role filled 
and the dream of my life will be realized, — my drama ! 
Enter Michael and Miss Posey Blossom. 

Michael {in a whisper.) Whist ! whist ! Mr. Aleck ; do 
yez moind the nick-tie — and luck at that ccat^and do yez 
git on-to the vist ? 

Mr. a. (behind his hand.) You rascal, leave the room. (Exit 
Michael, laughing.) Your obedient — Miss — ah ! Miss— ah ! 

Miss B. Miss Posey Blossom {he bows), and I presume 
that you are Mr. Aleck, whose advertisement appeared in 
the Daily Theatrical News. 

Mr. a. Quite right. Miss Blossom. And are you desirous 
of joining my company ? 

Miss B. I certainly am ; my forte is that of soubrette. 
If, in your drama, you wished a song, I could accommodate 
you ; or play a banjo solo {any other instrument can be 
substituted), or give a humorous recitation ; and possibly, 
mind, I say possibly, I might dance a Highland Fling. 

Me. a. {bowing low.) The soubrette part is open for you, 
Miss Blossom ; here are the lines. 

Miss B. But surely you would like to hear my voice, 
first ; I have no objections ; it would only be proper. 

Mk. a. I would be delighted, I am sure. {Miss B. sings a 
lively song.) Your singing convinces me all the more, that 
the comedy part of my great drama will be in competent 
hands. {Bell rings.) Now, if you will kindly retire into the 
ante-room and look your part over, I will inform you of 
the rehearsal, which will be shortly. [Exit Miss B. 

Michael {entering). Another wan 

Mh. A. Another one ; one what? 

Michael. Another leddy. Be yez havin' a rlciption ? 

Mr. a. Of course not, — merely another applicant to join 
my company. Bring her right up. 

Michael. There's wan quistion I'd loike to ax yez 
Misther A. Smart Aleck, whin 

Mr. a. Come ! come ! Michael, not that chestnut again. 

Michael. Chist-nut, is it? arrahl me bye. I wasn't 
going to say anything about thim foive dollyers, but being 
as yez mintioned it, whin may I hope 

Mr. a. I've already told you; now show the lady up. 
{Exit Michael.) That man nearly worries the life out of me. 


There is no use discharging him for he wont stay dis- 
charged, as long as I owe him those five dollars. 

Michael ushers in Miss Hortense Van de Rella. 

Michael. Jist walk right; in and make yerself at home. 
Take a cheer and 

Mr. a. Michael, leave the room ! 

Michael. Sure, and I wont take it wid me ! [_Exit. 

Miss V. db R. Mr. Aleck, the organizer of a dramatic 
company ? 

Mr. a. I am he ! 

Miss V. DB R. Ah ! Mr."Aleek, I have a voice — I am operat- 
ic — I am ambitious — my card. 

Mr. a. (reading.) " Miss Hortense Van de Rella," {aside) 
by Jove, one of the bon ton ; Hortense Van de Rella, wont 
that look swell on the prograia! (2'o Miss V. de R.) And you 
sing, Miss Van de Rella. (Miss V. de R. bows.) Then you are 
just the one for the Weird Singer— the mad woman con- 
fined in the tower. 

Miss V. DE R. Mad I Sir ! I act a character like that ? 

Mr. a. Oh no ! no 1 You are not supposed to imperson- 
ate an insane woman. The villain confines you in a tower 
and spreads the report that you are insane to keep inquisi- 
tive people away. In your lonely hours of captivity you 
sing ; when your brother, the hero, finally hears you, and 
you are rescued. 

Miss V. DE R. In that case I have no hesitancy in ac- 
cepting the part. 

Mr. a. (joyfully.) Could you not favor me with a song ? 

Miss V. DB. R. With great pleasure. (Sings a popular ballad.) 

Mr. a. Simply delightful, Miss Van de Rella. No doubt 
but what you are familiar with the music in my drama ; I 
have selected it from the old-time operas. Suppose you step 
into the ante-room and look it over. I will inform you of 
the rehearsal, presently. (Exit Miss V. de R.) Now, I really 
think that I have enough talent to begin ; still, I ought to 
have another male character for the faithful servant. Let 
me see (scratches chin) — I might use Michael, on a pinch —I 
think I will. (Calls— " Michael! Michael!" Enter Michael.) 
Ah ! Michael, have you ever been on the stage? 

Michael. Sure, and I have— I drove one. 

Mr. a. No ! I do not mean that kind of a stage. Did 
you ever act ? 

Michael. Oh ! yez mane was I iver a play-achtor? No; 
I was not, niver. 

Mr. a. Well, can you speak ? 


Michael. Can I shpeak ! arrah, haven't I been afther 
axen y ez for that foive doUyers for the last month ? 
Mr. a. I don't mean that; can you recite? 
Michael. Can I recite — can a hin scratch, or a ducli 
shwim ? I learned thot at school. Twice wan are two— 
twice two are four — twice two and wan make .foive — dol- 
lyers that yez owes me. 
Me. a. No ! no ! no I do you know any poetry ? 
Michael. Poetry is it ; thot I do. 
Mr. a. Well, let's hear it. Stand straight, and speak out. 

Michael. Sure me fayther was a po-et 

And he built a bo-at 

And I tried to row it 

For there was no wind to blow it 

So I had to tow it. 

Whin I met a go-at. 

And I thried to throw it, 

Whin he tore my .-. co-at, 

And I want yez to ... . know it — 
Yez owes me foive dollyers. 
Mr. a. Well, that's very good as far as it goes, but 
haven't you something up to date ; something relative to 
the present time ? 

Michakl. The prisint toime^that I have. Listen to this: 

First varse: I know a man, wid a cast-iron cheek, 
Who wears paper cuffs and coUyers, 
He puts me off from week to w'eek, 
And wont pay me that foive dollyers. 
Second varse : And on ivery Sunday morning 
All the purty girls he follyers ; 
Now this is my latest warning. 
Will yez pay me that foive dollyers ? 

Third varse : And if 

Mr. a. That will do ; that will do I 

MicBAm^ {continuing). And if 

Mr. a. I said that that would do. 
Michael. Don't yez want to hear the rist of it? 
Mb. a. No ! two verses of that are quite sufficient. 
Michael. Well thin, Oi'll till yez the shtory of " Mrs. 
O'Toole and the Conductor."* {Recites.) 

Mr. a. A^ery good. Now, Michael, I have decided to let 
you take part in my drama. You will be the faithful ser- 
vant who rescues the hero as well as the fair lady in distress. 
Michael. And I riscue the beautiful leddy? 

•This selection can be found in "100 Choice Selections No. 31." 


Me. a.. You do— you rescue her from the villain 

Michael. Wid a club ? 
_ Mr. a. No ! You are unarmed — the villain rushes at 
you with a dagger 

Michael. Oh ! I'm unarmed, am I, and he has a dagger. 
I till you phwat to do, Misther Aleck, give me the dagger 
and let him go unarmed. 

Mr. a. No ! no ! that would spoil the play. 

Michael. Sure, he'd shpoil me wid thot dagger. 

Mr. a. Now, as I said, you'll be the faithful negro 

Michael. A nayger — is it — howly Moshes; I'll not be 
doing thot at all, at all. * 

Mr. a. If you don't do that the drama will be ruined. 

Michael. It will have to be ruined thin ; I'll not go 
around dishguishing myself like a nayger to please inny one. 

Mb. a. Very well ; we can arrange that— now here is 
your part {handing paper). Look it over carefully. To 
avoid mistakes I'll give you your cue. 

Michael. Give me my cue, will yez. Arrah ! are yez 
going to make a- hathen Chinee out of me too ? First yez 
want me to be a nayger, now yez want me to be a Chineezer. 
Sure, and I'll not do it. 

Mr. a. Oh ! you misunderstood me ; I will prompt you. 

Michael. Prompt me? 

Mk. a. That's what I said, prompt you. 

Michael. There's no nade of prompting me ; it's yezself 
that wants to be prompt and pay me thot foive doUyers. 

Mr. a. I'll tell you when to come "off" and "on" 

Michael. Sure, will yez come "off" — and come "on" 
wid the shpondoolioks? 

Mr. a. Now take your part outside and read it up, and 
after the villain has spoken his lines and is about to pre- 
cipitate himself upon the hero, you rush in and frustrate him. 

Michael. I rish in and froustrate him, eh ! Faith, and 
I'll froustrate him so hard that his own mither wont know 
the likes of him. [Exit. 

Mr. a. Now for the rehearsal (going to ante-room). The 
ladies of the company will please step into the room. 
{Enter, ladies only, each with manuscript.) Now, ladies, sup- 
pose that we try a rehearsal— beginning with scene third, 
in act first. The maiden is confined by the villain, in a 
high tower — mount the step-ladder, please, Miss Van de 
Rella; it represents the lower. The heroine is coming along 
the lane-please retire back of the table, Miss Silke. The 
simple village-girl is plucking wild flowers— Miss Blossom, 


just remain by the wall, there. Enter, the hero, alone ; he 
soliloquizes thus: " Ah ! I have wandered the wide world 
over in search of my poor, lost sister; but not a trace of 
her can 1 find. Poor Claudianna, I am afraid that she is 
lost for-ever." Now, Miss Van de Rella, sing your song. 
{Miss V. de JR. sings the ft^sl verse of " The Last Rose of 
Summer.") " What! that sound ; that voice ; those accents; 

it is Claudianna — but ivhere ? 1 see no one " [Miss V. 

de R. drops Iter handkerchief at his feet.) " A handkerchief- 
dropped from the sky— and her name — Claudianna. Ah ! 
from yon gloomy tower it came ; can it be that she is con- 
fined in that dismal abode. Those frowning rocks, those 
steep heights forbid my approach. But I will surmount 
them, if I perish." Now Miss iSilke. 

Miss S. {consulting papers.) " Ferdinand ! " 

Mr. a. " What ! Clar-a— you here?" 

Miss S. {reading.) " Yes, Ferdinand, and I have heard 
your bold resolve ; oh, Ferdinand, Ferdinand, do notexpose 
your precious neck in so dangerous a task." 

Michael (is the faithful negro, looking in at right). Sure, and 
is it toime to froustrate the villyun, yit? 

Mb. A. No, no! not yet. {To Miss S.) " Ah I Clar-a, my 
sister is even now confined in yonder tower ; I must rescue 
her even if I never return to thee." 

Miss S: (reading.) " Stay, stay, my beloved, stay." 

Me. A. "Clar-a, do not detain me ; let me go, let- me go ! " 

Mr. M. {entering, with cloak and dagger.) " Stop I Advance 
one step and I strike you to the earth " dontcher know. 

MissS. "Ah! 'tis he; 'tis he; the villain." 

Michael {rushing in). Arrah, me bye, I'm jist in toime 1 
{Seizes Mr. Milde and shakes him.) I know yez ; harrum a hair 
of that beautiful leddy's head and I'll pulverize yez. 

Mr. a. No, no ! It's not time for either of you yet. 

Mr. M. I say, me deah fellah, you are unnecessarily 
wough, dontcher know — ow — ow — ow. 

Michael. Don't yez bow — ow — ow— to me, yez villyun. 

Mr. a. Now, gentlemen, retire again. Mr. Milde, after 
the soubrette has finished speaking, you are to creep in ; you 
do not rush in until the fifth act. Michael, you are to enter 
when the heroine screams, then you say: "A scream! 
a woman in distress; the faithful, black will help her." 

Michael. Sure and I kin do that ; come, Misther Jude, 
let's thry agin. lExitboth. 

Mr. A. Now, after I have said " let me go ! let me go ! " 
the simple village-girl enters. Miss Blossom, please. 


MiHS B. " Dear me, dear me ! good people, wliicli way ? " 
Miss S. (reading.) " Ah, little girl, my Ferdinand would 

scale yon fearful rocks and gain the castle." 

Miss B. "Dear me! dear me, how terrible; he might- 
break— his— neck." 
Mr. a. " The rocks have no terrors for me." 
Miss B. " There are a lot of blackberry bushes on the 

rocks, beside thorns and poison ivy " 

Mb. a. "What care I for thorns and poison ivy— I go ! " 

Miss S. " Oh, Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my love ! " 

Miss B. '■ Dear me, dear me ! besides there's a crazy 

woman up there ; she'll»tear your eyes out." 
Mb. a. " My long-lost sister ; 1 must away." 
Miss S. "Ferdinand, I am resolved ; if you go I follow. 
Mr, a. " My own, my cherished Clar-a." 
Miss B. " Dear me, dear me ! if you must go up to the 

tower, I can show you a short cut up the mountain, and 

you needn't tear your clothes, climbing." 
Mr. a. " Lead on, child, we will be guided by thee.'' 

Now, Mr. Milde, come on slowly. 

Enter Mr. Milde, dramatically. He is about to spring on Mr. 
A., when Miss Van de R. (on the step-ladder) sings the sec- 
ond verse of " The Last Rose of Summer." The villain pauses ; 
at the last words of the song, Miss Silke discovers him. 
Miss S. "Oh, Ferdinand, Ferdinand, we are pursued 

(clasping him around neck)! Save me ! save me ! " 
Miss B. " Dear me, dear me ! Me too (clinging to Mr. A.)\" 
Mr. a. " Be calm, be calm ; villain, what wilt thou have?" 
Mb. M. (mildly.) " Aw ! I know you, pwoud Ferdinand 

Montjamboree ; I have you in my powah — pwepare to die !" 
Miss S. 1 (^, , 
Miss B. I^"' 
Michael (entering). " Phwat is this I hear? Two 

schreams — two women indistress ! The faithful black will 

proceed to froustrate the villun." (Seizes Mr. M. and shakes 

him violently.) " Yez murthering villyun, up to yer thricks 

again, are yez." Faith, and I'll run yez out. (Starts for door.) 
Mr. a. No, no ! Stop, Michael, that's not in the piece. 
Mr. M. I say, fellah, I object, dontcherknow ; you're wude. 

Mistah Aleck, it's deucedly unpleasant acting the villain ; 

I wecieve too many decided impwessions (rubbing himself). 
Mr. a. Now, ladies and gentlemen, once more,— we'll 

try the music (singing to the air of "Marching Through Oeorgia"). 
Mr. a. Now take your places if you please, 

Michael. And kape yez eyes on me ! 


Miss B. I'll be on hand to see the fun, 

Mr. M. And I'll the villain be. 

Miss V.deR. Anil I'm the maiden all forlorn 
Miss S. Up in that tower, you see — 

All. la the great American drama. 


Mr. M. Ho, ho, ho, ho ! I'll stab you to the heart, 

Mr. a. No, no, no, no ! It's not time for your part. 

Michael. Sure, here is where I do him up ; I'll do it 

mighty smart, 
All. Things are greatly mixed you see. 

Michael and Mr. M. have a pantomime controversy. 

Mr. a. Pray try again and mind your parts, 

Michael. I've got mine roight down fine. 

Me. M. Well, I don't like the part I play, 

Miss S. I'm not in love with mine. 

Miss V. deB. And I am tired of standing here. 

Miss B. I have no place to shine— 

Alt,. In the great American drama. {Chorus.) 

Mr. a. Do not become discouraged, ladies and gentle- 
men ; I insist that you stick to your parts. 

Michael. Sure, Misther A. Smart Aleck, yez should have 
written thim on fly-paper, then they would have stuck to u.'. 

Mr. M. By jove, Mr. Aleck, I don't think I care to play 
the villain ; it's too wough, dontcher know. 

Miss V. dk E. (coming down from step-ladder.) And I am also 
much displeased ; I resign. {Rolls up one of the sheets of 
manuscript into a bail and throws it at Mr. A .) 

Miss B. And I too, I return your manuscript. 

Miss S. And I refuse to be a heroine in such a peculiar 
mixture, there {throwing paper ball)\ 

Michael. Be the power, if they all throw up the job I'll 
have- to be afther takin' all the char-ac-thers mesilf. 

Mr. a. (in despair.) What ! What is this you say ? You 
all refuse to act in niy great American drama ? 

All. It's no good ! 

Mr. a. No good ! My masterpiece, my pride and joy — 
"The Weird Singer of the Tower," no good! This is too 
much. (Totters and falls into chair with arms and legs extended.) 

Michael (aside.) Ah, ha I I'll make hay while the sun 
shines; now for that foive doUyers (turning Mr. A' s pockets 
inside out). Nary a cint. (Aloud.) Sure, he's like the lookin'- 
glass whin it fell from the third-story winday — broke. 

All laugh and pelt Michael and Mr. Aleck vnth paper balls as 
Curtain falls. 




'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was 

Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the 

square ; 
And as songs and witty stories came through the open 

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. 

" Where did it come from ? " some one said. " The wind 

has blown it in." 
" What does it want ? " a'nother cried. "Some whisky, rum 

or gin ? " 
" Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the 

work — 
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk." 

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace ; 
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the 

proper place. 
" Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good 

a crowd- 
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. 

"Give me a drink— that's what I want — I'm out of funds, 

you know, 
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never 

What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket 

never held a sou, 
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. 

" Th«re, thanks ; that's braced me nicely ; God bless you 

one and all ; 
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. 
Give you a song f No, I can't do that, my singing days are 

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs 
are going fast. 

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what 

I'll do- 
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. 
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think ; 
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me 

another drink. 

" Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame- 
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame ; 


Five fingers — there, that's the scheme — and corking whisky, 

Well, here's luck, boys ; and landlord, my best regards to 


" You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you 

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. 
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and 

And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable 


" I was a painter — not one that daubed on bricks and wood, 
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. 
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, 
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. 

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the ' Chase 

of Fame,' 
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my 

And then I met a woman — now comes the funny part — 
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. 

" Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you 

Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me ; 
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely 

And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to 

heaven. ^- *^ 

" Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul yoffa _give. 
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live ^ 
With eyes that would beat the ICoh-i-nor, and a weaJth of 

chestnut hair? 
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair. 

" I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, 

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the 

And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, 
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy 


" It didn't take long to know him, and before the month 

had flown, 
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone ; 
And ere a year of misery had passed above ray head, 
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. 


" That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you 

I tliought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. 
Why, what's the matter, friend ? There's a teardrop in 

your eye, 
Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that 

should cry. 

'* Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky,- I'll be glad. 

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove 
me mad. 

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base- 
ball score — _ 

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room 

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond 

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. 
Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, 
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture 


H. E. Gordon. 

We may grow rich and build. 

We may garnish and gild, 
Till the church like a palace looks grand ; 

We may fresco the walls 

And adorn the bright halls 
With the skill that the artists command ; 

Beautify as we may. 

With rich colors so gay. 
Till it shines with the wealth of all lands. 

Be it ever so fair 

It can never compare 
With the House that's not made with hands. 

We may gaze with delight. 

On the beautiful sight 
Of stained windows and neatly grained doors; 

We may walk through each aisle, 

With a complacent smile. 
And admire the carpeted floors; 

We may sit if we choose 

In the fine cushioned pews, 



Or can kneel if occasion demands, 
But we cannot stay here, 
Wliere all things fail to cheer, 

We've a House that's not made with hands. 

We may do what we may, 
Either preach, sing of pray, 

We may worship at God's holy shrine, 
We may feel overjoyed, 
Yet there comes aching void, 

To sadden both your heart and mine ; 
But we all have been told 
Of a city of gold. 

Pearly gates, jasper walls, angel bands, 
Starry crowns, robes of white. 
Always day — never night — 

In the House that's not made with hands. 

A. F. Kent Bradley. 
Whether it be to rear in stone 

Vast pyramids in Egypt's sand ; 
Or girdle with defensive zone, 

The boundaries of a mighty land ; 
In all the grandest works of time, 

That human power or thought hath won. 
Recruits fill up the broken line. 

The hands drop off — the work goes on. 

Man's thoughts reach out beyond their age. 

Like lanterns shining in the dark ; 
Transmitted through the bard and sage, 

God guards with jealous care, each spark. 
What needs to live will live; the truth 

Waits centuries for a tongue of fire. 
And in its own immortal youth 

Springs up from gibbet, stake and pyre. 

We stand sometimes in mute dismay 
To see a great man die. " His place, 

What living man can fill ?" we say; 
"His thoughts what lesser mind embrace?" 

" Such loss ! " we murmur in despair ; 
" So much devised, so little done." 


A voice sounds through the viewless air, 
" His hands drop oflf — his work goes on." 

Time proves it so. No wheels are stopped, 

Progress and science claim their own ; 
The mantle that our hero dropped. 

On other shoulders has been thrown ; 
Worn loosely for a time perchance. 

But as the sire,- shall grow the son ; 
God leads, himself, the grand advance. 

The hands drop off — the work goes on. 

We lose the angel of our home. 

Some pure, sweet child, whose gracious smile 
Brightens the darkest days that come. 

And e'en life's drudgery beguiles. 
He lifted us to higher plains. 

This was his mission just begun ; 
Surprised we find his- smile remains, 

His influence lives — his work goes on. 

Who rights the wrong, who breaks the chain 

From limbs long fettered without cause, 
Or from our statutes wipes the stain 

Of evil and oppressive laws. 
Must work, and trust to God and time, 

Nor hope with mortal eyes to see 
The dawning of the day sublime, 

The harvest white of victory. 

Sad leader of some hated cause, 

Measuring thy work by life's few years, 
Thou reckonest but by finite laws. 

Give to the winds thy idle fears. 
Though in the conflict face to face 

Thou fall'st before the day be won, 
Some heart inspired shall fill thy place. 

The ranks close up— the work goes on. 

Grand hope ! Sweet comfort ! Build thy plans 

And sow thy seed with careful thought ; 
In God's good time if not in man's, 

The miracle of growth is wrought. 
Thine eyes may close before the day 

That crowns the work so well begun ; 
" He sowed, the grateful gleaners say, 

That we may reap — his work goes on." 



[Copyright 1892, by the author.] 

Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, 
Silver buckles on his knee, 
He'll come back and marry me — 
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe. 

This old and musical nursery rhyme had been run- 
ning in my head all day as I went about my work. My 
work was teaching the district school at Garrett's Mills, 
a small village in Northeastern Pennsylvania. The 
school-house was near the head of the mill-pond by the 
side of the public road, half way between Garrett's 
Mills and Bently's Dam ; so situated in order to ac- 
commodate children from both villages. 

Why that ancient nursery rhyme should have been 
singing itself in my head all day I do not know, unless it 
was because one of my pupils, popularly known as Bob- 
by Shaftoe, had that morning given me an unusual 
amount of trouble. 

How and when he received the nickname I never 
heard ; perhaps it was because of his oft-declared ambi- 
tion to be a sailor and go to sea; possibly it was on ac- 
count of a similarity of sound between this name and 
his real one. He was ten years old, bright and active, 
and the most mischievous child I ever saw — not ma- 
liciously mischievous, but good-naturedly, irrepressibly, 
unceasingly mischievous. 

Such mild punishment as his mirthful misbehavior 
deserved had but a momentary effect on him, and one 
must have had an unusually hard heart to have chas- 
tised Bobby with any degree of severity. 

On the June day of which I write Bobby was more 
than ordinarily full of pranks and practical jokes. He 
had been busy with them all the bright morning, and 
he was holding his own steadily through the hot and 
sultry afternoon. 

*By permission of the author and The McClore Newspaper Syadical*. Mr. 
Greene is author of "What my Lover Said," "My Daughter Louiee," and "De 
Quincy'a Deed," in previous Xiimbers of this Series. 


I had reprimanded him times without number, I had 
punished him mildly again and again without lasting 
effect. Finally I seated him on top of the cold stove in 
order to humiliate him ; but from that conspicuous perch 
his comical motions and queer grimaces, when my back 
was turned, kept the entire school snickering till I took 
him down. After that he made an amusing picture on 
his slate of himself sitting on the stove, and held it up 
to be laughed at by the boys in his vicinity ; but before 
I could capture it his s'ponge had obliterated forever 
this triumph of his art. 

His next achievement that afternoon was the produc- 
tion of two little pasteboard figures of men pinned to a 
stick and fighting each other furiously as his deft fin- 
gers pulled the strings attached to them. 

I caught him at it squarely. 

" Let rae have them, Bobby,'' I said. 

He turned them over to me without a murmur, ex- 
plaining as he did so : " You want to pull thith thtring 
to make 'em fight, Mith Mitchell, and thith thtring w'en 
he knockth 'im down. Here, I'll theow you — thee? 
Don't they jutht larabathte each other, though ? " 

It is needless to say that the school was again divert- 
ed. Everyone save Bobby and I grinned broadly. He 
was sober and I was annoyed. 

"Give them to rae at once," I said, sharply. " What 
am I going to do with such a boy ? How shall I punish 
you ? I've tried everything except a severe whipping. 
Shall I give you that, or can you suggest something more 
effective ! " 

He oast his eyes to the ceiling and screwed his mouth 
up comically, as if in intense thought. The school 
broke out in renewed laughter. Finally he said : 

" You might put me up in the loft, Mith Mitchell ; I 
haven't been put up there yet." 

" Very well," I replied, quickly, "up in the loft you go." 

He was a little startled by the suddenness of my de- 
cision. I don't think he really intended me to adopt 


his suggestion, for the loft was not a pleasant place to 
go into ; for it was dark and hot and empty, with the 
roof sloping down on each side, so that only through 
the middle of it could even a boy stand erect. 

" Here, Bobby," I continued, " help me set this table 
under the opening — that's it ; now give me that chair." 

The horizontal aperture that led to the loft was just 
over the high platform that stretched across the rear 
end of the room, and with the aid of a chair placed on 
a table one could readily climb up through it. 

" You hold fatht to the chair an' don't let her thlip," 
said Bobby, as he hitched up his suspenders, screwed up 
his face and made ready for the grand ascent. He 
climbed to the table, mounted the chair and thrust his 
head and shoulders up through the opening out of 
sight. He drew them down again in a moment to say: 

" Ith dark up there, Mith Mitchell." 

" I know it," I replied, calmly. 

"An' hot." 

" I know it." 

"An' — an' lonesome." 

" That's why I'm sending you up there ; go on." 

" Well," he sighed, " here goeth ; 'good-by, my lover, 
good-by! ' " He reached up, grasped the frame-work of 
the opening, and in the next instant had drawn his 
pliant little body up out of sight. 

I lifted the chair down, removed the table and tried 
to go on with the routine of recitations. There was 
some scrambling above in the loft ; once I saw a bare 
brown foot twinkling down through the opening for a 
second, to the great edification of all of Bobby's fellow- 
pupils, and once a dust-begrimed face, inverted and 
comical, looked carefully down and set the school in a 
new roar. ^ 

" Bobby ! " I called out to him, finally, " put the 
cover down on the opening at once." 

I had not thought to have this done ; it would make 
it so dark up there, but his irrepressible mischief left 
me no recourse. 


"Yeth'm," he replied, Still cheerfully, " thall Ithit 
on it to hold it down ? " 

" Certainly." 

The cover, which was on hinges, was let carefully 
down, and this movement was immediately followed by 
a thud which indicated that Bobby was "sitting on it." 

After that, save certain indefinable sounds, all was 
quiet in the region of the loft. 

The afternoon tasks went on monotonously. The day 
grew more sultry as it neared its close. 

Just before it was time to dismiss the school one of my 
pupils, a little girl, after looking out for a minute through 
the open door into the dusty road, rose quickly from 
her seat, threw up her hand and began to snap vigorous- 
ly with her thumb and finger to attract my attention. 

"Well, what is it, Rosie?" I inquired. 

" Please, Miss Mitchell, Bobby Shaftoe's out there in 
the road." 

" Who ? " I asked in amazement. 

" Bobby Shaftoe; he's, out there hidin' behind a tree." 

Of course every one turned and looked out at the 
door. At that moment a little figure darted out from 
the shadow of one tree and sought shelter behind another. 

It was, indeed, Bobby Shaftoe. How he had man- 
aged to make his escape from the loft I could not con- 
jecture. I went to the door and called, " Bobby! Bobby 
Shaftoe ! " He left the protection of the tree at once. 

" Yeth'm," he replied, " I'm comin'." 

He had evidently hurt his foot in some way, for he 
limped slightly as he came up the steps. 

" Take your seat, Bobby," I said, sternly, " and don't 
move out of it until I give you permission to do so." 

He hung his head a trifle, as though he were ashamed, 
at last, of his misdeeds, and dropped into his seat and 
sat there in perfect quiet during the few minutes thai 
intervened before the close of school. 

I dismissed the scholars somewhat ahead of time, as 
there appeared to be a thunder shower coming up in 
the wpst, and I wished them to get to their homes before 


it should rain. But Bobby I kept with me to punish 
him. 1 had my monthly report to make out, and I 
thought to keep him in his seat during the hour that I 
should be so occupied. He still sat quietly, but had 
taken up a book and had begun to study. After a- 
while, my curiosity getting the better of my determi- 
nation, I said to him : " Bobby, will you tell me how 
you escaped from the loft ? " 

He answered readily : 

"Yeth'm. I opened the scuttle hole in the roof — ith 
right up there, you know — an' I climbed out on to the 
ridge-pole, an' theyth a limb of that big elm hangth 
right down there, an' I got on that, an' then it wath 
eathy enough to thlide down to the ground." 

The escape shorn of its mystery, was simple enough 
after all. 

A low, ominous roll of thunder ended in a bass so 
deep and powerful that it sent a tremor through the 

" Bobby," I said, with sudden resolution, " I wish you 
wouldn't give me so much trouble. I don't want to be 
scolding you and punishing you all the time : I like 
you too well for that." 

Bobby looked at me steadily, with calm seriousness 
in his deep, blue eyes. 

" I've been thinkin' about that, Mith Mitchell," he 
replied. " I like you, too. I'm goin' to thop it. I'm 
goin' to try to be better." 

"Oh, will you, Bobby?" 

" I will." 

I saw by the look of quiet resolution in his face that 
he meant it. 

" Thank you, Bobby ! " I exclaimed, taking both his 
little brown hands in mine. I was going on to say 
something else to him, but a sharp flash of lightning, 
followed in a second by a crack and crash of thunder, 
interrupted me. I hastened to shut the door and close 
the windows, and lower such apologies for curtains as we 
bad. Sudden darkness fell upon us. The lightning and 


thunder were incessant. I sat on' the steps of the plat- 
form, holding fast to Bobby's hands, thankful for human 
society and sympathy. 

The rain came and fell, not in drops, but in sheets 
and layers. In a minute the public road in front of us 
was a dashing torrent, in another the school-house lot 
was a miniature lake. But the terrible storraburst soon 
passed us by. The roar of the rain died away toward 
the east. After a little the sky began to brighten, and 
I gained courage to look from the window on the 
washed and flooded landscape. 

Bobby had behaved like a hero. Not one word of 

complaint had passed his lips, and beyond the slight 

pallor of his face one could see in him no signs of fear. 

" I gueth ith gone by now, Mith Mitchell," he said. 

" Wathn't it a ripthtaver, though ? " 

The words were scarcely oiit of his mouth before a 
new sound came to our ears, — a sound more ominous and 
dreadful than any we had yet heard, increasing in 
volume with every passing second. 

Bobby stood for a moment intently listening, then he 
dashed to the platform, tore back the curtain from the 
window, and we both looked out. 
" Ith Bently's dam ! " he exclaimed ; " ith butht ! " 
Far up the ravine through which Coulter's Creek 
comes dancing in the summer time, a solid wall of water 
was sweeping down toward us, crested with the debris 
of its journey. It would strike the pond, flood the nar- 
row valley and wash the school-house from its founda- 
tion. This was inevita;ble. Yet there was no escape. 
Before we could cross half the distance to the nearest 
hill the water would be on us. 

I started back into the room and covered my eyes 

with my hands. Bobby stood for a moment in fearful 

indecision. Then he flung his arms toward the ceiling 

and cried : 

" The loft ! The roof! The tree ! " 

I grasped his idea at once. In it lay the only hope 


of safety. We seized the table, placed it in position, 
flung the chair on it, and the next instant Bobby was 
pushing up the cover of the opening with herculean 
strength. It yielded and fell back. He plunged up- 
ward into the darkness of the loft, and had his hands 
down to help me up before I had fairly gained the chair. 
The next moment we were both climbing out from 
the scuttle to the ridge-pole of the roof. Even as we 
did 30 the flood came down. 

It was deafening to hear and frightful to see. On its 
crest were the wrecks of houses, and in its foam dead 
bodies tossed. It struck the pond, swept on to the dam, 
the bridge and the narrow gorge below us, and then, 
checked in its progress, came leaping, flooding, back up 
the bank, across the road, rising with fearful rapidity 
to the windows of the school-house, rolling out into the 
fields a boiling, foam-flecked lake. 

" Here ! Grab it ! Grab it, quick ! Go up ! " 
Bobby was holding down the limb of the great elm 
for me to grasp and swing myself up into the shelter of 
the tree. I was weak from fright and the swirling 
waters made my head swim. I grasped the limb and 
pulled myself along on it, but so slowly and awkwardly 
that Bobby, loosing his hold, caught my feet and pushed 
me upward. The water was at the eaves. The school- 
house was swaying on its foundation. I caught and clung 
wildly to the next branch above my head and cried out : 
" Save yourself, Bobby ! Hurry ! Save yourself! " 
The building lurched ponderously to one side as 
Bobby grasped for the bending limb, missed it and fell 
back on the ridge-pole of the roof. He caught hold of 
the framework of the scuttle to save himself from roll- 
ing into the waves, and clung to it desperately, as the 
building, loosened from its bearings, went sailing out 
upon the flood. Already the waters were beginning to 
recede. The school-house, rising and falling, dipping 
and twisting, with the doomed child clinging to its pro- 
jecting peak, went swinging down toward the gorge. 


" Good-by," called Bobby, as he passed ; " good by ! 
and hang on tight, Mith Mitchell. I'm goin' — to thea ! " 

" Good-by ! " I cried back to him ; " Oh, Bobby, 
good-by ! " 

The waves washed over his head now and again as he 
floated out of sight, and even in that dreadful moment 
the words of the sweet old nursery rhyme came singing 
back into my mind : 

Bobby^haftoe's gone to sea, 
Silver buckles on his knee. 
He'll come back no more to me, 
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe. 

The floods went down ; the ruined land lay bare of 
water save in pools and ponds ; twilight descended 
beautiful as a dream, and through it came men of the 
village seeking the lost and dead, and helped me down 
from the great elm that had saved me. 

I went shivering to Bobby Shaftoe's house. 

At midnight they brought him home. They had 
found him, far down the stream, tangled in the wreckage 
of the flood. He was not dead, but that was the most 
hopeful thing that one could say of him. At dawn he 
flung out his arms from the coverlet. 

" Hang on tight, Mith Mitchell," he cried, weakly ; 
" good-by ! I'm goin' to thea ! " 

" Oh, Bobby," I said, " brave Bobbv, qome back to 
me ! " 

He seemed to hear me and understand, for he opened 
his eyes and answered me : " Yeth, Mith Mitchell, I've 
been thinkin' about it — an' I will." 

And he did. Night and day I sat by him and nursed 
him back to health and strength. But when he grew to 
be well again his mischievous nature had left him. He 
was a changed boy. He was sober and studious ; and 
even before the years of his youth had wholly passed, 
earnest manhood rested on him like a crown. 



Joseph Bert Smiley. 
Young Vincent was a noble boy, 
His father's pride, his mother's joy, 
All free from arts and false pretense, 
A type of guileless innocence. 
Surely no healthy boy could be 
More noble, pure and true than he — 
So thought his proud paternal. 

Now Vincent was a quiet child, 
His ways were gentle, manners mild. 
Yet sometimes, tired of quiet joys, 
He went to play with other boys. 
And once or twice this youth sedate 
Returned to slumber rather late, 
And grieved his kind paternal. 

The kind paternal loved his son. 
But when by duty called upon 
He emphasized his just commands 
By literal laying on of hands. 
So now about the second time 
That Vincent failed to toe the line, 
The kind paternal said to him, 
My son, I want you to be in 
By eight o'clock, for otherwise 
I must my little son chastise : 
And such a task, you surely know. 
Would hurt your loving papa so." 
Thus spake the grieved paternal. 

And noble Vincent said he would, 
For well he knew he never could 
Endure to see his papa dear 
So sadly, deeply grieved, — and here 
With spotless handkerchief he dries 
A teardrop from his little eyes. 
He loved his kind paternal. 

Then all went well a week or so, 
Till one ill-fated night, when lo ! 
He played a little bit too late, 
And first he knew 'twas half-past eight. 

*Froin " Meditations of Samwell Williins," by permisBion of the author. 


He hesitated home to go, 
He knew 'twould grieve his papa so, 
Tlien took a friend to stay all night — 
Thought that would help him out all right. 
The kind paternal, Vincent learned, 
From down town had not yet returned. 
So, being tired, he quickly led 
His friend upstairs, and went to bed. 
The company was soon asleep. 
But Vincent didn't slumber deep — 
He thoughrt of his paternal. 

The kind paternal soon returned. 
And asked about his son, and learned 
That he had trespassed as before, — 
Learned merely this and nothing more. 
He said, " I'm very grieved to hear 
Of this, for very much I fear 
That, as a parent good and wise, 
I must my little son chastise ; 
And I will make the lesson strong. 
So he'll remember deep and long" — 
Thus quoth the grieved paternal. 

The company was sound asleep ; 
But Vincent didn't slumber deep. 
He dozed and listened, tossed and dreamed, 
And as he slept he ever seemed 
To see his father's troubled look. 
Then suddenly all sleep forsook 
His eyelids, for while tossing there, 
He heard a footstep on the stair. 
Now Vincent couldn't bear to see 
His fond paternal's misery; 
So when he heard that heavy tread 
He quickly bounded out of bed 
And looked for some secluded spot, 
And mourned because he found it not. 
He felt around and bumped his head. 
Then scrambled underneath the bed — 
He felt for his paternal. 

The company, unconscious there. 
Heard not the footstep on the stair. 
But slumbered sweetly, snug and warm, 
And never even dreamed of harm. 


And while young Vincent rolled and tossed, 
No shade his peaceful eyelids crossed. 
He dreamed of fields and shady nooks, 
And birds, and flowers, and babbling brooks, 
And several other things that seem 
Appropriate subjects for a dream. 
He grieved for no paternal. 

Then very soon the guest awoke ; 

His peaceful dream was past. 

He woke to find his host had fled, 

A tall, dark form stood by the bed. 

He woke to mutter, gape and start. 

Then burn, and scream, and shriek, and smart I 

Ho ! martyrs of ye olden time. 
Whose deeds are sung in classic rhyme, 
Behold this guiltless boy's sad plight. 
And weep with pity at the sight. 

GEANDFATHEE'S CLOCK.— Egbert C. V. Meyers. 

Written ea^pressly for Giis Collection. 

Tick, tock, 

Tick, tock, 

Goes the clock. 

Grandfather's clock, 

There in the hall — 

Tick, tock. 

'Tis a wedding song — 

Grandmother blushing comes along 

In stiff brocade and hoop, and all 

The stateliness of powder and patch, 

So beautiful the fiddlers catch 

Their breath as they play 

The sweet Strathspay 

Sweeter than ever ; 

While grandfather, clever 

At steps, leans over 

And kisses the tips 

Of her fingers, his lips 

The lips of a lover, 

As he dances with grandmother solemn and slow, 

As they used to dance in the long ago 


When the clock was new and its voice ticked 

The fiddlers' tune with a roguish rock — 
Tick, tock, 
Tick, tock. 

Tick, tock. 

Tick, tock. 

Goes the clock, 

Grandfather's clock, 

There in the hall — 

Tick, tock, • 

Like a martial call : 

" The British are on us. Bise, men, rise ! " 

Grandmother goes in her dimity gown. 

And from the wall the sword takes down. 

Brave in her heart, and brave in her eyes. 

Grandfather snatches a kiss and goes. 

Grandmother listens, and hears the clock — 

Tick, tock ; 

Grandmother listens, and hears, and knows 

Under the hill the fight goes on, — 

A boom of guns, a flash of steel. 

Shouting of men : 

"Die where you stand, but do not run ! " 

Grandmother white as light goes out 

To the door and joins her voice to the shout 

As a man runs past, " Wheel round, wheel ! 

Die where you stand, but do not run ! " 

And the man turns back, and the day is won, 

And the clock's voice, too, shrills all through : 

" Wheel-round-wheel- 

Die-where-you-stand-but-do-not-run — " 

Tick, tock, 

Tick, tock. 

Tick, tock. 

Tick, tock. 

Goes the clock. 

Grandfather's clock. 

There in the hall — 

Tick, tock. 

It goes with a hitch, as though 'twere sad 

Of so much time 

Without reason or rhyme ; 

While through the door. 


Like one-time glad 

Fragments of light, 

The gravestones white 

That cover o'er 

Grandfather and 

Grandmother, stand 

And hear the old clock — 

Tick, tock— 

Singing the song of the wedding-day, 

Singing the battle song of the boys 

Of Seventy-six, and singing away 

The song of the little minutes that play 

With centuries for their fragile toys : 

"Tick, tock. 

Time may mock 

At man's endeavor and woman's love, 

For these shall pass ; but up above 

My soul shall tell what they once were. 

For I've outlived the bold and the fair, 

I, a clock, and the soul in me 

Is the pulse of all eternity." 

Tick, tock, 
Tick, tock, 
Goes the clock. 
Grandfather's clock, 
There in the hall — 
Tick, tock, 
Tick— tock— 


A Southern prisoner of war at Camp Chase, in Ohio, after pining of sickness 
at the hospital of that station for aome time, and confiding to his friend and 
fellow-captive, Colonel Hawkins, of Tennessee, that he was heavy of heart 
because his affianced bride in Nashville did not write to him, died just before 
the arrival of a letter in which the lady curtly broke the engagement. Colonel 
Hawkins had been requested by his dying comrade to open any epistle which 
ahould come for him thereafter; and, upon reading the letter in question, 
penned the following versified answer. 

Your letter, lady, came too late, 
For heaven had claimed its own ; 

^h. pudden chancre— from prison bar 
Unto the great white throne ; 

And yet I think he would have stayed, 
To live for his disdain, 


Could he have read the careless words 
Which you have sent in vain. 

So full of patience did he wait, 

Through many a weary hour, 
That o'er his simple soldier-faith 

Not even death had power ; 
And you— did others whisper low 

Their homage in your ear, 
As though among their shallow throng 

His spirit had a peer? 

I would ttfat you were by me now. 

To draw the sheet aside 
And see how pure the look he wore 

The moment when he died. 
The sorrow that you gave to him 

Had left its weary trace, 
As 'twere the shadow of the cross 

Upon his pallid face. 

"Her love," he said, " could change for me 

The winter's cold to spring," 
Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, 

Thou art a bitter thing ! 
For when these valleys, bright in May, 

Once more with blossoms wave. 
The northern violets shall blow 

Above his humble grave. 

Your dole of scanty words had been 

But one more pang to bear 
For him who kissed unto the last 

Your tress of golden hair ; 
I did not put it where he said. 

For, when the angels come, 
I would not have them find the sign 

Of falsehood in the tomb. 

I've read your letter, and I know 

The wiles that you have wrought 
To win that trusting heart of his. 

And gained it— cruel thought! 
What lavish wealth men sometimes give 

For what is worthless all ! 
What manly bosoms beat for truth 

Tn folly's falsest thrall ! 


You shall not pity him, for now 

His sorrow has an end ; 
Yet would that you could stand with me 

Beside my fallen friend ! 
And I forgive you for his sake. 

As he — if he be forgiven— 
May e'en be pleading grace for you 

Before the court of Heaven. 

To-night the cold winds whistle by, 

As I my vigil keep 
Within the prison dead-house, where 

Few mourners come to weep. 
A rude plank coffin holds his form ; 

Yet death exalts his face, 
And I would rather see him thus 

Than clasped in your embrace. 

To-night your home may shine with light 

And ring with merry song. 
And you be smiling as your soul 

Had done no deadly wrong ; 
Your hand so fair that none will think 

It penned these words of pain ; 
Your skin so white — would God your heart 

Were half as free from stain. 

I'd rather be my comrade dead 

Than you in life supreme ; 
For yours the sinner's waking dread. 

And his the martyr's dream ! 
Whom serve we in this life we serve 

In that which is to come ; 
He chose his way, you — yours ; let God 

Pronounce the fitting doom. 


Recently our church has had a new minister. He is 
a nice, good, sociable gentleman ; but having come from 
a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted 
with our people. 

Therefore, it happened that during his paatoral calls 
he made several ludicrous blunders. 


The other evening he called upon Mrs. Hadden. She 
had just lost her husband, and naturally supposed that 
his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a 
few common-places had been exchanged, she was not 
at all surprised to hear him remark, 

" It was a sad bereavement ; was it not, Mrs. Hadden ? " 

" Yes," faltered the widow. 

" Totally unexpected ? " 

" Oh, yes ; I never dreamed of it." 

" He died in the bftrn, I suppose?" 

" Oh, no ; in the house." 

'• Ah — well, I suppose you must have thought a great 
deal of him." 

" Of course, sir," — this with a vim. 

The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs, 
and renewed the conversation. 

" Blind staggers was the disease, I believe ? " he said. 

" No, sir," snapped the widow, " apoplexy." 

" Indeed ; you must have fed him too much." 

" He was always capable of feeding himself, sir." 

" Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard, 
didn't he?" 

" He did." 

" You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put 
him out of misery, I was told." 

Mrs. Hadden's eyes snapped fire. 

" Whoever told you so did not speak the truth," she 
haughtily uttered. " James died naturally." 

" Yes," repeated the minister, in a slightly perplexed 
tone, " he kicked the side of the barn down iu his last 
agonies, did he not ? " 

" No, sir, he didn't." 

" Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How 
old was he? 

" Thirty-five." 

" Then he did not do much active work. Perhaps 
you are better without him, for you can easily supply 
his place -with another." 

" Never sir — never will I see one as good as he." 


" Oh, yes, you will. He had the heaves bad, you 

" Nothing of the kind ! " 

" Why, I recollect I saw him, one day, passing along 
liie road, and I distinctly recollect that he had the 
heaves, and walked as if he had the string-halt." 

Mrs. Hadden stared at her reverend visitor as if she 
iaiagined that he was crazy. 

" He could never have had the string-halt, for he had 
a cork leg ! " she returned. 

" A cork leg ! — remarkable. But really, now, didn't 
he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and 
kicking a wagon all to pieces ? " 

" Never ; he was not a madman, sir ! " 

" Probably not. But there were some good points 
about him." 

" I should think so ! " 

" The way in which he carried his ears, for example." 

" Nobody else ever noticed that particular merit," 
said the widow, with some asperity ; " he was warm- 
hearted, generous and frank ! " 

"Good qualities," answered he unconsciously. "How 
long did it take him to gp a mile ? " 

"About fifteen minutes." 

" Not much of a goer. Wasn't his hair apt to fly?" 

'' He didn't have any hair. He was bald-headed." 

" Quite a curiosity ? " 

" No, sir ; no more of a curiosity than you are." 

The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face. 
But he returned to the attack. 

" Did you use the whip much on him ? " 

" Never, sir." 

" Went right along without it, eh ? " 

" Yes." 

" He must have been a very good sort of a brute? " 

Mrs. Hadden turned very white and made no reply. 

The minister did not know what to say, but finally 
blurted out : " What I most admired about him was the 
beautiful switch of his tail." 


The widow just sat down and cried. 

" The idea of your coming here and insulting me ! " 
she sobbed. " If my husband had lived you wouldn't ha' 
done it. Your remarks in reference to that poor, dead 
man have been but a series of insults. I wont stand it." 

He colored and looked dumbfounded. 

" Are you not Mrs. Blinkers ? " he stammered. 

" No, no." 

"And has not your old grey horse died ? " 

" I never owned a ji-horse, but my husband died a 
w-week ago ! " 

Ten minutes later the minister came out of that 
house with the reddest face ever seen on a mortal man. 

" And to think," he groaned, as he strode home, 
" that I was talking horse to that woman all the time, 
and she was talking husband." 


Men take the pu,re ideals of their souls, 

And lock them fast away, 
And never dream that things so beautiful 

Are fit for every day. 

So counterfeits pass current in their lives, 

And stones they give for bread, 
And starvingly and fearingly they walk 

Through life among the dead ; 
Though never yet was pure ideal 
Too fair for them to make their real. 

The thoughts of beauty dawning on the soul 

Are glorious Heaven-gleams, 
And God's eternal truth lies folded deep 

In all man's lofty dreams. 

'Twas first in thought's clear world that Kepler saif 

Wliat ties the planets bound, 
And through long years he searched the spheres 
and there 

The answering law he found. 
Men said he sought a. wild ideal, 
The stars made answer, " It is real ! " 


Paul, Luther, Howard, all the crowned ones 

That star-like gleam through time, 
Lived boldly out before the clear-eyed sun 

Their inmost thought sublime ! 
These truths, to them more beautiful than day. 

They knew would quicken men. 
And deeds at which the blinded gazers sneered 

They dared to practise then ; 
Till those who mocked their young ideal, 
In meekness owned it was the real. 

Thine early dreams that came in shapes of light, 

Came bearing prophecy — 
Commissioned sweetly to unfurl 

Thy possible to thee. 

Fear not to build thine eyrie on the heights, 

Bright with celestial day; 
And trust thyself unto thine inmost soul 

In simple faith alway ! 
And God will make divinely real, 
The highest forms of thine ideal. 

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.— James Whitcomb Riley. 

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay. 

An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs 

An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, 

an' sweep, 
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board- 

an'-keep ; 
An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done, 
We set around the kitchen Are an' has the mostest fun 
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, 
An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you 

Ef you 




Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs— 

-in' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs. 

His mammy heered him holler, an' his daddy heered him 

An' when they turn't the kivvers down he wasn't there 

at all 1 


An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole an' 

An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I 

But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout 1 
An' the gobble-uns'll git you 

Ef you 



Out I 
An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' grin. 
An' make fun of ever'one an' all her blood an' kin ; 
An' onc't, when they was " company," an' ole folks was 

She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care ! 
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, 
Xhey was two great big black things a-standin' by her side, 
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed 

what she's about ! 
An' the gobble-uns'U git you 

Ef you 




An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, 
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo I 
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray. 
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away — 
You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' 

An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, 
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, 
Er the gobble-uns'll git you 

Ef you . 




THE LAST BATTLE.— Ellen Mukkay. 

WriUen expressly for thU Collection. 

A sound of uprising — 

A cry, — yea, a roar ! 
Do waves dash in foaming 

Their crests on the shore? 
Or is it the thunder 

That crashes in might 


With lightning swift flashing 
In ebony night? 

A roar — and a shouting 1 

Do chariots come, 
And armies on treading 

With trumpet and drum ? 
Is that the fierce cannon? 

Or is it the tread 
Of soldiers disturbing 

The peace of the dead ? 

They come — and they rally 

The foemen of God, 
Their feet through the pathway 

Of falsehood have trod, 
Their banner is blackness 

Their visage is flame, 
And fearful and hateful 

Their mission of shame. 

Whence come they, — those legions 

From depths of despair? 
From shoreless abysses' 

Sulphureous glare 
Where fiery billows 

To chaos are hurled ? — 
II a! Eblis, the beggar. 

The prince of the world ! 

What seek they, — the mighty 

With frown and with sneer? 
Is not the wild triumph 

Of wickedness near? 
Like locusts on sweeping 

They darken the earth, 
Woe ! woe worth the hour 

Of Hades' mad mirth. 

O holy ! beauteous ! 

church of our God ! 
How fair stand her spires 

On Paradise sod. 
How lovely her gardens, 

Her tent curtains fair 1 
The rose, and the lily 

Of valleys is there. 


Oh, built on the rock base, 

Thou church of our love I 
Lift high thy fair towers, 

The day-star's above. 
Thy walls are all emerald, 

Thy columns are beryl. 
Thy corner-stone jasper. 

Thy portals are pearl. 

As aloe trees planted 

The waters beside, 
As myitle trees blooming 

In evergreen pride; 
So dwell by thy fountains 

Thy millions at peace, 
Where harpstring and viol 

Their music increase. 

Oh, who shall defend thee? 

Oh, who be thine aid. 
When wild liosts of Eblis 

Rush on in their raid ? 
When Drunkenness, Mammon, 

When Hatred and Fraud, 
With Belial, are fighting 

The church of our God. 

Out, out to the rescue 

All angels of heaven ! 
ITo, seraphs with trumpets ! 

Ho, mystical seven ! 
Oh ! princes and powers 

From stations sunbright, 
Sweep down in your glory, 

Eush swift in your flight. 

Out, out to the rescue. 

Apostles of old ! 
St. John and St. Andrew, 

St. Peter the bold ! 
And we, who are Gentiles, 

We ask for St. Paul, 
Our teacher, our lawyer 

The wisest of all. 

Out, out to the rescue, 
Oh, martyrs, who wear 


Your robes of rich crimson 

In heavenly air ! 
In dungeon and fire 

Your palms ye have won, 
Sweep here to the rescue, 

Ere set of the sun. 

Oh, Michael, archangel, 

Thou Captain of God, 
With armor of lightning, 

With double-edged sword I 
With armies uncounted 

Rush down to the fray. 
They come — they are coming. 

Thrice blest be the day. 

Surrounded and shaken, 

O Church, shalt tliou stand ! 
The earthquake and thunder 

Are scourging the land. 
The heavens are tempest. 

The earth is a pall, 
And terror and trouble 

Are covering all. 

Ha, He cometh ! Christ cometh 1 

The stars are dismayed. 
The sun hides in terror. 

The hills are afraid. 
Why leap ye, ye high hills 7 

He cometh to save, 
He holdeth the power 

Of death and the grave. 

He cometh ! His white robes 

Are whiter than snow. 
Yet crimson the staining 

That crosses their glow. 
The diadems many 

Are crowning His brow ; 
His pierced hands are guiding 

The universe now. 

Com'st Thou to our helping? 

Yea, com'st Thou to aid? 
Hast Thou heard our pleading 

Ere yet we have prayed ? 


The arch of the rainbow 

Thy coursers have trod, 
We shout for Thee, hail Thee, 

Our Saviour,— our God. 

The hosts of the evil, 

Like chaff in the wind, 
Are fled — they are scattered, 

Not one left behind ; 
To earth in their caverns 

And dungeons they crawl; 
Ah ! vainly with hisses 

Each other they call. 
Fling open thy portals 

Fair church of the saints 1 
All ended thy danger, 

All hushed thy complaints ; 
Thy Prince, at thine altar. 

His holy hath blest ; 
Without all is sunshine. 

Within all is rest. 

Louise de la Ramee. 

This intensely dramatic reading is an extract from the chapter descriptive 
of The Soldiers' Blue Ribbon (the military steeple-chaiie) in Guida's populHr 
novel, "Under Two Flags." Thirty-two horses started in the race but all 
had been distanced by the two favorites, Forest King, ridden by hiu owner, 
Hon. Bertie Cecil, and Bay Regent, ridden by Jimmy Delmar, of the Tenth 
Lancers. The prize wiis The Gold Vase. The finish is described as follows : 

Not knowing, or looking, or heeding what happened 
behind, they tore on over the meadow and the ploughed 
land ; the two favorites neck by neck. The turning- 
flags were passed ; from the crowds on the course a great 
hoarse roar came louder and louder, and the shouts 
rang, changing every second, "Forest King wins," "Bay 
Regent wins," " Scarlet and White's ahead," " Violet's 
up with him," " Violet's past him," "Scarlet recovers," 
" Scarlet beats," " A cracker on the King," " Ten to 
one on the Regent," " Guards are over the fence first," 
" Guards are winning," " Guards are losing," " Guards 
are beat ! " 

204 0^& HON&BEt) CUOtCE BEt/ECTtOXa 

Were they ! 

As the shout rose Cecil's left stirrup-leather snapped 
and gave way ; at the pace they were going most men, 
ay, and good riders too, would have been hurled out of 
their saddle by the shock ; he scarcely swerved ; a mo- 
ment to ease the King and to recover his equilibrium, 
then he took the pace up again as though nothing had 
chanced. And his comrades of the Household when 
they saw this through their race-glasses, broke through 
their serenity and burst into a cheer that echoed over 
the grasslands and the coppices like clarion, a cheer that 
rolled mellow and triumphant down the cold bright air 
like blast of trumpets, and thrilled on Bertie's ear 
where he came down the course a mile away. It made 
his heart beat quicker with a victorious headlong de- 
light, as his knees pressed closer into Forest King's 
flanks, and, half stirrupless like the Arabs, he thundered 
forward to the greatest riding feat of his life. His face 
was very calm still, but his blood was in tumult ; the 
delirium of pace had got on him ; a minute of life like 
this was worth a year, and he knew that he would win 
or die for it, as the land seemed to fly like a black sheet 
under him, and in that killing speed, fence and hedge 
and double and water all went by him like a dream, 
whirling underneath him as the gray stretched, stomach 
to earth over the level, and rose to leap after leap. 

He was more than a length behind the Regent, whose 
hoofs as they dashed the ground up sounded like thun- 
dei ; it was more than the lead to keep now, there was 
ground to cover, and the King was losing. Cecil felt 
drunk with that strong keen, west wind that blew so 
strongly in his teeth, a passionate excitation was in him, 
every breath of winter air that rushed in its bracing 
currents round him seemed to lash him like a stripe : — 
the Household to look on and see him beaten ! 

Certain wild blood that lay latent in Cecil under the 
tranquil gentleness of temper and of custom, woke, and 
had the mastery. He set his teeth hard, and his hands 


clinched like steel on the bridle, " Oh ! my beauty, my 
beauty," he cried, all unconsciously, half aloud, as they 
near the thirty-sixth fence. " Kill me if you like, but 
don't fail me!" 

As though Forest King heard the prayer and an- 
swered it with all his hero's heart, the sjslendid form 
launched faster out, the stretching stride stretched 
farther yet with lightning spontaneity, every fibre 
strained, every nerve struggled, with a magnificent 
bound like an alitelo^e the Gray recovered the ground 
he had lost, and passed Bay Eegent by a quarter-length. 
It was a neck to neck race once more, across the three 
meadows with the last and lower fences that were be- 
tween them and the final leap of all, — that ditch of arti- 
ficial water with the towering double hedge of oak rails 
and of blackthorn that was reared black and grim and 
well nigh hopeless just in front of the Grand Stand. A 
roar like the roar of the sea broke up from the thronged 
course as the crowd hung breathless on the even race ; 
ten thousand shouts rang as thrice ten thousand eyes 
watched the closing contest, the gigantic Chestnut, with 
every massive sinew swelled and strained to tension, side 
by side with the marvelous grace, the shining flanks, 
and the Arabian-like head of the Guards' horse. 

Louder and wilder the shrieked tumult rose: "The 
Chestnut beats !" " The Gray beats !" "Scarlet's ahead !" 
•Bay Regent's caught him ! " " Violet's winning, Violet's 
winning ! " " The King's neck by neck ! " " The King's 
beating ! " " The Guards will get it ! " " The Guards' 
crack has it ! " " Not yet, not yet ! " " Violet will thrash 
him at the jump!" "Now for it!" "The Guards, the 
Guards, the Guards ! " " Scarlet will win! " " The King 
has the finish ! " " No, no, no, no ! " 

Sent along at a pace that Epsom flat never eclipsed, 
sweeping by the Grand Stand like the flash of electric 
flame, they ran side to side one moment more, their 
foam flung on each other's withers, their breath hot in 
uach other's nostrils, while the dark earth flew beneath 


tlieir stride. The blackthora was in front behind five 
bars of solid oak, the water yawning on its farther side, 
black and deep, and fenced, twelve feet wide if it were 
an inch, with the same thorn wall beyond it ; a leap no 
horse should have been given. Cecil pressed his knees 
closer and closer, and worked the gallant hero for the 
test ; the surging roar of the throng, though so close, 
was dull on his ear : he heard nothing, knew nothing, 
saw nothing but that lean chestnut head beside him, the 
dull thud on the turf of the flying gallop, and the black 
wall that reared in his face. Forest King had done so 
much, could he have stay and strength for this? 

Cecil's hands clinched unconsciously on the bridle, 
and his face was very pale — pale with excitation — as 
his foot where the stirrup was broken crushed closer and 
harder against the Gray's flanks. 

" Oh, my darling, ray beauty — now! " 

One touch of the spur — the first — and Forest King 
rose at the leap, all the life and power there were in 
him gathered for one superhuman and crowning effort ; 
a flash of time, not half a second in duration, and he 
was lifted in the air higher, and higher, and higher in 
the cold, fresh, wild winter wind ; stakes and rails, and 
thorn and water lay beneath him black and gaunt and 
shapeless, yawning like a grave; one bound, even in 
mid-air, one last convulsive impulse of the gathered 
limbs, and Forest King was over ! 

And as he galloped up the straight run-in, he was 
alone. Bay Regent had refused the leap. 

As the Gray swept to the Judge's chair, the air was 
rent \vith deafening cheers that seemed to reel like 
drunken shouts from the multitude. " The Guards win, 
the Guards win ; '' and when his rider pulled up at the 
distance with the full sun shining on the scarlet and 
white, Forest King stood in all his glory, winner of the 
Soldiers' Blue Ribbon, by a feat without its parallel in 
all the annals of the Gold Vase. 

NUMBER thirtv-threb. 207 

A MOURNFUL TALE— H. Elliott McBhidb. 

Written expressly for this Collectum. 

In Pumpkintown there lived a girl as fair as any rose ; 
Her eyes were like the stars aloft, as also was her nose. 
Her glossy ringlets danced around her forehead full and 

And made her look as sweet an' good as Quaker pumpkin pie. 

Her name, I'll state, was Mary Brown ; her age was twenty- 

Her pa was very proud of her, he thought thatshe would do. 

He sent her to an Institute where larnin' could be had, 

But ah, alas ! must I go on ?- the story is so sad ! 

( Weeps quietly for sixteen seconds, and uses seven pocket 
handkerchiefs, taking them from a pocket at the left side of 
his coat and returning them to a pocket on the right side.) 

Well, while at school she fell in love with William Peter 

And up they rose one darkish night and straightway fled 

They got a cart from Simon Hart and dashed across the 

Although the wind was howling wild and mixed somewhat 

with rain. 

A telegram was sent direct to Mary's loving sire, 

And he arose with flaming wrath and in his eye some fire. 

He donned his hat, his coat, his boots —he said there'd be a 

He'd kick the man to Michigan and shoot him when he'd 


He said, " Ah, ha ! and if I must, around the world I'll fly ; 

I'll not be beaten ; no, indeed, not e'en by Nellie Bly. 

I'll have the life of that vile man, I'll crush him with my 

heel; {Sets down his heel like a sledge hammer.) 
I'll make the thieving rascal howl and weep and squirm 

and squeal. 

How can I speak this narra-tav .' how can I now proceed ? 

And tell you all about the case,— the vash and bloody deed ? 

How can I tell the story through? I fear you'd think it 

And so I'll stop and rest awhile— and— take a little weep. 
{Weeps quietly for fifteen seconds, takes out the seven pocket 
handkerchiefs at the right side of his coat, uses them 
mournfully and returns them to the left side. Jf this cannot 
be done in fifteen seconds the time can he extended.) 


Must I go on and tell the tale ? oh, must I tell it tlirough? 
Oh, no ; I can't, I can't, I can't ! I think it wouldn't do. 
But I'll relate that Mr. Brown and William Peter Ray, 

And Mary Brown and Mrs. Br That's all that I can say. 

( Wipes his eyes vnlh the aforesaid seven pocket handkerchiefs 

and retires to slow music. The curtain should fall in a 

mournful way. 

JIM.— A.W. Bellaw. 

Some horses have high-toned names, but it didn't matter 

with him ; 
Some folks 'ud a called him James, but he answered only to 

We raised him up from a colt, of a common sort of stock; 
But he rose above his breed, as you could see by his walk ; 
Faithful always, an' kind, and the pride o' my dead wife, 
An' I wouldn't o' raised a whip to strike him to save my 

I'd as leave hit one of the kids as to lay a lash on him, 
An' fer an all-round horse thar warn't none better than 


Stiddy an' straight at the plough, he always knowed when 

to turn, 
So fer either gee or haw he didn't have any concern ; 
He started or stopped at a word, no matter how hard the 

work ; 
He went like his heart was in it, an' never was known to 

An' when I would drive him to town to the surrey he 

seemed to feel proud 
With all o' the family behind him — an' it wasn't no little 

crowd ; 
You should seen him throw out his feet an' lookin' so slick 

an' trim, 
AJlowin' no others to pass, fer they couldn't git 'head o' Jim. 

Money couldn't a bought him — I'd assoonhev sold a child; 
The very thoughts o' the thing 'ud a set the household wild; 
No treatment was ever too good fer such a critter as he, 
An' he seemed to be thankful fer it, as any time you could 

Why, the baby could straddle his back an' slap him an' yell 

with delight. 
An' he'd take him around the yard until you'd laugh at the 


NtlMBKR THIBlY-tflBEB. 209 

Fer he'd go with a careful step, lest the baby should tumble 

With the other children laughin' an' followin' 'em roun' an' 


But the seasons got poorer an' poorer, an' I saw my profits 

Till I couldn't pay my debts, in spite of all Jim's aid. 
An' a merchant 1 owed in town with an officer came fer the 

An' there wasn't no use of fightin' to try to prevent it, of 

course. , 

I felt lilce my heart would break — I could hardly get my 

breath — 
An' all the children screamin' an' cryin' theirselves to death. 
Jim seetiied to know what was wrong. He looked back 

with a sorrowful eye 
When the rascals led him away, an' I went to the barn 

to cry. 

If Jim had a died an' gone it wouldn't hev been so bad, 
Fer 1 felt like the feller who loses the girl he thought he 

had ; 
If she's in her grave that's an end, but to see her some 

other man's, 
It's misery enough to make him take his life with his own 

I hadn't much heart to work, but I had to struggle along. 
I had two other horses but they wasn't very strong; 
I held to the plough behind 'em, but ray eyes 'ud git dim, 
Till I couldn't see the furrow— a-sighin' an' thinkin' o' Jim. 

The little truck I could raise I hated to take to the town, 
Fer every time that I did I'd see Jim trottin' aroun' 
To the finest buggy I ever see, with nice harness on, 
An' Jenks sittin' straight with lines in his ban', an' I 

wanted my gun. 
An' if Jim 'ud see me he'd neigh an' want to come where 

I was. 
But he got the lash — an' I cussed the rich an' railed at the 

An' then I 'ud turn away, fer my head was beginnin' to 

An' my very blood 'ud bile as I went home a-grie vin' fer Jim. 

I am very sure that Jim felt as bad about it as me, 
An' hated ole Jenks the same, an' soon he got mean as 
could be. 


I'd hear that he'd try to run oflF, an' kicked, an' shied out 

o' spite. 
He wasn't the same old horse, tho' I felt it was perfectly 

But I tried to get reconciled to it, an' went on with my 

work best I could. 
Next year some money I made, fer the season and crops 

they was good, 
An' at dinner one day, as we sot there talkin' o' him, 
Who should come tearin' an' stoppin' in front o' the gate 

but ole Jim, — 

Ole Jim, with his harness on, an' a piece of a shaft at his 

I knowed that sumpin was wrong. " Jim ! Jim ! " the 

children cried. 
As we all run out to the gate an' found he was all in foam, 
An' they patted his neck an' rubbed his face as thej wel- 
comed him home. 
Well, ole Jenks he was somewhat hurt in the smashup that 

An' was dreadfully mad at the beast, as might easily be 

I bought our ole love for a song an' paid it down with a 

vim — 
That horse there under the apple, with the children around 

him, that's Jim. 

MY MOTHER'S HYMNS.— Emily Gkeknb Wethbkbeb. 

Hushed are those lips, their earthly song is ended ; 

The singer sleeps at last ; 
While I sit gazing at her arm-chair vacant. 

And think of days long past. 

The room still echoes with the old-time music. 

As, singing soft and low 
Those grand, sweet hymns, the Christian's consolation, 

She rocks her to and fro. 

Some that can stir the heart like shouts of triumph 

Or loud-toned trumpet's call. 
Bidding the people prostrate faU before Him, 

And crovm Him — Lord of all ; 

And tender notes, filled with melodious rapture, 
That leaned upon His word, 


Rose in those strains of solemn, deep affection, 
I love Thy Kingdom, Lord. 

Safe hidden in the wondrous Rock of Ages, 

She bade farewell to fear. 
Sure that her Lord would always gently lead her. 

She read her tUle dear. 

Joyful she saw, from Oreenland's icy mountains, 

The Gospel flag unfurled ; 
And knew by faith the morning light was breaking 

Over a sinful world. 


There is a fountain — how the tones triumphant 

Rose in victorious strains, 
Filled with that precious blood, for all the ransomed, 

Drawn from Immanuel's veins. 

In minor tones she sang of God's great judgments ; 

Broad was the sinner's road, 
Where thousands walked, forgetful of His mercy. 

To death's dark, dread abode. 

Then, changing to a mood more sweet and tender. 

The notes would softer be. 
Speaking with joy of his great loving-kindness, 

Unchanging, sure and free. 

Sometimes, when hope was faint and storm-clouds 

And darkened seemed the day, 
Rose like a dirge, I would not live here always, 

I ask Thee not to stay. 

Then, filled with faith's diviner inspiration, 

Oh, rise, my soul, she cries, 
Stretch out thy wings and trace thy better portion. 

Press onward to the prize. 

Dear saint, in heavenly mansions long since folded, 

Safe in God's fostering love, 
She joins with rapture in the blissful chorus 

Of those bright choirs above. 

There, where no tears are known, no pain nor sorrow, 

Safe beyond Jordan's roll, 
She lives forever with her blessed Jesus, 

The lover of her soul. 

— Boston Journal. 


A SERIOUS MISHAP.— S. Jennie Smith* 

Written expressly for this Collection. 

Is it in a hurry yez aire, Mr. Clarrigon, passin' fer- 
ninst me dure widout so much as a good marnin' in yer 
mouth ? For the matter av that, it's mesilf that art to 
be in the house a-cookin' av the dinner, for the mate 
is in the rafrigerator that art to be on the shtove, 
and himsilf ixpected immajit. But Dalia Larrity 
aint wan av the kind that lits a neighbor pass by 
widout shpakin' a cliarin' wurrid to him. I don't 
jine wid thim paple that wants the faymales to do 
the votin', Mr. Clarrigon (the saints forgive thim the 
mishtake), but I belave in sociableniss wid the women 
aqually wid the min. 

And how is hersilf the day ? Judy's afther tillin' me 
she had a sorry ixperience from farlin' in the cistern. 
It's a fartunate sarcumstance that she didn't come in 
drownded to yez. But did yez hear aboot me ouwn 
accident a Chuseday wake, Mr. Clarrigon? I was that 
frightened me hart bate double-quick toime, and ivery 
hairpin shot out of me hid loike arrers from a dozen 
bow-sticks. Yez niver dramed av onything to bate it, 
sorr. If I'd live to be a hundred yares, same as ould 
Kafooselar, I couldn't forgit that mishappeniu'. 

As I was tillin' yez, it was arn a Chuseday — I don't 
know, though, it appears to me it was arn a Winsday — 
but come to think av it, it must have been a Froiday — 
wull, I don't know, afther arl — (leaning toward the 
window), Mary Ann, Mary Ann, phat day did yer father 
fetch in the peraties from the market ? 

Sure now, where is the choild? she'd know if ony 
body did, for that wan has the unspakenest miraery for 
toime, and the peraties kera in the day I met me acci- 
dent. And Billy too, Mr. Clarrigon, is the cutest for 
remimbering dates. (Calls.) Billy, Billy, phat day did 

•Author of " Mrs. Murpliy'a Rpcipe for Cake," "Aunt Maria at the Eden Mu- 
see," " Mrs. O'Toolo and tlie Conductor," " Tim's Downfall," and other excel- 
lent dialect reeitatious in previous Numbers. 


yer father fetch in the peraties and bile thim in the 
dishpan ? 

Och ! where aire they arl ? If I jist stip to the dure 
for a sacond, ivery wan of those childers git out of 
hearin' — they shnake out av the back yard — but whin I 
git me two hands outer thim, they'll wish they had 
anchored awhiles. 

Maybe Tommy's indures, and if ony wan wud remim- 
ber that accident, it wud be Tommy, for he scrached 
and scraraed as if he was bein' murthered, and the 
neighbors rushed in loike floies, and there was treminjus 
goin's on. (Calls.) Tommy, me son, phat day was it 
that yer father fetched the peraties from market and 
biled thim in the dishpan wid the soap ? 

Arrah ! he's gone too. If I don't sittle wid thim 
childers afore night, I aint mesilf at arl, sorr. 

Wull, Mr. Clarrigon, it cudn't a been a Monday, for 
himself niver goes to market av a Monday, along av his 
bein' a troifle sick from the rist he takes a Sunday. The 
ould cow died a Chuseday, come to think, and I know it 
wasn't thin. Arn a Winsday I wint airly to the corn- 
docther wid me bunions — -worra, Mr. Clarrigon, may 
yer niver suffer the loikes av me wid thim bunions ; 
there's wan arn ivery toe, and some to shpare. Arn 
Thursday — it sames to me it was a Thursday, and yit 
there wor the christenin' which we arlways has arn a 
Thursday, the rason that Froiday's an onfartunate day 
for onything celebrated. 

Was it a Proiday now ? I can't for the loife av me 

sittle the matter aboot Froiday Hpwly St. Patrick 

presarve me ! there's himsilf has rached the corner, and 
sorra a mite av victuals put over for his dinner ! 


Father of all ! in every age, 

In every clime adored 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 


Thou great First Cause, least understood, 
Who all my sense confined 

To know hut this, that thou art good, 
And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives, 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives, 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound. 

Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw. 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart 

To find that better way ! 

Save me alike from foolish pride. 

Or impious discontent 
At aught thy wisdom has denied. 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show. 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by thy breath ; 

Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go. 
Through this day's life or death 1 


This day be bread and peace my lot ; 

All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let thy will be done. ■ 

To thee, whose temple is all space, 

Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
One chorus let all Being raise ! 

All Nature's incense rise ! 

THE TRIUMPH OF THE RICCL— Edith Wordsworth. 

Written expressly for this Colleetion. 

Brave Sir Count Eicci, in feudal d^ys of yore, 
Beside the Rhine encountered Nortliern foes; 

With dauntless fury he drove them to the shore, 
'Twas " Greek meets Greek," but soon the cry arose, 

" To the boats ! to the boats ! " and the enemies fled across 
The rushing current on their rafts so rude. 

"It is enough ! " said brave Sir Count, "their loss 
Has been so great, I deem them well subdued." 

And so they were ; for ninety years sped past. 
And still they ventured not across the line ; 

In peaceful tillage had their lives been cast 
Upon the rich embankments of the Rhine. 

Within those ninety years Sir Count had died, 

And left the state of Ricci to his son, 
Who, too, had parted life in age and pride. 

And left his only heir to rule alone. 

The young Sir Count beheld his peaceful state. 
His castles and his towers, his fruitful land. 

And then his glance would rest— his eyes dilate — 
Upon the foeman's ground across the strand. 

" The one true God," he spoke within himself, 
" Must be the lord and master there as here. 

I'll make a conquest, not for fame or pelf, 
But to our foes to make his glory dear." 

On that same evening when the moon's soft rays 

Gave beauty to the scene in golden light, 
The young Sir Count — like those of former days, 

Brave, relentless, zealous for the right— 


To his assembled council of sages old 
Spoke in decisive tone : " We must advance, 

Subdue our foes across the Rhine, and hold 
Them close within our power by sword and lance." 

" It must not be ! Sir Count, thou art unjust! 

The mighty river which runs through the land 
Has been the line dividing. Desist thou must ! " 

And then the sage councillor raised his hand. 

As if to call upon a higher Power 
To well sustain his bold and daring word ; 

And all the assembly trembled at the hour 
When one amongst them dared oppose his lord. 

Sir Count stood near the table ;— his crisp black hair 
Back from his wide and noble brow was thrown ; 

His flashing eye, his stern, indignant air 
Bespoke his anger. " Sir Anselm, I alone 

Hold absolute command within the state; 

In courtesy, not in need, do I advise 
With you or any councillor, Jii<,'h and great 

Though you appear, and, in your views, so wise." 

Sir Anselm bowed, but on his cheek the flush 
Betrayed the wound ; unmerited disgrace 

Had cut his inmost heart, and caused to rush 
His life-blood's scanty current to his face. 

Sir Count spoke on, unmindful of the gaze 
That from his councillors on his face was cast, — 

As they were bronze which speaks not, nor betrays 
The human mind within, capacious, vast: 

" My grandsire from the pagan Visigoth 

Won this fair land, his own by conquerors's right; 

To nobly share it he appeared not loth, 
But to his castle welcomed friend and knight. 

" What need is there to tell the story more ? 

Ye know it well, as it was told to me ; 
Beside my own dear sire in days now o'er, 

You' ve helped to keep this noble country free. 

" And now shall we remain in prosperous peace, 

Indiflerent to the pagan mythic faith 
Of souls across the Rhine ? For their release 

From heathen bondage, advance we e'en to death 1 " 


" Nay, nay,— Sir Count ! " The broken accents failed, 

And tears bedewed the aged ashen cheek 
Of old Sir Branchus ; his wan, worn fingers veiled 

His quivering eyelids. He tried again to speak 

" I will not be opposed ! " Sir Count exclaimed. 
And placed his hand upon his sword with ire; 

"To-morrow morn at sun is the hour named !— 
You shall serve me as you have served my sire ! " 

A death-like silence filled the council-room ; 

Each hoary head bowed low upon the breast ; 
The gentle moonbeams scarce could reach the gloom 

Of those brave hearts, or soothe their dread unrest. 

Sir Count looked on, wrath waxing in his blood; 

His handsome face aglow with anger pent ; 
His fingers grasped his scabbard as he stood ; 

One moment more, and feelings would find vent, 

When lo ! the tapestry was gently pushed aside, 
And soon there stood upon the marljle floor 

A little child ; with arms both outstretched wide. 
She flew to Sir Count's breast. He frowned no more ; 

Gone the deep lines of anger from his brow, 

In tender love and happiness he smiled ; 
Forgotten were his feuds, his battles, now. 

As with fond words he greeted his loved child. 

The sages raised their eyes ; the moonbeams fell 

Upon the flowing hair, the radiant face ; 
The sages gazed, as if by magic spell, 

Upon the child within her sire's embrace. 

" Where wert thou? " the silvery accents broke 
Like sweetest music on each listening ear. 

" And who are these ? " again she softly spoke ; 
" Are they thy nobles ? — thy courtiers ? Have they here 

" Detained thee, sire loved, when I so long 

Have waited for thy coming, and alone 
Have sung my hymn and little evening song?" 

With fond caress the sire said, "My own, 

" 'Tis I who have my councillors detained ; " 
And then Sir Count revealed his plan of war. 

With tiny hands close clasped, as he explained, 
And tender eyes each glistening like a star, 


The apt, precocious child soon understood 

The noble motive, of her sire's heart ; 
But, like the sages, feared both life and blood 

Too great a cost, and war too dear an art. 

" My sire," she said, in sad and plaintive tone, 
" It might be in this battle thou shouldst die, — 

Then in this castle, I would grieve alone ! " 
" My little one, this is the reason I 

" Have told thee all, that if, the battle done ' 

And I return not to thee from the quest, 
Thou mayst rejoice thy father's soul has won 

An honored name and sweet eternal rest." 

The little daughter's eyes were dimmed with tears. 

And e'en the sages wept in pitying love. 
" Is there no other way ? — Oh, that my years 

Were more ! Ah, then, perhaps my words would move 

" The strangers to believe, and love our God ! " she said. 

The councillors' hearts with feelings deep were stirred; 
The sire's heart with pain and anguish bled. 

As forth he bore his child without a word. 

The morning came. The sun in roseate hues 
Reigned in the east; and the rich perfumed air, 

So fragrant of the flowers' pearly dews. 
Gave promise of a day serene and fair. 

The bugle blast resounded down the glen, 

Across the fruitlands, to the Alpine hill ; 
And soon Sir Count had mustered all his men 

Beside the Rhine. The sages, halting still, 

Stood near their master in their armor bright. 

Sir Branchus whispered that each councillor thought 
The little lady had the previous night 

The war averted, and peace might yet be bought 

By, at most, the life of one ; Sir Count's " Amen " 
Was softly, gently uttered ; and they passed 

Down to the boats. The moorings loosed, and then 
Across the tide, the oarsmen steered them fast. 

The foemen's shore was reached. " Stand in your place 1 " 
Sir Count's clear voice rang out upon the air. 

Sir Anselm and Sir Branchus helped to trace 
The line for march with earnest zeal and care. 


" We'll come upon them at their work, and I 
Will cast one javelin towards them from afar; 

One foeman then — it may be, none — may die, 
And they will yield, so unprepared for war." 

Thus spake Sir Count as o'er the woody hill. 

His men made strict and orderly advance. 
The top attained, e'en Sir Count felt a thrill, 

As all the foemen — so seemed it at a glance — 

Were gathered in a mass upon the iield. 
As if forewarned ; aniin their centre shone 

What seemed a golden crest upon the snow-white shield, 
As o'er it beamed and danced the noonday sun. 

" Betrayed ! Betrayed I " he cried with whitened face, 

And, breaking forth, he drew his javelin. 
" Sir Anselm ! Branchus ! Bear we this disgrace ? — 

The right is ours,— the right to fight and win ! " 

"Stay, stay your hand, my Lord ! " Sir Branchus cried; 

"See ! one advances to make terms of peace." 
And old Sir Anselm, calm and eagle-eyed. 

Clung to his hand, and would not give release : 

" I see thy daughter,— thy child with hair of gold ! 

Her spotless robe— oh, stay thy cruel hand ! " 
" Speak not to me of child and home ! — nor withhold 

Me from this cause of God and His command ! " 

In fury then upon the foes he rushed, 

And aimed his arrow at the golden crest. 
One universal cry of anguish hushed 

Sir Count's quick, bold and furious behest. 

No return of charge from out the foemen's band 
Gave him brief pause. The enemies grouped around 

The golden crest, and sorrow rent the land. 
And then Sir Count, with swift, exultant bound, 

Leaped to the center of the adverse force. 
Close followed by his men ; the day was won I 

Upon the ground there lay his daughter's corse. 
Slain by the javelin that his hand had thrown. 

He knelt him down before the martyred child, 

So beautiful, so fair ; his breastplate bright 
He tore away ; he fancied that she smiled 

And oped her tender eyes to life's pure light. 


'Twas but a moment later when he fell 
Beside his little daughter ; life had fled ; 

And all the people moaned the dirge and knell, 
In saddest lamentations, o'er the dead. 

Sir Count's old slave who'd heard the earnest prayer 
Of the sweet child, and rowed her o'er the tide, 

Now prayed and sobbed in sorrow and despair. 
But lo ! the people ceased their wail and cried : 

" Tis well ! The frail angelic child has wrought 
By sweetest word and tender glance of love. 

What wars, and feuds and battles ne'er had taught 
Beneath the stroke of sword or brazen glove. 

" With beaming hearts we all do well submit 
To the true God who lives and reigns on high 1 

The treasured child the light of love has lit, 
And holds a memory that can never die." 

That eve upon the Rhine the moonbeams played 
And all the air was filled with holy calm ; 

The men of Ricci and their foemen prayed. 

And chanted soft their evening hymn and psalm. 

The gentle waters of the rolling flood 

Made plaintive music by two silent graves ; 

But mid triumphant strains in heaven, abode 
Two hearts united, blessing Him who saves ! 

JUDGE LYNCH.*— I. Edgar Jones. 

Up sprang the sturdy miner, whose locks were streaked 

with gray, 
With eyes which flashed their sentence, "Come boys, there's 

work to-day. 
They say the law is shufiling, that justice yet may fail, 
While over there the horse-thief is resting safe in jail. 
Let those with baby spirits stay here or weakly flee, 
But men of nerve and courage will rise and follow me !" 

A hundred sturdy miners responded with a shout; 
A hundred fierce avengers arose and faced about. 
And following their leader like mad, avenging fates. 
Paused not until they gathered before the prison gates ; 
While through the mountain pine groves the wind moaned 

out its grief. 
And wild crags in the moonlight stood out in bold relief. 

*By permission of the Author. 


On rushed the flerce-eyed leader ; they followed with a yell. 
On heavy doors and .barriers their sturdy weapons fell, 
And out they dragged the prisoner with features scared 

and white, 
With eyes which shone like embers, and limbs which 

shook with fright. 
With speechless lips which mumbled, or vainly strove to 

The while his eyes watched wildly their leader grim and 


No faltering in purpose, no prisoner's chance for hofie, 
The gray old miner knotted and looped the fatal rope ; 
Then springing oflf as tigers spring fiercely from their lair, 
The trembling wretch, uplifted, was struggling in the air ; 
He fought in desperation for every labored breath — 
Around him in a circle the ministers of death. 

" Too slow," the leader muttered. Quick then his pistol 

And swift in imitation, a dozen bullets crashed 
Straight through the struggling robber. Then all was 

strangely still, 
The while they contemplated the victim of their will. 
Then spake the stern-souled leader : " Let's look upon his 

And mark the robber's features, this demon of disgrace." 

Up lifted he the lantern, and then a fearful change 

Came o'er his grizzled features ; with 'wildered looks and 

He gazed one breathless moment, then screamed in accents 

"My God ! that man is guiltless ! Oh ! Ben, my only child ! 
Why could he not have spoken ? Why should this deed be 

And Heaven permit a father to slay his only son ? " 

Quick then as thought his pistol rang out with savage sound 
And dead beneath the victim he sank upon the ground. 
They buried them together, and near the mountain crest 
Beneath the pine tree's shadow together now they rest 
Where sings the breeze of summer, or moans the winter 

And settlers to their children recite the tragic tale. 

Another Border Drama, which' adds its horrid zest 
To those which mark with tombstones the legends of the 



He wasn't one of these shiny, good-looking chaps 
that I see every day hanging about the depot, dressed 
in a long overcoat and plug hat, and with seemingly no 
other business than to swing a dandy cane and stare at 
the ladies. He didn't wear his hair parted in the mid- 
dle. To tell the strict truth, I don't believe it was 
parted at all, for it stood out all over his head in every 
direction, and reminded one strongly of a bush on fire. 
That he was from the country one could see with half 
an eye; the evidences of rural life were too plainly 
marked. His great, round, good-natured face had been 
kissed by the sun until it was the hue of a peony, and 
was studded with freckles as thick as spots on the back 
of a speckled hen. His hands were so large that one 
of them would have made two good-sized ones for a 
dandy, and left some to spare. He wore number four- 
teens, patent — no, I mean cowhides, with his pants 
tucked in to show their yellow tops. His coat fitted hira 
about like a schoolboy's jacket, and was of a variety of 
colors now, owing to long usage and exposure. Wisps 
of straw protruded from the pockets and hung from 
every catchable place about him. In one hand he car- 
ried his broad-brimmed straw hat, and in the other an 
old carpet-bag, which had lost the lock, being fastened 
together with a piece of wool twine, and although great 
pains had evidently been taken with this, it failed to 
conceal stray glimpses of nether garments and some- 
thing that looked immensely like a red flannel night-cap. 

Seating himself by the side of an elegantly dressed 
lady, and putting the aforesaid bag between his feet for 
safe-keeping, he drew out his red bandanna and mopped 
his forehead. 

The lady drew away her rich silks impatiently, and 
with a frown which said plainly, " You're out of your 
place, sir." But he didn't seem to notice it in the least, 
for very soon he turned to her and remarked good- 
humoredly : 


" An all-fired hot day, marm ! Goin' fur ? " 

The lady deigned no reply. 

Supposing himself unheard, he repeated in a louder 
tone, " An all-fired hot day! 1 say, marrn, goin' fur? " 

" No reply, but a look of supreme indignation. 

" Why ! " he exclaimed, evidently for the benefit of 
the whole crowd, " the poor critter's deaf" Bending 
forward, he screamed : " I'm sorry you're deaf, marm. 
How long have you been so? If you warn't born so, 
I know what'll cure.that, sure as guns. It cured my 
Uncle Ezra. I'll give you the recipe, marm, an' wel- 
come ; perhaps you'd better write it down : Take a leetle 
soap and water, warm " 

" Sir," said the lady, rising, her eyes blazing with 
wrath, " do you intend to insult me ? I shall complain 
of you to the police ! " and she swept haughtily out of 
the depot. 

" Waal, I never! " he exclaimed. " I'm beat ! What 
struck her ? I'm sure I was jest a-speakin' for her good. 
I was only a-goin' to say : Take a leetle-soap and water, 
warm, and syringe it into the ears three times a day. 
It's sure ; an' I'll bet my best heifer on it, if she'd only 
heerd to a feller, it would have done the business for 
her. But some folks never like to hear their unfortu- 
nities spoke of, and I s'pose I hadn't orter a' took any 
notice on it," and he relapsed into silence. 

Presently the western train came due, and a tired 
looking woman came in with two children hanging to 
her skirts and a baby in her arras, besides a bandbox 
and a satchel. There was only one seat vacant. She sank 
into it with a weary sigh, and tried to hush the fretful 
baby and keep watch of the two other restless, flutter, 
ing budgets, who were also tired and fretful and kept 
teasing for this and that until the poor mother looked 
ready to sink. 

" Pretty tired, marm ? " remarked Jonathan. " Goin' 
" To Boston, sir," replied the lady, courteously. 
" Got to wait long ? " 


" Until three. Oh, dearies, do be quiet, and don't 
tease mother any more." 

"Look a-here, you young shavers, and see what I've 
got in ray pocket," and he drew out a handful of pep- 
permint drops. In a few minutes they were both upon 
his knee, eating the candy and listening eagerly while 
he told (hem wonderful stories about the sheep and 
calves at home. 

But the baby wouldn't go to sleep. He was quite 
heavy, and wanted to be tossed the whole time. Jona- 
than noticed this, and finding a string somewhere in 
ihe depths of his old carpet-bag, he taught the two 
children a game which he called Cat's-cradle. Soon they 
were seated on the depot floor, as happy as two kittens. 

" Now let me take that youngster, raarm," he said ; 
" you look clean beat out. I guess I can please him. 
I'm a powerful hand with babies.'' And he tossed the 
great lump of flesh up until it crowed with delight. By 
and by it dropped its head upon his shoulder and fell 
fast asleep. 

Two hours afterwards I peered through the window 
as he helped her, and her belongings, aboard the cars, 
and I don't believe if he had been the Czar of Russia 
she could have looked any more grateful or thanked 
him any sweeter. 

" 'Tain't nothin' at all, marm," I heard him say, bash- 
fully, but I knew she thought difierently, and so did I, 

He came back, resumed his seat, and buying a pint of 
peanuts from a thin-faced little girl, giving twelve cents 
instead of ten for them, sat munching away in hearty 
enjoyment until the northern train came due. Then he 
snatched his dilapidated carpet-bag and that of an old 
lady's, who was struggling feebly towards the door. 

'' Lean right on me, marm ; I'll see you safe through," 
he said, cheerfully. 

The conductor shouted " All aboard ! " and the train 
moved away. As I looked around at the empty seats, I 
thought," Something bright has gone out of this depot 
that doesn't come in every day, — an honest heart. 


Joseph Bert Smilky. 

This recitation can be made very pfTective by changing to some local name fa- 
miliar to the audience, where the same conditions would apply, or it can bo 
given as a burlesque. Any name uf two syllables would equally fill the measure. 

You've all read many a thrilling tale 

Which would make the strongest cheek turn pale, 

Of the daring feats of firemen brave 

Who met their death, some life to save. 

You've seen the rush of the horses fleet 

When the hosScart flew down the crowded street, 

And the mad steeds rushed like the whirling wind, 

And the hook-and-ladder came close behind ;-r 

You've read, and heard, and seen, I say, 

How they fight a fire in the city way. 

Now listen to me while I tell you true 

The way we manage and what we do 

When we have a fire in Galesburg. 

Our fire department is rather thin. 
We have a gong that makes some din, 
And we have a wagon that's painted red 
(No horses, — a big long rope instead,) 
Backed quietly under an old pine shed, 
And it isn't locked, and the ladders there 
Are only given a taste of air 
When somebody borrows 'em now and then, 
To climb on a house and down again. 
And we have a pump— when it isn't broke — 
In front of the store where the village folk 
Sit round on boxes, and talk and smoke. 
And all are calm in their placid mind, 
And if you were looking you couldn't find 
The fire-brigade of Galesburg. 

But when, in the calm of midnight deep. 
The village is silent and all are asleep. 
Some wakeful owl, with his searching gaze, 
Discovers a growing, unruly blaze, 
Then he climbs in his duds in a sooner way 
That doesn't involve any great delay, 
And, appointing himself the village crier. 
He opens his face and he hollers fire ! 

*By permiiMion of the Author, 



And those who hear him the message tell ; 
They seldom bother to ring a bell, 
But down each street some fellow goes 
(Whoever is first getting on his clothes), 
And everybody jumps out of bed 
And puts his pants on over his head, 
And out they come, with rumpled hair, 
Suspenders flying in the air. 
Collar wafted to the gale. 
And every fellow has a pail. 
And everybody makes a jump 
For the mill-race or for the old town-pump, 
And they work, like blazes, as best they may 
To check the flames — and that's the way 
We go to a fire in Galesburg. 

In time of fire all quarrels rest 
And every fellow does his best. 
All gaps ai'e closed however wide, 
Foes work earnestly side by side 
With one o'ershadowing, strong desire 
To down the demon of the fire. 
People whose lives are one grand shirk, 
Pull ofi' their jackets and get to work. 
People who steal from their fellow-toeii 
Wouldn't lay hands on a farthing then. 
The whole little village in all its power 
Is full of heroes of the hour, 
And everybody, great and small. 
And fat and lean, and short and tall, 
Has got no time to weep or wail, 
But straightway wrestles a water pail. 
Goes headlong into the boiling fray 
With all his muscle, — and that's the way 
We 'tend to a fire in Galesburg. 

kxt €^\xt^'imxt\. 

:EclcK of the FoTLr JVvLrribers of 
" lOO CTtoice, Selecttons" coTttcUnecL 
in tTtts -volu-rrte is paged separcLtely , 
CLTid. tTte Jnciez is mcLde to corres- 
pond. tTxer&witK. See explanation on 
first page of Contents. 

TTte entire hook contains nearly 
10 OO pages. 



No. 34. 


Oh, I see with sight prophetic thro' the mists of coming 

And a sound of hallelujahs breaks upon my listening ears ; 
I behold a line of nations rising up at Freedom's call, 
And Columbia the lovely is the leader of them all. 

I behold her as she reaches to the crushed of every land, 

With a love that wavers never, a strong-sinewed, helping 

And I hear her whisper " Courage, burst thy bonds and fol- 
low me. 

None need writhe beneath oppression, this is Freedom's 
jubilee ! " 

I behold her as the fairest vision eye hath ever seen. 
With her bays upon her forehead and her laurels fresh and 

By her loyal sons attended, each one ready at her word 
With the ardor of a hero to unsheathe his trusty sword ! 

1 behold her noble daughters winning honor and renown. 
For the women and the children, too, are jewels in her 

With a steady step I see them climbing up the toppling 

Till they stand upon the summit, hand in hand with men 

of might ! 



Oh, Columbia, grow greater with the passing of each age. 
And when God unseals His records be no blot upon thy page ; 
Keep thy peaceful watch-fires burning, angels stand at all 

thy doors, 
Washing from thy homes dissension, as the oceans wash thy 


"DE LORD AM COMING."*— Ellen Murray. 


Gloriously the morn awakened 

O'er St. Helen's island shore. 
Hymns of praise the sunrise greeting. 

Open stood each cottage door ; 
Smiled the shy girls, wending churchward. 
Laughed the babies to the sun. 

Looked the men across the cornfield, 
Looked the men the cotton over. 
Saw the yellow blossoms open, 

Counted rows and praised the yield. 

Terribly the evening glowered. 

While the raging hurricane 
Swept relentless, roaring, shrieking, 

Crying to the tossing main ; 
Swept the rising tide before it, 

Swept the crested waves amain, 
Hurricane and water beating, 
Sky and wave together meeting. 
Beating down with roar and shout — 
All the mighty floods were out. 

Where the corn had waved its tassels 

Spread an ocean, rolled a sea, 
Golden rice beneath the surges. 

Cotton fields an estuary. 
E'en the dumb brutes cried in terror. 

As they drifted, helplessly. 

Drifted, drowning, out to sea. 
Fell the great oaks, crashing, moaning, 

Fell the forests, roared the sea 
With great billows, crested, knocking 

At the house doors, horribly. 
Shivering, trembling, fell the houses, 

Eoof and walls came crashing in ; 

♦Written expressly for this Tullection, 


And the groaning of the dying, 
And the children's bitter crying, 
With tlie father's last replying, 
Sank amid the furious din. 

In her liouse a woman waited, 

Feeble, crippled, bent with age. 
While a girl held close the shutter, 

Gazing at the tempest's rage. 
" Darter, watch ! de Lord am coming ; 

In de tempes' watch and pray. 
He aint gwine to*lef ' His childer. 
Walkin' out upon de sea, 
Walkin' out on Galilee, 

He am wid us all de way." 

Hissed the water through the flooring, 

Where she knelt with hands upraised, 
" Darter, come wid me to praying ; 

Jesus, your dear name be praised, 
Tru' de lonesome valley lead we. 

Let your chariot, Lord, swing low ; 
To de watery grave lead downward 

In de peace your childer know." 

Shone the dark face, calm, untroubled, 

Of death's nearness unafraid, 
Spoke Amen with voice unfaltering. 

Prom her knees arose the maid, 
With a look of sudden courage 

Flashing in the strong, young face, 
Met the aged eyes pathetic. 

Eyes of sweet and patient grace. 

Heritage of Afric's race. 

" Grandma, put the shawl around you, 

Let me tie it firmly — nay. 
Now I pin your kerchief closer, 

Take your staff". We must not stay." 
Stay ! the floor beneath was floating. 

And the roof flapped mid the trees, 
And the shingles were like dead leaves 

Beating in an autumn breeze. 

"Chile, de Lord's great day am coming, 

Gabriel de trumpet blow, 


All de Ian' am only water, 

How you say dat I mus' go? 
Only path to-night am upward 

Whar de Lord a ladder stan' ; 
Crippled, I can climb dat ladder, 

Reach de dear Lord's goodly Ian'." 

Urged the girl, the lintel grasping, 

" Come, you know the great oak tree 
Only just across the garden. 
Low the forks and broad the branches, 

I can find it certainly, — 
Even in the dark can find it, 
I will help you through the water, 
We will reach it easily." 

" Go, dear chile, de Lord be wid you, 

I too old ; bofe mus'n't die." 
And she loosed the young arms' clasping, 

Kissed her, blessed her, put her by. 
Though her feet were in the water. 

Though the tempest rushing high 
Tore the boards from wall and ceiling, 

With a wild and fateful cry : 

"Grandma, I will never leave you. 

Father put you in my care, 
Bade me steady be and faithful." 
And the young arms clasping closer. 

Drew her down the broken stair. 
Stumbling, struggling, on she led her, 

Held, supported, found the way. 
While the hurricane above them 

Swept the roof like chaflfaway. 

Knee high, waist high, waves came rolling, 

Smote the shoulder, touched the lip. 
Tight the girl's grasp, firm her footing, 
Steadying her aged burden. 

Would not let her pause or slip. 
'Tis the great tree, with its branches 

Forking low and spreading wide. 
Now the panting girl has dragged her 

Precious charge from out the tide. 
Helped her on the mighty branches, 

Branches which the storm defied. 

Nestling closely, side by side, 


Grandmother and child together, 

Clinging, praying through the night- 
See ! the wind with daybreak shifting, 
Dies away at dawning light. 

And above the ruined homestead 
Fields by sea sedge overdrifted. 

Nothing left but desolation. 

Rose a hymn of consolation — 

Faith and courage, old and young. 

Steadfastly the song they sung. 

Of the Lord, the iRock, the Refuge, 

Shelter in the time of storm ; 
Of the Lord whose love is tender, ' 

Shelter in the time of storm ; 
Sheltering now and sheltering ever, 
Life nor death from Him can sever — 

Shelter in the time of storm. 

Nettie V. Braidon. 

Forth from the chaos of party factions, Marian massa- 
cres, and Catilinean conspiracies, the mirage of fancy 
suspends a golden crown. To attain this prize we be- 
hold Julius Csesar crossing the Rubicon, mastering Italy 
and Egypt, carrying the Roman eagles into Britain, and 
grasping at last the crown that exalts him to the fore- 
most place of all the world. The crown was a glittering 
one, but scarcely did it encircle the victor's brow, when 
the blood of envy and betrayed friendship dimmed its 
lustre, and Csesar fell. His path to glory had been a 
toilsome one, but it was dearer than his crown. 

From schoolboys to Caesars, from birth to death, is 
one long line struggling after the attainment of wealth, 
pleasure and peace. Cast your eye down this long line^ — 
some are seen grasping their prize, and the look of 
triumph changes to one of anguish as blemishes are 
discovered the pursuer little dreamed of before. 

Once I beheld a mother kneeling at the death-bed of 


her boy. She was struggling, battling, praying, that the 
life might be saved for which her fondness had woven 
such a beautiful crown of honor and glory. Her wish 
is granted, and as the years roll on the young man's 
brow is wreathed with power. But could that mother 
have beheld the crown darkening under the shadow of 
dissipation ; seen her boy frequenting scenes where men 
were staking fortune, honor, eternity itself, for the love 
of gain, where the fatal glare of the wine-cup concealed 
from the doomed one the terminus of the road he was 
traveling, gladly would she have dashed her dreams to 
the earth, and saved herself from this, her dark Geth- 

Sometimes individual wishes seem blended into that of 
the mass. Perhaps the power is for evil, perhaps for 
good. Now nihilism sways the multitude, now infidel- 
ism, now Christianity. God grant the latter power may 
sway the world as long as the toilers last, till the crown 
of thorns is transfigured into an immortal one. Occa- 
sionally a figure is seen passing beyond his fellows, and, 
filled with unsatisfied longing, mounting higher and 
higher. Such toilers are our Miltons and Michael An- 
gelos. Think you Paradise Lost has revealed to us one 
tithe of the grandeur beheld by the sightless eyes of the 
grand old poet ; or that the brush of Michael Angelo ever 
transferred to canvas the perfection he strove to attain ? 

After all "it is in unfathomable seas where hope 
spreads her golden wings," and the seeker wandering 
" too far in a sea of glory, is left to the mercy of a rude 
stream that must forever hide him." 

There is something strangely pathetic in the search of 
Ponce de Leon for the fountain of immortal youth, and 
the story of his failures. Turn which way we may, and 
we behold S'ibboleth stamped upon the saddened brow 
of speculator, politician, lover ; and the charmed "h " is 

Yet oftentimes the crown the pursuer never attained 
still reflects its radiance upon the intellects, hearts and 


homes of succeeding ages, making men better and higher. 
Pompey and Alexander wore crowns of regal splendor, 
but they lie crumbling among the ruins of Greece and 
Korae. Think you the little band of Puritans landing in 
Plymouth Bay over two hundred years ago, would have 
exchanged their wish of freedom for the most gorgeous 
pageant that ever filled the city of Rome? Those grand 
old Fathers of ours never grasped the crown of rest and 
peace nor do their posterity possess it yet. But its 
beauty, ever brighteninf, is leading en to where the wish 
becomes the crown. Columbus never attained his crown, 
though he followed it through poverty and disgrace; 
but what a signet it has left upon the brow of every 
American citizen. Martin Luther's crown was never 
worn on earth, but what must be the brightness of the 
heavenly one that rewards the revolutionizer of the 

Strange, is it not, the eagerness with which mankind 
follows the attainment of his wishes ? The object gained 
to-day is tasteless from possession, and another chase is 
begun. Yet this very restlessness has led men from bar- 
barism to enlightenment, from idolatry to God ; and the 
cry for more, more, that is ever leading us forward, will 
some day be crowned with the rest of the Millennial 

SMITH'S BARGAIN DAY.— Eobeet C. V. Meyers.* 

Maria come to me one day last week and says, says she, 
"At Smith's, in town, the papers say they're sellin', jest 
Shoe-laces at five cents the dozen pair. It is, Susanne, 

The opertunity of your life. What do you say now, say, 
To hitchin' up the mare right oif an' goin' down to Smith's, 
An' each o' us gettin' some, Susanne ? — say each a dozen 

♦Written expresBly for this Collection. Mr. Meyers has contributed (u this 
Series: "Burton's Curtains," " The Drummer of Company C," "When Gi-and- 
father Went to Town," " Trom the Iron Gate," "Gabo's Christmas Eve," "The 
Sentinel of Metz, " " The Curtay, " " Brother Ben, " " The Masque," " Jamie," 
" If I Should Die to-night," " Our C'lumbus," etc. 


It's the opertunity o' your life— five cents a dozen pair ; 
They're long ones, too, the paper says, just like us women 

I had my peach preserves to do, an' Maria she had hers. 

But, oh, my ! laces at five cents the dozen pair was sich 
An opertunity of our lives we couldn't afford to miss ; 

Besides, a penny saved is 'arned for them that isn't rich. 
Well, we let the peach preserves jest go. We hitched the 
old mare up. 

An' half an hour seen us joggin' on the way to town ; 
We wasn't goin' to have them laces ail bought up before 

We'd got our pick of 'em, you know, so we tore the whole 
way down. 

When we come to Smith's big store you orter seen the mob — 
'Twas bargain day an' every one was buy in' this an' that; 
Says Maria to me, "Susanne, I think cheap things drives 
some folks daft — 
That woman's buyin' things she never come for. Where 
they at, — 
Them long shoe-laces for five cents a dozen pair?" We looked 
Around for them there laces an' we marveled at the girls 
An' women fightin' for this an' that, things they didn't 
need, — 
Fuzz-haired women buyin' straight bangs, an' straight- 
haired buyin' curls. 

We laughed an' looked for the laces, an' up in a little 
We seen the cheapest veils you ever clapped your eyes 
on, an' 
Maria looks at me, kinder winks, an' says she, "My! 
They're really goin' fer nothin'. What do you say, Su- 
We bought six veils apiece. Then we seen them cheap 
kid gloves— 
A half a dollar a pair an' warranted not to slip a stitch. 
Says Maria, " Well, I never ! What do you say, Susanne ?" 
We took a couple pairs, not more, for Maria an' me aint rich . 

But we looted for them shoe-laces at five cents the dozen pair. 

We asked a large stout lady. Says she, "I come for thread 
But I'm buyin' cut-glass tumblers." Me an' Maria laughed, 

We thought it was too funny, for the woman'd lost her head. 
An' then we seen the summer silks — thirty cents a yard, 

Full width an' jest fresh opened. Maria gave a grin ; 
Says she, "Susanne, they're give away ; I never seen the like. 

To miss a chance like this, Susanne, I call a mortal sin." 


Next counter was perfumery, " Jockey Club," it was, 
At twenty cents a bottle. Maria, says she, "See, 

It's worth a half a dollar, an' here's some ' Heliotrope.' " 
WuU, we took a little "Jockey Club," some o' the other, too. 

Then we come across the stockin's — sich bargains, bless 
your heart ! 
Maria grabbed a box. Says she, " Susanne, it's Providence. 
Those is goin' fer a quarter, they're every bit as good 

As them 1 bought last winter for thirty-seven cents." 
But you orter seen the bonnets ! If they hadn't marked 'em 
To next to nothin' ! An' sich things I never seen before. 
An apple-green with roses was marked five an' a half, 
An' the lady said last month 'twas worth a full three dollars 
I liked the apple-green myself, Maria chose the brown 5 
"'Twas six an' had been ten," says she, "Susanne, it's 
more than down. 
I couldn't sleep o' nights if I missed a chance like this." 
So I took the apple-green, an' Maria took the brown. 

Well, our arms was purty crowded ; we had the veils, yon 
An' the gloves, an' the silk dresses, an' the perfumer}'. 
An' the stockin's, an' the bonnets, an' then we seen the 
shoes ; 
We took four pair o' them, two for her an' two for me. 
" Now," says Maria, " it's gittin' late, we'd better make for 
"But," said I, " where's the opertunity of our lives?" I 

"Thern laces at five cents the dozen pair, an' which 

We came to get, Maria, this busiest o' days?" 
Maria says, " Come on," says she, " I say it's gittin' late. 

We've got a good ten miles to drive. I've got all that I want. 

Them laces f Well, Susanne," says she, " they certainly was 

But I've spent all that I orter, an' I aint extravagant." 

Let us sing of the Babe that was born to-day 

Mid the mountains of old Judea, 
With only the shepherds and wandering flocks 

To welcome his coming there ; 
But the angels chorused it through the sky, 

And the stars to behold Him ran. 


And one in its rapture lingered nigh 
To mark out the spot for man. 

Oh sing of the Babe that was born to-day, 

For the world had been wrapt in night, 
And the burdened and weary had lost their way 

And were groping in vain for light; 
But it came, O joy ! and with power to save; 

It came by a manger given, 
And it banished forever the gloom of the grave 

And lighted the way to heaven. 

Yes, sing of the Babe that was born to-day, 

And earth take up the strain. 
The wonderful strain of long ago, 

That swept the star-lit plain. 
"Glory to God," ye mountains, cry. 

Till from their farthest shore 
The deep-mouthed seas send back reply, 

" Glory forevermore ! " 

"And peace on earth — " aye ! "Peace on earth 1 " 

Above the clashing sword, 
And shout, and groan, in din of death, 

Still let that voice be heard. 
Sing, angels, sing ! Shine, radiant star 1 

Nor song nor radiance cease 
Till o'er the final field of war 

Shall wave the palms of peace ! 

O kingly head, that found no rest 

Save in a manger low ! 
O sinless head, whereon was pressed 

The world's thorn crown of woe! 
Now wearest thou thy crown of light, 

And brighter stars than gem 
The amethystine arch of night 

Adorn that diadem. 

And circling ages dim it not ; 

When every glittering crown 
And song of earth have been forgot, 

And thrones have crumbled down. 
One crown shall still resplendent gleam. 

One throne feel no decay, 
One song — the song at Bethlehem — 

Shall never die away. 

—Journal of Edwaiim. 


CORIOLANUS.— Will Victor McGbibb* 

By permission of the Author, 

Upon her throne of hills in fear and trembling, 

Sits Eome ; outside the gates 
With folded arms and dark brow sternly knitted, 

Proud Coriolanus waits. 

Between its banks of broidered bloom, the Tiber 

Goes sweeping on its way ; 
The afterglow of sunset long has faded ; 

The hills are draped in gray. 

But that grim figure, ghastly in its silence, 

With iron lips compressed, 
Waits in the gloom to strike its poisoned dagger 

In Rome's imperial breast. 

Rome ! Rome that bore him, Rome that thrust him from her! 

Against his clenched teeth 
The furnace breath comes hot, as mutely bending 

He strokes his dagger's sheath. 

Upon his left,— a blot against the beauty 

Of softly purpling skies,— 
Like wing of some dark bird of evil omen. 

His Volscian army lies. 

Low-browed and evil-eyed, their swarthy features 

With dull, strange meaning glow ; 
Long years of hate at morn shall reach fruition. 

In one availing blow. 

Hark ! through the gathering dusk a breath, a murmur! 

The sombre suppliants come; 
The pleading priests again ■ Nay, Roman matrons, 

To plead and pray for Rome. 

That proud patrician face grows graver, sterner 

Twice has he spurned the prayer 
Of able embassy ; they draw yet nearer— 

Behold ! Veturia there. 

Hers is the queenly step and hers the beauty, 

Transfigured with the love 
Of motherhood, her glorious eyes are speaking,— 

Needless that lips shoul d move. 

* Author of "(Ji)llege Oil-Cans," "A Gambler's Tale," " XUe Siege of Calais," 
etc., in previous numbers of this Series. 


Her trembling palm she lays in suppliant pleading 

Upon his hand of steel ; 
Her thin lips move : that touch and silent gesture 

A mother's power reveal. 

His broad breast heaves ; his haughty face grows tender : 

"Mother, 1 yield — you've vifon," 
He whispered hoarsely; " you have saved your country, 

But you have lost your son." 

A murmur of revenge sweeps through the Volscl, 

Like smouldering embers glow 
Their cruel eyes. What is that smothered gurgle? 

Only the Tiber's flow. 

The Eonian hills are bathed in morning sunshine. 

The balm of peace is there ; 
The Tiber like a mighty heart is throbbing, 

And bird songs fill the air. 

But with his head upon the velvet mosses. 

His pale lips just apart, 
The Roman exile lies ; a Volscian dagger 

Close sheathed within his heart. 

EXILED.— Maky McGcirb. 

Within the calm Pacific seas 

Eight little islands lift their faces ; 
Oh, where are gardens fair as these? 

No Eden blooms more tender graces. 
Pale floating clouds like belts of mist 

Enwreathe the rugged sun-crowned mountains. 
By blossoms blue as amethyst 

Flow down their sides the crystal fountains. 

The fairest, saddest spot on earth ! 

This little kingdom is enshrouded 
By gloom more terrible than death, 

A blight that all its joy has clouded. 
The leper's ship at anchor waits, 

Countless the love links it has parted. 
Doomed soon to enter at its gates 

Is one more victim, hopeless-hearted. 

Beneath the cool refreshing palms. 
Past running streams of pure sweet water, 


A father comes ; within his arms 

He bears his fated little daughter. 
Against his own her cheek is pressed, 

The tears flow down his face unbidden. 
Folded all closely in his breast 

A little bandaged hand is hidden. 

On, on they come through waving fern, 

Through fragrant forests rich in blossom, 
Whose rainbow tints forever burn 

Untouched by frost or breath of autumn. 
He bears her to the vessel's side 

Where waiting officers receive her; 
Oh, better far that she had died. 

Such bitter pain it is to leave her I 

She murmurs not, she makes no moan); 

Her dark prophetic eyes are lifted 
Up to his face ; across his own 

Rough locks her silken curls have drifted. 
But hark ! from out a dark ravine 

Sound flying feet and plaintive sobbing; 
Ere the Hawaiian boy is seen 

The whole sweet air with pain is throbbing. 

" I hurried up the mountain track . 

To pick fresh blossoms for my sister ; 
O cruel men ! Oh, bring her back ! 

You took her off before I kissed her. 
See, here are mountain berries sweet, 

And here is ' gold-down ' for her pillow. 
And yellow guava's tender meat— 

cruel men of Honolulu ! " 

The ship swung out beyond the pier. 

From his despair they passed unheeding; 
What was to them a father's tear? 

What was to them a brother's pleading? 
"Aloha ! " then in wild despair 

His young voice rung across the water. 
From whitened lips came low the prayer, 

"O Jesus, comfort her, — my daughter! " 

With straining vision still they stand 

Across the waste of water peering, 
While to Molokai's darkened land 

The ghostly ship is slowly steering. 


Once more ou fair Hawaii's bay 

Morn's rosy light is faintly beaming, 
Once more the silvery ripples play 

O'er reefs of coral whitely gleaming ; 
With dew the flowers are brimming o'er, 

The forests are awaking — 
Softly upon Hawaii's shore 

The mournful surf is breaking. 

BUSY.— Edmund J. Buek. 

Nothing was to be heard in the library of the Eing- 
wood household but the intermittent scratching of a pen 
wielded by the head of the house, who with the aid of 
sundry manipulations, such as sprawling over the desk, 
shutting one eye and allowing his tongue to hang out one 
corner of his mouth, was laboriously penning an epistle 
to a friend. His wife sat near him with her account- 
book before her, wrestling with the difficult problem, 
familiar to women, of subtracting forty-six dollars from 
forty, and getting a satisfactory remainder. 

Presently Mr. Ringwood straightened himself up, and 
jamming his pen into the corner of his mouth previously 
occupied by his tongue, devoted himself to silent medi- 
tation. He contracted his brows and gazed fixedly 
through the wall of the library and far off into infinite 
space, in hopes of finding there some help, but it was in 
vain, and he wasfinally 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 ? " an- 
swered his wife. 

" That aint right," said Roger. " That spells boosey. 
Don't you think it's b-u-i-s-y ? " 

" Of course it aint, 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. 

K U M B E R T II I E T Y - F O II r; . 21 

"Why no, certainly you can't," answered she. "It's 
b-u-z-y, and nothing else." 

" Bu-z-y," repeated Roger. " Why that spells boozy. 
It don't spell busy. How do you spell business ? " 

" B-i-z-z-i-n-e-s-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 aint b-i-s-n-e-s-s ? " 

"Certainly I'm sure," was the uncompromising answer. 

Roger meditated over this for awhile, and then he said: 

" How did you say you spelled it, Mariar ? " 

"Spelt what? " asked Maria, who, thinking the point 
settled, had returned to her abstruse calculations. 

" Why, business," answered Roger. 

" Oh, why-er-e b-u-z-z-i-n-e-s-s." 

" Then how do you spell busy?" 

" B-u-z-z-y, of course." 

" That aint what you said at first, Mariar," protested 

" It is, Roger. I know it is. Do you think I don't know 
what I said?" 

" No. But then b-u-z-z-y don't spell busy, does it? " 

Mrs. Ringwood by this time began to lose her temper 
as well as her wits, and she replied recklessly : 

" It don't make any diiference what it spells, Roger 
Ringwood. I say it spells it ? " 

Roger meekly relapsed into silence, and devoted him- 
self to further meditation, which only resulted in his 
forgetting how it was that Maria had spelt the word. So 
he ventured again : 

" How was it you spelled it, Mariar ? " 

" B-I-S-E-Y ! Do you want me to write it down ?" 
replied his now thoroughly angered spouse. 

" B-i-s-e-y," repeated Roger. " Don't you think it 
ought to have two s's, Mariar?" 

" No, I don't think it ought to have two s's or anything 
else. It's just right the way it is." 

" Then b-i-s-e-n-e-s-s spells business ? " 

" No, it don't. It's b-u-Z;Z-i-n-e-s-s ! " answered Maria. 


" Now surely that aint right," argued Roger. "Because 
if b-i-s-e-y spells busy, then b-i-s-e-n-e-s-s must spell 

" 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 don't you dare to say another word 
to me about it. So there." 

"But hun," persisted Roger, "you spelled it different 
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 ! " screamed Maria in 
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-raother 
s-s-said I-I'd better n-not m-marry you, and I-I wish I-I 
hadn't. S-so there ! " 

" Now Mariar," pleaded Roger, soothingly, " please 
don't. We wont say any more about it." 

" I do !" she cried. " I do ! I wish I was dead. I'll 
poison myself — some d-day, and then y-you'll be sorry ! " 

And with this prophecy, Maria rushed from the room 
in tears, leaving Roger in a state of collapse, running into 
the servant girl who had been listening at the keyhole. 

" Confound the word ! " exclaimed Roger, after she 
had gone. " It's a foolish word any way, and I don't 
see what people use it for. It only makes trouble. I'll 
use something else." 

So, turning to his desk, he thought for awhile, and 
then wrote the following : 

" I could not get down to see you last night on account 
of numerous pressing duties connected with my commer- 
cial course which it was necessary for me to perform 
immediately. Come and see us soon. Maria is enjoying 
splendid health and we are as happy here as two kittens. 
" Yours truly, Roger Ringwood." 


MY SHIPS.*— William M. Bunn. 

'Twas eve, and twilight's canopy, by autumn zephyrs swayed, 

With myriad vents was pierced, through which errant star- 
light played ; 

The nightingale was piping low her solitary lay, 

The whippoorwill's shrill answer came from meadows far 
away ; 

The glow-worm lit her passion torch to guide her lover's 

Along the hedge that fenced a field of fragrant aftermath. 

Lo ! night's first heralc^shado ws strode in silence through the 

With mystic signal to the guard, who sombre sentry stood; 

And, fast, night's spectral armies came to where in ambush 

In deep ravine, the shadow chiefs in dread of coming day. 

Whilst slowly, pensively, I paced the ocean's beach along, 

Where moaned the winds in sympathy with the sad billows' 
song ; 

While came the sea and kissed the strand and, fondly, strove 
in vain 

To dry the tear-drops from his fai^e with her caressing mane. 

And then through evening's gathering gloom, that darkened 
o'er the land. 

With saddened heart and deepened thought I strolled along 
the strand ; 

I watched the waves of ocean's tide that ever shoreward 

And hearkened while their thunder tones to wailing whisper 
hushed ; 

I saw the sails of argosies, far out upon the main, 

Fadeoutlike slow-dissolving viewsupon the glittering plain ; 

Recalling hopes, like ships, which sailed away in early life, 

And fancied wrecks the waves had wrought in their tumul- 
tuous strife. 

" Oh, waves," I cried, " that headlong rush to caverns of the 

Upon your next recurring tide bring back my ships to me !" 

Alas, they croon their monody to sympathizing shore. 

But my hope-freighted ships they bear back to me never- 
more ; 

Like truant driftwood dimly seen upon the waters tossed. 

Are hurtled relics of the ships I sailed away and lost. 

I saw the moon, like airy ship, through azure current glide, 

And, as his regnant sceptre flashed, back rolled the ocean's 
tide: __^ 

*Btf ^ermUsion of the Author. 


I saw the stars, like jewels, strewn with free, anstinting 

Bespangle circumambient dome and glorify the land; 
1 seemed to catch faint notes of hymns they sang in sooth- 
ing strain 
To tranquilize earth's weary sons to rest and sleep again. 
As they with rhythmic, stately step their orbit mazes trod, 
To measures of harmonious spheres, — the symphonies of 

I saw the billows kiss the strand in tremulous embrace, 
Then wailing slowly back again begin their seaward race; 
I saw the fickle pebbles weep on each new billow's tress. 
And wanton, ere the tears were dry, on the next wave's 

caress — 
Aye, yet, while sauntering up the beach, the thought would 

come to me : 
" Why not bear back upon your tides my ships that went to 
sea ? " 

The hours passed ; heaven's astral gems as brightly sparkled 

Though denser shadows pressed the vale and slept upon the 

hill ; 
The night owl, to unheeding gnomes, retold his solemn tale. 
Its echoes leaped from wave to wave, and mingled with 

their wail ; 
Grim Silence sat at banquet board, his guests were all asleep ; 
J^ight angels hovered o'er the earth their dewy tears to 

"Alas," I said, " though night will pass and morning come 

The sun, refreshed, triumphant rise from yonder distant 

Dispel the darkness from the land and call: 'Awake, arise!' 
And nature's docile realm will heed the monarch of the 

There's one dark shadow falls on man with each declining 

Reflected from the wand of Death, — tlie kingdom of decay.'' 
The night was past, the sun arose; in retrospect, I see 
The ships I sailed away in youth come gliding back to me. 
As vaults the sun from coral couch and shakes his mightj 

And drives his glistening curricle athwart the skies again, 
Lo, on the peaceful tide, within a placid, land-locked bay, 
In retrospect, I see again my ships their anchors weigh! 
I feel the grip of cordial hands, T hear the fond good-byes, 
The wave, alone, portentous wails, the wind, responsive, 



My ships stand proudly out to sea, dipped to tlie water line, 
Weighed down with all my plans and hopes, — this precious 

freight of mine ; 
Tliey scud away before the breeze on ocean's boundless 

Their hulls, and then their sails are gorged within the greedy 

There's not a cloud upon the face of yonder smiling skies— 
The wave, alone, portentous wails, the wind, responsive, 

Ah, never once I'd thought to ask the tides that came from 

sea: ^ 

" When will your waves and favoring winds bear back my 

ships to me ?" 
With bounding pulse and beating heart, each harbinger I 

The wind, alone, portentous sighed, the wave, responsive, 

wailed ; 
I saw my shadow on the lea come shrinking to my feet, 
But never spot upon the main proclaimed my missing fleet; 
I saw in hot, impatient haste, as exile hast'uing home, 
The day-god, for an instant, pause upon the zenith's dome. 
Then, girding up his loins anew, he bent his haloed head. 
And far adown the shining slopes the glittering chariot sped; 
Lo, still full many a ship 1 launched and stored with precious 

That spread its wings and sailed away before the winds of 

The breeze went softly sighing out, the waves came sob- 
bing in, 
Alas, I recked not that their griefs were to my hopes akin ! 
The billows ever came and went, and whispered to the lea, 
Of ships I'd fondly sailed away that came not back to me. 

Again night's shadows stretched and slept athwart the grate- 
ful land, 

Once more alone at eventide I lingered on the strand ; 

Again the moon came glowing up, by glist'ning courtiers led. 

Once more the stars through heaven's dome their stately 
mazes sped. 

Ah, memory's hosts that trooped of yore have vanished quite 

Bright youth has fled, the heart beats low, and hope is wan 
and gray ; 

The joys which brightened early days are quickened never- 

The soil they grew upon is dead, and bare as ocean's shore ; 


Their roots will never germ again, though deluged with my 

As lifeless pebbles by the sea,through long, uncounted years; 
Although when night's dark mantle falls I'll welcome, in my 

The snowy sails in land-locked bay that in the sunlight 

gleams ; 
Alas, to wake and gaze upon the boundless, barren sea — 
The wailing tide will nevermore bear back my ships to me. 


Manima's got a headache pain, 

And had to go to bed again ; 

And Mary's gone after doctor's stuff. 

As if poor mamma hadn't enough ! 

And we must be the best of boys. 

And never make a bit of noise ; 

And we will be just terrible good, 

I promised Mary that we would ; 

So come on, boys, and lend a hand, 

And we will play at German band. 

I know 'twont hurt dear mamma's head, 

'Cause you can't hear nuffin' when you're in bed. 

Now, Ted, you take the big tin pan. 

And bang it hard as ever you can ; 

And Jack will take the shovel and tongs, 

And beat the time to all our songs ; 

The dinner-horn will just suit me. 

And how I'll blow it you shall see ; 

And I will be the leader too. 

And strike the table one and two. 

Now, we are ready to begin, — 

Ted, here's a spoon to strike the tin. 

Now, tootie-too ! and a bim, bim, bang ! 

And a too-who-who! and a rum, bum, clang! 

And a cling-a-ling ! and with foot and hand, 

Hooray ! for the American German band. 

"Why, mamma, we didn't never know 

Our music could have hurt you so ! 

"We 'fought — you know you said so, Fwed — 

Zat you can't hear nuffin' when you're in bed. 

And we was bein' the bestestboys — 

And nobody ever calls music noise ! " — Sunny Hour. 



Charles Dickens. 

A fltrong attachment between David Copperfield and James Steerforth began 
at school. Together they visited Yarmouth, where Steerforth, for the first time, 
met the niece and wardofDan'I Peggotty, "Little Em'ly," who was engaged 
to Peggotty's nephew, Ham, a rugged, honest boat-builder. Steerforth, taking 
advantage of Emily's infatuation for him, induced her to run away with him. 
She soon, however, realized his treachery, and making her escape, reached home 
after many hardships. Nothing further is heard of him until his lifeless body is 
cast upon the shore in the great storm, so graphically described in the following 
sketch taken from Dickens's "David Coppeufiklu." 

" Don't you think that," I asked the coachman, in the 
first stage out of London, " a very remarkable sky ? I 
don't remember to have seen one like it." 

" Nor I — not equal to it," he replied. " That's wind, sir. 
There'll be mischief done at sea, I expect, before long." 

There had been a wind all day ; and it was rising 
then, with an extraordinary great sound. In another 
hour it had much increased, and the sky was more over- 
cast, and it blew hard. 

But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and 
densely overspreading the whole sky, then very dark, it 
came on to blow harder and harder. Sweeping gusts of 
rain came up before this storm like showers of steel ; and 
at those times, when there was any shelter of trees or lee 
walls to be got, we were fain to stop, in a sheer impossi- 
bility of continuing the struggle. 

I had been in Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew 
great guns, but I had never known the like of this, or 
anything approaching it. 

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from 
which this mighty wind was blowing dead on shore, its 
force became more and more terrific. Long before we 
saw the sea, its spray was on our lips, and showered salt 
rain upon us. When we came within sight of the sea, 
the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the 
rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with 
towers and buildings. When at last we got into the 
town, the people came out to their doors, all aslant, and 

•■Adapted for recitation by It. J. Holluer, Public lieader and Lecturer. 


with streaming hair, making a wonder of the mail that 
had come through such a night. 

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the 
sea. I staggered along the street, which was strewn with 
sand and seaweed, and with flying blotches of sea-foam. 

Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shiiking 
their heads as they looked from water to sky, and mutter- 
ing to one another ; shipowners, excited and uneasy ; 
children huddling together and peering into older faces; 
even stout mariners, disturbed and anxious, leveling 
their glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, as 
if they were surveying an army. 

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient 
pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, 
the flying stones and sand, and the awful noise, con- 
founded me. As the high watery walls came rolling in, 
and, at their highest, tumbled into surf, they looked as 
if the least would engulf the town. As the receding 
wave swept back with a hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop 
out deep caves in the beach, as if its purpose were to 
undermine the earth. 

I went back to the inn and went to bed, exceedingly 
weary and heavy. For hours I lay there, listening to 
the wind and water ; imagining, now, that I heard 
shrieks out at sea ; now, that I distinctly heard the firing 
of signal guns ; and now, the fall of houses in the town. 

At length, my restlessness attained to such a pitch, 
that I hurried on my clothes, and went down-stairs. 

I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Orice I 
opened the yard-gate, and looked into the empty street. 
The sand, the sea-weed and the flakes of foam, were driv- 
ing by, and I was obliged to call for assistance before I 
could shut the gate again, and make it fast against the 

There was a dark gloom in ray solitary chamber, when 
I at length returned to it ; but I was tired now, and, 
getting into bed again, fell into the depths of sleep. It 
was broad day when I awoke, — eight or nine o'clock ; the 


storm still raging and some one knocking and calling at 
my door. 

" What is the matter? " I cried. 

" A wreck ! Close by ! " 

I sprung out of bed, and asked what wreck ? 

" A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with 
fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see her! 
It's thought, down on the beach, she'll go to pieces every 

The excited voicq^went clamoring along the stair- 
case ; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as 
I could, and ran into the street. 

Numbers of people were there before rae, all running 
in one direction, to the beach. I ran the same way, out- 
stripping a good many, and soon came facing the wild sea. 

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, 
though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I had 
dreamed of had been diminished by the silencing of 
half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But, the sea, having 
upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was 
infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. 
Every appearance it had then presented, bore the ex- 
pression of being swelled ; and the height to which the 
breakers rose and rolled in, in interminable hosts, was 
most appalling. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and 
waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, 
and my first breathless efforts to stand against the 
weather, I was so confused that I looked out to sea for 
the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the 
preat waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing next 
me, pointed with his bare arm to the left. Then, O 
great Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us ! 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from 
the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of 
sail and rigging ; and all that ruin, as the ship rolled 
and beat — which she did without a moment's pause, 
and with a violence quite inconceivable — beat the side as 


if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being 
made to cut this portion of the wreck away ; for, as the 
ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in her 
rolling I plainly descried her people at work with axes, 
especially one active figure with long curling hair, con- 
spicuous among the rest. But, a great cry, whjch was 
audible even above the wind and water, rose from the 
shore at this moment ; the sea, sweeping over the rolling 
wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, 
casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boil- 
ing surge. 

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a 
rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage flap- 
ping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the same 
boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted in and 
struck again. I understood him to add that she was 
parting amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for 
the rolling and beating were too tremendous for any 
human worlf-to- suffer long. As he spoke, there was 
another great cry of pity from the beach ; four men 
arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the 
rigging of the remaining mast ; uppermost, the active 
figure with the curling hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled and 
dashed like a desperate creature driven mad, now show- 
ing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned on her 
beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but her keel, 
as she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, 
the bell rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy 
men, was borne towards us on the wind. Again we 
lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The 
agony on shore increased. Men groaned and clasped 
their hands ; women shrieked, and turned away their 
faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach, 
crying for help where no help could be. I found my- 
self one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors 
whom I knew, not to let those two poor creatures perish 
before our eyes. 


They were making out to me, in an agitated way, that 
the life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and 
could do nothing ; and that as no man would be so des- 
perate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and estab- 
lish a communication with the shore, there was nothing 
left to try, when I noticed that some new sensation 
moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and 
Ham come breaking through them to the front. 

I ran to him to repeat my appeal for help. But, 
distracted though I v/ij^, the determination in his face, 
and his look out to sea, awoke me to the knowledge of 
his danger. I held him back with both arms, and im- 
plored the men with whom I had been speaking, not to 
listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir from 
off that sand ! 

Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the wreck, 
we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the 
lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph round the 
active figure left alone upon the mast.. <= 

Against such a sight, and against such determination 
as that of the calmly desperate man who was already ac- 
customed to lead half the people present, I might as hope- 
fully have entreated the wind. " Mas'r Davy," he said, 
cheerily grasping me by both hands, " if my time is come, 
'tis come. If 't aint, I'll bide it. Lord above bless you, and 
bless all! Mates, make me ready! I'm a-goin' off!" 

I don't know what I answered, or what they rejoined ; 
but, I saw hurry on the beach, and men running with 
ropes from a capstan that was there, and penetrating into 
a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw 
him standing alone, in a seaman's frock and trousers ; 
a rope in his hand, or slung to his wrist ; another round 
his body ; and several of the best men holding, at a little 
distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack 
upon the shore, at his feet. 

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking 
up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, and that the 
life of the solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. 


Still, he clung to it. He had a singular red cap on, — he 
was seen by all of us to wave it. His action brought an 
old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence 
of suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, 
until there was a great retiring wave, when, with a back- 
ward glance at those who held the rope which was made 
fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a mo- 
ment was buifeting with the water ; rising with the hills, 
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam ; then 
drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I 
stood ; but he took no thought of that. He seemed hur- 
riedly to give them some directions for leaving him more 
free — or so I judged from the motion of his armband 
was gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, 
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, 
borne in towards the shore, borne on towards the ship, 
striving hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing, 
but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. 
At length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that 
with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be cling- 
ing to it,-^when, a high, green, vast hill-side of water, 
moved on shoreward, from beyond the ship ; he seemed to 
leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere 
cask had been broken, in running to the spot where they 
were hauling in. Consternation was in every face. 
They drew him to my very feet — insensible — dead. He 
was carried to the nearest house ; and, no one prevent- 
ing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every 
means of restoration were tried ; but he had been beaten 
to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was 
stilled for ever. 

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned 
and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when 


Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered 
my name at the door. 

• " Sir," said he, with tears starting to his weather- 
beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy 
pale, " will you come over yonder ? " 

I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he 
held out to support me : 

" Has a body come ashore ? " 

He said " Yes." 

"Do I know it? " Tasked then. 

He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it 
where she and I had looked for shells, two children, — on 
that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old 
boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by the 
wind, among the ruins of the home he had wronged, — 
I saw James Steerforth lying with his head upon his 
arm, as 1 had often seen him lie at school. 

JANE JONES.— Ben King. 

Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin' to me all the time. 

An' says : " Why don't you make it a rule 
To study your lessons, an' work hard an' learn. 

An' never be absent from school 7 
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, 

How he dumb up to the top ; 
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 

Down in the blacksmithin' shop." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 

Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course, what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top 
Is not never havin' no blacksmithin' shop. 

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 

But full o' ambition and brains, 
An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — 

An' see what he got for his pains. 
He brought electricity out of the sky 

With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key. 


So we're owin' him more'n anyone else 

Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. 
Jane Jones she actually said it was so. 

Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course what's allers been hinderin' me 
Is not havin' any kite, lightnin' or key. 

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees 

When he first thought up his big scheme; 
An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too. 

They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream ; 
But Queen Isabella she listened to him. 

An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, 
-An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n said: 

" Go hunt up the rest of the earth." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 

Mebby he did^I dunno ; 
'Course, that may all be, but you must allow 
They aint any land to discover just now. 

— SouiJiern Magazine. 

ADOWN THE YEARS.-Ada Simpson SnEEwooD. 

As down the distant halls of time we turn our eyes to-day. 
One foremost figure meets our view and o'er our hearts holds 

Like Moses in the wilderness, God gave to him command 
To lead His chosen people into Freedom's promised land. 

We see him on the battle-field, brave leader of the brave; 
At Trenton striking well the blow blest liberty to save; 
At Valley Forge, with valiant troops whose torn feet dye 

the sod ; 
And in the forest kneeling, asking help and strength from 


We see him now with noble scorn refuse the kingly crown, 
And with his sword of victory lay all his honors down. 
From war's red field of carnage he seeks a calm release. 
And by his own loved fireside learns the blessedness of 

But lo! his country calls again to come to her relief. 

To lead her in the paths of peace she seeks her trusted chief, 

Most highly loved and honored in all that blood-washed 

To guide the new-:born nation's feet is trusted to his hand. 


With cheerful, willing sacrifice he answers the request ; 
With tender, loving partings he leaves the longed-for rest, 
And friends and neighbors come to say a God-speed on his 

While deep-stirred, earnest, grateful hearts a loving tribute 


And ringing bells and cannon's roar his onward course 

And welcoming crowds assembling with reverence speak his 

And earnest, tender pleadings to heaven's high throne 

That He who led tbrougn war's dread scenes will guide him 

to the end. 

And maidens fair assemble amid the floral bowers. 
And sing the hero's praises and strew his way with flowers; 
And o'er triumphal arches these words are brought to view, 
" The defender of the mother will protect the daughters too." 

And now we see him with his hand upon the Holy Word, 
The waiting crowd stand breathless while the proffered oath 

is heard ; 
We hear him say, " So help me God," and then the air is rent 
With shouts and hearty cheering for the nation's president. 

noble Washington ! with thee was the nation's life begun, 
Thy country calls thee father, since God gave no other son. 
Thy name shall e'er be honored, thy deeds cause thankful 

So long as Freedom's banner floats proudly in the air. 

Nation, born of war and pain, be worthy of your sire! 
Let his true valor fill each heart with patriotic fire. 
Long may thy glorious banner be to every breeze unfurled, 
Long hold thy royal station as the refuge of the world. 

TIGEE BAY.— Robert Buchanan. 

A STORMY night's DHKAM. 

I. — The Tigress. 

A dream I had in the dead of night : 
Darkness — the jungle— a black man sleeping; 
Head on his arm, with the moon-dew creeping 

Over his face in a silvern light : 


The moon was driving, the wind was crying ; 

Two great lights gleamed round, horrid and red, 

Two great eyes, steadfast beside the bed 
Where the man was lying. 
Hark! Hark! 

What wild things cry in the dark ? 

Only the wind as it raves. 

Only tlie beasts in their caves. 

Where the jungle waves. 

The man slept on, and his face was bright, 

Tender and strange, for the man was dreaming ; 

Coldly the light on bis limbs was gleaming. 
On the jet-black limbs and their folds of white. 
Leprous-spotted, and gaunt, and hated. 

With teeth protruding and hideous head, 

Her two eyes burning so still, so red. 
The tigress waited. 

Hark! Hark! 

The wild things cry in the dark ; 

The wind whistles and raves. 

The beasts groan in their caves, 

And the jungle waves. 

From cloud to cloud the cold moon crept, 
The silver light kept coming and going, 
The jungle under was bleakly blowing. 

The tigress watched, and the black man slept. 

The wind was wailing, the moon was gleaming ; 
Pie stirred and shiver'd, then i-aised his head: 
Like a thunderbolt the tigress sped. 

And the man fell screaming. 
Hark! Hark! 
The wild things cry in the dark. 
The wind whistles and raves. 
The beasts groan in their caves. 
And the jungle waves. 

II.— Ratci.iffb Meg. 

Then methought I saw another sight : 
Darkness— a garret — a rushlight dying ; 
On the broken-down bed a sailor lying. 

Sleeping fast, in the feeble light ; 

The wind is wailing, the rain is weeping ; 
She croucheth there in the chamber dim, 
She croucheth there with her eyes on him 

As he lieth sleeping. 


Hark ! Hark ! 
Who cries outside in the dark? 
Only the wind on its way, 
Only the wild gusts astray, 
In Tiger Bay. 

Still as a child the sailor lies : 

She waits— she watches—is she human? 

Is she a tigress? Is she a woman ? 
Look at the gleam of her deep-set eyes ! 
Bloated and stained in every feature. 

With iron jaws, tljfoat knotted and bare, 

Eyes deep sunken, jet-black hair. 
Crouches the creature. 
Hark ! Hark ! 

Who cries outside in the dark? 

Only the wind on its way. 

Only the wild gusts astray. 

In Tiger Bay. 

Hold her ! scream ! or the man is dead : 

A knife in her tight-clenched hand is gleaming; 

She will kill the man as he lieth dreaming! 
Her eyes are fixed, her throat swells red. 
The wind is wailing, the rain is weeping ; 

She is crawling closer— angels that love him ! 

She holds her breath and bends above him, 
While he stirreth sleeping. 
Hark! Hark! 

Who cries outside in the dark? 

Only the wind on its way. 

Only the wild gusts astray, 

In Tiger Bay. 

A silken purse doth the sleeper clutch. 

And the gold peeps through with a ifatal glimmer! 

She creepeth near — the light grows dimmer — 
Her thick throat swells, and she thirsts to touch. 
She looks — she pants with a feverish hunger — 

She dashes the black hair out of her eyes — 

She glares at his face ... he smiles and sighs, 
And the face looks younger. 
Hark! Hark! 

Who cries outside in the dark ? 

Only the wind on its way. 

Only the wild gusts astray. 

In Tiger Bay. 


She gazeth on —he doth not stir — 

Her fierce eyes close, her brute lip quivers ; 

She longs to strike, but she shrinks and shivers: 
The light on his face appalletli her. 
The wind is wailing, the rain is weeping : 

Something holds her — her wild eyes roll; 

His soul shines out, and she fears his soul, 
Though he lieth sleeping. 
Hark! Hark! 

Who cries outside in the dark ? 

Only the wind on its way, 

Only the wild gusts astray, 

In Tiger Bay. 

III.— Intercession. 
I saw no more, but I woke — and prayed : 
"God ! that made the beast and the woman! 

God of the tigress ! God of the human ! 
Look to these things, whom thou hast made, 
Fierce and bloody and famine-stricken. 
Knitted with iron vein and thew — 

Strong and bloody, behold the two ! 
}\'e see them and sicken. 
Mark! Mark! 

These outc^asts fierce of the dark ; 

Where murmur the wind and the rain, 

Where the jungle darkens the plain. 

And in street and lane." 

God answered clear, " My will be done ! 

Woman-tigress and. tigress-woman, 

I made them both, the beast and the human, 
But I struck a spark in the brain of the one. 
And the spark is a Are, and the fire is a spirit; 

Though ye may slay it, it cannot dip ; 

Nay, it shall grow as the days go by. 
For my angels are near it. 
Mark ! Mark ! 

Doth it not burn in the dark ? 

Spite of the curse and the stain. 

Where the jungle darkens the plain, 

And in street and lane." 

God said, moreover: "The spark shall grow; 
'Tis blest, it gathers, its flame shall lighten. 
Bless it and nurse it — let it brighten ! 

'Tis scattered abroad, 'tis a seed I sow. 


And the seed is a soul, and a soul is the human, 

And it lighteth the face with a sign and a flame. 

Not unto beasts have I given the same, 
But to man and to woman. 
Mark! Mark! 

The hght shall scatter the dark : 

Where murmur the wind and the rain, 

Where the jungle darkens the plain, 

And in street and lane." 

So faint, so dim, so sad to seeing. 

Behold it burnijjg ! Only a spark ! 

So faint as yet, and so dim to mark, 
In the tigress-eyes of the human being. 
Fan it, feed it, in love and duty. 

Track it, watch it in every place — 

Till it burns the bestial frame and face 
To its own dim beauty. 
Mark! Mark! 

A spark that grows in the dark ; 

A spark that burns in the brain ; 

Spite of the wind and the rain, 

Spite of the curse and the stain, 

Over the sea and the plain. 

And in street and lane. 

FOUR MOTTOES.— Alice Freeman Palmer. 

" Look up, not down ! " Do you see how the tree-top 

Rejoices in sunshine denied to its root? 
And hear how the lark, gazing skyward, is flooding 

The world with his song, while the ground-bird is mute? 

"Look out and not in !" See the sap rushing outward 
In leaf, bud, and blossom ; all winter it lay 

Imprisoned while earth wore a white desolation ; 
Now nature is glad with the beauty of May. 

" Look forward, not back ! " 'Tis the chant of creation, 
The chime of the seasons as onward they roll ; 

'Tis the pulse of the world, 'tis the hope of the ages, 
'Tis the voice of our God in the depths of the soul. 

"Lend a hand!" Like the sun that turns night into morning; 

The moon that drives storm-driven sailors to land ; 
Ah, life were worth living, with this for the watchword : 

"Look up, out, and forward, and each lend a hand!" 



" Is this the place ?" 

A prepossessing young lady stood in the doorway of 
the editorial rooms and was gazing around the apart- 
ment in a friendly but somewhat mystified manner. 

"It depends on what you want," replied the horse re- 
porter. "If you are on a wild and fruitless search for a 
piece of plum-colored satin to match a dress, or a new 
kind of carpet-sweeper that will never, by any possibility, 
keep in working order three consecutive days, you are 
joyously sailing away on the wrong track, but if you 
would like an editor — ■" 

" That's it," said the young lady. " I want to see an 
editor ; I guess it's the literary editor. I saw such a sweet 
poem in the paper the other day. It went like this: 

" The bloom on the heather is fading, darling, 
The moorlands are crimson gold. 
God grant we may live together, darling, 
Together till we grow old." 

"Well," said the horse reporter, "our bloom-on-the- 
heatlier editor is out just now, but maybe some of the rest 
of us could attend to your case. What is it you want ?" 

" I am going to graduate next month, sir," said the 
young lady, " and I've got to read an essay. Isn't it 

"Perfectly side-splitting," responded the personal friend 
of St. Julien. 

"And I thought," continued the young lady, "that 
perhaps the literary editor would give me some advice 
about the subject of my essay and the general manner 
in which it should be treated. But possibly you could 
do it just as well," and the coming graduate smiled a 
sweet and encouraging smile. 

" I guess likely I could," was the reply. " You've got 
your white dress all made, I suppose?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" Well, that's a good deal. You can wear black shoes 


with safety, that's some comfort," said the horse reporter, 
glancing downwards at the young lady's feet. 

" Why, of course," she replied. " Of course I shall 
wear black shoes." 

" Yes, you can wear them, but I saw a girl once at a 
seminary commencement that was all rigged out in a 
white dress and wore black shoes. She had large, volup- 
tuous feet that always made people look to see if that 
part of the building where she was standing wasn't sag- 
ging a little, and when she pranced out on the stage the 
effect was something like a coal mine with a white dress 
hung out to dry over the top of it. What were you think- 
ing of writing about ?" 

" I didn't exactly know, air. That was what puzzled 

"The bud-of-proraise racket is a pretty good one," 
said the horse reporter. 

" The what?" 

" The bud-of-promise racket. It's a daisy scheme for 
girl graduates." 

" Could you tell me," asked the young lady in a hesi- 
tating manner, "about this — " 

" Eacket ?" suggested the horse reporter. 

"About this racket ?" 

"Oh, certainly. You want to start the essay with a 
few remarks about spring being the most beautiful season 
of the year, — the time when the tender blades of grass, 
kissed by the dews of heaven and warmed by the kindly 
rays of the sun, peep forth, at first timidly, and then in 
the royal splendor of their vivid colors, from the bosom 
of the earth that was such a little while ago wrapped in 
a mantle of snowy whiteness and fast bound in the chilly 
arms of hoary-headed winter. Then say that, as the glad 
sunshine leaps through the bits of foliage that begin to 
come out and cast their grateful shade upon the earth, 
they fall upon the buds that are loading the fruit trees, 
and soon on every branch the buds ripen and burst forth 
in a wreath of floral loveliness. Then compare the 


maiden, just stepping forth from the precincts of the 
school and gazing with wistful, eager eyes out into the 
world, with the little bud upon the tree, and say that 
she, too, by the aid of the sunlight which comes from 
education, will soon develop into a woman, that priceless 
gift of God to man, and ever cast about her the holy light 
of love. That ought to fetch 'em.'' 

" It sounds nice, doesn't it ?" said the young lady. 

"You bet it does, sis. There is nothing so sweet and 
alluring as a palpable lie. Of course you and I know 
that when a girl graduates she is as useless as a fan in a 
cyclone, but it wont do to say so. You must give it to 
'em the way I told you, and you'll be all right." 

" Thank you very much," said the young lady, start- 
ing for the door. 

" Don't forget to tie your essay with a blue ribbon," said 
the horse reporter. 

" No, sir, I wont." 

" And tell your papa to buy a bouquet to fire at you." 

"Yes, sir." 

" Kemember about the glad sunlight. Any sunlight 
that isn't glad is of no use in a graduating essay." 

" Yes, sir. Good-by." 

"Bon soir. Come around when you fall in love, and 
I will put you up to a great scheme for making Charley 
declare his intentions several months earlier than would 
otherwise be the case." 

Jbannie Pendleton Ewinq. 
He wasn't obliged to do it ; a man had been paid before 
To ring the chimes at stated times, but had blundered o'er 

and o'er. 
And, growing old and feeble, had just resigned the place 
When this lad appeared and volunteered, — this lad with the 
lovely face. 

"Pay f Oh, I wouldn't take it ! " be said with a lofty frown ; 
He had lately come to make his home in this quaint old- 
fashioned town 

♦Written expressly for tins CuUecticn. 


With his inotlier. Their house was yonder; the gray-stono 

clnirch stood near, 
And the jangling notes of poor old Coates had tortured the 

lad's keen ear. 

It was surely another story when the keyboard felt his hand ! 
At the first firm stroke the music woke and pealed over all 

the land ; 
There was panic among the swallows in the loft that held 

the chime- 
It was deep with dust and red with rust since Coates's idle 

time ! 

In the hush of the SabBath evenings, when the summer days 

grew long, 
Six times an hour from the old church tower he sent a snatch 

of song ; 
The "Gloria in Excelsis" when the Chrislmas dawn was 

gray ; 
And at Eastertide the sweet bells cried, " The Lord is risen 


One tune was of all tlie dearest to people and ringer too, 

When his music-soul made the soft notes roll o'er the church- 
yard wet with dew 

At time for the evening service; — ^when from clumsy keys 
he pressed, 

" Paradise ! Paradise ! who doth not crave for rest ! " 

Advent— Easter— Trinity— a year had rolled away. 

When the lad grew slight, with a fevered light in his deep- 
set eyes of gray. 

" Give up the chimes," said the people, " though yet we shall 
miss them so ; " 

But he smiled at their fears and his mother's tears: " What, 
give up his chimes? ah, no ! " 

Then round came the eve of the New Year. At midnight a 

year before, 
He had sent a crash and a merry dash the sleeping country 

But to-night he was past the effort. He looked at the solemn 

(He had crept with pain to the tower again) and played 

"0 Paradise!" 

"0 Paradise, Paradise, I greatly long to see " 

And, as blest with speech, each bell to each spoke weirdly, 

tenderly ; 
And the people woke and listened. Had ever the bells 

sung so? 
Each note seemed a word with meaning stirred as it drifted 

down below. 


" Who would not seek the happy laud ? " — of a sudden the 
music stopped ; 

With one long thrill the bells stood still, fcr the ringer's 
hands had dropped. 

Quick to the tower the people climbed. With open, up- 
turned eyes, 

And the starlight shed on his golden head, he had gone to 

ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY.— T. C. Haebaugh. 

Of all the men the world has seen 

Since Time his rounds began. 
There's one I pity every day, — 

Earth's first and foremost man ; 
And then I think what fun he missed 

By failing to enjoy 
The wild deliglits of youth-time, for 

He never was a boy. 

He never stubbed his naked toe 

Against a root or stone ; 
He never with a pin-hook fished 

Along the brook alone ; 
He never sought the bumblebee 

Among the daisies coy, 
Nor felt its business end, because 

He never was a boy. 

He never hookey played, nor tied 

The ever-ready pail, 
Down in the alley all alone. 

To trusting Fido's tail. 
And when he home from swimmin' came, 

His happiness to cloy. 
No slipper interfered, because 

He never was a boy. 

He might refer to splendid times 

'Mong Eden's bowers, yet 
He never acted Romeo 

To a six-year Juliet. 
He never sent a valentine, 

Intended to annoy 
A good, but maiden aunt, because 

He never was a boy. 


He never cut a kite-string, no ! 

Nor hid an Easter egg; 
He never ruined his pantaloons 

A-playing mumble-peg; 
He never from the attic stole, 

A coon-hunt to enjoy. 
To find "the old man" watching, for 

He never was a boy. 

I pity him. Why should I not ? 

I even drop a tear ; 
He did not«know how much he missed ; 

He never will, I fear. 
And when the scenes of " other days " 

My growing mind employ, 
I think of him, earth's only man 

Who never was a boy. — Texas Siflings. 

AN EASTER LILY.— A. W. Hawks.* 

A seed fell into the ground ; it died. 

And from its grave there grew a lily. 

Tall, fair and pure as an angel by the throne of God, 
the lily stood erect in a crystal vase. 

And its golden tongue praised God. 

The florist said, " It is the queen of my Easter offering." 

The poet came to buy a flower for the woman he loved. 

He saw the lily and he said, " She is as fair as that 
flower." And on Easter Sabbath morning the lily rose 
and fell upon her breast. 

In the ^reat congregation, when the waves of glorious 
music touched the lily, it quivered and thrilled as the 
heart beneath it pulsed to the glad voices. 

Out beneath the golden stars the poet stooped to kiss 
the lips he loved, and the lily, broken and bruised, fell 
lo the ground. 

And creeping to her cellar, a beggar girl, cold, tired, 
hungry, with pain of body, mind and soul, saw the fair 
hly glistening in the moonlight : she. picked it up, and 

•Used by permission of Profefisor Hawks, Public Reader and Lecturer. 


looking into its depths, she saw a picture of her child- 
hood's home. 

Into her hardened eyes came tears, and each tear held a 
face,— the mother face, the father face, faces of loved oneg 
long dead. And out of her heart she said to the lily : 

"O Lily! thou art so fair, so pure. I knew you 
long ago in my country home; have you a message 
for a sinner like me ? " 

And the golden-ton gued lily seemed to sing to her : 

" O weary one ! the Christ of the lilies is your Christ. 
I sing to you of rest and peace at home." 

And kissing the lily the beggar slept in rags upon the 
cellar floor and dreamed of home. 

In the morning they found there a broken, faded lily. 

In the morning they found there a dead girl, with a 
smile on her face. 

Her dust fell into the earth. 

And from the earth an angel joined the lily-bearing 
host of God. 

WHY UNCLE BEN BACK-SLID.*— Ralph Bingham. 

De room wha'r de Squire's Co't sat was packed to suffication, 
An' folks wuz dar from fur an' near wif eager expectation, 
De pos'master an' school ma'm an' de rich ole Kun'nel Graw, 
De biggia' crowd dat little room bad up till dat time saw 
Crowded inter de front door, an' looked in at de winders; 
Seemed ter me mos' like dey'd split de ole place inter 

De reason why de crowd wuz big, wuz 'cos Ole Hones' Ben 
Had back-slid jis' about fo'ah pegs an' stol'd a turkey hen. 

Now Hones' Ben was a nigger an' wuz as black as ink, 
But ev'y body liked him, since I done com' ter think ; 
He'd lived in Tuscaraugus since de closin' of de wah'. 
Liked work mo' dan any nigger I mos' eber saw. 
Had a wife an' grown up gal — bof 'em bright an' witty— 
An' a boy who wuz an artis' way down in llichmond City. 
Some said he wuz a barber, but his bus'ness card said jis', 
Benjamin Franklin Peyton, Junior, Tonsorlal Artis'. 

*By permiasion of the Author. Mi'. Bingham attained celebrity as "The 
Boy Orator," and ia now a well-known Imperaouator and Violiniat. 


Soon de Squire he rapped fo' o'dah, nodded head an' den 
De cunstable cum a-walkin' in leadin' Uncle Ben ; 
An' ev'y body stretched dar necks to git a look at him ; 
He nodded ter de Squire an' sed : "Good mawnin' Massa Jim." 
His head bow'd down er little, an' a tear wuz in each eye, 
An' his po' wife an' gal broke down, right dar, an' 'gin to cry. 
Den de Squire spoke about some law an' finished up wif 

You'se 'cused wif goin' ter Cap'n Flay's an' stealin' a turkey 


Ole Ben, he raised his head up, not a tear wuz in his eye. 

An' said, " Marse Jim, do yo' know sah, I b'lebe I'd ruther die 

Dan injur any livin' soul, or lie or steal or swar'. 

An' I will try an' 'splain, sah ; dat hen yo' foun' up dar 

In my cabin, wuz as much mine as 'twuz ole Cap'n Flay's, 

An' dat he's been a owin' it ter me fo' many days ; 

De debt, sah, dat he ow'd, wuz done made a-du'in' de wah — 

Fa'r exchange, sah, aint no rob'ry 'cordin' ter de law. 

"When Massa Link'n's proclamation set us niggers free 
I wuz wif Kun'nel Peyton, my ole marster, an' yo' see. 
When he rid ofT ter fight fer de cause he lov'd so well 
He sent fer me ter come ter him, he'd somefin fer ter tell ; 
'Ben,' he said, ' you'se been one of de bes' slaves I eber had, 
You'se treated me so near right dat I can't treat yo' bad; 
Dar's a little cabin an' a mule, 'sides a piece of groun'. 
Some chickens an' some turkeys, Ben, as fine as kin be foun'. 

"'So take yo' little baby gal, an' Han'ah, whose yo' wife. 

An' live dar on dat place, Ben, fer it's yo's fer all yo' life.' 

Dar we lived an' wuz as happy as anybody roun' 

A raisin' chickens, turkeys, an' corn out ob de groun'; 

An' water-milyins grow'd a heap better an' bigger dar. 

An' jucier, an' mo' of 'em den dar wuz mos' anywhar. 

A ye'ah rolled roun' an' Chris'mas day wuz gettin' kinder 

«A ,j°^^'^' 
An de turkeys wuz a fatt'nin' an roostin' mon'stus high. 

"Twas Chris'mas ebe, er'bout five o'clock, dar rode inter our 

Fo'ah so'gers all dress'd in gray an' cussin' at an awful rate — 
A mos' disrespec'fnl lookin' crowd I mos' hah eber see — 
An' one ob dem pulled out his pistol an' done pint straight 

at me; 
He said, 'Now look h'yer nigger, we's Kun'nel Mosby'a 

Tho' you'se mighty strange ter us, I reckin we aint strangers, 


We want fo'ah yo' turkeys ter kill fo' ow'ah Chris'mas 

So tie 'em up, an' mighty spry, yo' Eth'opian sinner.' 

" Know'd it war'nt no use ter kick, if I had dey'd filled me 
Wif cusses, maybe bullits, 'an liker 'nuff dey'd killed me; 
So day took fo'ah de biggest birds I had about de place. 
Tied one to each saddle an' rid off at er pow'ful pace; 
An' Cliris'mas day wuz a gloomy one fo' Uncle Ben dat 

year — 
Couldn't fotch nuffin' fer what I raised, an' groc'ries mighty 

But I rastled wif de world till de fo'teenth day of Augns', 
Den we jes' pack'd up an' come ter live in Tuscaraugus. 

" I had done sol' de cabin fer mighty nigh a nuffin' ; 
It kep' me hus'lin', Marse Jim, yes sah, it kep' me puffin', 
But we got hy'ar an' hired de house we lib in on Graw Hill, 
An' I 'cepted de 'sition of fireman at de ole saw-mill. 
We's be'n a-doin' fiust-rate so fur, 'prov'n from day to day. 
But now I'll tell you how I donefoun' out 'bout ole Cap Flay; 
He come h'yar 'bout ten y'ars ago an' took de Bransford 

place — 
De minnit I saw him I done knew I know'ed his face. 

" But I couldn't tell 'zackly whar I'd seen him, as de y'ars 

rolled by, 
Till jes' befo' Thanksgiben day I went up de street ter try 
An' get some coffee, sugar, meat, 'sides a few things mo'ah, 
An' wuz lookin' at de turkeys front of Majah Ley's sto'ah, 
When up walks Cap'n Flay an' sez: ' 'Peers like Chris'mas's 

Dem turkeys wif cranberry sauce, mince pies wif some rum in 
Would make great eatin', eh, Ben ? Dey is mos' as big, egad. 
As three of Kun'nel Mosby's men an' myself once had. 

■' ' 'Twaa Chris'mas ebe in '64, we took 'em from er nigger 
Libin' in Cam'el county, but dey wnz a heap sight bigger.' 
An' den I 'membered, right dar, Squire, whar I'd seen Cap'n 

He de very so'jer dat p'int his gun at me dat day 
An' made me gib ter 'em my turkeys I done rais'd so fine ; 
'T was a-stealin', dey done, Marse Jim, a-takin what wuz mine. 
De mill's shut down an' we aint work fo' mo'ah dan nine- 
teen weeks. 
An' I can't fish, bekase de cole done friz up all de creeks. 

"An' my boy Ben a-comin' home, I thought 'twould be erpity 
Ef he couldn't have a turkey after comin' from de city, 


An' SO I fig'red in my head, dat I'd jes' step down de road 
An' tote my turkey home, dat Cap'n Flay done owed." 
Den Ben, he quit a-talkin' an' I looked aroun' de place — 
Dar wuz a smile an' happy look on ev'ybody's face, 
'Cept Cap'n Flay's, an' he looked glum, he could see he'd lost. 
Den de Squire said : " Cap'n Flay you'll have to pay de cost. 

"An'Ben, you'se free, I'm glad to say, togo whar e'eryo' will, 

Although I b'lieve de Cap'n is indebted ter yo' still ; 

For de law 'lows an int'rest on ev'y kind of lendin,' 

An' yo' account wif him aint sq'ar' until he's after sendin' 

Another turkey, so Ban de artis', up from Richmon', 

Can hab a turkey fo' himse'f^ — course I do'an care which one." 

Den Cap'n Flay he went outside, an' cuss'd an' swo'ah an' 

An' never bragged about dem Mosby rangers any mo'ah. 


Grandpapa looked at his fine new chair, 

On the twenty-sixth of December, 
Saying : " Santa Claus is so good to me ! 

He never fails to remember ; 
But my old armchair is the one for me " 

(And he settled himself in it nicely); 
" I hope he wont mind if I cling to it, 

For it fits my back precisely." 

Papa came home that very night, 

He had plowed his way through the snow, 
And the Christmas twinkle had left his eye, 

And his step was tired and slow. 
Warming for him bis slippers lay. 

The lovely embroidered-in-gold ones, 
That had hung on the Christmas-tree last night; 

But he slipped his feet in the old ones. 

And when dear little Marjory's bedtime came, 

On the parlor rug they found her, 
The long, dark lashes a-droop on her cheeks, 

And her Christmas toys around her. 
Neglected Angelique's waxen nose 

The fire had melted completely ; 
But her precious rag doll, Hannah Jane, 

On her breast was resting sweetly. 

— The Independent. 


Robert J. Burdette. 

"And it came to pasa, when the King heard the words of the woman, that he 
rent his elotlies; and ho passed by upon the wail and tlie people loolted and be- 
hold, he had saclicloth within upon bis ilesh." II Kings, vi : 30. 

Well might the king wear sackcloth ; his were a nation's 

And every sob from a million lips was one of his own heart's 

throes ; 
The tears of his people burned his cheeks, their hunger 

gnawed his breast. 
The pain that ached in their hollow eyes drove peace from 

his sleepless rest. 

But the jester— who laughed in the palace ; who mocked at 
the shriveled lips 

Of gaunt-eyed Famine and turned aside her moan with his 
nimble quips. 

Who rippled a stave of a reveler's song, when the woman, 
witli bitter cry, 

Shrieked, " Help, O king, for God will not!" as the help- 
less king passed -by ; 

The jester — who grinned at the scanty .fare they spread at 

the royal board. 
And tittered a grace, more jest than prayer and more to the 

guests than the Lord ; 
Who wrinkled his face with a wry grimace, while the people 

looked aghast 
At the sackcloth under the purple robes of their king, as he 

went past ; 

The jester, — whose merry gibes were heard in all that dole- 
ful while, — 

Should he wear sackcloth like the king? why, Famine's 
self would smile; 

He, light and empty of heart and thought as the jingling 
bells he wore. 

He would laugh at the sackcloth and jest at the ache of 
the heart it covered o'er. 

The jester— Death laughed in his face one day and the smile 

on his lips was chilled ; 
So strange it seemed for him to die, that all the Court was 

With ripples of laughter, hushed and low, just tinged with 

pity and shame ; 
But the smiles would come, when they coupled Death with 

the frolicsome jester's name. 


So with pitying smiles and hands they dressed the dead for 

the Court of Death ; 
They stripped off his motley — the grotesque rags — and then, 

with startled breath, 
They looked in amaze, for chafing his breast with its irritant 

rankle and sting. 
Under his motley the jester wore sackcloth — like the king. 


This Bpoecb waa delivered in the National House of Representativen, January 
27, 1871, on tbe joint tesohition oxtunding the time tu conatruct a railroad from 
tbe St. Croix river or lake to the west end of Lake Superior, and when Dulutli 
was a small and unknown village. It has since grown into a thriving and 
wealthy cit.y, having in 1890 a population of more than thirty-two thousand in- 

Mr. Speaker : As to those great trunk-lines of railway- 
spanning the continent from ocean to ocean, I confess 
my mind has never been fully made up. But with re- 
gard to the transcendent merits of the gigantic enterprise 
contemplated In this bill, — to construct a railroad from 
the St. Croix river or lake to the west end of Lake Su- 
perior and to Bayfield, — I never entertained a shadow 
of a doubt. 

Now, sir, who that is not as incredulous as St. Thomas 
himself will doubt for a moment that the Goshen of 
America is to be found in the sandy valleys and upon 
the pine-clad hills of the St. Croix ? 

Now, sir, I have been satisfied for years that if there 
was any portion of the inhabited globe absolutely in a 
suffering condition for want of a railroad, it was these 
teeming pine barrens of the St. Croix. At what par- 
ticular point on that noble stream such a road should be 
commenced I knew was immaterial, and so it seems to 
have been considered by the draughtsman of this bill. 
It might be up at the spring or down at the foot-log, or 
the water-gate, or the fish-dara, or anywhere along the 
bank, no matter where. But in what direction should 
it run, or where should it terminate, were always to my 


mind questions of the most painful perplexity, until I 
accidentally overheard sonae gentlemen the other day 
mention the name of " Duluth." Duluth ! The word 
fell on my ear with a peculiar and indescribable charm, 
like the gentle murmur of a low fountain stealing forth 
in the midst of roses, or the soft, sweet accent of an 
angel's whisper in the bright joyous dream of sleeping 
innocence. Duluth! 'Twas the name for which my 
soul had panted for years, as the hart panteth for the 
water-brooks. But where was Duluth ? Never in all 
my limited reading liad my vision been gladdened by 
seeing the celestial word in print. And I felt a pro- 
founder humiliation in my ignorance that its dulcet syl- 
lables had never before ravished my delighted ear. I 
was certain the draughtsman of this bill had never heard 
of it, or it would have been designated as one of the 
termini of this road. I asked my friends about it, but 
they knew nothing of it. I rushed to the library and 
examined all the maps I could find. I discovered in 
one of them a delicate, hair-like line, diverging from the 
Mississippi near a place called Prescott, which I sup- 
posed was intended to represent the river St. Croix; but 
I could nowhere find Duluth. 

Nevertheless I was confident tliat it existed some- 
where, and that its discovery would constitute the crown- 
ing glory of the present century, if not of all modern 
times. Thanks to the beneficence of that band of minis- 
tering angels who have their bright abodes in the far-ofi' 
capital of Minnesota, just as the agony of my anxiety was 
about to culminate in the frenzy of despair, this blessed 
map was placed in my hands ; and as I unfolded it a 
resplendent scene of ineffable glory opened before me, 
such as I imagine burst upon the enraptured vision of 
the wandering peri through the opening gates of para- 
dise. There, there for the first, lime my enchanted eye 
rested upon the ravishing word "Duluth." 

If gentlemen will examine it, they will find Duluth 
not only in the centre of this mai), but represented in the 


centre of concentric circles one hundred miles apart, and 
some of them as much as four thousand miles in diame- 
ter, embracing alike in their tremendous sweep the fra- 
grant savannas of the sunlit South, and the eternal 
solitudes of snow that mantle the ice-bound North. 

I find by reference to this map that Duluth is situated 
somewhere near the western end of Lake Superior ; but 
as there is no dot or other mark indicating its exact 
location, I am unable to say whether it is actually con- 
fined to any particular spot, or whether " it is just lying 
around there loose." But, however that may be, I am sat- 
isfied that Duluth is there or thereabout, for I see it stated 
here on this map that it is exactly thirty-nine hundred 
and ninety miles from Liverpool, though I have no doubt, 
for the sake of convenience it will be moved back ten 
miles so as to make the distance an even four thousand. 

Then, sir, there is the climate of Duluth, unquestion- 
ably the most salubrious and delightful to be found any- 
where on the Lord's earth. Now, I have always been 
under the impression, as I presume other gentlemen have, 
that in the regions around Lake Superior it was cold 
enough for at least nine months in the year, to freeze the 
smoke-stack ofi" a locomotive. But I see it represented 
on this map that Duluth is situated exactly halfway 
between the latitudes of Paris and Venice ; so that gen- 
tlemen who have inhaled the exhilarating airs of the one 
or basked in the golden sunlight of the other, may see at a 
glance that Duluth must be a place of untold delights, 
a terrestrial paradise, fanned by the balmy zephyrs of 
an eternal spring, clothed in the gorgeous sheen of ever- 
blooming flowers, and vocal with the silvery melody of 
nature's choicest songsters. 

As to the commercial resources of Duluth, sir, they 
are simply illimitable and inexhaustible, as shown by 
this map. I see it stated here that there is a vast scope 
of territory, embracing an area of over two million 
square miles, rich in every element of material wealth 
and commercial prosperity, all tributary to Duluth. 


Look at this map ; do not you see from these broad 
brown lines, drawn around this immense territory, that 
the enterprising inhabitants of Duluth intend some day 
to enclose it all in one vast corral, so that its commerce 
will be bound to go there whether it would or not? And 
on this map, sir, I find within a convenient distance the 
Piegan Indians, which of all the many accessories to the 
glory of Duluth I consider the most inestimable. For, 
sir, I also see vast " wheat fields " represented on this 
map in the immediate neighborhood of the bufialoes and 
the Piegans ; and though the idea of there being these im- 
mense wheat-fields in the very heart of a wilderness, 
hundreds and hundreds of miles beyond the utmost 
verge of civilization, may appear to some gentlemen as 
rather incongruous, as rather too great a strain on the 
" blankets" of veracity, to my mind there is no difiiculty 
in the matter whatever. 

Here, you will observe, are the buffaloes, directly be- 
tween the Piegans and Duluth, and here, on the right 
of Duluth, are the Creeks. Now, sir, when the buffa- 
loes are sufficiently fat from grazing on these immense 
wheat-fields, you see it will be the easiest thing in the 
world for the Piegans to drive them on down, stay all 
night with their friends, the Creeks, and go into Duluth 
in the morning. 

Sir, I might stand here for hours and hours and ex- 
patiate with rapture upon the gorgeous prospects of 
Duluth as depicted upon this map. But human life is 
far too short, and the time of this House far too valuable 
to allow me to linger longer upon the delightful theme. 
Nevertheless, sir, it grieves my very soul to be compelled 
to say that I can not vote for the grant of lands pro- 
vided for in this bill. 

Ah ! sir, you can have no conception of the poignancy 
of my anguish that I am deprived of that blessed priv- 
ilege ! There are two insuperable obstacles in the way. 
In the first place, my constituents for whom I am acting 
here, have no more interest in this road than they have 


ia the great question of culinary taste now perhaps agi- 
tating the public mind of Dominica as to whether the 
illustrious commissioners who recently left this capital 
for that free and enlightened republic would be better 
fricasseed, boiled, or roasted ; and in the second place, 
these lands which I am asked to give away, alas ! are 
not mine to bestow. My relation to them is simply that 
of trustee to an express trust. And shall I ever betray 
that trust ? Never, sir ! Rather perish Duluth ! Perish 
the paragon of cities ! Rather let the freezing cyclones 
of the bleak Northwest bury it forever beneath the 
eddying sands of the raging St. Croix. 




Robin Hood, "the justly famoua." 
Freak Tuok, liis private chaplain. 
Alan Adale, the unlucky. 
The Marquis, of Peek-a-booby Park. 
The "Dragon," his sister. 
SopHoNisBA, his ward. 

Scene I. — In Sherwood forest. Two stools and a bench vAth 
beer-cans, pipes and tobacco upon it. Curtain rises vrith a 
chorus of men behind the scenes, singing: 

Bold Robin Hood is a forester good. 
He sits and he smokes in the merry green wood, 
And the mild beer he'll swallow, he'll swallow, 
And the mild beer he'll swallow. 
He'll swallow, he'll swallow, 
And the mild beer he'll swallow. 
Enter Robin Hood, singing, "And the mild beer he'll swallow, heHl 
swallow," etc., as song outside gradually dies away. Hood seats 
himself and lights a pipe. 
Hood. How's this for high ? Who'd care to be a king? 
A robber chiefs a good deal better thing. 
To pass one's days in some umbrageous wood,— 
Like me, the justly famous Robin Hood,— 
To sit like this and smoke and drink at ease 
Is better than to go off over seas 

*Ckipyrighl, 1896, by P. Gabkett & Co. 


In cast-iron clothes, beneath the broiling sun 

To chase the Moslem— or be chased by one; 

To spend your cash and mortgage all your land, 

Then go and leave your carcass on the sand 

Of some far desert. No sir ! Not for me, 

I spend my days beneath the greenwood tree; 

Whene'er 1 find my purse is getting low 

I rob an abbot, or a church, or so. 

Deer of the forest furnish me with meat, 

Or if I sometimes give myself a treat, 

Spring-chickens I obtain with little labor 

By visiting the hen-roost of a neighbor. 

A score of followers obey my will. 

They'll beat a policeman, or they'll rob a till ; 

They'll stop the coach upon the king's highway, 

Or steal the pennies from a blind man's tray. 

All's fish that comes to their capacious net, 

And I'm the boss of all of them. You bet! 

Boss by superior merit and by birth 

(I'm modest, though I think I know my worth); 

Courage and skill must take the lead ; in brief, 

I am, because I ought to be, the chief; 

My pipe is out, just one more mug of beer — 

Well, here's my health. Hallo! Who's coming here? 

A priest, a shaven priest. I'll drain my cup, 

And then just watch me make him "ante up." 

Voice heard outside, singing, " Whai baron, or squire, or knigM 
of the shire," etc. Enter Friar Tuck,- carrying a satchel. 

Hood. Good morning, reverend sir, I trust you're well. 

Tuck. I'm pretty middling, thank you, kindly tell 
Your name, fair sir, if you will be so good. 

Hood. I am the justly famous Eobin Hood. 

TccK. O scissors! Pax vohiscum, I should say. 

Good morning sir, I've business, down this way. 

Hood. Oh, pray don't hurry, sir, before you go 
I must investigate that bag, you know. 
When folks bestow on me a friendly call 
They leave their cash, or — they don't leave at all. 
What's in that bag ? Fork out ! I'm bound to know. 

TtiCK. It's this {producing a revolver). 

Hood. Oh ! Frozen giblets ! Here's a go. 

I didn't mean it, sir, 'twas just my fun ; 
Please put it back again, I hate a gun. 

Tuck. Now Mr. Hood, you see this "Smith and Wesson ;" 
Just take your choice, a bullet, or a blessin'. 


If you'll agree to let this matter rest 

I'll join your band and do my level beat 

To make things pleasant; I can read and write, 

Besides I'm pretty handy in a fight. 

I'll be your private chaplain. Does that suit you? 

If not, I grieve to say I'll have to shoot you. 

Hood. Most reverend sir, what can I have to say? 

(Please point that horrid thing some other way, 

If it goes off 'twill ruin my digestion.) 

I'm highly honored, sir, by your suggestion. 

You shall be chief, we'll have a new election 

(Please not to foint that thing in my direction), 

My men and I will you alone obey 

If you'll but put that nasty thing away. 

Tuck. All right, niy chicken, back again it goes, 
We'll stick to the arrangement I propose ; 
You shall be chie-f, your chaplain I will be. 
That job is plenty good enough for me. 
I'll serve you well if you will treat me fair. 
How's that, old snoozer, shall wo call it square ? 

Hood. We will. You'll find me keep my promise good. 
For I'm— the justly famous Robin Hood. 
I fear no foe with falchion at his side. 
Those mean "'self-cockers" though, I can't abide. 
My word once passed I keep my promise true, 
As brave men always should, and sometimes do. 
Come, take a seat, and have a glass of beer. 

Tuck. I will, my noble Captain. Hear! 

Hood. And hear ! 

Tuck. You may have heard my name. I'm Friar Tuck. 

Hood. You are ! I'm glad to hear it. I'm in luck. 
If I may trust the universal tale 
You are the greatest rascal out of jail. 
You're not offended? 

Tuck. Oh, no. It would seem 

We ought to make a pretty well-matched team ; 
When our affairs require a little art 
You'll And, I think, that I can do my part ; 
If we need skill with bow, or single-stick, 
Bold Robin Hood knows how to do the trick. 
Between the two, I think, without self-praise, 
We've brains and pluck enough to make a raise. 
Not pettifogging jobs that don't make wages. 
Like picking pockets, or like stopping stages; 



These little games are getting rather stale, 
I vote we do things on a bigger scale : 
Capture some millionaire and make him pay 
A good round sum before he gets away : 
Marry an heiress and rake in the cash ; 
I'd like to see you try to make a mash. 
Hood. Why, that would suit me right down to the ground, 

And I know where an heiress may be found. 
Tuck. You do? 

Hood. I do. Down in the valley there 

Reside a marquis and a maiden fair. 
His lordship's character is rather shady; 
He acts the part of guardian to the lady, 
But, being much in debt, 'tis his design 
The maiden and her money to consign 
To his chief creditor, who, in return, 
His lordship's mortgages will promptly burn, — 
An advantageous deal for hirn, you see. 

Tuck. Though smacking of the fraudulent trustee. 

Hood. Decidedly. Thus, even if the maid 

Would make her home beneath the greenwood's shade, 

His lordship's hardly likely to consent. 

And if he wont the scheme's not worth a cent. 

The maiden and the money we must gain. 

Now, there's a problem for your reverend brain. 

TccK. That's what the matter, so, without delay, 
I'll solve it if I can. 

Enter Alan Addle, with clothes much torn. 

Alan. Alackaday ! 

Alack, alack ! 

Tuck. Who's that ? 

Hood. I've no idea. 

Alan. Alack, alack ! 

Tuck. He acts uncommon queer. 

Alan. Alack, alack, alack, alack, alack ! 

Tuck. He must be choking, slap him on the back. {Hood 
does so.) 

Alan. O gracious goodness! What new burden's this? 

HooD. Brace up, young fellow, tell us what's amiss. 

Alan. Alack, alack ! 

Hood. Oh, stop that senseless clatter. 

Tuck. Go easy, pard. Come, tell us what's the matter. 
Pluck up your courage now 

Hood. You young galoot. 

Alan. Alack ! It is plucked up, entirely, by the root. 

Hood. Well, plant another crop. 


Tuck. Yes, drink this beer. 

We always practise irrigation liere. 

Alan takes some beer and hands the pewter over to Hood. 

Alan. Ah ! Thiank you, sir, riglit to the spot it goes, 

Now I have courage to relate my woes. 

You know perchance where Peek-a-booby Park is 7 

In that domain there dwells a noble marquis, 
TtioK. I've heard of him. 
AL.iN. This marquis has a ward 

By everyone beholding her adored ; 

By me among tlje rest. But, cruel fate, 

A wretch, who owns a neighboring estate, 

Is destined, by my lord, the maid to wed. 
IIooD. Why don't you go and knock him on the head? 
Tuck. Nay, why not boldly go and make demand 

From the old marquis of the lady's hand? 
Alav. Look at me, reverend sir ; you'd not suppose 

These ragw could be my go-to-meeting clothes. 

Why are these knees exposed, this doublet riven ? 

By taking your advice, before 'twas given. 

This very morn I to the Park repaired. 

And boldly— or as boldly as I dared — 

I sought the marquis and preferred my suit. 

My only answer was his lordship's boot, — 

A grievous stroke, and, taken unawares, 

I flew, sir, headlong, down those marble stairs. 

And then at least a dozen raging hounds 

Chased me, perspiring, from his lordship's grounds. 

Till here at length I came, but, bless my soul, 

I don't know if I have a bone that's whole! 

The very recollection gives me pain. 

Alack, alack ! 
Hood. Here, irrigate again. (He drinks.) 

Tuck {to Hood). Go and sit down old man, I see a show 

To work a scheme if you will just lay low. {^Exit Hood. 

My dear young friend, your sorrows, though 
they're passed. 

Would move compassion in a plaster cast. 

Excuse me then if tears should dim the eyes 

Of one whose business is to sympathize. 

Alan. Alack ! 

Tuck. Nay, nay, I prithee not despair, 

Perchance you yet may gain the lady fair. 

If we can but persuade my gallant friend, — 

A mah of strictest probity,— to lend 


His aid, I think your cause may yet succeed. 
But, ere we further in the case proceed, 
Pray tell me if you ever have of late 
Heard mention of the Dook of Billingsgate ? 

Alan. Of course I have, the youthful dook himself ^ 
Sought Sophonisba's hand, and not for pelf; 
VVhile she, I've heard, regards him far from coolly. 
In fact she may prefer him to " yours truly." 
But he has not a chance, sir, as I know 
The marquis looks upon him as his foe. 
And, if he dared to show his nose round here 
He'd slit his jugular, from ear to ear. 
No prospect there, good sir, for reciprocity, 
You don't know yet the marquis' ferocity. 

Tuck. Well, that is settled then, now for my plan : 
You seem to be a pretty bold young man. 
And, like a bold young man, all danger scorning, 
You and the maiden shall elope some morning. 

Alan. No thank you, no sir, thank you, not for me. 
Why, sir, they keep her under lock and key ; 
To get a sight of her 's a thing to brag on, 
She 's guarded by a perfect female " dragon ", 
A bony spinster, lank and grim and gray. 
The marquis' own sister, and they say 
That e'en the marquis stands of her in awe, 
And lacks the pluck to brave the " dragon's" claw. 
Why, I believe he would give half his lands 
To anyone who'd take her oflf his hands. 

Tuck. Ah ! let me take a turn or two and think, 

Go and sit down, and have another drink. [Alan obeys.) 

(Aside.) The Dook of Billingsgate has got no show! 

I'm not so very sure of that, you know. 

Methinks this priestly rig 's enough disguise 

To throw the dust e'en in a " dragon's " eyes. 

I think I see a way to use my friends, 

And make them all work to attain my ends. 

Yes — that will do — exactly — glorious plan. 

Ho, Cap ! Come here. And you as well, young man. 

Enter Hood; advances with Alan, the latter,pewter in hand. 

Hood. Well, have you any plan that's worth relating ? 
Alan. What 's the result, sir, of your cogitating ? 
Tuck. It's this, my friends: I will at once depart 

And call upon the marquis 

Alan. Bless your heart, 


You'd better not do that; just look at me 
And judge what your reception's like to be. 
Hood. It does seem kind of risky. 
Tuck. Not a jot ; 

A priest may go where other folks may not. 

I'll beard this fearsome marquis in his den, 

I'll easily bamboozle him, and then, 

Trust me to get a private interview 

By some means with the watchful "dragon" too. 

I have a plan that's sure, it cannot fail, — 

We'll yet have that elopement, turn not pale, — 

If you will be but just a trifle bolder 

We'll have a wedding ere you're two days older. 

Just follow my instructions without fear 

Hood. If you feel scarey take a drop of beer. {He drinks.) 
Tuck. Your aid, of course, bold captain, will not fail. 
Hood. I'm at your service, padre, tooth and nail. 
Tuck {to Alan). Well, will you venture for this maiden fair? 
Alan. I will, and here's my hand upon it, there ! 
{Sings.) Oh, when I am married, oh then, oh then, 
Oh, when I am married, oh-then, 
The bold Robin Hood 
Shall have everything good, 
And so shall his merry young men. 
{Chorus and dance.) Oh then, and oh then, and oh then, 
and oh then, etc. 

Scene II.-^ Court-yard of marquis' castle, before sunrise. Door 
at hack, centre. On the left a balcony v/ith a door below it. 
Lights down. Hood and Tuck discovered. 

Hood. Well, is it all arranged ? 

Tuck. It's all arranged, 

There's nothing in the programme to be changed. 
Hood. Does the old marquis know what he's to do 1 
Tuck. He's fully posted, and the " dragon " too ; 

I interviewed them both, they each suppose 

That he or she, alone, entirely knows 

The details of our plot. They each believe 

Our scheme to be the other to deceive. 

Young Alan too, has taken heart of grace 

And screwed his courage to the sticking place. 

He thinks that all our labor and our wit 

Are spent for his exclusive benefit. 
Hood. Well, in that matter he's just like the rest. 
Tuck. He is. They each one entered with much zest 


Into ray plan, 'twas just as I surmised 

Hood. O frizzled whiskers ! Wont they be surprised ! (laughs.) 
Tuck. Hush I don't make such anoise. Youknowyour part? 
Hood. From bed-rock up to grass-roots, off by heart. 

Tuck. If our fond lover should attempt to skip 

Hood. I'll head him off, he sha'n't give me the slip. 

Tuck. All right then, take your place, your fortune's 

Hood. By-by then, partner, here's success to trade. {_Exit. 
Tuck. By-by, my friend ; as far as I can tell 

There'll be a small surprise for you as well. 

But time is running short, I'll get to cover. 

Ah, here he comes, my bold, impetuous lover. lExit. 

Enter Alan, very nervous, carrying banjo and step-ladder. He 
sets up ladder under balcony and proceeds to serenade. 

Alan (sings). " Farewell forever, farewell to thee," etc. 
That isn't right, dear me, it sounds all wrong, 
I've plum forgot the preconcerted song. 
(Sings.) " Farewell, my own, light of my life, farewell," etc. 
That's wrong again, my memory's stricken dumb, 
I wish to goodness now I'd never come. 
(Sings.) " Good night, ladies," etc. 

Enter, suddenly, from door under balcony, the "dragon " veiled. 
Alan takes a step or two inflight. 

Dragon. Come back, come back. Why, sure you're not 

Alan. A little, yes, on your account, fair maid. 

Fear on my own account ! Oh no, I'd scorn it ; 

The marquis, though, would rage like any hornet 

If he discovered what we are about, 

And so I feared the noise might bring him out. 
Dragon. That's what's the matter. 
Alan. Let us haste away, 

The sun is rising. (Lights up.) Prithee not delay. 
Drago.v. Well then I'll come. Oh, just one minute more. 

I've left my hair-pins in the table drawer. 

Eun up and fetch them. 
Alan (aside, going up ladder). Oh dear, more delay. 
Dragon. They're in the right-hand 

Enter marquis in night-shirt, night-cap, breast-plate, slippers, 
"stove-pipe" hat, and sword in hand, from door at back. 

Marquis. Stop ! 

Alan (on top of ladder). Alackaday 1 


Mj«iQUis. Oh, SO it's you comeback, I thought the warning 

Would be sufficient that you got this morning. 

Th' attentions — unsolicited — with which you 
treat us 

Shall be requited with your own quietus. 
Ai AK. Alack, alack ! 
DhAGON {to Alan). Be quiet. {To marquis.) Keep your distance. 

I'll run this business without your assistance. 
Marquis. Wliat! You protect this fellow? Don't you know 

1 kicked him out about twelve hours ago? 

Out of my way ! 
Dragon {fencing with umbrella). I wont then. 

Enter Tuck with satchel, and Hood with bow and arrows. 

Tuck {interrupting the combat). Pax vobiscum. 

Marquis. Hallo, sir, you here too ? Pray howdoesthiscome? 

This place with tramps will soon be overrun, 

I'll straightway vivisect you, every one ! 
Dragon. Oh, do be quiet now. You don't suppose 

Your medieval bluster can impose 

On me. Put up your sword, and do not make 

Yourself ridiculous, for goodness' sake. 
Marquis. Oh yes, my dear, oh certainly, with pleasure. 
Tuck. Most noble marquis, if you are at leisure, 

Pray let me speak with you, for all our sakes. 

I'll not detain you but a brace of shakes. 
Ihei/ go forward, apart. 
Marquis. How did I do it, eh ? Could you do better? 
Tuck. You carried out your part, sir, to the letter, 

Your acting, sir, was quite a revelation, 

'Twould add to David Garrick's reputation. 

Just carry out the programme, curb your ire 

Marquis. All by persuasion of "this worthy friar." 

I see. 
Tuck. Exactly. My persuasion heeding. 

You'll hear how they account for this proceeding. 
Marquis. All right. (To jlZan.) Young man, this very worthy 

Informs me that you venture to aspire 

To wed this lady. Pray is that the case? 
Alan. No, not at all, your nnble lordship's grace. 
Marquis. What are you doing then upon that ladder? 
Dragon. You nincompoop, you'll only make him madder, 

Tell him the truth. 
Alan {stammering). I didn't understand, 

I do, my lord, I seek this lady's hand, 



And that, my lord, is just the frozen truth. 
Marquis. And you, my angel, would you wed this youth ? 
Dragon. That's what I'm here for. {Aside.) Angel ! I declare, 

Such suavity's as charming as it's rare. 
Marquis. Well then, we'll have the wedding on the spot, 

And you, sir priest, shall tie the fatal knot. 

Come off your perch, young man, don't be afraid. 
Alan descends, and stands in line wiLh Dragon. 

Alan Adale, you wish to wed this maid ? 
I do. 

And you, fair maid, will take this man ? 
I will. 

Then take, and keep him — if you can. 
Consider yourselves married. 

Now embrace. 
Fair maiden, let me see your lovely face. 
Dragon unveils, consternation of Alan at seeing the lurong face. 

Alaok, alack ! O gracious ! Let me out ! IStarts off. 

Come back, young man. What's all this fuss 
about ? 

{ To marquis, who laughs very heartily.) What are you 
cackling for ? What means this laughter ? 
Marquis. Old girl, it wasn't you this chap was after, 

'Twas Sophonisba. 

What! How's this, sir friar? 

Can you explain, or are you just — a liar ? 

Explain, fair madam ? Certainly I can. 

Your husband 

Who? Oh yes. Well? 

This young man 

Described a maiden, living in this Park, 

Beside whose fairness other maids looked dark; 

A maid with face so fair, with eyes so bright 

'Twould stir the pulses of an anchorite. 

I came, I saw, and seeing could I doubt 

'Twas you that he'd been telling me about? 

For further search I knew there was no need; 

Ah, hard it was another's cause to plead ! 

Oh, say no more, my doubt is quite removed. 

Your own sincerity's entirely proved. 

But you, sir marquis, now we've pledged our troth, 

Of course you'll make provision for us both, 

Since we are married with your own consent. 
Marquis. My dear, I have no doubt you'll be content; 













Your husband too, in seeking this alliance 

With you, we'll say, lias doubtless placed reliance 

On the afi'ection that I justly claim 

To hold for all the ladies of my name. 

Doubtless he thought, 1 say, that when once wed, 

He might rely on me for daily bread. 
Takes will from his hat. 

Now, as it happens, here I hold my will, 

I'd sign it now if I but had a quill. 
Tuck. A quill, my lord, Ho ! Kobin get your bow, 

Here comes a wild-goose, flying rather low. 

It's too far Sff yet, wait a little while, 

Canst hit it, think you? , 

Hood {preparing to shoot). Hit it? I should smile. (Shoots.) 
Marquis. Good shot, good shot! Just see the feathers fly! 
Tuck. Look out, your lordship, mind your noble eye ! 
A goose with only one feather falls among them. Tuck picks it up. 
Tuck. This bird is one of those with but one feather. 

Which, as the proverb tells us, flock together. 
Dragon. Prithee delay not, make a pen, sir priest. 

The bird will serve us for a wedding feast. 
Tuck. Madam, I will. (To marquis.) Pray let me have 

your sword. 
Makes pen iinth sword, and takes bottle of ink from his pocket. 

The pen, some ink, now sign away, my lord. - 
Marquis. I'll sign, sir priest, as quickly as I may. (Signs.) 

Now, read it out. 
Tuck. 'Tis dated yesterday. (Reads.) 

"To yophonisba, all that I possess 

I leave, in toto, neither more nor less." 

Tha'i's all. 
Dragon. That's all ? And what am I to do? 

Marquis. Yout husband, madam, will provide for you. 

He'a satisfied, I'm sure, now don't he look it? 

(Aside.) If I were he I'd pull up stakes and hook it, 
Enter Sophonisba from door under balcony. 
SopHONiSBA. Why, what's the matter? Prithee, what's all 

Dragon. You, Sophonisba, to your chamber, njiss. 
Tuck. Hold, madam, hold, I pray. 'Tis now too late — 
Soph. That voice ! 'Tis he ! My own I My Billingsgate ! 
Tuck. 'Tis he, indeed ! ( They embrace.) 
Soph. Take off that wig and gown. (He obey.i.) 

That's better. Now then, where's your dooUal 
crown ? 



Tuck. It's in my satchel. 

Soph. Put it on with speed. [He obeys.) 

Ah ! Now you are my Billingsgate indeed. 
Dragon. Your what ? 
Hood. Your which? 

Marquis. Your who ? 

Tuck. I beg to state 

That I'm His Grace, the Dock of Billingsgate. 
Hood. The Dock of — ? Why, you masquerading fraud ! 
Advances on Tuck but, confronted by pistol, collapses. 

Oh! Blinking jE^op! Pardon me, my lord. 
Any arrangement that you choose to make 
Will suit your humble servant. 

Well then, take 
More care how you behave. My course should be 
To hang you up upon the nearest tree, 
But, as you've helped me in this business here, 
I'll let you off. What do you say, my dear ? 
Oh, yes indeed. 

Madam, you're very good. 
Your hanging is postponed then, Robin Hood. 
But your.s is not. What ! Would you dare propose, 
Thus, from beneath my'very noble nose, 
To carry off my ward ? Your impudence 
Has rather overcast your common sense. 
I've long desired to have you in my power, 
So now — prepare to die — in half an hour ! 
Oh, there's no hurry. Wait a moment, pray, 
That can stand over to some other day. 
Meanwhile, behold ! Ha, ha ! {Produces a document 

with a very large, red seal.) You know this seal? 
The king has given ear to my appeal. 
Attend to this. {Reads.) "You rascal marquis, you, 
Give up the lady without more ado. 
Your guardianship is canceled from to-day, 
So hand the lady over, right away, 
To Billingsgate, and render an account 
Of her possessions to the full amount. 
Or you will shortly be, most noble marquis, 
As dead as e'er the dove from Noah's ark is. 
This is the way it pleases us to fix it, 
Richard the Lion-Hearted, ipse dixit." 
How's that,my lord? 
Marquis. Oh, take her, Mr. Tuck,— 

Your grace, T m ean, be happy, (osidf.) Just my luck. 






TocK. Fair Sophonisba, shall it be your fate 

To grace tlie dookal halls of Billingsgate ? 

Soph. It shall. 

Tuck. Then that is settled. So, my lord, 

I'll be the future guardian of your ward. 
You, Mr. Hood, I'd recommend to try 
A business of less doubtful honesty, 
Or you may come, my justly famous friend. 
To an untimely and unpleasant end. 
You, madam (to dragon), may rely upon our bounty, 
Paid semi-weekly, in some distant county. 
And you,yonngman,(toj4.)since I am not a priest. 
You are not married, not the very least. 

Alan (sings); Oh, I am not married, oh, then, oh, then, 
Oh, I am not married, oh then, 
I've escaped from the snare, 
So I herewith declare 
I will never get married again ! 
All join hands and dance, singing in chorus: 
Again, and again, and again, and again, etc. 

Dkagon (captures Alan again, and sings): 

So we are not married, well then, well then, 
So we are not married, well then. 

You cannot escape. 

So I'll get things in shape. 
And we'll do it all over again. (Chorus.) 

Hood and Marquis (sing): 

Oh, we are defrauded, well then, well then. 
Oh, we are defrauded, well then. 
We are both of us sold 
And left out in the cold, 
But we'll brace up and try it again. (Chorus ) 
Tuck and Sophonisba (sing): 

Oh, we will get married, and then, and then, 
Oh, we will get married, and then, 
Why, if it should suit you. 
Some time in the future 
We'll come back and see you again. (Chorus.) 

As TO Music: The opening chorus is to the air of "Robin Hood," an old 
English glee. Friar Tuck's fragment (page 66) is from an old English song, 
"AFriar of Orders Grey." The closing chorus of each scene is to a college air, 
of which the burden is, " Oh, when I was single, my money did jingle," etc. 
Or, by dropping the second " Oh, then" it can also be sung to a well-known air 
in "Patience." The performers can, however, adopt any suitable muaic which 
coDTenience suggests. 



On the deck of a home-bound steamer 

The voyagers gathered one night, 
Our fatherland had been spoken, 

Its shores were just coming in sight. 
'Twas the close of a Sunday at sea ; 

The waters were peaceful and still, — 
The "afterwards" of a wild storm. 

Whose winds had gone down at His will. 

While hearts on God's mercy bethought. 

Mid silence and quiet repose, 
In the hush of that hallowed hour 

The voice of a singer arose ; 
And the words he took for his song 

Were those which had often been told: 
" Jesus, lover of my soul " — that 

Sweet hymn which can never grow old. 

As his notes died softly away, 

One came with a soldier's firm tread. 
"Beg pardon, sir, were you engaged 

In service in war time? " he said. 
" Yes, yes," spoke the singer in haste, 

" Old comrades, hey ? Glad to meet you." 
When the other rejoined, " But 'twas 

Gray I wore, when you wore the blue. 

"And we were both on guard one night, — 

Quite near each other, too, we stood, — 
I watched you pace your lonely beat. 

Behind the cover of the wood. 
I raised my gun to take straight aim, 

When these sweet words I heard you sing, 
'Lord, cover my defenseless head 

Beneath the shadow of Thy wing.' 

"Your prayer was heard ; I could not fire, 

And no attack that night was made. 
Again I hear those words, and know 

You are the man that hymn once saved." 
The singer grasped the stranger's hand: 

"I well recall that lonely beat— 
Those hours so full of danger, when 

I paced with weary, anxious feet. 


" I thought of home, of friends and all 

Those things in life we hold most dear, 
And then of Him, who says He'll hide^ 

Us 'neath His wings in time of fear ; 
And so I sang that hymn you heard " — 

The singer could not speak the rest ; 
The blue and graj', mid tears of joy, 

Were folded to each other's breast. 

The steamer neared the spoken land. 

But her broad deck was cleared of all 
Save two wlfo watched the harbor lights 

Over the peaceful waters fall ; 
And both thanked God they sailed beneath 

Tlie same old flag to home's loved shore, 
Where blue and gray had clasped their hands. 

To be divided never. more. 

— New York Evangelist. 

AEITHMETIC IN LIFE.-M. Tkuesdeli, Cooper. 

tiong and hard were the lessons studied, many years ago — 

And heavy the paths to the old school-liouse through deep- 
ening drifts of snow. 

The " Fractions " that puzzled our aching heads at last we 
have come to know 

Are only the bits of wealth or fame, just loaned to us here 

In " Compound Numbers," the tables long— difficult weights 
and measures — 

Were hard to hold in our youthful grasp, as later hard- 
earned treasures. 

" Profit and Loss," what meaningless terms — how helpless 
brain and fingers. 

The task it was to bring " answers " right still in the memory 

We solve the difficult problems now, our tears and trials 

For in profit we oft find loss disguised— in loss true gain 

And, after all, in this mystical life, blend softly joy and 

In true " Proportion " — a perfect plan fulfilled on some to- 

—Journal of Education. 


A VETERAN— Robert C. V. Meybbs. 

Written expresshj for this Collection. 

I've put me on my old blue coat I wore at Gettysburg, 

And I've took last quarter's pension, every cent. 
And I'm goin' from the Home on a furlough, fur away, 
To the place where I was born on my very fust birthday, 
And I'm goin' to hunt up cronies that I knowed in them old 
'Fore 1 j'ined the regiment. 

I'm a-goin' to see Bill Jones that went to school with me. 

Lor ! how red his hair was through and through ! 
And I'm goin' to ast him questions 'bout them times when 

him and me 
Bobbed Farmer Jackson's orchard and fit that humbly bee 
That shet up poor Bill's eye till' I a'most split my sides — 

And he licked me for it, too. 

And I'm goin' past our house, jest pertendin', jest for fun, 
That I don't see mother there a-raakin' pies. 

Lor! how she'll stare at me wi' the pie-plate in her hand ! 

And then I guess she'll scream, and run out where I stand. 

And she'll hug me and she'll kiss me, a-cryin' all the time, 
'Count o' the su'prise. 

Then I'll say, " Where's cousin Susy at?" careless like, you 
And there'll be Sue a-waitin' by the door, 
A-blushin' rosy red, and a-tremblin' too, I guess ; 
And then I'll grab her up, and she'll give me that there 

She wouldn't give the time I ast her to, you know. 
That time before the war. 

Then I'll tell 'em 'bout the fights, and if they don'tsget 
I'll show 'em where the minie hit my arm. 
And I'll tell 'em how the boys called me " cullender" because 
So many balls went through me; and I'll tell 'em jokes, 

and laws, 
How we'll laugh out there that evenin' on that leetle back- 
door porch 
That looks acrost the farm ! 

And Bill Jones, he'll be there, with his red head, and he'll 
How the colonel shook my hand at Antietam ; 


And I'll tell 'em I aint poor, for the pension that I draw 
Is 'nough to keep me up— not charity, but by law. 
And mother'll hold my hand, and maybe Susy'U say, 
"Three cheers for Uncle Sam !" 

And then But I forgot ; I guess I must a-drempt — 

Why twenty-five years off, that was, and more. 

Bill Jones— why he's, went West with his sons, and Susy, she 

Is with him, married him in eighteen sixty -three; 

And mother— oh, she died ; I never seen her, no, 
Since the day I went to war. 

Why pshaw ! I've beeff a-dreamin' about the old home place 

And — and — ahem! I'm gettin' old, I guess. 
I haven't got no home but the Soldiers' Home, and so 
Why should I think this mornin' that I guess I'd up and go 
To the farm where I was born? Maybe it's because 
I've got this restlessness. 

For I'm restless for old times ; they all come back to me 

Every time I get my pension— yes, before. 
And I seem to want to go. But it's nonsense, so I'll take 
My old coat off, and set here with my pipe and try to rake 
My brains up jest a little, and try to put away 

Them times before the war. 

NO. 5 COLLECT STREET.*— S. J. Paedessus. 

About the year 1800, Centre Street in the city of 
New York was called the " Collect," owing to its rapid 
descent, and taking the drainage from Chamber and 
other adjoining streets down to the low grounds about 
Canal street. At the corner of Chamber and the Collect 
(next to the " old Manhattan reservoir," which was de- 
stroyed about the year ) there stood an unpreten- 
tious brick house, occupied by a worthy landlord of 
foreign birth as a private first-class hotel. The inmates 
were mostly of French and Spanish origin, and this place 
was held in high estimation by the goodly citizens of 
that day. 

Among the guests was one Mons. RifHard who was 
halting there for a day or two on his way from Paris to 

*By permission of the Author. 


Montreal. He understood the English language imper- 
fectly, and could only command a word here and there 
to make himself understood. 

With this simple introduction we will now proceed to 
relate his adventures on the first evening of his visit. 
Mons. Eifflard, entering the office of the hotel, requested 
the attendant to direct him to some respectable place of 
amusement in the vicinity, where he might spend a pleas- 
ant evening (an English theatre in preference), as he 
wished to lose no opportunity of acquiring the language. 
The clerk, accompanying him to the door, begged him 
to direct his vision over, and away across the Park, di- 
rectly between the Rotunda, on the opposite corner, 
and the " old gray-stone jail for debtors " (since trans- 
formed into the " hall of records "), to the large building 
brilliantly lighted up, and known as the Park Theatre, 
or " Old Drury." Monsieur, perceiving it as directed, 
bowed politely, and thanking the young man, departed 
for his destination ; but coming to a sudden halt, and 
retracing his steps with " Mille pardons," asked the 
clerk to give him the name and the number of the street. 
"Ah, yes," replied the latter, " No. 5 Collect Street." 
" Bien ! " responded Monsieur, " I will repeat it often in 
English on my way there," and so he continued onward, 
repeating " 5 Collect Street, 5 Collect Street," and as he 
proceeded accelerated his pace and the repetition of "5 
Collect Street, 5 Collect Street," etc., etc., till arriving 
at his destination he found himself quite out of breath, 
and the name of the street changed to 5 " Colley Street." 

Quite a line of persons had formed, reaching to the 
box-office, into which our friend fell, and leisurely he 
progressed, repeating, " 6 Colley Street." At last, reach- 
ing the pigeon-hole, he plunged his hand into it, crying 
out, " Von tickette, 5 Colley Street." The ticket-seller, 
quite astonished at being addressed in this way, looked 
at the muttering visitor rather severely on handing the 
ticket; but regardless of the angry look, he grasped the 
card, with a bw, and " Number 5 "—now " 6 Colleytie 


Street " — passed on, and taking a front seat in the dress- 
circle, placed his elbows on the velvet-padded cushion, 
kept his eyes on the green curtain in front, and still 
mumbled over, " 5 Colleytie Street, 5 Colleytie Street." 
The ladies and gentlemen, on entering, looked with 
some distrust upon the strangely behaving gentleman, 
and naturally moved away from close contact with him. 
Still in the same attitude, he muttered over, " 5 Colley- 
tie Street." 

The play was " Macbeth," and in the second scene of 
the second act (commonly called the murder scene) the 
whole audience, intent upon the dreadful events trans- 
piring, and quieted down to that degree that the least 
whisper could be distinctly heard, as Macbeth rushes 
forward, exclaiming, " I have done the deed. Didst 
thou not hear a noise ? " were suddenly aroused by our 
excited hero, who, also interested in the tragedy, had 
forgotten his self-imposed task, and springing to his feet 
with a wild look, screamed out, "Ah 1 J'ai oubliez, fai 
oubliez! Oh! sabre debois! I have er him. No, I no 
have er heem. Not you. Monsieur, nor Madame Maca- 
bee's. Mais mine — vat you call? — ah, oui, mine mem- 
orie. I no remembaire ze street ; hees run avay." 

Immediately, Macbeth with his poniard and Lady 
Macbeth became, as it were, transfixed with astonish- 
ment, while from all parts of the house arose the cry of 
" Put him out ! " followed by a rude seizure of Rifflard's 
person, a lifting up from his feet, and a precipitate rush, 
ing toward the doors, amid loud yelling and his ener- 
getic gesticulations to make himself understood. 

In much less time than it requires to recite the event, 
poor Mons. Kifflard found himself in a very dilapidated 
condition upon the sidewalk in front of the theatre. 
While gaining breath, and contemplating his situation, 
a hackman accosted him with, " Take a carriage, sir ? " 
The manner of the man, appearing to him so kindly, 
warmed the bewildered stranger, and suggested the in- 
quiry, "You vill take me vare I shall vant to go? " 



" Yes, sir, certainly, step in." 

After being seated, the driver asked him where he 
should drive to. 

" Drive f Bien ! vare I vant to go." 

" But the street, sir, and the number?" 

" Yes, street — -vare I vant to go." 

The hackmau, finding finally that his customer could 
give him no further information, and being somewhat 
of a wag, requested him to alight and go to the driver 
next behind, who would be sure to give him entire sat- 
isfaction. Our hero went to the next one on the stand 
as directed, and repeated the question, " You shall take 
me vare I vant to go ? " 

" That I will, sir, and briskly, too. What's the direc- 

" Direction ! " repeated Rifflard, " no, not direction, 
mais vare I vant to go." 

" Well, I don't know anything about that. Tell me 
where you wish to be taken and I will drive you there." 

" Drive ! no, no ! Look, I vill give you von dollare — 
two dollare — tree dollare — you take me vere I shall 
vant to go, eh? " 

" Well, you see, my friend," responded the driver, "as 
I don't know where you want to go I can't drive you 
there, so you had better get out, and try the man next 

Rifilard, supposing he had mistaken the carriage the 
first driver had directed him to, descended and went to 
the other. After experiencing the same result as in 
the former cases he stepped out upon the sidewalk, and 
was met by a city watchman, who had observed all 
that we have described, and taken in the facts of the 
case, — that the man was of gentle manners, a stranger 
unable to make his wants known, and was, therefore, a 
fit subject for police protection. So taking him in a 
kindly way by the arm, motioned that he should go with 
him over there, pointing to the City Hall. Monsieur 
took in the watchman's meaning at once, and pleasantly 


accepted the invitation, relating to him on the way there 
the whole story of his troubles, which might have in- 
terested his hearer had he delivered it in English, or even 
been less Frencby in the violence of his gestures. As it 
was, the watchman could only act in a sort of affirma- 
tive way, by answering, " Yes ! oh, yes ! I see," as the 
Frenchman would once in awhile stop short and look at 
him inquiringly. 

In those days, the captain of the watch occupied a 
desk standing upon «an elevated platform immediately 
in front of the door of entrance, and at the moment of 
the watchman and Rifflard's debut was having a cat's 
nap; but arousing himself he listened to the "aid's" ac- 
count of the matter, at the conclusion of which he re- 
quested him to step aside while he interrogated " the 
party." With a loud voice, supposing it the most effica- 
cious way of making the expectant Frenchman under- 
stand the English language, he demanded : 

" Your name!" 

" Nem ! — nem, — ah, oui, nom ? Emile Rifflard ! " 

" Residence ! " 

" Ah ! bien, residence ! Rue des Enfants rouge, num- 
ero 27 a Paris. Mais celui de New York, je viens d'oub- 
''What's all that he says? " queried the captain, looking 
interrogatively at those standing around. No answer 
being given, he again rallied and asked : " What Street 
do — " but before he could finish the sentence, Rifflard, 
bursting out in a joyful manner, fairly screamed out, 
"Street! ah, bravo! bravissimo! Street! bien! look, 
suppose von mane do go to von grande dinnfere. He is 
polite te ze ladies an3 eat onley a leetle bit, till ven ze 
dessert do come he is moche hungry, and do eat zen sev- 
eral piece of pie. He do go home, he go to bed, mais 
in ze meedle of ze night he vake up vis somesing vezzai 
bad here" — (hand on the chest) — " vot you call zat, eh?" 

"That? why that's — that's an indigestion pain." 

" No, no, not Indigestion-pain Street, non. Suposse von 


mane do go to von grande dinnfere. (Excitedly.) He is 
alvays polite to ze ladies, eat onley a leetle bit of soupe, 
a leetle beefe, a leetle cheeck-en, a leetle feeshe, some des- 
sert, drink some Bordeaux and some Champagne, a leetle 
caf6 viz ze Cognac and like before. He do go home, 
he go to bed, he put on bees night-cap and go to sleeps ; 
but bombye in ze meedle of ze night he do see ze vindow 
open, and von great a big giant, viz large moustache and 
big boots like zat " — (showing half way up the thigh) — 
"do come in and valke to hees bed, shump up and seat on 
his — his — er — vaistcoat, vich make heem come vary bad 
heer " — (placing the hand a trifle lower than before.) "Vot 
you call zat, eh ? " 

"Ah, now I have it, sure," exclaimed the captain, " it's 
a bilious attack.'' 

" Non, non, not Beelums-tack Street — non. (Louder.) 
Suposse von mane do go to von grande diniifere. Hee 
care not for ze polite to ze ladies, bote hee eat raoche 
soupe, moche beefe, moche cheek-en, moche feeshe, drink 
red vine, vite vine, plenty. Zen eat dessert, von dozaine 
peece pie, take caf6, Cognac, eeetera. Zen hee go home, 
hee go to bed, hee put on hees bonnet de nuit, and go to 
sleeps. In leetle vile ze same vindow do open, and ze 
great a big giant vis ze big boots do come into ze room, 
and aftere hees heels ze vife of ze giant. Zey valk to 
hees bed, and von aft6re ze oz6re zay shump up and 
stand er on ze top of hees — hees — eh, bien, — hees estom- 
ache, vich make him keek, and come so verray bad 
heer " — placing the hand lower than before, interrogatively.) 
" Vat you call zem, eh? " (Doubling up.) 

" There is no mistaking you now," said the captain ; 
" it's a nightmare." 

'' Non, non — tonn^re, non. It ees not ze Nightmare 

" Well, then resumed the captain, " if it is not that, it 
surely must be a high old colic." 

"Ah, le voila! ! Colique ! 6 Colique Street take me. 
All ze time vare I vant to go." 


WHEN THE LIGHT GOES OUT.— Harry S. Chester. 

Tho' yer lamp o' life is biirnin' with a clear and steady light, 
An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright; 
Tho' it sheds its rays uubroken for a thousand happy days — 
Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds her 

So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do 
Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her 

through ; 
Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about — 
You've lost ther chanc* to do it 

When the 




Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise, 
Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days; 
She likes appreciation just the same ez me an'you, 
And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due, 
Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low. 
Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago — 
Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout— 
You've lost ther chance to do it 

When the 




Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead- 
To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead ; 
Don't think because yer feelin' well you wont be sick no 

more — 
Sometimes the reddist pippin has a worm-hole to the core. 
Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still 
Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your 

Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout — 
You've lost the chance to do it 

When the 




I'd rather die with nothin' then terhev ther people say 
That 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 meanin' than " He helped his fellow- 


So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor 
Don't keep a-stavin ofl until you get a little more ; 
Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about— 
Yer record keeps on burnin' 

When the 




"ATTEMPTED SUICIDE."— Thomas Frost. 

Your Honor, I ha'n't got a word to say in my defense: 
You've listened to the painful facks, but ef it's no offense 
I'll tell you in a simple way — I aint great on the talk — 
Whyfore a grey old chap like me wanted to " cut the stalk." 

It's forty year since me arid Euth wuz tied as man and wife, 
And nary mortal ever had a truer mate for life. 
In all them yearrf we never had a word as you'd call cross 
(Barrin' the Christmas Day she bruk the knees of Jeff, the 

We growed up like a elm that runs two stems from the same 

Sometimes I thought that over yond' we'd on'y have one 

I never done a thing I didn't ask her 'pinion fust, 
And of ner than you'd think I found my own way wuz the 


When nabers asked me how's my farm I'd c'rect 'em — say 
'twas her'n. 

That Euth done all the thinkin' work and I wus thar to 

She saved and saved and paid and paid until the place wuz 
clear — 

Poor gal she didn't 'spect 'twould go so soon ter th' auc- 
tioneer ! 

We never had no chillen, barrin' Zach, and he wer bad ; 
Cut off f 'm hum and went to N' York ter lam to write and add ; 
Said me and mother hedn't sense ter come in out the rain ! 
I 'spect he's dead, or docterin' p'r'aps fer grammer on the 

That's years and years and years ago ; but Euth she never 

The lad as gave us up 'acos of home he wuz ashamed. 
She larnt me how ter write quite good, a-sayin' as our Zach 
'Ud be so proud his father know'd so much when he got back. 


But Zach be'd throwed us up for good ; and so fer many 

His mother's heart wuz wearin' down with floods of secret 

tears ; 
I offen catch her weepin' when I come in fer my tea, 
And I thinks, " Poor lass, you're brealiin' fast with too much 


One stormy day she stayed i'bed, and I sat by her side ; 
The rain come down like Ni'gra ; I just sat thar and cried, 
Fer she talked of sunny meadows, seemed ter hear sweet 

songs afar ; 
And I knowed the Lofd had sent down word he wanted her 

up thar. 

Then when she fetched around a bit she says ter me, says she, 
" Don't be too crosst with Zach— and practice on that cap'- 

I'll tell the Lord how good you wuz ; although he hears and 

And knows we never had no words, 'cept 'bout that boss's 


It ketched me in a tender p'int to see her thar so sick, 

Troublin' about my writin' and about my 'rithmetic. 

She took my hand, we kissed goodby, and 'ranged ter meet 

Where tears is tears of gladness and death can't enter in. 

Your Honor, when I'd buried her my life wuz struck with 

blight ; 
There weren't a blame thing 'round the farm that I could 

'tend to right. 
My thoughts weren't thar. One day I. took the boss ter get 

a shoe, 
And woke up standin' by the stun readin' " aged sixty-two." 

And so at last I selled the farm and went ter find that lad, 
Thinkin' that p'r'aps he'd growed out of his shame fer his 

old dad. 
For twenty months I've s'arched and s'arched and end up 

now in N'York, 
All gone — too poor ter drive around and much too tired too 


And then, oh, blessed God ! I'm glad ye sped that bullet 

There'd be'n a tear in heav'n if I had died a suicide. 

His Honor's fainted ! Water here ! Where is my specks ? 

Jeewack ! 
Ruth, Ruth ! look down from paradise ! I've found him. 

Here's our Zach ! 



She was milking an Alderney cow 
The first time I chanced to behold her. 

So I made her a flourishing bow, 
I was younger in those days — and bolder. 

That her eyes were like stars and as bright 
If you'd seen her, I'm sure you'd allow, 

And her teeth — well, her teeth were as white 
As the milk from that Alderney cow. 

I told her I doted on milk 

And likewise on milkmaids — the latter 
Were especially favorites of mine — 

I was young then and knew how to flatter. 

The fair one blushed up like a rose, 
Dropped her eyes and cried " Fie, for shame, sir! 

That's the way all you city men talk ; 
What do you expect to became, sir ? " 

But I noticed she spoke with a laugh, 
And a coquettish toss of her curls, 

As though she half relished the chaff 
That the " city men " talk to the girls. 

It was then that the Alderney cow, 
With a mischievous twitch of her tail. 

And an innocent look all the while, 
Very gently kicked over the pail. 

Not a whisper in anger she uttered, 
Not a frown could be traced on her brow, 

But in maidenly accents she muttered, 
" What a dog-goned omary cow." 


Chaeactees. — Small Boy and Big Boy, in sailor suits. 

Small Boy. Now captain, what is a sloop ? (^Pointing 
to a schooner.) Is that a sloop ? 

Big Boy. No ; that is a schooner. A sloop has but 
one mast ; a schooner has two, as you see. Now remem- 
ber, sloop, one mast ; schooner, two. 

S. B. Yes. How many masts has a ship ? 

Klt-aBBR TfilUTY-FOUK. 81 

B. B. Three. 

S. B. How many masts did you say a sloop had ? 

B. B. One. Sloop, one mast ; schooner, two ; ship, 

S. B. (pointing to a sloop.) Is that a schooner ? 

B. B. No ; that's a sloop. Sloop, one mast ; schooner, 
two ; ship, three. 

S. B. Oh, yea. (Pointing to a ship.) Isn't that a 
pretty schooner ? 

B. B. That's not a schooner. That's a ship. Don't 
you see it has three masts ? 

S. B. Oh, yes. Isn't that a big schooner lying at 
the wharf there? 

B. B, Schooner ? Now how many masts has that- 
vessel ? 

S. B. Three. 

B. B. Well, what has three masts ? 

S. B. A sloop. 

B. B. (loud.) Sloop ! Sloop has one mast, I tell you ; 
schooner, two ; ship, three. 

S. B. (chatty, and oblivious of stupidity.) What is a brig? 

B. B. A brig has two masts, and is rigged like a ship, 
with square sails. 

S. B. Are those schooners there with three masts ? 

B. B. (abrupt.) Yes. 

S. B. I thought you said a schooner had but one mast? 

B. B. (impatient^ Two ! two masts ! Sloop, one 
mast ; schooner, two ; ship, three. 

S. B. But that schooner has three masts ! 

B. B. (louder.) Well, it is a three-masted schooner. 

S. B. Then a schooner can have any number of masts? 

B. B. (excited.) No ; sloop, one mast ; schooner, two, 
and sometimes three masts ; ship, three masts. 

S. B. It's awfully puzzling. What is a bark ? 

B. B. (fast and loud.) Vessels with two masts ship- 
rigged, and one mast, sloop-rigged ; square sails on fore 
and mainmast, and fore and aft sails on the mizzen. 

S. B. Mizzen ! What is mizzen ? 

B. B. Last mast aft. 

S. B. Aft! What's the aft? 


B. B. The stern, boy. 

S. B. Oh, I'm sure I can't make that out. How many 
masts has a man-o'-war ? 

B. B. Three. 

S. B. Well, what are those things sticking out on 
that schooner? 

B. B. That's not a schooner (teeth closed). That's a 
ship. Those are the yards which hold the sails. Now, 
the first yard on the foremast is the fore yard ; the second 
is the fore topsail yard ; the third is the fore gallant yard. 

S. B. What is that yard sticking straight up out of 
that little schooner ? 

B. B. Great Scott ! That's not a schooner ; it's a 
shop. What you call her yard is her mast. 

S. B. Oh, isn't that a pretty ship sailing along? 

B. B. {groans and tears hair.) That's an old tub of a 
schooner. Schooner, two masts ; ship, three ; sloop, one, 
I tell you. 

S. B. Can a sloop have two masts? 

B. B. (shouting.) No! no! no! Sloop, one mast; 
schooner, two ; ship, three. 

S. B. Yes, I know. Schooner, one ; — no, two masts; 
sloop, two — no, three ; ship, one. There ! 

— Popular Educator. 


Hezekiah Butterworth. 

Bead at the dedication of the liberty and peace pole at Navesink Hiehlands 
April 25, 1893. 

The dawn of new ages is breaking, 

The cycle of Concord has come ; 
There is peace in the echoing bugle. 

And a festival march in the drum. 
To-day the old Sandy Hook wakens 

An echo that never will cease ; 
O'er the spot where the grand hero perished 

The winds lift the banner of peace ! 
O Flag of the Navesink Highlands 

That patriot bands gave the air, 

*By permiaaion of the Author. 


Tlie joy that our bosom is thrilling, 

The hearts of the ages shall share ! 
The war ships, the peace ships shall hail thee, 

The prows from the nations oppressed. 
As thy iris gleams forth from the heaven 

At the sentineled gates of the West I 

The eye of the immigrant mother 

Shall long through the melting mist gaze. 
And turn into tears to behold thee. 

And close in the silence of praise. 
The sky-piercing eye of the sailor 

From afar shall thy sun ripples view ; 
The tempest-tossed traveler returning 

Shall pledge his allegiance anew. 

The skies of good-will bend above us, 

The ocean beneath us rolls fair ; 
The chords of new harmonies move us, 

Whatsayest thou, Seer of the air? 
The west winds breathe low for thy message. 

And wait it the waters im|)earled. 
Speak, Flag of the ocean aui'oras ! 

Speak, Banner that welcomes the world 1 

"0 Liberty, thou who hast lifted 

My eye to the walls of the sun, 
I float for the new years of heaven. 

The brotherhood conflict has won. 
No longer for races contending, 

But for man move the cycles sublime ; 
The summons for peace is ascending 

From the jubilee trumpets of time! 

" I salute ye, O feet that have followed 

Fair Hesper to destinies new. 
I salute ye, O pioneers coming, 

I bid ye, voyagers, adieu ! 
In the midst of the surge, in the tempest. 

With the sunlight or cloud on my brow, 
I float for the best of all ages. 

And the best of all ages is now ! 

"That man may be given his birthright. 
And knowledge, the future that waits; 

Equality, freedom to labor. 
And labor, the wealth it creates. 


That the temples of truth for their Master, 
By charity's feet may be trod ; 

That hearts that are humble and human. 
May do the swift service of God." 

Fraternity, rise to thy mission, 

The noblest since order began, 
Till the nations are brothers united 

In one federation of man! 
The future stands waiting to greet thee 

And battle her standard has furled ; 
Thou art like a signal of heaven, 

O Flag to humanity given, 
For which all the heroes have striven ! 

Hail, Banner that welcomes the world! 


I lay on the rocks and watched the sea 

As it sparkling danced 'neath a sunny sky ; 

The warm sweet wind just touched my cheek — 
And I sighed that romance had passed me by. 

I gazed at the sea, and sky, and shore, 
Till a sudden sight made my pulses bound, 

For a little way from my rocky nook 
Was an open parasol, low on the ground. 

'Twas large, and white, and of India silk ; 

Its top tilted down was my vis-a-vis ; 
But I guessed its lining — such shaded rose 

As paints the murmuring shells of the sea. 

Beneath, on the earth, spread a soft, gray rug; 

The fringe of a shawl I could also note; 
And trailing outside of the parasol disk 

Was a bit of lace-trimmed petticoat. 

My heart beat high with expectant hope — 
Shall I find my romance here by the sea? 

While life endures will fancy repeat 
The memories tender of white pongee? 

No longer I lay on the rocky shore 
Watching the ocean's foamy creep ; 

Softly windward I stole for a view — 
'Twas somebody's baby sound asleep. 



The Opera Hall was crowded, fur the famous min- 
strels were giving a benefit performance. They had 
ju§t concluded the sweet refrain of the "Swanee River." 
The tumult of applause was hushed by the appearance 
of a ragged old wreck crowding to the front. 

Lifting his banjo as a sign of brotherhood, he cried, 
with a choking voice, "Boys, sing that song once more ; 
once more for a poor old minstrel's sake. It brings 
back the lost and dead ; my old home rises before me 
where I was once good and happy all the day. I learned 
the song there of my mother. The vision of her smiling 
face praising her boy comes back with the ringing notes 
of the banjo and the melodies of long ago. I wandered 
away to play and sing for the world. It listened and 
applauded. I was flattered, feasted, intoxicated with 
fame and the whirl of pleasures. But I wrecked it all. 
Now, old and broken in heart and strength, I am left 
with but one friend,-^my banjo. No one listens to it, 
for the world has found new favorites, and the old min- 
strel is turned away. She who first praised me died 
while I was playing for the world, — died without seeing 
me for years. The song she taught her boy led him 
from her side. He left her for the world. The world 
has forsaken him, as he did her. Boys, sing my mother's 
song again, and let my old heart thrill with a better 
life once more." 

The house signaled its assent. The old minstrel sat 
down on the front row. When the solo reached the con- 
cluding lines of the second stanza, the singer's eyes 
turned pityingly upon the wanderer, and, with voice 
trembling with emotion, came the words : 

All up and down the world I wandered, 

When I was young : 
Oh, many were the days I squandered, 

Many were the songs I sung. 

The stranger sat bending forward, the tears coursing 
down the furrows of care that were depicted on his 


features, his fingers unconsciously caressing the strings 
of his battered banjo. All the summer of his life came 
back to his heart again, — mother, home, love and all his 
boyhood dreams. 

The chorus began, and the shriveled fingers sought 
the chords, and with a strange, weird harmony unheard 
before, the strains floated along the tide of song. The 
house was spellbound. The time-worn instrument seemed 
to catch its master's spirit, and high above the orches- 
tra's accompaniment rang the soul-like chords from its 
quivering strings. 

When the interlude came the minstrel leaned over his 
banjo with all the fondness of a mother over her babe. 
Not a sound from either was heard. The solo rose again, 
and the almost supernatural harmonies drifted with it. 
But he bowed like a mourner over the dead. Every 
heart in the audience was touched, and tears of sympa- 
thy were brushed away by many a jeweleti hand. The 
singer's eyes were moist, and with plaintive sadness the 
last lines were sung : 

Whea shall I hear the bees a-humming 

All round the comb ? 
When shall T hear the banjo tumming, 

Down in my good old home ? 

The last chorus followed. The hoary head of the 
minstrel was lifted, and his face shone with the light of 
a new dawning. His voice joined with a peculiar blend- 
ing, perfect in harmony, yet keeping with his banjo high 
above the singers, ringing like a rich harp-string long 
over-strained. The memory of better days, the way- 
wardness, sorrow, remorse, tope and despair of all his 
wasted life seemed pent up in those marvelous tones. 
The chorus closed and his head sank down, the long 
white curls shrouding the banjo. 

The manager came before the curtain and said : " The 
minstrels give one-half the benefit proceeds to the wan- 
dering brother." The house approved with loud de- 
monstrations. A collection started in the galleries, and 
swept over the hall like a golden shower. The two 


sums were heaped together on the stage. Such a con- 
tribution never graced the footlights before. Again the 
audience broke forth in round after round of hearty 
good cheers. 

But the banjo was stilled, hushed under the shroud of 
snow-white hair, and no word of thanks or token of 
gratitude came from the silent figure toward which all 
eyes were turned. 

They called him to the stage, and the manager went 
to escort him there. He laid his hand on his bowed head ; 
the soul of the ol^ minstrel had wandered away once 
more. He was dead. His heart had sung the last song 
on the borders of the spirit-land, — sung it as the bird 
sings when it escapes the prison bars which make life 
"sad and dreary," and flies away from the scenes where 
"the heart grows weary, longing." 

Will Carleton. 

From Harper'* Manaane, by permission. Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothera. 

While walkin' up the village street, a fightin' there I see 

Some twenty fellers, more or less, as fierce as fierce could be I 

'Twas in a medder nigh to where the college hate was built. 

An' not a proper place for blood to be unduly spilt ; 

So, very peaceable inclined, an'al'ays actin' thus, 

1 thought, " I'll try what can be done to regulate the fuss." 

My goodness, how them fellers fit ! they'd punch each other 

Like hungry cattle when the frost is nibblin' through the air! 
An' one would pick up somethin' quick, an' run off, fit to kill, 
With several others chasin' him, as chickens sometimes will ; 
Then if he on his stomach fell, there right in his distress 
They'd pounce upon him hard an' square, a dozen, more or 

An' when my eyes untangled 'em, an' glanced 'em through 

an' o'er, 
To ray surprise I found I'd seen full half of 'em before ! 
Young Caleb Stubbs, who once was raised ajcross the road 

from me. 
But I had never thought, before, would hurt an ailin' flea; 


An' Joseph Minks, who's al'ays fit whene'er he had a chance, 
Was now as gay an' much to home as Frenchmen at a dance ; 

An' Thomas Tutts, who's bein' taught so he himself can 

teech ; 
An' Samuel Strapp, who's trainin' so's to have a call to 

preach ; 
An' Peter Pills, who'll some day strive to cure the world, no 

Was strivin' hard, apparently, to kill ah' wipe 'em out; 
An' several others all appeared to do what death they could. 
From whom I'd al'ays looked for things a thousan' times as 


An' what still deeper troubled me, a lot o' folks near by 
Didn't seem to care to hold 'em back, an' wouldn't even try, 
But sort o' toiled to help it on, an' make a fightin' din ; 
An' even girls would grit their teeth an' holler, " Boys, 

go in! " 
An' then I says, " Them fellers all appear in Death's employ ; 
If there's an undertaker here, he's sheddin' tears of joy." 

An' terrified at what they'd done, an' what they meant to do, 
I struggled hard to recollect a riot act or two ; 
But naught appeared that I could reach on Memory's clut- 
tered shelf. 
An' so I had, as one might say, to make one up myself 
I wildly rushed into their midst, an' yelled with all my might, 
" See here, now, boys, this school wasn't built to teach you 
how to fight!" 

But still they all kept on their way, as fierce as fierce could be, 
An' none of them was blessed with sense to listen unto me; 
But while I still upheld the right, in words I won't repeat, 
Th' apparent cause of all their fuss rolled plump betwixt my 

feet ! 
An' then such bufietin' amidst the angry waves of strife 
I never yet had come across in all my earthly life ! 

I've sported in a skatin' rink, an' helped to dust the floor; 
I've served as driftwood in the waves of Jersey's stormy 

shore ; 
I've clutched a tall toboggan slide, the while my cheek did 

Then, lettin' go, reluctantly become an avalanche; 
I've entered cars on Brooklyn Bridge 'twixt five an' six 

But these was only zephyr breaths beside an earthquake 

shock ! 


They jumbled me, they tumbled me, some several fellers 

Until I gave up every sense an' feebly fell asleep; 
An' when I woke, and mildly asked if all my bones was there 
No one contiguous seemed to know, or specially to care ; 
But several fellers, with their face all black an' blue an' red, 
Jumped up an' down, a-wavin' ban's an' shoutin', " We're 

ahead; " 

"Now,, who's ahead?" says I, when I a listenin' ear could 

" Whoever 'tis here's one old fool that's several rods behind ! 
Why are you study ini carnage here— what is tliis all about?'' 
An' then they hollered, " Football, dad — we've gone an' 

cleaned 'em out!" 
Whereat I says, " If this is what you call a friendly game, 
Heaven shield me from your courtesies, an' help me dodge 

the same ! " 

Then everybody laughed an' joked, rejoicin' in the crimes. 
An' said, "Old man, the trouble is, you're 'way behind the 

An' then I said : "All right ! I'll keep behind 'em, if you 

please ; 
'Hind anything, to shield me from such goin's on as these; 
An' when I'm anxious suddenly from this world to escape, 
I'll go an' dance on dynamite, and do it up in shape." 


Four little sunbeams canie earthward one day, 
Shining and dancing along on their way, • 

Resolved that their course should be blest. 
" Let us try," they all whispered, " some kindness to do, 
Not seek our own pleasure all the day through. 

Then meet in the eve at the west." 

One sunbeam ran in at a low cottage door, 

And played " hide-and-seek " with a child on the floor 

Till baby laughed loud in his glee, 
And chased with delight his strange playmate so bright; 
The little hands grasping in vain for the light 

That ever before him would flee. 

One crept to a couch where an invalid lay. 
And brought him a dream of the sweet summer day, 
Its bird-song and beauty and bloom. 


Till pain was forgotten and weary unrest, 
And in fancy he roamed through the scenes he loved best, 
Afar from the dim, darkened room. 

One stole to the heart of a girl that was sad. 
And loved and caressed her until she was glad, 

And lifted her white face again. 
For love brings content to the lowliest lot, 
And finds something sweet in the dreariest spot. 

And lightens all labor and pain. 

And one, where a little blind girl sat alone. 
Not sharing the mirth of her playfellows, shone 

On hands that were folded and pale. 
And kissed the poor eyes that had never known sight, 
That never would gaze on the beautiful light 

Till angels had lifted the veil. 

At last, when the shadows of evening were falling, 
. And the sun, their great father, his children was calling, 

Four sunbeams sped into the west. 
All said, " We have found that in seeking the pleasure 
Of others we fill to the full our own measure," 

Then softly they sank to their rest. 

THE GOLDEN SCEPTER.— Mabel S. Mbbrill. 

Written expressly for this Collection. 

The day was breaking over Persia's realm ; 

The city Shushan in her slumbers dreamed 

Of th' unrisen sun, that made her spires 

An hundred blades of gold smiting the blue, 

Till all the east, a-drip with crimson, shed 

A roseate stain across her palace fronts. 

By troubled thoughts aroused from troubled dreams 

Ahasuerus from his royal couch 

Rose with the dawn, and from his casement looked 

Eastward and far across the fertile plain. 

Whose hundred princely cities owned him king. 

" Behold ! " he said, " yonder the day doth break 

That is a day of doom to al! the Jews 

Throughout my kingdom ; such is my decree. 

When yonder mounting sun three times hath winged 

His fiery flight shall none be left alive 

Of all the accursed race; the world shall know 

Ahasuerus is a king of kings ! " 


Forth from her chamber in her royal robes 

Esther, the queen, like to the morning, came, 

And, standing, gazed unto the east with eyes 

Reflecting clear the wonder of the dawn. 

" Behold ! " she said, " yonder the fair new day, 

Hung like a jewel on the brow of heaven!" 

And then for joy of youth and life her voice 

Brake suddenly in music ; an old song 

Beloved of Israel's daughters through all time. 

" There is one King," she sang, " the King of Kings, 

Even Jehovah ! — ay, rejoice, rejoice ! " 

And the light breeze t)f morning murmured low, 

As with soft wing it brushed the dreaming flowers, 

"Ay, wake and sing, for sweet is life, rejoice !" 

About her palace went the happy queen 

Ah one that moves to soundless melody ; 

But as she passed, lo — evil glances fell, 

And mocking murmurs rose : 

" What tale 
Is this we hear?--Now by the sun in heaven, 
Esther herself is born of Jewish blood ! 
The fierce king knoweth not that he hath' doomed 
His own unto the death ; — but Mordecai, 
Her kinsman yonder, fain would have her go 
And with the king plead for her cursed race. 
Who but a fool would dream so fair a girl 
Would die to save the Jews, — for mark you, now, 
'Tis certain death to go unto tlie king 
Unbidden, be the suppliant queen or churl, 
Save that indeed rare mercy moveth him 
To reach his golden scepter unto such. 
Granting him life and pardon ; but dire woe 
Shall come upon the one who ventures now ; 
For he hath sat apart for thirty days 
Nui-sing fierce thoughts, and even his dark-haired queen 
Hath not been called ; the lean Jew plots in vain! 
Sweet Esther will not die in such a cause." 

As one who, walking through a field of flowers, 

Comes suddenly upon a bridgeless gulf, 

That yawning mocks him with a threat of death, 

So Esther paused, then swift she turned upon 

The mocker, whose low words Ker sense had stung: 

" Sayest thou thus ? " she said, " proud slave of kingsl 

Know then the Jewish girl doth hold her life 


Less than the bubble on the waves o'er which 

Beloved Israel shall in safety pass. 

These feet shall walk the darksome ways of death ' 

Light as they move down yonder path of flowers, J 

If God but will I die for Israel's sake. 

Poor tools of princes 1 Flatterers of kings! 

What should ye know of loyalty like that 

Of Israel, that bendeth not to one 

Save Him whose hand hath stayed their souls from death. 

But verily ye and all the world shall know 

A Jewish girl can die to save her own 1 " 

The noon was dreaming over Persia's realm 
Lurid the hot sky flamed, as if the doom 
Of Israel's sons were blazoned there in fire 
Where at the morn it should be writ in blood. 
Through vaulted arch and echoing hall the breeze 
Crept languidly, with sobs of low despair, 
As if it wept the passing of a soul. 
The outer court resounded with the clang 
Of mailed feet and clash of gleaming steel, 
That barred the way unto the king's closed door. 
" Behold," a wild prince spake, " yon den of wrath 
Where sits Ahasuerus in his might. 
E'en as a lion in the jungle crouched 
Waits for the tender fawn to pass his lair ! 
Where in the city is the one who dares 
To seek the chamber of the lion-king?" 

Lo, as he spoke a murmur of amaze 

Swelled like a rising wave — " The queen ! the queen I" 

Unfaltering she comes, — and now a hush 

Heavy as doom upon the courtyard falls. 

Then spake a soldier : "None shall this way pass 

Save him who loveth death !— thus saith the king." 

" Hinder me not," the queen made answer calm, 

"Nor think to fright me with that cold word 'death,' 

Which means naught but the breaking of a sleep 

Fevered and troubled ; — thus I answer you!" 

And swift as light adown the line of spears 

Fearless she went. The armed men stood aghast, 

Nor hand was lifted with a thought of harm, 

Till one, a coward soldier, fearing sore 

The dreadful anger of the lion-king. 

Unsheathed his sword ; but swift a spearman near 

Struck down his hand, and felled him in the dust! 


Deeper the stillness grew, and down the court 

The girl's light step re-echoed like a knell. 

"Who Cometh hither?" sternly spake the king; 

" Have I not said the price of entrance here 

Shall be the heart's blood of the suppliant 7 " 

Freighted with doom the cold, stern utterance fell. 

" lost one ! " through the hush the sad breeze sang, 

" Sweet, sweet is life — ay, passing sweet is life ! " 

But the clear voice full calmly answered him : 

" Behold thy suppliant, king, my life is thine ! " 

" Mourn, mourn, O mourn ! " slow sobbed the wailing breeze 

And quenched itself in silence of despair. 

Lo ! on a sudden what a mighty shout 

Hath rent the stillness ! through the portal dread 

The queen hath passed, and — miracle of love! — 

Stretching his mighty arm the lion-king 

Hath laid the golden scepter in her hand ! 

Ay, let the heart of Israel leap for joy ' 

The doom of death hath surely passed them by I 

The day was waning over Persia's realm; 
Folded in silken shadows lilie a robe 
The city rested. " rejoice, rejoice ! " 
Victorious Esther sang, " He is the King, 
The King of Kings," and glad the waking breeze 
Sang as at morning, " O rejoice, rejoice ! " 
While from the distant hill and bending sky 
A silver echo fell, "The King of Kings! " 


A wanderer far in the gloomy night 

Had traversed his way, alone ; 
Nor compass, nor chart, nor beacon light, 

On his tortuous pathway shone ; 
And the storm came on, like a demon's tread, 

And the labors of man were tost 
On the seething tempest, as hope were fled, 

And the weary soul were lost; 
But soft through that tempest's billowy wrath, 
A bright ray glinted across the path ; 
Like the voice of an angel, far and free. 
Rang " Near— er, my God, to Thee— 
Near— er to Thee i" 

94 ONE hcndred choice selections 

The rage of that tempest, fierce and wild, 

Like the marsiialed hosts of wrong, 
Dispelled, as the voice of the gentle child 

Continued its heaven-taught song. 
And the wanderer bravely struggled on 

Toward that doubly sacred goal. 
For the blissful light of a perfect dawn 

Had gladdened his eager soul ; 
He stood, transfixed by a mystic spell. 
As the song like an inspiration fell : 
" Still — all — my— song — shall — be, 
Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
Near— er to Thee!" 

Oh, thus do the bitter storms conceal 

The light of a perfect day ; 
Thus does the sacred song reveal 

Hope's beauteous beacon ray ; 
Gethsemane heard the pilgrim's cry 

That echoed in worlds above ; 
The thunders that crashed from Sinai 

But opened the gates of love ; 
The song that is echoing down the years, 
With their heaving tempest of doubts and fears, 
The wanderer's compass and chart shall be ! 
" Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
Near— er to Thee ! " 

— Cleveland Plain Dealer. 

A DIME SUPPER.— Oscar F. Hewitt. 

All through the town, upon fences, bar-posts, mile-stones, 
barns, well-curbs and guide-boards was posted the fol- 
lowing notice, in a fair and evidently feminine hand : 

NoTiuB. — There will be a Dime Supper in the base- 1 

ment of the Church next Thursday eve, Nov. : 

16. A good supper is guaranteed and a good time an-; 
ticipated. Gentlemen with ladies are particularly and : 
urgently invited. Per order Committee. ! 

The evening came, starlit, cool, and beautiful, and 
brought along to the well-heralded Dime Supper an im- 
mense throng of rustic beaux and belles. Then the con- 


ditions of the said supper were made known. For every 
word uttered by a party while at supper a fine of one 
dime was to be collected, and it was to be further under- 
stood that the lady management reserved to itself the 
right to question, surprise and worry out of every one 
at the supper an unguarded and penal utterance. Con- 
versely, whoever succeeded in passing the ordeal of inter- 
rogation in meritorious silence, was to have his supper 
gratuitously, or as one spruce beau expressed it, when a 
belle informed him Jliat there was " plenty of sufficient 
room enough," " Yes, see, free gratis for nothing." 

The preliminaries settled, the jovial company fell to, 
and the fun was boisterously inaugurated. Very art- 
fully the ladies applied their wonderful conversational 
powers, and strong men went down one after another, 
giving vent to exclamations of dismay and despair, for 
every one of which the regular dime penalty was duly 
imposed. Many a man arose from that supper several 
dollars in debt, additional to the announced price of the 

In due time every supperite had fallen before the arch 
ingenuity of his fair questioner, and there remained at 
the table but one solitary individual, and who was he? 
No one could identify him. Surely a stranger and a 
gigantic feeder. He was a great, red-complexioned, 
stalwart fellow, with a wooden countenance about as ex- 
pressive as a chestnut slab. His new-moon mouth 
stretched from ear to ear, and into this wide gash he was 
casting with dexterous hands all manner of edibles and 
drinkables. He wrestled triumphantly with the turkey 
and venerable goose — he tossed in slices of tongue as if 
they were lozenges — he ladled out the cranberry-sauce 
as if it were melted lead and he was moulding bullets, 
and he chewed up the tufts of celery with great gusto 
anda Nebuchadnezzarish relish of grass, but his lips gave 
forth no sound. 

One after another the now anxious ladies assailed him 
with questions and quick surprises, but all in vain. The 


man was voiceless as the Sphynx, and positively the vo- 
racious creature was cleaning up the entire table ! There 
was nothing to do but stand back, aghast, and see the 
awful work of devastation go on. Many a light hand 
was laid on his shoulder and a sudden question asked, 
but he never for an instant lifted his eyes from his task 
or once opened that great gash but to admit an article 
of food. 

At length, when the table looked as if a cyclone had 
swept over it, and he had finished his fifth piece of cus- 
tard pie, he drew forth a pocket-slate, polished it elabo- 
rately with his napkin, and in mighty characters wrote 
upon it, 

"/ am Deaf and Dumb." 

The ladies have not as yet announced their second 
Dime Supper. 


Upon the kitchen table with her work unfinished yet. 
Sat Sarah Ann, intent upon a thrilling novelette. 
The haker and the grocer's man knocked loudly, but in vaiij; 
Then kicked the paint all off the door, and went away again. 

The fire went out.'thelight grew dim, but'Sarah Ann read on, 
Intent upon the fortunes of Lord Algernon Fitzjohn, 
Whose proud and wealthy father designed his son and heir 
For the beauty of the season, the Lady Maud de Vere. 

She loved him, but Lord Algernon, much to his pa's distress, 
Disliked the Lady Maud, and loved a modest governess. 

She came to where the beauty accidentally o'erhears 
The wilful lord proposing to the governess, who fears 
She's unW'Orthy of the honor, but she loves him as her life, 
And will do her very best to make a true and worthy wife. 

She .=til] read on, and as she neared the bottom of the page 
She learned how Lady Maud became convulsed with jealous 

Forgot herself, and maddened by the sounds of rapturous 

Sprang upright Sarah turned the leaf, the other page was 

missing ! 


A CHILD'S TEAR.— T. Teiqnmouth Shore. 

My home — yes, it's bright and clean, sir. 
And I'll tell how it came to pass ; 

It wasn't my work or doing at all- 
It's all due to that little lass. 

I was going straight down to hell, sir. 
And all through the curse of the drink ; 

How I treated poor Mary, my wife, sir, 
God knows I can't bear to think. 

I didn't know as 1 loved her 
Till the wild dark night she died. 

When I found her lying so cold and still. 
And that new-born child by her side. 

The little lass, she has grown, sir — 
Last June she was eight years old ; 

And what she has been to me, sir. 
Can never on earth be told. 

When a kid, there was no one to mind her 
But a woman as lived next door ; 

And she being given to drink, too, 
Let her roll one day on the floor. 

And ever since, the poor creatur' 
Has been lame with a crooked knee; 

So I'd often lift her up in my arms 
To take her about with me. 

For I really loved the poor mite, sir, 

And her sweet little eyes of blue 
Was as blue and as bright as her mother's wor, 

And they looked me through and through. 

One night I was off to the " public "— 
I'd been drinking already, 'twas late— 

And I took little May to carry her. 
But I couldn't walk quite straight. 

" Oh, daddy, don'i go ! " she whispered. 
But I quickened my drunken pace. 

And I said, " Not another word, young un, 
Or I'll give you a slap in the face." 

I was brutal, sir — I know it ; 
But the devil was in me then, 


And when he gets hold of us with the drink 
We are only brutes— not men. 

And the little lass, she wor quiet, 

But I felt a hot tear fall ; 
And it seemed to burn right into my hand, 

Though she wiped it off with her shawl. 

Straight into my soul it entered — 
It melted my hardened heart; 

So I said, " I'll go home, lassie," 
And that night I made a new start. 

Now, every morning and evening, 
I kneel, and with heart sincere 

I bless my God for saving a soul 
By the touch of a little one's tear. 


It was one of the solemn days along the alley, for 
another newsboy had died. He had not been a promi- 
nent member of the " push " and had earned no title. 
If he had achieved distinction in any way he might have 
been called "Rubber Nick," "Hot Foot," or "Sleep Out." 

They had known him as Freddie. He had been ac- 
customed to stand in line rather meekly and endure 
more than his share of the pushing and scuffling. His 
bundle of papers was never very large, and, as he wasn't 
tall enough to talk loudly and " boss " around, he was 
never properly respected in the alley until he died. . 

Then a heavy grief settled on the colony, and "Bootsy" 
Thompson went about with a wrinkled brow and was 
ready to chastise any youngster who seemed to be cheerful. 

It was suddenly remembered that Freddie had always 
been " on the square," that he never went camping on 
another "kid's" corner, and some recalled the affecting 
circumstance that he dropped in his last "nick" to help 
buy flowers when " Tanny" was killed by the cable car. 

They had seen him around only the week before, and 
it was within the last two days they had heard that 
he was very sick. 


When a newsboy dies his comrades hold a meeting. 
Instead of imitating the conspicuous example of their 
elders and passing resolutions, they go down into their 
pockets and make up a fund. 

They held the meeting at 3.30 in the afternoon. After 
the spokesman had announced the news of Freddie's 
death, he said that every "kid" would be expected to 
■'come down." Then the hats were passed and there 
was a steady jingle of red and white coin. A commit- 
tee to count up reported that seven dollars and thirteen 
cents had been contributed, at which some of the thought- 
less ones were inclined to yell, forgetting that the occa- 
sion was one of sorrow. " Overcoat," " Hawky " and 
" Cocoanut Charley " were appointed to buy the floral 
tribute and take it to Freddie's home. 

Next morning the three members of the committee 
and a large box wrapped in white paper came into the 
office of the man who was regarded as the supreme au- 
thority of the newsboy army. He was the court of last 
resort in all ''scraps," and a good man to be "next to." 
So they brought the tribute around to show it to him. 

He untied the string and lifted the lid. Within the box 
was a huge cluster of pink roses with waxen petals and 
wire stems, wreathed about by stiff handpainted leaves. 

"Why, these are artificial flowers," said he, and he 
began to laugh. 

The committee was silent and apparently ofiended. 
Then " Hawky " spoke up : "We got fake flowers be- 
cause dey was cheaper, but de're all right and de kid 
wouldn' know de difference. We t'ought dey was purty 

" What makes this peculiar smell ? " was then asked. 
The flowers gave out a rank alcoholic odor. 

" Dat's perfumery. Fake flowers aint got no smell, 
so we sprinkled a little perfumery on." 

If the man at the desk had followed his inclination 
he would have roared with laughter. But he had too 
much feelinc;. 


" That's very nice, boys," said he, replacing the lid. 
Freddie's mother will be glad that you remembered him. 
That's right ; you give her the money that's left. Don't 
sprinkle any more cologne on the flowers. They have 
enough now." Then he followed them to the window 
and smiled to see them trot happily away. 

"After all," he said, " it doesn't make any diflference." 
In the afternoon when the alley delegation saw the 
hearse drive away from the little house the waxen flowers 
with the wire stems lay on top of the coffin. 


By permimon of the AulJiOi; 

A man of wondrous clarity 
Of utterance was O'Flaherty, 
He said just what he had to say 
With great oracularity ; 
It might not be grammatical. 
But oh ! it was emphatical, 
For he was always dead cock-sure 
Decided and dogmatical : 
And very full of speech 

He was, 
Of thoughts beyond our reach 

He was ; 
He talked with great velocity, 
Was full of great pomposity. 
Of language and verbosity — 

He was 

Indeed ! 

There was no similarity 

Twixt John Stubbs and O'Flaherty ; 
O'Flaherty was full of words, 

But Stubbs he spoke with rarity ; 

John Stubbs had no sagacity 

In speech, and no loquacity, 
For talk and phraseology 

John Stubbs had no capacity. 

A still, dumb sort of chump 
He was, 

A quiet sort of gum p 
He was ; 


But Stubbs he loved O'Flaherty 
With love of wondrous rarity, 
With most stupendous charity, 

He did— 

.Yes, sir ! 

And I must state O'Flaherty 
He cherished thoughts of charity 
For Stubbs, although between the two 
There was a great disparity ; 
No incompatability 
Could generate hostility — 
Between O'Flaherty and Stubbs 
There reigned a long tranquility ; 
Their love it was so great 

They wouldn't. 
They could not separate, 

They couldn't. 
Through great dissimilarity 
Did Stubbs and did O'Flaherty 
Keep mutual popularity, 

They did. 

Oh, yes! 

For Stubbs unostentatiously 
Would sit and drink voraciously 
O'Flaherty's verbosity. 
He poured out so loquaciously ; 
His speech he would not spurn it, he 
Would sit in taciturnity. 
Yes, while O'Flaherty held forth, 
He'd sit to all eternity. 
And so while one sat still, 

He did, 
The other spake his fill. 

He did, 
And thus grew up affection mellow. 
Between this dumb and talking fellow 
Betwen this gump and tongue propeller, 

There did— 

That's all. 


THE CHIEF MOURNER.— Francis S. Smith. 

'Twas eve— a glorious eve ! 

The bright stars sparkled in the expanse above, 

Like jewels in a kingly garb of blue. 


And the round moon with soft and holy light, 

Looked sadly down upon this giddy world. 

The zephyr, wafted from the balmy south, 

Kissed the sweet flowers and whispered to the leaves, 

Whose emerald faces bowed 

In homage to their unseen king. 

Who, gayly singing on his wanton way. 

Called forth the ripples from the limpid lake 

To join him in his gleeful, happy song. 

The whip-poor-will, sweet minstrel of the twilight gray, 

Poured forth her piteous, melancholy plaint. 

And insect voices mingled with her note, 

All joining in a vesper hymn 

Which fell upon the holy hush of night 

Like sweetest strains from a celestial choir. 

Bathed in the moon's soft light the village church-yard lay. 

Its marble tablets standing cold and still 

Above the swelling mounds. 

Fit emblems of the frigid, pulseless forms which lay beneath 

In the calm, quiet sleep of silent death. 

No more the slaves of avarice, pride, and black revenge — 

No more the weary toilers up the hill of fame — 

No more the zealous serfs of proud ambition. 

But freed, forever freed, from all the passions wild 

Which make this life a burden and a curse. 

Beneath the drooping branches of a willow tree 

There is a new-made grave. 

No stone as yet uprears its marble front 

To tell who sleeps below ; 

For but a few brief hours have passed 

Since mourning friends stood round the solemn spot, 

To see the sleeper placed within his narrow bed. 

They saw him gently laid to rest, and then. 

With eyelids wet, and heavy hearts, departed 

To eulogize his virtues— and forget him. 

Not all, however, will so careless prove ; 

For 'mid his mourners one there was 

Who did not leave the spot. 

Motionless he stood till the sad rites were ended, 

And then, when all were gone. 

He stretched himself upon the piled-up earth. 

And, with one mighty sigh of grief. 

Gave up the life which now he did not value. 


And there he lies prone on the damp, cold clay, 
True to the last,— chief mourner he of all. 
And yet no stone will ever mark his grave, 
For he is but a dog — a huge Newfoundland dog— 
Who loved the dead with so intense a love 
That the barbed shaft which laid his master low 
Pierced his great heart as well, 
And so he fell a martyr to affection. 

"All that a man hath will he give for his life." 
Hero hath freely given his life for love ! 

THE LAST TUDOR.— Annie M. L. Hawes. 

One who saw EJizaboth during her last day says she sat for hours gazing at the 
floor without spealting. " She lield in her liand a gold cup, which she often 
put to her lips, but her heart and luitid seemed too full, in truth, to need more 

The richest garments round her careless thrown, 
The rarest jewels flashing on her hands, 

And yet with nothing she dares call her own, 
This woman, — sovereign of all English lands ; 

For by her side the lord of earth waits still, — 
He notes her wasting pulse, her failing breath, 

Queens have no power to charm or curb his will, 
Kings yield theJr crowns, at last, she knows, to death. 

"A barren stock," she moans, '' without a child — 
Shall Scottish lad my England's sceptre bear? " 

Then cries, "The queen still lives! " in transport wild. 
Poor queen, with death in waiting by her chair ! 

"Bring me my cup." They place it in her hand. 
Wondering if this may be a dying whim. 

All day the weary maids-in-waiting stand 
And watch her lips but touch its jeweled rim. 

What saw she in that vase of fretted gold ? 

Did masque and pageant rise and fade in air ? 
The splendors of the playwright's verse unfold? 

Or saw she Amy Robsart weeping there? 

"Sweet Robin's" craven face, with passion pale? 

The axe and block where Essex lifeless lay? 
Or did her fluttering breath blow back the veil 

Time's gentle hand had dropped at Fotheringay ? 


Did sibyl in its depths to ber reveal 

What awestruck ej'es in England came to see, — 
That royal blood must England's freedom seal, 

And England's kings but subjects learn to be? 

We know no more than knew the little page 
Who at the threshold hummed a stifled song. 

And marveled that the queen at her great age 
Should keep death lingering in her court so long. 

Within the abbey walls the dead queen rests. 
Nor heeds if English heart or weeps or sings; 

Her harsh voice hushed, forgot her oaihs and jests. 
Frail remnant of a faded line of kings. 

Yet still, virgin queen, Elizabeth ! 

My query's answer never has been told ; 
While your strong heart made parley thus with death 

What phantoms rose from out that cup of gold ? 

— Journal of Education. 


"An egg a chicken ! don't tell me I 

For didn't I break an egg to see? 

There was nothing inside but a yellow baU- 

With a bit of mucilage round it all — 

Neither beak nor bill. 

Nor toe nor quill ; 

Not even a feather 

To hold it together ; 
Not a sign of life could any one see ; 
An egg a chicken ? You can't fool me ! 

"An egg a chicken ! didn't I pick 
Up the very shell that had held the chick'- 
So they said— and didn't I work half a day 
To pack him in where he couldn't stay ? 
Let me try as I please, 
With squeeze upon squeeze. 
There is scarce space to meet 
His head and his feet ; 
Nor room for any of the rest of him — so 
That egg never held that chick, I know." 

♦From Fo»/A's Comjpanioii by permission. 


Mamma heard the logic of her little man, 
Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can ; 
Took an egg from the nest— it was smooth and round ; 
" Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?" 

Faint and low, tap, tap ; 

Soft and slow, rap, rap ; 

Sharp and quick. 

Like a prisoner's pick ; 
" Hear it peep inside there ! " cried Tom, with a shout; 
" How did it get in ? and how can it get out ? " 

Tom was eager to hdfp — he could break the shell ; 
Mamma smiled and said, "All's well that ends well ; 
Be patient awhile yet, my boy." Click, click ! 
And out popped the bill of a dear little chick ; 

No room had it lacked. 

Though snug it was packed ; 

There it was, all complete. 

From its head to its feet ; 
The softest of down and the brightest of eyes. 
And so big — why, the shell wasn't half its size. 

Tom gave a long whistle. " Mamma, now I see 
That egg u a chicken— though the how beats me; 
An egg isn't a chicken, that I know and declare ; 
Yet an egg is a chicken — see the proof of it there ; 

Nobody can tell 

How it came in that shell ; 

Once out, all in vain 

Would I put it back again ; 
I think 'tis a miracle, mamma mine, 
As much as that of the water and wine." 

Mamma kissed her boy ; " It may be that we try 
Too much reasoning about things sometimes, you and I ; 
There are miracles wrought every day for our eyes 
That we see without seeing or feeling surprise ; 

And often we must 

Even take on trust 

What we cannot explain 

Very well again. 
But from the flower to the seed, from the seed to the flower, 
'Tis a world of miracles every hour." 


MY FOUNTAIN PEN.— Eobeet J. Burdette. 

One day a bookseller, who had grown rich and there- 
by calloused his conscieace, 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 listened to the 
tempter, I yielded. When I went home that night I 
carried into its brightness a shadow that had never be- 
fore marred its pure serenity. 

I kept my guilty secret until after supper, and then by 
a cleverly contrived accident that would have fooled any 
man of my acquaintance, but which my wife and sister 
both saw at once had been carefully rehearsed, I spilled 
the only bottle of ink in the house. Wails of distress 
filled the air. "Oh, never mind," I said grandly, "I 
don't need it." Well, they said they didn't need it on the 
carpet either. I hadn't thought of that, and it retarded my 
plans a little, for it was half an hour before the excite- 
ment died down 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." 

Some one, I think it was my sister, said without lift- 
ing her eyes from her book, that I would find the alpha- 
bet in the spelling book, and thus get them all off at once. 

I always scorn to answer irrelevant remarks, and went 
on to say that the loss of that ink would have proved a 
great calamity under the circumstances to a man less 
fertile in expedients than myself. 

Then somebody said that a man less prolific in thumbs 
wouldn't have spilled the ink. I looked hurt at this, 
which made my audience laugh. I have often been 
pained at the cold heartlessness of women when a man 
is trying to pity himself But, at any rate, I had secured 
their attention. So, with much ostentation, I adjusted the 
fountain pen, hung my tongue out to make gestures with 
and began to write. I told the girls what it was, ex- 


plained how it would run a week without filling, while 
I would gain twenty minutes 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 kppt on 
scratching while the girls 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 sister 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 blood run cold to hear quiet sar- 
casm from a woman's lips. It is chilling enough when 
it falls from the lips of an avowed infidel or an open 
idolater. But from a woman it is terrible. But I only 
said the room was so stuflfy and warm the pen had got 
clogged. It was delicate as a thermometer, I said, and 
wasn't intended for use in a Turkish bath. I would re- 
move the cap at the top, thus, and clear thie ducts 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 agonies of distress on my account. 
But when I rubbed my smarting eyes clear of ink and 
began to reassure them, I saw they were in paroxysms 
of mirth, when I was stricken with blindness that might 
eventually destroy my sight. I assumed that patient, 
grieved, innocent, suffering look which ray friends have 
told me would make my fortune on the stage if I would 
stick to " East Lynne " and " South Amboy " and simi- 
lar plays. Then I thought my family would die. They 
begged me with swaying figures and broken voices to 
get mad and break things if I wanted to, but not to look 
that way until I had washed my face. There are circum- 
stances under which pathos, however effective at the 
right time, is extremely trying to sensitive natures. 


After we got things subdued a little bit I read the in- 
structions and they told me to jar the pen slightly on the 
desk. I did so a few times and again drew some nice, 
clean .scratches on the paper. I fooled with the thing 
until about half-past nine o'clock, when suddenly, without 
any warning, it began to give down like a prize Jersey. It 
was what the oil men would call a " spouter." 

I said: " There, that is what" it wanted," but had no 
time to explain what " that " was. I was too busy try- 
ing to think of something to write in order to keep up 
with the deluge. For the very life of me I couldn't 
think of anything but Philadelphia, and I kept spelling 
that with three I's. Then I striick in on " dear sir" and 
wrote half a dozen lines of it as fast as I could. It 
was terrible. There we were racing along, that demon 
pen booming away like a geyser, my nervous hand 
scrawling line after line of " dear sirs " after it, and my 
excited tongue coming along a bad third, but still fight- 
ing for place. 

Horror crowned the inhuman spectacle when the paper 
gave out, and the pen spitefully sputtering a tablespoon- 
ful of ink on the table cover, sullenly dried up and didn't 
shed another tear for nearly two weeks, although I did 
everything in the way of persuasion and compulsion ex- 
cept 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 replied with some- 
what 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 exercise. They then left the 
room. Presently they returned with their gossamers on. 
They drew the hoods over their heads, raised their um- 
brellas, and opening their books began to read. This 
was annoying, 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 was 


as clean as a candidate's record written by himself. 
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 months I never touched a fountain pen, but a new 
one came out and I was induced to try it. It was a 
"duster," dry as good advice for nearly a week. Then 
it went off one day in the office when the city editor was 
fooling with it, not knowing it was 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 many things of many fountain pens. The 
last one I struggled half an hour with trying to date this 
letter. K fountain pen is a good thing, however, when 
you have a bottle of ink to dip it into about every sec- 
ond line, beginning with the first. 


Wen Bill Smith gits his 'oordeen out 
An' sez : " Whut shell I play ? " 

Us others gether round er bout 
An' tell him, " Fire away." 

Then first he'll start an Irish chune— 

An ol' chune, ol' an' sweet— 
An' sings "The Risin' of the Moon,'' 

An' keeps time with his feet. 

We waits until the c'orus comes 

An' all jine in the chune, 
While that ol' 'cordeen fairly hums 

With " Risin' of the Moon." 

The nex' song thet is played en sung 

He sings it sof ' and low. 
It's 'bout a feller who was hung 

Nigh thirty years ago. 

" Young Johnnie Howard wuz his name," 

The 'cordeen soft'll play, 
Ez if it thought it wuz to blame, 

" They swore his life away." 


The c'orus comes so low and sad, 
The 'cordeen seems to sigh, 

" How could they hang that gallant lad I ■' 
The tears stan' in each eye. 

Then Annie Laurie, Nellie Gray, 

An' Swanee Elver, too ; 
Good-by, I'm Goin' Far Away ; 

Here Comes the Boys in Blue, 
The Mockin' Bird, an' Old Dog Tray, 

An' Wearin' of the Green, 
'Twas in the Merry Month of May 

I First Met Maggie Dean, 
I Think of You, The Sad Tears Fall, 

My Ain Scotch Lassie Jean, 
Then Home, Sweet Home, the best of afl., 

Upon the old 'cordeen. 

An' so the hours slip away ; 

The ev'niu' don't seem long ; 
As long as Bill'll fur us play 

Some good old-fashioned song, 
An sing 'em, too, it pleases us. 

Fur no one here about 
Kin sound 'um sweet like Bill Smith duz 

Wen his 'cordeen is out. 

Talk o' yer fiddles, harps en things 

An' players you hev seen, 
I swar it's music when Bill sings 

An' plays his ol' 'cordeen. 


I wonder could I dare to trace 

A legend lately told to me, 
But when the time, or where the place, 

Remains in dim obscurity. 

'Twas near the merry Christmas time, 
Three smiling boys their father sued 

To grant them, ere the midnight chime. 
The gifts would suit their various mood. 

"A hobby-horse, with trappings light," 
One asked, " with flowing mane and tail. 


With head and eyes so fierce and bright 
'Twould make the very gazer quail." 

"A noisy drum,'' another claimed ; 

'Twould set the very house astir, 
Delight the comrades whom he named, 

"And make them all so happy, sir." 

The fair-haired child of genius sought 

A violin of sweetest sound, 
Whose minstrelsy, by heaven taught, 

Might thrill the hearts of all around. 

"Children," Hhe pale mechanic said. 

Sad gazing on his eager boys, 
" By toil I scarce can earn my bread. 

How, then, obtain such costly toys ? " 

"Father, you oft have told us how 
Jesus came down on Christmas night 

To bring great gifts, and surely now 
We well may trust His love and might. 

" Father, the Infant Jesus, He 

Can give us all we want or ask ; 
And, as He loves us, it will be 

For Him a very easy task. 

" Dear father, you can write so well, 

Just write for us a little line, 
And all we want, oh, pray do tell 

To Him— we know he will incline. 

" Tell Him how good we'll strive to grow, 

And learn our lessons every day, 
And seek our duty still to know, 

And never, never cease to pray." 

The father, glad their wish to grant, 

As he had little to bestow. 
Wrote that for which their hearts did pant ; 

And cheerfully he bade them go. 

But oh, what joy, what hopes, ^What bliss, 

Sparkled in every raptured eye ! 
In humble faith obtaining this. 

They felt their happiness was nigh. 

But how to post it posed each head, 
The wind was blowing fresh and high ; 


" The wind will take it up," they said ; 
"So we will let the letter fly." 

They ope'd the window : kneeling down, 
They gave it to the winds in trust; 

Away it flew, as thistle down ; 

O'erjoyed, they scarce could eat their crust. 

Angels watched o'er them, glad to see 
On earth such simple trust and love ; 

Bore the rare message far and free. 
And laid it at the throne above. 

" Martha, just raise the window ; see — 
What is it struggling to get in ? 

A letter by wind-post, dear me ! 
To keep it out would be a sin.'' 

The baron's daughter took the same. 
And, wondering, read it o'er and o'er; 

Its high address, the way it came, 
Its earnest faith she pondered more. 

The gentle maiden, marveling still. 
Thanked her dear Saviour in her heart 

That He had chosen her to fill 
For Him on earth so sweet a part. 

The note informed her where they dwelt 
(Cautious that no mistake might come), 

And she rejoiced with joy heartfelt 
To make at least one happy home. 

'Twas Christmas eve; to church they went, 
Assured before the midnight chimes 

The things they asked for would be sent ; 
Then, oh, what happy, joyful times ! 

The parents' tender hearts were sad 
To think the blight their hopes must know, 

Why should not man be ever glad? 
Or why believe his God so slow? 

Returning home they see a light 
From every window sudden gleam ; 

The children shouted with delight; 
The house on fire, the parents deem. 


They ope'd the door ; a cheerful heat 
Warmed all ; the house had lighted been, 

And on the table such rich treat 
As ne'er before their eyes had seen. 

And on a shining Christmas tree, 
With clustered berries, bright and red, 

A drum and viol might you see, 
And horse with military tread. 

And many comforts round were hung 
For children, home and parents dear; 

Surprise and'^^'onder chained their tongue, 
Wh6se joy drew forth the sudden tear. 

But, oh, the joyful, sparkling eyes ! 

And oh, the full, o'erflowing hearts I 
Where is the soul that would not prize 

The joy such generous act imparts ? 

Whence all had come they did not ask; 

'Twas Jesus sent them, that they knew-^ 
Even for Him an easy task 

To keep His promise firm and true. 

Then down they reverently kneel 
To thank their kind, indulgent Lord, 

Who all man's sorrows quick doth feel. 
And ever keeps his promised word. 

Who ask in faith shall still receive 
Good measure, heaped and flowing o'er, 

But let no doubt your souls deceive ; 
Trust God ; ah, trust Him ever more. 

Needless to tell their happiness. 

Within that humble little cot. 
Where want had been ; we well may guess 

The joy that makes it all forgot. 

The baron's daughter from without 

Peeped in to see the joy displayed ; 
And higher bliss was hers, no doubt. 

To view the happiness she made. 

And often in the baron's hall 

The good musician went to play; 
And peace and plenty on them all 

Were showered from that Christmas Day I 


THE WAY TO FREEDOM.*— S. Jennie Smith. 


ToUTH. Wisdom, Temperance. Moderation. 
Int£mferance, and Minor Charactebb. 

ACT 1. 

Scene. — A road leading to an archway on which in large letters is 
the word, " SOCIETY." Youth enters in loose, flowing robe 
of white cheese-cloth, f 

Youth (stepping toward the archway). At last my fondest 

dreams are to be realized.- How happy I shall be 

Enter Wisdom in robe of bright red. 

Wisdom {interrupting Youth and laying her hand on her shoul- 
der). The time has now arrived, fair Youth, when you are 
about to enter the merry-go-round of life, which is, in com- 
mon parlance, called Society. I have come to offer my at- 
tendance and advice. You will meet with many dangers in 
this new pathway ; there are snares lying in wait that you 
know not of, enemies to drag you down at every step, but 
if yon allow me to accompany you, I will save you many a 
grievous fall. 

Youth. I have always held you in respect, dear Wisdom, 
and believed that some time I should journey hand in hand 
with you, but now it seems I am rather young to think of 
having you for a companion. Why not seek an older one, 
and leave me to the care of Pleasure, Happiness and Mirth ? 

Wis. These also may accompany us. Wisdom is not 
always grave, dear child. She merely wishes to protect you 
from the wiles of such as Levity, Carelessness and Folly. 
My society will not tend to dampen your joy. Have you 
not read that my " ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
my paths are peace ? " 

Youth (moving toward her). Yes, and now I remember 
that I have also read, "Wisdom is more precious than 
rubies." So if I still may laugh, and play, and sing, I shall, 
be proud to have you for a companion. Let us start at once 

•Written expressly for this ColIectioD. A very attractive religious sketch by 
the same author, and in a similar vein, entitled " The Journey of Life," will 
be fouud in No. 29. Also, "To the Palace of the King," in No. 33. 

t "Youth" can be represented by a boy if found preferable, and Minor Char- 
acters can be omitted if the tableau effect is not desired. 


dear Wisdom, for I long to see that portion of the world 
regarding which I have as yet only heard. 

Wis. One moment ! Before we go I would have you de- 
cide a momentous question. In that world to which your 
thoughts are fondly turning, there are two great leaders. To 
one of these you must offer your allegiance. 

Youth. And may I not be friendly toward them both ? 

Wis. Such a course would be impossible. They are in 
direct opposition. If you do all that one desires, you are a 
sworn enemy of the other. No one can serve them both. 
A fierce war is wagitig even now between the two, and every 
member of society must stand by word or deed on one side 
or the other. 

Youth. What are the names of these mighty leaders ? 

Wis. Temperance and Intemperance. 

Youth. Ah ! I know them both, and the latter I despise. 
Did you think I would be seen with her? Why, Intemper- 
ance is a low, degraded creature, closely related to that one 
they call Intoxication. 

Enier Temperance, robed in light blue, and pledge in hand. 

Wis. {gladly.) Then you are on the side of Temperance, 
and will join the many thousa,nds to fight that low creature 
whom you despise. See, Temperance stands beside you, and 
asks you to sign your name that the world may see you have 
enlisted in her cause. 

Youth (stepping back). Oh ! I had not thought of such an 
action. I do not wish to bind myself by a promise— I have 
no desire to sign away my liberty. 

Wis. Liberty to demoralize yourself, do you mean ? to 
help debase your companions, and bring shame, terror, and 
misery to those who love you ? Yes, we ask you to sign 
away a liberty like that. 

Youth. But surely you have overdrawn the picture. I 
do not mean to sink so low ; I merely desire to go out into 
the world free and untrammeled by foolish promises or vows. 

Temperance. Pause ere you make a serious mistake. I 
do not take away your liberty ; I leave you free to live the 
pure, sweet life that has been appointed for you. I keep 
you from becoming a slave to Intemperance. She'll bind 
you down so strong that your body, your mind, your soul, 


will belong to her. See (handing her ike paper), thousands 
have testified their willingness to accept the freedom I here 
offer. May your name be added to the list of my honored 
subjects ? 

Youth (looking over the paper). I can not promise all this. 
I would be laughed at, scorned, insulted, by those who have 
been my friends. They would say I could not trust myself 
Why should I sign now when I have lived thus far without 
becoming a slave to Intemperance? 

Temp. Your habits grow stronger as you advance in life. 
Besides, in the great world of society your responsibilities 
become greater, and the chance of influencing others by 
your example increases a hundredfold. Your temptations, 
too, multiply when you mingle more with your fellow-crea- 
tures. You must either decide for me or let your in- 
fluence go to support the enemy that is both mine and yours. 
Enter Moderaikm in dark robe. 

Youth. And is there ho middle course? Must I bind 
myself irrevocably to you, or follow in the footsteps of one 
whom I detest? 

Moderation (stepping betweenYouth and Temperance). There 
is a middle course. Fair Youth, I am Moderation. I have 
come to save the world from the wiles of fanatical Temper- 
ance advocates, as well as from the disgrace following those 
who yield to Intemperance. With me you can be free. 
Make no promises, sign no pledges, register no vows, but 
enter society a creature of liberty who knows when she has 
gone far enough and has strength of her own to stop at that 

While she is talking, Intemperance, robed in black, enters and 
lurks in the background, unseen by the others. 

Temp, (imploringly.) Do not be deceived. You may not 
have the strength to stop at a safe point. Hundreds, ay, 
thousands of such young creatures have stood just where 
you stand to-day, and have listened to those false words. 
Their strength failed them, and the desire to go on and on 
kept increasing until now they are hopeless, degraded vic- 
tims of that vile Intoxication. 

Youth. But I cannot believe that such will be my fate. 
I have not gone into danger so fer, and I surely will con- 


tinue to avoid it. Temperance, you have my respect, and I 
wisli you well, but Moderation seems better suited to my 
tastes and inclinations. Come, Wisdom, we will go with her. 

Wis. I do not go in conipany with Moderation. There- 
fore you and I must part. 

Youth. But you have promised to protect me. 

Wis. And you have already scorned my advice. You 
are leaving me for Moderation, who is next-door neighbor 
to Intemperance. With such a companion I can not travel. 

Mod. {taking Youth's hand and drawing her t<yii>ard the arch- 
way.) Come, letlis hasten on our way. We have no time to 
listen to the talk of fanatics such as these. 

Temp. May you repent your course ere it be too late. 

Wis. Foolish child, when you feel your need of me, re- 
turn. I shall always hear an earnest call for assistance. 


Youth and Moderation about to enter Society, Intemperance stealth- 
Uy foUomng, Temperance and Wisdom leith arms ovistretched 
as if in hope of saving the victim. 


Scene. — On the other side of the archway. Many different char- 
acters discovered, some going hither and thither, others standing 
and conversing, or sitting apart in contemplative attitude. In- 
temperance in dose proximUy to Moderation. Wisdom and 
Temperance watching Youth, who, in soiled robe and looking 
very sad, stands alone as if in deep thought. 
Youth (imping forward). Oh! the misery, the disgrace, 
the sorrow of a life like this. The society I craved does not 
satisfy. The path I chose seems leading ever downward. 
Moderation, who promised so much of freedom and of joy, 
is only guiding me on to ruin. How often I have found 
myself hand in hand with the one I despised, that vile In- 
temperance! Moderation led me there instead of keeping 
me away, and once I seemed to sleep, and then I awoke to 
the fact that I was in close companionship with Intoxica- 
tion. Oh, the horror of it! and yet I feel that I cannot es- 
cape. Moderation is always near, making fair promises, and 
urging me on ray course. I have seen her leading other in- 
nocent victims along the path, and it is a path of poy- 


erty, sometimes even starvation. The victims are 
dragged along, and they in turn drag other helpless victims, 
some of whom are innocent children. Oh, for the help of 
Wisdom in this crisis ! I must make a desperate effort to 
escape, or go on surely to destruction. 

Wis. {advancing and taking Youth's hand.) Poor child, I am 
here in answer to your call. 

Youth. Wisdom, I beg you save me ere it be too late. 

Wis. Have no fear. If you trust in me, nothing can 
harm you. 

Mod. (stepping forward and speaking scornfully. Intemper- 
ance keeping behind her.) I see you are willing to become a 

Youth. Fain would I become a slave to that gentle 
kindly mistress whom I once refused to hear. Moderation, 
you have deceived me. You have failed to keep your prom- 
ises. While pretending to be a foe to Intemperance, you 
are secretly helping on her cause. Even now she is hover- 
ing near you. My eyes have been opened at last. I shall 
have nothing further to do with you. Go! 

Mod. I suppose you will now sign away your liberty. 

Youth. Yes, my liberty to follow to the disgrace to which 
you would lead, if I have not made the decision too late. 

Temp, (advancing with pledge in hand.) Dear child, it is not 
too late. Here, add your name to the many who have en- 
listed in the cause of Right against the greatest Wrong that 
ever was known to exist in this beautiful world. 

Youth (signing). Thus I regain my liberty! 

Moderation slinks away, followed by Intemperance, and Youth is 
surrounded by a number of girls in lighl-bltie robes, who sing 
one or two stanzas of a temperance song as the curtain slowly 


Listen, my boy, and you shall know 
A thing that happened a long time ago, 
When I was a boy not as large as you. 
And the youngest of all the children, too. 
I laugh even now as I think it o'er. 
And the more I think I laugh the more. 


'Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day, 
We were all in the kitchen cheery and gay; 
The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth, 
And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth. 

My elder sister, addressing me, 

"To-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know," said she; 

" We must kill the chickens to-night; you see. 

Now light the lantern and come with me; 

I will wringtheir necks until they are dead, 

And have them all dressed ere we go to bed." 

So the huge oM lantern, made of tin. 
Punched full of holes, and a candle within, 
Put in an appearance in shorter time 
Than it takes to make this jingling rhyme. 

We started off, and the way I led. 

For a raid on the chickens under the shed. 

A pile of roots filled the open space. 

Thus making a splendid roosting place; 

And a motley tribe of domestic fowls 

Sat perched there as grave and demure as owls. 

My sister, unused to sights of blood, 
And pale with excitement, trembling stood ; 
But summoning courage, she laid her plans, 
And seized the old rooster with both her hands, 
An<l with triumph written all over her face, 
Her victim bore to the open space. 

Then she wrung and wrung with might and main, 

And wrung and twisted, and wrung again, 

Till, sure that the spark of life had fled, 

She threw him down on the ground for dead. 

But the rooster would not consent to die, 
And be made up into chicken pie, 
So he sprang away with a cackle and bound, 
Almost as soon as he touched the ground, 
And hiding away from the candle's light, 
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night. 

My sister, thus brought to a sudden stand, 
And looking at what she held in her hand. 
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead- 
She had wrung ofi"his tail instead of his head. 



I haven't much religion ; least not enough to spare, 
But when I come across it, I know the thing is there ; 
A thousand kinds, I reckon, and all of them the best. 
But when one strikes the real he knows it from the rest. 

When a fellow gets religion it turns him clear about, 
And makes him feel within just like he acts without; 
It doesn't make one perfect nor get through in a day, 
But points the road to heaven and starts him on the way. 

His face so like a sermon, his hand so like a song. 
They somehow set one thinking he would like to go along; 
And should the way be stony and things look rather blue 
He never has a blessing too small to cut in two. 

He isn't in a hurry, but often lags behind 
That he may lead the halting or help along the blind ; 
He laughs when one is happy and weeps for those who cry, 
And always gives one credit for just an honest try. 

And should a fellow stumble or fail to keep the pace. 
He doesn't think him sinful nor drive him from the race; 
But ever looking upward, forgets the things below. 
It's not so much the distance as the way one wants to go. 

He believes in all the churches, but no particular one 
Has got ,the only patent on how the thing is done ; 
The way to God is open and the distance never more 
From yonder little cabin than from the palace door. 

He don't go much on doctrine, but believes the Bible true, 
A voice that's always speaking in accents old and new ; 
He may not catch the meaning nor does he claim to know; 
One better have less knowledge than know what isn't so. 

And when the nights are dreary and the clouds trail on the 

He somehow keeps on thinking the Lord is still around ; 
The cup to drink he dreads it, this cup of bitter wine. 
Still never ceases praying, " Thy will, God, be mine.'' 

I haven't much religion, least not enough to spare. 
But when I come across it I know the thing is there ; 
It doesn't make one perfect, nor get through in a day. 
But points the road to heaven and starts him on the way. 



By permUBton of the Author. 

There 's a story, once current, and sometimes still told, 

In spite of its being two thousand years old, 

Of Plato, who lived in a village in Greece, 

And a crabbed old wag, Mr. Diogenes. 

The former is famed to have been wondrous wise 

With a fame nigh as famous as Mr. Bill Nye's. 

'Tis said that said Plato said many a thing 

Quite fit to comparejivith our poems on " Spring,'' 

And we judge from the place that his majesty fills, 

His pate was as classic'lly hairless as Bill's. 

But all men are fools without an exception ; 

And Plato himself will be found on dissection 

To fall sadly short of his fancied perfection. 

This is proved to a man of no special perception 

By the fact that our hero once gave a reception ; 

A splendid affair {in a general way), 

Outdoing in splendor a modern soiree; 

A " roaring success," 'tis but justice to say. 

Our host called, 'tis true, not the " halt and the lame " — 

We excuse him since all at the first summons came. 

He summoned, in fact, whom he happened to please " 

But this list did not list Mr. Diogenes. 

Now, 'twould be gross injustice to say that the latter 

Felt grieved or incensed at so little a matter. 

Or, that, losing his temper, he swore he 'd been slighted 

Because to the party he wasn't invited. 

Not at all ; for he smiled and remarked to his wife. 

Quite martyr-like, "This is the chance of m}' life." 

Now, the time has arrived, and the gods seem to frown 

On the revelry witnessed abroad in the town. 

Fierce Neptune, enraged, piles the sea on the beach. 

Old Chaos is rampant and mingles with each ; 

Behind their black battlements over the town 

The gods are seen hurling their tlmnderbolts down ; 

The very earth trembles in dread and alarm 

At the hideous laugh of the demons of storm. 

While deep calls to deep and the caverns down under 

Respond to the deep, rumbling jeers of the thunder. 

Oh, it is awful to witness thus hurled 

The wrath of the gods at this silly old world! 


But meanwhile our friends witii no small demonstration 

Arrived at that point in their gay recreation 

Which men like Diogenes call dissipation. 

The thing that least bothered our guests while together 

They stayed, we might state, was the state of the weather. 

But to dwell on details would be quite as imprudent 

As a lecture on Kant to a smart college student; 

In short, it would be nothing short of presumption — 

A hint, too, that some one is lai;king in gumption — 

To dwell on a matter which was no exception, 

So far as we know, from a modern reception ; 

Unless we believe, 'tis a small matter though, 

That Plato discussed — 'twas his hobby, you know — 

The soul's immortality, and similar topics ; 

Back-numbers now from the poles to the tropics. 

We hasten along, then, to finish our rhyme ; 

The friends of our Plato are " having a time," 

When all of a sudden a bang and a splash ! 

No warning whatever, but in with a crash 

Springs a man, — yes, an awkward, plain man it is plain. 

All spattered with mud and drenched through with the rain. 

When Plato this burly phenomenon sees, 

" Why, bless me," he cries, " Mr. Diogenes '" 

He prayed him to stay till the storm had passed by 

And Spread himself out on the sofa to dry. 

His wagship, however, as blunt as of yore, 

Stood pawing and scraping his feet on the floor. 

Our friends stood astonished to see, where he stood, 

The carpet disfigured with figures of mud. 

And none dared molest him, though strange it may sound, 

But stood with their hands in their pockets, around. 

At length, when the floor seemed sufiiciently black 

Our model of industry straightened his back 

And said, with his hands each at rest on his side, 

"In this way, Plato, 1 tread ore your pride." 

The silence that fell seemed to whisper "For shame ! 

Shame on thee, O Plato ! " No wretch then his name 

Would have changed for the noted philosopher's fame. 

He stood there in silence but felt not disgrace 

And looked his antagonist full in the face ; 

The Truth, his at all times, was present in this, 

And it burned in Diogenes' breast with a hiss 

As the teacher replied with a meaning divine, ' 

" But with pride, O Diogenes, greater than mine.'' 


The truth liku a bright gleam of lightning flashed through 

The minds of the guests — of Diogenes, too. 

This man who had posed as the meekest of men, 

Who preached against pride as the climax of sin. 

Behold him ! this would-be philanthropist ! how, 

The garb of hypocrisy torn from him now, 

He is seen to commit the same sin he condemned, 

A stranger to what he was wont to commend. 

No longer so sure as to who is the hub 

Of the world, let us hope, he returned to his tub. 

Now Plato is dead and all of his species, 

But still there are plSnty of Diogeneses. 

The Reverend Diogenes preaches for you 

And Brother Diogenes sits in the pew. 

You'll find them in office, and class-room, and store, 

A few of them wealthy, and all of them poor ! 

You know Mr. Toper, that wreck of a man 

Whom the demon of Drink seems determined to damn ; 

The poor, cringing menial ! Why can he not see 

That the slave of his passions can never be free ! 

Yet no one prates more about freedom than he, 

Nor stoutly asserts, whilst his own shackles ring, 

" Why, liberty, sir, is a glorious thing ! " 

There 's Modelman, too ; I'm sure you ne'er saw 

A greater fanatic on " order " and " law." 

Hear him lecture on crime and you'd think he's a saint ; 

Just mention a murder — he's certain to faint. 

Yet I say in plain words that the man is a thief. 

An anarchist — yea, of lawbreakers the chief— 

Who stands like our Modelman, passive and dumb 

While neighbors and brothers are ruined by rum. 

Our pastor, the Reverend Boodle, D. D., 
Preached, Sabbath, from Exodus, xx and 3: 
" No gods," says the Lord, " shall men have before rae." 
In simile, metaphor, climax and phrase 
He smote the old idols of Mammon and Praise,—^ 
But thought as he saw Jenkins nod from the gallery, 
" The time is now ripe for increasing my salary." 
And I thought (though such thoughts he had doubtless ab- 
He aspired to the place that belonged to the Lord, 
And 'twas his most constant ambition, or whim, 
That Broadway church-members have no gods but him I 


" 'Tis a pity," says one, " since with Diogenes 
This sin did not die, that some dreadful disease 
Which he sees does not seize all these old Pharisees." 
But since it does not, we remark that the way to 
Even imitate Truth is to personate Plato. 
Be wiser than he ; and if thou wouldst preach 
'Gainst the failings of man be thou guiltless of each. 

And brother, I charge thee to fling away shams ; 
By that sin hath fallen kings, moguls and chams; 
How then canst thou expect by it to win ? 
Love thyself last; purge thine own self from sin; 
Eemember that virtue'is not in the name, 
For infamy 's often mistaken for fame. 
For fame that is infamy truth never barter 
And then if thou fallest,. thou fallest a martyr. 


She stood in the tender twilight. 

While the soft wind whispered by. 
Homeless, friendless and weary, 

Under the evening sky. 
The scent of violets was wafted 

From the grassy turf at her-feet. 
And the promise of coming summer 

Made all things wondrous sweet. 

But alone she stood in the twilight. 

With the dew on her yellow hair. 
Her soft eyes dimmed by unshed tears 

And never a friend to care ; 
And never a roof to shelter her. 

Or a kindly word is said. 
As from door to door she moves along 

Begging her daily bread. 

Oh, think of her in your cheerful homes. 

When the twilight shadows come ; 
And the dear ones meet round the bounteous board 

In the safe and quiet home; 
Give her a kind and gentle word, 

You can surely spare her that; 
She may come to your door at any time — 

The Homeless Old Tramp Cat. ' 



Sam Waltee Foss. 

This can be given as a monologue or, with slight adaptation, can be used as a 

Every member of the Bangs family always tries to 
help every other member of the family. When one 
member of the family tries to tell a story all the other 
twelve immediately take hold and tell him how to tell 
it. This mutual helpfulness is very beautiful. 

" Did you ever hear that story about my dog Tov?zer?" 
said Bangs to me one day. 

" No, I never did," said I, " let's hear it." 

" Well, about the middle of last July," said Bangs — 

" The first of July," interrupted Mrs. Bangs. "" 

" The last of June," said Archibald Theodore Bangs, 
the oldest boy but four. 

" Nearer the first of August," said Lucretia Penthesilea 
Bangs, the oldest girl but five. 

" Well, call it some time between 1812 and the present 
time," said I, " I am awfully anxious to hear the story." 

" Well, we were just coming home from church," con- 
tinued Mr. Bangs. 

" From the circus," interrupted Thaddeus Washington 
Bangs, the youngest boy but three. 

" From the camp-meetin'," said Rosie Toddles, next 
to the baby. " I 'member it, coz I tored my dress." 

"Warn't corain' home at all," said Tom Aristotle 
Bangs. "We were just startin' out for the beach." 

" Well, let us decide," said I, " that we were all some- 
where, we can't tell just where exactly, but somewhere 
between the cradle and the grave. You've no idea how 
anxious I am to hear the story. Go on, Mr. Bangs." 

" Well," said Mr. Bangs, " it rained." 

"Snowed," said Mrs. Bangs. 

"Hailed," said Archibald Theodore. 

" Drizzled," said the twins in concert. 

*By permission of tlie Author. 


" Well, I am -willing to admit," said I, "that it rained, 
snowed, hailed, drizzled and that we had an earthquake, 
an avalanche, a tornado and a landslide at the same 
time. I will admit any weather from the freezing to the 
boiling point, if I can only hear that story. I am eaten 
up with curiosity. Please go on." 

"All right," said Mr. Bangs, " what was I talking 

" Dunno," said Thaddeus Washington. 

"Dog," said Rosie Toodles. 

" Calf," said Tom Aristotle. 

" Efalunt," said Bobbie Bangs. 

"Whale," said the twins. 

"Hadn't begun to talk at all," said Lucretia Penthe- 

" Only jest beginned to ' spute,' " said Bobbie. 

" It's an excellent story," said Bangs. " You'd split 
yourself with laughing ; but I can't think of it just now." 

If Bangs shall outlive every other member of his 
own family, and if I can have an interview with him af- 
ter they are all dead, I shall some day hear that story. 
Sustained by this serene and beautiful hope I go through 
life each day. 

LIFE'S WEAVING.— Millie Colcord. 

I stood in gladness— for life's highest joy 

Had found within my heart its resting-place ; 
I do not think I saw or fplt save this, 
That I was standing in the King's own grace : 
So near He was to me, 
It seemed that I could see 
The love and light and glory of His face. 

When, as T waited, lo ! the King bent down. 

And in His hand I looked with greal amaze — 
For there were patterns more than I could count. 
Lying tosether in confusing maze — 

For some flashed sparkling bright, 
And some were fair and white, 
While some lay dark and sombre 'neath my gaze. 


He bade me take one then — and so I looked, 

And chose one from His hand with greatest care ; 

I could not see the whole, but that one glimpse 

Showed me it was surpassing rich aild rare ; 

And then I heard Him say, 

" Take this, my child, away, 

And weave for me one that shall be as fair." 

And so I went away to work for Him ; 

Ah ! then the days sped gladly by for me — 

Before my eyes the pattern flashed and glowed, 

And 'neath its light I labored patiently. 

" He will be glad," I cried. 

The while 1 toiled in pride, 

To see how like His own my work shall be. 

A little while I labored gladly on. 

And then, one day, I held my work no more, 
For where the pattern of my choice had been 
Lay nothing there my saddened eyes before; 
I could not understand, 
'Twas at the King's command. 
And so I turned away and murmured sore. 

But while I waited, grieving sadly then, 

Once more to me the King stood very near; 
Once more I felt His tender, loving gaze. 
And knew the voice that whispered in my ear, 
" My child, 'twas for thy sake ;" 
No answer could I make ; 
But all at once the way grew strangely clear. 

He has not given me my work again. 

And j'et my heart is growing glad and free. 
Although He only lets mc labor now 
On something with a form I cannot see ; 
But why He holds it so, 
I do not care to know — 
Since I am sure it is the best for me. 

And though sometimes I wonder, questioning 

Whether my pattern is large or small. 
Or whether it will show forth dark or bright, 
When for my finished work the King shall call— 
I am content at last. 
With doubt and fear all past. 
To weave in gladness, since He knoweth all. 


THE PICNIC AT SELINA.— Frank L. Stanton. 

That picnic at Selina— it covered lots o' ground ; 

Thar was wimmen, men an' bosses from fifty miles around, 

An' fiddles squeaked an' brogans creaked the merriest kind 

o' song, 
An' it was " Balance to your partners ! " an' " Swing ! " the 

whole day long. 

'Twas a powerful sight o' pleasure jes' to see the fellers whirl 
Them lovely forms in calico an' swing girl after girl. 
It was quite intoxicating ; you could hear the rafters ring. 
Till the old men couldn't stand it an' cut the " pigeon wing! " 

The old time " double shuffle " made the dust fly from their 

■ heels. 
An' 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the Old Virginny reels ; 
The young men jes' a-sweatin' an' the rosy gals a-blowin' — 
But they didn't mind the weather while they kept the fid- 
dle goin' ! 

" It's jolly ! " roared the rafters ; " It's painful ! " groaned the 

" It's dusty ! " said the wimmen, but they only danced the 

An' the young men called it " stavin'," an' I think that they 

was right. 
For the old time Georgia "breakdown" made the stars 

dance with delight! 

All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild an' sweet ; 
The colored parson rolled it ofi' an' kept time with his feet; 
All day — with jes' a breathin' spell 'long 'bout the time o' 

The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept in tune. 

That picnic at Selina — it aint to be forgot. 
For a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a house an lot; 
And when I think about them gals in ribboned calico, 
I feel like singin', " Praise the Lord, from whom all blessin's 
flow ! " 

There'll be good times at Selina in the happy dpys to be, 
But never any times like that for all the boys an' me; 
For the memory of that picnic — it'll live a hundred years. 
An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I climb the golden 
stairs. — Atianta Constiiviior, 


EossiTEE W. Raymond. 

Arthur and the rest of the children had been put to 
bed long ago,- and father and mother and Aunt Susan 
had at last retired also, one by one, after a great deal of 
manoeuvring. For you see, each of them wanted to be 
the last to go, in order to put a final touch to the stock- 
ings and piles of presents, after the others had departed. 
So they kept hanging around and hanging around, until 
at last Aunt Susan broke out : 

" Now what's the use of making believe ? I know 
you two have got a present for me that you don't wish 
me to see till morning — bless your dear hearts ! — and 
you know that I've got a trifle for you that you mustn't 
see till morning. But we can't go on shassaying about 
and all trying to be left behind in the parlor. Now, 
Jenny, do be sensible, and go to bed. You look tired 
to death. If you've got a loUypop for me, dump it in 
the corner there ; and I'll not peep." 

This sensible suggestion of Aunt Susan's led to a gen- 
eral treaty of armed neutrality. Arthur's father turned 
his face to the wall, while the two ladies arranged a pile 
of mysterious packages in one corner ; then each of the 
ladies in turn contemplated the hall door while a rust- 
ling arrangement of presents went on behind her ; and 
finally all three " took hold of hands " and went solemnly 
giggling out of the parlor, with their eyes bent upon the 
floor. Then there was some laughter on the stairs, and 
a shutting of bed-room doors, and after that, silence. 

Of the four children, Arthur, who is next to the 
youngest, is the only one I shall mention particularly in 
my story. He was a bright little boy, who had just 
begun to go to school, and come in contact with the 
rough side of the world. Like many children brought 

•Taken, by permission, from "The Man in the Moon, and Other People," 
which contains many exceUent stories for reading aloud, as do also "Two 
GhoBts," and "Brave Hearts," by the same Author, 



up in a loving home-circle, he was sensitive and timid ; 
that is, timid about some things, though brave enough in 
others. For instance, he wasn't afraid of the dark, or 
of ghosts, because nobody had ever stuffed him with 
superstitious nonsense on such subjects; but he was very 
much shocked and frightened by the rude boys at the 
school, with their rough plays and practical jokes, their 
ridicule and slang, and sometimes their wicked words. 
One boy especially seemed to delight in tormenting 
him, — Bob Manning, a hard-headed, freckled, active 
fellow, who wore ragged clothes, and tyrannized over all 
the boys that were well dressed. Bob's father was a 
laborer, who had had " bad luck " in life, losing first his 
little savings, then his wife, and finally his good habits 
and good temper, and becoming a harsh,, des- 
perate man — though he never treated Bob to anything 
worse than angry words. But the boy, hearing nothing 
at home but complaints of poverty and envious, savage 
talk about rich people, came to consider all such people 
as natural enemies ; and though he was not at heart 
more cruel than other thoughtless children, he enjoyed 
teasing and paining his schoolmates. 

The day before Christmas, Arthur came home with a 
sad story of small persecutions. Bob Manning had said his 
new brass buttons were " looney," and no feller would wear 
such buttons as them ; and this opinion he had enforced 
by slyly cutting off a couple with his jack-knife, and 
dropping them into the gutter. Moreover he had scrubbed 
Arthur's face with snow, because, he said, his mammy 
didn't wash him enough ; and he had wiped out an 
elaborate picture of a locomotive and train of cars, 
which Arthur had drawn with much pains, during three 
recesses, on his slate. 

" Slates is all nonsense," said Bob ; " look a' me ! I 
aint got no slate, and I can lick any feller in school." 

Arthur's mother was highly indignant, and said it was 
a shame that such boys should be allowed to come to 
school, and that she thought her boy ought to be taken 


away. But his father, who believed in the public 
schools, said : " My dear, it is good for the boy to be 
knocked about a little. Of course we must watch that 
his principles are not corrupted ; but I have too much 
faith in his home-training to be afraid of that ; and really, 
I think that, having a child who is gentle and intelligent, 
and will not lie, nor steal, nor swear, it is our duty to 
send him where his influence will reach other children. 
He will give and receive benefit. As for the bad boys, 
unless they are a Hundred times worse than anything I 
have heard of Bob Manning, they certainly ought to go 
to school. It is a good sign in Bob and his father that 
the youngster goes so regularly. Depend upon it, he 
may make a good citizen yet. In short, there are two 
classes of boys wlo should by all means attend the 
common schools, namely, good boys and bad ones.'' 

Arthur's mother meditated upon these remarks, and 
although she was not fully convinced, resolved to make 
the best of the case. So she had a long, sweet mother- 
talk with her little son, in which she roused him to en- 
thusiastic pity for poor Bob, who had no pleasant home 
and loving friends. " Perhaps," said she, " if you saw 
all the other boys provided with books and toys and 
handsome things, while you were obliged to go without 
them, you too would be envious and use bitter words — 
though I hope not." 

"Yes," said Arthur, "that's just what George Seeley 
said: that Bob Manning was jealous because he hadn't 
got any slate— and, mother, I was to blame just a little, 
because when my picture was done, I held it up and 
whispered to him, didn't he wish he could draw like that ? 
And then he leaned clear over and rubbed it all out ! 

" Poor Bob ! " said the mother, and waited for Ar- 
thur's thoughts ; for she knew the secret, that the good 
things that people think out for themselves are worth 
more, a thousand times, than those which are told of 
by others. But Arthur said not a word, and soon 
after marched off to bed, only inquiring " about what 


time Santa Claus would come?" — a question which no 
one was ready to answer. 

So now all were in bed, the house was still, and the 
parlor was dark, except for the light that came from 
the fireplace, where the last of the cannel-coal burned 
yet, flickering up every few minutes into a merry blaze. 

It must have been at least an hour before this that 
Bob's father, going sullenly through the street, had 
come in front of the house. Everything combined to 
make him more angry with the world than usual. He 
had been discharged from work that day, because there 
was no more work to do ; and in his despair he had 
been so foolish and wicked as to waste in drink the few 
shillings he had laid by, to give his boy, " for once in his 
life, a bit of a Christmas." He wasn't drunk, but he 
meant to be so next day; and he carried a jug in his 
hand which contained, as he said to himself, all he had 
got in the world. He did not know who lived in Ar- 
thur's hoilse ; but the lights and merry voices at- 
tracted him, and hiding in the shadow of the porch, he 
peered through the blinds, and saw the children, after 
a good-night kiss all round, go off to bed. 

Then he saw the grown folks displaying and arrang- 
ing the presents ; he saw the stockings filled and labeled, 
and " hung up by the chimney with care ; " he saw the 
larger presents, beautiful books and toys and shining 
jewelry, shown about, wrapped up again, and laid away 
in their proper heaps ; and as he watched everything 
with absorbed interest, his thoughts grew even harder 
and more stern, until he cursed the happy people who 
could show their mutual loVe in so many ways, while he 
and his boy " might starve, for all these rich folks care." 
He was a miserable and in some respects a bad man ; 
but he was not a thief — not yet; only he had let into 
his heart the evil spirits of envy and covetousness and 
hate, out of which comes every sin. 

After all was quiet in the house, he stood for a long 
time in dark meditation, and then turned to go. But his 


foot struck the jug, which he had set down by his side ; 
and the jug struck the long window, which came, like a 
a door, down to the floor ; and the window flew wide 
open. Amid the bustle of Christmas preparation every- 
body must have forgotten to " lock up." In another in- 
stant Bob's father was in the parlor, without knowing 
exactly why he had entered. 

Sinning is like sliding down hill ; at first you go slow, 
and soirietimes have to push the sled a little with your 
rudder-leg ; but you get started, and go faster and faster, 
till at last you cannot stop if you want to. Bob's father 
had got a good way down the hill, and now he hesitated 
no more, but, muttering to himself that his boy had as 
good a right to some of these fine gimcracks as anybody 
else, he stole softly to the fireplace and took down one 
of the stockings. 

But he did not hear the fall of little bare feet on the 
stairs, and across the carpeted floor ; and a terrible tremor 
seized upon him when he felt a gentle pull at his shaggy 
coat. Turning in fear, he saw what he thought must be 
an apparition. There stood a bright-faced fellow in a 
white nightgown, holding in his hands a little tin sav- 
ings-bank. The fire jumped up into fresh flame, and 
threw its light upon the gloomy man and the fair child. 

" O Santa Claus ! " said Arthur eagerly, " I'm glad 
you've come ! I've had a hard time to keep awake for 
you ; but I would do it, and I did. You got in easy, I 
know, for I fixed the window for you when nobody was 
looking, so you didn't have to come down the chimney. 
And now you see you owe me a favor, don't you ? You 
needn't turn away, I am not going to peek at the stock- 
ings. We know what's in some of them, though, you 
and me— don't we ? Father gave you that — you know 
what — for mother's stocking, hey! And the rest of the 
things are all right, of course. But that isn't what I 
want to ask you. You see there's a boy around 
at our school ; he hasn't got any slate or anything, 
and he feels bad about it, I know. He behaves awful 


sometimes, and I didn't like him a bit ; but I mean 
to like him, if he will let me, for he only behaves bad 
because he feels so, you know. I didn't think of that at 
first, and mother pitied him, and that made me think. 
And I've got ten cents left in my savings-bank ; you 
just turn it upside down and rattle it, and they will come 
out of the chimney — only not here, for it makes a dread- 
ful racket to draw money out of my savings-bank, and 
we might wake somebody. Now, Santa Glaus, I want 
you to take this, and buy a slate — ten cents buys a bully 
slate ; and there 's a man in Main Street, he gives a slate- 
pencil to boot — and give that slate to him. When he 
has got a slate of his own, he wont rub out other fellows' 
slates, I guess. His name is Bob Manning ; don't you 
make any mistake." 

All this time Santa Glaus said nothing, but looked 
first at the fire, then at the floor, and then at eager Ar- 
thur. In fact, if he had wanted ever so much to talk, 
he couldn't have got a word in edgewise ; for Arthur's 
tongue went rattling on, as young folks' tongues are apt 
to do, at hours when they ought to be in bed, but are not. 
But the boy expected no reply ; he continued : 

" You wont say anything, I know that. Don't I know 
your ways ? ' He spoke not a word, but went straight to 
his work! ' But you can nod, can't you ? Just lay your 
finger aside of your nose and give a nod, and I'll know 
it 's all right." 

Santa Glaus deliberately hung up the stocking he had 
been holding, took Arthur's savings-bank with one hand, 
laid the fingers of the other hand by his nose (in a most 
peculiar manner, I must say, for in doing it he rubbed 
his knuckles right in his eye), and gave three decided 
nods. Then suddenly looking at Arthur's bare feet, he 
threw both arms around him, carried him noiselessly 
across the parlor carpet and the cold marble floor of the 
hall, and set him upon the stalirs. 

" Good- by," whispered Arthur, " dear old Santa Glaus ! 
You 're not so funny, nor so handsome as your picture, 


but you're real good; anybody can see that." And 
away he scampered to bed, while Bob's father, clutching 
the savings-bank, crept back through the parlor and out 
at the window, saying over and over : 
" 'Anybody can see that ! ' O my God, my God ! " 
Next morning the fragments of a broken jug were 
found on the sidewalk in front of the house. When 
school began after holidays, a sensation was produced 
by Bob Manning, who jumped on a fence-post during 
the iirst recess, and announced that Arthur was the bul- 
liest boy that ever lived, and if anybody didn't think so, 
he would like to see that person for a minute behind 
the shed. 

These circumstances may not amount to much in them- 
selves ; but I fancy they were the beginnings of great 
good that will result from Arthur's interview with the 
man who became Santa Glaus in spite of himself, or 
rather from Arthur's sympathy and generosity. One 
swallow doesn't make a summer; but when the swallows 
begin to come, the summer is not far. 


A brewer, in a country town, 

Had got a monstrous reputation. 
No other beer than his went down 

The hosts of the surrounding station; 
Carving his name upon their mugs. 

And painting it on every shutter; 

And though some envious folks would utter 
Hints, that its flavor came from drugs, 
Others maintained 'twas no such matter. 

But, owing to his monstrous vat, — 

As corpulent, at least, as that 
At Heidelberg, and some say fatter. 

His foreman was a lusty black. 

An honest fellow 
But one that had an ugly knack 


Of tasting samples, as he brewed, 

Till he was stupefied and mellow. 
One day, in this top-heavy mood, 

Having to cross the vat aforesaid 
(Just then with boiling beer supplied), 

O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he 
Eeeled — fell in— and nothing more said. 
But in his favorite liquor died. 

Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey. 

In all directions round about. 
The negro absentee was sought. 
But as no human noddle thought 
That our fat black was made brown stout, 
They settled that the negro left 
The place for debt, or crime, or theft. 
Meanwhile, the beer was day by day 
Drawn into casks and sent away. 

Until the lees flowed thick and thicker, 
When, lo! outstretched upon the ground, 
Once more their missing friend they found, 
As they'd oft done before — in liquor ! 

" See," cried his moralizing master, 
"I knew the fellow always drank hard. 

And prophesied some sad disaster. 

His fate should other tipplers strike. 

Poor Mungo ! there be welters like 
A toast at bottom of a tankard ! " 

Next morn, a publican whose tap 
Had helped to drain the vat so dry. 

Not having heard of the mishap, 
Came to demand a fresh supply ; 

Protesting loudly that the last 

All previous specimens surpassed, — 

Possessing a much richer gusto. 

Than formerly it ever used to ; 

And begsing, as a special favor. 

More of exactly the same flavor. 

" Zounds ! " cried the brewer, " that'a a task 
More difficult to grant, than ask ! 

Most gladly would I give the smack 
Of the last beer to the ensuing ; 

But, where am I to find a black 
To be boiled down at every brewing ?" 


NAME YOUR POISON— George Sennott. 

Fill high your bowl with Fusel OiW 

With Tannin let your cups be crowned ! 
If Strychnia gives relief to toil 

Let Strychnia's generous juice abound ! 
With Oil of Vitriol cool your brains, 

Or, animated atoms brew. 
And fill your arteries, hearts and veins 

With glee — and Infusorial Glue ! 

Ah-h-h ! fmgrant fume of Creosote ! 

Bewitching bowl of Prussian Blue ! 
Who would not cool his parching throat 

With your bright offspring, Mountain Dew? 
Stronger than aught that wrecked the frame 

Or shook the mighty brain of Burns ! 
Surely, you'll set our heads aflame 

Whene'er his festal day returns. 

Bring on the beer ! fresh Copperas foam, 

With Alum mixed in powder fine! 
How could my foolish fancy roam 

In search of whiter froth than thine . 
Thine Indian berry's essence, spread 

Through amber wavelets, sparkling clear. 
Benumbs dull care, strikes feeling dead, 

And narcotizes shame and fear ! 

Far down thy bubbling depths, Champagne, 

Drowned honor, love and beauty lie ! 
They fought the unequal fight in vain ! 

Shall we, then, merely drink and die? 
Sweet Acetate of Lead forbid ! 

To ev'ry drink add pangs — and tell 
What tortures in thy bosom hid 

Anticipate the stings of hell ! 

Then drink, boys ! Drink ! We never can 

Drink younger, and we never will 
Be men — or aught resembling man — 

While poisoners have the power to kill ! 
Amen ! From frenzy's screech of mirth 

To maudlin sorrow's drunken flow, 
Let's rave through scenes unmatched on earth, 

And not to be surpassed below ! 



John Alcohol, my foe, John, 

When we were first acquaint, 
I'd siller in my pockets, John, 

Which noo, ye ken, I want; 
I spent it all in treating, John, 

Because I loved you so ; 
But, mark ye, how you've treated me, 

John Alcohol, my foe ! 

John Alcohol, my foe, John, 

We've been ower lang thegither, 
Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John, 

And I will tak anither ; 
For we maun tumber down, John, 

If hand in hand we go ; 
And I shall hae the bill to pay, 

John Alcohol, my foe. 

John Alcohol, my foe, John; 

Ye've bleared out a' my een, 
And lighted up my nose, John, 

A fiery sign atween ! 
My hands wi' palsy shake, John, 

My locks are like the snow ; 
Ye'll surely be the death o' me, 

John Alcohol, my foe. 

John Alcohol, my foe, John, 

'Twas love to you, I ween. 
That gart me rise sae' ear' John, 

And sit sae late at e'en ; 
The best o' frien's maun part, John ; 

It grieves me sair, ye know ; 
But " we'll nae mair to yon town," 

John Alcohol, my foe. 

John Alcohol, my foe, John, 

Ye've wrought me muckle skaith ; 
And yet to part wi' you, John, 

I own I'm unco laith ; 
But I'll join the temperance ranks, John, 

You need na say me no ; 
It's better late than ne'er do weel, 

John Alcohol, my foe. 


Jeannie Pendleton Ewing. 

They stand on his dressing-table, with the things that are 

next his lieart ; 
They are trim and light, of satin white, and their heels are 

high and smart; 
His own wife's little slippers, and she laughs at his tender 

But he will not heed, for he says, indeed, they are half the 

world to him ! 

For, once in his own ^oung manhood, he went to a splendid 

And in whites, and blues, and these very shoes, she entered, 
most dear of all. 

Not married then — no, bless you ! but the season's debu- 

And close to her place was the wrinkled face of her terrible 
maiden aunt. 

The fiddles shrieked from the corner their notes to the 

rhythmic whirl, 
And before he knew that his bliss was true, he had waltzed 

with that sweet young girl. 
Up on the walls were garlands ; crowds surged in at the 

And under the feet of the dancers fleet was the stretch of 

the polished floor. 

But alas for the youth and maiden ! In the midst of their 

frolic gay 
The dreadful aunt began to haunt wherever the two would 

At last with some prim excuses she drew her charge aside, 
And with finger raised, while her black eyes blazed, she 

thus began to chide : 

"I am shocked at your bold behavior ! yes, look at me if 
you can ; 

Three times this eve as I do believe, you have danced with 
that same young man ! 

Come home ! " She stalked to the door-way ; the poor girl 
followed fast, 

And her little shoe, all white and new, fell oflF as she scam- 
pered past ! 

'Twas the story of Cinderella under her very eyes, 
For quick as a flash, that youth so rash had stooped to seize 
th e prize. 

♦Written expressly for this Collection. 


Nobody saw ; she nodded, though her frightened lips were 

While under her gown, from her auntie's frown, she hid 

her shoeless foot ! 

Well, the young man's joy soon vanished, for after a week 

or more 
Came a heavy cross, — his father's loss of most of his earthly 

No dames, no balls for our hero ; or how could he take a 

When a figured page and a weekly wage seemed all that 

was left in life? • 

But, once when he reached his office he found a tiny note 
In the prettiest hand, in the whole wide land, that any 

woman wrote ; 
It read, " You may call this evening ; I shall be at home, 

I know." 
And he went that night, and his heart was light, he had 

hungered to see her so. 

They talked of the famous slippers; of the one that he 
treasured still, 

And she told the fate of its little mate, how it looked for- 
lorn and ill. 

Suddenly, up he started : "Ah well I we could join the 

But to come as a wife to my poor starved life is something 
ycm would not do ! " 

Oh, brave and bright was her answer, soothing his manly 

shame ; 
" What did she care, with enough to spare, if he had not 

the same? " 
So The aunt was asked to a wedding, and the hatchet 

buried, too, 
And side by side with its satin bride they placed the other 


MY WIFE'S HUSBAND.— Chas. R. Risley.* 

Written expressly for this Collection, 

I made wp my mind the other day that I would not 
be bossed around by my wife any longer. I had had 
enough of it. So when I arrived home I called out, 
" Eleanor," and she stepped out of the kitclien where 

♦Public Reader and Humorist. 


she was baking, with the rolling-pin in her hand, and 
answered, "Well, what do you want?" That rather 
staggered me for a moment, but I recovered myself and 
said, " Mrs. Robinson, I want you to distinctly under- 
stand that I am the engineer of this establishment." 
"Oh," was the reply, "you are, are you ? Well, I want you 
to distinctly understand that I aiu the boiler that is liable 
to blow up and send the engineer over into the next coun- 
ty. Do you hear the steam escaping, Mr. R. ? " I heard it, 
and meekly inquired if there was any assistance I could 
render in the kitchen? She set me frosting a loaf of cake. 

I remember the first loaf of cake she ever made ; it was 
a cold day in winter and that night she set it outdoors 
to be frosted. Economy. 

I'll relate another instance. Last Thanksgiving she 
took the money I left to buy a turkey with and bought 
a new bonnet. Then she opened the bed-tick and took 
out some feathers and made me scatter them around the 
yard. She said she wasn't going to have the neighbors 
think we got left. 

Just before election a man came around canvass- 
ing for votes. He stopped at our house and my wife 
went to the door. The man asked, " Is the boss at home?" 
She answered, "Yes sir, what do you want ? " The man 
asked, " What is the political complexion of the house, 
Democrat or Republican ?" " Neither one," said my 
wife, "I'm a home ruler." 

Before I was married I used to take the Phrenological 
Journal, and when I read this advice, " In choosing a 
wife be governed by her chin," I acted accordingly, 
and I've kept on being governed that way ever since. 
For instance, just after we were married and were fur- 
nishing the house, we were considering the kind of car- 
pets we should have for the parlor, and I suggested Ax- 
minster. But she wouldn't have it, and said, "It was 
none of the minister's business." So she settled every- 
thing to her satisfaction ; she hung the room with pic- 
tures and bric-a-brac, and placed a large picture of her 


husband ou the topmost nail and then sat down to 
admire the efiect. " There," said she, "everything m 
lovely and the goose hangs high ! " 

There is a book on the center-table in that room, 
which was a present to me from the bachelor club 
which I used to belong to. It breaks me all up every 
time I look at it. The book is entitled " Paradise Lost." 
I never go into that room now except when I am obliged 
to. Sometimes when my wife has callers she makes me 
go in there and sit, just for the looks of the thing. I tried 
to remonstrate with her one night. Said I, " Now your 
friends don't care anything about seeing me ; I'm only a 
plain every-day sort of fellow." " Yes," she said, " I know 
you 're a weak specimen of humanity, wh)' don't you 
have a mind of your owr ?" "Well," I said," I really don't 
need any; you're always ready to give me a piece of yours." 

I never go out evenings now, unless she goes 
with me. I haven't been out alone but once since I 
was married, and then I went down to the club. I got 
deeply interested in a game of whist, and was shocked to 
hear Brown say, " It 's awfully late, Robinson, half-past 
one, what'll you say to your wife when you get home?" 
"Oh!" I said, "I shant say much. Good morning, 
love, or something of that sort. She'll say the rest." 

As an especial mark of favor to me she had agreed to 
have our little girl called Margery, after an aunt of mine, 
but she changed her mind a while ago, and said she 
should call the child Ola. I tried to compromise the 
ihatter with her. I said, "Why not call her Ola-Mar- 
gery ?" " Oh ! " she said, " that sounds too much like 
Oleomargarine." " Well, what of that," said I, " we 
haven't any but her." 


The world is full of proofs; on every side 
The hazard wins that jumps with time and tide. 
No need of sorrow's stroke, or peril's pangs. 
To tell how much on instant action hangs. 


Since even life's inferior functions catch 
Prizes of promptness, trophies of dispatcli, 
And sport itself, a iiiindred times a day, 
Samples fruition by the shortest way. 

Let some disturbing start your senses seize, 

Just in the ticklish climax of a sneeze ; 

The shoclj dissolves the rising thrill ; in vain 

Your nostrils tingle with delicious pain ; 

Each nerve and membrane, strung to keen employ, 

In rage collapses, cheated of its joy, 

And your breath, gathered for one glorious leap, 

Bursts in a fizzling splurge that makes you weep. 

Next time the signal by your nose conveyed 

Foretells the small catarrhal cannonade. 

You shut your eyes to nature and mankind. 

And on that sneeze concentrate all your mind. 

Your frame expectant quivers on the spring, 

Each limb and organ feels the ecstatic sting ; 

Along your veins hot, prickly lightnings run, 

And all your seven senses, armed as one. 

With fierce, fine tension, climb and stretch and strain 

To touch the electric button in the brain. 

Then, flash ! the mimic earthquake gathered there 

Explodes with boisterous outcry on the air. 

The grand convulsion blows the dust away 

From fevery corner of your mortal clay. 

Quickens digestion, shakes, with power untold. 

From spleen and midrifi' every reef and fold, 

Clears the clogged channel of your lungs, and sends 

The glad blood bounding to your fingers' ends. 

Another blast the happy work completes. 

Again your tingling nose the sign repeats ; 

Again to catch the pleasing spasm you try. 

The moment comes— you snatch it " on the fly," 

Eally your forces, fire a whole broadside. 

And mourn no longer for the sneeze that died. 

In every course, from purpose to event. 
The man successful is the man intent. 
He, from the human tumult hurrying past, 
Rescues his chance, and holds his blessing fast. 
His weaker brother, timorous and remiss, 
Falters half-hearted, dreading that or this, 
And conquers nothing, for his every plan 
Scares at the pinch, and " flashes in the pan.'' 



'Tis gone at last, and I am glad ; it stayed a fearful while, 
And when the world was light and gay, I could not even 

It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm ; 
No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm. 

I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know 
How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with 

snow ; 
I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm 
Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm. 

The children they were growing up and they were smart 

and trim. 
To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim ; 
And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed 
He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read. 

The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes. 
They said the house was out of style and far behind the 

times ; 
They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep 'm warm — 
Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm. 

We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day. 
While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the 

The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years 
Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and 


We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have 

seen it. 
It was a most tremendous thing — I really didn't mean it; 
Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town, 
And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down. 

I bought a fine planner and it shortened still the pile, 
But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the 

while ; 
No matter what they played for me, their music had no 

For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the 


I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the 

To meet that grisly interest ; I tried hard to be brave, 


And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, 
The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage 
on the farm. 

But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, 
The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new 

ones go ; 
And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his 

I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow. 

He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, 
But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land ; 
And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs. 
We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs. 

To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town. 
And in the the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar 

down ; 
And when I trotted up the lane, a-feeling good and warm. 
The old red rooster crowed his best : " No mortgage on the 

farm !" 

I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, 
The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. 
The girls can play the brand new tunes with no fears to 

And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm ! 

— Farm, Field and Fireside. 


One day when the studies were over, the school-master 
took from his desk an odd-looking box with pictures of 
birds painted upon it He called the boys to his desk 
and told them that he had bought each of them a little 
present. Then, while they stood around, he drew out of 
it some white and pink shells and some pretty toys which 
he gave to^thera with kind and pleasant words. 

But the' most lovely thing of all was a little statue of 
an angel. She stood with her small, white hands folded 
over her breast, and her face uplifted, and appeared so 
fair and so pure that the children gazed at her with eyes 
full of joy. They had never seen anything like it. 

" This angel is too lovely to be given to any child 


who is not good and true of heart. But the one who 
brings me to-morrow the brightest thing on earth shall 
have the angel for his own." 

The children looked at each other, not feeling sure 
that they understood the master. But he said no more, 
and they went home. 

The next day, after the lessons were finished, the chil- 
dren gathered around the master to show him what they 
had brought. Some had picked up sparkling stones by the 
roadside ; one had polished a small piece of silver until 
it shone like a mirror; another had brought a watch 
crystal which his father had given him ; and Henry, the 
merchant's son, had brought a breastpin with a stone 
set in its centre that shone like a diamond. 

" Ah ! mine is the brightest ! " cried Henry. 

" But where is little Carl? "asked Master Lewis, look- 
ing around. " We cannot decide until Carl brings his 

At that moment little Carl, the baker's only son, came 
running into the room. In his hands, held up lovingly 
against his neck, was a snow-white dove. Some red 
drops upon its downy breast showed that it had been hurt. 

" Oh, master," cried Carl, " I was looking for some- 
thing bright when I came upon this poor dove. Some 
cruel boys were throwing stones at it and I caught it up 
and ran here. Oh, I am afraid it will die !" 

Even as he spoke the- dove closed its soft eyes ; it 
nestled closer to Carl's neck, dropped its head, and died. 

Carl sank upon his knees beside the master's desk, and 
from his eyes there fell upon the poor dove's broken 
wing two tears, large and bright. 

The master took the dead bird from his hands and 
laid it tenderly upon his desk. Then turning to the 
schoolboys, he said : " My children, there is no brighter 
thing on earth than a tender, pitying tear." 

" Give the white angel to little Carl ! " cried the boys. 
" We know now what you meant : and his offering is bet- 
ter than any of ours." — Presbyterian Journal. 


THE MEETIN'-HOUSE IS SPLIT.— Louis Eisenbeis* 

WriUm expreisly for tlm Collection. 

I've bin a member most my days, an I'm not a-tirin' yit, 
But I never thought I'd see the day when the meetin- 

house 'd split ; 
I've bin aboard the "Old Ship Zion," a-sailin with her crew, 
An' now, she's run agin a snag, that's cut her "hull" in two! 
I'll tell you how 'twas brung about— they was only jist a 

But they sed they'd have to split, there was nuthin' else 

to do. 
Now, ez I was actii? stewert, I went around last nite 
To 'tend a 'flshel meetin'— things hedn't bin goin' rite. 

The 'fishel board filled every seet, there was hardly standin' 

I'd not seen sech outpourin' sence,— well, I think, last June. 
They bed sum stirrin' meetin's then, a-discussin' the natur' 

of sin. 
And 'twas thought they'd hevto split the church to git that 

organ in ; 
But they got it in, an' ever sence that thing 's bin in the 

They've hed a sight of trouble with Deacon Bjown, the 


Well, ez I was goin' to say, last nite the 'flshel board, with 

Got so hot they called fer air, an' pulled the winders down. 
That ten-plate stove hed no fire in, and only the candle sconce 
Hed a little flame, but 'twas 'mazin' queer how hot it got to 

The preacher didn't git there, an' Deacon Brown, sez he : 
" This meetin'-house hez got to change, to hold my wife an' 

An' he brought his flst down on the stand, till it cracked 

most like a gun. 
An' stamped his foot onto the floor, most like it weighed a 

The deacon got to findin' fait, the preacher didn't soot ; 
Nobody knowed jis why it was he was a-raisin' sich dispute, 
But there was a little widder Jones, who tended meetin's 

Who always sot back near the door, not havin' much to 

This widder had a darter, I s'pose about twenty-five, 
An' the preacher bein' single, often tuk her out to drive. 

*Autlior of "The Church Fair," "The Pai-son's Vaciition," " The DeacoD, 
Me and Him," " Joner and the Whale," etc., in previous iN'umbers. 


I guess the young gal loved him, leastwise they sed she did, 
An' the people got to talkiii' — some sed 't should be forbid, 
I don't know why, 'ceptin' it was they sed the gal was poor. 
She hed no social standin', and her people was obscure. 
Twouldn't do fer the preacher to marry her, if he did, he'd 

hev to go ; 
An' I s'pose that 's jis why Deacon Brown went on a-ravin' so. 

They talked theirselves a' most to death, an' could hardly 

talk no more. 
Why sumtimes eight or ten, to once, wer standin' on the floor. 
You couldn't understand a word what they wer talkin' about. 
Sum was a-lafiin', sum shed teers, an' sum wer in a pout. 
A brother, speakin' a leetle loud, sez he, "We wont be druv," 
An' jist ez he sed it, I can't tell how, they upsot that ten- 
plate stove. 
I spose the jarrin' loosed the pipe, an' when it tumbled down 
It spattered a lot of chimbley sut, rite over Deacon Brown. 
But Cheerman Johnsing pausin' awhile, till things were 

gethered in — 
It giv em a chance to git their breth, an' they started off 

I did heer Cheerman Johnsing say — "All opposed, say I," 
An' every man, I think, sed No ! ez loud as he could cry. 
Then the cheerman sed that settled it, the motion 's got to go. 
But wot the motion was that won, even the cheerman didn't 

But Squire Brown got in a word, his cheeks begun to swell : 
" Tell me," sez he, " that motion please," an' there wasn't 

one could tell. 
An' so they kep' a-wranglin' on till the midnight bell hed 

When they all jumped up and started home, a-sayin', " The 

church is split." 

'Twas late when I got home that nite,— the folks wer most 

My wife wus a-weepin' herself to death because I hedn't 

Sez I to her : " Mirandy deer, weep not, I'm livin yit ; 
That 'fish el board has settled it— the meetin'-house is 

Mirandy wiped ier weepin' eye, but didn't know what to 

She dreamed all nite the sun hed split, an' she didn't sleep 

a wink. 
She saw the New Jerusalem, the gates were split in two. 
An' the sea of Glass, 'afore the throne, hed a crack a-run- 

nin through, 


The Golden Harps and the Glitterin' Crowns, wer a-splittin' 

all around — 
An' she didn't rouse till the old cracked bell giv its early 

mornin' sound. 

Well, in a day or so the nuse leeked out an' the people got 

the word ; 
There wus a flurry among 'em, I tell you, the meetin'-house 

was stirred. 
The preacher read a notice for the meetin' folks to meet. 
An' that nite when the peeple gethered there wasn't a va- 
cant seet; 
But they wus mostlj^ poor folks, not many upper-ten, 
Jis' lots an' lots of sistern but mighty few of the men. 
An' when the preacher told 'em he was goin' to say "Good- 

Them sistern got their hankchers out, and all begun to 

But Deacon Brown wusa-settin' back, he didn't weep a bit ; 
He stood rite up, " Brethring," sez he, " this meetin'-house 

is split." 
" I say," sez he, "it's split ! it's split ! it can't be ment no more, 
Yer mite ez well hang out yer crape on the latch of that 

old door." 
An' I guess it wus, fer Brown went out, three others went 

out too, 
An' only the common folks wus left, a-sayin' "What'U we do ?" 
Brown started another meetin'-house, a grander one, I 'spect. 
An' called it — well, I jis forgit, anyhow, 'twas another 


'Bout the old meetm-house? you say; well, the preacher 

changed his mind. 
He didn't go ; the wimmin pled, the old folks stayed behind ; 
That gal stayed too, no wonder, fer he was oncommon 

An' everybody seen to once, they didn't want to part. 
Soon 't got out, so the wimmin sed, for they both went to 

An' bought a lot of housal-goods an' she her weddin' gown. 
An' so at last when things got quiet, the preacher an' her 

wer wed, 
An' spite of the splittin' in the church the mee tin's went 

But peeple sed 'twas dretful— alivin, burnin shame 

To split the meetin'-house that way— an' Brown he wus to 

blame ; 
But if you ask 'em what it was that made 'em split up so, 
They'll git a coughin' spell an' say, " Nobody seems to know." 


LITTLE MISS TROT— Eben E. Rbxford. 

I wish you could see her, our little Miss Trot ! 
Do you think her a woman ? Well, sir, she is not. 
She's only a chubby, fat, bright two-year-old, 
Is our little Miss Trot, and her hair's bright as gold ; 
Her eyes blue as pansies ; her mouth like a rose 
When only half opened ; and such chubby toes. 

We call her Miss Trot, because, ten times a day, 
She coaxes her 'dranpa" to trot her away 
On his knee, to old ''Banbury, after some cake," 
And, good gracious ! the racket that grandpa will make, 
As he gallops away, though he stays in his chair ; 
But it 's all one to Trot — if the fun 's only there. 

Somehow she and "dranpa'' are very close friends ; 
He rocks her to sleep, and her dolly he tends. 
And tells her the story of "Little Bo-Peep," 
And the time that he had when he lost his pet sheep; 
And she says when we ask her " Whose baby is this?" 
" Me's dranpa's own baby ; 'ou knows 'at I is." 

She gets into mischief, and mamma will say 

" My baby is naughty to act in this way." 

Then Trot trots away to her grandfather's chair, 

And thinks she's all right when she takes refiige there ; 

And grandpa will say that his baby is good, 

And wouldn't do mischief, he knows, if she could ! 

Such a wee cunning thing ! you should hear her at night- 
When she gets on her little, long nightgown of white. 
As she kneels by the chair where her grandfather sits, 
And says her short prayer, ere to slumber she flits. 
Then she kisses us all, and she whispers " Dood-night ;" 
And cuddles away 'neath the coverlets white. 
And swift to her eyelids the drowsy dreams creep. 
And in two little minutes Miss Trot 's sound asleep. 


Two little urchins started out 
To tramp the streets and lanes about 
In search of rags, bones, coal or wood, 
But taught to seek their needed food 


By shunning all the grocery stores 
And rapping at the basement doors. 

So, armed with basket and with bag. 

They, lest their trade should sometimes drag, 

Agreed to share, if either found 

A nice " tit-bit" in all their round, — 

A precious morsel of meat or cake, 

Fruit, tart or pie, —to " give or take." 

Now lucky Jimmy soon espied 

A rosy apple, and sought to hide 

From his companion's greedy eyes 

His unexpected, luscious prize ; 

But following his mother Eve, 

Who, with an apple first deceived, 

Took still another road to crime, 

The fruit concealing for a time ; 

She shared with Adam the tempting fruit, 

He sought his palate alone to suit ! 

Now, wary Tom, made keen and bold 
By years of strife with want and cold, 
Read in his comrade's sparkling eyes 
Possession of some valued prize. 
And claimed his share by contract right. 
Else, from his size, by right of might. 

Jim passed the apple, while Tom agreed 
To take a bite, and stick to creed 
Of " give and take ; " he opened wide 
Capacious jaws, and lo! inside 
The apple popped ! Poor little Jim 
Saw but a morsel left for him ; 
" See here ! " exclaimed the luckless wight, 
"You've taken the apple and left the bite!" 


" One, honest John Fletcher, a hedger and ditcher, 
Although ho was poor didn't want to be richer; 
All petty vexation in him was prevented 
By the fortunate liabit of being contented." 

This sounds very wise in a galloping reading. 
And yet some revision I think it is needing ; 
The man that is poor and don't want to be richer 
Is surely not fit for much more than a ditcher. 


Whenever we red in our present condition 
Our life will result in but little fruition. 
'Tis well, to be sure, that we should not be fretting 
When doing our best in our striving and getting; 
But striving and getting is always a merit 
When done in accord with the light of the spirit ; 
Aspiring to things now beyond and above us 
So widens the soul that the angels must love us ; 
For what is this earth but a place for subliming. 
This life but a summitless mountain for climbing? 
If we find onrselves poor let us strive for true riches, 
And climb till we get ourselves out of the ditches. 

Contentment is good when it keeps us from worry, 

And action misguided by profitless hurry; 

But the world had stood still if the race had consented 

To want very little, and so be contented. 

"Wild honey and locusts" we still would be sharing. 

The fig leaves of Adam we still would be wearing; 

In caverns, and hovels, in forests primeval, 

We still would be nursing our customs of evil. 

True men are not formed in so simple a fashion. 
Their souls are propelled by a mastering passion 
To strive to attain to their hightest ideal — 
Which stretches beyond as they make it the real. 
They think nothing good that may yet be made better, 
That man to his Maker is ever a debtor. 
That his talents are loaned on the special condition, 
To use in accord with his noblest ambition ; 
Inviting him upward in earnest endeavor, 
And keeping his spirit unsated forever ; 
Increasing his outward and inward resources ; 
Awaking in nature her slumbering forces. 

Oh ! spirit unresting, content but in knowing 

That day after day we are gaining and growing, 

Disclosing new fields for ennobling employment; 

Revealing new sources of human enjoyment ; 

Enlarging our living within and without us. 

And bringing the blessings of comfort about us; 

By feeding the soul on its vision of beauty; 

By nerving tlie hand for its missions of duty ; 

Thus lifting us up to the plane of high living, 

Of liberal using a7id generous giving. 

And 'tis olearto my mind that such menas John Fletcher 

Would be better men did they strive to be richer. 


THE JEWELS OF MY AUNT.— Robert C. V. Meybe*.* 

[COPYKIOHT, 189 5.] 


M. DB Ravillac, who briD(^ the jewels from Paris aud will take them back 

unless personally delivered to their owner. 
Roland Evbuson, who determines that the jewels shall not return to Paris. 
GusTAV VoN ScHWARTZKOPr, who knows little of the English tongue, but who 

forces the jewels to be delivered. 
Haury, the butler, who is from "Hold Hingland," and who helps unconsciously 

in the delivery of the jewels. 
Copper, a policeman, who threatens those to whom the jewels are delivered. 
Miss Jane EvJirson, who owns the jewels and will not disown the one to whom 

the jewels are delivered. 
Mdlle. Clarisse dbRavillac, who eventually delivers herself, as the greatest 

jewel, to the one who took the othera. 

SuQOESTIONS as TO OoSTUMES: Clansfie in street dress with hat and parasol. 
Mm Emreon^ street dress ; she has iron-gray hair. Boland EversoUj morning 
dress, ilf. de BavUtac, gray trousers, tight frock coat, overcoat on arm, white 
gaiters, high hat, button-hole bouquet, gray hair and gray curling moustache. 
GuBtavvon Schwartskopf, morning gown, eilk ekuU cap. He has heavy mous- 
tache and long hair. Han'y, livery, or servant's dress. 

ScETSiE.— Breakfast room. Table mth dishes. Harry clearing 
table. Easel ai left with picture on it ; palette and brushes on 
chair. Window, right. 

Harry {laughing). Has Hi ham a Hiuglisliman this his the 
hloomin'est muss Hi hever see. Says Mr. Roly Heverson, 
says 'e, " 'Arry, the French crank's a-comin' this mornin 
■with the jewels hof my haunt, and 'e wont deliver 'em 
hunless 'e sees 'er hin pusson, and she's way hoflf somewhere 
hin space and cawn't be wired." My heyes ! 'ere they are. 

Enter, left, Vm Schwartzkopf, smoking pipe ; and Everson who 
has open letter. Harry keeps busy at table. 

Everson. Gustav, it 's foolery. My aunt's diamonds shall 
not go back to Paris. It 's rank foolery, I tell you. 

Von Schwartzkopf. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. 
Foolery ! Yah ! Das ausgespielt. Yah ! 

EvFR. They are jewels left my Annt Jane by her cousin 

•Author of "The Day Before the Wedding," "Ze Moderne English," "The Top 
Landing," "A Bonnet for mv Wife," "A Dynamite Plot," and other Comedies, 
Farces, etc., in previous Numbers of this Series. The leading peculiarity of Mr. 
M-'yers's Dramas lies in their sparkling dialogue, quick action and easy adapta- 
bility to place. Pnr a synopsis of these and other new Plays, included in ouf 
^ist, send for Catalogue. 7^. 


who married M. de Ravillac's brother, and who died and 
left De Ravillac her executor. He says he will only deliver 
the jewels to my aunt in person. 

Vo.v S. I knows so liddle der Englander tongue. Shewels ? 
Got Aunt Chane vonce ! Yah ! 

Ever. He says he has written nine times to my aunt and 
received no reply. This last note was open and left with 
Harry last night. He is coming this morning and will take 
the jewels back to Paris with him to-morrow if he does not 
hand them to my aunt in person. 

Von S. Shood der FrenChmans. We licks him von der 
Franco-Prussian war. Yah! We shood him. Yah. 

Ever. I might have him arrested, but that would make 
gossip, and my Aunt Jane hates gossip. 

VoN S. Uiid she a vomans ! Nein, womans is ausgespielt. 

Ever. Not every woman, Gustav. Remember the little 
charmer I saw in the picture gallery in Berlin? 

Von S. Und you brings me all der vay vor America to 
find her. Yah ! Und I leave my pictures und my models 
und come. Sehr goot ! Bah ! 

Ever. Gustav, she 's at school in the city, here. If only 
Aunt Jane were at home ! She knows everybody, and she 'd 
get me acquainted with my charmer, for she 'd be sure to 
know the lady who keeps the school. 

Von S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue— shood der 
lady what keep der schule {going to easel). 

Ever. But I must secure the jewels of my aunt, Gustav, 
they shall not go back to Paris. 

Von S. (painting.) You will not shood der Frenchmans? 
Nein ! Get der man vat shteal to get them. Get Heinrich, 
here. Yah ! 

Harry. Sir, Hi ham a Hinglishman, hand Hi will not be 
hinsulted (shaking his head). 

Ever. Guslav, 1 can't see my way at all. 

Von S. (busy at easel.) Don'd go vay, den. Yah ! 

Harry. Begging your parding, sir, but couldn't you 'ave 
your haunt 'ere, sir ? 

Ever, (snappishly.) You know I don't know where she is. 

Harry. Begging your parding, sir, but the French gen- 
tleman 'as never seen your haunt ; couldn't you hask some 
lady to be your haunt for the hoccasion, sir ? 


EvBE. That 's an idea. Do you hear that, Gustav ? 

Von S. I knows liddle. All der lady vat I vants is der 
model for my picture. Vere I gets der model, Eferson, eh ? 

Ever. Besides, what lady could I ask ? 

Von S. Der model lady. 

EvBR. h , I wasn't thinking of your picture, I meant what 
lady could I ask to personate my aunt. 

VoN 8. [throwing dovm brushes.) Shood it. I can do not- 
ings vithout der model woraans. Eferson, you pose for me ? 

Ever. What shall I do regarding these jewels ? 

Von S. {despairingly, fo Harry.) Heinrich, could you put on 
Aunt Chane's frock und pose as der lady for my picture ? 

Hakry. Hi ham a Hinglishman, sir, hand Hi ham not 
to be hinsulted. 

Ever, (angrily.) Gustav, let the man alone. Can't you 
give me your idea as to how I shall meet M. de Eavillac? 

Von. S. I haf told you already once — shood him. 

Ever. I tell you the jewels shall not go back to Paris and 
give my aunt further trouble. 

Von S. Eferson, pose for me once ? I come all der way 
von Berlin to please you. I want der position und der 
drapery — put on der frock of Aunt Chane und pose a liddle 
five minutes, hein ? 

Ever. Don't be a fool, Gustav. 

VoN S. I do much for you already. 

Ever. I put on a frock ? You must be mad. I'll get you 
a model to-morrow. 

VoN S. But I haf de schoene idea, und I paints him ven I 
gets him. Chust wrap der frock aroundt you und stand so 
(position). Five liddle minutes I bees done. Yah ! 

Ever. I'll get some of my aunt's finery and rig it around 
a chair for you, if that will do. (Aside.) Oh ! what shall I 
do about M. de Eavillac? [Exit, left. 

Von S. (painting.) Nein, nein ! (Looks around.) He is vent 
already. How can I paint der lady vat is ein chair? Nein, 
nein ! ( Calls.) Eferson ! [Exit, left. 

Harry. 'E 's a Dutchman. That 's what 'e is— a bloomin' 
Dutchman. 'E don't know the Hinglish, don't 'e ? 'E knows 
sufiicient to hinsult a pusson. Me to be made hinto the 
picter of a lady — me, 'Arry Handerson of Lun'on. Hi ham 
a Hinglishman, hand Hi will not be hinsulted. [Exit, right, 


Everson and Von S. enter, left. Everson has an armful of 
women's clothing. 

Ever. Here (throwing things down) ! You can take your 
choice of these things. 

Von S. I cannot der picture make out of der chair. Nein, 
nein. Eferson (catching up dress), chust five liddle minutes 
in der tea-gown. Nobody will see — und I makes der schoene 

EvEE. (brightening.) Well, there 's nobody in the house 
but you and Harry. And then you '11 give me your advice 
about M. de Ravillac ? 

Von S. Yah ! yah ! yah ! I gif all der advice. Quick ! I 
haf der idea — gif me one side of your face. 

Ever. First you only wanted drapery and position 

VoN S. Der face is anodder idea. Bqt (laughing) der lady 
with der moustache ! Nein, nein. 

Ever. Well, I don't specially care for my moustache. I 
was going to shave anyway. But the jewels — and my 
charmer, you '11 help ? 

Von S. (rubbin'g his hands.) Yah ! yah ! yah ! I go with 
you once to help der drapery. (Exit, left, Everson with the 
clothing. Von S. starts, but turns back to easel.) So, I get der 
woman's model. So ! 

Enter Harry, right, who arranges room. 

Harry (aside.) The idea 'aunts me. Me the picterofa 
lady ! Me, 'Arry Handerson of Lun'on. Before I would 
consent to be a lady I would give up my sitiwation. 
Everson heard outside; he calls: "Oustav!" 

Von S. Yah ! I goes to fix you. lExit, left. 

Harry. 'E's a Dutchman, that's what 'eis; a raw, 
bloomin' Dutchman, and I don't keer who 'ears me. Me 
the picter of a lady ! (Holding chair up and dusting it, at ex- 
treme right.) 

Enter, left. Von S.; then Everson, without moustache, and having 
on a gown, cap and woman's wig. 

Von S. So ! So ! Sehrgoot (at easel) ! 

Ever. Hurry up and get it over. Where shall I stand ? 

Von S. (placing him.) So ! (Makes him assume ridiculous po- 
sition, facing audience.) Don't move. 

Ever. All right. As I was saying, Gustav, when M. de 
Bavillac comes I shall be dignified (falling over train). 


Von S. Why you move ? Bah ! 

Ever. I shall say 

Harry (looking around and seeing him). 'Eavens ! (Drops 
chair, and in the confusion bell rings.) 

EvEK. What 's that ? 

Harry. The bell, sir. (Goes to window.) Hif you please 
sir, hit 's the French gentleman that left the note last heve- 
nin', sir. 

EvBR. (gathering gown about him and running, left.) It is M. 
de Eavillac. Come and unhook me, Gustav. [Eocit, left. 

VoN S. Sehr grajid idea (painting) ! Such a grand picture 
as I vill make. • 

Enter Everson in haste. 

Ever. Don't answer the bell yet, Harry. There 's a hook 
that wont come undone. You 've bent it, Gustav. (Bell rings.) 
It 's the man with the jewels of my aunt, I tell you. He 
mus'n't go away. (Bell rings.) You'll have to let him in, Harry. 
(Exit, Harry, right.) Come, Gustav, and unhook me. \_Exit,left. 

Von S. (painting vigorously.) Such a shoene idea. Sehr 
goot ! Ah ! ah ! 

Enter, nght, Harry, followed by De Eavillac. 

Harry (announcing). Monseerdee Eavillac. 

De RaviijLAc (bowing elaborately). Monsieur. 

Von S. (painting.) Ah, der schoene idea! 

De E. (as before.) Monsieur ! 

Von S. (looking up and coming forward.) Goot tay 

De R. Monsieur, de plaisir (bowing). 

Von S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. How you 
vas? So, so? You come vor der Aunt Chane? 

De E. Monsieur's aunt. Ver good. Tres bien! Made- 
moiselle, my daughter, is below. I fetch her to see Mees 
Jane Everson,— ze Aunt Jane of Monsieur. 

Von S. Der mistakes vat you makes — you makes der 
gross mistakes. 

De E. In bringing Mademoiselle, my daughter, wiz me? 

Von S. Nein, uein. I am not der Aunt Chane. 

De E. Certainement. I should not say so, Monsieur. Ha ! 
ha ! Ver good ! Mademoiselle, my daughter, vill so enjoy to 
hear (laughing). Not Aunt Jane ! Ver good. I like ze vay 
of Amerique, so chic, so full .of ze fun. Not Aunt Jane ! Ver 
good ! 

VoN S. But der mans vat is Aunt Cbane's nephew he 


De E. Certainement. I comprends — under ze stand. Ver 
good ! ( To Harry.) Garoon ! 

Haehy. Hi ham a Hinglishman, sir. 

De E. Ver good ! Heenglish ! Con-duct Mademoiselle, 
my daughter, up ze stair. {EocU Harry, right.) Now (taking out 
box), I del-iver ze jewels. 

VoN S. But, Herr, there is von pig mistake. I am not" 

Voice heard outride, calling, " Gustav ! Gustav .' " 

De E. Is it ze lady, Mees Everson ? Zen I step outside and 
deposit ze top coat. [Exit, right. 

Von S. [throwing arms in air.) Himmel ! Der idea viil go 
already without der model. 

Enter hastily, left, Everson. 

Ever. Gustav ! Come unhook me. I must see that man 
and I can't get off these things. 

Pulls at Gvstav and falls over train as enters, right, De R. 

De E. Mees Jane Everson ? Ver good ! Mees Jane Ev- 
erson I bow to you. Ze honor is great. Mademoiselle. I 
bring ze jewels {still bowing). 

Ever. Gustav [urging him toward left) ! 

De E. I am M. de Eavillac, ex-e-cutor of ze late cousine 
of Mees Everson. Mademoiselle, my daughter, comes up ze 
stair wiz Mees Everson's garoon. 

Ever, [excitedly.) Don't bring her here — don't bring her 
here. I want to be unhooked. [Exit, left. 

Von 8. Himmel! [Exit, left. 

De E. Ver good. Ze lady is chic, vat you say — uncon- 
ventional, and viz ze reech voice. And ze nephew paints ze 
lofely picture. Vat a so grand country is Amerique. 
Enter, right, Harry, followed by Clarisse. 

Clabissb. Cher Papa! 

De E. Clarisse, Mees Everson have been here and vill 
again come. So chic— so unconventional. She have ze maid 
named Gusta which she call for to be unhook. And ze 
nephew paint ze lofely picture. 

Cla. Papa, there was little use in bringing me here. 

De E. You vill not say zat ven you see Mees Everson. 
Parbleu ! And ze gentleman —who he was garyon ? 

Hahey. Miss Heverson's nevvy, Mr. Eoland Heverson. 

Cla. [starting.) Eoland Everson ! Oh, papa, take me away. 


Db R. Vat you say ? Leave us, garoon ! (Exit Harry, right.) 
Vat you mean, Clarisse ? You know ze gentleman 7 

Cla. I did not know he was here. He was pointed out 
to me in Berlin the day before we sailed for America — 
during vacation, you know, and when you were bringing me 
back to school here. 

De R. So zat was why you vish to accompany me zis 
morning, eh ? 

Cla. I did not know he was here. I had the curiosity to 
see his home. Oh, take me away. 

De R. Tres chic ! You acquaint with Mees Everson's 
nephew ! Charmante.* 

Cla. Take me away, pray do. 

De. R. Take you avay ! Nevair. It is ze charmante ro- 
mance — ze so grand country of Amerique vich bring about 
ze lovely romance. 

Cla. But I cannot meet him, papa. I did not know that 
he was in America. I saw him several times at the picture 
shows in Berlin and thought he was there for the winter. 

De R. Ver good ! And he paints ze picture. Behold 
{pointing to easel) ! 

Cla. But, papa, to meet him here, in his aunt's house — 

maybe his own home — oh, papa — mon ange 

Enier Von S. 

VoN S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. I haf bent 
der hooks. He cannot get oudt already. 

Db R. Ah ! Monsieur, permit me to make known to you 
Mademoiselle, my daughter. 

Von S. Der mistake — T say der mistake, mein herr. 

Db R. Ze aunt she have been here ; zare is no mistake. 

Von a. Aunt Chane here ! Nein, nein. 

De R. She have been here. So chic, so unconventional. 

Von S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue 

Db R. Ver good ! Ze American speak all ze tongues like 
ze natif. 

VoN S. I know liddle der Englander tongue. Spracken 
sie Deutsche? Neinf Der Herr makes der wrong mis- 
take— neiu, nein, der right mistake— der mistake what is 

wrong— nein, nein, der wrong what is der mistake 

Donner und blitzen (thrmdng down pipe}! \_Exit, left. 

Cla. Papa, there is a mistake here, a great mistake. 

DbR. How you say? Ze mistake? 


Cla. That is not the gentleman I saw in Berlin. 

De R. Vat of zat ? You saw many gentlemans zare, eh 7 

Cla. I believe that is not Mr. EolandEverson. Besides 

De R. Vat is ze besides? Clarisse, ma fille, ze little head 

is confuse wiz ze novelty of ze situation. So lofely, so novel 

ze situation, — you acquaint wiz ze nephew of Mees Everson. 

Cla. Papa, listen to me. Miss Everson's nephew can 

scarcely be the man who was just here 

Enter, left, Von 8. pushing in Everson. 

VoN S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. Yah ! Tell 
der Frenchmans vat for I mean. Der Frenchmans he thinks 
me is you, und you is me ! 

De R. Nevair. I take Mees Everson for herself. Mees 
Everson, Mademoiselle, my daughter, vaits to embrace you. 

Ever, {seeing her, aside.) The girl I have been searching 
for! {To Oustav.) His daughter! GnstSLV {sinking into a chair, 
his feet sticking out) ! 

Db R. She vish Gusta. I vill ze bell ring for ze maid. 
{Rings bell on table.) Mees Everson is indispose. 

Von S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. Cuss ! Tell 
der Frenchmans {shaking Everson) — tell der Frenchmans. 

De R. Ah, I see. Mees Everson she overcome wiz ze 
sight of me. I bring ze sad re-collection of ze dead cousine. 
Ah, veil ! Ve was all here to-morrow and gone yesterday. 
But ze jewels I hand to Mees Everson {placing box in Ever- 
son's lap), and wiz ze grief I sympasize. 

Ever, {sharply.) Harry ! 

Harry. Sir ! 

De R. (to Barn/.) Sirf You speak to Mees Everson, garoon. 

Von S. I knows liddle— ach ! I vill to Berlin go. \:Exit, right. 

Harry {running to Everson). All right, sir ! {Suddenly rolls 
chair off, left, with Everson in it.) 

Cla. Papa, I am frightened. This is more than a mis- 
take. That is not a woman — it is a man in woman's gar- 

De R. Vat you say ? Vat ? 

Cla. I tell you it is a man, cher papa. 

De R. Two mans — Monsieur Roland and ze gargon. 

Cla. No, no ; the one dressed as a woman is a man. I 
saw his feet. They are big. • 


Dk R. But some ladies like ze big feet. I one time see 
ze lady from Chicago. 

Cla. Will nothing qpnvince you? It is a man, I say. It 
is a man. And the other man is not Miss Everson's nephew. 
How could Miss Everson's nephew be a German? 

Dk R. He might be born so. 

Ci.A. I fear they have robbed you of Miss Everson's 

De R. In Mees Everson's house ? 

Cla. She is not at home. These men have found out 
about the jewels— one ftf them personates the lady 

DbR. Vatl Vat! 

Cla. Would the servant say, " Sir," to a woman? 

DkR. Vat! Vat! 

Enter, right, Von S. 

VoN S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. Herr, I 
come for to say mit you dat der Aunt Ghana's nephew he 
give der thanks for der jewels. Verstehen sie? 

De R. Monsieur, you are Mees Everson's nephew ? 

Von S. Nein, nein, I tell you before already. I am der 
Graf von Schwartzkopf vrom Berlin. 

De R. You are Germain?— ze base Germain? 

Von S. (angrily.) Yah ! Der Jarmin licks der French mans 
sehr goot. Yah ! I knows liddle— der Frenchmans is ausge- 
spielt. Shood it ! How vas dot ? Yah ! 

De R. Vat! Vat! Shoot? Shoots ze French? (Goes up <o 
him.) I must ze receipt have for ze jewels. I must see Mees 
Everson sign ze receipt. 

Von S. Shood der receipt. 

De R. Shoot ! Sair, you scandalize Mademoiselle, my 
daughter. Mademoiselle have ze suspicion you is not you. 

VoN S. Shood der suspicions. 

De R. (in a frenzy.) Shoot ze suspicion of Mademoiselle, 

my daughter? Sair— sair- 1 choke wiz rage. Sair (Enter, 

left, Harry.) Gargon, garoon, vat it means ? Tell me (clutch- 
ing him), tell me. 

Harry (throwing him off). Hi ham a Hinglish man hand 
Hi ham not to be hinsulted. 

De R. Your meestress, Mees Everson ; take me to her. 
She is here ? 

Hakry (evasively). You said you seen her, sir. 


De E. You know zat I have. 

Cla. Are you sure, papa ? 

VoN S. I knows liddle — I knows liddle {holding his head). 

De R. {excitedly dancing about.) I must have ze receipt ! I 
must have ze receipt I 

Von S. Ach ! Ach ! [Exit, left. 

Cla. {to Harry.) Are you Miss Everson's servant ? 

Harry. Hi ham, miss. 

Cla. Then who is that man ? 

De E. Is it not Miss Everson's nephew ? {Bell rings.) 
Tell me 

Harry. Hi can't hanswer you, Hi must hanswer the 
bell. [Exit, right. 

De E. Vat it mean? Vat it mean? 

Enter, left. Von S. pulling in Everson. 

VoN. S. Spracken ! Spracken ! Tell everythings already 
once. Tell der Frenchmans. Spracken ! Spracken ! {Shahes 
Everson, whose cap and wig fall of.) 

De R. A man! a man! lam robbed. Vare is ze gen- 
darme, ze police ? {EocU, right,, hastily, with Clarisse, calling:) 
Police ! Police ! 

Ever. Gustav, what have you done ! That is the girl I 
saw in Berlin ! 

VoN S. {striding round.) Vat you done for me already? 
Der Frenchmans thinks me is you. I know liddle der 
England er tongue, shood it. 

Ever. Shoot me, and let me die {falling on chair). 
Enter Harry, right, out of breath. 

Harry. E's down in the 'all, hand 'e's got a bobby — a 
copper ! 

Ever, {jumping up and clapping on cap aud wig.) That 
girl shall not know it is I. I will die in this rig first. 
Enter, right, De R., Clarisse and policeman. 

De E. Ar — rest ze lady; ze lady is ze man ! 

VoN S. Der Frenchmans is ein man his own self. He 
makes der fuss about being mans ; he must be wrong in der 
kopf, — der head. 

De R. Wrong in ze head ! I? Me? Officer, ar — rest ze 
whole house ; I am robbed of ze jewels of Mees Everson. 

Police. There must be a mistake, gentlemen 


De E. Zare is not ze gentleman in ze whole room. It is 
thieves— thieves ! 

Cla. Papa, come avpay. Do not act like this, s'il vous 

Enter, right, Miss Jane Everson. 

Miss EvEBSON. An officer here ! What is the meaning 
of this? 

Ever. Aunt Jane ! 

Miss E. {to Everson.) Who are you? 

Ever, {hysterically.) I am you. 

MissE. What? , 

VoN S. I know liddle der Englander tongue. Here is' 
Aunt Ghana, by chimini, so help me gracious. Yah. 

Miss E. {to Von S.) And who are you, sir? 

Von S. (hilling his chest.) I am der Graf von Schwartz- 
kopf vrom Berlin — I goes on America once with Eferson 
who follows der lofely madchen he meets on der picture 
■gallery von Berlin. 

Cla. Papa, I said this man was not Roland Everson. 

Ever, {eagerly.) You know Roland Everson ? 

Cla. I saw him in Berlin. Come, papa, I must go! 

Ever, {clasping his hands.) Roland Everson loves you to 
distraction— he has followed you to America. 

DeR. Vat! Vat! 

Miss E. (to De R.) And who are you, sir ? 

De R. You are really Mees Jane Everson ? Zen ar— rest 
zese men ; zay have ze jewels of ze cousine 

Harry. Oh, ma'am, fix this hup. This French gentle- 

De R. Robert Marie Auguste Casimir Francois Georgine 
Henri de Ravillac. 

Ever, (aside.) This disguise is preposterous. (Throws off 
disguise, assisted by Von S.) 

Miss E. {to De R.) Then one of your letters brought me 
home. It reached me yesterday. 

De R. Zen ar — rest ze men — zey have ze jewels. 

Ever, (coming forward.) Aunt Jane, it is a mistake. M. 
de Ravillac said he would take the jewels back to Paris 
unless he delivered them in person to you. Gustav, here, 
wished a woman to pose for a picture he is painting. I 
put on the dress to oblige him. He hooked me up and 


couldn't unhook me. M. de Eavillac came in and took m" 
for you 

Miss E. For me ! mercy ! 

Ever. He put the jewels in my lap, and Harry rushed 
me out of the room. Otherwise the jewels would have gone 
back to Paris. 

Miss K. Is this possible ! 

Cla. Papa, take me away. That is Mr. lloland Everson. 

Ever. Aunt Jane, I kept your jewels from returning to 
Piiris. Intercede for me. 

VoN S. Eferson is in lofe with your daughter, Herr Rob- 
ert Marie Auguste Casimir Francois Georgine Henri de 
Eavillac, yah. 

Miss E. (to De R.) Ah, monsieur, forgive — call it all a 
jest] {Digmisses policeman, who exUs, right.) We will lalk it all 
over after lunch. 

De R. {bultoning coat.) Lunch ! nevair ! I am insult. Come 
Clarisse ! 

Miss E. No, no. It was all a mistake. Besides consider 
my nephew's dilemma ; his brain is turned by your daughter. 

De R. His brain turn ! But I must have ze receipt for 
ze jewels. 

VoN S. I knows liddle der Englander tongue. Shood 
der receipt. 

De R. {going up to Von S.) Sair ! You shoot my receipt! 

Ever, {appealingly.) Mademoiselle, stay! 

Miss E. {appealingly.) Monsieur, stay ! 

Db E. Mademoiselle Mees Aunt Jane, if my daughter 
say so, we stay to lunch and get ze receipt. 

Ever. Stay! Stay! 

VonS. Shood der stay. Eat lunch. 

Miss E. (io Clarisse.) My dear 

Cla. I stay [archly giving hand io Everson) if only that 
papa ma)' get the receipt — — 

Ever. For the jewels of my aunt ! 

Right, Von S. and Harry. Left, De R. and Miss E. 

Centre, Everson and Clarisse. 




By the pleasant fire they sat one night, 

Husband and wife alone, 
And they talked of the changes they had seen, 

And of how the years had flown ; 
Of the sons, now scattered far and near, 

And the daughters wooed and wed ; 
" We're only two in the house once more, 

Ob, Mary, my wife! " be said. ' 

" When we wore alone, forty years ago, 

So young, and happy and poor. 
There wasn't a prettier girl than you. 

Nor a better one, I am sure. 
I promised you then I'd make you rich 

If you'd only share my life ; 
I'm worth a million pounds to-day ! 

A million of money, dear wife ! " 

"How much am I worth 7" she, smiling, asked. 

He looked in her tender face ; 
He looked in her eyes, then closed his own, 

And thought for a little space. 
" You are worth the life I've spent with you. 

You are worth its richest joys ; 
You are worth more gold than can be told— 

You are worth my girls and boys. 

" You are worth the years that are yet to come ; 

You are worth the world to me ; 
Oh, Mary, there is not gold enough 

To saj' what you're worth to me ! " 
" Well, dear, I was worth the world to you 

More than forty years ago ; 
A million is but a bagatelle 

To the whole wide world, you know. 

" So, then, we have never been poor at all ; 

Now isn't it nice to know 
That you were a million billionaire 

More than forty years ago ? 
We were happy then, we are happy now, 

So tell me the difference, Frank ? " 
" It isn't much," he said with a smile ; 
"I've gathered a million from the pile, 

And locked it, up in a bank." 


THE BUSTER.— Sam Walter Eoss. 

By permisBioii of the Author. 

His name was Alexander Bartholomew McKay, 

That was his " really truly " name the youngsters used to say, 

It was a name we hoped some day to whicii he'd lend a 

But then his name for every day was simply this, — 
The Buster. 

The Buster was a cyclone dressed in a roundabout, 

A whirlwind dressed in pantalettes, full steam and just let 

And wheresoe'er the Buster blew did ruin always cluster, 
Upon the cliaos that he made we'd gaze and sigh— 
" The Buster \" 

A track of devastation always followed in his wake. 

For everything The Buster touched The Buster he would 

It took all Christian charity our outraged souls could muster 
To live in the same edifice where domiciled 
The Buster. 

All peace of mind departed when he entered at the door, 
For he sounded like a whirlwind rattling through a china 

And like a charge of light dragoons, when led by General 

He came down on our bric-a-brac and smashed it all — 
The Buster ! 

He'd hang the chairs upon the wall, the pictures on the floor, 
And hang the poodle upside down upon the cellar door; 
And slyly dress the baby up in gran'pa's linen duster, 
And hitch the goat in Nell's boudoir and leave him there — 
The Buster. 

And so throughout the neighborhood the people could not 

In proportion as be flourished did the people move away ; 
And sad departing caravans along the ways would cluster. 
Driven from their homes and firesides by the onslaught of 
The Buster. 

And no one aiked the Buster's health, .for all men under- 
The Buster's chronic state of health was dangerously good ; 
But one day did his cheek grow pale, his eye it lost its lustre, 
And we all gathered round his crib to see what ailed 
The Buster. 


And when the fever reached his brain he wandered in his 


And played imaginary pranks, the same old reckless kind ; 

He sang his little rattling songs while all about did cluster, 

They cheered his long way through the dark, the long way of 

The Buster. 

For he had started on that way — the mists grew cold and 

colder — 
And no strong man, no hero soul, e'er marched upon it bolder ; 
He'd heard the call which summons all to Fate's eternal 

And with a smile upon»his lips he answered back — 
The Buster. 

And so we watched The Buster, standing by with bated 

As with sweet laughter in his eyes he neared the gates of 

And the white mists of that dim shore did all about him 

And as he vanished in the mist we knew we loved 
The Buster. 

We held his hand that we had led through many a devious 

And wished that from the cold, cold fog that we might lead 

him back ; 
And when he said "Doo-by" to us we round his crib did 

And thought how much we loved our boy — how good he was, 
The Buster. 

CARTWHEELS.— Madge Elliot. 

Poor little boy — only nine years old, motherless, fa- 
therless, no home but the market by day and the street 
by night, and no friends in the wide, wide world, unless 
the good-natured butcher who sometimes gave him a 
cent or two, and the stout, motherly fruit-woman, at 
whose stall he almost always found an apple or some 
peanuts waiting for him, could be called friends. 

"Dan," his mother used to call him, but she died one 
stormy night of cold and hunger, and since then he had 
been known only as " Cartwheels," a nickname given 
him because he could turn more cartwheels in a shorter 


space of time than any other boy, big or little, in the mar- 
ket. Nobody cared for him, and he cared for nobody. 
And so, with no one to lead him to the right, how could he 
help falling in step with those about him and marching 
straight to the wrong ? 

For Dan, besides being errand-boy and beggar, was a 
thief. And yet he didn't look like a thief. He had 
beautiful, large, honest gray eyes, and a sweet, bright 
smile. And if he had been a happy child in a happy 
home, I know he would not have been one. 

But it was hard, when faint with hunger, to have the 
basement doors slammed in his face, with " I've got 
nothing for you ; "' and it seemed easy to take a few 
ears of corn, or a few potatoes and onions, from the 
barrels which came by hundreds to the market every 
day. He was always sure, by going halves, to get some one 
to cook them for him ; and hot victuals did taste so nice. 

But Christmas-day the market was closed, and poor 
little Cartwheels, turned into the streets, had wandered 
about all day, and at night found himself with just one 
cent left of the ten he had earned the day before. The 
rest had gone, — three to a big boy who was to give him 
a night's lodging, and six for a loaf of bread. With 
this last cent, being holiday times, Dan resolved to treat 
himself, and after long deliberation outside of the bak- 
er's window, stepped into the baker's shop and asked 
for "a cent's worth of gingerbread." 

The baker, I'm glad to say, gave him a Christmas 
cent's worth, and, munching away at it, the child went 
out into the street again. 

The boy who was to take him as a lodger had told him 
"things wouldn't be ready until after nine o'clock," and 
so Dan still wandered about waiting for the nine-o'clock 
bells to ring. 

He looked up at the brilliantly lighted windows, and 
listened to the sounds of merriment that came from 
every house, and wondered why folks made such a fuss 
at Christmas, when, while he was looking and listening 


and wondering, the storm that had been threatening all 
day began. A cruel storm it was, to beat so helpless 
and frail a wanderer, striking him full in his wan little 
face, pinching his ears until they tingled, and creeping 
slyly under the rags he wore ; and at last he ceased to 
fight against it, and flying from it, turned a corner into 
a handsome street, and crept down the area-way of a 
fine brownstone house. 

As he crouched here, shivering and trembling, a blast 
of wind blew open the'basement door. 

Cartwheels got up and peeped into the hall. The 
gaslight was burning dimly. No one was to be seen. 
For a moment he hesitated, and then crept softly in, clos- 
ing the door gently after him. The dining-room and 
kitchen were in darkness. With noiseless steps, Dan 
stole up the stairs. There was a merry party in the 
parlors. The boy could hear them playing on the 
piano, and singing and laughing and dancing; but the 
doors were shut, and Dan passed them and crept softly 
on until he found himself opposite the open door of a 
room, which to him seemed so beautiful that he stood 
raouth and eyes wide open, like one entranced. 

A cheerful fire glowed in a large grate. On the 
marble mantel stood pretty-shaped earthenware jars, 
from which sprang vines of a delicate green that ran up 
the wall and festooned the picture-frames. Lovely 
flowers filled beautiful shells, on bureau and table, and 
made the air sweet with their fragrance. 

A child's bed stood in one corner, all dressed in white; 
above it hung the picture of the Madonna, with her 
lovely babe ; beside it the child herself, a dear little 
girl, with deep blue eyes, and light brown, wavy hair, 
was kneeling at the knee of a lady, who looked down 
on her with eyes wonderfully like her own. 

The child was in her little white night-gown and bare 
feet, and with folded hands, parted lips, and shining 
eyes, was listening intently to the words her mother 
spoke. * 


"And in some countries," said the lady, " they believe 
that at the holy Christmas-time, Christ, in the form of 
a little child, comes again to earth and wanders about 
seeking for shelter, and so they have the house-dnor 
open and a bright lamp hung above the gate, for thrice 
blessed will be the dwelling in which he enters. And 
they entertain every poor, homeless beggar child they 
meet, hoping the Beloved One may be hidden beneath 
the rags ; and knowing that if the little guest prove not 
to be Christ himself, still will his blessing descend upon 
those who befriend the sad and lonely little ones. For 
Christ has said, 'Whosoever shall receive one of such 
children in my name receiveth me.' " 

"And does dear Christ love all children ? " asked the 
brown-haired little girl, in a sweet and reverent voice, 
" ev'ry one, — bad girls and boys, too ? " 

" Yes, my darling," answered the mother, bending to 
kiss the upturned face, " beautiful and sinless as our 
Saviour is, I think he loves bad girls and boys with 
even a greater love than he feels for good ones, for he is 
so sorry for them, and the more wretched they are the 
more he pities them." 

"And if he came to this city to-night," continued the 
wee maid, "would he go where the dirty beggar children 
and the naughty steal boys are, instead of coming to see 

" He would, my pet. He'd seek the starving, the de- 
formed, those that say wicked words, those that lie, those 
that steal, and smile upon them with a smile like sunshine, 
and kiss them, and tell them the way to heaven." 

" Bully ! " shouted a shrill voice ; and there, in the 
doorway, ragged and forlorn, his brimless hat tossed 
above his head, his grayeyes gleaming, a red spot burn- 
ing on each thin cheek, stood Cartwheels. 

The lady started to her feet, while the little daughter 
hastily rose from her knees and clung to her skirts. 

"Why, my boy," she asked gently, "who are you, and 
where did you come from ? " 


Cartwheels hung his head for a moment, and while 
he hesitated the lovely little girl came pattering over 
the carpet in her bare feet, and taking his hand, looked 
wonderingly at him. " He's got nice eyes, and pretty, 
curly hair, if it was combed," she said ; — and then added 
with a shake of her head, " but it can't be — he's too 

" I'm Dan," said the boy, looking, not at the lady, 
but at the sweet wee girl ; " Cartwheels they calls me, 
'cause I kin beat the httU boodle of 'em makin' wheels." 
And flinging himself on his hand, he turned over and 
uver sideways until he had crossed the room, and re- 
turning in the same manner resumed his feet, without 
the vestige of a smile, beside the astonished little girl. 
"An' 1 cum in from the street, the wind cut me so, inter 
your arey, an' the door flied open, an' then I cum in the 
hall. I didn't mean to steal anythin', tho' I might have 
took surathin' if it cura handy, 'cause I'm 'a young 
scamp' an' 'a little thief — they all says so — but I want- 
ed to see how a nobby house looked inside, an' I didn't 
see nobody, an' I c<:ep' upstairs, an' I heard you," 
looking shyly at the lady and then jerking his head 
toward the little girl, "tell her about — about — " 

" The Christ Child ? " said the lady. 

" Yes ; an' how beautiful he was, an' how he'd love 
an' — an' kiss fellers like me, and try to make 'em good ; 
an' so, if you think he'll come here to-night, I'd like to 
have him — kiss me ; an' please may I stay here a little 
while longer ? " 

" Where are your friends ? " asked the lady, as he 
stopped and fixed his gray eyes earnestly on her face. 

" Haint got no reg'lar friends. Nobody's got nothin' 
to do with me. I can sleep in the arey if you'll let me 
stay, an' if he comes along he'll see me, an' p'raps make 
me good, for I'm a bad un an' no mistake." 

The little girl, with tears in her sweet eyes, took both 
his dirty brown hands in her pure white ones. 

" Mamma," she said, in a low grave voice, "the Christ 


Child must have sent him ; and what was that verse 
you told me, mamma? 'Who-so-ever ' " 

" ' Whosoever shall receive/ " repeated the mother, 
" ' one of such children in My name, receiveth Me.' 
Dan," — the boy looked up in wonder, for no one had 
ever spoken his name so sweetly before, — "you will not 
see the dear Christ to-night, nor ever, I think, upon 
earth ; why, I will tell you some other time. But he 
loves and pities you, and sends you to me that I may 
teach you to be good, so that when you die you may go 
to his beautiful home in heaven. Will you try to learn V 

" Bet you a hundred dollars I will ! " said Dan. 
" But you don't mean I kin stay in the house, — this 
splendid house with all them flowers an' things an' her?" 
pointing to the little daughter. 

" I do mean it," said the lady; " you shall stay here 
as long as you are good." 

Dan threw half a cartwheel, and then suddenly re- 
membering he was not in the street, stood bolt upright. 

" I'm so awful happy," he said, " I can't tell you. 
Somethin's stickin' in my throat." And then, after a 
short pause, he went on, with sparkling eyes : " I'll run 
arrantsfor you, an' I'll shine your boots, an' I'll dance 
for the pooty little lady, and I'll show you where you 
kin buy the cheapest pigs' feet in the hull market, an' 
apples, cent apiece." 

The lady burst into a merry laugh, the brown-haired 
girljoined in, and then Dan lent a shrill treble to the 
chorus, and thus began for the little street-boy a new 
and happy life from that blessed Christmas night. 


Economy's a very useful broom, 

Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room 

To catch each straggling pin to make a plum. 
Too oft economy's an iron vise, 
That squeezes e'en the little frames of mice, 

That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb. 


Proper economy's a comely thing ; 
Good in a subject — better in a king ; 

Yet, pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling — 
Most easily inclined to make folks mean ; 
Inclines them, too, toward villainy to lean. 

To overreaching, perjury, and stealing ; 
E'en when the heart should only think of grief, 
It creeps into the bosom like a thief. 
And swallows up the aflFections, all so mild — 
Witness the mother and her only child. 

Poor Mistress Squeez^hard had a luckless son, 

Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat. 

In imitation of the ambitious great. 
High from the gallery, ere the play begun, 

He fell all plump into the pit. 

Dead in a minute as a nit; 
In short, he broke his pretty little neck. 
Indeed— and very dreadful was the wreck ! 

The mother was distracted, raving, wild. 

Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child, 

Afliicted every heart with grief around. 
Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past, 
And moderated the hysteric blast, 

She cast about her eyes in thought profound ; 
And being with a saving knowledge blest, 
She thus the playhouse manager addressed : 

" Sber, I am de moder of de hurt lad 

Dat meet misfortune here so bad ; 

Sher, I must haf de shilling back, you know, 

As leedle Moses haf not seen de show." 


Only a drunkard, reeling around. 
Out in the gloom of depravity's night ; 

Seeking some sudden hole in the ground, 
Where he shall hide his shame from sight- 
Open your shutters and flash him a light ! 

Recall that other's impious word : 

"Am I my brother's keeper. Lord ? " 

Eyes tear-blistered with tears unwept. 
Tongues pledge-blistered with oaths unkept. 


Soul SO steeped in the dregs of hell 

That his breath struggles up from a putrid well; 

Wringing the filth of gutter and sink 

From tattered sleeve, he stops to think 

How he can get another drink. 

Scarcely a trace of humanity there, 

Scarcely a subject for faith and prayer ! 

Such is the picture that curses your light, 

Out in his gloom of depravity's night. 

Dare you that other's impious word : 

"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord ? " 

Cold as the prayer on Pharisee's lip, 

Yon church spire rears its burnished tip. 

Pointing the way to heaven's portals ; 

But, alas! outvisioning passion- wrecked mortals. 

You, who are safe 'neath the steeple so tall, 

Frescoed ceiling and painted wall. 

Open your shutters and flash him a light 

Out in the gloom of depravity's night ! 

Recall that other's impious word : 

"Am 1 my brother's keeper, Lord ? " 

Reeling along with a plunge and a lurch. 
He parts the tide as it ebbs from the church, 
Even as Moses' trident cleft 
The Red Sea's waves both right and left ; 
So that human tide, in horror and haste. 
Shrinks from the miserable wretch aghast: 
Many with sorrow, some with shame. 
Few with the thought of a brother's claim. 
Boldly the broad-hemmed Pharisee, 
Vocal with gratitude loud and free: 
" I thank thee. Lord, I am not as he." 
Better that other's impious word : 
"Am I my brother's keeper, Lord?" 

On the very next corner the reeling wretch passes 

There's a mingling of song and clashing of glasses ; 

The windows are open and flashing the light 

That deepens the gloom in depravity's night. 

From the easy-swung door there's a scent of good cheer. 

Over it — " Only pure liquors sold here." 

To the wretch's dimmed sense it were paradise gates, 

But, lacking the passport, beyond it he waits. 

Desperation at length lends his tremulous feet 

Strength to go in from the cold of the street. 


Ere the landlord's frown can break into words, 
Bude pity has touched the tenderer chords 
Of a reveler's heart. An answering " chink " 
Says, " Give the poor devil a generous drink." 

Sprightly he turns to his " brother'' again, 

The magic elixir has made him a man. 

From the pledge-blistered tongue, 'neath the bubbled-up nose, 

A song full of music and jollity flows, 

As drink follows drink and the hours glide on. 

Does one brother rise up or the other come down? 

For they meet on a common rum-level at last. 

And sip, time about, froiR goblet or glass. 

The fires have burned out and the stupor again 

Has mastered alike nerves, pulses and brain — 

Out in the street, unable to stand, 

He is lodged for the night by the landlord's white hand. 

Only a drunkard, done reeling around, 
Out in the gloom of depravity's night — 

He has found a sudden hole in the ground ; 
Hid forever his shame from sight. 
Did you open your window and flash him a light? 

Society echoes that impious word : 

"Am I my brother's keeper. Lord ?" 

THE RUSTY SWOED.— George M. Vickebs. 

In a little roadside cottage, half hid by shrubs and vines, 
A woman, old and feeble.on a faded couch reclines; 
Her face is sweet, but sorrow has left its imprint there, 
And her voice tells not the burden that her God hath bid 
her bear. 

As I drink the limpid water from the homely, dripping 

I note on the wall before me a naked, rusty sword. 
I glance at the aged woman, and speaking she bows her 

" 'Twas worn by a gallant soldier, for many a long year dead. 

" One day, sir, I was looking where the road winds over 

Wishing the war was over and breathing a mother's prayer — 
I saw a wagon coming, and soldiers, all moving slow ; 
They were bringing my boy home, wounded — ah ! it's many 

a vear ago. 


" I buried him there, by those willows — as you pass you can 

see his grave ; 
Oh, stranger, my child was a comfort, but his heart it was 

true and brave! " 
Watching the pearls drop downward over her aged face, 
I mount, and I ride in silence away from the lonely place. 

But now I have reached the willows, and I leap to the shady 

I gather some wayside flowers to throw on his mossy 

I care not if Grant has led hira,norif he has fought with Lee ; 
\ am an American soldier — and so was he. 


'Twas a Sunday morning in early May, 

A beautiful, sunny, quiet day, 

And all the village, old and young, 

Had trooped to church when the church bell rung. 

The windows were open, and breezes sweet 

Fluttered the hymn-books from seat to seat. 

Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch 

Sang as softly as if in church. 

Right in the midst of the minister's prayer 

There came a knock at the door. " Who's there, 

I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought 

As his careful ear the tapping caught. 

Rap-iap, rap-rap, — a louder sound, 

The boys on the back seat turned around. 

What could it mean ? for never before 

Had any one knocked at the old church door. 

Again the tapping, and now so loud 

The minister paused, though his head was bowed. 

Rapety-rap ! This will never do ; 

The girls are peeping, and laughing too ! 

So the sextf)n tripped o'er the cracking floor, 

Lifted the latch, and opened the door. 

In there trotted a big black dog, 
Big as a bear! With a solemn jog 
Right up the center aisle he pattered; 
People might stare, it little mattered. 


Straight he went to a little maid, 

Who blushed and hid, as though afraid, 

And there sat down, as if to say, 

" I'm sorry that I was late to-day ; 

But better late than never, you know, 

Besides, I waited an hour or so, 

And couldn't get them to open the door 

Till I wagged my tail and bumped the floor. 

Now, little mistress, I'm going to stay. 

And hear what the minister has to say." 

The poor little giij hid her face and cried! 
But the big dog nestled close to her side, 
And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly, 
Wondering what the matter could be! 
The dog being large (and the sexton small), 
He sat through the sermon and heard it all. 
As solemn and wise as any one there. 
With a very dignified, scholarly air! 
And instead of scolding, the minister said, 
As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head 
After the service, " I never knew 
Two better listeners than Rover and you ! " 

RESTED.*— S. Jennie Smith. 

Officer Brady was passing in front of a large tene- 
ment house at four o'clock one morning when he was 
suddenly startled by the sound of shrieks and screams 
that seemed to come from one of the lower floors. 
There was a decided evidence, too, of furniture being 
thrown around, and heavy articles knocked down un- 
ceremoniously. He was just about turning toward the 
house to investigate the trouble when he heard the 
words, " Oi'll have yez arristed, so Oi will," and a 
woman with disheveled hair and clothing all awry, 
rushed out into the street. In one hand she held a 

♦Written exprestily for this Collection. "Mrs. Murphy's Kecipe for Cake," 
"Aunt Maria at the Eden M usee," "Mrs O'Toole and the Conductor," and 
other original huniDroua recitations, by the same author, will be found in previ- 
ous numbers of this Series, 8* 


dishpan, while with the other she carried a very dis- 
tressed-looking pillow. 

" Oi say, Misther Policeman," she cried, throwing 
down the articles she held, and wringing her hands as if 
in great agony, "it's thankful Oi am to clap me two 
oiyes on yez. It's a hape of thrubble Oi'm in, sorr, and 
that's the thruth." 

" My good woman, what is the matter ? " Brady asked. 

By that time tousled heads had appeared at every 
window of the tenement, and several voices began to 
scream out an explanation. 

" Be silent, will you ? " Brady demanded, looking 
fiercely at the individuals by the windows, " let the 
woman tell her own story." Then turning to her, he 
asked, "Now, what is the matter? " 

" Indade and it's matter enough, sorr, whin himself 
conies for me wid the poker and other sich bricky brack, 
and I has to hoide me hid in the dishpan, and git 
behind the pilly, to kape meself from bein' kilt wid the 
knock av him." 

" Well, begin at the beginning and tell me all about 
it," said Brady. " How did it start ? " 

"Sure and for the matter av that it shtarted at the 
blissid altar whin I tuk Moike O'Doolahan for betther 
or worse, and nary a betther was it, if yez'll belave me, 
for he's that fond av drink he'd swally the very shoes 
on me fate, and the sufierin's Oi'v6 been troo wid that 
man the tellin' av 'em wad brak yer heart, sorr. He 
was the illigentest wan on the block too, and arl the 
gurrils afther him, and he had the puttiest av ways, 
sorr, and the foinest of piccadilly collars, but nary a 
wan wad be give a luk but meself. Be the same token 
nary a wan else gits the belts av him. And it aintthat 
he's hard-moinded, sorr, but he's the batenest for knock- 
in' wid shtove-lids and onything else ferninst him. 
Wance he pegged a lamp in me oiyes, widout aven 
shtoppin' to blow out the light — do yez moind that now? 
and only for me ouwn capabilities, sorr, there'd a been 

Number Til IRTY-FOUR. 1(9 

a conflygation av the intire block, so there wad. Aiul 
what wid knockin' and kickia' and trowin' around, Oi'm 
blacker'n a crow, sorr." 

As she paused for breath, Brady said impatientl}-, 
" What I want to know is who is to blame in the present 
matter, who commenced the row ? " 

" Sure and there aint been no row at arl," Mrs. O'Doo- 
lahan replied, indignantly. Then in a confidential tone 
she added, " But what it moight have lid to but for me 
ouwn prisence av moiad the saints only can till, sorr." 

" Then what do you call the noise you were having 
up there?" 

" 'Twas jist a huff Moike was in, sorr, and meself a 
'postulatin' wid arl me moight, and himself a-sayin' it 
was airlier than it was, sorr, and him jist a-comin' 
home — and wad yez till me the raley time sorr, for what 
wid knockin' about and shmashin', the ould clock aint 
much for onything but ornymint, and the glass in bits, for 
the matter av that, sorr. 'Twas me ouwn two hands arned 
that clock too, sorr, and I got it down to Benzie's, him 
wid the crooked nose, though Oi aint a-shpakin' that 
agin him, for a man can be dacent and respictable wid 
a crooked nose whin he can't wid crooked tirapers, .sorr ; 
and there's Moike's timper what you can't till for the 
loife av yer where it'll lade to nixt. It moight be the 
shtove-pipe or it moight not, aceorgin as he's a-falin', 
sorr. There's Mary Ann Duggins as'll till yez it's the 
blissid thruth." 

Mary Ann Duggins, who, with several others had 
now appeared on the scene, was about to give her evi- 
dence in the case when she was interrupted by Brady, 
who by this time had become so exasperated that he 
said, angrily, " I will hear nothing from you, madam, 
let this woman attend to her own business, and you go 
about yours. It's only four o'clock, and you all ought 
to be in bed instead of down here making a rumpus." 

"And is that the raley toirae, sorr ? " said Mrs. O'Doo- 
lahan, " and himself a-swarin' it was only twilve." 


" That's the time, madam, and I can't stay here any 
longer, so if you will conduct me to that scoundrel of a 
husband of yours, I'll relieve you of his presence " 

"And it's nary a prisent he has, sorr, save the shtove- 
pipe hat what got lost from some gintlemin at the pic- 
nic, and out av prudence I fetched home to Moike, sorr, 
and very dacent he luks wid it on his hid whin his hair 
is shmooth and brushed up in shtoyle." 

" Good gracious, woman, keep still. I mean that I 
will arrest him, and you " 

"Arrist hira 't " screamed Mrs. O'Doolahan, looking de- 
fiantly at Brady, "arrist Moike, — me beautiful Moike wid 
the tinderest av hearts that iver bate ? Put him in 
prison, do yez mane ? What for, Oi dunno? " 

" Because he's been raising a row." 

"Aint Oi afther tilliu' yez there wasn't no row at arl? 
Bad luck to yez whin ye'd be arris tin' Moike what 
aint done a moite av a croime since the day he was 

" But you say that he beats you and knocks you 
around, and all these friends of yours say so too." 

Mrs. O'Doolahan looked around at the many faces 
that were turned toward her, and with great scorn in 
her voice, exclaimed, " It's only that they do be jealous, 
sorr, because none av thim have ary a wan loike him." 

" Well, I think that a man who raises the disturbance 
that I heard ought to be in jail," said Brady, moving 
toward the front door. 

Thoroughly frightened, Mrs. O'Doolahan ran between 
him and the steps. " 'Twus only a bit playful, Moike 
had been," she cried, desperately, " and that's no sinsi- 
ble cause to arrist ony dacent, respictable gintlemin, 
and for the matter av that (a new idea coming to her 
assistance), Moike was so warrum and bate out wid the 
playfulness av him, that he come down and stipped 
out the back dure and across the lots to git a moite av 
frish air and a appytite for breakfast, whiles we wus 
a-tarkin' here." 


•Slyly winkiDg at the other women, she added, " It's 
overtakin' him yez'II be if yer don't spind half the 
marnin' argymintin' on the sidewark, and it's meself 
that must be takin' a moite av slape. Good day, sorr, 
I hope that yez'll not be gettin' into ony schrape wid 
Moike whin yez come acrost him, for himself has the 
madderest timper, though he do be very good to me and 
the childer, and that's the thruth, sorr, and no mish- 

THE LEGEND OF KING NILUS.— Edith Woedswoktii * 

Written expreBshj for this Collection. 

In the far distant times of legend and story, 

There lived a great king who ruled o'er the land ; 

The far-reaching north and the south's silver fountain. 

The east and the west knew the claim of his hand. 

Then he brought from afar a maid sweet and winsome. 

With a voice full of music and bright tresses of gold ; 

She seemed but a child to rule o'er the palace, 

Her years were so few— and the king was so old. 

The king brought her forth to his nobles and courtiers, 

To the ladies of state in their glitter and pride, 

But their beauty soon passed and their rich splendor faded, 

When they stood near the throne of the king's youthful 

The sweet child-like queen wore no gems to adorn her. 
And her robes, though so regal, were of pure spotless white; 
The heart of the king knew no bounds to its gladness. 
As there knelt at her feet each noble and knight. 
For all honor paid her increased his own glory. 
Her presence enhanced the great wealth of his throne ; 
His strength was now fortressed mid his knights and his 

His hand held a power until this time unknown. 

That eve when the world and the court had grown silent. 

The king told his bride of his kingdom and power; 

"And greater than I there exists not another, 

I could o'erturn the world at this hour ! " 

The sweet child-like queen shrank away in her horror. 

Her deft little fingers clasped tightl}^ their hold 

*Anthor of " The Flower Girl," "The Triumph of the Ricci," etc., to be 
found in this Series. 


On the book she was reading ; one moment she faltered, 
Then forward she Stepped, though her heart's blood grew 

" My lord and my king, I know of another 
Greater than thou, and mightier far ; 
He rules o'er the world and holds His dominion 
O'er the sun and each planet and far-distant star.'' 
" Greater than 1 1 His kingdom is greater — 
His power is mightier! Thou say est this?" 
And the king raged in fury and tore at his scabbard, 
And his armlets fell to the ground with a hiss. 
On the queen's gentle brow a soft flush now rested, 
One foot could be seen as forward she stood, — 
True bravery's pledge ; she was not to be daunted, 
Though she answered the king with her life and her blood. 
" Dear Nilus," she said, in a voice full of sweetness, 
" I am thy subject, I will e'er do thy will ; 
I will e'er seek thy pleasure with love true and loyal, 
Thy slightest desire I'll seek to fulfill. 
But should it oppose the all-ruling Sovereign, 
Thy monarch and mine, in whose service I live — 
May I yet speak again? Pray do not be angry; 
When thou knowest it all, thou wilt surely forgive." 

" Speak no more ! " stormed the king, and the walls of the 

Shook with the force of his cries and his blows. 
And all of his household in wonder now hastened, 
To meet with their lives their monarch's new foes. 
" Ho, ho, ye are come, my faithful attendants! 
Speak, speak ye, my courtiers, my gallants, my slaves,— 
Lives there a king with realm or with power 
Greater than those o'er whicli my hand waves?" 
" Nay, nay ! " was the cry, and each sword from its scabbard 
Leaped at a bound and flashed in the light ; 
" Nay! nay! " yet again, and the halls and the woodland 
Re-echoed afar through the silence of night. 

Then each keen soldier-eye sought the foe of the kingdom, 
But they saw but the queen with her bright golden hair ; 
■She stood like a saint in his crown and his glory. 
As her spotless robe shone in the light's brilliant glare. 
" Here — here is the traitor that is come to my palace ! 
Prove what thou sayest, or soon thou shalt die ; 
I give thee but one moon of days for revealing 
The king that thou knowest more mighty than I ! " 


Then each flashing blade fell back in its scabbard, 
And each true-hearted knight bent low on his knee ; 
And mid sobs, and in accents low-miirmured and broken, 
They whispered, " Fair queen, we attend upon thee." 
The king was sore startled, — he looked at his vassals ; 
Where now were his might and his far-reaching power ? 
Yet his heart had beeii brave and his soul had been noble, 
lire yet he had known the rich regal bower. 
In atone brave and gentle, the humbled king whispered, 
"As a pledge of thy king and his kingdom and throne, 
Bid him enter my palaog ; then in fierce single combat, 
I will meet him and brave him full-armed, but alone. 
If he lays me low, and my arm wields no power 
Save what he may grant me to hold o'er my land. 
My throne and my kingdom, my slaves and my vassals. 
Will be his forever,— the wealth of his hand. 
But if he should fail and mine be the conquest, 
Then thou, like thy monarch, in sorrow shalt die, 
Thougli,alas! theremaybe when thou'rt gone from my palace, 
Full many a sovereign more happy than I." 

"Alas ! " cried the queen, with her eyes full of sadness, 

" I am only a child — I only can pray ! 

Oh, would that some soul with faith and love burning 

Would, unto their light, but show thee the way I 

I do not now tremble at death and its terrors, 

I fear but for thee who takest my life. 

Pray, all ye brave courtiers and nobles, retire ; 

I give no resistance, — there need not be strife." 

A week passed away when one morn at the palace. 

The queen was disturbed at her deep earnest prayer ; 

The rich, marble staircase she quickly descended. 

For a loud cry of anguish was borne on the air. 

" Bring aid ! " cried the king ; on his couch he lay writhing; 

" Bring aid, or I die! This day is my last ! " 

But the surgeons and courtiers feared to approach him, 

At the sight of their monarch they shrank back aghast. 

"Ah, we cannot serve thee, our science is helpless. 

Death, ruthless and cruel, is e'en now in thy frame, 

Thy right arm is lifeless, thy strength has all left thee—" 

Lo I into his presence the little queen came. 

She sat by his side, and his white hands close holding, 

She told him of God and of heaven above, 

She told him of Christ who came for hearts seeking. 

To roske them Hig kingdom,— the throae of His love. 


The monarch was soothed, e'en surprised at the story; 

Forgetting his pain, he clasped the queen's hand : 

" Let him reign, let him reign, this great noble monarch. 

Both over our hearts and over our land. 

Let his will, not mine, be the rule and the power ! 

Thou sayest, dear one, He is gentle and true ? 

I resign Him my sceptre, — 'tis he who has conquered ! 

My arm and my strength it was He who withdrew." 

■the king sprang from his couch and his nobles drew 

They saw the warm blood that had rushed to his cheek ; 
With heads lowly bowed they now knelt beside him. 
Their hearts were too full of strange wonder to speak. 

His health was restored. — Far over his kingdom 

The gospel of Christ extended its sway. 

And each eve the great king and his beautiful childwife 

United with nobles and vassals to pray. 

Then there came a great peace o'er palace and kingdom, 

And Nilus was known as the saintly, the pure ; 

His bright little queen became the loved mistress 

Of the hearts of the rich and the homes of the poor. 

When embassies came from great foreign nations 

To learn from good Nilus his secret of power. 

His hand would rest gently on the queen's golden tresses. 

Then with pride he would say " From the one happy hour 

Since this messenger came with her sweet words of 

heaven — 
And her prayer so strong, through her faith and her love, 
That it conquered alike my heart and my kingdom 
For the glory of God who rules from above — 
I have known naught but blessings and Heaven's choice 

All glory be given to His name alone ! 
My heart and my queen's and the hearts of our subjects 
Are His, His forever, — the seat of His throne." 

THE " PITTY FOWER."— Augusta Mooeb.* 

Once, when to the busy city 

I was going early forth, 
Thinking of the gloom and anguish 

And discouragements of earth ; 

•Author of " The Widow's Light," " Hagar's Farewell," " The Eape of the 
Bell,'* etc., in previous Numbers. 


Thinking how hopes pale and vanish 

Day by day and year by year ; 
How the woes' and burdens gather, 

As the comforts disappear ; 

Down the garden path behind me 

Pattering footsteps swiftly came ; 
And I felt a smile flash through me 

As I answered to my name. 
Cried the voice God gave to cheer me 

Through full many a darksome hour, 
" Wait, dear^untie ; wait dear auntie, 

Let me pick you pitty fower." 

Then I turned, and mid the roses 

Blooming in the air of June, 
Stood a vision fair and lovely. 

Glad and bright as sunny noon. 
And with eager, hurrying fingers 

Chose he out the fairest rose, 
On whose stem two buds were growing. 

Almost ready to unclose. 

Pale the color of the roses 

To the roses of his face, 
As be danced and capered towards me, — 

Angel form of love and grace ! 
Holding daintily his offering 

Did my baby prince draw near. 
Saying, dimpling, smiling, blushing, 

" Lill you keep it till last year 7 " 

Blessed babe ! what kingly largess 

Could have made my day so bright? 
Could have made my weary labor 

Seem so pleasant and so light? 
Young years bloomed and old years faded, 

Faces changed and hearts grew still, 
I was fainting 'neath the burdens 

I was bearing down the hill. 

Winter's ice and storms were round me ; 

I was weeping all alone. 
Sickness and gray hairs had found me, 

Yet my work not half was done. ^ 
That sweet vision mid the roses, 

Now, alas ! I saw it not; 


Many years agoiie he vanished, 
And his oft'ring was forgot. 

Friends had failed, and foes assailed me ; 
Doubts of God distressed my mind, — 

How he held his peace, and hid Him, 
"Were his ways still just and kind ? 

In a book my fathers wrote in, 

I was seeking where to write, 
When a withered rose and rosebuds 

Greeted my astonished sight, 
With a date beneath them written 

And, in letters plain and clear. 
Baby words, long since forgotten, 

" Lill you keep it till last year? " 

Then the tide of time turned backward 

Till I seemed to stand once more 
Mid the fragrance and the sunshine. 

Near my brother's open door. 
And the evil spirit left me. 

Put to flight as on that day 
When the angel mid the roses 

Charmed my faithless mood away. 

O my blessing 1 my treasure ! 

God is just and true and dear — 
Darling, I will "wait" His pleasure; 

"Keep " your offering "till last year." 
And when that last year is finished, 

When has closed its final hour, 
"Auntie" to her rest would carry 

In her hand, your "pitty fower." 


John Feeguson. 
In the village of S , Perthshire, lived Willie Wad- 
dell, Wright, joiner, coffin-maker, etc. A douce, honest, 
hard-working chiel' was Willie. Aneeboro' his had occa- 
sion to be owre ae mornin' at Dauvid Grant's, an' fan' 
Dauvid in a sair state aboot the loss o' a coo that had 
choked hersel' wi' a neep thro' the nicht. 


Dauvid had twa or three acres of Ian', aboot twa 
miles frae S , and was thocht tae ha'e some baw- 
bees i' the bank ; and tho' he had only himsel' and 
Janet, his wife, tae Iceep, yet the loss o' the coo was a 
gey serious maitter. 

After he had heard Dauvid's lamentations, and had 
set afFou the road hame, he thocht tae himsel' he micht 
mak' a guid lauch owre puir Dauvid's raisfortin'. It 
wiis the first of April ; and if he could manage to send 
Willie Waddell wwre tae Dauvid Grant's wi' the 
strauchtin'-boord on a gowk's errant, garran him believe 
Janet was deid instead o' the coo, it wad be a gran' 
joke. It was nae suner thocht upon then it was wrocht 

upon. As soon as he got to S , he gaes awa' up 

tae a wee widden erection Willie had dignified wi' the 
name o' the warkshop. 

" Weel, Willie, what are ye thrang wi' the day ? " 
quo' he, as he entered. 

"No muckle," says Willie; "jist makin' a wee chair 
for Sandy Macgregor'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, but ane 
ye'll 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, man ? " 

" Weel, ye'll take yer strauchtin'-boord and gae awa' 
owre tae Dauvid Grant's. He's fa'n in wi' a sair loss, 
puir man ; och hon ! death's aye busy ! " 

" What," cries Willie, "is Janet deid?" and, without 
waiting for an answer, continued, " What was the mait- 
ter? What did she dee o' ? " 

" She choked hersel'." 

" Choked hersel' ! Losh, bless me, that's extraordi- 
nar'! Dauvid will miss her sair, for she was a clever- 
handed woman was Janet. But I maunna • stop here 
claverin';. I'll awa' owre this meenit ; " and, throwing 
down his hammer, he hurried tae the hoose, and bade 
his mither mak' his parritch and get oot his Sunday 


claes as soon as possible, as he was wanted in a hurry at 
Dauvid Grant's. 

I should hae mentioned that Willie wasna married, 
but leeved wi' his mither in a bit hoosie aff an' on wi' 
the shop. 

Weel, after he had gotten his parritch and himsel' 
cleaned up, awa' he gaes tae Dauvid's wi' his boord owre 
his shouther, and wi' nae mair idea he was gaun a gowk'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' his pipe. 

" Hoo's a' wi' ye the day, Dauvid ? " quo' Willie, 
as he gaed in. 

" Jist middlin', Willie, jist middlin'. But tak' a sate 
an' rest ye." 

" I'm real vexed tae hear o' yer loss," continued Wil- 
lie, after he had ta'en a sate. " Ye'U miss her sair, I hae 
nae doot." 

" It's a bit hard job for me," says Dauvid, " but I 
maun try an' thole. Ye ken we're telt tae bear oor 
trials wi' patience." 

"-I'm vera gled ye tak' that view o't," observed 
Willie, "for I was feart ye mieht brak' doon a'thegither." 

" Hoot, Willie, there's nae fear o' that. The thing's 
bad enough ; but I'm no gaun tae brak' my heart aboot 
it. I maun look oot about an' see an' get anither, for I 
canna weel want ane." 

" Deed, that's true enough, Dauvid ; but ye'U no be 
in a hurry for awhile?" 

" Od, I dinna ken," says Dauvid; "the suner the 
better, I think. I dinna see ony use o' pittin' aff time. 
In fact, I hae my e'e on ane already ; but I am feared 
she's a wee owre auld i' the horn." 

" I wadna thocht they were so easy gotten," says 

" Man, Willie, when ye hae twa or three bawbees i' 
yer pouch, ye can get pick an' wale o' them ; but I'll be 
a wee cautious afore I tak' ane. Ye see, when they're 
owre auld ye get little guid o' them, and they're jist as 


bad when they're owre young ; they're a lang time afore 
they come tae be o' muckle use. Sae I'll tak' time, an' 
see I get a guid ane when J'm at it, — neither owre auld 
Dor owre young.'' 

By this time Willie was glow'rin' at Dauvid as if the 
een wad loup oot o' his held. 

" Weel, Dauvid, I'm surprised and vexed tae hear a 
man come to your time o' life speak in that manner. I 
think ye micht get the ane ye hae decently awa' afore 
ye think o' filling her place." 

" I dinna see hoo that wad make muckle difference," 
remarked Dauvid. " Hooever, I was just inteudin' tae 
howk a hole in the yaird this afternin an' pit her in't. 
Ye see I canna sell her noo; folks are sae strict." 

" Dauvid Grant ? " cries Willie, "dae ye no think 
black burnin' shame o' yersel' tae speak tae me in that 
manner, and ye an elder o' the kirk. My certy ! a bon- 
nie elder ! But I'll no let the maitter rest like that ; 
I'll awa owre tae the minister an' gie him an account o' 
yer conduct, ye auld shameless heathen. It's time he 
kent what sort o' elders he has ; " and wi' that he oot 
at the door. 

The manse was about twa hunner yairds frae Dau- 
vid's, sae Willie wasna lang a-gettin' there. The minis- 
ter saw him comin', and meeting him at the door, said : 

" Well, William, what's the matter ? There is surely 
something wrong when you are in such a hurry ? " 

" Indeed ye may say that. There is something wrang, 
and awfu' wrang. I wish ye wad come awa' owre tae 
Dauvid Grant's, for I think he's gaen oot o' his judgment." 

" I wish you would explain yourself, William. What 
is wrong with David ? " 

" Weel, ye see, his wife Janet is deid, puir body. She 
choked hersel' thro' the nicht, an' I was sent for tae 
gae owre wi' the strauchtin'-boord. Weel, when I gaed 
in, I naturally expected tae see Dauvid maist broken- 
hearted ; judge o' my surprise when he began tellin' me 
he had thochts o' gettin' anither wife as soon as possible — 

190 One hundked choice selections 

in fact, he has his een on ane already ; and when I telt 
him he micht aye get the ane he had awa' firbt, od, if 
the man didna tell me he would pit her in a hole in the 
yaird, if he couldna sell her ! But he's demented ; his 
grief has turned his brain, I think." 

" David's wife dead ! " observed the minister. " I'm 
much surprised that I have not heard of it before, and 
me so near him too. But stay a little ; I'll get my hat 
and go along with you." 

When they got back they found Dauvid stepping 
thro' the floor, rather perplexed at Willie's proceedings. 

" I'm grieved to hear of your sad affliction," the min- 
ister began, " and I am much surprised you did not send 
forme. I surely might have been of some benefit in your 
sore trial." 

" I canna understan' what ye're makin' sic a wark 
aboot," quo' Dauvid. " Ye would hae done me nae guid 
supposin' I had sent for ye. It's me that'll hae tae bear 
the loss, and I wasna thinkin' o' havin' ony bother 
aboot it." 

"After what has fallen from your own lips I see there 
is no use trying to reason with you ; and I am truly 
sorry to think such a man as you are — a member of 
ray church ; not only a member, but an elder — should 
be a man of no principle, not even of common decency. 
But I can assure you, I shall expose your conduct. I 
will call a meeting of the congregation and have you 
expelled. You can no longer be an elder of mine." 

" Ye can ca' a meeting o' the Presbytery gin ye like ! " 
exclaimed Dauvid, fairly nettled, " for onything I care ; 
but it wad be a lang time before ye'd ca' a meetin' 
o' the congregation to help me to get anither, an I'm no 
thinkin' I wad be muckle the better o't gin ye did." 

" I shall stay here no longer to be insulted," cried the 
minister, and was making for the door when he was 
stopped by Willie, who said : 

" Od, sir, ye canna richtly leave the house until we 
come tae some kind o' an understandin'. Ye see, if that 


auld heathen '11 no dae the thing that's richt, somebody 
maun do't. Ye see I hae brocht owre my strauchtin'- 
boord, an' I'll awa' an' get some o' the neebors an' get 
her laid oot in a respectable an' Christian-like manner." 

Dauvid cocked his lugs at this, and said, " Strauchtin'- 
boord for a coo. Lay her oot in a Christian-like man- 
ner ! What on earth does the man mean ? " quo' he. 

" What dae I mean," cries Willie ; "yer wife lyin' deid 
here, and you hae the impidence tae speer what I mean !" 

" My wife deid ! TIae ye taen leave o' yer senses 
a'thegither, man ? " 

" I'm afraid there's some mistake here," said the min- 
ister. " Is your wife dead, David ? " 

" Guid be thankit, no, sir ; at least she wasna twa 
hours syne." 

"And where is she ? " 

" Od, she gaed awa' owre tae her brither's. Ye see, 
Nelly, the dochter, that was waitin' on the lady cam' hame. 
The lady's deid, and left Nelly sax hunner pounds, so 
Janet gaed awa' owre tae hear a' the news. But whasent 
ye here wi' the boord ? " quo' Dauvid, turnin' tae Willie, 
■who was scratchin' his head and lookin' a wee foolish. 

" Od, Pate Low cam' up tae the shop this mornin' 
and telt me tae come awa' wast wi' the boord, as ye had 
inet wi' a sair loss." 

" Did he say Janet was deid, Willie ? " 

" No, he didna jist say that, when I mind ; but, of 
course, I thocht it could be nae ither body." 

" I see it a' noo," cried Dauvid, fa'in into a chair 
roarin' an' lauchin'. " Low was owre here this mornin', 
an' I was tellin' him aboot the death o' a coo, an' the 
rogue has gaen and made a gowk o' puir Willie owre 
the head o't. Did it never strike ye, Willie, that this 
was the First o' April ? " 

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

" Good-bye, good-bye," cries the minister, rinnin' oot 


at the door, and they heard him lauchin' a' the way tae 
the manse. 

" Weel, Willie," observed Dauvid, after the minister 
had left, "ye hae done me mair guid than onything I 
hae got this while. But dinna look sae sheepish, man ; 
there's nae harm done. I'm thinkin' o' gaun owre tae 
Janet's brither's, an' ye'll come awa' owre wi' me and 
see Nellie. Od, it's hard tae say whaur a blister may 
licht ; she's worth lookin' after noo, lad." 

After some coaxin', Willie consented tae gae wi' him, 
for he had a saft side tae Nellie, and wasna ill tae per- 
suade. On the road Dauvid wid stop every wee bit and 
ejaculate, " Strauchtin'-boord for a coo ! Dacency and 
Christianity ! " and syne roar as if he was gaun intae a 
fit. At last Willie told him unless he'd compose himsel', 
an' also not say a word aboot it when they gaed tae the 
lioose, he wadna gae anither fit. So Dauvid promised to 
say naething aboot it. 

When they got there Willie was puzzled what tae dae 
wi' the boord, for he had brocht it wi' him, as it was a 
bit on the road hame. However, he got it smuggled in 
ahint the door, a,n' in they went. Willie got a hearty 
welcome frae the auld folks, and a kind glance frae 
Nellie, so that he sune felt himsel' at hame amang them. 

After they had got their dinner, an' Nellie an' Willie 
close thegither in the corner, wi' his han' in hers, the 
servant lassie cam' in rinnin', an' cryin', " Oh, mistress, 
wha'sdeid? wha'sdeid?" 

" Deid ! Losh bless me, lassie, there's naebody deid. 
What mak's ye speer that ? " 

" Because I was ahint the door for the besom, an' 
there's a strauchtin'-boord there, an' ye ken there's nae 
use for it unless somebody's deid." 

By this time their attention was drawn tae Dauvid, 
wha was twistin' in his chair, wi' a face like a nor'-wast 
mune. At last he burst oot wi' a roar o' lauchin', an' 
screeched an' yelled until they thocht he was fairly gaen 
mad. After he was able tae speak, he cries, " Oh, 


Willie, hae mercy, an' let me tell them, or I'll burst." 

" Tell them, an' be hanged tae ye," says Willie, i' the 
pet ; "as weel tell them noo, for they'll sune hear o't at 
ony rate." 

Weel, after Dauvid had telt them the story, ye could 
hae tied them a' wi' a strae, an' Willie himsel' caught 
the infection, an' lauched as loud as ony o' them. 

Willie left for hame, wi' mony kind invitations no 
tae be a stranger among them,, which he took every ad- 
vantage of, for he was'there four or five times in a week, 
an' at last got Nellie for wife. He's noo in Dundee in a 
big way o' daein', an tae a' accounts Nellie's sax hunner 
pounds hae doubled itsel' by this time. 

His customers are sometimes surprised when they hae 
occasion tae gae for the strauchtin'-boord tae see Willie 
turn red i' the face an' Nellie fa'in tae the lauchin', 
but they dinna a' ken what you an' me kens. 


" Be mine," said the ardent young Sawmilegoff, 

In a voice with emotion quite husky, 
" My fondest devotion, oh, please do not scoflf, 

Katina Pojakaroulski ! " 

" Techernyschevsk y, my friend," the shy maiden replied . 

"Your people are noble and rich. 
Would a Golgusoft's granddaughter be a fit bride 

For a nephew of Maximo vitch? " 

" I care not a kopeck ! " he said. " In my drosky 

I have you safe now, and I laugh 
At the wealth of a Klitkin or Overhauloshki, 

Gojavnilc, or PuUerzedoff. 

"You are worth more to me than the gold of Slugmiski, 

Brakemupski, or Sumarakoff ! 
Katina Pojakaroulski, it's risky, 

But I'm going to carry you off! " 

And this is the way young Sawmilegoff 

Put an end to all further discussion, 
'Twas a simpler proceeding to carry her off 

Than to go on courting in Russian. 


BO.*— Robert C. V. Meyers. 

You've heerd about that time, say haven't you, when Vix, 
Our Blue Grass mare, our Vixen, was sperited away ? 
That time when only mam, you know, an' little Bo, our boy, 
Was mindin' house ? You haven't? Well, 'twas like this: 
That there day 

I'd gone an' went to town, an' the hired man he'd went 
To his mother'n-law's new weddin', an' only mam an' Bo 
Was at the farm, an' Bo he^was a-settin' in the barn 
A-mendin' up his fiddle for to try to make her go. 

That boy he jest loved music, he played the fiddle when 
He couldn't hardly talk — a tramp that come along 
Had showed him how to hold it and how to draw the bow, 
An' he wasn't hardly seven when he played a purty song. 

Well, the hoss-thieves come along that day ; that band 

from over yon — . 
Beyant the smoky mountains, an' they creeps up to our 

An' before mam got her breathin' they'd lighted out an' we 
Was minus our big Blue Grass. Scotts ! mam was in a fix — 

For Vix was all our fortune ; I'd took her for a debt. 
An' I'd an offer of a thousand dollars for her. See ? 
Poor mam ! She set an' bellered. 'N' then she heerd our Bo 
A-playin' of his fiddle. That jig tune didn't gee 

With mam as she was feelin'. It riled her. Up she riz, 
" I'll smash that fiddle," says she, an' runs off to the barn. 
" You lazy lout," she calls Bo, an' grabs for that vi'lin, 
" Here you set a-fiddlin' noon, an' night, an' marn, 

"An' Vixen's took." She flopped there, an' set down on 

the floor. 
An' cried an' cried. An' our Bo — he wascomin'on thirteen, 
An' he loved Vix like a sister — he laid his fiddle down, 
An' got as white as chalk, an' I guess felt purty mean. 

So them two they jest set there, mam wailin', an' Bo white, 
When all at once our Clover, the little mare outside 
A-playin' with her colt, she whinnied. Up jumps Bo. 
"That aint Vix, you ijit, that ain't her," mam cried. 

" No," says Bo, " I know that. Which way did they go,— 
Them thieves? Over the mountain? They did!" He 
said no more, 

♦ Written expressly for this Cullectiou. 


But he went to little Clover an' he saddled her, an' then 
He tied her taiitalizin' colt outside the harn-door. 

" What you mean ? " mam cries out. " You goin' to fight 

them men? 
Git off that mare this minit." But Bo he didn't speak, 
He jest ups with his old fiddle an' he whacks on Clover's 

Then he was streakin' down the yard her neck close to his 


Well, Bo, he looks an' finds the trail; he kept close till 

'twas night, • 

An' then he rid into their camp on Clover. They jest 

At Clover. "Kid," they savs to Bo, "good evenin', sir. 

Had grub ? " 
An' they laughed, an' for the minit it looked like Bo was 


" Tie this mare up with t'other," says the captain, an' our 

Knowin' that Vix was t'other, he eat the grub they 

An' then down by the camp-fire he took his fiddle out, 
An' he ups an' plays his music, — the jig tune, sure 's you live. 

'Twas too much for them fellers, that jig tune ; up jumps 

An' begun a-dancin' round the fire. And then another 

Till Bo he says they all did, even the captain, an' 
Bo played like everlastin',an' watched 'em as they pranced. 

Well, the men they got that thirsty a-dancin' that they 

An' drunk, an' drunk, an' drunk, an' drunk, from their 

flasks, an' heeled an' toed, 
An' the time passed, an' Bo's hand got cramped, but he 

kept a-playin' on 
At that tarnal little jig tune, the only one he knowed. 

At last a man give over, an' down he went, played out, 
Then another, an' another, till Bo he give a peep 
And he seen the Captain all alone a-dancin', while the rest 
Tired out an' purty tipsy, why they'd went fast asleep. 

At last the Captain he give out, a-sayin' with a snarl, 

" Say, kid, keep up that music ; I'll dance more after while." 

But after while his eyes shet, an' every mortal man 

Lay a-snorin' there like all possessed. Bo he give a smile, 


An' down he laid his fiddle. He knowed where Clover was, 
For she didn't sleep but worried for her little colt, you 

An' Bo found Vixen side o' her. He up an' kissed old Vix, 
An' he couldn't help a-cryin' — you see he loved her so. 

Well, he knowed our Clover smelt the way to where her 

colt must be, 
So he ups an' ties old Vixen to Clover's bushy tail. 
Then he touches Clover on the ribs, an' Clover give a tug. 
An' Vix an' her they lit out lively over hill an' dale. 

Then Bo goes to the camp-fire an' picks his fiddle up, 
An' goes on at the jig tune. He played till break o' day, 
When the Captain woke an' seemed pleased 'cause he'd 

minded so, 
An' went to look at Vixen. An' then. Bo he does say, 

The roar the Captain give woke every mother's son, 

An' they all was crowdin' round the place where Vixen 

had been tied. 
An' our Bo he went there too, an' he let out one big yell — 
" They've took my mare, too," cried he, "my Clover." An' 

he cried 

An' yelled so that the Captain swore and spoke o' spankin' 

But he pitied Bo, for Bo had played his fiddle for their dance. 
"Oh," the Captain says, says he, "we've been outwitted 

here— • 

There's smarter men about than us. Here, kid, give me a 

chance — 

"What you mean by yellin'?Do you want to drive me wild? 
But you're good enough, you played for us. Here, sonny, 

you go home. 
An' as long as your boss's stole with ours you can have this 

little scrub," 
An' he h'ists our Bo on the boss's back. " Now git! "he says, 

an' come 

An' give the little scrub a punch. Now long towards arly 

As me an' mam was worryin' an' wonderin' where Bo was — 
For Glover had been home an hour, an' was lickin' her 

little colt 
Close to Vixen eatin' grass — when all at once, my laws ! 

We heerd a little jig tune a-jumpin' through the air, 
Comin' closer and closer, while the birds seemed keepin' 
time — 


An' mam cried out, "My land ! it's Bo." An' streakin' in the 

There rid up Bo on the little scrub, an' yelled out, " Great 

Jemime ! 

"The fiddle done it, mammy — will you break the fiddle now ? 

lor it led them hoss thieves such a dance, a reg'lar fiddle- 

And sent back Vix and Clover. An' this scrub the Cap 
give me 

Goes like a streak o' lightnin', it's the best hoss o' the three." 

THE KINGDOM OF SHAM.— I. Edgar Jones. 

In the Kingdom of Sham, 
Each man is a sovereign and worships " I am.'' 
They carry no sign of the heart in the face, 
They think that in form is perfection of grace. 
They measure each soul with a circlet of gold. 
They shape every heart in appearance's mould. 
Dame Fashion is priestess their temples within. 
Where truth is accursed and bright candor a sin. 
They fan on their altars ambition's pale fires, 
Each one to a niche in the temple aspires. 
Their purposes straight as the horn of a ram- 
In the Kingdom of Sham. 

Their badge is a grin, — 

A gilt-simper hollow and empty within. 

With airiest chatter the hours they beguile 

And smother each thought with the ghost of a smile ; 

In silks and in satins, in powder and paints, 

Are tricked and bespangled their worthiest saints; 

They laugh as they flatter the wisdom of schools, 

They praise while deploring the surplus of fools, 

They mock at religion but practise its rites 

In gossip by day and in evil by nights ; 

They gloss every horror and gild every sin 

With their musical din. 

In the Kingdom of Sham, 
The wolf masquerades in the skin of the lamb ; 
The debauchees waltz with the purest of girls, 
The aged dame simpers from under her curls, 
The intrigante ripens her multiplied schemes. 
The courtier gathers the fruits of his dreams, 


The daughters by mothers in marriage are sold 
And bartered for fashion or folly or gold ; 
The corseted darling, the fool and the fop, 
Float lightly with other soap bubbles on top ; 
All machinery turned by the pocket-book cam, 
In the Kingdom of Sham. 

And thus to and fro 

In airy gyrations the butterflies go. 

To think is high tieason, to feel is a crime, 

While slander becomes a religion sublime; 

Reflection unlawful, true wisdom a sin, 

In the realm of pretense with its idols of tin; 

Absurdities glorified, treachery praised, 

And puppets from ruins of manliness raised ; 

The women but marionettes dressed into fools. 

And girls but the creatures of fashionplate rules ; 

Pure souls at a discount, sound brains out of place, 

Obscured in the mist-clouds of lying and lace ; 

The squadrons all marching to falsity's chimes, 

In musical rattling of dollars and dimes; 

All empty the heads and ambitions which cram 

The Kingdom of Sham.' 

JES' 'FORE CHRISTMAS.*— Edgbnb Field. 

Farher calls me William, sister calls me AVill, 

Mother calls me Willie — but the fellers call me Bill ! 

Mighty glad I aint a girl — ruther be a boy 

Without them sashes, curls an' things that's worn by Faunt- 

leroy ! 
Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake- 
Hate to take the castor-ile they give f'r belly-ache 1 
Most all the time the hull year roun' there aint no flies on 

But jes' 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be ! 

Got a yaller dog named Sport— sick 'im on the cat; 
Fust thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! 
Got a clipper-sled, an' when us boys goes out to slide 
'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride ! 
But, sometimes, when the grocery man is worrited and 

He re ach es at me with his w hip, and larrups up his boss; 

*From T)ie Ladies' Some Joit7-nal, by permission of "Tlie Curtis Publislling 


An' then I laff an' holler: " Oh, you never teched me \ " 
But jes' 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be ! 

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man 

I'll be a missionerer like her oldes' brother Dan, 

As wuz et up by the cannib'ls that lives in Ceylon's isle, 

Where every prospeck pleases an' onjy man is vile ! 

But gran'ma she had never been to see a Wild West show, 

Or read the life uv Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know 

That Buffalo Bill an' cowboys is good enough f r me— 

Bxoep' jes' 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be ! 

Then ol' Sport be hangf around, so solium like an' still — 
His eyes they seem a-sayin : " What's er matter, little Bill?" 
The cat she sneaks down off her perch, a-wonderin' what's 

Uv them two enemies of hern that use ter make things hum ! 
But I am so perlite and stick so earnestlike to biz. 
That mother sez to father : " How improved our Willie is ! " 
But father, bavin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me. 
When, jes' 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be ! 

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots uv candies, cakes an' 

Wuz made, they say, f 'r proper kids, and not f r naughty boys ! 
So wash yer face, and bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's, 
An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer 

shoes ; 
Say yessum to the ladies, an' yessir to the men, 
An' when they's company don't pass yer plate f r pie again ; 
But, thinkin' uv the things you'd like to see upon thai tree, 
Jes' 'fore Christmas be as good as you kin be ! 

W. H. Neall. 

Uncle Peterhad started out bright and early, one morning, to take a load of 
produce to the city ; whilst on his way, for the first time he met a trolley car 
which caused hie mule, Absalom, to behave in a very unseemly manner. The 
following is Uncle Petei''s description of the adventure to his wife,Amanda: 

Yo' needn't look so s'prized at me, Mandy, for a- 
comin' home wiffout selliu' dis yere garding sass. I 
couldn't git nigh to de town, nohow ; dat ar fool mewl, 

*Written expressly for this Collection. Mr. Neall's story of "The Squire'a 
Rooster," a humorous recitation in which the same Uncle Peter is the prominent 
fi{j:ure, will be found in No. 33; and bis charming little farce entitled, "An 
Economical Boomerang," in No. 32, 


Absal'm, was de 'casion of de whol' trubble ; 'deed lie 
was ! It was dis yere way : I was a-ridin' 'long kinder slow 
like, in de dirt road 'long side de cah track, a-thinkin' 
dat de stuff would brung a mighty smart price in de 
ma'ket, when I heerd a singin' an' a buzzin' an' a hum- 
min' like a millyon bees right behind me, jist dis yere 
■way— whiz — ziz — ziz — ziz — ziz — zip ! an' dar was a 
ringin' ob a bell like dis yere : Clang— lang — lang — 
lang ! an' I dun thought dat de bees had swa'med and 
dat de folks were a-hivin' ob dem agin. Den I looked 
round mighty quick like and, Mandy, dar I saw a boss 
cah a-runnin' down de hill all by itself ; de bosses left 
'way back in de dust, kase I couldn't see dem nowhere 
an' dat cah jist a-comin' a-bilin' an' a man on de front 
end a-turnin' a coffee-grinder 'to stop it; 'twant no use, 
dat ar cah was jist a-runnin' away. 

I pulled old Absal'm up mighty sudden. "Whoa dar, 
Absal'm," I said, "dat ar cah has dun got beyond control." 

Den I thought to myself, if de man can keep it on de 
track till it git down to de bottom ob de hill, de cah will 
stop fo' suah an' de passengeers kin git out an' walk up 
till dey fotch de bosses to tote de cah up. Mandy, yo' 
dun open yo' ears an' heah what I'se gwine to say : dat 
ar cah nebber stopped but slid up de odder hill jist as 
slick an' fast as if de debbel was afler it. 

Don't yo' roll yo' eyes dat ar way, Mandy, like if yo' 
didn't b'live me, I dun seed it, 'deed I did ; an' de only 
thing dat was strange about dat ar cah, was a clothes-prop 
a-stickin' outen de top hitched onto a telegraff wiah. 

" Dat's mighty curis,'' I said to a man gwine 'long de 
road, den I dun axed what 'casioned it. 
" Dat's a trolley cah," said he, " run by lextrixity." 

" Go 'long, honey," I said, " yo' can't fool dis yere 
nigger wiff yo' lextrixity ; grabitation has got somthin' 
to do wiff dat ar thing." 

Ole Absal'm was still a-prickin' up his ears an' den 
he looked round at me, kinder skeerd like, much as 
to say, " Sorathin' wrong 'bout dat ar, boss." 


Den I clucked to ole Absal'm to git up — jess so 
(imitaiing) — fo' I wanted to git inter de town mighty 
smart an' early wiff de garding sass and yerbs. But ole 
Absal'm dun stan' as if he was glued to de dirt. 

" Go on dar, yo' dun heah me," I cried, "dat ar trol- 
ley cah aint a-gwine to hurt yo'." But he jist shake his 
head — jess so (imitating) — an' I dun know what dat ar 
meaned. Den I persuaded him to move wiff dat bundle ob 
switches what I call va^ persuader, but ole Absal'm jist 
shake his tail an' kick outen his heels an' wouldn't 
budge. I reckoned it war better to spile de switch dan to 
spile de mewl, so dat I dun persuade him some mo', an' 
I 'most wore out de switches on ole Absal'm's back but 
he jist wag his ears, aggarvatin' like. Den I dun git 
outen de calit and took him by de bridle. 

" Bee yere, Absal'm," I said kinder sad like, " I'm a- 
gwiue to try moral 'suasion on yo' now : I dun want 
yo' to quit yo' foolin', yo' mind my words ; I dun must 
git into de town at once or else I'm a-gwine to miss de 
ma'ket ; yo' heah me ! " 

Den I pulled him wiff all de force ob dese yere arms 
an' he_dun pulled back jist as hard. Den I got outen 
my breff. 

" See yere, Absal'm, yo' dun heah me ; yo' jist git up 
and git or else I might lusen my temper an' smite yo' 
in de face." 

But de ole mewl jist rare up an' lay back his ears an' 
wouldn't move nohow. Den I dun climbed back into de 
caht agin and sot an' waited. 

" Yo' fool mewl, yo'," I said, " I kin be as stubbo'n 
as yo', an' I don't stir outen dis yere spot till yo' do." 

Wiff dat, ole Absal'm, jist to be contrary, switched 
round his tail an' dun pulled de caht clear acrost de 
cah-track an' dun stop right dar, an' de berry nex' min- 
nit, I dun heah de whiz — ziz — ziz — ziz — ziz— zip ! 
blang — ^.lang — lang — ob de trolley cah a-comin'. 

My har jist riz on end. 

" Heah yo' Absal'm," I cried wiff my heart in my 


raouf : " Git offen dat track, you dun heah me good an' 
earnest," an' I laid on the persuader mighty heavy. De 
ole mewl he dun planted his feet on de track an' wouldn't 
itir. De cah was a-coniin' like greased lightnin'. 

"Hoi' on dar; hoi' on dar, mistah man," I dun 
yelled, "dis yere Absal'm has got de balks. Turn offen 
de coffee-grinder." 

But de cah came on jess as fast, an' I thought dat I 
was bound fo' kingdom come, when de man dun stopped 
de cah right dar, behind de caht, an' he yelled fer me to 
git outen de way. I dun tried all I could but ole 
Absal'm was set an' I knowed dat it war no use. 

Den anodder man come up, all in blue soger clo's 
and brass buttings. " Come dar, ole man,'' he said to 
me, "come offen de track." 

" I'd- like to 'blige yo', boss," I dun said to him, "but 
ole Absal'm he dun behave scandless ; he wont move ! " 

" I dun make him move," said he an' he tooked hoi' 
ob Absal'm's head afore I could gib him warnin'. The 
berry nex' minnit, ole Absal'm dun shot outen his front 
feet an' fotched de man in de stum-jack an' laid him out 
in de road. ,Dey had to help him up and tote him away. 

Den de man on de front ob de cah, he say, " I dun 
clar de track. Yo'jist see." 

Wiff dat he gibs his coffee-grinder one turn an' 
plumps de cah right into de back of my caht an' 
made old Absal'm hump his-self. But Mandy, he 
fotched him, 'deed he did. He dun pushed me, an' 
de caht, and de mewl 'long at a mighty smart pace. Ole 
Absal'm he was a-rarin', an' a-tearin', an' a-tryin' to dig 
his hoofs in de dirt to hold back ; he was a-kickin', 
an' a-slidin', an' I was a-holdin' on like grim deff, a- 
yellin' to de man to turn off his coffee-grinder, but he jist 
laffed ; an' all de people in de cah dun popped out dere 
heads and laffed too. 

Den ole Absal'm, he dun see dat it was no use buckin' 
agin a stun-wall so he dun wheeled round mighty sud- 
den, an' like to capsize me and de garding sass, an' 


started for home. Golly how he did run, au' he nebber 
stopped runnin' till he Ian' me right yere befo' de do'. 

Dere's no use talkin', Mandy ; I've dun larned by 
'xperience dat de force ob grabitation in a trolley cah 
has mo' power dan de heels ob an ole white mewl ; yo' 
dun heah me ! 

FOUR PICTURES.*— Harriett E. Durfee. 
• I. 


Adown beside an old stone wall. 

Two little children played, 
A tiny boy, with bright black eyes. 

And a beautiful fair-haired maid. 

Above their bonny, happy heads, 

A pear-tree's branches hung, 
And its blossoms, to their merry hearts, 

Spring's praises gaily rung. 

And the birds, fair nature's choristers, 

Sang many a sweet refrain. 
And the children, listening in their play, 

Could not their glee restrain. 

So laughing, chattering merrily. 

About their play they went. 
Till the slanting rays from the setting sun 

Told them the day was spent. 

And thus it is in childhood, 

The springtime of our life. 
E'er know we what before us lies, 

Of trbuble, grief and strife. 



Again, we stand by the old stone wall, 
A youth and a maid are there, 

A dark-haired, dark-eyed youth is he, 
And the maid has golden hair. 

But now the summer time has come. 
To fruit, has changed the flower; 

*Writtpn expressly for this Collection. 


And here, beneath the golden bells, 
Is a beautiful sunny bower; 

And here, beside the old pear-tree, 

Our lovers we have found, 
He, telling of his love so true. 

How his life in hers is bound. 

And she, with rosy lips, her eyes 

Upraised to his, in love, 
Whispers one word that makes his life 

Like the fair, sweet heaven above. 

Ah, summer time, sweet summer time. 

What time so dear as you ? 
With your loveliest, fairest flowers of love. 

And faith, heaven's holiest dew. 



To-day, beside the old stone wall, 

A man and woman stand, 
And gaze upon the garnered fruit, 

Yea, stand there, hand in hand. 

And gaze upon their own past lives. 

As full, as fruitful — fair. 
As the life of the tree which has given them 

The fruit for which they care. 

Ah ! Think of the glorious autumn time 

When we harvest in the grain 
From the seed we have sown in childhood's spring, 

Made to grow by the summer's rain. 



'Tis winter, and a snow-bank high 
Lies under the tree by the wall. 

The leaves from the branches have flown away. 
Leaving them gaunt and tall. 

Who is it I see there, under the tree ? 

The youth and the pretty maid? 
Alas, the same! And yet— ah me! 

Old Father Time has laid 

His hand upon them, and given them crowns 
Far whiter than the snow, 


Has bent their heads, and made their steps 
Faltering, weak and slow. 

And yet, as she lays her hand in his, 

Whisp'ring words of love and joy. 
We know that the same affection lasts 

That came to the girl and the boy. 

Ah, life, what art thou ? So bright — so sad ! 

We live you but once, and then. 
Under the cold of the winter's blast. 

We pass frqjn the knowledge of men. 

And yet, beyond, there's a beautiful home, 

More lovely than all beside. 
And there, too, is God, who gave us this life, 

Whose Son is .our Saviour, and Guide. 

A LOST CHORD FOUND.— Willaed Holcomb. 

We stood alone in the choir loft 

By the organ tall and grim. 
While over the keys her fingers 

Followed their own sweet whim ; 
I spoke of the coming parting. 

And plead for one farewell kiss, 
But her modest wish forbade me 

Lest the sexton old might list. 
Then I struck on the organ a strong, full chord, 

And ere its echoes died 
In the twilight dim of the old gray church 

I kissed my promised bride. 

We stood again by the organ 

When many years had fled, 
But she thought me grown cold and heartless, 

And I thought her old love dead. 
I spoke of our last fond parting. 

Of the chord and its tender tide. 
And how like the sound of that music 

Our love had throbbed and died — 
Then my heart leaped up with a great glad bound 

And forgot its recent pain, 
For she blushed and, dropping her lashes, said, 

" Could you find me that chord again? " 


Edwin Kiekman Haet. 

Twenty years editorial experience and observation 
suggest that in this discussion, one ounce of fact should 
outweigh a hundred pounds of false theory. The Sunday 
newspaper press is intimately and vitally connected 
with other events of surpassing importance to society, to 
the Church, to the State and to humanity. The greed 
of gain, taking possession of the minds of men, has 
brought it forward until to-day it stands as a gigantic 
law-breaker and an influence for evil that can scarcely 
be estimated. Entrenched behind political, social, com- 
mercial and financial power, it stands in open defi- 
ance of the State as well as the Church. The leading 
morning newspapers in the great cities have issued Sun- 
day editions, thus giving a fictitious respectability to this 
lawless business, and beating down, in the minds of the 
people, from day to day, their regard for the Christian's 
day of worship and the laboring man's day of rest. 

The influence of the Church and the law-abiding 
sentiment of the people, has been seriously aflfected by 
the Sunday newspaper. Wherever it appears it comes 
as an enemy of the Church, a disturber of the peace 
that should possess men's minds on the day of worship 
and the day of rest. Its influence, everywhere and 
always, is towards a loosening of the ties of respect for 
and confidence in the truths of Christianity and the 
bedrock principles upon which rest American institu- 
tions. This is necessarily so. Men cannot violate the 
law with impunity; they cannot set a vicious example 
without bringing evil to themselves as well as to others. 
The Sunday newspaper has been the instigator as well 
as the exemplar and upholder of lawlessness. Its every 
issue must beget increasing contempt for legal re- 
straint, for the moral law, and for that inherent 
right of self-government without which Eepublics can- 
not live. It is a breeder of anarchy and it is to-day 

•From an address before tLc Philaddphia Ministerial Union. 


chiefly responsible for the ominous clouds rising on the 
horizon, which threaten the peace andstability of Ameri- 
can government. It has broken down the barriers and 
blazed the way for a host of such reckless enemies of 
society as came up in France, one hundred years ago. 

The Sunday newspaper is not a benevolent enterprise. 
It is not issued for charity. It is not distributed free. 
It is not the unselfish handmaid of humanity, a disin- 
terested co-worker with those who are struggling to 
protect the weak, feed»the hungry, clothe the naked and 
relieve the distressed. It is a money-making enterprise, 
the publisher having no more warrant in law than the 
man engaged in any other secular business who prose- 
cutes the same on the first day of the week, contrary to 
the statutes of the Commonwealth. Patronizing it results 
in increasing moral blindness, in blunted consciences, in 
further alienation of all classes from the Church and from 
all sympathy with the beliefs and practices of genuine 
Christianity. It forges a fearful chain of bondage for 
the working people of this country, the eflfect of which, 
if a peremptory halt is not speedily called, will be felt 
by the present and coming generations. Moody is right. 
The Sunday newspaper is the boldest and biggest lion 
in the pathway of the Church. It is doing more harm 
to Christianity than any other influence of the time. It 
is the most insidious and treacherous foe that American 
labor has ever known. It is a most dangerous and de- 
structive enemy of the State. 

As a direct outcome of this establishment and spread 
of the Sunday newspaper, its pernicious influence ex- 
tending in every direction and far into the rural regions, 
there has been a fearful enlargement of the latitude of 
Sunday lawlessness, — for all needless secular labor and 
secular business conducted on the nation's day of rest 
may properly come under this condemnatory heading. 
Many lines of business are now conducted needlessly 
a good portion of Sunday, and some all the day, that 
never until a little while ago appeared in this lawless 


attitude. Sunday traveling, Sunday dissipation, Sunday 
saloons, and Sunday amusements, all requiring an enor- 
mous amount of enforced Sunday labor, have followed 
and kept company with the Sunday newspapers until 
to-day in many of the great cities of the West the stran- 
ger would not know it was Sunday if he were not told 
so. The tide is swelling onward with fearful force, en- 
gulfing tens and hundreds of thousands of helpless work- 
people, sweeping away the flower of the land, depriving 
the Church of the fidelity and support of the young 
men, darkening homes, filling the streets with the noise 
and bustle of secular days, and altogether bringing to 
our very doors a state of things from which the found- 
ers of the Republic would have recoiled in horror. 

The preservation of Sunday as a day of rest is the 
one guarantee to the American workingman, of freedom. 
Xts preservation as a day of worship, undisturbed by the 
godless recklessness and folly and wickedness of those 
who refuse to recognize the claims of their Creator, is 
theone guarantee of the Church and is essential to the 
preservation and maintenance of Christianity. When 
the Christian Sunday goes everything goes. You can- 
not break it in two without breaking it altogether. If 
the " Continental Sunday'' is to succeed the American 
Sunday, then Continental methods, morals and vices 
will come as the night follows the day. The fathers laid 
the foundations broad and deep. We cannot tear them 
up without imperiling the superstructure. The Christ- 
ian Sunday is at once the corner-stone, the keystone 
and the capstone in the temple of American liberty and 
self-government. You cannot punch holes in the Deca- 
logue. These "ten words'' stand or fall together as they 
came from Sinai. The world has never yet dared 
attempt to alter or amend them ; it either obeys them 
or defies them. Even the " Higher Critics " have not 
been equal to this. You cannot take the fourth com- 
mandment out and leave the rest without striking a 
fatal blow at the true religious faith. 


Moreover, you cannot permit the day of rest to be 
seriously trespassed upon and establish any new line of 
defense and safety for those who toil. If men must work 
that the proprietors of Sunday newspapers, the owners 
of railroads, the managers of places of amusement, liquor 
sellers, etc., may get rich, what is to prevent the com- 
j)lete enslavement of all labor?' I am a better friend of 
the Sunday newspaper publisher than he is of himself. 
I would save him from the consequences of his own 
wrong-doing. One tlung I have observed from my 
childhood up, namely, that God never looks with 
patience or tolerance upon the needless and defiant 
violation of the sanctity of His day. He only asks one 
in seven. If we do not give Him that He deals with 
us according to our sin and according to our folly. 
Sunday business does not pay, either an individual, a 
community or a nation. Sunday lawlessness will bring 
punishment sooner or later, and the time will come when 
this tremendous fact will burn its way into the stubborn 
minds of those who now refuse to recognize it. 

Upon one occasion a worthy young railroad conductor, 
who in all respects I have observed to be in principle 
and deportment a Christian gentleman, said to me : 
" Eailroaders have no right to have families. They have 
no right to have souls." Think of that the next time 
you find yourself on a Sunday train. Look into the 
haunts of our young men. Listen to the flippant, 
worldly, skeptical talk of our young women. Find out 
what is in the minds of the older men with regard to 
these matters. See how they have been led astray. 
Mingle with the boys and behold the rising harvest of 
secularism on Sunday. Perceive how they have been 
brutalized through the influence of the Sunday news- 
paper. See how they scoff" at suggestions with regard to 
God's day and its claims upon them. You may organ- 
ize your Boys' Brigades, but Satan will get them, if 
you do not preserve your Christian Sunday. 

What is wanted, my dear friends, is an old-fashioned 


assertion of the Christian faith and American patriot- 
ism. The demand of the hour is for true Christian 
intelligence, zeal, courage and persistency ; a revival 
of the true spirit of Puritanism and genuine American- 
ism. Throughout this great land the spirit of evil is 
reigning as never before. The nation will soon forget 
its God, after it has forgotten His Sabbath. I tremble 
for my country when I think of these things. You 
must rally to your standard. You must come out into 
the open. You must battle for the truth. You must 
uphold it in its integrity. The man who buys a 
Sunday newspaper is a partaker in the lawlessness 
and sin of the man who publishes it. The man who 
needlessly commands the unwilling services of others, 
on the day of rest, is violating the spirit and the 
letter of God's law and of the law of humanity. You 
must rescue and defend the Christian Sabbath. The 
peril is imminent, the duty imperative. 


Written ezpressUi for this Collection. 

When the golden sun was sinking low behind the western 

Lulled to slumber by the music of the mournful whip-poor- 
will ; 

When the little stars in heaven one by one began to blink, 

And the dew was falling softly over roses white and pink, 

Midst their beauty and their fragrance laughingly a maiden 

Breaking off one half-blown blossom, twined it in her shin- 
ing hair. 

Like a rose among the roses in her pink gown there she 
seemed ; 

Pink and white — oh, shades of beauty ! may they ever be 

Scarcely had the last faint sunbeam melted gently into shade 

Ere the moon's pale silver messengers among the roses 
played ; 

And a horrid man appearing rather spoiled the scene sub- 

But he seemed to be quite welcome and 'twas quite a moony 


With the words of greeting over and well seated by her 

A knobby parcel forth he drew with quite an air of pride, 
For he thought it quite original and really quite neat 
To say, in accents melting, he had brought "sweets to the 


But this odd conceit she pardoned when, on opening, she 

The'sack contained of caramels, pure chocolate, a pound. 
With a sigh of rapt contentment she returned him thanks 

And at once the conversation flagged, for she began to eat. 

Now caramels are sticky things, and when too quickly 

They form a sticky paste which clings until the jaws are 

But 'tis said on good authority— to test it might be well — 

There's no time a girl looks sweeter than when eating cara- 
mel. - 

So thought the lover of our tale, and vowed with ardent eye 

That now or never was the time to cast the fatal die. 

He pondered but a moment, though she thought it quite a 

And without a word of warning on his knees before her 


What he said I cannot tell you, being too far off to hear, 
But what he meant was, even at a distance, very clear; 
But a sudden look of anguish fills the maiden's tender eyes, 
And she gives him not an answer save a look of mute 

" Darling, darling'! tell me quickly, give me but one ray of 

hope ; 
For with you beside me, dearest, I could all life's battles 

But without you life is nothing, speak me but one little 

word ! " 
Still no answer ; still no token. Was she angry ? Had she 

heard ? 

" Must I leave you thus, my' darling ? not one word to cheer 

my life 
Which 1 had hoped to spend with you, as my true and 

loving wife?" 
Not an answer, not a token, save a single limpid tear 
And the look of anguish deepening into one of deadly fear. 


Thus their eyes met for one moment thro' the tear she could 

not stay, 
Then with look half sad, half haughty, on his heel he turned 

Saying but, "Good-bye forever. You have sent me to my 

Seized the sack with sticky fingers and strode proudly to 

the gate. 

But a sudden stifled murmur caused him quickly to turn 

round — 
And a moment later his strong arm had raised her from 

the ground. 
Crying wildly, "I have killed you" — drenched her well with 

water wet, 
With a fervor which induced her not to leave this cold 

world yet. 

But the water — blessed water ! had the caramel dissolved, 
And when from chaos once again remembrance was evolved. 
At once throughout the evening air re-echoed far and wide. 
As her tongue regained its power, " Yes, Fes, Yes, I'll be 
your bride ! " 

The wedding bells have sounded and the wedding day is 

It was two years in September since the knot was tied up 

But caramel nor sealing-wax nor anything that sticks 
Would fetter now that woman's tongue or once her jaws 


UNSOPHISTICATED.— EmilePickhardt. 

She was bashful, self-conscious, but rosy, 

This fresh little bud from the fields ; 
She'd blush like the heart of a posy 

When to the soft zephyr it yields. 
And not being well up in grammar. 

She'd often say "came" 'stead of " come." 
And she'd pick at her apron and stammer. 

And "at home" with this maid, was "at hum." 

And the questions she'd ask you were funny, 

On matters irrelevant quite ; 
But her smile .was so open and sunnj'. 

To answer them all was delight. 
And she'd tell you, with naive little touches 

Of frankness, confiding as sweet, 


Of things the most personal, — such as 
Her age, and the size of her feet. 

And of quizzing she'd never suspect you, 

Though amused at her sallies you were ; 
And her laughter uncurhed would infect you. 

As well as her "bonhomie" rare. 
As for slang— let us draw here the curtain — 

And country slang, mind you, at that; 
And, heavens ! the town belles, I'm certain, 

'Most swooned at the style of her hat. 

Yet still this sweet maiden bucolic 

Had virtue enough in her way ; 
Though lather too ready to frolic, 

She kept mooning dudelets at bay. 
In fact she had just enough " gumption," 

Or call it good sense, if you please, 
While blandly ignoring presumjition. 

With a look the " presumer " to freeze. 

And then she could get up such dishes, 

And "flxin's an' things," that you'd own 
That never such cooking delicious 

To tickle your palate you'd known. 
Besides, she made all her own dresses, 

As well as her sister's, they say ; 
And neatly she groomed her brown tresses. 

Though not in conventional way. 

So while all the girls in the city. 

Where she'd "come for to visit a spell," 
Tried each to be brilliant and witty. 

And laughed at her frequent "Do tell," 
She kept her own gait most demurely, 

Nor noticed their quizzing and chaif, 
And, all quite unconscious, was surely 

On them neatly turning the laugh. 

For soon it appeared that this posy. 

So verdant and fresh from the fields ; 
So blushing, confiding and rosy. 

With arts that true innocence wields. 
Had captured nobility's scion. 

The hope of the citified belle, 
Who said, as she sighed for her lion, 

" Well, there ! Did you ever! Do tell ! " 

— Detroit Free Press. 


BRESCA .*— Lucy Barbour Ewing. 

Pope Siitus V. ordained that no one Ehould speak upon pain of death, while 
the Obelisli uf the Vatican was being placed in position in the Square of St. 
Peter's, Suddenly the mighty column ceased to move, and an awful moment uf 
suspense followed, wlieu there wae a cry of "Throw water on the ropes," and 
the workmen, acting on this advice, saw the monster gradually settle on its base. 

The man who saved the obelisk was Bresca, a sailor of Bordighieva, and the 
Pope promised him that his native village should henceforth have the privi- 
lege of furnishing the Easter palms to St. Peter's. 

St. Peter's spacious plaza with a mighty throng was filled, 
A throng expectant, eager— but to silence hushed and 

By the Vatican's stern edict: "He who speaks above his 

Or one exclamation utters, pays the penalty — of death.'' 

For a scene of ui most moment was enacting there that day, 
A task whose vast proportions filled the people with dismay 
As they, speechless, gazed upon it, — the uplifting to its place 
Of the great Egyptian column which adorns that marbled 

Slowly, by skilled hands guided, upward rose the massive 

Upward and ever upward, till the deed was almost done. 
When— suddenly a shudder shook the throng, a horror 

As they saw the straining cables all at once grow lax — and 

still ! 

Motionless the mighty column hung before them in the air. 

Yielding naught, though scores of toilers, with the strength 
born of despair 

Sought to avert the impending danger, wrought with des- 
perate might and main 

To complete the task appointed — but 'twas efibrt spent in 
vain ! 

Throbbed each heart with wild emotion ; baffled, now 

seemed all their hopes. 
When a cry, " Give water, water ; quick, give water to the 

ropes ! " 
Broke the breathless, thrilling silence as from out the 

crowd it rang, 
And, all bronzed by sea and tempest, forward brave old 

Bresca sprang ! 

Quick to heed him, swift to follow, as he bade them it was 

Till the ropes, so loosely hanging, slowly tightened one by 


•Written expiesaiy for this Collection. 


Till the mighty work was finished and, in all its stately grace, 
Stood the obelisk as still it stands upon St. Peter's place ! 

In the Vatican's great throne-room, Bresca, summoned to 

Knelt before the Holy Father his death sentence there to 
hear ; 

Knelt with face all peace and calmness, though his heart- 
strings quivered sore 

At the thought that home and kindred would, for him, be 

Bowed in lowliness he waited for that terrible decree. 
When a voice, like clarion ringing, spoke : "Else, Bresca, 

thou art free ! 
Thou hast done a deed of valor, ask the meed which is thy due 
And the Vatican will grant it, be thy wishes great or few." 

And Bresca, brave old Bresca, to his home and kindred true 
And, of petty self, forgetful, made request most strange and 

That permission should be given to his townsmen to provide 
All the palms for Rome's great churches at the glorious 


It was granted, and that promise is held sacred to this day, 
Thougli three hundred years and over since that time have 

rolled away. 
And still from Bordighiera all the palms for Easter come. 
In remembrance of old Bresca and the deed he did at Eome. 

AS SHE SAYS.*— Joseph Bert Smiley. 

The little dimpled baby-girl 

Lies laughing in the cradle. 
While papa tries to read the news 

As well as he is able. 
But with that prattling baby's call, 
He finds he cannot read at all. 

It's just as she says. 
The henpecked husband, 'neath the bed, 

Draws back in calm submission. 
His better half, where he has fled, 

Stands waiting full contrition. 
We know not what the fuss may be. 
But one with half an eye can see 

It's just as ulie says. 

•From "A Basket of Chips," by permiesion. 


The able-bodied mother-in-law 
Says she will name the baby, 

The timid husband don't agree 
With this assertive lady. 

But every man I ever saw 

Agrees, as to the mother-in-law, 
It's just as she says. 

And e'en when man makes up his mind 
To marry some fair maiden. 

That selfsame scale, he'll surely find 
His brightest hopes are weighed in. 

For when he's tired of single life. 

And thinks he'd better take a wife, 
That's just as she says. 

No matter how you kick and rare, 
With ravings and objections. 

By winsome smiles, or by the hair, 
By force or by affections, 

You'll learn by trial, and toil, and strife. 

This motto will hold good through life : 
It's just as she says. 


S. Jennie Smith. 

Mrs. Guptill was a woman who believed in taking 
everything in time. Nothing got ahead of her, she 
often declared, and the remarli was invariably followed 
by a successidu of nods that spoke volumes in regard 
to her ability and intelligence. Washing, ironing, mend- 
ing, house-cleaning, and all of her other numerous duties 
were attended to at the proper time, and as for diseases, 
there wasn't one mentioned in the almanac that could 
master her. She had brought the children safely through 
whooping-cough, measles, scarletina, scarlet fever, 
mumps, shingles, and goodness knows what all, and had 
managed to do it simply by taking the diseases in time. 

Guptill too had his share of the maladies to which 
"grown-up flesh" is heir, but his wife conquered every 

*Writti'U expressly lor this Collection. 


one of them. He could tell you. He hadn't sweated 
by night and been poulticed and plastered by day for 
nothing. Mrs. Guptill could always see when he was 
ready to come down with anything, but it didn't get 
ahead of her. She began the doctoring process without 
a moment's hesitation, and kept it up with such a show 
of determination that frequently the disease was ashamed 
to exhibit itself. What if her plasters did occasionally 
evince a roving disposition ; what if Guptill did come 
home at night with hi^chest-protector sticking out of 
his coat-sleeve, or some other of Mrs. Guptill's home- 
made external applications scattered all over his long- 
suflfering back, his wife felt convinced that she had 
■warded off a sick spell, and was accordingly triumphant. 

Then there was that Russian disease called La 
Grippe. Mrs. Guptill frequently held forth on the sub- 
ject, declaring that it was nothing, after all, but old- 
fashioned influenzy, and that it couldn't beat her. She 
saw no reason why folks should be taken off with it ; the 
disease had to be managed in time, and that was all 
there was to it. However, she meant to keep her eye 
on every member of the family, and let them but give 
one sneeze, and she knew how to proceed. 

Now it so happened that Mr. and Mrs. Guptill went 
out one evening and left the children in the care of 
Polly Waldron, a next-door neighbor who offered to run 
in and mind them awhile. When they returned, and 
Polly was starting home again, she looked back just as 
she reached the door and said something about one of 
the children, but all Mrs. Guptill caught were these 
■warning words : 

" He's been sneezing like anything, and you'd better 
look out for him, for he seems to be coming down with 
the grip." 

The .little ones were in the back room, and Mrs. Gup- 
till rushed in to investigate the matter. Pouncing upon 
Johnnie, whose eyes were red and watery (a sure sign, 
as anybody knew), she trotted him upstairs to her room. 


" I'll nevev do it again,'' the boy began to whimper. 

" No, and you wout do it this time, if I can help it," 
said Mrs. Guptill running here and there, bringing out 
first one preventive and then another, until the 
table was completely covered with boxes, bottles, and 
plasters. After undressing the boy and soaking his 
feet in hot mustard water, she hurried him into bed. 
Then she gave him a bitter dose of medicine, laid a 
plaster on his chest, mustard drafts to his feet, tied a 
flannel around his head, covered him with a pile of 
blankets, and commanded him to sweat. 

The poor little victim made no remonstrance. He 
had learned by bitter experience to suffer quietly under 
such treatment. 

That night Mrs. Guptill scarcely closed her eyes, 
neither did Mr. Guptill ; his wife wouldn't let hira. 
" Just suppose we haven't taken the complaint in time," 
she cried out to him whenever she found him sinking 
into a sweet slumber, and then it became necessary for 
the two of them to rush around the room and hunt up 
some more tortures for poor Johnnie, who already bore 
a close resemblance to a boiled lobster. 

The next morning Polly Waldron ran in to see how 
the patient was getting on. " Oh ! he'll come out all 
right," triumphantly said Mrs. Guptill, as she led Polly 
to the room where the boy was lying, " I took him in 
hand at once, and there hasn't been a symptom 'cept the 
red, watery eyes. He hasn't sneezed at all." 

When they reached the room Polly gave one glance 
at the much-wrapped-up, much-sweated piece of human- 
ity on the bed, and then making some inarticulate re- 
marks in which the words, " Tom," "sneezing," "John- 
nie," "crying," were the only ones that could be under- 
stood, she gave way to peal after peal of uncontrollable 

It took Mrs. Guptill fully three minutes to compre- 
hend the situation : 

She had doctored the wrong child ! 


OUR CHEISTMAS.*— Julia Walcott. 

We didn't have much of a Christmas 

My Papa and Bosie and me, 
For mamma'd gone out to the prison 

To trim up the poor pris'ner's tree ; 
And Ethel, my big grown-up sister, 

Was down at the 'sylum all day 
To help at the great turkey dinner, 

And teach games for the orphans to play. 
She belongs to a club of young ladies 

With a "beautiful objick" they say, — 
'Tis to go among poor lonesome children 

And make all their sad hearts more gay. 

And Auntie— you dqn't know my Auntie? 

She's my own papa's half-sister Kate, 
She was 'bliged to be round at the chapel 

Till 'twas— oil, sometimes dreadfully late. 
For she pities the poor worn-out curate: 

His burdens, she says, are so great, 
So she 'ranges the flowers and the music 

And he goes home around by our gate. 
I should think this way must be the longest, 

But then, I suppose he knows best ; 
Aunt Katie says he intones most splendid ; 

And his name is Vane Algernon West. 

My papa had bought a big turkey 

And had it sent home Christmas eve ; 
But there wasn't a soul here to cook it — 

You see Bridget had threatened to leave 
If she couldn't go off with her cousin 

(He doesn't look like her one bit) ; 
She says she belongs to a "union" 

And the union wont let her " submit." 
So we ate bread and milk for our dinner. 

And some raisins and candy, and then 
Rose and me went downstairs to the pantry 

To look at the turkey again. 

Papa said he would take us out riding- 
Then he thought that he didn't quite dare 

For Rosie'd got cold and kept coughing ; 
There was dampness and chills in the air. 

*From The Ladies* Borne JaiimaJ, by permission of "The Curtis Publishing 


Oh, the day was so long and so lonesome ! 

And our papa was lonesome as we ; 
And the parlor was dreary, no sunshine, 

And all the sweet roses, — the tea 
And the red ones, — and ferns and carnations 

That have made our bay-window so bright, 
Mamma'd picked for the men at the prison 

To make their bad hearts pure and white. 

And we all sat up close to the window, 

Eose and me on our papa's two knees. 
And we counted the dear little birdies 

That were hopping about on the trees. 
Rosie wanted to be a brown sparrow ; 

But I thought I would rather, by far, 
Be a robin that flies away winters 

Where the sunshine and gay blossoms are. 
And papa wished he was a jail-bird, 

'Cause he thought that they fared the best; 
But we all were real glad we weren't turkeys 

For then we'd been killed with the rest. 

That night I put into my prayers : 

" Dear God, we've been lonesome to-day 
For mamma, Aunt, Ethel and Bridget 

Every one of them all went away. 
Wont you please make a club, or society, 

'Fore it's time for next Cliristmas to be. 
To take care of philanterpists' fam'lies, 

Lilie papa and Rosie and me ? " 
And I think that my papa's grown pious, 

For he listened, as still as a mouse. 
Till I got to Amen ; — then he said it 

So it sounded all over the house. 

A TOUCH OF NATURE.— Wm. H. Bushnell. 

A wild canyon cut in the mountain side. 
By watery chisels, deep and wide. 
For many a year the Indians roamed there, 
And fought for possession with grizzly bear. 
Then miners came, and their axes made room 
For Long Tom, and cradle, dam and flume. 
Their sturdy strokes brought the redwood down, 
And almost in a day was builded a town. 


And primitive structures, homely and rude. 
Began to checker the solitude. 

And one o'er the rest rose grand and tall, 
With battened roof, and with canvas wall. 
With unplaned seats, and with puncheon floor, 
And the legend of "Theater" over the door. 
Within, men packed it from pit to dome, 
Who had left all virtues but courage at home; 

Who toiled all day for the nuggets bright, 
So recklessly gambled away at night. 

A heathenish crew as any of old, 

With chance for religion, and their only god, gold. 

One side was the stage framed with evergreens, 

And blankets were made to do duty as scenes. 

At one end of the room was pictured vice, 

At the other cards shuffled, and rattled the dice. 

The feeble orchestra scarce could be heard 

For clinking of glasses, and impious word. 

The play was wild as befitted the place, — 

The triumph of white o'er the Indian race. 

The actors were men unknown to fame. 

And actresses but one remove from shame. 

The dance was a wild and immodest thing, 

With a mixture of can-can and Highland-Fling. 

So the play, the jest, and the jeer went along 

Till a woman stepped out to sing a song ; 

And at the first note every sound was hushed. 

Between bearded lips the fierce oath was crushed, 

Glasses left undrained, cards left unturned. 
And a strange soft light in every eye burned. 

The singer had reached by the power of art. 
The inmost depths of each hardened heart. 

Sobs come for curses, and a to\ich of grace. 
Had, in a moment, trarisformed the place; 
And men from the gyves of passion set free, 
Seem to kneel once again by a mother's knee; 
And a picture undimmed by crime or pain, 
Was vividly brought to each mind again, 

For the words were the sweetest in any tongue, 

And " Home, Sweet Home," was the song that was sung. 



Dead ! Dead in the fullness of his manly strength, 
the ripeness of his manly beauty, and we who loved him 
were glad. 

His coffin rested on his draped piano, his banjo and 
his flute beside it. And as we looked on his brown 
curls thrown up from the cold white brow, on his skilled 
hands folded on his breast, on his sealed lips, of which 
wit and melody had been the very breathings, the 
silence was an awe, a weight upon us, yet our voiceless 
thanks rose up to God that he was dead. 

Always courteous in manner, kind in word, obliging 
iu act, everybody liked Ned, the handsome, brilliant Ned. 

Three generations of ancestors, honorable gentlemen, 
all, had taken the social glass as gentlemen, but never 
lowered themselves to drunkenness ; but their combined 
appetite they had given as an heirloom to Ned, and 
from his infancy he saw wine offered to guests at the 
dinner parties, and, when he had been "a perfect little 
gentleman," was given by his father one little sip. He 
grew and the taste grew, and when his father was taken, 
all restraint but a mother's love was taken. 

As the only son of a praying mother, now the church 
would hold him up, now the saloon would draw him 
down ; now his rich voice would join his mother's to 
swell the anthems of the church, now make the night 
hideous with his ribald songs. So all the years he was 
her idol and her woe. 

When her last sickness was upon her, the mother said 
to a friend : " They tell me when I am gone Eddie 
will go down unchecked, that in some wild spree or mad 
delirium he will die. But he will not. His father's 
created the appetite they gave my poor boy. His dis- 
grace is their sin, and my sin, too. He saw it on our 
table, tasted it in our ice-creams, jellies and sauces. For 
this my punishment is greater than I can bear but for 
the sure faith that God has forgiven me and will an- 


swer my daily, nightly prayers, and Eddie will die an 
humble penitent. It is just that I be forbidden to enjoy 
here the promised land, but I know whom I believe, 
and my boy will be carried safely over.'' 

As death drew nigh every breath was a prayer for 
''Eddie," and as he chafed her death-cold hands the 
pallid lips formed the words no ear could catch, "Meet 
— me — in — heaven." And his voice, rich and full, re- 
sponded, " I will, mother — I will." 

And as from her mountain height of faith and love 
she caught a sight of that "promised land," with a ser- 
aph's smile she whispered, "I — thank Thee — O Father ! " 
and was gone. 

And his uncontrollable grief made one say to another, 
" His mother's death will be his salvation." 

He covered the new-made grave with flowers, and 
when others had left the cemetery he went back and sat 
beside it until nightfall, and then went to his lone home, 
and the oppressive silence drove him out to walk. He 
passed a saloon ; some of his old associates came out and 
said kind words of sympathy. His soul was dark and 
sad, and from the open door came light and cheerful 
voices, and he went in. 

Before the long spree was over he bade a crony "Take 
that old book out of my sight." 

That old book! the Bible he had seen his sainted 
mother reading morning, night, and often mid-day, and 
from which he had read to her those suffering, dying 

Then a friend of his mother took him to her home 
and brought him back to soberness, remorse and a horror 
of himself. For months he did nobly and became 
active in Christian work, and refused all the urging to 
"just step in and see your old friends," and we felt there 
was joy in heaven. 

Then he was asked to bring his banjo and sing at an 
oyster supper at the most respectable saloon in town, 
where "no one is ever agked to drink." A wjld spree 


was the result, and his robe was so mired he doubted if 
it had been white. And he lost hope, lost faith in him- 
self, and worse, lost faith in God. 

Kind arms were thrown about him, and again he was 
placed upon his feet. Very humble, very weak, he tried 
once more to walk the heavenward path. 

" I am very glad to see you so well," I said one day 
when I met him. 

" I don't know how long it will last," he said sadly. 

" Forever, I hope," I said cheerily. 

" I shall try hard to have it, but there will come an 
unguarded moment — but you know nothing about it." 

Some two weeks after I met a physician. 

" I have a case for you, ladies. Ned is very sick.'' 

"Has liquor anything to do with it? " 

" No, not at all. He has pneumonia, but his old 
drinking has so ruined his stomach it will go hard with 

His nurse told us he thought he would die, and con- 
stantly exclaimed : " My wasted life ! my wasted life ! 
God cannot forgive it." He would fear to die, and pray 
to live to redeem his past ; then he would fear to live, 
and pray to be taken away from temptation. So wore 
on a week, and then he gave up self and grew calm in 
Christ. One Sunday he said his mother was in the 
room and wondered we could not see her, and with a 
smile on his face, and "mother" on his lips he passed 

As I came out of the house one of his whilom asso- 
ciates, sober and sad, took off his hat and asked, " Is it 
all over ? " 

Impressed with the vast meaning of these two little 
words, I bowed and answered back : 

"All over!" 

With a voice full of pathos, he said : 

" The dear fellow is all right now. There are no 
saloons up there." 

I walked on, repeating to myself: "No saloons up 
there ! Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." 


THE LADY FROM THE WEST.*— Robbet C. V. Meybbs. 

The lady from the West was fair, 

A dozen suitors sought her, 
As many lands were fain to call 

Her by the name of daughter. 
She listened, smiling soft and sweet, 

To Teuton, Gaul and Boman, 
Mongolian, Caledonian, Celt — 

This fascinating woman. 

First came the Teuton, round and red, 

Unto the winsome lady, 
No shadow of a doubt had he, 

And, very jolly, said he: 
" Ein castle von der Rhine vas mein. 

Be mein good frau, und in it 
You bees der lady lofely vonce 

Und laughs loud efery minute.'' 

Next the Frenchman, small and fine, 

A ribbon in his lapel. 
His smile as tender as the saints' 

In his old mansion's chapel: 
" Oh, femme so chic, so bootifool, 

Eentrancing! Parbleu! marry 
Me, and, s'il vous plait, you dwell 

Une angel in my Paris." 

Then came Italia's swarthy son 

With black eyes jealous rolling, 
Upon his rivals bending brows 

That knew the trick of scowling : 
"Madonna mea, make-a me 

You' husban', and in Roma 
You danza waltza all-a day. 

Ah, cielo ! ladee, come-a." 

And now Ah Sin who hoped to wear 

A mandarin's robe of yellow, 
A smile as bland as any babe's 

Upon his visage sallow : 
" No washee-washee ladee, you. 

No ilon any shirtee ; 
Come mally me an' allee day 
You' husband with you flirtee." __ 

•Written expiesaly for this Collection. 


Behold the Scot from highland braes 

With clan plaid and with claymore, 
With tales of Campbells and the Bruce, 

And slogan that could say more: 
"Sae bonnie an' sae blithe, my lass! 

Saebraw you laugh, an' brightly. 
Ah, be my wife, an' doon I'll dee 

An' view the deed fu' lightly." 

Anon the son of Emerald isle. 

As swift as any arrow 
To reach his mark, be it boggin or 

The stately halls of Tara : 
" Sure, but you're swate, me purty gurl ; 

In Sligo is me far-um'. 
Be mine, avourneen, and I'll break 

Ten heads to stretch me arum." 

The noble English dawdled in. 

With single eyeglass, glancing 
Askance at this and that, and so 

Most leisurely advancing : 
" By Jove, but you are clever, and 

You're handsome, though you're Yankee; 
You're not hawf bad ! I'll marry you 

For a million and — a thankee." 

And so they all plead at the shrine 

Of this fair little woman, 
Mongolian, Caledonian, Celt, 

Teuton, Gaul and Roman. 
But she, that lady, smiled most sweet, 

And not a minute tarried. 
But said, " Why— you're not in it, boys ! 
Do you catch on? — I'm married" 

!art C|}rl2-Jfift|. 

lEcLcTh of the Jff'ovur JVujrtb&rs of 
" lOO CTioice SelectioThs" contcLined, 
in this voljxTne is paged. se.pcLra.tely, 
and the Indes: is made to corres- 
pond therewith. See EXPLANATION on 
first page of Contents, 

The entire hook contains nearly 
100 O pages. 



No. 35. 

WASHINGTON. — Hezekiah Butterwoeth. 

Arise — 'tis the day of our Washington's glory, 

The garlands uplift for our liberties won, 
And sing in your gladness his echoing story. 
Whose sword swept for freedom the fields of the sun. 
Not with gold, nor with gems. 
But with evergreens vernal 
And the banners of stars that the continent span. 
Crown, crown we the chief of the heroes eternal 
Who lifted his sword for the birthright of man ! 

Pie gave us a nation to make it immortal, 

He laid down for Freedom the sword that he drew, 
And his shade leads us on to the radiant portal 
Of the glory of peace and the destinies new. 
Not with gold, nor with gems. 
But with evergreens vernal 
And the flag& that the nations of liberty span. 

Crown, crown him the chief of the heroes eternal 
Who laid down his sword for the birthright of man. 

Lead. Face of the Future, serene in thy beauty. 

Till o'er the dead heroes the Peace-star shall gleam, 
Till right shall be might in the counsels of duty 
And the service of man be life's glory supreme. 
Not with gold, nor with gems, 
But with evergreens vernal 
And the flags that the nations in brotherhood span. 
Crown, crown we the chief of the heroes eternal 
Whose honor was gained by the service of man ! 

Youth's Companion. 


DEAD MAN'S GULCH— Geohge M. Vickeks* 

% permiasian of the Author. 

It happened 'way back in the fifties 

When the country was crazy on gold, 
When the gulches and hills near 'Frisco 

Were yielding their wealth untold; 
It happened when men and women. 

Of every manner and kind, 
Came seeking the yellow nuggets 

That the thrifty diggers mined. 

The camp was of rambling shanties, 

With a single narrow street, 
And a tall tree shaded the tavern 

And the crowd from the noon-day heat ; 
In a circle the miners were seated, 

A jury of fifty or more, 
And the prisoner sat in a wagon 

In front of the bar-room door. 

She was one of those wretched creatures 

Whose lives are made up of sin, 
Whose crimes are all seen on the surface. 

But none of the good within. 
Tom Scott was the judge and spokesman. 

And he briefly lined out his case 
That the woman was guilty of murder, 

Cowardly, cruel and base : 

A man had been found in a thicket 

With a bullet-hole through his head ; 
Still the blood from the wound was flowing 

But the spark of his life had fled : 
While the party that found him wondered 

Who flred the fatal shot. 
This woman was silently stealing 

Away from the dreadful spot. 

No doubt she'd have robbed the body. 

But, hearing them, took alarm ; 
In her hand she still held this pistol, 
It was empty, the barrel was warm. 

•Author of " Buzzard's Point," "The Cobbler of Lynn," " Tribulations of 
Biddy Malone," "The Pilot's Bride," "Little Tritz," and other favorite read- 
ings in previous Numbers. Also the beautiful Temperance Melodrama, " Two 
Lives," in No. 8, and the very amusing Farce, "The Public Worrier," in No. H. 


When the witnesses asked why she did it, 

She uttered a piercing shriek, 
But in spite of their threats and questions 

Not a word would the woman speak. 

An old man, pale and grizzled. 

Then pushed to the open place 
In the circle of angry miners, 

And glanced at each threatening face. 
" Let me speak, for I am a witness. 

And my strength is failing fast. 
Let me speak tfor the sake of justice 

Ere the power to speak is past. 

"Stop! Let us look behind us, 

Through the mist of time and tears, 
Till we view the golden sunlight 

That in by -gone days appears : 
Far away in the past, a maiden, 

The pride of her happy home, 
Sings only of love's devotion. 

Dreams only of joys to come. 

" Her heart has been won by a stranger, 

Who calls her his love, his life, 
And vows that he woos with honor. 

That he'll make her his darling wife; 
But the old folks' hearts are heavy, 

For they see that he seems not true ; 
In spite of his words soft spoken,. 

They fear that their child will rue. 

" One morning they found a letter. 

On the open Bible it lay ; 
It asked for their kind forgiveness 

And told that she'd gone away. 
The mother was broken-hearted, 

And the grief of them both was wild ; 
But the father kneeled down by the Bible, 

And swore that he'd find his child. 

" 'Twas the old, oft-told sad story 
Of a woman's unbounded love, 

A tale of a cruel deception. 
Of a flend that no tears could move. 

At last she was left to wander 

Thousands of miles awav 


From her childhood home and loved ones, 
With no place her poor head to lay. 

" But her father for years had sought her, 

Wondering where she could be, 
Till he suddenly came upon her 

Mid those rocks that you all can see : 
In the road through the thicket below them, 

He found her in deadly strife, 
Trying to flee from the villain 

Who promised to make her his wife. 

" The father in terror shouted. 

Then the fiend, in his rage and fear. 
Leveled his pistol and fired. 

And the bullet — it struck me here." 
Then the old man bared his bosom 

A.nd a ghastly wound revealed ; 
His voice was becoming weaker, 

Like a drunken man he reeled. 

Two miners then sprang beside him 

And seated him on the ground. 
Then the jury and those about them 

Leaned forward to catch each sound. 
"Jam that poor girl's father," 

The old man whispered in pain, - 
"And to save her I shot that monster. 

Or my child he would quick have slain. 

" When he fell she grasped his pistol. 

And speeded for help away; 
'Twas then that these miners saw her, 

Where the dead man's body lay. 
I was there, but too weak to utter 

A word or a feeble cry. 
But their hands could with ease have touched me 

As they silently passed me by." 

Tom Scott then addressed the jury, 

He told them the case was clear, 
And he turned to the weeping woman 

To conceal an uprising tear ; 
In his face there was just enough shadow 

To soften his bright blue eye. 
In his voice there was just enough sadness 

To hint at a pain gone by. 


" Is she guilty ? " he asked the jury, 

In tones that were soft and low, 
But the answer came swift ?s lightning 

In a thundering, mighty " No ! " 

The village is gone, and the actors- 
God knows if one living there be ; 

And in Dead Man's Gulch so gloomy, 
But one lonely grave you'll see. 


It is the Fourth day of July, 1776. 

In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are 
gathered half a hundred men to strike from their limbs 
the shackles of British despotism. There is silence ia 
the hall ; every face is turned toward the door where the 
committee of three, who have been out all night pen- 
ning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door opens, 
the committee appears. That tall man with the sharp 
features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding 
the parchment in his band, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas 
Jefferson. That stout-built man with stern look and 
flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John Adams. And 
that calm-faced man with hair drooping in thick curls 
to his shoulders, that is the Philadelphia printer, Benja- 
min r*rank]in. 

The three advance to the table. 

The parchment is laid there. 

Shall it be signed or not ? A fierce debate ensues, 
Jefferson speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out 
his whole soul. The deep-toned voice of Lee is heard, 
swelling in syllables of thunder like music. But still 
there is doubt, and one pale-faced man whispers some- 
thing about axes, scaffolds and a gibbet. 

" Gibbet ? " echoes a fierce, bold voice through the 
hall. "Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all 
the gibbets in the land ; they may turn every rock into 
a scaffold ; every tree into a gallows ; every home into a 
grave, and yet the words of that parchment there can 



never die ! They may pour our blood on a thousand 


transformed into a people, — a handful of men weak in 
arms, but mighty in God-like faith ; nay, look at your 
recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexing- 
ton, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not 
given America to be free 1 

" It is not given to our poor human "intellect to climb 
to the skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty 
One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds 
which veil the brightness of Jehovah's throne. 

" Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling 
up to that throne to speak his dread message. ' Father, 
the old world is baptized in blood. Father, look with 
one glance of thine eternal eye, and behold evermore that 
terrible sight, man trodden beneath the oppressor's feet, 
nations lost in blood, murder, and superstition, walking 
hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not 
a single voice to whisper hope to man ! ' 

" He stands there, the angel, trembling with the rec- 
ord of human guilt. But hark ! The voice of Jehovah 
speaks out from the awful cloud : 'Let there be light 
again ! Tell ray people, the poor and oppressed, to go 
out from the old world, from oppression and blood, and 
build my altar in the new ! ' 

"As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His 
voice ! Yes, were my soul trembling on the verge of 
eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice 
choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last 
impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, 
with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remem- 
ber this truth, — God has given America to be free ! Yes, 
as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with 
my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that 
parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath 
is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to 
you for the awful words, 'You are free ! ' " 

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat ; but 
the work was done. 

A wild murmur runs through the hall : " Sign ! " 


There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward ! 
Stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign 
his bold name before the pen is grasped by another — 
another and another. Look how the names blaze on 
the parchment ! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Car- 
roll, Franklin aifd Sherman ! 

And now the parchment is signed. 

Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and 
let the bell speak ! Hark to the music of that bell ! Is 
there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime 
than that of Shakspeare and Milton ? Is there not a 
music in that sound that reminds you of those sublime 
tones which broke from angel lips when the news of the 
child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem ? For 
the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, peal- 
ing, " Independence now and Independence forever." 


Dear Brother Jacob : 

I've been round 

A-visitin' the schools ; 
I tell you what, I kinder found 

They'd been a-changin' rules 
Since I kep' school at Taylor Hill 

An' larned the Rule of Three, 
An' flogged Bill Fellows' boy until 

He knuckled down to me. 

You see, I went quite unbeknown 

To our new-fangled teacher. 
An' found her settin' all alone, 

Exceptin' that the preacher 
Had got there fust ; she rung the bell, 

Soon as she saw me enter. 
An' then she sot us down a spell. 

The preacher in the centre. 

The scholars went into the seats 

To their app'inted places. 
An' waited until Mary Keats, 

The teacher, saw their laces ; 


An' then they sung a rousin' tune 

An' kinder kep' a-clappin' — 
It sounded like the crows in June; 

Jest then I heard a rappln', 

An' then they stopped, quite sudden like, 

An' went to readin' papers 
With picters in 'em, all alike, 

To keep 'em out o' capers 
I thought at fust, but presently 

They r^d out loud ; the teacher 
Looked fust at them and then at me, 

An' then looked at the preacher. 

The preacher laughed (and so did I) 

And then looked kinder silly 
At me, but sorter kep' his eye 

On Uncle Peter's Billy, 
Who hopped right up as spry's a cat 

An' told the latest news ; 
'Twas interestin', but I sat 

A-thinkin' of my views, 

An' should have stated 'em, but then 

They didn't stop recitin'; 
They went from readin' to the pen 

An' spelled all out in 'ritin', 
But all their words was easy — well, 

Like " separate," and "scholar ; " 
They spelled that 'ere with double " 1 " ; 

1 thought that I should holler. 

But when they got to 'rithmetic 

An' went to multiplyin', 
They done it up so mighty quick 

I thought that they was lyin'. 
An' 'lowed to tell the teacher next, 

I knowed that they was peekin', 
Until I minded of the text 

About no evil speakin'. 

But when she called the jography, 

'Twas really quite surprisin' 
To hear 'em tell the things ; you see, 

I went to catechisin', 
An' found them children didn't know 

How to mend a pen, they 


Had never heard of Rule o' Three, 
Or Tare and Tret; and then they 

Could not bound Virginia, 

Were backward in their " parsin'," 
An' when I quizzed 'em, looked as though 

They thought I was a-sarsin'. 
An' then there was another class. 

They called it rhetoric. 
They'd heard of everything, alas! 

Exceptin' of a stick. 

The makin' up of flesh and bones, 

An' history they'd mastered ; 
And could explain them great big stones 

Up where the cow is pastured. 
They sung as sweet as medder birds 

Down by the chestnut tree ; 
But then I couldn't hear their words, 

Nor even " do, re, me." 

An' so, as I got rayther tired 

An' 'lowed they're tired, an' knowin' 
My presence wasn't much desired, 

I said, " I must be goin'." 
" Why wont you stay? " in pleasant tones 

Said Mollie Keats, the teacher, 
And smiled upon the girls and boys. 

And smiled upon the preacher. 

I went away; and ez I thought 

I'd seen a risin' passion, 
Says I, " I guess some things is not 

A-gittin' out o' fashion." 
An' I was right, for Christmas day, 

Bight in the meetin' seats. 
There'll be a weddin', so they say, 

An' one is Mollie Keats, 

An' t'other is the minister. 

Although she's rayther set, 
I hope he will explain to her 

The rule of Tare and Iret. 
But howsomever that may be, 

There's surely no mistakin'. 
Things isn't as they used to be 

When I was — Polly Dakin.] 


DE OLE ELDER'S MISTAKE.*— Ellen Murray. 

An incident of the great cyclone of August 27, 1864, that desolated St, 
Helena Island, South Garolitia. 

Without, the howling of the hurricane, 
The shrieking cry of the wild windy dirge, 
The sullen gurgle of the dashing tide 
Where falling, crashing, tossing in the surge, 

The cotter's humble wealth has disappeared, 
The cattle vainly swimming in the waves, 
Corn-house and foWl-house wrecked. Loud, louder still 
The sweeping cyclone in its fury raves. 

Hark ! Hark again ! Across that awful roar 
Rises the cry of human agony 
From drowning neighbors screaming out for help. 
Where earthly help can never, never be. 

Alas ! Alas ! The black and tattered clouds 
Are whirling past in fragments, and the moon 
Ghastly and pale looks out across the night — 
A fleeting gleam, extinguished all too soon. 

Inside the cpttage sits an elder old 
With white head bowed and feeble limbs ashake. 
The withered fingers fold themselves in prayer, — 
Their natural habitude asleep, awake. 

The old lips quivered in the quaint strange prayer : 
" Lord, we have chewed the hard bones of this strife. 
Have swallowed all its bitter pills, and now 
Hold out Thy hand and take us into life." 

The wife, still vigbrous in her middle age 
With strong arms used to wield the axe and hoe. 
Barred fast the shutters, mopped the swimming floor, 
Put out the coals, moved restless to and fro. 

A shake, a sickening roll— she flung the door 
Wide open, caught her husband's arm and drew 
His shuffling footsteps down into the waves 
That rolled waist high, and higher, rougher grew. 

A fallen roof swung with the rising tide— 
"Now " cried the woman, " here's the ark for we, 
Dis mus' be Noah's flood come back again 
And my ole man, why, Noah's self am he. 

♦Written expressly for this Collection. ' 



"And SO, ole man, jest catch a steady hold. 
I'll help you up, and den I'll climb beside, 
De good Lord rise dis ark upon de wave 
And Ian' we safe upon de oder side." 

"Sister, you is too fast " — the old man turned, 
His loudest voice could scarcely reach her ear, 
" My time has come to cross de Jordan flood; 
I cannot go no furder, for I hear, 

" In all dis hurricane. Great Massa's voice. 
He call me, say : 'Ole Elder, rise and come' — 
Climb up de shed roof, sister, you can saved 
For me, de dear Lord call me to Him home." 

"Climb up, ole man, you is mistaken now, 
If de good Lord done call you, aint I hear? 
Dis whifBing wind can't hold de Massa's voice, 
Get up, I'll help you on, you aint to fear." 

" Sister, but den you know " the Elder said. 
Clinging and slipping on the rocking roof, 
" You is a little hard of hearing — so 
You aint been hear when Massa call in truf." 

" Catch hole ! Catch hole ! It may be I is deaf 
To all man's foolish talk, but if to-day 
Great Massa call, I hear de quick as you ; 
So jest you get up dere, ole man, I say." 

Her strong arms lifted, helped his feeble clutch. 
Then to his side she climbed upon the peak. 
Their barque, uncouth, rose, tossing on the sea 
And firmer still her strong hands held his, weak. 

" Out of the depths I cry," the Elder crooned, 
"Hole on, hole tight," the cheery wife replied. 
And still they drifted on their swimming roof. 
Borne on the rolling billows far and wide. 

Ha! the wind wavers, sweeps a circle, veers 
Right from northwest. Thank God! the tide ebbs fast. 
Their parting planks strike a small rise, they ground — 
And the two voyagers are safe at last. 

Strong men crowd round, they lift them gently down, 
They bear the elder to a shelter near. 
Chafing his numb hands, says the faithful wife, 
" Nex time, ole man, you trus' to me to hear." 


THE CHILD'S PRAYER.— Hodges Reed. 

Into her chamber went 

A little maid one day, 
And by a chair she knelt 

And thus began to pray : 
" Jesus, my eyes I close — 

Thy form I cannot see ; 
If Thou art near me. Lord, 

I pray Thee speak to me." 
A still, small voire she heard within her soul, 
" What is it, child ? I hear thee— tell Me all." 

" I pray Thee, Lord," she said, 

" That Thou wilt condescend 
To tarry in my heart 

And ever be my friend. 
The path of life is dark — 

I would not go astray; 
Oh, let me have Ihy hand 

To lead me in the way." 
"Fear not— I will not leave thee, child, alone." 
She thought she felt a soft hand press her own. 

" They tell me, Lord, that all 

The living pass away — 
The aged soon must die. 

And even children may. 
Oh, let my parents live 

Till I a woman grow ; 
For if they die, what can 

A little orphan do ? " 
"Fear not, my child — whatever ills may come, 
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home." 

Her little prayer was said. 

And from her chamber, now. 
She passed forth, with the light 

Of heaven upon her brow. 
" Mother, I've seen the Lord ; 

His hand in mine I felt, 
And oh, I heard Him say. 

As by my chair I knelt, 
' Fear not, my child — whatever ills may come, 
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home.'" 


THE YANKEE BOY— John Pierpont. 

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, 
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, 
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye 
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; 
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it ; 
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; 
And, in the education of the lad. 
No little part that implement hath had. 

His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings 
A growing knowledge of material things. 
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, 
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart. 
His elder pop-gun, with its hickory rod. 
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad. 
His corn-stalk fiddle and the deeper tone 
That murmurs from his pumpkin-leaf trombone. 
Conspire to teach the boy. 

To these succeed 
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, 
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win. 
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; 
Or, if his father lives upon the shore. 
You'll see his ship, beam ends upon the floor. 
Full rigged, with raking masts and timbers staunch. 
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch. 

Thus, by his genius and bis jack-knife driven. 

Ere long he'll solve you any problem given ; 

Make any gimcrack, musical or mute, 

A plow, a coach, an organ, or a flute; 

Make you a locomotive, or a clock. 

Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, 

Or lead forth beauty from a marble block ; 

Make anything, in short, for sea or shore. 

From a child's rattle to a seventy-four. 

Make it, said I ? Ay, when he undertakes it, 

He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it. 

And, when the thing is made, whether it be 
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea. 
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, 
Or upon land, to roll, revolve, or slide; 


Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, 
Whether it be a piston or a spring. 
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, 
The thing designed shall surely come to pass; 
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know 
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. 

A MARRIAGE TOUR.— S. J. Pardessub. 

Bypermisaion of the Author, 

Antoine Philar6y, srfter many years of severe struggle 
and rigid economy in his native city of Paris as a manu- 
facturer of choice perfumery, came to the conclusion, at 
forty-seven years of age, to marry Clementine, his pretty 
chief saleswoman of only eighteen summers. This 
young person, long before he thus made her the oifer of 
his hand, had surmised what the result of his delicate 
attentions would be, and to help his endeavors, bestowed 
upon him many sly eyeings and winsome looks. 

On a bright spring day Monsieur Philar^y might have 
been seen standing before a huge mirror fixed in the 
door of a wardrobe twitching nervously at the ends of 
his waxed mustache, and the next instant applying an 
enormous hairbrush to his head, making it sink deep 
into its raven garnishments as if he wcfuld have it reach 
the substratum by the most rapid means. Another 
movement, and with his hand placed over his heart, he 
would bow low, study various poses, and, becoming satis- 
fied with his progress, commence ejaculating with much 
fervor. Evidently be was preparing himself for some 
great emergency. Suddenly away flew in ever}' direc- 
tion all the accompaniments of his toilet. He seems to 
have come to a sudden resolve. He adjusts his neatly- 
tied cravat (the most approved tie of forty styles), puts 
on his elegant velvet wrapper, and turns to take a last 
approving glance into the mirror. A moment after, in 
the most careless manner, he enters the little boudoir 
at the back of his store that he had fitted up with ex- 
quisite taste as a retiring place for his favorite, and, 


seizing the hand of Clementine, poured out the long 
pent-up tumultuous feelings of his heart. On her part a 
flood of tears gushed forth, followed by a swoon of ac- 
ceptance. On the third day following they received the 
benediction as man and wife. 

The joyous Philar6y proposed a trip to London, that 
Clementine might have a view of the sea, and enjoy with 
him the sights of that great metropolis, assuring her that 
they would be able to move about there without the aid 
of an interpreter, as he was fluently acquainted with 
their language. 

The day of their arrival in London had been set apart 
for a grand procession, so after depositing their luggage 
and traveling paraphernalia they hastened to obtain a 
place on the sidewalk of an adjacent street,from whence 
they might obtain a favorable view of the passing column. 

Regiment after regiment passed by in succession, each 
headed by their great bands of music and giant leader, 
surmounted by a bear-skin shako of the usual hideous 
dimensions, the sight of which would draw from the 
enraptured Clementine the most admiring exclamations. 
As each became the more interested they dropped the 
taking of each other's arm, and our friend Philarey, 
carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, forgot 
entirely his new estateand thegentle one whom, but a few 
days before, he had vowed solemnly to shield from harm. 
Thus absorbed in the passing event, the parade came to 
an end. Then followed the usual commotion, crowding, 
and surging of a great multitude, during which the fair 
Clementine, notwithstanding her utmost endeavor to 
regain her husband's side, was carried far away down 
the narrow street, while he, struggling and using the 
best English form of expression at his command to give 
force to his useless exertions, sought every advantage to 
obtain the least sight of her ; but, alas for his present 
happiness, in vain. 

A policeman, attracted by his attitude of alarm and 
loud vociferations, after learning the cause of trouble. 


advised him to hasten to a neighboring police station 
and there make known to the of&cial in charge his anx- 
ieties, and give to him a description of the missing lady, 
"that her loss may be telegraphed throughout the city." 
Breathlessly and with haggard looks he rushes into the 
station, and seeing the official at his desk exclaims : 

" Oh ! ho ! Monsieur le S6rgent, I am knock down on 
ze ground vis von catastrophe terrible. Ze procession 
has take avay mine vife, mine little cherie, and !• shall 
sometimes nevair knolv vare evair she ees. {Crying.) 
Ze last time she speak to me she say, 'Looke, Antoine, 
at ze loafly grande brigadier, vis ze gold globe on hees 
baton, and ze musique by hees heels.' Eh, bien ! I like 
not ze observation she make, so tell to her, 'Bah ! ' and 
zen at zat moment I look at ze procession, ven I do see 
in von wagon ze charmante female allegory of vat you 
call Britannia, vich do come for to go too quick avay. 
Ah, sare, catch her eef you can. Oh, la, la, it vas tree 
days ago she make promise to loaf me, — to-day, to-mor- 
row, and nevair no more, — and now I suppose she do 
run avay vis zat Jean Bull, ze brigadier of musique, 
vat she say is so loafly." 

" Is it your wife or the allegory you mention, that you 
refer to?" 

" Mais, vat you take me for ? Ven you shall suppose 
zat I do mean ze charmante allegory on ze top of ze 

"Ah, yes, I perceive ; you mean your wife." 

"Parbleu! vat ozare vife from some ozare mane 
moste I look aftair ? Tout naturelement, it is ze vife of 
me, myself, Antoine Philar^y, ze sweetly leetle angel 
zoo-zoo zat I loaf so dear.'' 

"And you imagine she has deserted you ? " asked the 

" Oui, zat is ze vord. She do be push avay vis ze 
crowd, or she do run avay vis some mean fellows like 
yourself, and do leave me all alone to myself, vizout to 
say bonjour, adieu, or somesing else." 


" That was very wrong for her to do," remarked the 

" I do believe you, sare. Ven I do marry to her she 
vas von pauvre leetle child vat I find at ze marche aux 
fleurs (ze market in ze flowers), and I vas soche fool I 
take to myself ze consolation zat I shall make von hap- 
pay girl to sweet mon existence. Mais au contraire (to 
ze contrary), I tink now zat she do be ze flower of my 
desolation. Oh, sare, I sail keel myself for ze destrac- 
tion. She do call me so often her cher zoo-zoo, her coo- 
coo, her cher Polydore, and 11.0W, I tink to make me 
crazy, she now do call zat omelette, Jean Bull, ze briga- 
dier de musique, her coo-coo, her zoo-zoo, her cheri, 
and her Polydore. My heels do stand on ze top of my 
hair, and — Fricandeaux de poulailles ! I sail keel him." 

While the worthy Frenchman was thus giving way 
to his jealous imagination the ofiicer had sent out an 
alarm message by the telegraph wire, and just as our 
hero had resolved upon the deed of blood mentioned a 
return message announced her discovery, while search- 
ing widely for her husband. 

In a few moments they were brought together, and 
amid their tears and overflowing utterances of grati- 
tude we kindly bid them adieu. 


Harriett E. Duepee. 

i. fokgbt-me-nots. 

I know a place where a river wide 
Flows on with glimmer and sheen — 

Flows on with slow majestic grace 
'Twlxt banks of living green. 

'Tis here an ancient oak keeps guard. 

As the seasons come and go, 
Keeps guard o'er the beautiful birds and flowers, 

And watches the river flow. 

♦Written expressly for this Collection. 


One day, to the foot of this old oak tree, 

A lad and a lassie strayed, 
To gather flowers from the river brink 

Beneath the old tree's shade. 

Forget-me-nots and violets 

Made a carpet for their feet. 
And all day long, beneath the boughs, 

Eang out their laughter, sweet. 

At last the golden sun sank down 

To sleep in the crimson west, 
And the littl^ ones, weary of birds and flowers, 

Went home to their peaceful rest. 

How soon we tire of childhood's flowers 
And long for the blossoms of youth, 

How hard to see that our happiest time 
Is in childhood's life of truth. 

II. Pond Lilies. 

The years glide on ; the oak still stands. 

And guards the flowing tide. 
To-day a youth and maiden fair 

Have strayed to the river side. 

They pause beneath the old oak tree, 

And watch the river flow, 
And recall the forget-me-nots that grew 

On the bank long years ago. 

Rising and falling on the tide 

Is a lily, white and gold, 
Pure as the souls of the little ones 

Who played by the river, of old. 

The youth, with thoughtfulness and care 

Pulls up the lily sweet. 
With words of love from a fond, true heart, 

Lets it fall at the maiden's feet. 

And just as the golden sun sinks down 

Mid the clouds in the purple west. 
The maid replies, " Of all the earth, 

I think 1 love you best." 

Ah, beautiful flowers of the summer time, 
Oh, lilies pure and fair. 


May God protect and keep you safe 
Beneath his love and care ! 


The ancient oak has watched the years 

And the river glide away, 
Till at last he sees, again, the pair 

One hazy autumn day. 
In place of violets at his feet 

They find the golden-rod. 
And there, close to the river's bank 

The asters wave and nod. 
"Ah, wife ! " quoth the man, as they watched the tide 

Flowing away to the sea, 
"Thank God, we are sailing life's river yetl 

My life is my love for thee." 

The oak tree solemnly bowed his head. 

As they passed on again. 
Whispering to the golden-rod, 

" 'Tis a wonderful life — that of men." 

IV. Immortelles. 

The winter has come. The flowing tide 

Is sheathed in ice and snow ; 
And immortelles have taken the place 

Where the golden-rod used to grow. 

Beneath the boughs of the old oak tree 

A man and a woman stand, — 
Bent with age and white with care. 

They stand there hand in hand, 

And dream of the child, the youth, the man. 

Recall the maiden fair, 
Then turn and wander slowly back 

To their life of love and care. 

" O Life, " cried the oak, as his last leaf fell, 

And drifted away on the tide, 
" How they dream of your pleasures and joysas they drift 

To Eternity's ocean wide. 

"And yet God's care is over them, 

He is guiding them safely home ; 
Filled with love for God and each other will be 

The heaven to which they come. 



They're serenading me to night. Their voices clear and 

Rise through the summer atmosphere in jcryous burst of 

The sun has set an hour or more, but briglit against the sky, 
Flash meteors of yellow lightas glowworms wander by,' 
And through the reeds down by the marsh they flicker to 

and fro 
And light ray merry minstrels with their magic lamps aglow. 

This evening when the sun went down I saw a meadow lark 
Creep down into her grassy nest before the coming dark. 
The long, gaunt shadows of the trees stretched far beyond 

my sight 
And found one last belated quail who whistled for bob white, 
The shadows grew and broadened and spread out on every 

Until all were united and the night had reached the land. 

And then they tuned their fiddles, and they gathered theit 

And took once more their cornets with their shrill and 

searching tones. 
And a hoarse and foggy basso, which first seemed to start 

The deepest depths of deepness, shook the waters of the 

And with a joyous ecstasy that tided ill for sleep 
The basso roared his " bull jrom" and the tenor piped "knee 


The cricket on the doorpost fiddled, fiddled for his life. 
The chirping, shrieking tree-toad played selections on hia 

The countless vagrant insects madly joined them in the race 
And buzzed a soothing second to the big frog's sobbing bass, 
And a night bird, passing over, cried a sudden interlude. 
And the players played their maddest in a wondrous merry 

The cricket plays the same old tune as when a boyish guest 
I listened to his playing when his touch was at its best, 
The tree-toad plays as years ago I used to hear him play, 
The basso croaks his lower notes in just the same old way ; 
And this is why I listen when the evening shadows creep 
Down there among the lilies where the tenor pipes "knee 
deep," ^Farmers' Voice, 


HONK ! HONK !— Edmund J. Buek. 

In the west country by the sea there stands a sober 
little village, wherein are gathered two hundred honest, 
simple-minded souls. The houses all face the sea, while 
behind them stretch broad meadows intersected by creeks, 
which run into the sound two miles beyond. The vil- 
lage is not famous as a. summer resort, by reason of its 
dangerous coast ; and the means by which its inhabi- 
tants obtain their livelihood are very varied. Fishing 
is, of course, the most prominent and reliable of these, 
and there are times when the little town is entirely de- 
serted by the male portion of its inhabitants, who go oft 
on extended expeditions, and return with their purses 
well filled from the markets, and a small supply of salt 
fish for their own use. But these excursions are con- 
fined to the spring months, and then the fishers are fain 
to cast about for other devices for wresting the filthy 
lucre from their fellow men ; and among them is an oc- 
cupation dear to the natives of that section of the 

In the fall the wild geese begin to turn themselves 
from the pleasant meadows of the west country, and 
seek the warmer climate of the southern coasts, and 
during the middle of September they sweep in fleecy 
cohorts over the village of Bidewell, hasting from the 
coming cold. For hundreds of years they had done 
this with impunity, but at last the thrifty villagers 
began to learn their language, and discovered that by 
shouting " Honk " for a certain number of times, and 
with a certain stress of voice from which no variation 
was allowed, they could overthrow the' power of the 
haughty gander who sailed at the head of the V, and 
induce the whole flock to settle in the meadows at their 
back doors. And so by this knowledge the former 
fishers reaped goodly harvests as gunners, and soon 
Bidewell town became famous as a wild goose ground, 
to which every fall came gunners from the neighboring 


city, filling their souls with delight and the villagers' 
pockets with gold. 

For many years had this been the custom at Bidewell, 
and every man became an accomplished goose-caller, 
while the small boys of the town, when they were driv- 
ing the cattle home, would walk along calling imaginary 
geese to the meadows. But the greatest and most suc- 
cessful goose-caller of the village was Ike Branson, 
whose father had begun to teach him the mystic lan- 
guage of the birds as soon as he was able to talk, and now 
at the age of forty-two, he could imitate the gander's com- 
mands so well that even that worthy was led into the 
belief that he had issued the strange orders himself 

But Ike had in a moment of misguided madness, mar- 
ried him a wife, fair, fat and forty, and a pillar of the 
Church. She was a good housekeeper, but she reveled 
in the luxury of being an invalid, and imagined herself 
atflieted by every conceivable disease. The village doctor 
stuffed her with blank pills until she finally lost faith in 
him and took to traveling quacks. In them she found 
ready sympathizers, and each one persuaded her that 
she had the very disease which his medicine was intended 
to cure, until at last she took to her bed and gave her- 
self up entirely to the tender mercies of tonics and bit- 
ters and sympathizing friends. Her fame soon spread, 
and every other day a new medicine agent would appear 
with a brand new disease, and a sure cure for it. 

But one cannot take tonics atid bitters thoughout the 
unending cycles of eternity, and so one fine day Ike re- 
turned home from his fishing excursion to find his wife 
seriously ill. She lingered on until the fall, and finally 
departed to her own place at the very time when the 
geese were expected to arrive. Her demise filled the town 
with consternation, because every one felt that no mat- 
ter what time they set for the funeral, the geese would be 
sure to come during the ceremony. But it was necessary 
that she should be buried, so they at last fixed the funeral 
for the day before the city visitors were to arrive. 


The day came and with anxious hearts the people en- 
tered the church, and tried to listen to the service, while 
all the time their thoughts were far away and their 
ears alert for the first sound of the warning "Honk, " with 
which the geese announced their approach. At last the 
long service was ended, and the little procession marched 
slowly to the grave where the coffin was placed on tres- 
tles to wait the closing prayer. All were silent as they 
stood with uncovered heads in reverence bowed, waiting 
for the minister to begin. But the minister did not be- 
gin ; for as he raised his eyes towards heaven, he saw a 
sight that filled his soul with strange doubt. Slowly 
sweeping through the air, high over the sea, came the 
first cohort of the southward sailing geese. The men 
from the city were expected on the morrow, and to con- 
tinue that prayer meant the destruction of a good day's 
sport to the city men, and the loss of many dollars to 
the towns-people. Should he continue? 

But even while he doubted, the sonorous " Honk, 
Honk " smote the ears of the mourners, and all with 
one accord raised their eyes to see the largest V that had 
ever passed over Bidewell town. They looked first at 
the V and then at the minister, while Ike shifted uneasily 
from one foot to the other, anxious to stop the onward 
course of the geese, and yet afraid of overstepping the 
bounds of decorum and failing in his duty toward his 
defunct spouse. Nearer and nearer came the flock, and 
yet the prayer was not begun, while every eye was 
fixed upon Ike who religiously bowed his head toward 
the ground. At last he looked hesitatingly at the min- 
ister, and receiving a bow of assent, stepped forth from 
the crowd and waited for the geese to reach the meadow. 

Then, in their own language, and with unfaltering ac- 
curac)', he gave forth his commands. At the sound of 
the first " Honk " the whole V hesitated, and seemed 
to look to their leader for an explanation. But the gan- 
der was too much astonished to remonstrate, and meekly 
followed the rest as they settled down in the meadow. 


As the last goose disappeared in the high grass the 
mourners heaved a sigh of relief, and the minister 
offered the final prayer over the departed sister, with the 
calm confidence and deep fervency of a Christian, who 
believed that "faith without works is vain." 

TOMMY AND THE CROCODILE.*— Eobeet C. V. Meyers. 

Did you hear about the crocodile and Tommy Bowline? No? 

How Tommy when he fust come ashore, 
Says, "Let's go see the warmints, they've got there in the Zoo; 

For this walkin' makes my sea legs werry sore?" 

So we went to the Zoo and the fust thing we see 

Was a thing like a log in a tank. 
Says Tommy, " ' Tis a crocodile, sure as guns is guns. 

Is it dead? Here, I'll give its tail a yank." 

And he yanked the critter's tail, and it never said a word. 

But lay there like a log in the wet. 
Says Tommy, " ' Tis asleep, if not dead. If asleep, 

I'll wake the lazy lubber. Take the bet?" 

Then he took his stick and tapped that critter on the nose, 
And he tapped harder 'n' harder after while, 

Till he went to give a scorcher, when overboard went he. 
And then that sleepy critter give a smile. 

Gee whiz ! what a smile ! 'Twas ' bout a good yard wide, 
And it smiled so close to Tommy that my heart 

Went pitty-pat inside me, for I see that minute me 
And Tommy, my old chum, had got to part. 

For the critter's smile got wider, and Tommy he jest basked 

In its cheerfulness, and in a little while — 
Say the twentieth of a minute— I was standin' there alone, 

Just me and that sleepy crocodile. 

I tell you, I felt shaky. I shinned around and brought 
Theie the keeper of the Zoo, and says he, 

•Written expressly for this Collection. Mr. Meyers has contributed to this 
Series: "Burton's Curtains," " Smith's Bargain Day," "A Veteran," "When 
Grandfather Went to Town," "From the Iron Gate," "Gate's Christmas Eve," 
"The Sentinel of Metz," "The Curtsy," "Brother Ben," "The Masque," 
"Jamie," " If I Should Die To-night," " Our C'lnmbus, " etc. 


" Kill that crocodile to get your foolish old chum out 7 
Why I dursent, for it don't belong to me. 

Besides, " he says politely, " it wpuldn't do no good ; 

Your friend's by this time smothered, don't you know. 
I'm werry, werry sorry, for he mayn't quite agree 

With the crocodile — we keep its diet low. 

" In fact, " he says, " I think we'll get damages. For what 

Business had your friend to go and get 
A-monkeyin' with the critter?" "Why as for that," says I. 

" Tommy and myself had made a bet." 

" Yes," says a woice, kind o' far off, "and you've lost, 
For you can't say I didn't wake her, eh ? " 

It was Tommy in the critter. I got to shakin' so 
That I feared I wouldn't hear all he'd say. 

Says Tommy, "That landlubber there talks o' damages; 

Jest let him come in here, and I bet 
He'll get all the damages he wants, and soraethin' more. 

Come in, you mean landlubber, out o' the wet. 

"Now, Sammy," goes on Tommy, "don't you fret for me, 
It's real warm here, though somewhat dark. 

And remember that you've lost in that there bet. Jest put 
That down in your log with your mark. " 

I cries out, " He's gone crazy! " Says the keeper of the Zoo, 

" The crocodile's digestin' him, I think ! " 
And then comes that there woice so far off: "Bet it aint! 

Will you take the bet up, Zoo-Zoo ? Give the wink. " 

Says the keeper of the Zoo, "He's delirious, that's plain, " 
And he went to spread the news. "Sammy," cries 

Tommy in the crocodile, "that lubber said digest. 
I'm so hungry I could digest Zoo-Zoo's lies." 

And then the people come, and they shoves me from the 

But I stayed round the place all that night. 
And I couldn't help a-thinkin' of Tommy, my old chum. 

Hungry and digested out o' sight. 

Arly in the mornin' I got there in the Zoo, 
And the crocodile looked thin, it did indeed. 

Says the keeper, "Didn't I say so? And I think I ought 
to know — 
He's gone and digested of his feed." 


And there I set and cried — the crocodile seemed like 
Poor Tommy's livin' tombstone, don't you Icnow. 

I set there and I watched it. Queer enough it was, 
But all day the ugly critter seemed to grow 

Thinner, yes, and thinner, and glassier, with its eyes 

Shet up tight in a qufeer sort o' way. 
Says the keeper of the Zoo, "Your friend has disagreed 

With the thing, it's been sick the livelong day. " 

And thinner, yes, and thinner, the critter grew. I stayed 

All night there a-cryyi' for my chum. 
And the little gauze mosquitoes come singin' round his tomb, 

And they set up a sympathizin' hum. 

But at the break o' day what do you think I see 

In the tank but the critter growed so thin 
That its sides was as clear as bits o' windy glass. 

So I crept up werry close and peeped in. 

And there was Tommy, stretchin' ! " Good mornin' to you 
He says, " Lend a hand now." With a crank 
Of his arm he busted through, and he flopped there in the 
Till I helped him up the side of the tank. 

Says he, " Sam, you've lost your bet. Zoo Zoo's lost his, too. 

I'll let him have his damages after while. 
Did the crocodile digest me? I was hungry, and I guess 

I've digested that there Zoo-Zoo's crocodile." 


What though the radiant thoroughfare 

Teems with a noisy throng ? 
What though men bandy everywhere 

The ribald jest and song? 
Over the din of oaths and cries 

Broodeth a wondrous calm, 
And mid that solemn stillness rise 

The bells of Notre Dame. 

" Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, 

"Thy weak and erring child. 
And thou, oh gentle Mother, pray 
That God be reconciled, 
3 2* 


And on mankind, O Christ, our King, 
Pour out thy precious balm." 

'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing- 
Those bells of Notre Dame : 

And so, methinks, God, bending down 

To ken the things of earth, 
Heeds not the mockery of the town, 

Or cries of ribald mirth ; 
Forever soundeth in his ears 

A penitential psalm — 
'Tis thy angelic voice he hears, 

O bells of Notre Dame. 

Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice 

May still forever be 
An intercession to rejoice 

Benign Divinity; 
And that thy tuneful grace may fall 

Like dew a quick'ning balm 
Upon the arid hearts of all — 

O bells of Notre Dame ! 


Come, my lad, and sit beside me ; we have often talked be- 

Of the hurricane and tempest, and the storms on sea 
and shore: 

When we read of deeds of daring, done for dear old Eng- 
land's sake. 

We have cited Nelson's duty, and the enterprise of Drake; 

Midst the fevered din of battle, roll of drum, and scream 
of flfe, 

Heroes pass in long procession, calmly yielding up their 

Pomps and pageants have their glory, in cathedral aisles are 

JIarble effigies; but seldom of the mercantile marine. 

If your playmates love adventure, bid them gather round 
at school 

Whilst you tell them of a hero. Captain Strachan, of Liver- 

Spite of storm and stress of weather, in a gale that lashed 

the land. 
On the Cyprian screw steamer, there the Captain took his 



He was no fair-weather sailor, and he often made the boast 

Tliat the ocean safer sheltered than the wild Carnarvon 

He'd a good ship underneath him, and a crew of English 

So he sailed from out the Mersey in the hurricane and storm. 

All the luck was dead against him — with the tempest at its 

Fires expired, and rudders parted ; in the middle of the 

Sails were torn and rent asunder. Then he spake with ba- 
ted breath : * 

"Save yourselves, my gallant fellov^! we are drifting to our 
death ! " 

Then they looked at one another, and they felt the awful 

When, with louder crash than tempest, they were dashed 

upon a- rock. 
All was over now and hopeless ; but across those miles of 

They could hear the shouts of people, and could see the 

lights of home. 
"All is over ! " screamed the Captain. " You have answered 

duty's call. 
Save yourselves! I cannot help you. God have mercy on 

us all!" 

So they rushed about like madmen, seizing belt and oar, 

and rope— 
For the sailor knows where life is, there's the faintest ray of 

hope — 
Then amidst the wild confusion, at the dreaded dawn of day, 
From the hold of that doomed vessel crept a wretched 

stowaway ! 

AVho shall tell the saddened story of this miserable lad? 

Was it wild adventure stirred him, was he going to the bad ? 

Was he thief, or bully's victim, or a runaway from school. 

When he stole that fatal passage from the port of Liver- 

No one looked at him, or kicked him, midst the paralyzing 

All alone he felt the danger, and he saw the distant shore. 

Over went the gallant fellows, when the ship was breaking 

And the Captain with his life-belt — he prepared to follow 
last ; 

But he saw a boy neglected, with a face of ashy gray, 

" Who are you ? " roared out the Captain. " I'm the boy what 
stow'd away." 



There was scarce another second left to think what he could 

For the fatal ship was sinking — Death was ready for the two. 
So the Captain called the outcast as he faced the tempest 

From his own waist took the life-belt, and he bound it 

round the child. 
" 1 can swim, my little fellow ! Take the belt, and make for 

Up, and save yourself!" The outcast humbly knelt to kiss 

his hand. 
With the life-belt round his body then the urchin cleared 

the ship; 
Over went the gallant Captain, with a blessing on his lip. 
But the hurricane howled louder than it ever howled before. 
As the Captain and the stowaway were making for the shore ! 

When you tell this gallant story to ycur playfellows at school, 

They will ask you of the hero — Captain Straehan, of Liver- 

You must answer — they discovered, on the beach at break 
of day. 

Safe, the battered, breathing body of the little stowaway ; 

And they watched the waves of wreckage, and they searched 
the cruel shore, 

But the man who tried to save the little outcast was no more. 

When they speak of English heroes, tell this story where 

you can. 
To the everlasting credit of the bravery of man. 
Tell it out in tones of triumph, or with tears and quickened 

breath : 
"Manhood's stronger far than storms, and Love is mightier 

than Death ! " 

THE FARMER'S SONG BIRD.— George Horton. 

You may talk about the music of the thrush, 

Singing from a shady nook in June ; 
You may tell rae how in early morning's hush 

Robins' throats their melody attune ; 
You may even praise the chatter of the wren, 
But to me the sweetest warbling in the world 
Is the cut cut cut cutdawcut, 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut, 
Cut cut cut cut 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut 
Of the ordinary hen! 


I have naught against the bobolink to say, 

Nor the blackbird's crazy quiverings; 
I can listen quite enchanted all the day 

If the oriole above me sings. 
'Gainst the nightingale I've not a single word, 
But 1 claim there's no singing in the world 
Like the cut cut cut culdawcut 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut, 
Cut cut cut cut 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut 
Of oirf gallinaceous bird ! 

'Tis a psean and a promise all in one, 

'Tis an invitation to a feast; 
'Tis an honest boast of useful labor done, 

And it tells of capital inci'eased. 
Oh, I praise no fancy bird with tongue or pen, 
For to me the noblest music in the world 
Is the cut cut cut cutdawcut, 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut, 
Cut cut cut cut 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut 
Of the common barnyard hen 1 

True, 'tis not a cultured operatic song, 

Like the caged canary shouts and trills, 
But it often makes a city fello'w long 

For his boyhood back among the hills. 
While he dreams he's barefoot, hunting eggs again 
To that most pathetic music in the world. 
To the cut cut cut cutdawcut. 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut 
Cut cut cut cut 
Cut cut cut cutdawcut 
Of his mother's speckled hen ! 


The other day going back to Cleveland, I sat behind 
three women for an hour or two. They were all friendly 
to each other, and they didn't mind my presence. 

" Did you hear about Sarah Lamb ? " asked one. 

" Goodness ! No ! " answered another. 


" Well, Sarah's got her pay, I tell you ! " continued 
the first. " You know she was a whole year trying to 
catch that red-headed widower. Well, she finally 
married him ; and what do you think ? They say that 
he sneers at her — actually uses oaths — when things go 
wrong, keeps her from going to church, is set against 
company, and wont let her use above two eggs in a 
sweet-cake ! " 

" Mon-sterous ! " exclaimed the others. 

There was a moment of silence, and then one of the 
trio spoke up : " Did you know that Mrs. Lancey had 
a new empress-clotli dress ? " 

" You don't say ! " 

" Yes, I do ! I know it for a fact^ — for she wore it past 
our house the other day. That dress never cost less than 
seven dollars — the bare cloth — and there's the making 
and trimmings thrown in. Just think of a woman in 
her circumstances going to such an expense ; why, if I 
hadn't seen it with my own eves, I couldn't believe it ! " 

" It is awful ! " 

"And the worst of it is, she seems to hold her head 
so high ! " continued -the first. "I've heard that her 
grandfather had to go to the poor-house when he broke 
his leg, and yet she holds her head up with the best of 
us ! Of course I don't want to backbite any one — it 
isn't my nature to talk behind people's back — but I will 
say that I shouldn't wonder if such extravagance 
brought that family to want for bread before spring 
comes ! " 

Nothing was said for the next five minutes, and then 
one of them exclaimed : " Land sakes ! but I'd almost 
f)rgotten to tell you Lizzie Thorburn has a new hat!" 

"What, another?" 

"Yes, another! she wore it to church last Sunday! 
Think of that — a girl having three hats in one year! 

" Shameful !" they cried in chorus. 

" I don't know what the world is coming to, " continued 
the first. " Wlien I was a girl, one hat had to last me 


seven years ; while now a girl wants at least two a 
year, if not three. I tell you, when I sat in church 
last Sunday, and saw Lizzie come slipping in with 
that new hat (must have cost three dollars at least) 
I felt queer. The fate of the sinful people of Sodom and 
Gomorrah came to my mind in a second ; and I shouldn't 
have been surprised if Lizzie had been stricken right 
down, then and there ! " 

After pondering over it for two or three minutes, 
one of them replied : " So, Mary Jane Doolittle is dead, 
is she?" 

"Yes, poor thing," was the reply, "dead and buried 
a week ago. Hannah was at the funeral. She says that 
Doolittle never shed a tear — never even blew his nose." 

"He didn't?" 

" No, he didn't ! Hannah watched him all through, 
and she says he has a heart like a stone. If he should 
be arrested as her murderer, I shouldn't be the least 
surprised. Poor woman ! I met her only last August, 
and I could see that she was killing herself I didn't 
ask her right out about it, bat could understand that 
Doolittle was a cold-hearted wretch. He didn't have 
much to say ; but just one remark he fnade convinced 
me of his cold-hearted ness. He asked for soap to wash 
himself, and when she handed him a piece he looked at 
it, sneered like, and says he : 'Mary Jane, you mustn't 
buy any more yeller soap ! ' " 

" Did he say that ? " 

" He certainly did. I'll go before any court in the 
land and swear to it? " 

I had to get off the train then, and missed further 


Silently musing a maiden sat. 

Dreaming dreams as fair as the morn. 

While the light through the crimson curtains stole, 
Like the rosy rays of the early dawn. 


Around her had Wealth, with a lavish hand, 
Scattered its gifts from its jealous clutch, 

And the strings of the gilded harp still thrilled, 
From her ivory fingers' trembling touch. 

The spirit of Song, on silvery wings. 
In lingering echoes about her played, 

As her sportive fancy on pinions of light. 
O'er vistas of rarest beauty strayed. 

In the grate shone a ruddy, sparkling fire. 
Driving the chill from the winter day ; 

And wondrous pictures it woke for her. 
In its fitful, strange, fantastic play. 

Clmleaux en Espagne she wantonly built, 
Witli jeweled pillars and gates of pearls, 

While her dimpled cheeks were lovingly kissed 
By a shower of sunlit, golden curls. 

At length, from dreams aroused, she said. 
Her face eiiwreathed by a lurking smile. 

As she lazily drew a curtain back, — 
" Out of the window, I'll look awhile ! " 

" Out of the window ! " How changed the scene ! 

How changed from the genial hearthstone bright; 
For over the earth in a glistening pall, 

Lay a mantle, heavy, and cold, and white. 

And growling as though with madness charged. 
Or shrieking anon, in furious breaths. 

The wind sped on its merciless way. 
Twisting the snow in glittering wreaths; 

Drifting and shifting in ghostlike sheets; 

Whirling and twirling in shrouds of spray; 
Writhing and howling, the storm careered 

In freakish and terrible sport that day. 

And crouched by a wall for its sheltering care. 
Was a creature in tattered blanket enrolled. 

And clinging for life to her freezing breast. 
Was an infant scarcely two months old. 

Up to the pitiless sky she gazed. 
While drifted the sleet on her purple brow ; 

The snow-flakes blinding her sunken eyes,— 
" Where, God of Heaven ! " she cried, "art Thou ? " 


She glanced across to the window wide, 

And fancied an angel standing there, 
'Neath the crimson folds, like a sunset cloud, 

And the shower of shining golden hair. 

She raised her hand — 'twas a mute appeal ; 

But it touched a chord in a woman's heart 
That thrilled for a sister woman's woe, 

In a shuddering, deep, convulsive start. 

Then sped she with haste to the great hall door, 
Unheeding how fiercely the wild winds blew, 

And braving the tempest's reckless blast. 
The wretched woman within she drew. 

Her breast aglow with a generous love, 
. The vagrant starvelings were warmed and fed ; 
And night closed over that mother and child, 
All snugly asleep in a downy bed. 

Dreamily musing the maiden sat, 
With a brighter light in her large brown eye. 

Enkindled there as a gleam of heaven. 
By the magic power of sympathy. 

Her "castles in air" she built again. 
With pillars of mercy and gates of love ; 

And the smile that played o'er her beautiful lips 
Might be envied by all the seraphs above. 

And a wingless seraph she seemed indeed. 
In her snow-white robe, with her shining hair 

So lovingly kissing her dimpled cheeks, 
As she knelt by her couch for her evening prayer. 

Out of the window, the storm was hushed ; 

Out of the window, the stars shone bright ; 
And the moonbeams quivered in laughing sheen. 

As they peeped through the curtains at her that night, 

As they peeped through the fleecy folds of lace. 
And over her fell like wreaths of pearls. 

Lighting her eyelids' silken fringe, 
And nestling amid her golden curls. 

Out of the window, the storm was hushed ; 

Out of the window, the stars shone bright; 
Peacefully dreaming, the maiden slept, 

And out of the Tyindpw was peace that night. 



"At last 'tis finished ! " cried the Spanish painter, 
Gazing on the canvas where was wrought 

The last sad supper of our blessed Saviour, 
An incarnation of his pious thought. 

The chosen twelve sat there a-near the Master — 
The artist might have thought each looker-on 

Would feel his heart's depths wildly stirred at seeing 
That look of Peter, and that smile of John. 

He might have feared the critic, there beholding' 
Such rays of radiant light, such depths of gloom, 

Would, mad with envy, all condemn, consigning 
Picture and painter to oblivion's tomb. 

But no ! as one entranced, the artist only 
Gazed, wondering, in the face of Christ, to see 

How his unwearied, prayerful toil had clothed it 
In holy calm, in peerless majesty. 

There was the love that blest the little children ; 

The pity there, that made the blind to see. 
That healed the sick, and, weeping with the sisters, 

Called from the grave the dead, at Bethany. 

The smile was sweet with every gospel promise ; 

Rest for the weary, freedom for the slave 
Could there be read, and over all the triumph 

The consciousness of resurrection gave. 

While yet, with tearful joy, the artist pondered 
The spirit-meaning in that face divine, 

One entered, crying out, " The art is perfect 
That pictured yonder sparkling cup of wine ! " 

Over the humbled artist's face a shadow 
Fell suddenly. "Ah ! can it be? " he said, 

"The Master's hallowed brow, and look benignant 
Are nothing, trifles winning praise instead ? " 

Then, rushing to his brush, he seized it, dashed it 
Over what had been marvelously fair ; 

Upon the canvas now was only ruin, 
And in the artist's heart alone despair. 


RossiTEE W. Raymond. 

Little Philip went to bed early, the night before 
Christmas, because he was so tired of waiting. As he 
lay in his trundle-bed, he thought how the mornings 
come first in the east, and move with the sun over land 
and sea, while the nights follow after, but never can 
catch them. " I guess Christmas has come already to 
some of the little children across the sea," thought 
Philip to himself, " and he is hurrying this way as fast 
as he can. I hope he will not be tired and stop before 
he gets to me ! " Meanwhile Philip grew sleepier and 
sleepier, and at last his bright little eyes shut so quickly 
that you could almost hear them snap. 

Then the door softly opened, and in came a queer 
little fellow with wings. Did you ever see a Dream? 
Nobody ever did, to my knowledge. They are cunning 
chaps, and they never come near you until you are too 
fast asleep to see them. Day-dreams belong to a differ- 
ent family, and are not good for much. The most curi- 
ous thing about real, useful dreams is that they visit 
everybody, and carry people everywhere, and show 
them all sorts of pictures, and tell them all sorts of 
stories ; and when they are gone, people wake up and 
rub their eyes^ and find themselves just where they were 
when they fell asleep, and wont believe they have been 
anywhere or seen anything. This Dream that I speak 
of stole across the room, and held one hand over Philip's 
eyes to keep them shut, while he whispered in his ear : 
" Come ! let us go to the Great House where the Days 
live ! " With that he lifted Philip out of bed, and 
away they floated through the window, and over the 
hills, and the rivers, and the great sea, higher and higher, 
until they came into the clouds ; and right in the middle 
of Cloudland they came to the Palace of the Days. 

*T»kcn, by permissioD, from "The Man in the Moon, and Other People," 
which cnntainft many excellent stories for reading aloud, as do also " Two 
GhMHt.s,"and "Ui'ave ilcurts." bythe saoio author, 


That was a splendid hall ! It was so large that you 
could scarcely see from one end to the other ; and there 
were three hundred and sixty-six beds in it, and tables 
and chairs in proportion, one for every day in the year. 
This is where the Days lived, when they were not at 
work on the world. Every Day took his turn once a 
year, and generally got so tired walking round the 
world, that he went straight to bed as soon as he got 
back, and slept till his turn came again. " Great sleep- 
ers, I tell you ! " said the Dream to Philip, " but they 
don't sleep very soundly. What they call history down 
there in the world is nothing but the echo of these old 
fellows, snoring and muttering in their sleep." 

Sure enough, there were most of the Days in bed, 
with their names above their heads. There was the 
First of April, with a fool's cap for a nightcap, and the 
Fourth of July, with a star-spangled banner for his 
bed-quilt ; and there was the Twenty-third of Decem- 
ber, a short, little fat fellow, — the shortest day in the 
year. He had only just got home, had his supper, and 
gone to bed. The next bed was empty; for the Twenty- 
fourth of December was out on his travels. One lively 
fellow came up to Philip, and said : " I'm the Twenty- 
ninth of February ! I march only once in four years, 
so you see I'm quite fresh. I have nothing to do till 
1872. If you want to ask questions, I'm your man ! " 
So the queer old man sat down, and took one leg on the 
other knee, in a comfortable way, while the Dream took 
his plaoe on the floor, and listened over his shoulder. 
Then Philip asked what the Days did while they 
traveled round the world. " Why, don't you know ? " 
said the Twenty-ninth of February. " We walk by 
the side of the Sun ; and while he holds his great 
lantern to light the world, we scatter the gifts of the 
King in all countries, and remember everything that we 
see to tell it to the Recorder. There he sits." Then 
Philip looked, and saw a man sitting behind a great 
book, and writing all the time. Everything that ever 


happened was written in that great Book of the King, 
and the Recorder neither rested nor grew weary. Indeed, 
he could not pause, for things kept happening all the time. 

Presently a messenger with a torch ran swiftly through 
the hall, and, stopping by one of the beds, touched the 
Day who was sleeping there. 

" That is the Morning Star," said the Twenty-ninth 
of February. " It is his business to wake the Days. 
He is come for Chri^mas now. The Twenty-fourth — 
Christmas Eve, we nickname him — will be in presently, 
and one goes as the other comes ; else something might 
happen that we did not see." 

Christmas, a cheerful old man with a long white 
beard, made haste to rise and get* ready for his journey, 
lie nodded kindly to Philip, and put out his hand, 
saying: "Would you like to go with me? A long road, 
but pleasant. Nobody has so pleasant a road as I have !" 

Philip loved him at once ; so bidding farewell to his 
new acquaintance, and casting one look at the solemn 
Recorder, who was just beginning a new page, he took 
the old man's hand, and they went out of the palace 
together. At the threshold they met another old man 
coining in. "Ah! brother Christmas," said he, " I have 
left fine weather for you ! The world is getting old and 
dirty ; but I carried along a bag full of snow, and whit- 
ened it wherever I could ! " And with that he hurried 
in to tell his story to the Recorder, and then to sleep for 
another year. 

A moment more, and they met the Sun. He was not 
tired. The Sun and the Recorder never are tired. 
What a glorious face he had ! And the light in his 
hand was so brilliant that it shone for millions of miles. 

They began their journey far away in the east where 
all the people bowed down and worshiped the Sun, but 
paid no attention to Christmas. " That is because they 
do not know me yet," said the old man. " When they 
know me, they will welcome us both as friends, but wor- 
ship the King only. Every time I travel through this 


part of the world I look to see if any one has taught 
them better. I could tell them a story, if I had time, 
that would open their eyes to the truth, and make them 
happy and wise. But my business is only to see what 
happens, and tell the Recorder. Some time or other I 
shall have it to tell that all men know me, and worship 
the King. That will be the best news ! The Recorder 
will stop writing for very joy ; but not until then." 

As they came westward with the Sun, they heard 
everywhere the sound of chiming bells ; and crowds of 
people were seen, greeting each other merrily and with 
good wishes, and gathering to give thanks to the King. 
The face of Christmas brightened, and the Sun made 
his light as clear as it. could be. " These are all friends 
of mine,'' said Christmas, " and they worship the King. 
Every time I come I find more and more of thera. It 
was not always so — for thousands of years I was not 
Christmas at all. The time when I got my name was the 
happiest time of my life ; and the story that I told the 
Recorder then is written on the most beautiful page of 
his book, and the King reads it very often. That was 
the time when the Prince Emmanuel came down into the 
world with me. Ever since then I have been Merry 
Christmas. Do you not think I have good reason to be 
glad that I, of all the Days in the Palace, should bring 
the Prince into the world, and hear the angels sing 
peace on earth and good-will to men ? " 

While they were thus talking they passed swiftly over 
many lands, and everywhere the people welcomed them 
with great joy. The merry smiles of Christmas were 
reflected in all faces. The chiming of the bells, and tlie 
shouts and laughter of the children, and the greetings of 
neighbors and friends, and happy thanksgivings to the 
King, filled the air with music. Everywhere the tem- 
ples and houses were wreathed with green boughs and 
crosses, and stars of green were set up to remind men of 
the Prince Emmanuel and the bright morning star that 
shone over Bethlehem. Old Christmas grew merrier 


and merrier. He laughed and sang, and scattered gifts 
among the people ; and they, in their gladness, gave to 
one another and to the poor ; but sweeter than the loud- 
est glee was the tone in which the old man everywhere 
said : " Remember the Prince and the King and the 
Glad Tidings." Then they crossed the great sea ; and 
Christmas went on board of every ship they met to 
bless the sailors and to say : " Remember who made 
the storm to cease. The Prince was once a sailor too ! " 

At last they reachea the shores of the new land in the 
West. It was covered with snow, so pure and white 
that it looked like the new page on which the Recorder 
will one day write that all men know and serve the 
King. Presently Philip saw the house where he lived ; 
and before he could bid Christmas good-by, that mis- 
chievous little-winged Dream, which had been with him 
invisibly all the time, lifted him lightly, and flew with 
him right through the window into his own room. And, 
lo ! his mother stood by him, saying : " Wake up, little 
boy ! Christmas is here." 

"0 ho ! " said Philip, " I guess I know that ! I have 
been round the world with him ! " 

Whether he really had been journeying or not, I 
should like to see the philosopher who could tell. But 
one thing I know : that I mean to do all I can to spread 
the Glad Tidings, so that very soon Father Christmas, 
in his travels round the world, shall find that all men 
know him and worship the King ; when the Recorder 
shall cease writing for very joy ; and the mirth, and 
love, and charity of Christmas shall fill also every day 
in the whole year. 


A British ship at anchor lay 

In the harbor of New York : 
The stevedores were packing her 

With Yankee beef and pork. 
Nine slim young men went up the plank, 

And they were tall and good ; 


But none of them had ever loved, 
They said they never would. 

But whether they wouldn't, 

Or whether they couldn't, 

Or their mothers said they shouldn't 
The world will never know. 

The passengers were all on board ; 

The vessel got up steam, 
And floated down the river, like 

The — ah — something of a dream. 
A pretty girl came up on deck. 
And near the railing stood : 
She never loved a fellow-man. 
And said she never would. 
But whether she couldn't, 
Or whether she wouldn't. 
Or her father said she shouldn't. 
The world will never know. 

The nine young men stood in a row. 

Each trying not to stare : 
The lady looked embarrassed and 

They offered her a chair. 
The nine young swells were very rich. 

And it was understood 
That each of them could marry 
Whatever girl he would. 
But whether he couldn't, 
Or whether he wouldn't. 
Or the lady said he shouldn't. 
The world will never know. 

So things went on as usual. 

The weather soon grew thick, 
The nine young men were gallant. 

The pretty girl was sick ; 
She certainly was charming, 

When they brought her dainty food : 
"I'd eat it all, now, really 
And truly, if I could." 
But whether she couldn't. 
Or whether she wouldn't. 
Or her appetite said she shouldn't, 
The world will never know. 


The nine young men came up on deck, 

Each in his Sunday clothes, 
And went abaft the wheel-house, 

In order to propose. 
The lady had no preference, 
But said that, if she could, 
She'd marry every one of them, 
But it wasn't any good. 
But whether she couldn't. 
Or whether she wouldn't, 
Qr that custom said she shouldn't, 
The world will never know. 

The lady asked the captain how 

She ever should decide. 
Said he, "The love of those young men 

Should certainly be tried." 
So, when they all were present. 

She fell into the sea ; 
And eight of them jumped after her. 
The ninth — oh ! where was he ? 
Now whether he couldn't (jump). 
Or whether he wouldn't (swim), 
Or the captain said he shouldn't (try), 
The world Will never know. 

Once fairly out of the water, she 

Went up to him, and said, 
"Dear sir, you are a solid man. 

And have a level head ; 
So, without further parley, 

Or hint of a pretence, 
I agree to marry you, sir. 
For you have common sense." 
So her father said he couldn't, 
And her mother said she wouldn't. 
And the captain said he shouldn't— 
Kefuse to give consent. 

AFTER THE OPERA.-Bbn Wood Davis. 

We stood one night on Beacon street. 

Before her family mansion. 
While in my heart the throbs of love 
Were struggling for expansion. 
4 3 


We just had left the theater, 
Had heard "II Trovatore," 

And, on tlie doorstep, talked about 
The music and the story. 

She raved about the wondrous voice 

Of Signor Campaniui ; 
She praised his acting and his face 

While I stood like a ninny. 
I wanted to — but why explain ? 

(I half suspect she knew it ;) 
I hemmed and twisted like a fool — 

And hadn't pluck to do it. 

I waited long for some excuse. 

My stupid brain perplexing. 
And then at length a silence fell. 

So awkward and so vexing; 
But suddenly she brightened up, 

This loveliest of misses — 
" Oh, by the way, did you observe 

How gracefully he kisses ? " 


A stranger came to Nagold town 

One stormy winter's day, 
A queer old man with visage brown 

And hair all streaked with gray, — 
A man of most forbidding ways ; 

His glance was shrewd and cold. 
And all his looks and actions, days 

Of hard denial told. 

He came at noon ; the worthy dame 

Who kept the inn—" The Bear "— 
All vainly wondered whence he came. 

Or what had brought him there. 
He sat apart and ate his bread 

And drank his pint of wine. 
" I want a coach, " at length he said, 

" At three, for Adlerstein." 

"For Adlerstein ? " the dame replied, ' 
" 'Tis three good hours away ; 


The mountain streams are deep and wide, 

And waning is the day; 
By daylight there is naught to fear, 

Our hearth is warm and bright, 
You'll find good cheer and comfort here ; 

Stay then and rest to-night. " 

" Ha ! What care I for rain and sleet, 

And perils you forbode, 
With driver sure and horses fleet 

I do^ot fear the road. " 
The worthy hostess sighed " Ah, me ! 

I'll not entreat him more. " 
And, as the village clock struck three, 

The coach was at the door. 

The driver was Postilion Dorn, 

A lusty youth and true, 
Whose notes upon the bugle-horn 

Were known the Schwarzwald through; 
And village maidens used to cast 

Admiring glances down 
Whenever he, with cheery blast, 

Came dashing into town. 

Full half an hour through mud and rain 

The team had dashed along, 
And Dorn had tried and tried again, 

By merry jest and song, 
And frequent word of cheer to break 

The silence so forlorn — 
'Twas vain. "At least," thought he, "I'll wake 

The echoes with the horn. " 

Then first a martial air he played, — 

An air that he had learned 
In days when armies stood arrayed 

And blazing camp-fires burned ; 
An air that told of battle's call. 

Of carnage fierce and hot. 
The stranger sat unmoved through all 

And seemed to hear it not. 

" Aha! " quoth Dorn, " I'll try again." 

Then, midst the rain and sleet. 
He warbled forth a tender strain, 

A love-song soft and sweet. 


Through wind-tossed pines the plaintive lay 

Its murmuring echoes woke; 
Yet, when its music died away, 

No word the stranger spoke. 

Another hour in silence passed. 

Each spectral bush and tree 
Seemed mocking Corn's despair. At last, 

" I'll try once more, " said he. 
Then, mid the blust'ring wintry gale. 

In chorals grand and clear. 
The "Lobe den Herm, meine Seele," 

Broke on the stranger's ear. 

Its solemn notes the echoes woke 

Through dim-lit forest aisles 
In sweet and pleading tones that spoke 

Of heaven and angel's smiles. 
O'er every lonely mountain track 

Its softened cadence stole, 
And distant hillsides murmured back, 

"Oh ! love the Lord, my soul." 

Then to the stranger's raptured gaze, 

At that sweet hymn's command, 
Came back the scenes of boyhood's days 

Passed in that Suabian laud— 
His mother's love, his father's care, 

And all the peace benign 
That hovered round the hearthstone there 

Long since at Adlerstein. 

He saw the tree beneath whose shade 

He used to sit and sing. 
And where he'd plucked in sunny glade 

Fresh violets in spring; 
The cross-tipped spire, and, standing near. 

The church-yard on the knoll, 
And ever sounding in his ear, 

" Oh I love the Lord, my soul. " 

The tears burst forth — he meekly bowed 

His head upon his hand ; 
"God bless you now," he sobbed aloud, 

" This is my native land. 
I've wandered from it far abroad 

O'er mountain, sea, and plain. 


My soul, indeed, doth love the Lord 
Who brings me home again. " 

Postilion Dorn has now grown old, 

Grandchildren round him play, 
And he full oft, I wot, has told 

How well he played that day. 
Let's hope, in age, for memory's sake, 

Some brave Postilion Dorn 
For us, in turn, such notes may wake 

Upon his bugle horn. 


" When will you marry me, my bonnie maid ? " 

" Can we not wait? " said she — 
" You know that I love you, but dear, I'm afraid 

You soon will get weary of me." 
Then he vowed and swore to love and adore, 

He prayed on his bended knee, 
He said with a sigh "If I wait I shall die ! " — 

He was a man, you see. 
Sugar and cream, sugar and cream. 
When we are married 'twill be a sweet dream ! 

But the sugar and cream they passed like a dream, 

Alas! they could never agree. 
She said, "Let us part, you've broken my heart! " 

" I think it is best," said he. 
"When I'm gone you will miss me a thousand times o'er !" 

" Oh no ! not a whit ! " said he. 
Then away she went stamping and slamming the door — 

She was a woman, you see. 
Needles and pins ! Needles and pins ! 
When a man's married, his trouble begins ! 

Tive minutes, precisely five minutes had passed, 

She opened the door with a sigh, 
" Since we have settled to part," she said — 

" I wanted to say good-by ! " 
" We never shall meet any more," she wept— 

"Alone we must live and die." 
Then he opened his arms and in themshe crept. 

And that's how they said good-by. 
Let the bells ring ! Let the bells ring ! 
Man without woman is but a poor thing I 


BUZBY'S COAT.— George M. Vickees. 

Written expressly for tJtis Collection. 

I'm a married man ; Buzby's a single man. My 
wife's one of the sweetest angels on earth, but — she's a 
a woman. 

You see Buzby and I clerk in the same store ; our 
desks stand back to back, and when we are seated 
we are hidden from each other, but when we both stand 
up Buzby looks right at me and I look right at him ; 
all that I can see of Buzby is from his eyes up ; all 
that Buzby can see of me is from my eyes up ; the 
only way I can tell when Buzby smiles is when I see 
his lower eyelids try to reach the upper ones, for we're 
both exactly the same size ; we dress alike; — but there 
the resemblance ends. I like domestic bliss ; I love to 
nurse the baby, to rock the cradle ; I don't mind peel- 
ing the potatoes, or helping Matilda darn the stockings, 
fur Matilda's a good wife. Now Buzby's different ; he 
says he wouldn't marry the best woman on earth ; I 
don't believe him because he's always going to a party 
or a picnic, and the girls dote on him. 

One cold, dismal, rainy night I sat in the ofBce alone ; 
Buzby had been gone an hour; everybody else had 
giine. At last my work was finished. The town clock 
was striking eight as I stepped into the street. Oh, it 
was an awful night. Ugh ! bah 1 it makes me shudder 
to think of it. That night home never seemed so cosy 
as it did when I entered the little dining-room, took off 
my overcoat and hung it on a hook, and — then kissed 
Matilda and the baby. It was an awful night, though. 
Ugh ! it makes me groan to I'ecall it. 

" Edward, dear, loan me your pencil, please." This 
is how the thing commenced. Supper was over and we 
sat at the sitting-room table, Matilda on one side, I on 
the other; the baby was asleep in the cradle. 

" My dear," I replied, " you'll find one in my over- 
coat pocket ; it hangs in the dining-room." 


Matilda arose and left the room. I resumed the story 
I had been reading, and had read some ten minutes 
when I was startled by a shriek, a blood-curdling shriek 
from the dining-room. The baby screamed with fright. 
My heart stood still. It was Matilda ! What had 
happened I knew not, but with a frantic rush I entered 
the dining-room. One glance revealed my darling seated 
at the table. Her head was bent forward and rested upon 
her hands. On the table were a photograph, open letters 
and a hemstitched handkerchief. 

"Matilda, dearest," I cried, advancing towards her, 
" what ails my darling? " With a shriek she sprang up 
and glared at me like a panther. " Heavens ! " I 
thought, " she's mad." 

" Edward Carboy," my wife was speaking, " Ed- 
ward Carboy, when you came into this house to-night at 
half-past eight o'clock, I believed you had been toiling 
for your family. False perjurer, you have deceived me 
You have bestowed upon that woman the love that you 
[)lighted to me." 

I quickly seized a towel and threw it in the water 
pitcher. " Matilda, love," I cried, " let me bathe your head 
with this," but as I advanced she sprang to the other 
side of the table. 

" Fiend," she hissed, " if I live until to-morrow morn- 
ing, I and my poor babe will be under my father's roof" 

Things were growing desperate ; I never heard of in- 
sanity in my wife's family, but here was a dead sure case. 
She stood like a statue, did Matilda, her right hand 
shading her eyes, and her left pointing to the things on 
the table. 

"Where did you get these things, love?" I asked, 
picking up the photograph of a young woman. 

" Buse traitor," Matilda hoarsely whispered, " I know 
all ; those letters and this handkerchief— with 'Jennie' 
in the corner, your Jennie, have told me all ! " 

With one spring I tried to reach her side, but she 
dodged me, and I upset the table and smashed the 


pitcher. Matilda gave one more piercing shriek, when 
Dobkins our next-door neighbor came running in the 
back way and rattled at the door. I opened it. 

" My wife is very ill," I whispered in his ear ; " stay 
here while I go for the doctor." I then seized my over- 
coat and " Why this is Buzby's coat ! " I cried in- 
voluntarily. My wife was at my side in a moment. 
" Oh, Edward," she gasped, " I am much better.'' 

Dobkins said I'd better go for the doctor anyway, but 
when Matilda smiled, he bade us good-night and left. 
When he went out she threw her arms around me, and 
kissed me. Oh, it was an awful night ; and all on ac- 
count of that infernal Buzby's coat. 


'Twas a beautiful Christmas morning, 
And over the new-fallen snow, 

Gay troops of light-hearted children 
Were running to and fro. 

From mansion and cottage and hovel, 
Their merry laughter rang out, 

Till hill-top and valley resounded 
With their joyous matin shout. 

Then, peeping in at the windows, 
As I passed through the city streets, 

I could see the Christmas tables, 
All laden with dainty meats. 

The sires and grandsires and children, 
Were viewing with strange delight 

The store of wonderful treasures, 
Saint Nicholas brought in the night. 

But I sighed, as I hastened onward, 
When, passing the rich man's door, 

I came to the tenement houses 
Where dwell the wretchedly poor. 

Climbing up the rickety stairways. 
And fumbling in the gloom, 

I stopped at the half-open doorway 
Of a low and dismal room. 


Ah, me ! sighed I, as I stood there, 

No Saint Nicholas came here last night, 

No breakfast smoked on the table. 
No fire was here all alight. 

As I tarried a moment and listened, 

A faint voice met my ear — 
" 'Tis dark, I can't see you, mother, 

But surely you are here. 

" I want to tell you my dream, mother, 

Oh, ^was such a beautiful sight 1 
I saw a great door stand open — 

That let in such wonderful light. 

" Now you know how long it is, mother, 
That I've lain in this little dark room. 

And wanted to see the bright sunshine. 
But it never, never has come. 

" But oh, it was brighter than sunshine, 
As in through that open door 
I saw a more beautiful figure 
Than ever I saw before. 

" It had on garments so shining — 

I can't tell you what I mean. 
For I'm certain that it was like nothing 

That I ever before had seen. 

"I knew tliat the figure was Jesus — 
For he came towards me and spoke 

The very same words you were whispering 
This morning when I awoke. 

"Oh, suffer the little children 

To come unto me," He said ; 
And He spake it so very gently 

I could not be afraid. 

"Then I thought it was Christmas morning, 
Which you know I have longed to see. 

Though I knew there was no one living 
To think of you and me. 

" But He brought a crown, dear mother. 

And pressed it on my brow. 
In the place where your hand was resting 

When I awoke just now. 


"What a wonderful Christmas gift, mother 1 

And it seemed so real and true! 
I wisli you had seen it, dear mother, 

I know it would seem so to you. 

"O mother, I do feel so sorry, 
For I know you are weeping now — 

I feel the hot tears fast falling 
Upon my cheeks and brow. 

"Now I know that you are thinking 

Of that sad Christmas day, 
When my father tenderly kissed us, 

Before he went away. 

"And we watched, and waited, and waited— 

But he never came back again ; 
He does not know of your sorrow, 

He does not know of my pain. 

" Then, too, it was Christmas morning. 

You know, just one year ago. 
When I slipped on the icy pavement 

And fell down and hurt me so. 

"Never, since that dreadful morning. 

Have I left this poor little bed; 
When they brought me home to you feinting, 

And you thought your poor Bessie was dead. 

"Oh, I know I've been so much trouble 

And made you so much care ! 
Besides, all this time, my poor mother. 

You've had little to eat or wear. 

" And I know you have not any. money, 
For you've had no time to sew, 

'Twould be better if I were with Jesus- 
He has bidden me come, you know. 

" I'm going to sleep, for I'm easy. 

And I don't feel any more jiain, 
I hope I shall see, when I'm sleeping. 

That beautiful dream again. 

" Tell me what I shall do, dear mother, 

If Jesus should call me again, 
I will stay with him, if you're willing, 

'Twould not be so hard for you th^n," 


She slept — and I heard the low moaning 

Of a sorrowful voice in prayer; 
" Heavenly Father, Thou gavest — 

To Thee I surrender my care. 

"My treasures,— my last and my only, 

I give her, O Lord, unto Thee. 
Forsaken and widowed and lonely, 

Have pity, O Lord, upon me." 

The dark room grew radiant with glory, 

Soft music seemed stirring the air, 
And a faint, low rustling of pinions, 

Like angels hovering near. 

Then I knew as I entered, half fearful, 

•And stood by the comfortless bed, 
And looked on the worn, wasted features, 

That Bessie the cripple was dead. 

OUT OF THE EAST.*— Stockton Bates. 

Out of the east comes up the morning sun. 

Into the west he sinks when day is done ; 

The clouds along the far horizon's rim 

Gleam through the western twilight-shadows dim; 

The changeful castles of the dying day 

Charm for awhile, then crumble to decay ; 

Or, flashing into flames of glorious light, 

Illume the darkling pathways of the night. 

Out of the east slow lifts the round-faced moon. 

And, in the zenith, swings at night's dark noon ; 

Far o'er the landscape falls in mellow rays 

The soft reflection of the solar bla^e ; 

Into the west she passes from the sight 

Soon as the eastern slopes are bathed in light, 

Nor lingers long upon the flowery lawn 

To welcome with her smiles the blushing dawn. 

Out of the east the countless train of stars 
Follows the sun into the western bars, 
And slowly disappearing, melts away 
Amid the full efl'ulgence of the day. 
The wheeling squadrons seem to proudly roam 
Beneath grim night's o'erarching, sable dome; 

*rrom "Dream Life and other Poeme," by pnrmisaion. 


While far along the northern flank on high 
Auroral banners wave athwart the sky. 

Out of the east the wise men came to view 
The infant Saviour, whose bright star the}' knew, 
And followed till the guiding beams at rest 
Reposed upon the cradle of the blest; 
When all the glorious stars adoring praised. 
And with sweet music heavenly anthems raised ■; 
While lo ! the wise men, bowed in worship, cry, 
" Hail ! to the mighty Lord of eartli and sky." 

Out of the east the fierce barbaric hordes, 
vWith uncouth armor and unwieldy swords,, 
Swept o'er the earth like a resistless wave, 
Crushing the nations that they uame to save. 
Into the west where proud Atlantic pours 
Its wrathful billows on the trembling shores. 
They passed, usurping all the hel[)less land 
From Persia's Gulf to Balti'j's frozen strand. 

Out of the east a little pilgrim band 
Came in the Mayflower to a happier land ; 
Came from oppression to be ever free, 
Nor feared the dangers of a wintry sea ; 
Into the west they came and freedom found. 
And at their sturdy axes' ringing sound 
Primeval forests fell beneath the blows. 
And cot and hamlet magic-like arose. 

Out of the east the current onward rolled 
Until it reached the land of wine and gold ; 
Along the swelling streams and western plains 
New cities rose bedecked with lofty fanes. 
Into the west, advancing sure but slow. 
The mighty civilizing armies go, — 
The conquerors by the plough and not the sword. 
Who make the west the garden of the Lord. 

PARES HIS SERMON.— S. R. Crockett. 

It is Friday, and the minister of Arkland was writing 
his sermon. Things had not gone well in Arkland that 
week. The meeting of the church court charged with 


the temporalities had not passed off well on Tuesday. 
One man especially had hurt the minister in a sensi- 
tive place. This was Peter M'Robert, the shoemaker. 
The minister had represented that a bath in a manse 
was not a luxury but a necessity, when Peter M'Robert 
said that as for him he had never " had sic a thing in 
his life, an' as for the minister, that auld Maister Drouthy 
had dune withoot yin in the manse for thirty-three year 
to the satisfaction^' the pairish. " 

Then there had been certain differences of opinion 
within the manse itself, and altogether the sermon had 
been begun with the intention of dressing down the 
offending parishioners. Nearly all sermons are per- 
sonal to the preacher. They have been awakened with- 
in him by some circumstance which has come to his 
knowledge during the week. Preachers use this fact for 
good or evil according to their kind. 

A plain man was John Smith of Arkland, — as plain 
and hodden grey as his name. He had succeeded to the 
church with the largest raajorily that had been known 
in the presbytery, for in that neighborhood . to have 
given a man a unanimous call would have been consid- 
ered a disgrace and a reflection on the critical discrim- 
ination of the congregation. He had tried to do his duty 
without fear or favor, only asking that his hands should 
not be tied. He visited the sick with a plain quiet help- 
fulness which brought sympathy with it as surely as the 
minister entered the house. His sermons were not bril- 
liant, but they were staves and crutches to many. 

Now as he sat at his manse window that bitter No- 
vember morning he watched the rain volleying on the 
round causeway stones and the wide spaces of the vil- 
lage street dimly white with the dancing spray. The 
minister felt grimly in unison with the elements as he 
sat framing his opening sentences. He had chosen his 
text from a wonderful chapter. " Wisdom is justified 
of her children." And in this wise he began to write : 
" To be ignorant is to be dangerous. The ignorant man 


though he be but one, can make of no account the 
wisdom of many men. After the wise of many genera- 
tions have been striving to teach a people wisdom, a 
knave or a fool may come and cry aloud, ' There is no 
god but ourselves, there is no law but our own desires, 
there is no hereafter but the grave which we share with 
our sister the worm and our brother the dead dog ! ' 
Yet so great is the folly of man that such an one may 
draw away much people after him into the wilderness of 
sin and self-indulgence. It is in accordance with the 
nature of man that ignorance and narrowness should 
often succeed where wisdom is wholly rejected." 

" That will do," said the minister, looking over his 
work. He had Peter M'Robert in his mind, and he . 
rose and walked his study, "mandating" his opening sen- 
tences with appropriate gestures, much to the astonish- 
ment of Marget Lowrie in the kitchen, who said, " Save 
us ! What's wrang wi' the minister '( This is no' Set- 
turday ! " 

As he came in his sentry walks to the window which 
looked up the rain-swept street, he saw a dark-colored 
oblong patch with a strange protuberance on the right 
side, hirpling like a decrepit beetle athwart the road, 
till, being caught at the manse corner by a bitter swirl, 
this irregular shape — 

" If shape it could be called, that shape had none," 
stumbled and fell within thirty yards of the study win- 
dow, discharging on the muddy road an avalanche of 
shavings, small branches, knobs, angles, and squares of 
wood. In a moment the minister was out at the door 
and was helping old Nance Kissock to her feet, and 
then under the eyes of all the wives in the village as- 
sisting her to collect again her bagful of chips and kin- 
dlings which the good-natured joiner allowed her to take 
once a week from his floor. 

" I hope you are none the worse, Nance ? " said the 

" I thank ye, Maister Smith ; I'm aair forfoughten wi' 


the wun', but gin the Almichty be willing I'll be at the 
kirk on Sabbath to hear ye. It's guid to think on a' 
the week what ye tell us. Whiles it gars me forget the 
verra rheumatics ! " 

When the minister got back into the friendly shelter 
of his study he took up the sheet which he had laid 
down in order to rush out to Nance Kissock's assistance. 
He read it over, but when he took his pen again, he did 
not seem to like it so well. If Nance were speaking the 
truth, and she fed "during the week on the spiritual food 
which she received in his kirk on the Sabbath, he could 
not conceal from himself that next week she had a good 
chance of -going hungry. Yet he could not allow Peter 
M'Robert to get off without a word, so he put the 
thought away from him and went on with his task. 
" How often does a man of limited view mistake his 
own limitations for the possibilities of others. He never 
judges himself — he could not if he would — and natur- 
ally when he judges others it is only to condemn them." 
A gust more than ordinarily powerful took the minister 
again to the window, and he saw John Scott, the herd 
from the Dornel, wringing the wet from his plaid. He 
knew that he had come down to the village from the 
hills three miles out of his road to get his wife's medi- 
cine. Presently he would trudge away manfully back 
again to the cot-house on the edge of the heather. Now 
the minister knew that come storm or calm John Scott 
would be at the kirk on the next day but one, and that 
he would carry away in the cool quiet brain that lay 
behind the broad brow the heads and particulars of 
the sermon he heard. As he went steadily knitting his 
stockings, conquering the heather with strides long and 
high, visiting his black-faced flock, he would go revolving 
the message that his minister had given him in the house 
of God. 

"Wisdom is justified of her children," repeated the 
minister, doggedly ; but his text now awakened no 
fervor. There was no enthusiasm in it. He thought 

64 ONE huhdred choice sblkctions 

that he would go out and let the November winds drive 
the rain into his face for a tonic. So he slipped on his 
Inverness and let himself out. His feet carried him to- 
wards the garret of one of his best friends, where an aged 
woman, blind and infirm, was spending the latter end of 
her days. She could not now come to church, therefore the 
minister went often to her — for it was sunshine to him 
also to bring light into that very dark place where the 
aged servant of God waited her end. 

Mary Garment knew his step far down the stair and she 
said to herself: " It is himsel' ! " and deep within her she 
gave thanks. "It is a great thing* to hae the bread o' 
life broken to us so simply that we a' understan' it, 
Maister Smith," she said. 

" But, Mary, how long is it since you heard a sermon 
of mine?" 

" It's true it's a lang time since I heard ye preach, 
minister, but I hear o' yer sermons every Sabbath. Yin 
and anither tells me pairt o't till I get as muckle as I 
can think on." 

As the minister said good-bye to Mary Garment, she 
said : " Ye'll hae ower muckle to think on to mind me 
on the Lord's day when ye're speakin' for yer Maister ; 
but I hae nane but you to mind, sir, so I'll be prayin' 
for you a' the time that ye're uphaudin' His name." 

" Thank you, Mary, I'll not forget ! " said her minister. 

And he went out much strengthened. 

As he went mansewards he passed the little cobbler's 
den where Peter M' Robert was tap-tapping all the day, 
and the sound of Peter's terrible cough called to him with 
a voice that claimed him. He stepped in, and after the 
word of salutation, he asked his office-bearer: 

" Are you not thinking of getting that cough attended 
to, Peter ? " 

" Wha — me ? Na, no' me ; hoots, it's but a bit host, 
nocht to speak aboot, thank ye for speerin', Maister 

Just then the minister saw the doctor walking rapidly 


up the far side of the street, calm-faced and dignified, 
as if this howling November north-easter were a beauti- 
ful June morning. Him he summoned. 

" Here's Peter'll no' speak to you about his cough. 
He must have some of your drugs, doctor." 

The doctor called the unwilling cobbler from his last, 
and after a brief examination, he said : 

" No, I don't think there will be any need for drugs, 
Mr. Smith ; if you^ Peter, will use a gargle to get rid of 
a trifling local inflammation. Less lapstone dust and 
less snuff, Peter, and warm water three times a day, " 
said the doctor, succinctly, and proceeded on his rounds. 

As the minister went out, Peter looked up with a 
queer twinkle in his eye. 

" Maister Smith," he said, " gin water be sae needful 
for the inside o' a cobbler's thrapple, maybe I was wrang 
in thinkin' that it wasna as necessary for the ootside o' 
a minister ! " 

" Then we'll say no more about it, Peter," said the min- 
ister, smiling, as he closed the door. "Mind your gargle ! " 

When the minister got to his study, he never stopped 
even to wipe his feet, and when the mistress followed to 
remonstrate, she found him putting his sermon in the 

The minister's text on the following Sabbath morning 
was an old one, but it was no old sermon that the Ark- 
land folk got that day. The text was, " Come unto me 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest." 

Nanse Kissock was there, and did not go home hungry; 
John Scott had come down from the muirs, and had 
something better than physic to take back to his ailing 
wife ; Peter M' Robert sat in his corner looking cleaner 
than he had done within the memory of man — also he 
never coughed once ; no less than eight different folk 
came in to tell blind Mary Garment about the sermon. 

But none except the minister knew who it was that had 
been praying for him. 


A WEIRD WABBLE.— H. Chance Newton. 

I sauntered lately through the street 

(Which, by-the-way, I often do), 
And on my way I chanced to meet 

A merry-visaged youthful crew. 
Strange mystic rites with cherry-stones. 

They acted on the curb-stone's verge, 
And then, anon, in cheery tones 

They murmured this mysterious dirge : 
" Billy Jones broke his bones 
Tumblin' over cherry-stones ! " 

I stopped, for horror chilled my blood. 

My tresses stood on end awhile, 
To hear those urchins in the mud 

Thus chant in such a heartless style. 
" Dear me ! " thought I, " to what a strain 

Of levity these boys give vent ! 
Methinks they should refer with pain 

To such a grievous accident — 
When this same Jones broke his bones, 
By falling over cherry-stones!" 

And so aside these boys I called 

And said in sympathetic tones, 
" I grieve, indeed I am appalled, 

At this sad fate of William Jones. 
Oh, boys! you knew him, it appears— 

Perhaps were wont with him to play ; 
If so, 'twere fitter you shed tears, . 

Tlian in a lively air to say, 
' Billy Jones broke his bones. 
Tumbling over cherry-stones!' 

" His accident that you record 

I trust had not a fatal end ? 
Maybe lie lieth in some ward, 

Where doctors do his hurts attend? 
If so, go visit him ; and oft 

With cheering accents soothe his pain." 
When lo I they shouted " Aint he soft? " 

And taking sights, exclaimed again, 
"Yah ! Billy Jones broke his bones, 
Tumblin' over cherry-stones ! " 



There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his 

place ; 
There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's 

And when, responding to the cheers, lie lightly doffed his hat. 
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands 

with dirt, 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on 

his shirt. 
Then while the New York pitcherground the ball into his hip, 
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through 

the air, 
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. 
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped — 
" That aint my style," said Casey. " Strike one," the umpire 


From the benches, black with people, there went up a muf- 
fled roar, 

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore. 

" Kill him ! Kill the umpire ! " shouted some one on the 

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised 
a hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage 

shone ; 
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on : 
He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew ; 
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, " Strike two." 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo an- 
swered " Fraud ! " 

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles 

And the}[ knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by 

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clinched in 

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. 
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, 
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. 


Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining 

The band is plaving somewhere, and somewhere hearts are 

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children 

shout : 
But there is no joy in Bungtown— mighty Casey has struck 


A CITY TALE.— Alfred H. Milks. 

I heard a story the other day, and I've shaped it into a 

"With the few simple thoughts that occurred to me as I lis- 
tened to it at the time. 

'Tis only a childish incident, but it taught a lesson to me ; 

And you know the greatest of teachers taught with a baby 
upon His knee. 

It happened, you know, in that dingy part at the eastern 

fend of the town. 
Where sickened humanity loses its heart, and nature seems 

always to frown ; 
Where the black smuts fall from the chimneys tall, and the 

engines of toil never rest, 
And it's only in dreams that they think of the beams that 

shine in the golden west. 

Mid the twilight gloom of an upper room, like flowers laid 
out in a row 

Ere the gardener Death bound them into a wreath for the 
Bride of the King, you know. 

Some children were lying and tossing and sighing, and night- 
ly there passed away 

A baby's soul from the world's control to the regions of end- 
less day. 

On one little bed lay an aching head, that heaved to and fro 

on the pillow. 
Like a tiny boat on the waves afloat, when stirred by the 

angry billow ; 
And his shining eyes seem to peer through the skies, just as 

lamps on a good ship's breast 
Seem to look, as they shine through the mist and the brine, 

for a haven of safety and rest. 
He was only a wild, neglected child, a waif in the city grim, 
Whose mother was dead, the nurses said, and whose father 

cared nothing for him ; 


And the pain that he bore, he bore it alone, for no one had 

taught him to pray. 
Though at times in a dream he would say he had seen '" a 

land that was far away." 

And they heard him talking one afternoon (so one of the 

nurses said) 
Of an angel of light who came down in the night, and 

passed at the foot of his bed ; 
And his little voice trembled, his little frame shook, as he 

said in words broken and slow, 
" He goes to the other boys' beds every time, but he never 

comes near little Joe. 

" I wonder, suppose if I turn down the clothes, and watch 

till he comes by-and-by, 
If I beckoned him near, would he come to me here ? " and 

he finished his words with a sigh. 
But a smile came over his pale, wan face at this thought of 

his fancy born. 
And he longed for the night with the feverish might that 

he'd hitherto longed for the dawn. 

The shades of evening deepened fast o'er the city's soot and 

Till there boomed over all, from the bell of St. Paul, the old 

day's funeral chime ; 
And the new day breaking, the good nurse, waking, arose 

with the twilight gray, 
And passed down the room, mid its slackening gloom, to the 

spot where the little boy lay. 

And she started, amazed, and then lingered and gazed, for 
a wondrous sight met her view. 

Which brought tears to her eyes, of joy and surprise, as 
well it might bring them to you : 

A little hand reaching in action beseeching, a figure half 
raised in a bed. 

Two little eyes closing as softly reposing, and all of it stiff- 
ened and dead. 

For the Angel of light had come down in the night, and 

passed up the ward, to and fro. 
Till the beckoning finger had caused him to linger at the 

bedside of poor little Joe ; 
And before he could mutter the prayer he would utter, the 

small silken cord had been riven. 
And the angel had said, as he turned from the bed, "Of 

such is the kingdom of heaven. " 


Oh, mighty the teacher, though infant the preacher, how 
clearly he points to the skies ! 

More than all our fine colleges, systems, and " ologies, " mys- 
tical, learned, and wise. 

Oh, thank God, when we're weary with doubt and with 
theory, and scales seem to cover the sight. 

Still in tiny wee fingers this simple faith lingers, and baby 
hands lead us to light. 

Oh, 'tis strange how we older ones blunder and fight with 

the fancies that get in our way ; 
We bar up the windows while praying for light, draw the 

curtains while crying for day ; 
We sorrow and weep, and we stumble and creep, when 

there's nothing 'twixt us and the joy 
But the shadows we throw on the path of ourselves. Would 

a baby do so with a toy ? 

Oh, you who have asked the Levite's help, who to Jew or 
to priest have cried. 

He never saw a hand upraised and passed on the other side ; 

And He's walking the wards of the hospital still while man- 
kind is groaning in pain. 

And there never was one that e'er beckoned His aid, that 
ever has beckoned in vain. 

Well, I told you 'twas only a childish tale, but it gave me so 
much delight 

That I thought I'd just fashion it into a rhyme, and tell it 
to you to-night. 

Its simple annals of childish faith may well excite sym- 
pathy's tears, 

A.lthoagh there are those in the world, T suppose , who could 
hear of them only with sneers. 

So the hospital surgeon he laughed Ha ! ha ! it seemed such 
a ridiculous thing ; 

But the angels in heaven they shouted a psalm to the 
triumph of Christ the King. 

BESSIE'S FIRST PARTY —Belle Marshall Locke. 

WrWxn expressly far this Collection. 

I'm ready for the party, 

And I'm waiting until Joe 
Shall get the horses harnessed ; 

Oh, he pokes around so slow I 


For be does not understand 

What a flutter I am in ; 
And should I miss the first dance, 

Why, he wouldn't care a pin ! 

Oh, I hope my hair is right, 

And my sleeves must puff out, so ; 
I'm afraid my skirt is short. 

But my mother says ; " Oh, no ! 

"Pray remember you're a child." 

I'm not likely to forget ! 
They always tell me of it. 

And it puts me in a pet. 

I'm sure there's nothing nicer 

And 1 fairly long to be 
A tall girl, with long dresses ; 

Slim and handsome like Sue Lee. 

I'll wear my hair all parted, 

And a crimson velvet stock 
Worn up high, just to my ears. 

Then I'll sit and smile, and talk 

Of the opera, you know {affected drawl), 

And that poem of a gown; 
How Sallie Steam's Dutch bonnet 

Is the talk of all the town. 

But this is my first party, 

And I'm sure you will perceive 
I'll have to wait a long time, 

Ere I practise to deceive. 

Oh, dear, I hope Dick Huntley 

Won't forget the second dance. 
And if he wants the waltzes, 

I will give him the first chance. 

Oh, how my heart is beating ! 

I'll be sure and dance quite right j 
The way some girls go bobbing, 

I am sure it is a sight ! 

While Joe is getting ready, 

I will practise just a bit; 
For my dress is nice and fresh, 

And I do not dare to sit. 


(Music.) First, I take my skirts just so, 

And it's one — no, one, two, three, 
{Right foot out on "one," into position on the word "no," then 
slide three steps to the right, counting.) 
Then I curtsy (saluting right) low to him, 
And he bows, just so (bowing left), to me. 

Or, he takes my hand in his, 
(Waltz.) And we spin round like a top ; 
Very smooth and easy though, 
Being careful not to hop. ( Music stops.) 

Then, when the dance is over, 

He will bring my cape and fan ; 
Dick always thinks of these things, 

Oh, he's quite a gentleman ! 

And the girls all think he's nice, 

Daisy Jones, and all the rest, 
But I've got a note from him. 

Saying he likes me the best. 

Then he took his knife one day. 

And he snipped a little curl 
And put it in his pocket. 

Eight before another girl ! 

And he drew out on his slate. 
Though it's quite againfst the rule, 

My picture, with this writing: 
" Here's the prettiest girl in school I " 

I am sure my face was red. 

But I felt quite happy, too ; 
Though I did not dare look up, 

But kept looking at my shoe. 

If he really thinks it true. 

What he wrote, and all the rest, 
I must look my prettiest. 

And must dance my very best. 

(Music, and introduce any pretty fancy steps through stanza.) 

And it's one, two, three, we'll go. 

While the music plays so sweet, 
Ribbons and laces flying, 

And the soft pit-pat of feet. 


And it's curtsying (salute) low, right here, 
A turn and a curtsy {salute opposite) there ; 

{Music stops.) 

The boys so straight and handsome, 
The girls all rosy and fair. 

Oh, I'm sure a girl's first party 

Is important, you can see, 
Why any one would know that, 

Just by looking now at me. 

Hark ! I hear mamma calling {running up stage): 
" Oh, EEteke haste Bess, you'll be late ! " 
{Runs down stage, throwing kisses.) 

Here are my good-night kisses 
And I will not make Joe wait ! [^Exit, running. 

A MATEIMONIAL MIX.— Robert C. V. Meykrb.* 

[COPYEIOHT, 1896.] 


Harold Mannkbs, who mixes matrimony with hia legal opinion. 

Bob Trueman, who gets mixed in his opinion of matrimony. 

Timothy Wildaib, whose matrimonial felicity is mixed by others. 

Gertrude Manners, who, matrimonially obedient, mixes herself with her hus- 
band's legal opinion. 

Marian Lloyd, who sees so much of a mix in matrimony that she changes her 
opinion concerning it. 

Sarah Wildair, whose matrimonial constancy gets mixed by reason of other 
people's opinion. 

CfOSTUMES: Gertrude, Marian, Manners and Trueman, fashionable morning 
dress, Aunl Sarah wears an old-fashioned black silk gown, a young girl's hat 
with tall sprays of roses in it. Uncle Timolhj/ wears old-fashioned suit, bald 
wig, high hat. 

Scene. — Parlor at Manners's. Entrances, center and right. 
Window, left. Mirror on wall, hack. Table, chairs, etc. Ger- 
trude and Marian seated, conversing. Harold intently viriting 
at table, bach. 

Gertrude. Yes, Marian, that is where you mistake. 
Every woman is not happy though married. 

Marian. At least, you a're. 

Gbr. {laughing.) And you are personal. Let us change 
the subject. 

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landing," ''A Bonnpt for my Wife," "A Dynamite Plot," and other Comfdies, 
Farces, etc., in "lOo Choice Selections Series." The leading peculiarity of Mr. 
Meyers's Dramas lies in their sparkling dialogue, quick action and easy adapta- 
bility to place. For a synopsis of these and other new Plays, included in our 
List, send for Catalogue. 4 


Marian. But I ask for information. 

Ger. You are as bad as Aunt Sarah ; she has asked for 
so much information that the cook threatens to leave, as the 
chambermaid has already done. 

Makian. Ah, there is a happy woman for you. She and 
your Uncle Timothy set an example to anyone thinking of 
matrimony. I don't suppose they ever quarrel. 

Ger. Uncle Timothy is very trying, for all that. In the 
week they have been here he has hardly been in the house 
five minutes at a time. 

Marian. But this information your aunt is seeking? 

Ger. It is about everything ; asks the cook for recipes, 
and puts the answers down in her book ; asked the cham- 
bermaid how many beaux she had, and put the answer 
down in her book. 

Marian. Dear old things ! and how lovable they are 
{rising). You are sure he { pointing to Manners) does not hear? 

Ger. When you are married you will learn how much 
interest a man takes in what his wife says (rising). 

Marian. Then you advise me not to have Mr. Trueman? 

Ger. I advise nothing. I only tell you that marriage is 
a lottery in which most of the prizes are blanks. Come, 
I'll show you ray new hat, it has just arrived. 

Marian. How lovely ! Of course you have roses on it? 
Everybody is wearing roses. 

Ger. Wait till you see it. It is a dream (looking at Man- 
ners) — or a nightmare. {_£lxit, right, vnth Marian. 

Manners {jumping up). To have two women chattering 
when I am in the midst of writing a legal opinion ! And 
Gertrude ought to be ashamed of herself; because we have 
not spoken for a week she advises a girl not to marry. It is 
Gertrude's fault. I insist that a married woman ought to 
be dignified in her dress and above the frivolity of wearing 
a rosebush in her hat, and she goes and orders a hat with 
a whole garden of roses in it. 

Enter Trueman, center. 

Trueman. Well, old man, got through with your opinion ? 

Man. My opinion is— oh, yes, yes. That is, I will finish 
it directly. 

True. I wouldn't disturb you, but I do want to ask ynu 
about a matter of a personal nature. Harold, I've asked 


Miss Lloyd to be my wife. She's to give me her answer to- 
day. Will it be Yes, or No ? 

Man. Married- life is not all a bed ot^ — of— roses. 

True. You're the last man to say that. Why, your 
happiness has become a tradition with your friends. 

Man. Bob, suppose your wife insisted upon making a 
guy of herself, what would you do? 

Tkue. Wouldn't let her. 

Man. Wouldn't you ! She'd do it, all the same. 

Truu. No, she wouldn't. 

Man. I think she would. 

True. I think I ought to know what my wife would do. 

Man. I know what my wife does. I want a woman to 
be dignified, to live up to her husband as it were. There is 
a majesty in married life which — which — 

Tri'e. Hear ! Heai ! 

Man. Well, I told Gertrude not to get roses in her hat. 
She immediately ordered a hat filled with them. What do 
you think of that ? 

True, {laughing.) So that's it! Your wife's young, why 
shouldn't she dress like a young woman? 

Man. I insist that a married woman should be dignified. 
Look at Gertrude's Aunt Sarah, always in black silk or 
satin, and with the most unfrivolous bonnets. 

True. You wouldn't have your wife dress like a woman 
of sixty would you ? Gertrude, to whom you have been 
married but six months. 

Man. You needn't try to shame me. I don't want my 
wife to look like a flirtatious young girl. I require solidity, 
dignity, like that of her Aunt Sarah. 

Enter Aunt Sarah, center. She wears a youthful hat filled unth 
pink roses. 

Aunt Sarah. Morning, gentlemen. You haven't seen 
Timothy, have you. He's ofi' somewhere, imitating you, 
(looking archly at Harold,) in some youthful excess. 

Mas. Aunt Sarah! That hat! . 

Aunt S. You like it ? I ordered it when Gertrude ordered 
hers. Gentlemen, get onto the way that off rose wabbles 
over my left eye {shaking her head to set flowers in motion). 

Man. Then Gertrude is responsible for that hat ! 

[_Exit, center. 


. Aunt S. {note book out.) I'll put it down : Both gentlemen 
admire my hat. 

Truk. Do you think Mr. Wildair will like it? 

Aunt S. Timothy? He admires everything I admire. 

True. That is what I call true inarried happiness. 

Aunt S. We feared we had grown a little too used to 
each other, so we came to see Harold and Gertrude, resolved 
to copy them as much as possible and so keep up the illusion 
of youth a little while longer. 

True. How ideal! Then you advise marriage ? 

Aunt S. A single person is the half of a pair of scissors, 
no good without the other half. 

True. Here is a true woman. I'll go and hurry Marian 
with her answer. [Exit, center. 

AuntS. And so you think my hat why, he's gone! 

(Takes off hat and puts it upon a chair.) I must get Timothy 
a necktie like Mr. Trueman's. I'll make a note of it (lorUing). 

Enter, center, Timothy ; his hat is smashed, his coat in rags. 

Timothy. Sarah ! 

Aunt S. {seeing him falls into chair on hat.) Timothy Wildair, 
you've been in the brokers' stock market with the bulls and 
the bears. What ails you? 

Tim. {crustily.) I'm not aware that anything ails me. 

Aunt S. What have yon been doing? 

Tim. Nothing. I only did as Harold does. I stepped oflf 
a trolley-car while it was in motion. There's nothing the 

Aunt S. Look in the glass. {He goes to glass.) You're en- 
tirely too sprightly. Suppose I should go and smash my 
new hats in that way. 

Tim. I believe my hat is a trifle out of order, and my 
coat has received a wrench. But I'll learn yet. I'll just 
change my coat {going). 

Aunt S. Timothy, my new hat's come home. Why (rising) 
where is it? (Sees it on chair.) Oh! 

Tim. (pom<mj7.) Is that it? Look in the glass. Suppose I 
should smash my new hats in that way (laughing). 

AuntS. It's your fault, you gave me a fright. It's all 
your fault. [&?'/, center. 

T[m. That's quite a young way to talk to an old hus- 
band. " It's all your fault." I haven't heard that since our 
early married life, 


Enter, right, Gertrude and Marian. 

Marian. And you didn't get roses after all, but a real old 
woman's bonnet, simply to please your husband's wiiim. 

Ger. (to Marian, aside.) Hush ! Here is Uncle Timothy 
and he must know nothing. (Aloud.) Why, what ails you, 
Uncle ? 

Tim. (testily.) I don't know that anything ails me. If 1 
choose to be a little out of sorts I don't know why you 
should think that anything ails me. You're as bad as your 
Aunt Sarah. ^Exit, center. 

Gee. Well ! Well ! and that is the man who never disa- 
grees with his wife. 

Marian. His coat looks as if there had been a disagree- 
ment somewhere. 

Ger. Do you mean to imply that Aunt Sarah 

Enter, center. Aunt Sarah with her battered hat. 

Aunt S. Gertrude— Marian— look at this wreck I This 
is the work of Timothy Wildair. [Exit, right. 

Gee. Uncle Timothy do that! 

Marian. And his coat ! 

Ger. No, no, there is some dreadful mistake. I will go 
and see Aunt Sarah. 

Marian. Stop ! And you mean to say your husband in- 
sists that you shall wear a bonnet like that one you have just 
shown me? 

Ger. (impressively.) Marian, when you wish to avenge your- 
self on your husband just follow his advice. [Exit, right. 

Marian. Any husband to force his wife to wear a bonnet 
like that one in her room ! Poor, dear Gertrude ! and Mr. 
Wildair'scoat! and Mrs. Wildair's hat ! Can this be married 

Enter, center, Trueman. 

True. Marian ! 

Marian. Mr. Trueman ! 

True. Why — why — I mean — I mean 

Marian. Let me end your hesitation. I have but one 
answer to give you. I have seen considerable of the 
inside of married life within this last hour. My answer 
to you is, NO. [Exit, center. 

True. She has refused me (walking up and down). What 


is the meaning of this? This is some of Harold Manners's 
work ; he has talked to her as he talked to me, and she has 
listened to him. Eefusedme! me! meI 
Enter, center, Timothy. 

Tim. Harold — ^Harold — oh, is it you, Mr. Trueman? 

True. I don't wonder you did not recognize me — I do not 
recognize myself. I am a refused man, sir ; Marian Lloyd 
has refused me. 

Tim. That's all right. Keep single, if you know when 
you're well off. I am a married man— look at my coat. 

[Exit, center. 

True. He as much as blames his wife for his dilapidated 
condition. "What can he mean ? 

Enter, Gertrude, rigid. 

Ger. Oh, Mr. Trueman, I cannot find my aunt, and I am 
looking for Marian. 

True. I have the honor to inform you that she has just 
refused to be my wife. Good morning! \_Exit, center. 

Ger. I am too late after all. I'm sorry I talked so 
strongly to Marian. But I felt strongly. Do I tell Harold 
what to wear? The idea of his wanting me to wear a bon- 
net like that! Here {at table) is the paper he's buen writing. 
(Picks it up and punches it. Then hugs and hisses it. Enter, 
center. Manners. She throws doijim paper, and comes front.) I 
beg your pardon ; I came here in search of Marian. 

Man. Excuse me, Mrs. Manners, but I wisli to say posi- 
tively that I will not have this house made ridiculous by 
that hat your aunt is wearing to-day. I suppose it is the 
counterpart of one you ordered last week. I wish you 
would tell her 

Ger. I will give my aunt no orders ; I am not her hus- 
band. Make your request to her husband who has just 
crushed her hat beyond recognition. \_Exit, center. 

Man. Crushed it, has he! Then Uncle Timothy is a man 
after my own pattern. (Enter, center, Timothy, still in torn coat 
and hat.) But— what ails you. Uncle Timothy? 

Tim. Harold Manners, I wish it to be distinctly under- 
stood in this house that nothing ails me. I have merely 
had a chat with my wife — I mean, I wish to see you about 
sueing for damages and — but here comes your friend 
(looking off). I will see you another time. [_Exit, center. 


Man. He has had a chat with his wife, and that coat is 
the result, and he smashed her bonnet! I cannot believe it. 
And Aunt Sarah is the woman I wished Gertrude to copy 1 

True. (eiUering.) Manners, I should like a word with you. 

Man. I am in no condition for words. I couldn't throw 
a word to a dog. I— haven't finished my opinion {at table). 

True. But I have finished my opinion— of you. Marian 
Lloyd has refused me, and all on your account. 

Man. (jumping up.) What do you mean? 

True. Did you advise her not to marry, as you did me? 

Man. I have not said a word to her on the subject. 

True. Then forgive me. No, I'm not as unphilosophic 
as I might have been an hour ago — I'm not grieving too 
deeply. For I am forming a pretty clear idea of what mar- 
ried life really is. You have seen Mr. Wildair? 

Man. He has been here asking for advice concerning 
damages for his torn coat. You came in and disturbed him. 

True. I suppose, then, he is about to separate from his 
wife. And this is married life — he has a wife who tears his 
clothing, and you advise your wife as to the kind of hats 
she shall wear. 

Man. But my wife does not take my advice. Had she 
done so none of this would have occurred. For her aunt 
has a hat like the one I objected to and her husband has 
torn it from her head, as was his duty to do. 

True. You would have considered it your duty to do 
likewise had your wife worn such a hat? 

Man. Do not become so personal, if you please. 

True. I must, for I am now glad that Marian has refused 
me. This ends my desire of becoming a married man. 
You have cured me. 

Man. {seated.) Would you mind if I go on with my opin- 
ion {taking up pen) ? 

True. And this is married life 1 What have I escaped! 

[Exit, center. 

Man. {throwing down pen and walking up and down.) I can- 
not collect my thoughts. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Timothy 
to quarrel! -Gertrude is responsible for it all. Uncle Timo- 
thy was right to tear that hideous construction from his 
wife's head. If Gertrude ever presumes to wear a hat with 
such ridiculous trimming on it— I— I — I don't know what I 
should do. 


Aunt S. {entering, excitedly.) Harold Manners, you have 
ruined my happiness. If Timothy had not attempted to 
copy some of your foolish habits none of this would have 
happened. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. [Srii, center, 

M.4N. Uncle Timothy copy me ! Does she mean to say 
that I tear off Gertrude's hats? Gertrude never could have 
told her that. And yet what do I know what an angry 
woman is capable of? No, no, she couldn't have said it. 

Ger. {entering, aside.) I can't bear to be separated from him. 
{Aloud.) Excuse me, I do not wish to intrude upon your 
privacy. I thought Aunt Sarah was here. I wish to repair 
her hat. 

Man. The hat she ordered when you ordered yours— the 
hat her husband sensibly tore from her head— the hat that 
caused her husband to ask my advice concerning legal dam- 
ages because of the treatmenthe had received at her hands? 

Ger. I do not see how I am responsible. She seems to 
blame you. 

Man. She has told me as much. She infers that I tear 
your hats from your head. 

Ger. I have not told her so. She is at liberty to infer 
what she pleases. But let this not be forgotten,— that she 
is the lady you wished me to copy, {very sarcastically) so 
staid, with so much dignity. 

Man. Pardon me ! I refuse to re-open the discussion. 

{_l!!xit, center. 

Ger. That was a Eoland for his Oliver — he did wish me 
to copy Aunt Sarah, even to her bonnets. And he blames 
me now. I'll show him {at table). Here is his dear writing. 
Here is his wise legal opinion. What a brain he has, dear 
old fellow. Let me see if I can understand anything learned. 
{Reads.) "I find on comparing the testimony of the wit- 
nesses for the defense that every woman is not happy 
though married, and that you are as bad as Aunt Sarah, and 
Uncle Timothy is very trying, when you are married you 
will learn how much interest a man takes in what his wife 
says, come I'll show you my new hat." This a legal opinion. 
The dear fellow loves me and has copied every 'word I said 
when I talked here with Marian about Mr. Trueman. {Head 
on table, weeping.) 

Enter, center, limothy, in new coat and hat. 


Tim. Harold, I'll have damages at once, I tell you I'll 
have damages. I'll— oh, is that you, Gertrude? Where 
is Harold ? 

Gee. I don't know and I don't care. 

Tim. I wish to tell him what I am about to do. 

Gee. I don't care what you wish to tell him. Booh ! 
Booh ! [_Exit, right, slamming door. 

Tim. She said Booh I to me. Twice she said it. I did 
not think she could say Booh 1 to a goose. And she my 
favorite niece, too ! 

Enter, center, Aunt Sarah and Marian. 

Aunt S. Where is he ? oh, there you are, Timothy. 

Maeian. Mrs. Wildair, pray be calm. 

Aunt S. (excitedly.) I never was calmer in my life. So, 
Timothy, you are going to claim damages, are you 7 

Maeian. Mrs. Wildair — - 

AuNi S. I never was calmer in all my life. Timothy Wil- 
dair, I wish to tell you 

Tim. Sarah, I've heard enough. Gertrude has just been' 
here and acting oddly ; what have you been telling her ? 

Aunt S. What have you been telling everybody in this 
house 7 That you intend to have damages. 

Tim. What has she told you. Miss Lloyd ? 

Maeian. I believe she implied that you had torn oflf her 
bonnet, or something of that sort. 

Aunt S. I did not. I never imply things, I come straight 
out. But he tells everybody he is going to claim damages 
of me for tearing his coat. 

Tim. I never did. I came here to ask Harold 

Aunt S. How to go about getting the damages. I under- 
stand you. I shall see a lawyer, too. ^Exit, right. 

Maeian. Oh, Mr. Wildair, this is terrible. 

Tim. It is worse — it is married life. [^ExU, center. 

Marian. This is too horrible for words. 

Teue. (entering.) Miss Lloyd ! 

Maeian. I hope you will not persist in asking me to be 
your wife. 

True. Perhaps I ought to thank you for refusing me. 
I have seen in this house the rattling skeletons of married 
life, and I am satisfied to remain single. 


Marian. On the strengtli of which satisfaction you in- 
sult a lady. 

True. Am I not corroborating what you said to me ? 

Marian. Mr. Trueman, you are ignorant of one thing, — 
that to corroborate what a woman has said is sometimes 
not the greatest compliment you can pay her. [^Exit, center. 

True. There's dignity for you ! Why couldn't Manners 
get his wife -to copy lier if he wants dignity {going to table) 7 
Confound it, she's the only woman I ever cared for. 

Enter, Aunt Sarah with the hat on. 

Aunt S. {drawing on gloves.) I'll show him. He'll have 
damages will he ? I'll show him. Beg pardon, young man, 
but I am a trifle excited. 

True. Don't mind me. I'll just look at Harold's legal 

Aunt S. Legal opinion ! A man cannot have a legal opin- 
ion—all his opinions are illegal. 

True, {laughing.) Here is the funniest Ihing. Listen to 

Aunt S. I am beyond listening to anything. 

True. Harold has lost his senses. 

Aunt S. He's a man, what else could you expect ? {Enter 
center, Manners.) Harold, have you given Timothy any ad- 
vice as to damages? I want your advice as to alimony. 

Man. Aunt Sarah, I am utterly miserable, and for good- 
ness sake, take off that hat. It reminds me of Gertrude. 

Aunt S. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your 
wife is the dearest girl in the world. If I had half her 
sense [handkerchief to her eyes) 

True, {laughing.) Harold, such a joke on youi 

Man. I am in no mood for jokes {going to window, left). 

True. Neither am I, but {laughing) 

Marian {entering). Oh, Mrs. Wildair, every little quarrel 
should not carry these awful results. 

Aunt S. I tell you 

Marian. No. no {going apart with Aunt Sarah, right). 

True. There's wisdom for you! That girl is a paragon of 
all that's sensible. 

Man. {at window.) Something is the matter {running off, 

True, (going to window.) Great Csesar {running off, center). 


Marian. What can it be ? 

Aunt S. Nothing. I know men — I'm a married woman. 
They only wanted to get out of low-spirited company. 

No, Marian, I shall never forgive Timothy and well, I 

might as well see if anything is the matter in the street. 
Marian. But, Mrs. Wildair, your husband loves you. 
Aunt S. I will never forgive him {looking out mndow). 
Oh ! {screaming) It's Timothy ! {Sinks into chair.) 
Marian (calling). Gertrude! Gertrude! 

Enter, Oertrude,^nght, in her hand a very plain bonnet. 
Geh. What is it? What is it? {Runs to vjindovj.) Oh, it 
is Harold ! he is injured ! {Runs center, when enter, center. Man- 
ners and Trueman, supporting Timothy, who is torn and battered 
and without a hat.) 
Ger. Harold, Harold, where are you hurt ? 
Aunt 8. Timothy, are you dead? Answer me at once. 
Tim. Sarah, I have had damages. I meant to claim them 
from the railroad for letting me jump without stopping the 
car, but you and I got into a quarrel and I lost my head 
and went down and attacked the first car-conductor that 
came along. Behold the damages { going front)\ 

Aunt S. [going to him.) It was my fault, I should not have 
angered you. 

Man. It is my fault ; I inferred that the damages were 
for the torn coat — the other torn coat. 
Tim. They were. I got that coat jumping off a car. 
Aunt S. He got it imitating you in jumping off the car 
while it was in motion. He came liere in a pickle, and I 
was so agitated I sat down on my new hat. 
True. Then you did not tear his coat? 
Aunt 9. I ? What do you mean ? 

Marian. And "he did not tear your hat from your head? 
Tim. {indignantly.) I tear off her hat? Why she got it to 
please me. 

Aunt S. We're trying to get up the illusion of youth. 
It's a copy of the hat ordered by Gertrude. 

Ger. But my order was countermanded. I got this one 
{holding up bonnet) afterward to please my husband. Harold, 
I've been a dunce, your legal opinion there has proved it. 

Man. Madam 

Geh. [at table, reading.) " I find on comparing the testi- 


mony of the witnesses for the defense that every woman is 
not happy though married, and that you are as bad as 
Aunt Sarah, and Uncle Timothy is very trying, and when 
you are married you will learn how much interest a man 
takes in what his wife says, come I'll show you my new hat." 

Man. I wrote that? Never. 

Gee. You unconsciously wrote down what I said to 
Marian in this room when I advised her not to marry. You 
iove me still. 

Man. I — I wasn't minding my [business when I wrote 
that, I was minding your hat. 

Gek. I never got the hat. I got this bonnet. (Puti on 
bonnet at glass and turns around). 

Man. Take that thing off. 

Gee. You told me to get a bonnet with dignity in it. 

Man. Take it off {going to her, and taking it off). 

Aunt S. [taking off hat and holding it to Manners.) This is 
more suitable for her, hers for me. For dignity comes with 
age, never from a husband's advice. (Manners puts the hat 
on his wife, Aunt Sarah puts on the bonnet.) 

Man. I have been a fool. 

Tim. No, I have been — in copying your foolishness. 

Aunt S. {joining Marian's and Trueman's hands.) You copy 
the dictates of your hearts and keep from being fools. 
{Front, center.) The truth is there is no fool like an old fool, 
when you reach my age you will know all about it. I was 
a fool to think that a girlish hat would help me to keep up 
the illusion of youth. Youth is in the heart, not on the 
head — the heart is never old so long as it holds love. And 
you, ladies (to audience), take the advice of an old woman ; 
when your husband insists upon your doing a thing you 
know to be ridiculous always obey him. The results ofthat 
obedience will teach him that geese are not confined to the 
female sex, and that in this world it is as much as any man 
can do to mind his own business. 

Bight, Marian and Trueman. Left, Manners and Gertrude. 
Center, Timothy and Aunt Sarah. 




Remember, Dennis, all I bade you say ; 

Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord; 
But of our troubles, since he went away, 

You'll mind, avick, and never say a word. 
Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share — 
The finest summer isn't always fair. 

Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May — 
She died, poor thing, but that you needn't mind. 

Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; 
But tell him God to us was ever kind. 

And when the fever spread the country o'er, 

His mercy kept the sickness from our door. 

Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came 
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn. 

'Twould be as well to mention them by name, — 
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe and Sammy Carn, 

And big Tim Daley, from behind the hill ; 

And say, agra, oh ! say I miss him still. 

They came with ready hands our toil to share; 

'Twas then I missed him most, my own right hand. 
I felt, although kind hearts were round me there. 

The kindest heart beat in a foreign land. 
Strong hand ! Brave heart ! One severed far from me 
By many a weary league of shore and sea. 

And tell him she was with us — he'll know who ! 

Mavourneen, hasn't she the winsome eyes ? 
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue 

I ever saw except in summer skies ! 
And such black hair 1 It is the blackest hair 
That ever rippled over neck so fair. 

Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day 
And moped, poor dog ! 'Twas well he didn't die. 

Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way 
And sniflFed the travelers as they passed him by. 

Hail, rain or sunshine, sure 'twas all the same — 

He listened for the foot that never came. 

Tell him the house is lonesome like and cold ; 

The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ; 
But may be 'tis my eyes are growing old. 

And things look dim before my failing sight. 


For all that tell him 'twas myself that spun 

The shirts you bring and stitched them every one. 

Give him my blessing, morning, noon and night; 

Tell him my prayers are offered for his good, 
That he may keep his Maker still in sight, 

And firmly stand, as his brave father stood, 
True to his name, his country, and his God ; 
Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad. 

MID THE BREAKERS.— Ernest Aye-Williams. 

" A ship, " they cry, "on the Millhead Rock ! 

She's struck — she's breaking — we heard the shock!" 

This was the cry of a surging crowd, 

Who strained their eyes and cried aloud, 

Till down to the beach a young man came. 

He saw the ship, and his heart aflame 

At the sight was set— she had stuck there fast, 

And signals shot from her shattered mast. 

Just in hail of where they stood 

Was the fated ship, and amid the flood 

That rolled and tossed on the sandy shore 

Came bits of wreckage, and through the roar 

Came, hoarsely calling, the voice of man. 

The young man gave the bay a scan : 

"Give me a rope ! " did he loudly cry, 

" I'll rescue some of them there or die ! 

It's useless arguing now," he said. 

As he flung the noose o'er his arms and head, 

" While we are arguing, they may die ; 

Keep tight to the land end ! Now, good-bye! 

Those were the only words he said. 

The murmuring crowd said, " Good as dead. " 

But into the breakers he strode that night, 

The breakers tossing with angry might. 

"See where he goes: there, under the wave^ 

He is up again ! Pray God to save 

The life of a lad so nobly brave. 

Heavens I He sinks 'neath another wave ! 

He rises ! He rises ! It calms our fear. " 

A stroke now brings him the wreck more near. 

" God save you, Willie, you brave, brave boy ! 

He's saved I He's saved ! " cry the crowd with joy. 


" He's reached the side of the battered wreck, 

And bears the rope to the crowded decK." 

They see how quickly he ties it fast 

To the shattered wreck of the mizzen-mast; 

And all the women and youngest born 

Across the rope to the shore are drawn ; 

And last of all comes Willie back. 

He's in the middle ; the rope goes slack. 

And then, as the vessel falls apart, 

It strains and sunders, and that brave heart 

Is launched again in the seething wave. 

" I am the man his life to save ! " — 

Thus spoke the captain he'd sent ashore 

Before he'd come ; and then once more 

Into the jaws of death went he 

To bring our Willie from out the sea. 

Look how they tussle, those two brave men! 

" They're meeting — I see them — when, oh, when 

Will those two hands meet ? Oh, God on high ! 

You never can let these two men die ! 

Yes ; see them there — they have met ! There's hope 5 

Come, brothers, form theiu a living rope. 

Hand-to-hand. Here, come with me— 

We'll save them yet from the surging sea! 

' Give ' just a little— a foot, boys — more. 

I've got' them ! Now for the shore, the shore ! " 

They're ashore, thank God ! and a cheer goes round 

That ever amongst those rocks will sound, — 

Sound in praise of men like these. 

Who risk their lives in the surging seas. 

AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS.-Geace Dinkelspiel. 

Just now there pass before me, as in a looking-glass, 
glimpses of many a happy — ay, many a sorrowful 
scone. Come, look with me upon some of these pleas- 
ing reflections. 

Ah, here she is. Little Susie O'Kyan, a-swinging her 
pail, and a-singing " The Shamrock " with all her gay 
young lieart. Down goes the pail, as she cries " Patsy ! 
Patsy I have ye's coom at lasht ? " 


But who is this that comes upon us next ? La petite 
Celeste, the charming French coquette, as she trips 
along the Rue Mabille in her dainty high-heeled shoes. 
"I drop ze kerchief! Will not ze gallant beau reach it 
for me ? Oui ! Oui ! ze charming boy will do it." 

In marked contrast to the laughing Celeste there 
appears the image of a young and accomplished English 
girl, about to be wrongly beheaded. Calm and stately 
she approaches, but before placing her head on the 
, block, she turns to a statue of Freedom near by, ex- 
claiming, " Oh, Liberty, how many crimes are committed 
in thy name ! " 

Following this gloomy scene, whom do I see but a 
Scotch lassie, " comin' thro' the rye." 

"They say I ha' no laddie, 

But there's one amang the train 
Who, in spite n' a' their gossip, 

Has aslced me to be his ain." 

There is sweet-faced Gretchen comforting her little 
sister, though there are tears in her own eyes. " The 
fader has gone far avay over the seas, mine leedle Lo- 
weeza. Und if you vas a goot girl, some day ve see him 
oop in yonder sky, und de angels singin' 9II aroiint." 

Quickly the ever-changing scenes transport me to 
sunny Italy. Bettina is there, in all the delights of 
adorning herself for the village ball. " Oh, da dressa ! 
Si granda ! si granda ! And yes, I willa put on da 
brooch. Lorenzo lika dat. Oh, dashoesal So! So! 
t willa dance with Lorenzo." 

Cleota Linda Mary Jane Susan Rosalind White now 
rises up before me, in all the glory of, her black tresses 
and I hear her exclaim, " Heah, you Gawge Washinton 
Thomas Jefison Persimmons Henry Clay, come right 
away from dat poah white trash, d'ye hear ? Doan you 
know dey'll lick all de lasses offyoah bread?" 

But I love this next scene best. Not, as in a looking- 
glass, but as engraved on my heart, do I think of it. 

Look ! There are thousands of young men and 
women, with ambition imprinted on each countenance, 
all wearing our nation's colors. Far, far, above them 



are four golden stars glittering and sparkling in the 
sunlight, four enticing stars, Honor, Glory, Fame and 
Riches. Each of the striving mortals below carries a 
ladder long enough to reach the coveted treasures, but 
there is nothing in view upon which to rest it. Discour- 
aged, and exhausted from supporting these ladders, they 
are about to let them drop, when there looms up above 
them an animated statue of the Republic, — our nation 
personified. Instantly every ladder rests upon her 
form, full strong enough, full grand enough to bear the 
weight of all. And as her benign face smiles down on 
the multitudes, that, by her powerful aid, are now 
reaching their destinations, she says to them, what I 
would say to you, " Thank God you are Americans, for 
America is but another name for opportunity." 


The following;, from the Macnn, Georgia, Telegraph, contains a moral which is 
too good to be lost, and is fully as applicable to other localities as to that which 
is here described. 

I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones, 
Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones ; 
And he lived pretty much by gettin' of loans; 
And his mules were nothin' but skin and bones ; 
And his hogs were flat as his corn-bread pones ; 
And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land. 

ThiB man — which his name it was also Jones — 

He swore that he'd leave them old red hills and stones ; 

For he couldn't make nothin' but yellerish cotton. 

And little o' that; and his fences were rotten ; 

And what little corn he had, hit was boughten ; 

And he couldn't git a livin' from the land. 

And the longer he swore the madder he got ; 
And he riz, and he walked to the stable lot ; 
And he hollered to Tom to come down and hitch. 
For to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich ; 
And to quit raisin' cock-burs, thistles, and sich, 
And a-wastin' their time on barren land. 


So him and Tom they hitched up the mules, 
Pertestin' that folks were mightj' big fools 
That 'ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out, 
Jest scratchin' a livin', when all of 'em mought 
Git places in Texas whar cotton would sprout 
By the time you could plant it in the land. 

And he driv by a house whar a man named Brown 
Was a-livin', not far from the edge o' the town, 
And he bantered Brown for to buy his place. 
And said, that, seein' that money was skace. 
And bein' as sheriffs were hard to face, 
Two dollars an acre would git the land. 

They closed at a dollar and fifty cents ; 

And Jones he bought him a wagon and tents. 

And loaded his corn and his women and truck, 

And moved to Texas, which it tuck 

His entire pile, with the best of luck. 

To git thar and git him a little land. 

But Brown moved out on the old Jones farm ; 
And he rolled up his breeches, and bared his arm ; 
And he worked from dawn till the sun went down. 
And he picked all the rocks from oft'ii the groun. 
And he rooted it up, and ploughed it down, 
And sowed his corn and wheat in the land. 

Five years glide by ; and Brown one day 

(Which he'd got so fat that he wouldn't weigh) 

Was a-settin' down, sorter lazily, 

To the bulliest dinner you ever see. 

When one o' the children jumped on his knee. 

An' says, " Yan's Jones, which you bought his land." 

And thar was Jones, standin' out at the fence ; 
And he hadn't no wagon nor mules nor tents; 
For he had left Texas afoot, and come 
To Georgy to see if he couldn't git some 
Employment ; and he was looking as hum- 
Ble as ef he had never owned any land. 

But Brown he axed him in ; and he sot 

Him down to his victuals smok'n' hot; 

And, when he had filled himself and the floor, 

Brown looked at him sharp, and riz and swore 

That," whether men's land was rich or poor, 

Thar was more in the man than thar was in the land. " 


A SERMON IN FLOWERS.— Addik F. Davis. 

Just beyond this field of clover, in a pasture rough and 
Where the golden-rod and thistles and the trailing wood- 
bine grow, 
There, one day, I heard this sermon, most pathetically 
Yet so fraught with truth and wisdom that it set my 
heart aglow: 

" I am just a little flower, — just the plainest, wildest flower. 
Growing here upon a rock, with very little soil or shade; 
I am stunted, pale and crooked, — quite unlike my brothers 
With their tall, green stalks and yellow plumes that never 
droop nor fade. 

" But I care not ; He who planted knew just how much soil 
and sunshine. 
How much rain and wind were needful to unfold the flow- 
er he planted. 
So he gave them, and I grew, to tell my story with its lesson ; 
What am I, that I should murmur at his wise and just 
command ? 

" Quite enough for me to know that I am just as He de- 
signed me ; 
So I never lose my joy in sighs for what I might have 
been ; 
God looks down in love and mercy — I look up in perfect 
And I love the earth and air, the pain as well as joy 
therein. " 

Man may sing a song most sweetly, which his inmost soul 
despises ; 
He may preach a sermon boldly, which his heart has 
never known ; 
All have sinned— and this sad knowledge makes us loth to 
look for guidance 
To ourselves or to our brothers — and we cannot walk alone. 

But a bird can trill a message, or a thunder-burst proclaim it. 
Far beyond the faintest shade of doubt, with meaning, 
full and broad ; 
And the modest little wild flowers, though we crush them 
with our footsteps, 
Bruised and dying, preach their sermon, and we know it 
eomes from God, 


WATER.— Eliza Cook. 

Wine, wine, thy power and praise 

Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays; 

But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim 

To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. 

Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school 

May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool ; 

Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn 

How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn. 

Should you ever be one of a fainting band, 
With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand 
I would wager the thing I'm most loth to spare, 
That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there. 
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell 
What treasures exist in the cold, deep well; 
Sink in despair on the red, parched earth, 
And then you may reckon what water is worth. 

Famine is laying her hand of bone 
On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone ; 
The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past, 
But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. 
The stoutest one of the gallant crew 
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; 
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye; 
And, " Water, O God ! " is the only cry. 

There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead, 
No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : 
The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant, 
Are mournfully telling the boon we want. 
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold. 
How soon we find it is better than gold ; 
And water, I say, hath a right to claim 
The minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame. 

A "FLAT" CONTRADICTION.— S. Jennie Smith. 

By permigBion of the Author. 

You say yer afther wantin', ma'am, 

A jan'tor for yer flat ; 
The howly saints presarve us all I 

I couldn't think av that. 


The very dures is hanted, ma'am, 

And all the fixing too. 
To stip agin ferninst 'em now 

Isphat 1 wouldn't do. 

And why they carl em flats, good ma'am, 

I ralely can't make out; 
For tarl's I'm sure a betther name, 

Widout a mite av doubt. 

I went down to the flats last wake 

Some w«rruk lookin' for, 
I pushed the little button bell 

As I'd seen Patsy More. 

It scramed roight out into me face 

And axed me to come in. 
I scarce think that I'll iver have 

A spick ay sinse agin. 

And there that blissed minute, ma'am, 

The dure flew open wide. 
And not a livin' sowl was near — 

I thought I wad have died. 

I hurried to the nixt dure, ma'am, 

A not belavin' that 
Was likely to be hanted too, 

Though nixt the hanted flat. 

And now wad you belave it, ma'am, 

The spooks was in there too ? 
The dure come open with a bang 

And not a wan in view. 

I tried thim flats down to the last 

And found 'em hanted sure ; 
The ghosts kipt scrachin' thiough the bells 

And open flew the dure. 

Phat's that you are a-sayin' ma'am ? 

The paple up the stairs 
Kin make the dures come open now? 

It's done most onyiuheres f 

Sure though I moight be ignorint 

And not know much of books, 
You cannot fool me mother's choild; 

I'm shmarter thin I looks. 


And whin yer'll box me Mikey's ears, 
What's loafin' down the strate, 

And give him a rare batin' now 
And niver lave yer sate, 

Thin I'll belave phat you have said 
About the bells and dure, 

And how the folks kin manage thim 
Up on the toppest flure. 


My first lesson on the wheel was very tame. I went 
to an academy, where a gentle young man told me many 
solid facts and trotted softly by my side about the arena, 
while I slid about in the saddle and the bicycle wabbled 
to and fro. I didn't fall down, because the young man 
wouldn't let me. He knew a great deal about bicycling 
and how to do it, and he poured forth a constant stream 
of information which almost lulled me to sleep. In fact, 
the monotonous tones of his voice and the continuous 
circular going induced a species of coma in which the fly- 
ing figures of another young man and a young woman 
passing in swift circles took on such a resemblance to 
that hapless pair, Francesca da Eimini and her lover, 
that I asked my guide in startled amazement : 

" Did Paola chew gum ? " 

In his turn my instructor was dazed and I slipped 
from the wheel, meekly paid my fee and walked out. 
I had learned to mount from the left side of the wheel, 
to turn the handlebar in the direction I tipped, but so 
firmly had that faithful youth held me up that I had 
never tipped, and that I must pedal faithfully in the 
hope of " getting there." 

That evening I was among a company of bicyclers 
and covered with shame and confusion. Every man 
and woman had not only kissed the dust, in token of de- 
votion to the wheel, but had bitten the stones. Those 


who had learned in the academy had ridden full tilt in- 
to stacks of chairs and had brought them down, to the 
consternation of the onlookers, and been extricated by 
dint of great effort, or had so shaped their course 
as to overthrow at least two or three of their fel- 
low-students and then gayly ambled into a knot of 
spectators. I had no such tales to relate, not a single con- 
tusion upon my person. Very properly I was suffered 
to flock by myself while the heroes of the hour spoke 
feelingly of thirty, fin;y, ay ! even eighty black and blue 
spots. I didn't believe them — then. 

Then I hired a wheel and a boy to put me back when 
I fell off", but on no account was he to do more. The 
boy and wheel met me in a retired spot. He was a boy 
of good muscular development and he held the machine 
firmly when I climbed into the saddle. 

"Wouldn't like me to steady it a bit?" he asked 

" Thanks, no," I returned, and with one revolution of 
the pedals I was off. 

That expression may be interpreted as the reader 
chooses. The boy, however, was equal to the situation, 
and did not feel hurt by my refusal. In fact, I think I 
was more hurt than he at the way things turned out. 
Any way, in a few minutes I said to him : '' You may 
hold the wheel steadily until I get started, please." 

He did his part beautifully, and I felt the bliss of fly- 
ing for a moment or two, then a tree at quite a distance 
started to meet me half way. It met me. I abandoned all 
connection with the bicycle to embrace the opportunity. 
I didn't miss it, but met it full in the face — in my face. 
I answered the boy feebly that it didnt hurt so much 
now, and he said cheerily that the wheel was all right. 
When I opened my eyes the tree seemed quite a distance 
off! It was an elm. I never liked elms, any way ; they 
are so regular in formation — but that was an irregular 
proceeding. The boy seemed inclined to manage alTairs 
after this and suggested that he would ride the wheel a 


little bit and see if it worked right. T had hardly as- 
sented to this when he went like a streak fairly out of 
sight. That roused me. What did he mean by acting 
like that ? I wanted to ride, I'd have him know. Before 
I had really worked myself into a rage he came back, 
riding easily, with hi3 hands in his pockets. It struck 
me as an insolent attitude, but the boy was good nature 

" Let me show you a few points," he said. But my 
pride was roused, and I refused. 

I mounted again, and by good luck went wavering 
along to a turn in the road. I heard a clattering grocery 
wagon behind me at this point, and, without premedita- 
tion, sat down in the road to wait for it, holding the wheel 
down to prevent it from getting away. The grocery boy 
didn't understand ray intentions, and called : 

" Hi, there ! get a move on you." 

" I have as much on me as I can bear now," I muttered, 
and sullenly awaited my boy's appearance. 

He, meanwhile, rebuked the grocer's lad in well-chosen 
terms, while he lifted up the wheel. He called it a 
daisy when he brought it, saying " she only weighs 
twenty-two pounds," but in my inmost heart I believe it 
to be a sixty-pounder. When I had once more resumed 
the perpendicular, I said with a well-feigned air of care- 
less ease : 

" I think that will do for to-day. You can bring the 
wheel to-morrow at the same time." 

The boy asked me if I would ride home. I scanned 
his freckled and ingenuous countenance to see if any 
malice lurked in the question before I replied that I pre- 
ferred to walk. 

" Then I'll ride," he answered, and turning again to 
look at me he said with frank kindness : 

" I'd use brown paper and vinegar on my forehead if 
1 was you ; that bump'll look awful to-morrow." 

There were twenty-nine bruises on my body that 
night, by actual count. 



Long on Golconda's shore a diamond lay, 
Neglected, rough, concealed in common clay; 
By every passer-by despised and scorned, 
The latent jewel thus in secret mourned : 
" Why am I thus to sordid earth coniined? 
Why scorned and trod upon by every kind? 
Were these bright qualities, this glittering hue 
And dazzling lustre, never meant for view ? 
Wrapped in etwnal shade if I remain, 
These shining virtues were bestowed in vain." 

As thus the long-neglected gem displayed 
Its worth and wrong, a skillful artist strayed 
By chance that way, and saw, with curious eye, 
Though much obscured, the unvalued treasure lie. 
He ground with care, he polished it with art 
And called forth all its rays from every part; 
And now young beauty's neck ordained to grace, 
It adds new charms to beauty's fairest face. 

The mind of man, neglected and untaught. 
Is this rough diamond in the mine unwrought ; 
Till Education lends her art, unknown 
The brightest talents lie, a common stone ; 
By her fair hand when fashioned, the new mind 
Eises with lustre, polished and refined. 

— Boston Transcript, 


My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed. 
My curtains drawn, and all is snug ; 
Old puss is in her elbow-chair, 
And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream : 
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

She looked so fair, she sang so well, 
I could but woo and she was won; 
Myself in blue, the bride in white, 
The ring was placed, the deed was done I 



Away we went in chaise-and-four, 
As fast as grinning boys could flog— 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

What loving tete-a-tetes to come I 
But tete-a-tetes must still defer ! 
When Susan came to live with me, 
Her mother came to live with her ! 
With sister Belle she couldn't part, 
But all my ties had leave to jog— 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll, 

A monkey too — what work he made? 

The sister introduced a beau ; 

My Susan brought a favorite maid. 

She had a tabby of her own, 

A snappish mongrel, christened Gog— 

What d'j'e think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The monkey bit, the parrot screamed, 
All day the sister strummed and sung; 
The petted maid was such a scold ! 
My Susan learn'd to use her tongue. 
Her mother bad such wretched health, 
She sat and croaked like any frog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

No longer deary, duck, and love, 
I soon came down to simple " M ! " 
The very servants crossed ray wish, 
My Susan let me down to them. 
The poker hardly seemed my own, 
I might as well have been a log — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

My clothes they were the queerest shape, 
Such coats and hats she never met! 
My ways they were the oddest ways ! 
My friends were such a vulgar set ! 
PoorTompkinson was snubbed and huffed- 
She could not bear that Mister Blogg — 


What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

At times we had a spar, and then 
Mamma must mingle in the song, 
The sister took a sister's part, 
The maid declared her master wrong. 
The parrot learned to call me " Fooll 
My life was like a London fog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

My Susan's taste was superfine, 

As proved by bills that had no end— 

J never had a decent coat, 

J never had a coin to spend ! 

She forced me to resign my club. 

Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog— 

What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Each Sunday night we gave a rout 
To fops and flirts, a pretty list ; 
And when I tried to steal away 
I found my study full of whist ! 
Then first to come and last to go. 
There always was a Captain Hogg— 
What d'ye think of that, my cat 7 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Now was not that an awful dream 
For one who single is and snug, 
With pussy in the elbow-chair 
And Tray reposing on the rug? 
If I must totter down the hill, 
'Tis safest done without a clog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 


From the German. 

When our Saviour, bending beneath the weight of his 
cross, sought to obtain a few moments of repose on the 
door-steps of Salathiel, the Jew, that barbarous man, 
with insulting language, drove him away, who, struggling 


to continue his journej', became overpowered by the 
weight of his cross, faltered, and fell to the earth ; yet, 
without uttering a groan, he arose again and went on 
his way. The Saviour of the world, condemned to death 
by man, and made to carry the instrument of his torture 
on his back, was a sight which should have paled the cheek 
of his persecutors ; but they reviled — they mocked him! 

The avenging angel appeared before Salathiel, and 
said : " Thou hast refused a resting-place to the Son of 
man. Cruel wretch ! All rest on earth shall be refused 
to thee in return. A dark demon let loose from hell for 
the purpose, shall drive thee from clime to clime. Sala- 
thiel, even the hope of death, and the repose of the tomb, 
from thee shall be withheld." These words were hissed 
into the ear of the Jew, and he felj upon the earth as if 
he had been struck by lightning. 

Nearly two thousand years passed away ; yet Sala- 
thiel was still pursued by a demon over the whole face 
of the earth. One day he arrived near the cavern of 
Mount Carmel, and shaking the dust from his long beard, 
he took a skull from a heap of human bones that were 
piled up near him, and threw it from the mountain ; it 
rolled and bounded, and striking against the rocks below 
was shivered to pieces. 

" It was my father's," said Salathiel. 

" My parents, my friends and acquaintances, my wife 
and my children all perished. Ah ! they could die ; but I, 
the doomed, cannot die. The judgment of heaven frowns 
over my head — my guilty head — and life, which to all 
else is a blessing, to me is a curse." 

" Jerusalem fell by the Roman power ; fire consumed 
the city ; palaces crumbled to the ground, and the temples 
were as torches to the maddened soldiery ; men, women 
and children were butchered ; all, all, but me alone. I 
courted every danger, defied legions of Romans ; I rushed 
upon their spears, but an invisible hand warded their 
points from me — and I was their conqueror instead of 
their victim. 


" Rome in her turn tottered, to fall. I rushed to her, 
that I might be buried beneath her ruins. The Colossus 
■was broken and prostrated, but it could not crush me, 
though the wise and the great, the good and the power- 
ful, were all destroyed with her. 

" Nations, empires and kingdoms rose and fell before 
me : I alone remained alive. Pestilence swept over the 
land : I snuffed up the tainted breath of the dying, and 
hugged the dead in my arms. That which was death to 
all, to me was a nlrcotic. I slept in the charnel house, 
and awoke refreshed. Death passed me in dread. 

" An avalanche fell though the air, and swept me in- 
to the sea. I thought Death had pitied me, and I 
laughed as I was carried into the foamy waters ; but the 
surges threw me back again on the shore, and the poison- 
ous cup of human existence was put again, in all its 
bitterness, to my lips. 

"I went to the edge of the crater of Etna, and sprang 
into its profound abyss, and, howling with madness and 
despair, fell into the burning lava ; but the mountain 
would not grant me an asylum in the midst of its con- 
suming bosom : it threw me up again upon this sinful 
earth ; and though the flames of the eruption set fire to 
whole districts of country, though the highest spires 
of the greatest cities disappeared beneath the liquid lava, 
before me the flame and the lava stayed their work of 
destruction. A forest caught the flames, — in the midst 
of delirium and distraction, I rushed among the burning 
trees. Hot rosin fell, drop by drop, upon my scorching 
limbs ; the fire raged around me ; the heat dried my bones, 
and the flames tortured me with their hissing fury. Death 
brandished his scythe over me : I bent my head to receive 
the blow, but at that moment he caught my fixed gaze, 
and fled to destroy the good and the happy. Death was 
no longer the conqueror — he feared me. 

" I joined the standards of the mighty warriors of 
the earth, — the desolators of the land; the conquering 
heroes, the mighty butchers of the human race, — and 


followed them in all their wars. I sought the thickest of 
the fight, where blood flowed in rivers, where men were 
swept away like dry sand before the hurricane, where 
destruction piled hundreds upon hundreds ; yet I was 
left alone 1 I braved the Gaul and the Norman — I de- 
fied the hordes of Germany ; but their darts and their 
lances broke like dry reeds against my body. The Sar- 
acen's scimiter was shivered to pieces when it struck at 
me. Balls struck against me like hail, and rebounded 
back as from adamantine rock. Bayonet points were