Chapter III: Part 3

The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if _she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes over the pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else.

MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

_El Dorado, 1851._

I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys,
'N feelin' kind o' blue,
I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"
Ter find out what wuz new;
When I seed this sign a-hangin'
On a shanty by the lake:
"Here's whar yer get your doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make."

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth,
I've seen Kentucky Pete
Draw out his shooter, 'n advise
A "tenderfoot" ter treat;
But nuthin' ever tuk me down,
'N made my benders shake,
Like that sign about the doughnuts
That my mother used ter make.

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch,
'N standin' thar instead,
I seen an old, white farm-house,
With its doors all painted red.
A whiff came through the open door--
Wuz I sleepin' or awake?
The smell wuz that of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch
Whar honeysuckles grew;
A yellow dish of apple-sass
Wuz settin' thar in view.
'N on the table, by the stove,
An old-time "Johnny-cake,"
'N a platter full of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

A patient form I seemed ter see,
In tidy dress of black,
I almost thought I heard the words,
"When will my boy come back?"
'N then--the old sign creaked:
But now it was the boss who spake:
'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make.

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up,
'N ez I've "struck pay gravel,"
I ruther think I'll pack my kit,
Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.
I'll make the old folks jubilant,
'N if I don't mistake,
I'll try some o' them doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE.

BY DR. HAMILTON.

God made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There was no need for the carpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and fed the population of the globe.

But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has provided man's abode with affluent materials for these nobler tastes. He has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its spray. He has shagged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and music,--a world of brightness and symmetry,--a world where the grand and the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and built, not a barrack, but a palace--not a Union work-house, but an Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity.

God also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than piety, more taste than sanctity; and that more persons are anxious to hear some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,--not only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble images,--a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary, nor a grammar, but a Bible--a book which, in trying to reach the heart of man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection, should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the basket is silver.

The Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to God in the highest," and the truest blessedness of man; it abounds in passages of the purest beauty and stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a grandeur in all it does,--in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm of its own sanctity: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and all-wise Author.

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

BY WILL CARLETON.

"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid.
But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did:
Teimes are bad."

_English Ballad._

Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way,
Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day,
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven,
An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?

Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse;
An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes,
An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame),
An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!

An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall;
An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight,
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start!

An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!
With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!

No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks;
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee;
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.
Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play,
An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,
But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there,
An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear,
Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?
That was yer little sister--she died a year ago,
An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew
Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd,
Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!

A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE.

BY JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,--the heart that weeps and trembles."

It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness,--through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God.

Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.

Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal, upright--rested, rose--at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.

Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below,--below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming--were nearing--were at hand.

Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."

And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!"

KEENAN'S CHARGE.

BY GEORGE P. LATHROP.

(_Chancellorsville, May, 1863._)

The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet;
Down fell a bloody dusk
On the woods, that second of May,
Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through, with angry tusk.

"They've trapped us, boys!"--
Rose from our flank a voice.
With a rush of steel and smoke
On came the Rebels straight,
Eager as love and wild as hate:
And our line reeled and broke;
Broke and fled.
No one staid--but the dead!
With curses, shrieks and cries,
Horses and wagons and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.

There's one hope, still,--
Those batteries parked on the hill!
"Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar)
"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire
A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more.

The horses plunged,
The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rode a form
Calmly in front of the human storm,
With a stern, commanding shout:

"Align those guns!"
(We knew it was Pleasonton's)
The cannoneers bent to obey,
And worked with a will, at his word:
And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard.
But ah, the dread delay!

"To wait is crime;
O God, for ten minutes' time!"
The general looked around.
There Keenan sat, like a stone,
With his three hundred horse alone--
Less shaken than the ground.

"Major, your men?"
"Are soldiers, General." "Then,
Charge, Major! Do your best:
Hold the enemy back, at all cost,
Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost.
You die to save the rest!"

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes
For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still;
Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."
"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath,
Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;
And above in the air with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;
Rode in and sabered and shot--and fell;
Nor came one back his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung
Round his head like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line, ay, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!

Over them now,--year following year,
Over their graves the pine-cones fall,
And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;
But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

USEFUL PRECEPTS FOR GIRLS.

First catch your lover.

Hold him when you have him.

Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along.

Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life.

Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to support you.

Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for one either.

Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until after marriage.

If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother, say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid of you to oblige her, as he thinks best.

If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter.

If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't.

Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a stylish suit for better or worse.

If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own washing.

Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back.

If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would know your sentiments were borrowed.

Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery.

In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man comes along you may see him.

When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual.

If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially, conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford to--

Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him!

WIDDER BUDD.

I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair,
An' I feel just ez young as a girl.
When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declare
It sets me all into a whirl.
Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"--
An' my! How supprised he did look:
Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after my _cash_--
I see through his plans like a book.

Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad;
There was Deacon Philander Breezee;
I'd a sartin sed _Yes_, when he wanted a kiss,
Ef he hadn't so flustrated me.
It took me so quick that it felt like a kick--
I flew all to pieces at once;
Sez I, "You kin go--I'm not wanting a beau;"
I acted, I know, like a dunce.

Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose."
I stopped him afore he began:
Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow--
_I won't be tied down to a man_."
"Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' me
Kin strike up a bargain, I know;
An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree,
I guess that I hed better go."

He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat,
An' solemnly started away.
Sez I, with a look that I'm _sure_ he mistook,
"You're perfectly welcome to stay."
My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed--
I thought for the land I should melt.
Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one,"
I _wish_ he'd a known how I felt.

To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers,
Whose face is ez ugly ez sin,
Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers,
An' tickled the mole on my chin.
Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit;
You can't come your sawder on me.
You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave,
Your manners is ruther too free."

When dear David died (sniff--sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff--sniff);
He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff--sniff);
He squeezed it awhile (sniff--sniff), an' he sez with a smile
(sniff--sniff),
"You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff--sniff--sniff),
An' when I am gone (sniff--sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff--sniff)
Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff--sniff).
Look out for your tin (sniff--sniff) if you marry agin (sniff--sniff),
Nor throw your affections away (sniff--sniff--sniff)."

My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own--
They're doin' ez well ez they can (_wipes her eyes and nose_):
An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone--
I wouldn't mind havin' a man.
Fur David hez gone to the mansion above--
His body is cold in the ground,
Ef you know of a man who would marry for love,
Jest find him an' send him around.

HIS LAST COURT.

Old Judge Grepson, a justice of the peace, was never known to smile. He came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters, he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of "electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him.

One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a court much longer."

"I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let me add, quickest of your ability."

Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to reverence him.

"Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?"

"I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me," and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he did not raise them when the woman continued:

"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past life."

She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he said that I must never again come to his home,--my home, the home of my youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was 'I don't know you!' My husband died--yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here."

Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!"

The woman was his daughter.

THE DEAD DOLL.

BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head;
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out,
that day,
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it
with glue,
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended--but what do I care for looks?
Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf.
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?

I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat!
And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard--
She said to me most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course;
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see--
This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word!
I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

AT THE STAMP WINDOW.

Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf.

"Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?" she began.

"Oh, yes."

"Do you send mail there?"

"Yes."

"Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent."

"Takes two cents," said the clerk, after weighing it. "If there is writing inside it will be twelve cents."

"Mercy on me, but how you do charge!"

Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots of time.

"Then it will be two cents, eh?"

"If there is no writing inside."

"Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to plant 'm."

"Two threes!" called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the window.

"Hurry up!" cried another.

"There ought to be a separate window here for women," growled a third.

"Then it will take twelve cents?" she calmly queried, as she fumbled around for her purse.

"Yes."

"Well, I'd better pay it, I guess."

From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the box, and said:

"Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any difference, will it?"

THE NAMELESS GUEST.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

I wonder if ever the Angel of Death
Comes down from the great Unknown,
And soars away, on the wings of night,
Unburdened and alone!
I wonder if ever the angels' eyes,
Are filled with pitying tears,
As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight,
A few more weary years!

For it seems, at times, when the world is still,
And the soft night winds are whist,
As though some spirit were hovering near,
In folds of dream-like mist,
And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near,
That I am not quite alone,
And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death,
My heart grows cold as stone.

But whether 'tis death that hovers near,
And knocks at the door of my heart,
Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come
To be of my life a part,
I cannot tell, and I long in vain,
The secret strange to know,
While the moments of mirth and grief and pain,
Move on in their ceaseless flow.

And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power
And ask His tender care,
One yearning cry of a wayward life
Is the burden of my prayer,
That I may bend, with willing lips,
To kiss the chastening rod,
And learn the way, through the golden gate,
To the great white throne of God.

OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER.

This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear, defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long pause after each question:

Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

LULLABY.

"Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen."
Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long,
Down to the land of the lullaby song.
Babyland never again will be thine,
Land of all mystery, holy, divine,
Motherland, otherland,
Wonderland, underland,
Land of a time ne'er again to be seen;
Flowerland, bowerland,
Airyland, fairyland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep
Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep;
Baby can't feel what the mother-heart knows,
Throbbing its fear o'er your quiet repose.
Mother-heart knows how baby must fight
Wearily on through the fast coming night;
Battle unending,
Honor defending,
Baby must wage with the power unseen.
Sleep now, O baby, dear!
God and thy mother near;
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

Rockaby, baby, the days will grow long;
Silent the voice of the mother-love song,
Bowed with sore burdens the man-life must own,
Sorrows that baby must bear all alone.
Wonderland never can come back again;
Thought will come soon--and with reason comes pain,
Sorrowland, motherland,
Drearyland, wearyland,
Baby and heavenland lying between.
Smile, then, in motherland,
Dream in the otherland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

PENNING A PIG.

JAMES M. BAILEY.

Two families in Slawson had a somewhat singular experience several weeks ago. These families live in a double house, and each had a pen with two pigs. Last Friday the woman in one part discovered that her two pigs were free from their pen, and looking after geological specimens at the foot of the yard. She also discovered at the same time that the gate to a cabbage yard adjoining was open, and that the pigs might at any moment become ravished by a view of the glories within.

Her husband being away she hurriedly secured the gate, and then set about to return the truants by the following ingenious plan: Taking a shovelful of corn, she approached as close to the animals as possible, and, holding the tempting morsel near enough for them to learn its inviting character, she screwed her face into an expression of winning sweetness, and backed slowly toward the pen.

It was a beautiful illustration of woman's faith, and we regret to write that it did not work. The pigs took one snuff at the contents of the shovel, just to show that they took some interest in the matter, and, being convinced thereby that there was nothing injurious in the experiment, fell to rooting about again with renewed fervor.

The nearer the woman came to the pen the straighter her face grew, and presently lost every vestige of solicitude, and assumed instead an expression of medium ferocity. What she may have done will never be known, as at this juncture her husband made his appearance on the back stoop, and, her eye resting upon him, she commenced to apostrophize him in the language married people alone are adepts at.

After requesting somebody to show him the idiot who had left those hogs out that he might punch his head, he drove straight at the truants, and missed them, of course. Then he drove at them again with a clothes pole, and missed them again, although he made another pole by hitting that on a stone. Any one who has helped to drive one or two pigs will readily understand the number of articles that passed through the air, and the style of conversation the man kept up during the chase.

Finally, he got one of the animals in a corner, and, being by this time utterly regardless of personal appearance or consequences, threw himself upon the brute, neatly scraping the fence with the top of his head, and falling upon the pig in such a way as to hold in abeyance every one of its muscles except those in the throat. These were at once put into active operation, and the man for a moment thought he had captured a planing-mill. Then he raised slowly, keeping a tight hold of the animal, and getting on his feet with a pig in his arms, struck out for the pen, preceded by his wife and the other woman, and closely and anxiously observed by all the neighbors for a half-mile around.

In this way the procession laboriously moved. The pig, having worked its head within two inches of the man's ear, was pouring therein a tale of unparalleled distress, which, if not calculated to melt the stoutest heart, actually threatened to split open the stoutest head. The man was utterly powerless to remedy the horror, having both hands engaged, and could only twist his ear a little out of range, and scream at the top of his voice his plans for the future of "them hogs."

On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. _His_ hogs were in the pen; the truants were _hers_. The man, who was still holding the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate, contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her pigs were in their pen.

"What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard above the din.

"Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman.

"Why ain't they?" he yelled.

"Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back.

It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that garden without the use of subterfuge.

LITTLE JIM.

BY GEORGE R. SIMS.

Our little Jim
Was such a limb
His mother scarce could manage him.
His eyes were blue,
And looked you through,
And seemed to say,
"I'll have my way!"
His age was six,
His saucy tricks
But made you smile,
Though all the while
You said, "You limb,
You wicked Jim,
Be quiet, do!"

Poor little Jim!
Our eyes are dim
When soft and low we speak of him.
No clattering shoe
Goes running through
The silent room,
Now wrapped in gloom.
So still he lies,
With fast-shut eyes,
No need to say,
Alas! to-day,
"You little limb,
You baby Jim,
Be quiet, do!"

GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your ambitions, your aims, your hopes,--what is your real character; because, my dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation of a rascal; and once in a while--two or three times in a while, in fact--a rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then, my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never think alone.

You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite then?

Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself. Find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain from original sources if you are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as you are at a Sabbath-school picnic; if you are as good a boy when you go to Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy, and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this, Telemachus, and it will do you good.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE.

BY J. W. RILEY.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
The man on the coal cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,
And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
A stranger petted a ragged child
In the crowded walk, and she knew not why,
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange
As a customer put back his change
With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry--
For a dead child even were dear to him!
And he thought of his empty life and said:
"Loveless alive and loveless dead,
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

THERE'LL BE ROOM IN HEAVEN.

She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fashioned, and people stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there beckoned to the sexton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something, but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable."

"But you are not wanted here," said the sexton, pompously; "there is not room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat."

"Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to hear the sermon to-day, because--"

But here the sexton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the space she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous sexton to the rear of the church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and a shabby old man.

"She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ---- preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said."

"Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the vestry. Is he not grand?"

"Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us while he is here."

He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he looked over the great crowd of worshipers gathered in the vast church, he seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the sexton, who obsequiously mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every heart.