Chapter VI: Part 6

And his wife looked round on the little house
That was every nail their own,
And she asked forgiveness of honest John
For the peevish mistrust she had shown;
But he only said, as her tearful face
Upon his shoulder lay,
"The good old way is the best way, wife;
We'll stick to the good old way."

EXTRACT FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON JAMES A. GARFIELD.

[Delivered in the City of Washington, Monday, February
27, 1882.]

On the morning of Saturday, July 2, the President was a contented and happy man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and congratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen.

Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave.

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death--and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell--what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's days of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the centre of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree.

As the end drew near his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning.

HOW SHALL I LOVE YOU?

WILL C. FERRIL.

How shall I love you? I dream all day
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way;
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray;
These may not tell of the love of my life;
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?

How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman--the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife;
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?

Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear!
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there!
For grief or for glory--for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.

THE LITTLE BROWN CURL.

A quaint old box with a lid of blue,
All faded and worn with age;
A soft little curl of a brownish hue,
A yellow and half-written page.

The letters, with never a pause nor dot,
In a school-boy's hand are cast;
The lines and the curl I may hold to-day,
But the love of the boy is past.

It faded away with our childish dreams,
Died out like the morning mist,
And I look with a smile on the silken curl
That once I had tenderly kissed.

One night in the summer--so long ago--
We played by the parlor door,
And the moonlight fell, like a silver veil,
Spreading itself on the floor.

And the children ran on the graveled walk
At play in their noisy glee;
But the maddest, merriest fun just then
Was nothing to John and me.

For he was a stately boy of twelve,
And I was not quite eleven--
We thought as we sat by the parlor door
We had found the gate to heaven.

That night when I lay on my snowy bed,
Like many a foolish girl,
I kissed and held to my little heart
This letter and silken curl.

I slept and dreamed of the time when I
Should wake to a fairy life;
And sleeping, blushed, when I thought that John
Had called me his little wife.

I have loved since then with a woman's heart,
Have known all a woman's bliss,
But never a dream of the after life
Was ever so sweet as this.

The years went by with their silver feet,
And often I laughed with John
At the vows we made by the parlor door
When the moon and stars looked on.

Ah? boyish vows were broken and lost,
And a girl's first dream will end,
But I dearly loved his beautiful wife,
While he was my husband's friend.

When at last I went to my childhood's home
Far over the bounding wave,
I missed my friend, for the violets grew
And blossomed over his grave.

To-day as I opened the old blue box,
And looked on this soft brown curl,
And read of the love John left for me
When I was a little girl,

There came to my heart a throb of pain,
And my eyes grew moist with tears,
For the childish love and the dear, dear friend,
And the long-lost buried years.

DE PINT WID OLE PETE.

Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly looking darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donelson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject.

"Were you in the fight?"

"Had a little taste of it, sa."

"Stood your ground, did you?"

"No, sa, I runs."

"Run at the first fire, did you?"

"Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it was comin'."

"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage."

"Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun."

"Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?"

"Yah, yah! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life."

"Do you consider _your_ life worth more than other people's?"

"It is worth more to me, sa."

"Then you must value it very highly?"

"Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the bref out ob him? Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me."

"But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?"

"Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in the market."

"But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country."

"What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?"

"Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?"

"Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities."

"If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance."

"Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it."

"Do you think any of your company would have missed you, if you had been killed?"

"Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me."

MOTHER'S FOOL.

"'Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife,
"These boys will make their mark in life;
They were never made to handle a hoe,
And at once to a college ought to go;
There's Fred, he's little better than a fool,
But John and Henry must go to school."

"Well, really, wife," quote Farmer Brown,
As he sat his mug of cider down,
"Fred does more work in a day for me
Than both his brothers do in three.
Book larnin' will never plant one's corn,
Nor hoe potatoes, sure's your born,
Nor mend a rod of broken fence--
For my part give me common sense."

But his wife was bound the roast to rule,
And John and Henry were sent to school,
While Fred, of course, was left behind
Because his mother said he had no mind.

Five years at school the students spent;
Then into business each one went.
John learned to play the flute and fiddle,
And parted his hair, of course, in the middle;
While his brother looked rather higher than he,
And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M. D."

Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred
Had taken a notion into his head;
But he quietly trimmed his apple trees,
And weeded onions and planted peas,
While somehow or other, by hook or crook,
He managed to read full many a book.
Until at last his father said
He was getting "book larnin'" into his head;
"But for all that," added Farmer Brown,
"He's the smartest boy there is in town."

The war broke out and Captain Fred
A hundred men to battle led,
And when the rebel flag came down,
Went marching home as General Brown.
But he went to work on the farm again,
And planted corn and sowed his grain;
He shingled the barn and mended the fence,
Till people declared he had common sense.

Now, common sense was very rare,
And the State House needed a portion there;
So the "family dunce" moved into town--
The people called him Governor Brown;
And his brothers, who went to the city school,
Came home to live with "mother's fool."

AN HOUR OF HORROR.

It was close upon the hour of midnight.

A man sat alone in an upper room in a tumble-down tenement--a man whose face showed by his furrowed brow, glaring eyes and pallid lips the effects of a terrible mental struggle going on within him.

Before him were several pages of manuscript, and his nervous hand convulsively clutching a pen, was rapidly adding to them.

Close to his right hand and frequently touched by it as he plied his pen, was a gleaming, glittering object--ivory, silver and steel--a loaded revolver.

The window beside him was open, and through it the cool breeze entered and fanned his fevered brow. The night without was calm and placid. Nature was lovely, bathed in the light of the summer moon; but the man was oblivious of the beauties of the night. He glanced at the clock now and then, and observing the long hand climbing up the incline toward the figure twelve, he redoubled his labor at his manuscript.

Anon he glanced at the revolver on the desk beside him. He touched its ivory handle as if faltering in his resolution; and then went on with his writing.

Hark!

What sound is that that is borne upon the breeze of the summer night? A long, low wail, like the cry of a woman in mortal anguish.

The man started like a guilty soul, dashed the dews of perspiration from his clammy brow, and uttered an incoherent exclamation.

Again! again, that moaning, uncanny cry!

The man heard it and groaned aloud. He dashed aside the last page of his manuscript, and glanced again at the clock. The hands marked the hour of midnight. He grasped the revolver with a resolute air and exclaimed through his clenched teeth:

"It must be done!"

And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to the woodshed. The story and the deed were done.

GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY!

I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit,
My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git;
Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you,
Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue,
Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high;
I liked you so better as gogonut bie:
But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent,
Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent;
All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie,
I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die;
Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt,
I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt;
Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt--
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

IT IS A WINTER NIGHT.

BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

It is a winter night,
And the stilly earth is white,
With the blowing of the lilies of the snow;
Once it was as red,
With the roses summer shed;
But the roses fled with summer, long ago.

We sang a merry tune,
In the jolly days of June,
As we danced adown the garden in the light,
But now December's come,
And our hearts are dark and dumb,
As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night.

WHAT THE LITTLE GIRL SAID.

"Ma's upstairs changing her dress," said the freckle-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

"Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. "Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."

"Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen."

"Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick--you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house--he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes."

"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you."

"Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do."

Just then the freckle-faced girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.

"WE'RE BUILDING TWO A DAY!"

BY REV. ALFRED J. HOUGH.

[During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N.
Y., in response to statements that the churches
throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a
message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the
Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in
substance and speaking only of his own denomination,
"All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two
a day!"]

The infidels, a motley band,
In council, met and said:
"The churches die all through the land,
The last will soon be dead."
When suddenly a message came,
It filled them with dismay:
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building two a day."

"We're building two a day," and still,
In stately forests stored,
Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill,
For churches of the Lord;
And underpinning for the same,
In quarries piled away;
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building two a day."

The miners rend the hills apart,
Earth's bosom is explored,
And streams from her metallic heart
In graceful molds are poured,
For bells to sound our Saviour's fame
From towers,--and, swinging, say,
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building two a day."

The King of saints to war has gone,
And matchless are His deeds;
His sacramental hosts move on,
And follow where He leads;
While infidels His church defame,
Her corner-stones we lay;
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're laying two a day."

The Christless few the cross would hide,
The light of life shut out,
And leave the world to wander wide
Through sunless realms of doubt.
The pulpits lose their ancient fame,
Grown obsolete, they say;
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building two a day."

"Extend," along the line is heard,
"Thy walls, O Zion, fair!"
And Methodism heeds the word,
And answers everywhere.

A new church greets the morning's flame,
Another evening's gray.
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building two a day."

When infidels in council meet
Next year, with boastings vain,
To chronicle the Lord's defeat,
And count His churches slain,
Oh then may we with joy proclaim,
If we His call obey:
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
We're building THREE a day."

THE MODERN BELLE.

The daughter sits in the parlor,
And rocks in her easy-chair;
She is dressed in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;
She winks, and giggles, and simpers,
And simpers, and giggles, and winks;
And though she talks but little,
It's vastly more than she thinks.

Her father goes clad in russet--
All brown and seedy at that;
His coat is out at the elbows,
And he wears a shocking bad hat.
He is hoarding and saving his dollars,
So carefully, day by day,
While she on her whims and fancies
Is squandering them all away.

She lies in bed of a morning
Until the hour of noon,
Then comes down, snapping and snarling
Because she's called too soon.
Her hair is still in papers,
Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint--
Remains of last night's blushes
Before she attempted to faint.

Her feet are so very little,
Her hands so snowy white,
Her jewels so very heavy,
And her head so very light;
Her color is made of cosmetics--
Though this she'll never own;
Her body is mostly cotton,
And her heart is wholly stone.

She falls in love with a fellow
Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,
She marries him for his hair--
One of the very best matches;
Both are well mated in life;
She's got a fool for a husband,
And he's got a fool for a wife.

THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.

ANONYMOUS.

_A Humorous Recitation._

One who does not believe in immersion for baptism was holding a protracted meeting, and one night preached on the subject of baptism. In the course of his remarks he said that some believe it necessary to go down in the water, and come up out of it, to be baptized. But this he claimed to be fallacy, for the preposition "into" of the Scriptures should be rendered differently, as it does not mean into at all times. "Moses," he said, "we are told, went up into the mountain; and the Saviour was taken up into a high mountain, etc. Now we do not suppose either went into a mountain but went unto it. So with going down into the water; it means simply going down close by or near to the water, and being baptized in the ordinary way, by sprinkling or pouring." He carried this idea out fully, and in due season closed his discourse, when an invitation was given for any one so disposed to rise and express his thoughts. Quite a number of his brethren arose and said they were glad they had been present on this occasion, that they were well pleased with the sound sermon they had just heard, and felt their souls greatly blessed. Finally, a corpulent gentleman of Teutonic extraction, a stranger to all, arose and broke the silence that was almost painful, as follows:

"Mister Breacher, I is so glad I vash here to-night, for I has had explained to my mint some dings dat I never could pelief pefore. Oh, I is so glad dat into does not mean into at all, but shust close py or near to, for now I can pelief many dings vot I could not pelief pefore. We reat, Mr. Breacher, dat Taniel vos cast into de ten of lions, and came out alife. Now I neffer could pelief dat, for wilt peasts would shust eat him right off; but now it is fery clear to my mint. He vash shust close py or near to, and tid not get into de ten at all. Oh, I ish so glad I vash here to-night. Again we reat dat de Heprew children vas cast into de firish furnace, and dat always look like a beeg story too, for they would have been purnt up; but it ish all blain to my mint now, for dey was shust cast py or close to de firish furnace. Oh, I vas so glad I vos here to-night. And den, Mister Breacher, it ish said dat Jonah vash cast into de sea, and taken into de whale's pelly. Now I neffer could pelief dat. It alwish seemed to me to be a beeg fish story, but it ish all blain to my mint now. He vash not into de whale's pelly at all, but shump onto his pack and rode ashore. Oh, I vash so glad I vash here to-night.

"And now, Mister Breacher, if you will shust exblain two more bassages of Scriptures, I shall be oh so happy dat I vas here to-night! One of dem ish vere it saish de vicked shall be cast into a lake dat burns mit fire and primstone alwish. Oh, Mister Breacher, shall I be cast into dat lake if I am vicked, or shust close py or near to--shust near enough to be comfortable? Oh, I hope you tell me I shall be cast only shust py a good veys off, and I vill pe so glad I vash here to-night. Do oder bassage is dat vich saish blessed are they who do these commandments, dat dey may have right to de dree of life, and enter in droo de gates of the city, and not shust close py or near to--shust near enough to see vat I have lost--and I shall pe so glad I vash here to-night."

THE FAST MAIL AND THE STAGE.

BY JOHN H. YATES.

Lay by the weekly, Betsey, it's old like you and I,
And read the morning's daily, with its pages scarcely dry.
While you and I were sleepin', they were printing them to-day,
In the city by the ocean, several hundred miles away.

"How'd I get it?" Bless you, Betsey, you needn't doubt and laugh;
It didn't drop down from the clouds nor come by telegraph;
I got it by the lightning mail we've read about you know,
The mail that Jonathan got up about a month ago.

We farmers livin' 'round the hill went to the town to-day
To see the fast mail catch the bags that hung beside the way;
Quick as a flash from thundering clouds, whose tempest swept the sky,
The bags were caught on board the train as it went roarin' by.

We are seein' many changes in our fast declinin' years;
Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears.
Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream,
Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam.

Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails,
Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails,
How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then--
For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen.

Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came--
Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame;
Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the God who melts the proud
Brought our strayin' hearts together and let sunshine through the cloud.

Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell
Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell,
And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above,
And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love.

Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails,
In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails;
Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the shores of inland seas.
And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease.

We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten;
We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men;
In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys
Are not called to meet the hardships that embittered half our joys.

Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by;
Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly;
We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord--
Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord.

STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.

BY MRS. WHITNEY.

Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass the inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her!

"Ah, ha!" says the fox, "I'll soon bring you out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door, he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, "Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he.

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.

ONLY A SONG.

It was only a simple ballad,
Sung to a careless throng;
There were none that knew the singer,
And few that heeded the song;
Yet the singer's voice was tender
And sweet as with love untold;
Surely those hearts were hardened
That it left so proud and cold.

She sang of the wondrous glory
That touches the woods in spring,
Of the strange, soul-stirring voices
When "the hills break forth and sing;"
Of the happy birds low warbling
The requiem of the day,
And the quiet hush of the valleys
In the dusk of the gloaming gray.

And one in a distant corner--
A woman worn with strife--
Heard in that song a message
From the spring-time of her life.
Fair forms rose up before her
From the mist of vanished years;
She sat in a happy blindness,
Her eyes were veiled in tears.

Then, when the song was ended,
And hushed the last sweet tone,
The listener rose up softly
And went on her way alone
Once more to her life of labor
She passed; but her heart was strong;
And she prayed, "God bless the singer!
And oh, thank God for the song!"

THE BICYCLE RIDE.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

[Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not,
depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done
and the associations of the ride.]

You have read of the ride of Paul Revere,
And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear;
Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart,
And the ride where Sheridan played a part;
Calendar's ride on a brazen hack,
And Islam's prophet on Al Borak;
The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent,
And a dozen others of like portent,
But you never have heard of a bicycle spin
Which was piously ended, though started in sin.

Tom was a country parson's son,
Fresh from college and full of fun,
Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls,
Raving, in verse, over golden curls,
Sowing a wild oat, here and there,
In a way that made the parson stare
And chide him sternly, when face to face,
While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace.
But the wildest passion the boy could feel
Was the love he bore for his shining wheel.

He rode it by night and he rode it by day,
If he went two rods or ten miles away;
And Deacon Smith was heard to remark
That he met that "pesky thing in the dark
And it went right by with a glint and a gleam
And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream;
In spite of the fact that he knew right well
That evil spirits were all in--well--
He wouldn't meet that thing again
For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."

One Sunday morning, the sun was bright,
The bird's throats bursting with glad delight,
The parson-mounted his plump old bay
And jogged to the church, two miles away,
While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more
And hid his wheel by the chancel door,
And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew,
"I wonder what makes dad look so blue,"
Till it came like a flash to his active mind,
He left his sermon and specs behind.

Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim
And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn,
Without his specs for a mint of gold,
And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold,
And right in the midst of his mental shock,
The parson deceived his trusting flock,
And gave them eternal life and a crown
From the book he was holding upside down.
Tom, the rascal, five minutes before,
Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.

The horses he frightened I never can tell,
Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well,
And they said they feared that the parson's lad
"Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad,
For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze
Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days,"
And they thought the length of the parson's prayer
Had something to do with his fatherly care.
While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped,
He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.

Of course you know how the story will end,
The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd,"
When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew
And laid down the specs and the sermon too.
Then the parson preached in a timid way,
Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day,
And he added a postscript, not in the text.
Saying that, when they were sore perplexed,
Each must decide as he chanced to feel.
And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."

THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

O! where is the land that each mortal loves best,
The land that is dearest and fairest on earth?
It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West;
For this beautiful land is the land of our birth.

'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew
Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot;
And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue,
That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot.

We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place,
But how often we see it in thought and in dreams!
Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face,
Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its
streams.

We may build grander homes than the home of our youth,
On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast;
But we never forget all its love and its truth;
It has charms that will hallow it unto the last.

We may learn other tongues, but that language is best
That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days--
The language she sung when she rocked us to rest,
And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise.

We may love other lands, but wherever we be
The land that is greenest and fairest on earth
Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see--
The home of our fathers--the land of our birth.

May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth!
May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest!
Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west,
The land of our birth is of all lands the best.

THE TEACHER'S DIADEM.

Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care;
Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear;
For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on;
'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone;
With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim,
Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring.

But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears,
As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years;
And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given,
To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven!
Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above;
Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love."

Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom,
Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room;
And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun,
Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come."
As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright,
And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night;

Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars;
On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors;
Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne,
Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done."
Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet;
And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete."

All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown;
'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne.
"Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through
all these years,
If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers;
That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less?
Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request."

From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem,
He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem;
Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear,
Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest thought and care.
"But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?"
And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore;

"'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand;
Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands.
Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands;
Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands;
Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains;
From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name.
When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given,
This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven."

Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room;
And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom;
But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew;
Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true;
Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain;
If her bread was on the waters, God would give it back again;
If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap,
He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep."

TOBE'S MONUMENT.

BY ELIZABETH KILHAM.

It was "after taps," a sultry, Southern-summer night. On the extreme edge of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, a sentinel paused in his walk, and peered cautiously out into the darkness. "Pshaw!" he said; "it's nothing but a dog." He was resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped rose suddenly, and walked along on two feet in a manner so unmistakably human, that the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, "Halt! Advance, and give the counter-sign!" A faint, childish voice said, "Ain't got none, massa."

"Well, there now!" said the sentinel, "if it ain't just a little darkey, and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, snowball."

The child crept up, and said, tremblingly: "'Deed, massa, I ain't got nuffin ter gib yer."

"Well, who asked you to give me anything?"

"Yer don ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got nuffin 'cep' my close what I got on."

"Well, you needn't fret; I don't want 'em. Corporal of the guard! Post two."

The corporal hastened to "post two," and found the sentinel with his hand on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between fear, fatigue, and hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. "I'll take him to Captain Leigh," the corporal said; "he's officer of the day. Maybe he'll be able to get something out of him."

The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night, when the corporal and his charge approached.

"Captain," said he, "here's a boy just come into the lines."

"Very well; you can leave him here."

At the first sound of the captain's voice the boy drew nearer to him, as knowing instinctively that he had found a friend.

"You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the captain.

"What is your name!" was Captain Leigh's first question the next morning.

"Name Tobe."

"Is that all?"

"Dat's all, Mass Cap'n."

"How old are you?"

"Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar."

"Where have you come from?"

"Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n."

"What did you come here for?"

"All de res' ob 'em runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, I wor jes' feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my mammy ef I got 'mong der Unions."

"Where is your mother?"

"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy las' corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I t'ought mebby she mought ha' runned 'way too, an' I'd fin' her wid der Unions."

"Well, now, what are you going to do?"

"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you."

"What can you do?"

"Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n; kin shine up boots, an'"--brightening up as his eyes, wandering round caught sight of the horses--"kin clean de hosses right smart." * * *

"If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I tell you."

"'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's yer born."

So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in charge of the captain's horse and baggage; and, when the steamer was fairly under way, he brightened into a new creature as every revolution of the wheel placed a greater distance between himself and "old massa." * * *

It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking care of horses. Captain Leigh's horse had never looked so well as now, and the captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, to be a very good boy. But the army is not a very good place for boys. So one day Captain Leigh said:--

"Tobe, how would you like to go North?"

"Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?"

"I mean my home at the North."

"When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n?"

"I am not going at all now."

"Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n?"

Captain Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently,--

"Yes, I want to send you away from me now, because it will be better for you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home, and then you can stay with me always if you are a good boy."

"I allus does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n."

"I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so well I want to send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, and do what work she will give you in the house. And I have three little children--two little girls and a baby boy. I want you to go with them when they go out to play and take care of them. My home is in a very pleasant place in the country. Don't you think you would like to go there?"

"Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n."

"But, my boy, I can't possibly go now."

"I'se do jes de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to go, I'se go. An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look af'r de chillens de bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. On'y please come right soon, Mass Cap'n."

And, as the captain left the tent, Tobe laid his head upon his arm and cried as if his heart would break.

Captain Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go home on a furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the boy in whom his friend was so deeply interested.

But that night came news that made everybody give up the idea of a "furlough," or "going home." The Richmond government, being determined to "make the North feel the war as she had not felt it," had organized the "grand raid."

An order came for Captain Leigh's regiment to march at daylight.

"Tobe," said the captain, "you can go in one of the baggage-wagons. Strap up my blanket and poncho, and take them along; and these boots, take particular care of them, for it's not often I can get a pair of cavalry boots to fit as they do."

"Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n; I'se take care of 'em de bes' I knows."

The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the South Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions were sent out from the Northern army in all directions, and a body of troops, including Captain Leigh's regiment, was ordered to proceed by the shortest route to Gettysburg and head the rebels off. One of the baggage-wagons broke down. The driver of another wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed on, and the two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was Tobe with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. The men worked busily at the wagon and Tobe sat watching them. Suddenly a tramping of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cavalry came round a turn in the road.

"That's good," said one of the men; "there's some of the boys. If they'll wait a few minutes we can go along with 'em."

"'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance; "them's rebs."

At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under some blankets, and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped in his arms.

As the soldiers advanced the officer said, apparently in reply to a question, "No, let the men go; we can't do anything with prisoners here. But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks have anything we want, 'all's fair in war.'"

They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, sharp questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags, and appropriate their contents.

The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one of them said, "What's that under the seat of that wagon?"

"Oh! nothing but a torn blanket," said another. "'Tain't worth taking. We have got all we want."