Chapter XXIX: Act IV: Scene I (3)

He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he did not recognize them.

It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard- engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:

"Kal-a-ma-zoo!"

One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand and cried out:

"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"

The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:

"Ann Arbor!"

He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor.

One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out:

"Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!"

"He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.

"And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.

The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly said:

"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!"

He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered:

"De--"

Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring.

_Detroit Free Press._

* * * * *

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; And being ever courteously inclined To give young folks a sober turn of mind, He fell into discourse with him; and thus The dialogue they held comes down to us.

ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
ST. And when you are one, what do you intend?
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end
ST. Suppose it so,--what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.
ST. Well; and how then?
Y. Why, then, for aught I know
I may be made a bishop.
ST. Be it so--
What then?
Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree--
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
ST. Suppose it was, what then?
Y. Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth that wishing can procure;
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then I must die.
ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best
But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest!
Take my advice--whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

_Dr. Byrom_.

* * * * *

NO KISS.

"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,
Holding up her dainty mouth,
Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made--
"I'm too old--I don't kiss girls."

Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,
Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"
'Rite is seventeen to-day,
With her birthday ring she toys
For a moment, then replies:
"I'm too old--I don't kiss boys."

* * * * *

KEYS.

Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee, Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be, And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth, For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then, Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.

"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee, Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!

_Bessie Chandler_.

* * * * *

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day is far away Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, a bird afloat, Skims round the purple peaks remote.

Round purple peaks it sails and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles, And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes my spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, blown softly by A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day so mild is heaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled: The airs I feel around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail my hand I trail, Within the shadow of the sail; A joy intense, the cooling sense, Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes my spirit flies Where summer sings and never dies-- O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines Among her future oils and wines.

Her children, hid the cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, with tipsy calls, Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, with tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one its course has run, From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! Oh! happy crew, my heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more the worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes my spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

_T. Buchanan Read_.

* * * * *

ELIZABETH.

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music, Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh. At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden, Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: "Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: "I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken: "Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning, But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, "So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further, It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me." And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

_Longfellow_.

"ASK MAMMA."

A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the place,--they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures--our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,--and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once-- the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater _eclat_, she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,--you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first--laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,--'twas too bad--not to ease his dear mind--O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,--but he can't be in doubt of my feeling--that's bliss! O, I wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bell--here she is.... O, mamma!"--"Child, preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,--bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call--and he'll tell you--not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O, mamma,--he's to call--in the course of the day. He was here just this minute,--and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home--that's his ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother--the gipsy--she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he asked the dear _widow_ to change her estate;--she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in--overloaded with pleasure--but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head--"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,--as he kissed her mamma,--"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes!"

_A. M. Bell._

* * * * *

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In features too old for a child,
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"
"And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread."

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply,
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brother and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered--
(Little Johnny's but four years old;)--
So, what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn,
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--
The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room--
Grey-beard and thoughtless youth--
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spoke the truth,
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.
Out from their eyes sprung tears,
And out from old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study--
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
_Something_ about the _law_.
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,
Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered
When at last these words they heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself the "guilty" child.

* * * * *

MEMORY'S PICTURES.

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest;
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,
It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep;
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn eves
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep, by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.

No little step do I hear in the hall,
Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.
No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,
I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,
Two little hands a wee face try to screen,
Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen.
"Where is my precious I've missed So all day'"
"Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.

"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"
Then I go by, and pretend not to see.
"Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'
Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."
The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,
Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.
Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,
When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.

* * * * *

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630:

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came and glancing round, Mendez upon his canvas found, Not his own work of yesterday, But glowing in the morning ray, A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, It almost seemed that there were given To glow before his dazzled sight, Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head-- Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face; The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, Had separate, yet blended grace-- A poet's brightest dream was there!!

Murillo entered, and amazed, On the mysterious painting gazed; "Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, "Will yet be master of us all; Would I had done it!--Ferdinand! Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh, Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently Murillo cried; "but we shall see, Ere long into this mystery. Sebastian!" At the summons came A bright-eyed slave, Who trembled at the stern rebuke His master gave. For ordered in that room to sleep, And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been there, And threatened--if he did not tell The truth at once--the dungeon-cell. "Thou answerest not," Murillo said; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) "Speak on!"--At last he raised his head And murmured, "No one has been here." "'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee, And clasped his hands imploringly, And said. "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know
Who enters here--there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail
To answer what I ask,
The lash shall force you--do you hear?
Hence! to your daily task."

* * * * *

'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone
From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray
Within Murillo's study--all were gone
Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.
'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,
One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child--that boy had seen Not thrice five summers yet, But genius marked the lotty brow, O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said "The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketched those figures--if I do, Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!" He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; It came--for soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes, for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom! how Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now The figure on that canvas traced Must be--yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush--the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,
He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye
Efface them?--I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave
Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.

He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed--
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat
Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed--could aught more beauteous be'
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started--horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all
Were there e'en at his side!
The terror-stricken slave was mute--
Mercy would be denied,
E'en could he ask it--so he deemed,
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.
Speechless, bewildered--for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke--
"Who is your master, boy?"
"You, Senor," said the trembling slave.
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
Again he answered, "Only you."
"I gave you none," Murillo cried!
"But I have heard," the boy replied,
"What you to others said."
"And more than heard," in kinder tone,
The painter said; "'tis plainly shown
That you have profited."

"What (to his pupils) is his meed?
Reward or punishment?"
"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,
(Sebastian's ear was bent
To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
But with imploring look received.)
"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold
And of a splendid dress;
But still unmoved Sebastian stood,
Silent and motionless.
"Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose
Your own reward--what shall it be?
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:
Then speak at once and fearlessly."
"Oh! if I dared!"--Sebastian knelt
And feelings he could not control,
(But feared to utter even then)
With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage!" his master said, and each Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, To soothe his overpow'ring dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, "Sebastian--ask--you have your choice, Ask for your _freedom_!"--At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice: At first but stifled sobs were heard, And then his prayer--breathed fervently-- "Oh! master, make my _father_ free!" "Him and thyself, my noble boy!" Warmly the painter cried; Raising Sebastian from his feet, He pressed him to his side. "Thy talents rare, and filial love, E'en more have fairly won; Still be thou mine by other bonds-- My pupil and my son."

Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feeling passed his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame that would his own eclipse; And, constant to his purpose still, He joyed to see his pupil gain, As made his name the pride of Spain.

_Susan Wilson._

* * * * *

ONLY SIXTEEN.

Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day--
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent and pride;
Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,--
Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come--"
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him--only sixteen,--
Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,--
And he only sixteen?

Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in that last great day,
When heaven and earth shall have passed away.
When the elements, melting with fervent heat,
Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.
When before the great throne you each shall stand,--
And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light
Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"
Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license, you would do it, I ween,
If that were your son, and he only sixteen,
Only sixteen.

* * * * *

THE RETORT.

Old Birch, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,
And she was playful as a rabbit.
Poor Kate had scarce become a wife
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country polished life,
And prim and formal--as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Katie sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
The husband's anger rose, and red
And white his face alternate grew:
"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said
"O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."

* * * * *

"LITTLE BENNIE."

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full can be,
And attentive listening to me
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid.
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood
Brimming high with dainty custard
Sent me by a neighbour good.

But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing both,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Lapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess, I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.

Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You shall have my candy wabbit,"
But the door was fastened tight,
So he stood abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames grow higher and higher,
In a brave, clear key, he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,
Make my Mudder 'have herself."

"I will be a good girl, Bennie,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney,
Mewing on the gallery roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gamboled round the fireside,
Till the dusky night came down.

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my playworn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer;
"God bess Fader, God bess Moder,
God bess Sister," then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."

He is sleeping; brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Like caressing, clinging shadows,
On his plump and peachy cheek,
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O defiled!
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.

_Annie C. Ketchum._

* * * * *

SLANDER.

'Twas but a breath--
And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,
And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;
And life was worse than death.

One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low,--
And yet the wide world heard.

Twas but one whisper--one--
That muttered low, for very shame,
That thing the slanderer dare not name,--
And yet its work was done.

A hint so slight,
And yet so mighty in its power,--
A human soul in one short hour,
Lies crushed beneath its blight.

* * * * *

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head- ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. _(Coughs.)_ Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. _(Coughs.)_

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(Coughs.)_ Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(Coughs.)_

* * * * *

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet.
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchor'd yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away

If you are too weak to journey,
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitudes go by
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot towards the needy
Reach an ever open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep,
You can be a true disciple,
Sitting at the Saviour's feet

If you cannot in the conflict,
Prove yourself a soldier true
If where fire and smoke are thickest
There's no work for you to do,
When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread.
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labour,
You can find it anywhere.

* * * * *

SATISFACTION.

They sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there;
I'm bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed;
Although I can't see what it meant,
The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun,
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more the little maid sought he
And bent him down upon his knee;
She turned her eyes upon the floor;
I think she thought the game a bore

He circled then his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best;
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid--he did.
And then--though why I can't decide--
The little maid looked satisfied.

* * * * *

MY TRUNDLE BED.

As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane,
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread,
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.

So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song,
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read--
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed"

As I listened, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.

Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven--
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven."

Years have passed, and that dear mother
Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,
And I trust her sainted spirit
Rests within the home of God:
But that scene at summer twilight
Never has from memory fled,
And it comes in all its freshness
When I see my trundle bed.

This she taught me, then she told me
Of its import great and deep--
After which I learned to utter
"Now I lay me down to sleep."
Then it was with hands uplifted,
And in accents soft and mild,
That my mother asked--"Our Father!
Father! do thou bless my child!"

* * * * *

THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.

In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,
When the tempest was wild in the desolate land
Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,
And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand
Leading on, leading over the slippery steep,
Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,
And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,
The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul
When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,
Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll
Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet
And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod
Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock;
Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,
They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,
When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,
When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,
And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;
It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,
And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,
For the angels, descending by day and by night,
Will open a door through the rift of the rock.

_Annie Herbert._

* * * * *

THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro By peaks pre-eminent in snow; A sounding river rushes past, So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.

A lone lodge tops the windy hill; A tawny maiden, mute and still, Stands waiting at the river's brink, As weird and wild as you can think.

A mighty chief is at her feet; She does not heed him wooing so-- She hears the dark, wild waters flow; She waits her lover, tall and fleet, From far gold fields of Idaho, Beyond the beaming hills of snow.

He comes! The grim chief springs in air-- His brawny arm, his blade is bare. She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand; She looks him fairly in the face; She moves her foot a little pace And says, with coldness and command, "There's blood enough in this lorn land. But see! a test of strength and skill, Of courage and fierce fortitude, To breast and wrestle with the rude And storm-born waters, now I will Bestow you both.... Stand either side! Take you my left, tall Idaho; And you, my burly chief, I know Would choose my right. Now peer you low Across the waters wild and wide. See! leaning so this morn, I spied Red berries dip yon farther side. See, dipping, dripping in the stream, Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!

"Now this, brave men, shall be the test. Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. Plunge in! and he who bears him best, And brings yon ruddy fruit to land The first, shall have both heart and hand."

Then one threw robes with sullen air, And wound red fox tails in his hair. But one with face of proud delight Entwined a crest of snowy white.

She sudden gave The sign, and each impatient brave Shot sudden in the sounding wave; The startled waters gurgled round, Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.

O then awoke the love that slept! O then her heart beat loud and strong! O then the proud love pent up long Broke forth in wail upon the air; And leaning there she sobbed and wept, With dark face mantled in her hair.

Now side by side the rivals plied, Yet no man wasted word or breath; All was as still as stream of death. Now side by side their strength was tried, And now they breathless paused and lay Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.

And now they dived, dived long, and now The black heads lifted from the foam, And shook aback the dripping brow, Then shouldered sudden glances home. And then with burly front the brow And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind, And left a track of foam behind.... They near the shore at last; and now The foam flies spouting from a face That laughing lifts from out the race.

The race is won, the work is done! She sees the climbing crest of snow; She knows her tall, brown Idaho.

She cries aloud, she laughing cries, And tears are streaming from her eyes: "O splendid, kingly Idaho, I kiss his lifted crest of snow; I see him clutch the bended bough! 'Tis cleft--he turns! is coming now!

"My tall and tawny king, come back! Come swift, O sweet; why falter so? Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track I kneel to all the gods I know. O come, my manly Idaho! Great Spirit, what is this I dread? Why there is blood! the wave is red! That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race, Dives down, and hiding from my face, Strikes underneath!... He rises now! Now plucks my hero's berry bough, And lifts aloft his red fox head, And signals he has won for me.... Hist softly! Let him come and see.

"O come! my white-crowned hero, come! O come! and I will be your bride, Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. Come back to me! my lips are dumb, My hands are helpless with despair; The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, Is reaching to the ruddy tide, That you may clutch it when you come.

"How slow he buffets back the wave! O God, he sinks! O heaven! save My brave, brave boy. He rises! See! Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me. Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong! Hold fast your strength. It is not long-- O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone! His face has perished from my sight.

"And did I dream, and do I wake? Or did I wake and now but dream? And what is this crawls from the stream? O here is some mad, mad, mistake! What you! The red fox at my feet? You first and failing from a race? What! you have brought me berries red? What! You have brought your bride a wreath? You sly red fox with wrinkled face-- That blade has blood, between your teeth!

"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er And clutch your red blade to the shore.... Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that! Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat The full day shines!... Two fox tails float And drift and drive adown the stream.

"But what is this? What snowy crest Climbs out the willows of the west, All weary, wounded, bent, and slow, And dripping from his streaming hair? It is! it is my Idaho! His feet are on the land, and fair His face is lifting to my face, For who shall now dispute the race?

"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. My love shall heal your wounded breast, And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

_Joaquin Miller_.

* * * * *

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.

'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
The sun was in the west,
When a merry, blithesome company
Met at a public feast.

Around the room rich banners spread,
And garlands fresh and gay;
Friend greeted friend right joyously
Upon that festal day.

The board was filled with choicest fare;
The guests sat down to dine;
Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
And some for rosy wine.

Among this joyful company,
A modest youth appeared;
Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
No specious snare he feared.

An empty glass before the youth
Soon drew the waiter near;
"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?

"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
We've first-class wine and cakes."
The youth with guileless look replied,
"_I'll take what father takes_."

Swift as an arrow went the words
Into his father's ears,
And soon a conflict deep and strong
Awoke terrific fears.

The father looked upon his son,
Then gazed upon the wine,
Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,
Who could the end divine?

Have I not seen the strongest fall,
The fairest led astray?
And shall I on my only son
Bestow a curse this day?

No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring
Bright water unto me;
My son will take what father takes,
My drink shall water be."

_W. Hoyle._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE HERO.

From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,
The good ship floating o'er the deep,
The skies bright with sunshine above us,
The waters beneath us asleep;
Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,
A jollier crew never sail'd,
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hail'd.
One day he comes up from below deck,
A-graspin' a lad by the arm,
A poor little ragged young urchin,
As ought to bin home with his marm.
An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly
How he dared for to be stow'd away?
A-cheating the owners and captain,
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.

The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,
An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,
An' shakes back his long shining curls.
An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,
"My stepfather brought me a-board,
And hid me away down the stairs there,
For to keep me he could not afford.
And he told me the big ship would take me
To Halifax town, oh, so far;
An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,
Who lives where the good angels are!'"
"It's a lie," says the mate,--"Not your father,
But some o' these big skulkers here,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,
Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"

Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,
An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"
Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,
Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,
"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,
There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"
Eight minutes went by all in silence,
Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
He falteringly says, "May I pray?"
An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,
As he must ha' done often at home, lads,
At night time when going to rest.

And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"
Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,
But low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard o' the ship.
Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,
To "for ever and ever. A-men!"
An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,
I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!
Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,
And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,
An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"
As his lips to his forehead he press'd.
"You believe me now?" then said the youngster,
"Believe you!" he kissed him once more,
"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;
I believe you! from now, ever-more."

* * * * *

WANTED.

The world wants men--light-hearted, manly men-- Men who shall join its chorus and prolong The psalm of labour and the song of love.

The times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape The doubtful destinies of dubious years, And land the ark that bears our country's good, Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare To struggle in the solid ranks of truth; To clutch the monster error by the throat; To bear opinion to a loftier seat; To blot the era of oppression out, And lead a universal freedom in.

And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls, To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers Beneath the glory of its central sun. It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones; It wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine!