* * * * *

Oh! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And-makes rest fragrant and benign! Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same great God! Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-spent past. A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.



LADY CLARE.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn; Lovers long betroth'd were they They two will wed the morrow morn; God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said "Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Tho' I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee." "O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower. "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood. "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood—

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

In her ear he whispers gaily, "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's root.

"I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life."

They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods about them blowing Made a murmur in the land.

From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell."

So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers. Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state.

All he shows her makes him dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days.

O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come.

Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door.

And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall.

And while now she wanders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, "All of this is mine and thine."

Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin; As it were with shame she blushes, And her Spirit changed within.

Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love.

So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank; And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much.

But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born.

Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died.

Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed."

Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.



DORA.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law," And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and the land was dark.

But when the morrow came she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home, And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said:—

"O Father!—if you let me call you so— I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—

"I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son. May God forgive me!—I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.



MRS. B.'S ALARMS.

BY JAMES PAYN.

Mrs. B. is my wife; and her alarms are those produced by a delusion under which she labours that there are assassins, gnomes, vampires, or what not, in our house at night, and that it is my bounden duty to leave my bed at any hour or temperature, and to do battle with the same, in very inadequate apparel. The circumstances which attend Mrs. B.'s alarms are generally of the following kind. I am awakened by the mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal associations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only in melodramas and sick-rooms.

"Henry, Henry, Henry!"

How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the "Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe," of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight, this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening attitude of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back behind either ear; her hair—in paper—is rolled out of the way upon each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd manner upon her hands.

"Henry, did you hear that?"

"What, my love?"

"That noise. There it is again; there—there."

The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest conviction.

"No, no, Henry; it's not the least like that: it's a file working at the bars of the pantry-window. I will stake my existence, Henry, that it is a file."

Whenever my wife makes use of this particular form of words I know that opposition is useless. I rise, therefore, and put on my slippers and dressing-gown. Mrs. B. refuses to let me have the candle, because she will die of terror if she is left alone without a light. She puts the poker into my hand, and with a gentle violence is about to expel me from the chamber, when a sudden thought strikes her.

"Stop a bit, Henry," she exclaims, "until I have looked into the cupboards and places;" which she proceeds to do most minutely, investigating even the short drawers of a foot and a half square. I am at length dismissed upon my perilous errand, and Mrs. B. locks and double-locks the door behind me with a celerity that almost catches my retreating garment. My expedition therefore combines all the dangers of a sally, with the additional disadvantage of having my retreat into my own fortress cut off. Thus cumbrously but ineffectually caparisoned, I peramulate the lower stories of the house in darkness, in search of the disturber of Mrs. B.'s repose, which, I am well convinced, is behind the wainscot of her own apartment, and nowhere else. The pantry, I need not say, is as silent as the grave, and about as cold. The great clock in the kitchen looks spectral enough by the light of the expiring embers, but there is nothing there with life except black-beetles, which crawl in countless numbers over my naked ankles. There is a noise in the cellar such as Mrs. B. would at once identify with the suppressed converse of anticipated burglars, but which I recognise in a moment as the dripping of the small-beer cask, whose tap is troubled with a nervous disorganisation of that kind. The dining-room is chill and cheerless; a ghostly armchair is doing the grim honours of the table to three other vacant seats, and dispensing hospitality in the shape of a mouldy orange and some biscuits, which I remember to have left in some disgust, about——Hark! the clicking of a revolver? No! the warning of the great clock—one, two, three.... What a frightful noise it makes in the startled ear of night! Twelve o'clock. I left this dining-room, then, but three hours and a-half ago; it certainly does not look like the same room now. The drawing-room is also far from wearing its usual snug and comfortable appearance. Could we possibly have all been sitting in the relative positions to one another which these chairs assume? Or since we were there, has some spiritual company, with no eye for order left among them, taken advantage of the remains of our fire to hold a reunion? They are here even at this moment perhaps, and their gentlemen have not yet come up from the dining-room. I shudder from head to foot, partly at the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very passage which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my great-grandfather "walks"; in compensation, I suppose, for having been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold. It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.'s alarms have evidently taken some other direction. "Henry, Henry!" she cries, in tones of a very tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife's chamber; the screams continue, but the door is locked.

"Open, open!" shout I. "What on earth is the matter?"

There is silence; then a man's voice—that is to say, my wife's voice in imitation of a man's—replies in tones of indignant ferocity, to convey the idea of a life-preserver being under the pillow of the speaker, and ready to his hand: "Who are you—what do you want?"

"You very silly woman," I answered; not from unpoliteness, but because I find that that sort of language recovers and assures her of my identity better than any other—"why, it's I."

The door is then opened about six or seven inches, and I am admitted with all the precaution which attends the entrance of an ally into a besieged garrison.

Mrs. B., now leaning upon my shoulder, dissolves into copious tears, and points to the door communicating with my attiring-chamber.

"There's sur—sur—somebody been snoring in your dressing-room," she sobs, "all the time you were away."

This statement is a little too much for my sense of humour, and although sympathising very tenderly with poor Mrs. B., I cannot help bursting into a little roar of laughter. Laughter and fear are deadly enemies, and I can see at once that Mrs. B. is all the better for this explosion.

"Consider, my love," I reason, "consider the extreme improbability of a burglar or other nefarious person making such a use of the few precious hours of darkness as to go to sleep in them! Why, too, should he take a bedstead without a mattress, which I believe is the case in this particular supposition of yours, when there were feather-beds unoccupied in other apartments? Moreover, would not this be a still greater height of recklessness in such an individual, should he have a habit of snor——"

A slight noise in the dressing-room, occasioned by the Venetian blind tapping against the window, here causes Mrs. B. to bury her head with extreme swiftness, ostrichlike, beneath the pillow, so that the peroration of my argument is lost upon her. I enter the suspected chamber—this time with a lighted candle—and find my trousers, with the boots in them, hanging over the bedside something after the manner of a drunken marauder, but nothing more. Neither is there anybody reposing under the shadow of my boot-tree upon the floor. All is peace there, and at sixes and sevens as I left it upon retiring—as I had hoped—to rest.

Once more I stretch my chilled and tired limbs upon the couch; sweet sleep once more begins to woo my eyelids, when "Henry, Henry!" again dissolves the dim and half-formed dream.

"Are you certain, Henry, that you looked in the shower-bath? I am almost sure that I heard somebody pulling the string."

No grounds, indeed, are too insufficient, no supposition too incompatible with reason, for Mrs. B. to build her alarms upon. Sometimes, although we lodge upon the second story, she imagines that the window is being attempted; sometimes, although the register may be down, she is confident that the chimney is being used as the means of ingress.

Once, when we happened to be in London—where she feels, however, a good deal safer than in the country—we had a real alarm, and Mrs. B., since I was suffering from a quinsy, contracted mainly by my being sent about the house o' nights in the usual scanty drapery, had to be sworn in as her own special constable.

"Henry, Henry!" she whispered upon this occasion, "there's a dreadful cat in the room."

"Pooh, pooh!" I gasped; "it's only in the street; I've heard the wretches. Perhaps they are on the tiles."

"No, Henry. There, I don't want you to talk, since it makes you cough; only listen to me. What am I to do, Henry? I'll stake my existence that there's a—— Ugh, what's that?"

And, indeed, some heavy body did there and then jump upon our bed, and off again at my wife's interjection, with extreme agility. I thought Mrs. B. would have had a fit, but she didn't. She told me, dear soul, upon no account to venture into the cold with my bad throat. She would turn out the beast herself, single-handed. We arranged that she was to take hold of my fingers, and retain them, until she reached the fireplace, where she would find a shovel or other offensive weapon fit for the occasion. During the progress of this expedition, however, so terrible a caterwauling broke forth, as it seemed, from the immediate neighbourhood of the fender, that my disconcerted helpmate made a most precipitate retreat. She managed after this mishap to procure a light, and by a circuitous route, constructed of tables and chairs, to avoid stepping upon the floor, Mrs. B. obtained the desired weapon. It was then much better than a play to behold that heroic woman defying grimalkin from her eminence, and to listen to the changeful dialogue which ensued between herself and that far from dumb, though inarticulately speaking animal.

"Puss, puss, pussy—poor pussy."

"Miau, miau, miau," was the linked shrillness, long drawn out, of the feline reply.

"Poor old puss, then, was it ill? Puss, puss. Henry, the horrid beast is going to fly at me! Whist, whist, cat."

"Ps-s-s-s. ps-s-s-s, miau; ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-s," replied the other, in a voice like fat in the fire.

"My dear love," cried I, almost suffocated with a combination of laughter and quinsy; "you have never opened the door; where is the poor thing to run to?"

Mrs. B. had all this time been exciting the bewildered animal to frenzy by her conversation and shovel, without giving it the opportunity to escape, which, as soon as offered, it took advantage of with an expression of savage impatience partaking very closely indeed of the character of an oath.

This is, however, the sole instance of Mrs. B.'s having ever taken it in hand to subdue her own alarms. It is I who, ever since her marriage, have done the duty, and more than the duty, of an efficient house-dog, which before that epoch, I understand, was wont to be discharged by one of her younger sisters. Not seldom, in these involuntary rounds of mine, I have become myself the cause of alarm or inconvenience to others. Our little foot-page, with a courage beyond his years, and a spirit worthy of a better cause, very nearly transfixed me with the kitchen spit as I was trying, upon one occasion, the door of his own pantry. Upon another nocturnal expedition, I ran against a human body in the dark—that turned out to be my brother-in-law's, who was also in search of robbers—with a shock to both our nervous systems such as they have not yet recovered from. It fell to my lot, upon a third, to discover one of the rural police up in our attics, where, in spite of the increased powers lately granted to the county constabulary, I could scarcely think he was entitled to be. I once presented myself, an uninvited guest, at a select morning entertainment—it was at 1.30 A.M.—given by our hired London cook to nearly a dozen of her male and female friends. No wonder that Mrs. B. had "staked her existence" that night that she had heard the area gate "go." When I consider the extremely free and unconstrained manner in which I was received, poker and all, by that assembly, my only surprise is that they did not signify their arrivals by double knocks at the front door.

On one memorable night, and on one only, have I found it necessary to use that formidable weapon which habit has rendered as familiar to my hand as its flower to that of the Queen of Clubs.

The grey of morning had just begun to steal into our bedchamber, when Mrs. B. ejaculated with unusual vigour, "Henry, Henry, they're in the front drawing-room; and they've just knocked down the parrot screen."

"My love," I was about to observe, "your imaginative powers have now arrived at the pitch of clairvoyance," when a noise from the room beneath us, as if all the fireirons had gone off together with a bang, compelled me to acknowledge, to myself at least, that there was something in Mrs. B.'s alarms at last. I trod downstairs as noiselessly as I could, and in almost utter darkness. The drawing-room door was ajar, and through the crevice I could distinguish, despite the gloom, as many as three muffled figures. They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried "Wolf!" so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper of "Henry, Henry!" from the upper story. The burglars caught it also. They desisted from their occupation of examining the articles of vertu upon the chimney-piece, while their fiendish countenances relaxed into a hideous grin. One of them stole cautiously towards the door where I was standing. I hear his burglarious feet, I heard the "Henry, Henry!" still going on from above-stairs; I heard my own heart pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat within me. It was one of those moments in which one lives a life. The head of the craped marauder was projected cautiously round the door, as if to listen. I poised my weapon, and brought it down with unerring aim upon his skull. He fell like a bullock beneath the axe, and I sped up to my bedchamber with all the noiselessness and celerity of a bird. It was I who locked the door this time, and piled the washhand-stand, two band-boxes, and a chair against it with the speed of lightning.

Was Mrs. B. out of her mind with terror that at such an hour as that she should indulge in a paroxysm of mirth?

"Good heavens!" I cried, "be calm, my love; there are burglars in the house at last."

"My dear Henry," she answered, laughing so that the tears quite stood in her eyes, "I am very sorry; I tried to call you back. But when I sent you downstairs, I quite forgot that this was the morning upon which I had ordered the sweeps!"

One of those gentlemen was at that moment lying underneath with his skull fractured, and it cost me fifteen pounds to get it mended, besides the expense of a new drawing-room carpet.

—From "Humorous Stories" by James Payn. By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus.



SHELTERED.

BY SARAH ORME JEWETT.

It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was all alone, For early in the morning John Earl and Nathan Stone Came riding up the lane to say—I saw they both looked pale— That Anderson the murderer had broken out of jail.

They only stopped a minute, to tell my man that he Must go to the four corners, where all the folks would be; They were going to hunt the country, for he only had been gone An hour or so when they missed him, that morning just at dawn.

John never finished his breakfast; he saddled the old white mare. She seemed to know there was trouble, and galloped as free and fair And even a gait as she ever struck when she was a five-year-old: The knowingest beast we ever had, and worth her weight in gold.

He turned in the saddle and called to me—I watched him from the door— "I shan't be home to dinner," says he, "but I'll be back by four. I'd fasten the doors if I was you, and keep at home to-day;" And a little chill came over me as I watched him ride away.

I went in and washed the dishes—I was sort of scary too. We had 'ranged to go away that day. I hadn't much to do, Though I always had some sewing work, and I got it and sat down; But the old clock tick-tacked loud at me, and I put away the gown.

I thought the story over: how Anderson had been A clever, steady fellow, so far's they knew, till then. Some said his wife had tried him, but he got to drinking hard, Till last he struck her with an axe and killed her in the yard.

The only thing I heard he said was, he was most to blame; But he fought the men that took him like a tiger. 'Twas a shame He'd got away; he ought to swing: a man that killed his wife And broke her skull in with an axe—he ought to lose his life!

Our house stood in a lonesome place, the woods were all around, But I could see for quite a ways across the open ground; I couldn't help, for the life o' me, a-looking now and then All along the edge o' the growth, and listening for the men.

I thought they would find Anderson: he couldn't run till night, For the farms were near together, and there must be a sight Of men out hunting for him; but when the clock struck three, A neighbour's boy came up with word that John had sent to me.

He would be home by five o'clock. They'd scour the woods till dark; Some of the men would be off all night, but he and Andrew Clark Would keep watch round his house and ours—I should not stay alone. Poor John, he did the best he could, but what if he had known!

The boy could hardly stop to tell that the se-lec'men had said They would pay fifty dollars for the man alive or dead, And I felt another shiver go over me for fear That John might get that money, though we were pinched that year.

I felt a little easier then, and went to work again: The sky was getting cloudier, 'twas coming on to rain. Before I knew, the clock struck six, and John had not come back; The rain began to spatter down, and all the sky was black.

I thought and thought, what shall I do if I'm alone all night? I wa'n't so brave as I am now. I lit another light, And I stirred round and got supper, but I ate it all alone. The wind was blowing more and more—I hate to hear it moan.

I was cutting rags to braid a rug—I sat there by the fire; I wished I'd kep' the dog at home; the gale was rising higher; O own I had hard thoughts o' John; I said he had no right To leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night.

And then I thought of the murderer, afraid of God and man; I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he hid or ran; I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the icy mud in the rain, And I wondered if he didn't wish he was back in his home again.

I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start; A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart; I was 'fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin; And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in.

I couldn't look away from them—the face was white as clay. Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day. I knew right off 'twas Anderson. I couldn't move nor speak; I thought I'd slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak.

"O Lord," I thought, "what shall I do?" Some words begun to come, Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb: "I was a stranger—took me in—in prison—visited me;" And I says, "O Lord, I couldn't; it's a murderer, you see!"

And those eyes they watched me all the time, in dreadful still despair— Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched me setting there; And what 'twas made me do it, I don't know to this day, But I opened the door and let him in—a murderer at bay.

He laid him right down on the floor, close up beside the fire. I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered thick with mire; His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his hands were bleeding fast. I gave him something to tie 'em up, and all my fears were past.

I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm, And I fetched him a bowl o' milk to drink—I couldn't do him harm; And pretty soon he says, real low, "Do you know who I be?" And I says, "You lay there by the fire; I know you won't hurt me."

I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there, But I pitied him—a ruined man whose life had started fair. I somehow or 'nother never felt that I was doing wrong, And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long.

I thought once that I heard the men, and I was half afraid That they might come and find him there; and so I went and staid Close to the window, watching, and listening for a cry; And he slept there like a little child—forgot his misery.

I almost hoped John wouldn't come till he could get away; And I went to the door and harked awhile, and saw the dawn of day. 'Twas bad for him to have slept so long, but I couldn't make him go From the City of Refuge he had found; and he was glad, I know.

It was years and years ago, but still I never can forget How grey it looked that morning; the air was cold and wet; Only the wind would howl sometimes, or else the trees would creak— All night I'd 'a given anything to hear somebody speak.

He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wild And haggard that I 'most broke down. I wasn't reconciled To have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear; But I knew he'd brought it on himself; his punishment was fair.

I gave him something more to eat; he couldn't touch it then, "God pity you, poor soul!" says I. May I not see again A face like his, as he stood in the door and looked which way to go! I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame and moving slow.

He had hardly spoken a word to me, but as he went away He thanked me, and gave me such a look! 'twill last to my dying day. "May God have mercy on me, as you have had!" says he, And I choked, and couldn't say a word, and he limped away from me.

John came home bright and early. He'd fell and hurt his head, And he stopped up to his father's; but he'd sent word, he said, And told the boy to fetch me there—my cousin, Johnny Black— But he went off with some other folks, who thought they'd found the track.

Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoon And carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon. Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right, I'm glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night.

Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward; But I couldn't have done it if I'd starved, and I do hope the Lord Forgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see 'Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me.

From "Harper's Magazine." By special permission of Harper & Brothers.



GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BY BRET HARTE.

[William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer— That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said— Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say: "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or wailing, good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss— Nothing!—it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead: Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned; Sang as it flew: "To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good night!" it said.

And then one night it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds, "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." One only knew, To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine dead.



BILL MASON'S BRIDE.

BY BRET HARTE.

Half an hour till train time, sir, An' a fearful dark time, too; Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, Fetch in a stick when you're through. On time? Well, yes, I guess so— Left the last station all right; She'll come round the curve a-flyin'; Bill Mason comes up to-night.

You know Bill? No? He's engineer, Been on the road all his life— I'll never forget the mornin' He married his chuck of a wife. 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck, Just off work, every one; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son.

Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes a message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry, And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run.

And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night express; And, sir, if she hadn't 'a done so, She'd been a widow, I guess.

For it must 'a been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge; They came down—the drunken devils, Tore up a rail from the bridge, But Mary heard 'em a-workin' And guessed there was something wrong— And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill's train it would be along!

She couldn't come here to tell us, A mile—it wouldn't 'a done; So she jest grabbed up a lantern, And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir, And Bill was makin' her climb! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin' it all the time.

Well, by Jove! Bill saw the signal, And he stopped the night express, And he found his Mary cryin' On the track in her weddin' dress; Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir, An' holdin' on to the light— Hello! here's the train—good-bye, sir, Bill Mason's on time to-night.



THE CLOWN'S BABY.

FROM "ST. NICHOLAS."

It was out on the Western frontier, The miners, rugged and brown, Were gathered around the posters— The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness, Like a wonderful palace of light, And rough men crowded the entrance; Shows didn't come every night.

Not a woman's face among them, Many a face that was bad, And some that were very vacant, And some that were very sad. And behind a canvas curtain, In a corner of the place, The clown with chalk and vermilion Was making up his face.

A weary-looking woman, With a smile that still was sweet, Sewed, on a little garment, With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and waiting, It was time for the going on; But the clown in vain searched wildly— The "property baby" was gone.

He murmured, impatiently hunting, "It's strange that I cannot find; There! I've looked in every corner; It must have been left behind!" The miners were stamping and shouting, They were not patient men; The clown bent over the cradle— "I must take you, little Ben."

The mother started and shivered, But trouble and want were near; She lifted her baby gently; "You'll be very careful, dear?" "Careful? You foolish darling"— How tenderly it was said! What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint— "I love each hair of his head!"

The noise rose into an uproar, Misrule for a time was king; The clown with a foolish chuckle, Bolted into the ring. But as, with a squeak and flourish, The fiddles closed their tune, "You hold him as if he was made of glass!" Said the clown to the pantaloon.

The jovial fellow nodded; "I've a couple myself," he said, "I know how to handle 'em, bless you; Old fellow, go ahead!" The fun grew fast and furious, And not one of all the crowd Had guessed that the baby was alive, When he suddenly laughed aloud.

Oh, that baby laugh! it was echoed From the benches with a ring, And the roughest customer there sprang up With "Boys, it's the real thing!" The ring was jammed in a minute, Not a man that did not strive For "a shot at holding the baby"— The baby that was "alive!"

He was thronged by kneeling suitors In the midst of the dusty ring, And he held his court right royally, The fair little baby king; Till one of the shouting courtiers, A man with a bold, hard face, The talk for miles of the country And the terror of the place,

Raised the little king to his shoulder, And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" There never was such a hatful Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are not always penniless Because they won't wear coats!

And then "Three cheers for the baby!" I tell you those cheers were meant, And the way in which they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence, And a gruff old miner said, "Come, boys, enough of this rumpus; It's time it was put to bed."

So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingering, Flocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled, "He wasn't a bit afraid! He's as game as he is good-looking; Boys, that was a show that paid!"



AUNT TABITHA.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Whatever I do and whatever I say, Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way; When she was a girl (forty summers ago), Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice— But I like my own way, and I find it so nice! And besides, I forget half the things I am told, But they all will come back to me—when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; She would never endure an impertinent stare, It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; So I take a lad's arm,—just for safety, you know,— But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then! They kept at arm's length those detestable men; What an era of virtue she lived in!—but stay— Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

If the men were so wicked—I'll ask my papa How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! who knows? And what shall I say if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! And her grand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sad That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can; Let me perish to rescue some wretched young man Though when to the altar a victim I go, Aunt Tabitha'll tell me she never did so!



LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay An' wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread' an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you—Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout, An' the gobble-uns'll git you—Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big black things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the gobble-uns'll git you—Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,— You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the gobble-uns'll get you—Ef you Don't Watch Out!



THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH.

BY EUGENE FIELD.

I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss Way out into the big and boundless West; I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, An' I'd pluck the bal'head eagle from his nest! With my pistols at my side I would roam the prarers wide, An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride— If I darst; but I darsen't!

I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! I'd chase the pizen snakes And the 'pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes— If I darst; but I darsen't!

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I'd stand And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band— If I darst; but I darsen't!

And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me! I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too. I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! You bet! I'd run away From my lessons to my play, An' I'd shoo the hens, an' teaze the cat, an' kiss the girls all day— If I darst; but I darsen't!



RUBINSTEIN'S PLAYING.

ANONYMOUS.

"Jud, they say you have heard Rubinstein play when you were in New York?"

"I did, in the cool."

"Well, tell us all about it."

"What! me? I might's well tell you about the creation of the world."

"Come, now; no mock modesty. Go ahead."

"Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid your eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't, he'd a-tore the intire sides clean out, and scattered them to the four winds of heaven."

"Played well, did he?"

"You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sat down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wish't he hadn't come. He tweedle-eedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodled some on the bass—just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to the man settin' next to me, s' I, 'What sort of fool-playin' is that?' And he says, 'Hush!' But presently his hands began chasin' one 'nother up and down the keys, like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turning the wheel of a candy-cage.

"'Now,' I says to my neighbour, 'he's a showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no ide, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play a tune of some kind or other I'd——'

"But my neighbour says 'Hush,' very impatient.

"I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking away off in the woods, and callin' sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and I see that Rubin was beginnin' to take some interest in his business, and I set down agin. It was the peep of the day. The light came faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was the broad day: the sun fairly blazed, the birds sang like they'd split their throats; all the leaves were movin' and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.

"And I says to my neighbour, 'That's music, that is.'

"But he glared at me like he'd cut my throat.

"Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up and a kind of thick grey mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground, some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see music, especially when the bushes on the bank moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold.

"The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was—I never was, certain. I could see the boy just the same as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lift-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but never got a-nigh 'em, and played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could a-cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with guitars did.

"Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a-got up and there and then preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for—not a single thing; and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my han'kerchief, and blowed my nose well to keep from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivilin', and it's nobody business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But several glared at me as mad as mad. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He rip'd and he rar'd, he tip'd and he tar'd, and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head ready to look at any man in the face, and not afear'd of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all going on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of bricks; he gave 'em no rest, day nor night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumpt, sprang on to my seat, and jest hollered—

"'Go it, my Rube!'

"Every man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, 'Put him out! Put him out!'

"'Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month,' I says, 'Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me!'

"With that several policemen ran up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Rube out or die.

"He had changed his tune again. He hopt-light ladies, and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-bord. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were lit one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end; and the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop—drip, drop, drip, drop—clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake of glory. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetn'd with white sugar, mixed with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 'Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me.'

"He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He runs his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks till she fairly yelled. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her go. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro' the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he cross't over first gentleman, he cross't over first lady, he balanced two pards, he chassede right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, doubled, twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-'leven thousand double bow knots.

"By jinks! It was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rock't—heaven and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory, tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle- uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang!

"With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know'd no mo'."



OBITUARY.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

"Down the line I'll go," he said, "To reach the railway station." Friends will please accept of this The only intimation.



THE EDITOR'S STORY.

(A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink; He smole a smile and he wunk a wink; He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.

'Twas a time of dearth Of news, and the earth Was rolling and bowling along on its axis With never a murmur concerning the taxes And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle Needing a special or claiming an article; In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers, And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers, Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours.

And the Editor wrote: But I'm not going to quote, Far be it from me to set rumours afloat. Suffice it to say, The paper next day Contain'd such a slasher For Captain McClasher, The whole town declared it a regular smasher; And what made it worse he inserted a rubber, For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.

Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun, He had fought many duels and never lost one; He'd met single handed a hundred wild niggers, All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers, And made them all run whether mogul or fellah: With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.

And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor" He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon, And that rather than fight he would more likely run; To be told, who had acted so gallant a part, He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart! Why zounds! man—the words used they mostly make Dutch of—

(As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of) And he gave the poor table a terrible blow, As he said with an aspirate, "Hi——ll let 'em know."

And Alderman Grubber was no less determined, Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined, After thirty years' service to one corporation To be libelled at last with the foul allegation, He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation; That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary, Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery, Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!" Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry, 'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!

The Editor sat in his high-backed chair; He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare, A sort of a mixture of humour and scare, As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair: In a moment he buried his head in some "copy," As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.

"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted, In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed; While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand, Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.

Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean (His heart represented its wildest commotion), In a moment he took in the whole situation (And double distilled it in heart palpitation): Then quickly arose with a dignified air, And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair; Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute, The Editor's in, and I'll soon send him in it." Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit, He opened the door and got outside of it.

He skipp'd with a bound o'er The stairs to the ground floor, And turning his feet bore Straight on for the street door; When—what could astound more—' The spot he was bound for Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber, The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber: A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking, The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking. "Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled, A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled! While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet, Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.

But an Editor's ever a man of resource, He is never tied down to one definite course: He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave, He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave; But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door, Said "Editor's room number two second floor."

Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey, Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day: Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe, The captain was pacing the room to and fro When the Alderman enter'd—but here draw a veil, There is much to be sad for and much to bewail. Whoever began it, or ended the fray, All they found in the room when they swept it next day, Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity (Monument sad to the conflict's intensity). And the analyst said whom the coroner quested, The whole of the heap he had carefully tested, And all he could find in his search analytic (But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic), He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple, Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.

And the Editor throve, as all editors should Who devote all their thought to the popular good: For the paper containing this little affair, Ran to many editions and sold everywhere. And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing, There are better plans than to do your own fighting!



NAT RICKET.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don As if you will listen I'll tell you anon; His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long, His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong, That no matter where, at long-leg or square, At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air, At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came, At long-on or long-off, 'twas always the same— If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball, And the verdict, in answer to Nat's lusty call, Was always "Run out," or else "No run" at all: At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket, You'd not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.

Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined, Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind: At TWO he could get in the way of the ball; At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small; At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN He wanted to be in the county eleven.

But that was the time, for this chief of his joys, When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys: They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them, With Dick Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them. And as they came over the Muddleby hill, The cheer that resounded I think I hear still; And of all the gay caps that flew into the air, The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there.

They tossed up, and, winning The choice of the inning, The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand, And went to the wicket, While nimble Nat Ricket Put his men in the field for a resolute stand; And as each sturdy scout took his usual spot, Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot; And as they stood there, when the umpire called "Play," 'Twas a sight to remember for many a day,

Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters, There's no bowling like it for underhand twisters); And what with the pace and the screw and the aim, It was pretty hard work, was that Blunderby game; With Nat in the field to look after the ball, 'Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all; Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner, 'Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner; 'Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer; And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer, The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir; Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score The last wicket fell, and the innings was o'er.

But then came the cheering,— Nat Ricket appearing, A smile on his face and a bat in his hand, As he walked to the wicket,— From hillside to thicket, They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land. And when he began, 'twas a picture to see How the first ball went flying right over a tree, How the second went whizzing close up to the sky, And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye;

How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins, As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins; How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers At putting down runs and at adding up figures; How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration With rushing and racing and wild agitation,— Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together, Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.

It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that, When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat. You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's, See the cricketing feats which each county affords, But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life, Will one moment compare with the passionate strife With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.

I need hardly say, at the end of the day, The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,— Tho' the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps; And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane, The cheering resounded again and again.

And Nat and his party, they, too, went away; And I haven't seen either for many a day. Still, don't be surprised If you see advertised, The name of Nat Ricket Connected with cricket, In some mighty score or some wonderful catch, In some North and South contest or good county match. And if ever, when passing by cricketing places, You see people talking and pulling long faces, 'Cause some country bumpkin has beaten the Graces, Just step to the gate and politely enquire, And see if they don't say, "N. Ricket, Esq."; Or buy a "cor'ect card t' the fall o' th' last wicket," And see if it doesn't say "Mr. N. Ricket." For wherever you go, and whatever you see, In the north or the south of this land of the free, You never will find—and that all must agree— Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he.



'SPAeCIALLY JIM.

FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young— Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Spaecially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Spaecially Jim.

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, And I wouldn't take stock in him! But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Spaecially Jim.

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Spaecially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him;

So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Spaecially Jim.



'ARRY'S ANCIENT MARINER.

(TOLD ON MARGATE JETTY.)

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

He was an ainshunt mariner Wot sailed the oshun blue; His craft it was the Crazy Jane Wot was made of wood and glue.

It sailed 'atween Westminister And the Gulf of Timbucktoo; Its bulkhead was a putty one; Its cargo—no one knew.

I've heerd as how when a storm came on It 'ud turn clean upside down, But I never could make out as why Its skipper didn't drown.

He was the most unwashedest Old salt I ever knowed: And all the things as he speaked about Was nearly always "blowed."

One day he told me a straw'nry tale, But I don't think it were lies, Bekos he swore as it was true— Tho' a big 'un as to size.

He sez as how in the Biskey Bay They was sailin' along one night, When a summat rose from the bilin' waves As give him a norful fright.

He wouldn't exzagerate, he sed— No, he wouldn't, not if he died; But the head of that monster was most as big As a bloomin' mountain-side.

Its eyes was ten times bigger 'an the moon; Its ears was as long as a street; And each of its eyelids—without tellin' lies— Would have kivered an or'nary sheet.

"And now," said he, "may I never speak agin If I'm a-tellin' yer wrong, But the length o' that sarpint from head to tail Warn't a ninch under ten mile long,

"To the end of its tail there hung a great wale, And a-ridin' on its back was sharks; On the top of its head about two hundred seals Was a-havin' no end of larks.

"Now, as to beleevin' of what I sez next Yer can do as yer likes," sez he; "But this 'ere sarpint, or whatever he was, He ups and he speaks to me.

"Sez the sarpint, sez he, in a voice like a clap Of thunder, or a cannon's roar: 'Now say good-bye to the air and the sky For you'll never see land no more.'

"I shivered like a sail wot's struck by a gale And I downs on my bended knees; And the tears rolls over my face like a sea, And I shrieks like a gull in a breeze.

"Sez I, 'I'm an ainshunt old skipper, that's all, And I ain't never done nuffin wrong.' He sez, 'You old lubber, just stow that blubber, I'm a-going fer to haul yer along.'

"Then he puts out a fin like a big barndoor— Now this 'ere is real straight truth— It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin' cable, And he tied it to his left front tooth!

"In another second more, at the bottom of the sea The Crazy Jane was aground; Sez I, 'You oughter be ashamed of yerself, It's a one-der as I wasn't drowned.'

"Then he calls on a porkeypine a-standin' quite near, Sez he, 'Look arter this barge,' 'A-begging your pardon that's a wessel' I sez: Sez he: 'Werry fine and large!'

"With one of hiz eye-lashes, thick as a rope, He ties me on to his knoze, Then down in a cave right under the sea Like a flash of light we goes.

"He tuk me up to his wife, who was A murmyaid with three tails; She was havin' of her dinner, and perlitely she sez, 'Will you have some o' these 'ere snails?'

"So I sits me down by her buteful side— She'd a face like a sunset sky; Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red, And her knoze was strait as a die.

"I hadn't sot a minit wen sez she to me, 'Sammy, don't yer know me agane? Why, I'm the wife arter wot yer call'd yer ship; Sure enuf, it was Craizy Jane—

"The wife as had bother'd me all my life, Until she got drown'd one day, When a-bathin' out o' one of them there masheens In this wery same Margit Bay.

"The Sarpint was a-havin' of his dinner, and so She perposed as how we should fly— But, sez I to meself, 'What, take you back? Not if I knose it,' sez I.

"'But how about them there tails?' I sez— 'On shore them will niver doo;' She sez, 'Yer silly, why, karn't yer see, They're only fixed on wi' a screw?'

"So I tells her as how I'll go fetch the old ship Wile she's a-unscreuing of her tails; But when I gets back to the Crazy Jane I finds there a couple of wales.

"I jist had time to see the biggest of the two A-swallerin' of the ship right whole, And in one more momint he swallered me too, As true as I'm a livin' sole.

"But when he got to the surfis of the sea, A summat disagreed with that wale, And he up with me and the Crazy Jane and all— And this 'ere's the end of my tail."

* * * * *

Then this old ainshunt mariner, he sez unto me— And 'onesty was shinin' in hiz eyes— "It's jist the sort o' story wot no one won't beleeve— But it's true, little nipper, if I dies,"



THE AMATEUR ORLANDO.

BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN.

It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., (Kind hearer, although your Knowledge of French is not first-class, Don't call that Amature.) It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., The which did warfare wage On the dramatic works of this And every other age.

It had a walking gentleman, A leading juvenile, First lady in book-muslin dressed. With a galvanic smile; Thereto a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy pa, And oh, heavier still was the heavier vill- Ain, with his fierce "Ha! Ha!"

There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down— Or up—to Boucicault, These amateurs weren't competent To collar and assault. And when the winter time came round— "Season" 's a stagier phrase— The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one Of the Bard of Avon's plays.

'Twas As You Like It that they chose; For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing Rosalind Or some other page's part, And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass., A stalwart dry-goods clerk, Was cast for Oriando, in which role He felt he'd make his mark.

"I mind me," said the President, (All thoughtful was his face,) "When Oriando was taken by Thingummy That Charles was played by Mace. Charles hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length— If find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as Charles— But, alas, it can't be did—" "It can," replied the Treasurer; "Let's get the Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke Belonged to the P.R.; He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh; His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show. He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid- Dle measured twenty-one and a-half— Such was the Hunky Kid!

The Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged This pet of the P.R.; As Charles the Wrestler he's to be A bright particular star. And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did: Oriando...Mr. ROMEO JONES; Charles...Mr. HUNKY KID.

The night has come; the house is packed, From pit to gallery, As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see. A squeak's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the noble hoss.

All is at sea behind the scenes, Why do they fear and funk? Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk! He's in that most unlovely stage Of half intoxication When men resent the hint they're tight As a personal imputation!

"Ring up! Ring up!" Orlando cried, "Or we must cut the scene; For Charles the Wrestler is imbued With poisonous benzine; And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been."

The wrestling scene has come and Charles Is much disguised in drink; The stage to him's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink. Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honour lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines— His language recognise. Instead of "Come, where is this young——?" This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows: "Time! Fetch your Orlandos on!"

"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man," Fair Rosalind said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously; But Charles the Wrestler had no sense Of dramatic propriety.

He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones, In Graeco-Roman style: He got what they call a grape-vine lock On that leading juvenile; He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said—well, No matter what—and died!

When once the tiger has tasted blood And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat.

And thus it was with the Hunky Kid; In his homicidal blindness, He lifted his hand against Rosalind Not in the way of kindness; He chased poor Celia off at L., At R.U.E. Le Beau, And he put such a head upon Duke Fred, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know.

* * * * *

And that's precisely what came to pass, Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass. Cast the Hunky Kid for Charles!

—New York World.



A BALLAD OF A BAZAAR.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

First Day.

He was young, and she—enchanting! She had eyes of tender grey, Fringed with long and lovely lashes, As he passed they seemed to say, With a look that was quite killing, "Won't you buy a pretty flower? Come, invest—well, just a shilling, For the fairest in my bower!" Though that bower was full of blossoms, Yet the fairest of them all Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden Standing 'mong them, slim and tall, With her dainty arms uplifted O'er her figure as she stood Just inside the trellised doorway Fashioned out of rustic wood; And she pouted as he passed her, And that pout did so beguile, That he thought it more bewitching Than another's sweetest smile. Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds Were the little rounded lips; And the youth ransacked his pockets In a rhapsody of grips. Then he went and told her plainly That he'd not a farthing left, But would gladly pledge his "Albert"; So with fingers quick and deft, She unloosed his golden watch-chain— Coiled it round her own white arm, Said she'd keep it till the morrow As a souvenir—a charm.

Second Day.

Full of hope, and faith, and fondness, He went forth at early morn, And paced up and down the entrance, Like a man that was forlorn. Thus for hour on hour he waited, Till they opened the bazaar; Then she came with kindly greeting; "Ah, well, so then, there you are! Come, now, go in for a raffle— Buy a ticket—half-a-crown." Ah, those eyes! who could refuse them?— And he put the money down. Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her— Sought each movement of that face, With its wealth of witching beauty, And its glory and its grace. When the raffling was over, Thus she spake in tones of pain: "You are really most unlucky— My—my husband's won your chain!"



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop—first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself? (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin— (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore on fire) Thou imp of mirth and joy, In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub!—but of earth, Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail) Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny— (Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous trials of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistledown, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk— (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above.)



'TWAS EVER THUS.

BY HENRY S. LEIGH.

I never rear'd a young gazelle (Because, you see, I never tried); But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged uncle JOHN Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle!

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say, The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower, Would soon have wither'd it away. I've dearly loved my uncle JOHN From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on— I would he were a tree or flower!



MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

BY MARY MAPES DODGE.

Ovh! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands. To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I've been in Ameriky—bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!—to be bate by the likes o' them! (faix, and I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye'd better be listenin' than drawin' yer remarks). An' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure, an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night," says she. "And, Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure, an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin', and says, kind o' schared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty; an' ye'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and—Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If ye'll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it 'ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythens, and taich 'em all in our power—the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles; an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it's dyin' ye'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, an' he a-grinnin', an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin', that sharp, ye'd be shurprised, an' ketchin an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge o' the family—bad luck to him!

Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen, an' he a-atin' wid drumsticks?—yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' didn't the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an' me foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythen mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd been doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I been in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be sittin' down to pale the praties, or the likes o' that; an' do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses.

Did I lave for that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythen! Ye're aware yerself how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin'-blanket, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was a-spakin' pleasant an' respec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in, and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name or any other but just haythen)—she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles, an' emty out the sugar and what not where they belongs. If ye'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup of sugar, an' a han'ful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze, right afore the missus, wrap, 'em into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin'-blanket, an' pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein sly to put them in. Och! the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' missus sayin' "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle yer blood. "He's a haythen nager," says I. "I've found yer out," says she, "I'll arrist him," says I. "It's yerself ought to be arristid," says she. "Yer won't," says I, "I will," says she. And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. —Theophilus and Others.



THE HEATHEN CHINEE.

BY BRET HARTE.

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870).

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name! And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise,

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand; It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs,— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain.