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(

RETROSPECTION. Frontispiece.

THE SPEAKER'S

Complete pro^ra/r\.

A COLLECTION OF DIALOGUES, READINGS
AND RECITATIONS.

Arranged in Programs of convenient length for School or Evening

tntertaunnents. Witii short Selections suitable for Encores Rulks *"

OF Ordkr for Literary Societies, a Choice Selection of nisic,

a Juvenile Department; and John Pt.oughman's

PiCTLRES, by REV. C. H. SPURGEON.

lUtastrated withi

A SERIES OF PHOTOGRAPHS,

FORMING A GRAPHIC PORTRAYAL OF THE

ARTS OF GESTURE AND EXPRESSION

Arranged by
MISS SALLIE GRANCELL.

McDERMID & LOGAN,

I^ONDON, ONT.

l?93

Copyrighted by

DAVID W. CASKEY, Jr.

1891 and 1893.

Introduction,

All those who have had to do with literary entertainments o:
any kind, have felt the need of a more complete book of selections
than is contained in any "Speaker" now on the market. "Thb
Speaker's Complete Program » has been prepared to meet this
want. It contains a large number of entirely new selections
not found in any other book, vrhile along with these have been
placed a few of the old favorites whose excellence is such that
they are always well received.

For the convenience of teachers or anyone preparing literary
entertainments, nine complete programs have been arranged,
each of which will form an enjoyable and pleasing performance.
This feature will doubtless be of great assistance to those who
have not time or opportunity to make their own selections, while
not interfering with the use of the same matter for other purposes.

Great care has been used in choosing the numbers, and every-
thing objectionable has been carefully excluded ; therefore the book
can be safely placed in the hands of the youngest children. Our
aim has been to use only the BEST things from the field of liter-
ature. The ground to be covered was immense, but the selection
is confidently offered to the public for approval. A large amount
of original matter has been prepared especially for the book by
experienced elocutionists and educators.

ine juvenile department contains a number of selections
adapted to the smaller children. This has been the hardest class

otnoDUonoir,

of matter to find ordinarily, and we are sure this collection will be
appreciated by parents as well as teachers.

The often preferred request for " something suitable for an
encore" is met by a large number of short readings and recita-
tions selected especially for their adaptability for this purpose. Of
course any of them can be used in the regular programs or foe
separate delivery.

A large amount of temperance matter has been incorporated
in the book, and the advocates of cold water will here find many tell-
ing speeches in their favor.

It is hoped that the Complete " Program " will be found a useful
companion for the fireside as well as for the school room, since it con-
tains many of the GEMS of ENGLISH LITERATURE. No pains or
expense have been spared in illustrating and binding the book, that
it might be a desireable ornament to any parlor or library.

Spurgeon's ever popular "John Ploughman's Pictures" has
been included, first as oflFering a number of pungent and pithy short
speeches suitable for the school room, and secondly as being well
worthy of preservation in permanent form, from its literary merit,
sparkling wit and moral teachings.

The Rules of Order, prepared by James P. Boyd, A. M., will be
found a very useful and complete manual for lyceums, literary socie-
ties and village assemblies of all kinds.

The Musical Department includes a number of the choicest vocal
selections, suitable for use at evening entertainments. It forms a very
delightful addition to the book.

We desire to call -special attention to the illustrations that have
been prepared for us by Miss Sallie

r^^„^ — 11 4.1, 1-1 — 4.- J

VTiaiivcii, LUC ucxcuiaLCU

Philadel-

INTRODUCTION. f

phia reader, assisted by Miss Carrie Colbum, late of the Boston
Theatre Company.

These thirty-two illustrations present forty-five different emotions,
and each one will prove, to the student in this illimitable field, a val-
uable lesson in pose, gesture and facial expression. We feel
convinced that these pictures are destined to fill a long-felt want with
many students, who will find a careful study of them equal to any
course in the art of Gesture.

The Publishers.

» .. * ••

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

^ -iOTOGRAPHS.

Retrospbction . Frontispiece. '*°'

D^BCTION jy

«9

Dbvotion . , , ,
SupptlCATION , , ,

Rbsignbd Appbai, . ,
Triumph ....

MiSCBIBP ....

Caution ....
Stricti,y Confidbnwai,
Boasting and Ridicui,8

Mirth and SilLF-SATISFACTlON

Pouting and Tbasino "
Indignation and Explanation
Rbproop and Saucinbss .

COftUBTRY AND BASHrui,N88S .

Adibu

. 138
• 15s

. 191

. a35
. 344
• 293
•3"

330

347

365

384

Anticipatiow . ,
expbctation . , ,

Joy

Grbbtino . . , ,

BtBSSING . . , ,

Invitation and Hbsitation
Entrbaty and R^bction
Command and Dbpiancb

Accusation and Guiw

Vbngbancs and Fbar

Contbhpt

Horror .

Gkibf .

MomiNINO

Dbspair .

MADNBSa

. 40a
.403
.404
• 40s
. 406
. 407
. 40S
. 409
. 410
. 4"
. 413

.413
414
415
416

i}L,

CONTKNTS.

248

VAOB

. 4/0*

.403
.404
. 40s

. 406

• 407
. 40S
. 409

. 410
. 411
. 413

. 4x3
. 414
. 415

. 416

AUlity

Advice to Young Men... ts*

Affecting Scene, An .".■.■ lA

After Many Days l^.

After Twenty Years ,'.' ,?,

Ah.What? ^^,1

Alike '.'.'.'.■;.■ -^ '

Among the Animais. ..".'.'". .'..'.'. J^

AngeU Unawares 5^*

Antietam 68

Ascertain Your Weicht ,-n

Ashes .*■. •;;;•; '7|

As Quick as the Telephone "*68

Baby's Logic ,0?

Bahy's Mission -',1

Baby's Soliloquy '.".'.'.'.".'.'.".". ,Sj

Banncrm.in Ki\A» >><• n..'.. "j

iincrm.in Rode the Gray " 21 i

Beautiful Moonlight " ' .,

Beautiful, The.. . ,g^

Before the Sun Goes Down. ,ss

BeTemperate ?|,

Bible in the War. The. \V,

Bill and Joe '°i

Black Tom! ^',

Bob's Mother-in-law.. ,*{

Boy's Opinion, A ". ,".V..' ." .' ,*«

Boys Wanted ^92

" Boy Wanted ", . . ^,^

BraceUp J°

Brave Kate Shelley .'. ?"

Breaking the News ,,i

Brotherly Love.. "

Bunch of Cowslips, A... ,„

Busy Bee and Mule, The . .'.V.*.! .' ,* ,0?

Cabin Philosophy •'f 1

Caleb's Courtship 'Z

Call of Duty. TKe '.\\\\\ ,??

Canal- Boat, The ff|

Captain's Wife, The \\\\ "„

CarlDunder „ '39

Case of Poetic justice," A ."'.'..' .*!'.". [ -gj

Cat's Bath, The. ^2?

Charles Haddon Spurgeon '.'.".'.'. «,

Charlie Machree. ..... ^"

Chickrs,The ,y

Childhood 3»9

Child's Dream of a Star," A. jS

^u'!^;* £'"' Impression of a Stir," A '. '. '. '. '. '. ,2

Child's Funeral, The lol

Choosing a Vocation '.]", ,0,

Chosen, The .....'.'.'.'.'.'.'.' „

Chrismaa at Lyndaie Hall.. . .'.'.*. .„

City of the Living, The. . . ^

Classmates, The.. f?

Cobbler's Secret, The .'," " ,' * ,' * * ." ,' * ' \ [ Jl

Columbus -^

Coming and Going '.'", fli

Coming of the King, The ....'.'.'.'.'.'. ,i.

Commonplace. The '" iVa

Comparison, A Ji.

Complaining .' ^^

Consider the Lilies, ......".'.."." ^„

Contented Jim .' *"

Convincing Argument, A. .!! ".■..■.■.' ." .ti

Cool and Collected... I?!

Coquette, A .'.■.■ '"" Vtj

Cormac O'Grady's Courtihip" '...'.'.'. S'

Cousin John . 'II

Country Cousins '." 'f'

Countryman in Town. The". '.'.'.'.'.'. »„

"Coward " in Battle, The Se

Cowboy. The "S*

Curtain Falls. The ..'. ,?]

Dan's Wife f*J

Dawn of Spring. The '.'.'.'.'.'..'.'. ato

Death of Garfield, The ... . ^

Decorative *"

Delinquent Subscrilw," The". '. '.'.*.'.* ,?*

Depot Scene. A -^ f^

Desperate Situation, A ^

Diamond in the Rough, A vi

Don't f.;.. »5

Don't Marry a Man if He Drinicil! '.■.■.■.;;*. S

Don t Worry 2»

Do Something "" j7,

"Do They Miss Me at Hom;?";;;;:; "' ' 2!

Double Transformation, The • art

Down Hill with the Brakes Off «„

Do Your Best. "'j

Drama of Three Mornings, "The". '.'. is

Dream of Greatness, The ^

"Drink Deep the Spirit of the' Quirt Hiils'" ws

Drowned f^

Drunkard, A f^

Dublin Bay *IJ

Dying Newsboy, The *■.'■ '. 5?,

Dying Soldier, The 'I

Eggs That Never Hatch, The....;;;;.'::: S3

"Ehren on the Rhine" -if

Eleventh Hour Laborer, The '.'. aoi

Enemy. An 11

English Sparrow, The ""106

Entirely Different Matter, An * " * m

Eph Got There ! ......'..' i&

Epitaph on Owen Moore ! tilt

E Pluribus Unam !."!!!" i|o

Erring Son Reclaimed, The! ....".'.* ,^

Everybody's Darling "" Xl,

Fading, Still Fading TJT

Fair Attorney, A .'.'.'.'.'.'" 104

10
Fame.

CONTENTS.

Farmer Boffin'i Equivalent iS

Farmer, The. ..??... . \ll

FaUAge.A \ll

Fault Finding J?

Fire of Orif|-wo..<l, The.' '.'..'.'.'. ,?i

Flee at a Hird ]i°

Fleeing From Fate jvt

Floral Offeringi.... •*'

l^''[^^^/^!" -^Kcnt. The. '.■.■.■.■.■.'.■.■.'.■.'.■. nl

Folded Hand* ,^

For a Small Boy. . . fj*

ForaSmall Girl.... |2

Forty Year. Ago. ... .^S

Found Dead on ihe BattiefiVldV. V." ! ." 107

Fountain of Tears, The " ' ' 1,;

Four Celebrated Characteri.' .".■.".■.'.' vJ

Fowl Slander, A ^

Frank Ruby's Chriitmaa. ..." 7A

Frenchman's Toast, The ." . " .r?

Frightened Contraband, A.... ,1?

From the Factory °\

Frowns or Smiles 'I

Gaminof Rome, The... . ' \'Jt

Geology and 'Talers ". l}^

"Gypsy Countess, The " ■.'.■.■.'.■. 21?

Girl of Udiz, The *?^

GoitAlone I"?

Good-Bye. . . ; '.'.V. ^

Good Cheer in the Hoiise. VfL

Goo<l Company ,*?

Good Old Mothers |??

Good Works Wl

Cough's Eml«rrassment. . . ." ' "^

Gracious Womnnhood. , , ,„;

Grandfather's Barn ".' ,|I

Grandma's Rest ^?

Grandmother's Sermon. .".'.'.'. ,l«

Greenbacks 3°^

Grievous Complaint, A .*.'.'.. ". !2I

Guardian Angel, A.... ^I?

Gunner and the Bird, The ...'." 1 i .' ." St

Hand that Rocks the World. The. ee

Happiness >*

Happy Mart, A.. ..;;;■.;;:;:;••; j°j

Harry's Arithmetic ,fi

Harvest-tide ....

Hattie's Views of H^;*; Cleaning.! '.W'.'" r^L

Heart Bow',! Down. The ^S

He Can't Help It.. f^

He Loves Me '|f

Her Correspondent *. ,2

Heroes of .Sumter, The.. • ?I

He Wanted Vengeance ::::::; ,||

He Worried About It. . . . jjt

HU Flying Machine "i

His Noble Wife. '*'

Hia Registered Letter .■.■,■,*.'.■ 'f*

Hog Feeder's Song ,|*

Holidays are Coming, The. ...*.';;;; ,Z

Home Glimpses " ^o

Homesick . . 9*

Hot Box, A.... V.'. "9

How He Managed Aunt Betsey; ;;; \]l

How It Happened ' '♦"

How She Secured Him...;;.' |*,

Hunten "7

••••• 391

«>5

Huskin' Bee, P»

Immra!Jr''"""'""^"'"'"«^"-'"-^

InDeMornin' '.'.'.'. ^

Innocence ^

Inquisitive Child, An!.;!; ^„J

In Search of a Job " - -f J

Introductory Address ••••••• aai

Irony of Greatness, I he .;;;;; ,5?

Isaac's Address '"J

"It Is My Mother". 'A

It's lust An Idea of My Own.'.".'. .*.*.'. If

"I Want My Balloon". ?!

I Want Ter Know ; JO

, ack and the Rabbit i"

ack the Evangelist S;S

, amie *'*

jealousy in the Choir;.'.", * " ^1^

enny 9°

im...... 375

;oe ..■;.■.'.■;.■.■ '^

John Ploughman's Pictures". '.'.'. j!^

Judge Not 399

Jumper from Jumpi^iiieVA;; \l\

Tumor Partner Wanted. A V.'. «,

Kate 'ii

Keep a Stiff uppierLip";;;;;, ; 25

Keeping Up Appearances -io

Kindness Jj*

King and the CobblM," The. ■.■.■.'.'.■.*.■.; ! "" vn

Kiss Me Goodbye, Dear. JZ

Kivered Bridge, The. . . IJ;

Knife of Boyhood, The.. A

Knight's Pledge, The ■.■.■.'.■.;; ,15

I^rt Priyer, The 3"

Leaf from the Life of a Schooigiri, a!; .'." ,6
Left^Alone a. Eighty ..'.:...-^

Let the Cloth be White. ?*

F-? " .'^'"*' ^""^ ""ti Ten. ;;;;;; ,f ,

Life Mirror, A 3«7

Life Saved, A ... 3*4

Life's Battle •• '|*

"Life's Dream IsO'er" ,1

Lightning Rod Dispenser, The..'! tfa

Linger. O Gentle Time !??

Little Dot 3a«

Little Jim.,.. *33

Little Girl That Di^VThe v.". '~

Little Orphan Annie. ., . ^2?

Little Song. A *'3

Little Surprise. A.. '393

Little Teacher. The.;;; ^^9

I^ing Motto. A 39«

Lost Kiss. The '*?

Lost Penny. The 'fj

Love of Reading. The ;.*,V.'." ^,1

Love's Comine ^

Lullaby .v.'.'.*.; 3"

Maiden's Prav^r *'3

Making of the Eartii;;; ;;;;■. fi!

Mamma's Kisses !„

Mammy'* Churning Song. ;!;;;*; J^J

CONTENTS.

MMitgtng Wife, The 78

M«ry'« I^ml) With Variationi .',' 74

Master and the Reapers, The "" jja

Mattie't Wants and Wishes " " 180

M'Calta and ihe Middy .' ! '. 180

Memory Lesson, A ,,2

" Mending the Old Flag " ".'. .'.'.'.'.■.■.■. 146

Mere Coyness 212

Merry Christmas .'.'!.".' 43

Mistaken Philanthropy . i 10

Mistletoe. The ....'.'.'.'. 166

Model Church, The ' ' ' 202

Model Husband Contest, The 203

Model Woman, A \\ 250

Mr. and Mrs. Bowser go Shopping. ...!!!! 13

Mr. Bayberry's Dilemma '. ' 160

Mr. Blifkin's First Baby [[ 76

Mr. Bowser Bound to Have a Canine Pro-

'ector ,26

Mr. Dollinger Has Fun 250

Mrs. Bunker's City Shopping .....!."! 284

Mrs. Lester's Soiree 261

Mrs. Rabbit's School ^77

Mr. Tongue [[[[ %g

Must We Never Meet Again 33

My Ain Joe '" 210

My Lady !."."..!!.' 281

My Mother 292

My Neighbor and I !!.'..!!!! 255

My Welcome Beyond ..!!.... loj

Neighbor Jones \\[ 234

Neighlx)r!y Kindness ". . "" 21

New Birth, The „e

New Bonnet, The A

New Girl, The ,,T

New Ye«r'8 Talk, A ■..■.*"■■■■ 303

Niagara ,^5

Not • Drop More i^q

Nota Sparrow Falleth " " 240

Not So Green After All '" 28

Obstructive Hat, The .......' 200

October's Party .' .' 387

Old Bachelor on Female Friendships'.' An. ." '. 41

Old Man's Vigil, The V. . . . . «6

Old Village Blacksmith Shop 21

Once Upon a Time 303

One More 247

One Thing at a Time ..!..".'.' 378

One Touch of Nature [ 106

Only a Boy '' 387

Only the Brakesman ..". «|,

On the Other Train ',,[ 220

On the Shores of Tennessee ." 80

Opening Address ^87

Orchard Path, The '....'.'.'.'.'. 200

Our First Lesson in Courtship. ...'..'. 100

Our Harry 323

Our Lost Treasure .*!!..*.." 1 148

Over the River ','/. 47

Overwork 2e8

Parting, The .■;,■.';; *.;;;;; jj.

Peacefully Slumber ^

penalties of Civilization " * ' (S

People wc Meet ;.;.;;; 7,

Personal Influence [[[ 80

Philosophy in the Mud •••••••

Picket Guard, Th? ',', |b

Pilkin's Landlady ^j

{•itcherorjuB :;:;;;; ^

Plantation Song jij

Pluck and Prayer. ...!.,.. 76

Practical Joker, A i.

Practical Philosophy [,', ij

Prayers I Don't Like L,

Profanity .ii

Tft I ' >o7

Prologue -i

Purely Platonic .qT

Quaker Widow, The '.'.'.'.'.'.'" a05

Queer Little House, The '.' ^81

Questions _■_""■ 227

Raggedy Man, The !.!*....!!!! 383

Railroad Through the Farm, The tax

Rain Clouds ... 324

Raindro|)'s Ride, The ,80

Reason Why, The .'!".!.".".' 180

Recipe for a Day, A »8o

Reluctant Choice, A !.'.'!... 80

Resurrection, The .' .' igi

River Styx, The .".'."!! 121

" Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"! aco

Roll Call *^ • '"

Ruby ::;::;;:; aw

Rums of Palmyra, The 105

Rules at a Guthrie Hotel 1^7

Rules of Order Aa

" Ruth " ....!!.'.'!!.' SI

Sairy Jackson's Baby. . !....'..!.!,'.* 1 ,,

Sand ;;• ^f

Sand-Man, The 380

Saved by a Song ,5.

School-Boys' Trials .'.'.'.".'.'.','.'.' 180

School-Girls in a Street-Car H4

School-Girls' Trials \\\\\ ,70

Scott and the Veteran .....W 166

Scripture Siory in a New Form 300

"Shine! Blacking, Boss?" 54

Shopping .'.'.*.'.*.' 81

Shotgun Policy, The .........!". 01

Shutting Out Care ." 38

Single Man, The ,.',",' 282

Sin of Omission eg

Sister's Cake .....'.' 202

Six Years Old ..."..*.*.*.*. 378

Slang Phrases ......!.*!. 103

Sleeping Sentinel, The ',",',', 135

Slight Misunderstanding, A 257

Smart Husband, A Zg

Soldier's Pardon, The 121

Somebody's Mother ...!.! 377

Some How or Other .....". 275

Some One's Servant Girl 139

Some Other Day \ 2S0

Something Great ".'.!!!! 23c

Something in Store !.!!!!! io6

Sometime, Somewhere 241

Song of the All-Wool Shirt " " ^88

Spike That Gun 20

Sponpendykes, The 04

Stampede, The \^\ ^

Story of Don, A = = ...........!.. 210

Strength For To-day 107

Striking Instance of Man's Devotion ...... 41

Substitute Wanted, A , -iac

Suniliiny Hu»bwd,A '.,'.,, 241

-I

CONTENTS.

Sure Cure, A 314

Tableaux \ ^^

Tale of a Doe and a Bee 390

Tale of the Houiatonic 22%

Tar'i Farewell, The \\ 2J1

Terrible Whispering Gallery, The 160

That Railway Clerk 25

Thai Sewing Machine 132

That Silver Mine jng

That Terrible Boy " " " jX,

That Terrible Child .'.'. 154

Theology in the Quarters 305

Three Friends 03

Through the Breakers ji*

Thy Will Be Done '/, ^^q

Tiresome Caller, A '" itt

TollGate of Life, The '.'//, 334

Tonic of a New Sensation, The '.',', 350

Too Progressive for Ilim 310

Too Scientific ik.

To Those Who Fail ' " 216

Trifles.. ;; 34

Trouble in the Amen Corner «o8

True Nobility .-

Two Bibles, The '..'.'.'.'.'.'. 285

Two Brothers, The , 245

Two Kinds of Fun ' w?

Two Visits .'.. jl

Unbidden Guest, The 240

Uncle Pete's Counsel to the Newly Married '. 296

Unexpected, The 310

Unfinished Stocking, The .,, gi

Unromantic " " ,02

Vacant Chair, The !..!!!! 314

Valedictory ['"' ,g^

Valley of Chamouny, The 468

Veritable VaUey of Death, A ' .' ." 283

Volunteer's Wife, The |<u

Wakin' the Young Uns tai

Wail of the Unappieciated * f^t

War Horse, " Bay Billy," The *€

Watch Mother. ...... : -S

Wealth and Work [ "" 7it

Weiyh, Weigh '......'.'.'.'.'. 378

What Became of a Lie 'ign

What Day Will To-Morrow B^'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. 316

What it is to !« Forty r^

Where Do You Live ." i^!

Which Loved Best ,,2

wi'*<=h.i»why ::::: i]i

Who Lives -.n

WhoWasShe ,0,

Why He Was Bounced '..'..'. f,.

Why I Left the Farm "" ,^8

Widow ()'.Shane's Rint, The '.'. f <«

Widow, The ; ,2^

Wife Hunting Deacon, The ,,,', jg

Winter Jewels -gj

With Hearts Attuned '.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. 307

Woman Next Door, The 86

Woman's Right, A 30,

Word for the Boys, A ' " * ata

Word of Advice, A ;.'.' Xj

Words of Welcome ' ', 383

Words of Wisdom from Brudder Gardner.. 136

Working and Dreaming lex

Wrong Baggage, The .'.■.';'. ,00

Wrongs Will Be Righted Then 06

Yearn for Gone Womankind, A »ai

"Yesor No" f:g

You'll Soon Forget Kathleen .......'.'.',.'.'. 45

Young Man, This is For You 177

Youth ::::iii

©©npplete ^pogpanp ^o. i.

FOR

School and Evenino

ENTERTAINMENTS.

ARRANGED BY

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

MUSIC.

[Instrumental.]
MONASTERY BELLS.
aCENB:^ 7}i/ actors are arranged in order be-
Mind the curtain. 7 he one appointed steps
out and delivers the following prologue,
' written by Miss A. O. Briggs.

PROLOGUE.

fflnoe Oreece and Rome, with zealons pride, oonld

■how
Their own Denniethenee and Cicero,
Whose magio charm could win the listening ear
Of eager throngs who, spellbound, stood to hear
Through erery age, adown the course of time, '
Hath eloquence possessed the power suhlime,'
To mould the mind, to subjugate the will,
Incite to action, or the tempest still.
A mightjr power, by nought in man excelled;
A dangerous power, and graciously witheld
Safe from a chosen fowl We humbly claim
No laurel chaplet with these sons of fame,
No startling eloquenra, no wond'rous powers,—
The leniuers' crude attempts, alone, are ours.
Forbear, kind ftiends, a judgment too several
Believe oar aim, our efforts most sincera
To do our best.— And who can promise more?—
If we should fail (such things have been before),
Please take the will in praferenoe to the deed.
We'll try, at least, and hope we shall succeed
Tour kind attention amply to repay
With pleasant mem'ries yon may bear away.
For grave and gay, the lively, the anijtere.
We've brought ftom various fields, our glean-
ings here:
The several aetors, on our list enrolled,
Oreet yon with weloome. {OmMm riM) Kei^
mere— fattiiMI

MUSIC.

LA POLOMA, (The Dove) InstnimentaL
or BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT.— Vocal duet
Beautiful moonlight, peaceful and calm.
O'er the tried spirit pouring sweet balm;
Earth gleams with beauty, lovely and pale,
Wrapt like a bride in thy silvery veil,
See the blue wateri sparkle with light,
O, thou art lovely, beantiAil night I

Woodland and streamlet, homestead and towtr
Valley and mountain, own thy soft power- *
Murmuring zephyrs greet thee with song,'
List to their music, stealing along;
Pure is the spirit bathed in thy light,
Yes, thou art holy, beautiful night.

READINGS.

MR. AND MRS. BOWSER GO SHOPPING.

I HAD mentioned, in a casual way, that we
needed some dishes, a new carpet, and some
table-hnen, and that I must get down town and
buy them, when Mr. Bowser came home at
two o'clock one afternoon and said:

"Well, are you all ready?"

"For what?"

" Why, ta go down town and buy thoss
things."

" But I didn't know you wanted to go. In-
deed, I wish you wouldn't."

Oh, you do! Are you ashamed to be seen
in the street with me?"

"You know I am not. I'm afraid you-
you— "

"Well, what?"

" You'll jaw folks and get into a quarrel"
^ "Mr?. Bowser, uc you getting loft in the

THE COMPLETE PHOOnAM,

head ? Jaw folki I Get Intd a quarrel! Humph I
Are you coining?"

We II. ^» visited a carpet store. I had not
yet made up my mind whether to buy Brusseli
or velvet, nor whether (« set light or daric col-
on. I expected to take 4 cliaii. roll down
fifty pieces of each kind, and, to be all of two
hours making up my mind. One clerk ran to
place chairs for us. a second arranged the win-
dow curtains and a third inquired of Mr. Bow-
ler:

" Did you wish to look at some carpets? "
"Did I come here to buy oysters?" de-
manded Mr. Dowser.
"Ah— urn! Light or dark colors?"
"Light."

"But the dark are all the style, yoa know."
"I don't know anything of the sort I there
■re plenty of white horses and white houses
and white shirts and white hats ; and I don't
know why light carpets shouldn't be fashion-
able. Roll down this piece."

" But, sir. you won't like it. This dark pat-
tern is what Mrs. Gov. Smith selected for her
front bedroom."

" Yes. Well. I may get that for my horse
barn later on. Send up a man to measure the
room, and give me that light pattern."

"Why, Mr. Bowser I " I said, •• you haven't
selected already I "
"Certainly."

" But we— we "

" Five minutes is enough for any one to se-
lect a carpet. Mrs. Bowser. We want body-
brussels. and we want a light ground-that's
«U1 there is to it. We'll now go o/er and buy
the table-linen." '

" But can't I have time to look around ? "
"Time I What do you want of time ? You
want three linen table-cloths and two dozen
napkins. We've got the money to pay for 'eni.
What more is desired ? "
" But it's so sudden."
" So are earthquakes. We'll go in here "
Wc entered a dry-goods store and sat down
he i-crn counter. A young man came for-
'a^l '.:- viit on us. and after being told what
■at. wanted, he «-i ri»ri :

"^Jo you warn iome real linen? W<.]1 h--
« aomething I can recommend '<
"Isthatallllnen?"
••Y«%tir,"

"U It?" asked Mr. Bf wser. as he turned to
me. I didn't f ink it was. but I told Mr
Bowser to let it go. It was the cu«on. in all
dry-goods stores to lie about such things and iw
one thought of raising a row.

" Madam," said Mr. Bowser, as he look tlie
cloth over to a motherly old lady, "is tliai all
linen?"

"No, sir; it's half cotton I " she rtpliw'«fte»
an inspection.

" Where's the proprietor of thi? store ' " bf
demanded of the clerk.

" I-ril call him, sir."

The proprietor came tip.

" Is that linen ? ' asked Mr. Bowser.

"It passes for linen, sir."

" If you put a cow's horns and tail on a hors<
he'd pass for a cow. wouldn't he ? Sir. thif
looks to me like a petty swindle, and one yov
ought to b<^ ashamed of."

The proprietor began to blow up the clerk,
and the clerk said he'd resign ; and as «e koI
out doors I penned Mr. Bowser into a doorway,
and said :

"I'll never, never dare enter this store
again ! "

" Don't want you to. The man is a liar and
the clerk lied by his instructions. We'll try
another." The next store was crowded, and as
we reached the linen counter it was to find
every stool occupied. I tried to get Mr. Bowser
out, anticipating trouble, but unfortunately at
that moment one lady observed to another
" Dear me, but this is the third afternoon I've
come down town to buy a table-cloth, and I
haven't got suited yet."

" d / „ant four crash towels, and I've been
all ovev ',. i- , ^rice," replir I t^n other.

^ ' . "■ " snappeu ivir. Bowser to the
ckik, "rtre you busy?"
••Waiting on these ladies, dr."
" Have they bought anything?"
" No, sir."

"Are they going to?" '

•• I— I don't know."

•• Well. I've no time to fool away. We warn
three linen table-cloths and two doien naii>
Wns." *^

Tk- Uj: :.. • ,. . _ .

— '"^"ca aiusc in grcai masgnation. Kach
of them gave me a look thit pierced me to the
heart, and each one gave Mr. Bowser a look
whkh ought to have shortened bim two (mW

nrj OOMPLMTM P»O0aAM,

I he turned to
t 1 luld Mr
cuktoin in all
tilings and no

I he took Uie

'. "iitliai aJI

I rtpHct' «fte»
«ore ' " h«

'•er.

lit on a horir
5? Sir, thi»
and one you

p the clerk,
id as we jjot
I a doorway,

this store

is a liar and
We'll try
'ded, and as
was to find
Mr. liouser
tunately at
to another
:rnoon I've
loth, and I

d I've been

er.

I'ser to the

Wewanj
lozen nap*

in. Each
me to the

«r a look
two fetW

but which id no appair effisct. In s«v«n
nilnutes wc nad found what we wanted, paid
the bill, and were ir.i'lyto ({o. The clerk ai i"t
a bit sulky, and Mr. Ii wser was getting ready
to give him a blast, when I appealed to him to
hold his peace. I told him it was the custom
of several thousand ladies to come down town
every afternoon to shop, and that shopping con-
sisted of promenading up and down to show
their suits off to a lot of well dressed loafers,
and entering the stores and taking an hour and
a half to buy a sixpence worth of lace or ribbon.
The clerk melted a little, and I got Mr. Uowser
out without another eruption.

" Now for the dishes," he said, as we sUrted
for the crockery store.

My heart sank as I saw the place crowded
with ladies. We halted beside one who was
saying to the clerk :
" And so this tooth-pick holder is six cents ? "
" Only six cents, madam."
" How very cute I "
•' Yes. it is."
" And it is imported ?"
" It is."

•'How very, very charming I This is the
tame one I saw yesterday, is it ? "
"Oh! certainly."

" Dear me. but 1 wish I could make up my
mind whether to take it or not. You see we
may move in the spring, and if we moved, you

know "

" I want about fifteen dollars worth of dishes."
interrupted Mr. Bowser.
" Yes, sir. in just a moment."
" How many of these tooth-pick holders have
you got?"
"Only five,"

"I'll take the lot ; and now come and wait
on me. I want twelve cups and saucers,
twenty-four plates, three or four platters, two
tureens and a fish platter."

The lady turned and killed me dead with one
ong look. Then she looked at the back of Mr.
Bowser's neck and tried to murder him. but he
would not fall. Then she returned and killed
me over again, gave her shoulders a twist and
walked out of the store. She had hardly de-
pancu nucn ucsa at nvai asiieu our clerk, busy
though he was, to show her some teaspoons.

" Madam," said Mr. Bows< . "do you wish
to buy some spoons?"

vn town,

>strticiing

imen wf

"Perhaps *

" Do you know whether you do or not ? "

" Why— I—I will look at them."
■ Very well; you sit down and wait until I
am through buying. I camr 'o buy, know
\ hat I want, and shall pay cash Ui.wn."

I was killed again, and if looks « uld havt
cruslK d Mr. Bowser, he'd have been a i^ngled
cc'i^c in ten seconds. We were only if -necn
minutes in buying the dishes, and is we ^ out
and reached the car, Mr. Bowser

" Mis. Bowser, when you come
do you go fooling around i' '• stores
doorways and crosswalks ke the
have seen to-day ?"
'I— 1 guess I do."

' And end up by buying four cents > of

SOI tfthing?"

"Yes; it is the custom."

" And would it have laken you th- . ks

tobu what we bought in less than two h. s?"

"V ssir."

"T! ';n I'll write, this very day. to an ot
asylum and see if I can't sqweeie you in. s
no woi ler every other home is full of scanc I.
and every other husband wants a divorce !

A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH.

Hb wa I't one of these shiny, good-looking
chaps tha I see every day hanging about the
depot, drc ed in a long overcoat and plug hat.
and with, emingly. no other business than to
swing a di idy cane and stare at the ladies.
He didn't ear his hair parted in the middle.
To tell the mth, I don't believe it was parted
at all, for it ^ lod out all over his head in every
direction, am reminded one strongly of a bush
on fire. Th, he was from the country one
could see wit half an eye ; the evidences of
rural life were too plainly marked to be mis-
taken. His g-eat. round, good-natured face
had been kissed by the sun until it was the hue
of a peony, an ' was studdea with freckles as
thick as spots c i the back of a speckled hen»
His hands were > large that one of them would
have made two ,'ood-sized ones for a dandy
and left some o spare. He wore number
fourteen cowhides with his pants tiirked in to
show their yellow tops. His coat fitted him
about like a schoolboy's jacket and was of a
variety of colors owing to long usage and expos-
ure. Whisps of straw protruded from his

THE COMPLETE PEObSAM.

pockets and hung from every catchable place
about liim. In one hand he carried his broad-
brimmed straw hat. and in the otiier, an old
carj)et-bag which liad lost the lock and was fas-
tened together with a piece of wool twine ; and,
although great pains had evidently been taken
it was too full to effectually conceal from view
stray glimpses of its varied contents.

Seating himself by the side of an elegantly
dressed lady, and putting the aforesaid bag be-
tween his feet for safe keeping, he drew out his
red bandanna and mopped off" his forehead.

The lady drew away her rich silks impatiently
with a frown which said plainly, " You're out of
your place, sir." But he didn't seem to notice
it in the least, for very soon he turned to her
and remarked good humoredly :
" An all-fired hot day, marm 1 Coin fur? "
The lady deigned no reply.
Supposing himself unheard, he repeated in a
louder tone, "An all-fired hot day! I say,
marm, goin fur?"
No reply, but a look of supreme indignation.
"Why!" he exclaimed— evidently for the
benefit of the whole crowd—" the poor critter's
deaf." Bending forward he screamed, " I'm
sorry you're deaf, marm. How long have you
been so ? If you warn't born so maybe 'tis ear
wax what's hardened in your ears. I know
what'll cure that sure as guns. It cured my
Uncle Ezra. I'll give you a receet an' wel-
come. Perhaps you'd better write it down.

Take a leetle soap and warm wat "

" Sir," said the lady, rising, her eyes blazing
with wrath, "do you intend to insult me? I
will complain of you to the police! " and she
swept haughtily out of the depot.

"Waal, I never!" he exclaimed. "I'm
beat! What struck her? I'm sure I was jest
a speakin for hergood. I was only a goin' to
say. Take a leetle soap and varm water and
syringe it into the ears three times a day. It's
sure ; an I'll bet my best heifer on it, if she'd
only heerd to a feller, it would have done the
business for her. But some folks don't like to
hear their unfortunities spoke of, and 1 s'pose
I hadn't orter a' took any notice on it," and he
relapsed into silence.

Presently the western train ca. le due, and a
tired-looking woman came in with two children i
hanging to her skirts and a baby in her arms,
besides a bandbox and a satchel. It was the |

only vacant seat. She sank into it with a weary
sigh, and tried to hush the fretful baby and kecj»
watch of the two other restless flutter-budgets
who were also tired and fretful and kept tea*
ing for this and that until the poor mothel
looked teady -to sink.

" Pretty tired, marm?" remarked Jonathan
"Goin fur?"

"To Boston, sir," replied the lady, courte-
ously.

" Got to wait long ? "

" Until three, "(glancing at me). " O. dearies,
do be quiet ; and don't tease mother any
more."

" Look a here, you young shavers, and see
what I've got in my pocket." and he drew out:
a handful of peppermint drops. In a few
minutes they were both upon his knees, eating;
their candy and listening eageriy while he told
them wonderful stories about the sheep and
calves at home.

But the baby wouldn't go to sleep. He was
quite heavy and wanted to be tossed the whole
time. Jonathan noticed this ; and finding a
stnng somewhere in the depths of his old car-
pet-bag. he taught the two children a game
which he called, " Cat Cradle." Soon they
were seated on the depot floor as happy as two
kittens.

" Now let me take that youngster, marm."
he said. " You look clean beat out. I guess
I can please him. I'm a powerful hand with
babies." and he tossed the great lump of flesh
up until it crowed with delight. By-and-by it
dropped its head upon his shoulder and fell
fast asleep. Two hours afterwards I peered
through the window as he helped her and her
belongings aboard the cars, and I don't believe
if he had been the Czar of Russia she could
have looked any more grateful or thanked him
any sweeter.

"'Tain't nothin* at all, marm.' I heard
him say, bashfully, but I knew she thought dif-
ferently, and so did I.

He came back, resumed his seat, and buying
a pint of peanuts from a thin-faced little girl-
giving twelve cents instead often for them— sat
munching away in hearty enjoyment until the

i-.i. ii„ir» .a.i.v Otic, iiicn ne snatciicU

his dilapidated carpet-bag and that of an old
lady near by, who was struggling feebly towani
the door.

llOUfi

THE COMPLETE PEOOSAM.

1»

' Lean right on me, marm ; I'll see you safe
Lrough," he said cheerfully.
J The conductor shouted " All aboard ! " and
|ie train muved away.

As I looked around at the empty seats I
liought— " Something bright has gone out of
Tis depot that doesn't come in every day— an
onest heart— a diamond in the rough."

MUSIC.

PURE AS SNOW; Instrumental

RECITATIONS.

THE WIFE-HUNTING DEACON.

BY MBS. h. D. A. OUTTLB.

IpooB Deacon Brown, in the prime of life
iHod buried hio loved and loving wife ;
JAod what in the world could the deacon do
I With four amall boys, and a baby, too ?
I Joseph and Jesse, Isaac and Paul —
I And none but the deaccn to do it all?

■ So he said to neighbor Jones one day,

■ In a semi'serions kind of a way,
I" ril tell yon, Jones, I am sick, indeed,

Of the lonely, humdrum life I lead ;
I It would brighten the gloom of my lonely life,
I If I only— well, if I had a wife !
I And then, my friend, yon are well aware
That my poinr little babes need a mother's care
If I knew of a woman, kind and good.
That would care for them as a mother should,
Why, ueighbor Jones, I would give my life.
But where, oh! where can I find a wife ?
There is widow Smith, b'ut don't yon see,
She isn't the woman at all for me.
I do not care for a pretty face,
A lovely maid with a form of grace.
But give me a woman of common sense,

And not a miserable bill of expense

Hearty and rugged and ready to work,
Never complaining nor trying to shirk;
One who can go, ifths need demands,
Out in the field with the harvest hands,
'Viid woaldn't consider It ont of her place—
Oh ! I wouldn't give much for a pretty face."
" Well, Deacon," said Jones, with a comical sigh,
While a bushel of fun twinkled right in his eyel

I know of a woman, vnn ma v HnnsRd
Who will make you a tip-top wife, my friend;
She lives in the border of Barrytown,
And I'm snre she will salt you. Deacon Brown,
She's not very hudeome, bnt then, I suppose^

That yoa don't care m cent for the length of hei

nose.
Nor yet for the cat of the lady's clothes.
She is always ready to do the chores, '
Or to work on her farm with the men out doon
When help is needed — you underataud —
Samantha Simpkins is right on hand."
"Indeed 1 " said the deacon, in friendly tones,
"I'm much obleeged to ye, neighbor Jones."

The very next Sunday Deacon Brown
Drove in his carriage to Barrytown ;
And you may be sure that the deacon dreeaed
In his new plug bat and his Sunday beat.
He had spent an hour dyeing his hair;
And he shaved his chin with the greatest care,
" For," he said to himself as he drove away,
" We ought to dress well on the Sabbath day."
The day was warm— it was rather late
When be tied his horse at Samantba's gate.
" This here is splendid ! " the deacon said
As he cast a glance at the barn and shed.
" The house looks neat, and the yard is clean,
And the farm is the slickest that can be seen."
And he wiped the sweat from his dripping brow.
" Ah! this is the woman for me, I trow ! "
Then his hctrt beat hard, and he said no morc^
And he gently knocked at the parlor door.
He heard a rush and a heavy tread —
" I guess it's a man," the deacon said.

Then the door was hastily opened wide—

And the frightened deacon stood beside

A swarthy dame that was six 'eet two,

Who sported neither boot nor s >oe.

She wore on her head a broad-brimmed hat,

Old and battered and worn at that.

Her nose was long, and her eyes were black,

And her coarse, dark hair hung over her back.

She had just come in from her well-kept form,

Ard she carried a pitchfork under her arm.

" I b% your parding! " continued be,

" It is Miss Samantha I'd like to see."

'* Wall," said Samantha—" that is met"

I presume yon called to see the hay

I offered for sale the other day.

The deacon didn't know what to say^

Or how in the world to get away.

"Say, what do yon want of me ?" she cried.
Auu she stepped right up io the deacon's side.
" Nothing ! " said he with charming graoe.
Then she slammed the door in the deacon's fhoe.
The wonder is that he didn't fall.
For he went throogh the gate like a cumon-lmllt

TBJl CQUFLETX PBOOltAJL

And wheu, at \n».%, he was safe fVom barm,
A mile or m froiu the Sinipkius I'arm,
Ae said to lilmseir, ia smothered tonea,
" If ever again that wicked Joues

Crosses my path, I'll break bis boneal "

« •

A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.

In the rarest of Euglisb valleys

A motherles!) girl ran wild,
And the greenness and silence and gladness

Were soul of the soul of the child.
The biid.4 were her gay little brothers,

The squirrels, her siveethearts shy ;
And her heart kept tune vrith the raindrops,

And sailed with the clonHs in the sky
And angels kept coming and going,

With beautiful thinKS to do;
And wherever they left a footprint

A cowslip or primrose ijrew.

She was taken to live in London—

So thick with pitiless folk—
And she could not smile for its badness,

And could not breathe for its smoke ;
And now, as she lay on her pallet,

Too weary and weak to rise,
A smile of ineffable longing.

Brought dews to her faded eyea.
Oh, me! for a yellow cowslip 1

A pale little primrose dear!
Won't some kind angel remember

And pluck one and bring it here?

Vhey broiight her a bnnch of cowslips;

She t<Mik them with fingers weak.
And kissed them and 8troke<l them and loved them

And laid them against her cheek.
** It wiM kind of the angels to send them ;

And now I'm too tired to pray —
If Oo<l looks down at the cowslips,

He'll know what I want to sj,\y."
They buried them in tier bosom ;

And when she shall wake and rise,
Why may not the flowers be quickened,

And bloom In her huppy skies?

SPIKE THAT GUN.

Th« great struggle for victory on the heights
of Inkerinan was decided by a young officer
bravely carrying out an order to spike a gun
that was sweeping down the troops with its shot

and shell. The battery had to be approached
with great care, or the attacking party would be
swept away before the gun could be reached.
The officer in command led his men under the
cover of some rising ground and then waited
his opportunity to face the baUery. At first a
brother officer who accompanied the party said
that it was perfect madness to attempt ah at-
tack, and the men began to feel that it was
charging into the arms of death ; but the officer
who had received the order to spike that gun
was determined to carry it out or die in the at-
tempt ; and, addressing his small party said :
" If no man will stand by me, I shall go alone.
Who'll volunteer?" He went out from the
shelter of the rising ground wiiere he had halted
his men and faced the battery. No sooner did
the men see his brave determination to carry
out his instructions than they rushed to the
front, and, with a victorious shout, took the bat-
tery and spiked the gun. That brave deed
turned the battle scales to victory in favor of
the British. The Russians lost all heart when
the battery, which had done such deadly mis-
chief to the troops all that fearful day, was
silenced and the gun spiked.

The conflict between good and evil is still
raging. Year after year rolls on and the deadly
strife continues. The ranks have been thiimed
but new recruits rush in to fill the gaps. The
insatiate battery of destruction belches forth its
death-dealing missiles, thousands and tens of
thousands are falling around us — who will vol-
unteer to silence that battery ? Who will spike
that gun.?

THE CITY OF THE LIVING.

Ik a long vanished age, whose vaiied stoiy
No record has to-day —

So long ago expired its grief and glory-
There flourished fhr away.

In a broad realm whose beauty passed all nieaa>
ure,
A city fair and wide.

Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and pleasnr*
And never any died.

Disease and pain and death, those stem maian-
ders,
Which mar onr world's fair face.

Never encroached npon the pleamnt bordcn
Of that bright dwelling-place.

No fear of parting and no dread of dying

wmnmm

TBS COUPLETS PliOOBAM.

Could ever eDt«r there ;
No monrniug for the lost, no angnieh crying.

Mude any face less fnir
Withoat the city's wulla, Death reigned as ever,

Atad graves rose side by side ;
Within, the dwellers laughed at his endeavor ;

And never any died.
Oh, happiest of all Earth's favored places!

Oh, bliss to dwell therein I
To live in the sweet lifiht of loving faces

And fear no unvo between!
And hurrying from di- viirld'sremotestquarters,

A tide of piJKi'iiii'.i iluwed,
Across broad plains and over mighty waters

To find that blest alKxie,
Where never death should come between and
sever
Them from their loved apart,
Where they might work and win and live forever,

Still holding heart to heart.
And so they lived in happiness and pleasuro.

And grew in power and pride,
And did great deeds, and laid up stores of tieas-
nre.
And never any died.
And luany years rolled on and fonnd them striv-
ing
With unabated breath ;
And other years still found and left theu living

And gave no hope of death.
Tet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity

Craving a boon like this—
Mark how the dwellers in that wondrous city

Grew weary of their bliss.
One and another who had been concealing

The pain of life's long thrall,
Forsook their pleasant places and came stealing

Outside the city wall.
Craving with wish that brooked no more deny
ing,
So long had it been crossed,
The blessed possibility of dying
The treasure they had lost.
Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals

Swelled to a broader tide.
Till none were left within the city's portals,

And graves grew green outside.
Would it be worth the having or the giving,

The boon of endless breath.
When for the weariness that comes of living

There is no cure but death ?
purs were, indeed, a fate deserving pity

Were that sweet rest denied ;
And few, methinks, would care to find the city
Where never any died.
2

MUSIC.

DREAM FACE WALTZ ;

OLD VILLAGE BLACKSMITH SHOP,

SONG AND CHOKUS.

Now some love to visit far distant lands.

Some go to Paris and E<.me,
But the spot I love best and I'm longing to see,

Is my own little sweet village home.
It was there many times I play ad when a boy,

And there's where I al ways could stop.
To see the old blacksmith display bis great powers,

In the old village Blacksmith Shop.

CHOBUS.

Oh I bang, bang, bang, goes the hammer on the

anvil.
All day long at the door I'd slop.
Listening to the music made by honest toil
In the old village Blacksmith Shop.

When I was a boy my companions and I

Would stand bj the old Smitl<y'8 fire.
And gase on the blacksmith with wonderland,
awe.

At his sinewy arm and his glowing pyre.
It was then the old man would turn round and
smile

And then from his work he would stop,
To play with us lads an if he were our dad.

In the old Tillage Blaeksniiih Shop.

Chobds.'
Oh, ofben I think of those days long gone by.

When to the old Smithy I'd go.
To assist the old man, on a box I wonid stand,

And with pleasure his bellows would blow.
But the old man has gone to his last resting place;

No more at the door shall I stop
To see the sparks fly from the fire to the sky,

In the old village Blacksmith Shop.

CH0B1>fl.-

COLLOQUY.

NEIGHBORLY KINDNESS.

■ Sally Marks and Jehn)e

Characters.
Sprague.

SCEtiE.—Itoom furnished with small table,'
flower pot, chairs, etc. Screen in the rear,
or door leading into another room. Sallf
sewing.

Sally. Thank fortune, the house is clear-
not even Bridget left at home to disturb me

TUJB VUMFJUm'tt fUUUttAM,

i^K

with a ceaseless round of household perplex!- 1 Shall I sew up this seam ? (Snatching som^
ties! I'm in such a hurry about my sewing! work.)
Now if everybody will be so kind as to stay
away, I may hope to accomplish something.

£HUr JeHHie. Good-morning, Sally. How
do you do ?

SaUy (Attempting to rise). Why, my dear
Jennie I

ytHHu. Now don't get up; keep at your
work. I've come to spend the day, and will
not make you the least trouble.

Sally. But you will certainly let me take your
things?

yennie. Not at all. (Giving her hat and

Salljf. Yes ; overcast it, please.

Jennie (Rocking and sewingj. Now Isn't
this nice ! It reminds me of the sheets and pil-
low cases with their endless over and over seams
I used to make when I was a little girl— bu^
what in the world are you doing?

Sally (Picking up spools, etc.). 1 can't work
unless my things are in order.

Jennie, F ie ! How particular I Let me help
you. (Tossing in the things.)

Sally. Wait Jennie, dear; that ' 't the way.
It is delightful to have a place for everything.

./' — - — — ••■ V ' ■'& ■"-■ •■•**■ <"iM I *i ■» u^iigiiiiui lu iiitvc n

•hawl a toss and breaking off a house plant.) and everything in its place

'PLk_. I \7-*.. A.\ J«_ * ^ M^

There! You see they are disposed of.

Sally (Starting up). Oh, dear!

Jennie. Why, what have I done ?

Sally (Uncovering the plant). My beautiful
flower !

Jennie. Did I break it? Never mind, there
»re (>'ienty more in the world.

Sally (Ruefully). But this is very rare ; and
the bud is broken.

Jennie. Indeed, I am very sorry.

Sally. Well, it can't be helped ; and, Jennie,
you must excuse me if I return to my sewing.
I promised Alice her wrapper this evening. She
'eaves day after to-morrow.

Jennie. So soon ? How fortunate that I came
over to help you ! Let me see— I can work but-
tonholes nicely.

Sally. Indeed, you must do no such thing.
You may Ulk and I'll work.

Jennie. No, no ; I am determined to show
"ihat I can do. (Searching her dress pocket).
Why, Where's my thimble? I surely had it yes-
terday. Have you one you can lend me ? Oh,
I can find it myself if it is in your work-basket
—there goes the whole thing ! (Upsetting the bas-
ket.)
Sally. Oh, dear 1 I had just put it in order.

Jennie. How unlucky ! One might stock a
fancy store with the cortents of your basket.
My ! your thimble's an open top ; I can't sew
with it. Please exchange, if it is all the same to
you.

Sally. It isnlt all the same, but never mind !
(They exchange.)

Jennie. Oh, thank you 1 Now we are ready ; i
aeVer mind the spools and things just now.

Jennie. More delightful than practicable, ac.
cording to my experience. (Unconsciously fas-
tening a needle on her waist. ) Now, Sally, let's
sew. We can rush things right through now.
Many hands make light work. Just think how
much more cosy and sociable this is than for you
to be shut up here alone stitching away for dear
life. O, Sally, what's the use of overcasting
this seam? I never could overcast. It's all
higgledy-piggledy.

Sally (Examining it with a suppressed sigh).
Suppose you leave this and do something else.

You say you can work buttonholes nicely, try

this. (Giving her one end of the wrapper. )

Jennie. Oh, thank you ! This is just the
thing. So Alice is really going away to spend
the winter ? I almost envy her the nice oppor-
tunity for sight-seeing. I hope she will bring us
back some nice relics fur keepsakes. It is so.
monotonous to be obliged to stay at home, year
out and year in ! Seeing the same old things
over and over again ! It is just too t iome
for anything ! O, Sally, this buttonhole is aper^
feet pig's eye as mother would cal! it. It wiU
never do, will it i

Sally (Examining it). Why, Jennie, it isn't
exactly — well ; you know, Alice is so particular!
To tell the truth, Jennie, I think it would giv«
her typhoid symptoms, at least. (Laughing.)

Jennie (Distressed). Oh! let's rip it, can't
we, or darn it up, or set in a new piece, or som#-
thing ?

Sally. I guess I can remedy it ; but now, I
think. "Qn had hotter rest.

Jennie (Scornfully). Rest? No, indeed;
just when I've made up my mind to be usefuL

There's a rent in your shawl ; I'll dam it

TEE OOMPLETS PROOItAU.

matching som^

1 can't work

ennie, it isn't

Sa/fy. Oh that was such an unfortunate
tear; I shall have to mend it very carefully.

yeHHie. Just tfie thing! You'll see I have
a real genius for darning. But where's the
yarn? {Sally finds it.) And now, I want a
worsted needle.
Sa/fy. You'll find one in the needle-book.
yimmie. But where's the needle-book? not
in the basket. It must have rolled off on the
floor somewhere.

Sa/fy. Well, look it up, dear; really I
haven't time.

Jenriu. (Jennie flies around, tosses things
about, upsets the work-basket, etc.) Oh, my!
Sally, dear, if you don't help me find that
needle I never shall get anything done. (Both
look.)

Sa//y. Why, Jennie, you little goose, it's on
your waist this minute.

yienMtf. So it is. How did it ever get there ?
(Sitting down to her work.) Well, now I hope
we re settled once more.

Sa//j> (Arranging things). Not yet Let
me set things to rights first

yetiHie. Why, Sally, don't you know you
never will accomplish anything if you are al-
ways stopping for trifles? When I have any-
thing important to do I always plunge right
into it

Sa//jf. Slow and sure is my motto. I never
can work where things are at sixes and
sevens.

y^Hie. You had better hunt up something
more for me; I shall have this done directly.

Sa/fy (Observing her). Why, Jennie, you
are getting it all in a pucker ! Let me show
you. (Taking a few stitches in Jennie's work. )
This is the way.

yennu (Injuredly). Why, isn't it right?
Indeed, you make me feel very uncomfortable
—when I'm trying so hard to help you, too!

Sa//y. Excuse me, dear ; do it as you like.
(Aside.) I can rip it out to-morrow.

yeHnif. What did you say ?

Sa//y. Oh, pray, go on with your sewing,

yiennie. Aren't you tired of it ?

Sa//y. Oh, no, not unless you are.

Tfnnie. (Displaying an awkward dam with
evident satisfaction.) There, my lady, confess
it would have taken, you two hours. So much
for having a sleight of hand; and I don't think
it hurts the looks of it one bit to have it drawn

a little, do you ? (Throwing it aside and rock-
ing back and forth. ) Well, what next?

Sa//y. O, Jennie, you have done enough,
(Aside.) in all conscience! (Aloud.) I am
quite obliged to you.

7fnnu. Are you, really? That's delight-
ful I 1 like so much to do a neighboriy kind-
ness; and now I am in the spirit of it. I shall
really have to go and help Bridget, if you have
nothing else for me to do.

Sa//y. Bridget has gone home to-day. A'
our family are all away, I thought it a good
time to let her go and see her sick mother.

Jennie. And are you all alore ?

Sal/y. Yes, Jennie, and you will have to
put up with a cold lunch for dinner.

Jennie. Oh. charming! Let me get it
ready ; it will be such fun, besides saving your
time. '

Sa//y. Very well, dear. Bridget left every-
thing ready in the pantry— cold tongue and
biscuit and cake and— oh, there's a little jar of
pickles on the third shelf-let's have some.

JennU (Flying around). Let us set this
httle table— it will be so cozy! But, Sally
Where's the tablecloth? (Sally disappears and
returns with the tablecloth.) Thank you»
Now go back to your sewing— I will get the
plates. (Exit Jennie.)

Sa/fy (Calling off). And there are some
plum preserves in a little glass can by the win-
dow. (To herself.) Oh, dear, this work isn't
half done! Jennie is good-hearted and means
well enough, no doubt but how she does hinder
me ! I wish she had been sent on a mission to
the heathen Chinese instead of appearing ts
me just at this time when I have so much to
do.

Jennie (With her hands full of dishes).
O, Sally, Where's the butter knife? I can't find
it

Sa//y. Never mind ! We won't be particu*
lar. Another knife will do as well for this tim»
(Exit Jennie.) If I can only keep her out o*
mischief, it's all I ask.

Jennie (Enters with biscuit and meat). O
Sally, I soused the pickles right into the crean.

pot! What will RriHcr«» £!•»> ^^a a ^

and help me find the mustard ; I want to mix
some for the tongue.

Sal/y. You can't mix it without hot water,

Jennit. Yes, I can— so come. (Exit both.)

THE COMl'LETE I'ROQHAM.

Saily (Enters calling out). Don't forget
tlid plums Jeunie, (Resuming her work.) 1
never will get this wrapper done ; poor AUce
will be so disappointed ! And 1 had planned for
such a quiet day !

Jennie (Enters). Sally, Sally! Why
don't you keep your tea in a tin caddy ? I got
out too much preserves, and tliought I'd put
■some back and 1 plumped them right into the
black tea! It is in a glass jar and the two jars
are just alike. Oh, what will ISridget say when
she goes after a "drawin of tay?" (Both
laugh. )

Saily. I must go and attend to it. (Leaves
the room.)

(Jennie to herself.) Every thing is on the
table now but tlie water. I'll fill the pitcher
and get a couple of goblets and then we may
sit down to our noonday repast. (Leaves the
room.) (Sally comes back.)

ySally to herself.') Oh, well," what can't be
cured must be endured," I suppose (Hears a
sound of breaking glass.) What's the matter
now, Jennie ?

Jennie (Entering with the goblets). Dear !
dear ! How unlucky I am to-day ! It has been
a complete chapter of accidents.

Sally. What is it now Jennie ? Do tell me.
ifou look so troubled !

Jennie. I was reaching up to get the goblets
and happened to hit a hand lamp, standing on
the shelf, where Bridget had very carelessly
left it, and knocked it olT into the cake box.
The lamp is broken all to smash and the oil and
glass scattered around promiscuously.

Sally. I will go and clean it up. (Leaves
the room.)

Jennie (Arranging the table). Not just
now, Sally, come back and let us have our lunch
first. It is all ready. (Bell rings violently.)
Goodness ! hear that door bell ! I hope the house
isn't on fire. Do go, Sally. (Looking at the
table complacently.) Now I think I have done
pretty well. I've sewed and darned and mixed
the mustard and set the table and — (draws a
longbreatli.) I've, really, been a friend in need :
but dear me! (Looking at Sally's w6rk.)
Sally doesn't get along at all. How slow some
people are!

{Enter Sallie.)

Sally. Jennie, it's a servant for you : — ^your

grandmother has just arrived, and wants you
immediately.

Jennie. Grandmother! I' liope she- has
brought the pearl necklace this time. I must go
at once.

Sally. But you'll stay for lunch? ^

Jennie (Flurried). Can't stay a minute,
grandmother is so particular! (Seizes hat and
shawl overturning basket and Power pot.) lliere
g^es that unlucky work-basket again, and the
flowerpot. Goodness, gracious ! Where's my
scarf? (Sal^ holds it out to her; she snatches
it across the table overturning things generally.)
There goes the mustard. Good-by ! (Kissing
Sally.) I'm so glad I took it into my head to
come a.id help you to-day 1

Sally. Good-by 1 Come again and remem-
ber I am much obliged to you (aside) forgoing.
(Exit Jennie.)

' Sally (Surveying things). Here's a pretty
mess! Everything topsy-turvy! Mustard
pretty thoroughly mixed, I should say 1 Pickles,
in the cream pot, plums in the tea caddy, oil in
the cake-box, broken glass scattered over the
pantry floor — and such sewing ! — It will take me
longer to rip it out than it did to do it. Well, if
this is what she calls neighborly kindness, I must
say, " Deliver me from it! "

School Festival.

MUSIC.

AVES OF OCEAN GALOP:— DUET.

READING.

HIS REGISTERED LETTER.

Hans Blukhan got mad the other day. It
was in London : There were a number of new
letter-carriers wanted in the post-office depart-
ment, and five or six score applicants were on
hand to be examined by the shrewd medical
gentlemen who were appointed to conduct this
rigid scrutiny. Among these, was fat Hans
Blukman, a well-to-do tradesman. He stood
about the middle of the long line, before the
closed doors of a room at the post-office build-
ing. He waited his turn with perspiring im-
patience. Every now and then, the dour would
open, a head would be thrust through the crack
of the door and cry " Next 1 ' ' Then somebody
—not Hans Blukman— would enter.

id wants you

THX COMPLETE PROGRAM.

9ft

1 and remem-

At last It came Han's turn. He entered and
found himself alone with a man of professional
aspect. Hans held out a slip of paper. The
dignified official merely glanced at it and
said:
"Take off your coat."
•• Dake off mine goat ? Vot you dink I come

/or? Togetshafed? I vant "

"Al! right. Take off your coat, or I can't
examine you."

" Den I vos got to be examined ? So ? Dot's
all right. I s'bose," and off came the coat.
"Off waistcoat, too!"
" Look here, my vriend, you dink I was a
tief? You vantsto zearch me ? Veil, dot's all
right. I peen m honest man, py dunder, und
you don't vind no schtolen broperty my clothes

insite 1 I vas never zearch pefore already "

" I don't want to search you : I want to
examine you. Don't you understand?"

"No, I ton'd understand. But dot's all
right ; dere's mine clothes off, und if I cold
catch, dot vill your fault peen entirely."
. The professional man placed his hand on the
visitor's shoulder blade, applied an ear to his
chest, tapped him on the breast-bone and
punched him in the small of the back, inquir-
ing if it hurt.

" Hurt? No, dot ton'd hurt ; butmaype, if
dose foolishness ton'd stop ; somepody ellusgits
bretty soon hurt."

"Does that hurt?" was the next question,
accompanied by a gentle thrust among the ribs.

" No, dot ton'd hurt ; but, by dunder, it "

" Be quiet I I'm in a hurry— I've a dozen
more to attend to. Now, cau you readthiscard
when I hold it out so?"
"No."

"Can you read it now?" bringing it a few
inches nearer.

" No ; but you choost pring me out my speg-
taglesby my goat pocket and I read him."

" Oh ! that won't do. Your sight is defec-
tive, I -am sorry to say, and you are rejected.
Put on your clothes— quick, please."

" Dot's all right. So I vos rechected, eh?
Well, dot vas nezzary. I subbose ; but it's very
vunny, choose the same. And now I've peen
rechected und eggsamined, mayoe, you don'd
some objections got to git me dot rechistered
letter?"

" What registered letter ? "

" Dot rechistered letter vot vas spoken about
on dis piece baber."

"The dickens! Who sent you to me wit,',
tiiat ? I tliought you had come to be examined.
Didr"; you apply to be a letter-carrier?"

"A letter-garrier ? No I don't vant to be a
letter-garrier. I half bizzness got py mineself.
but I vants my rechistered letter from Sliar-
meny vat mine brudder sents me."

" Here," said the doctor to a messenger ir
the lobby, "show this man the registered-letter
clerk," and the bewildeied foreigner was con-
ducted to the proper window wliere after passing
through such a trying ordeal he finally received
his letter from " Sharmeny " all right.

THAT RAILWAY CLERK.

There were a dozen of us waiting at the sta-
tion near Strasburg, Va., for the noon train.
Every one had cut his dinner short to catch the
train, but the hour arrived— five— ten— twenty
minutes passed, and then everybody wondered
what had happened. The ticket agent was also
the telegraph operator. He was a young man
of twenty, illgrained and supercilious, but im-
patience overcame the fear of him and a
woman stepped to the window and asked :

" Is the train late?"

" Um ! " he growled in reply. »

" How late is it ? "

"Um!"

That finished her and she resumed her seat.
Five more minutes slipped away, and a very
solemn looking man carrying a very solemn
looking carpet bag advanced from his corner
and began :

" Train is late, isn't it ? "

"Yes."

" How late is it ? "

"Um!"

" What's the cause of it ? "

No answer. He hung around for a minute
longer and then solemnly marched back to his
seat, and gave some one else a chance to get
bluffed. After the fifth one had been tumed
away, a short, solid, grizzly-headed man, who
had been whittling a shingle on the platform
and softiv hnmminor >• Wa mnn't ~» u^-.. ^mi

morning," entered the waiting-room, looked up
at the clock and then sauntered to the ticket
window and queried :
"Whar's that train ?''

THE COMPLETE rSOGRAJk.

The young man wt* looking over some
freight bills and did not raise his head.

"Whars— that— train?" repeated the whit-
tler in a louder voice.

The agent looked up for a second, but let
his eyes fall again without vouchsafing an ari-
•wer.

•' Whar's— that— train ? " shouted the passen-
ger as h- brought his fist down on the shelf.

No answer. After waiting ten seconds he
walked out doors, turned to the right, and en-
tered the ticket office through the freight-house.
Walking straight up to the agent, he reached
over the table and seized him, pulled him across
like a streak of lightning, and as he gave him a
•hake and jammed him into a corner he called
•ut:
" Whar in thunder and blazes is that train?"
" It's a coming! " gasped the agent
•« When— whar— which?"
" In about— twenty minutes."
•' What made 'er late ? "
" The engine broke down at Winchester."
" Then why in Crockett's name didn't you
say so in the first place? Young man, take a
•quar look at me ! I ain't purty, nor genteel,
nor saintly, but I am plump up and down, and
mean bizness ! When a man asks me how
hogs, ar selling I'm going to give him a civil
answer if it cracks three ribs, and when I ask
you why that old bulgine hasn't snorted in,
you're got to hear me or down comes your tres-
tle-wor^is ! Do you catch on ? "

•*Y-yes— certainly. -train's behind time— be
here soon — of c-cours« — yes — of course ! "

Then the solemn man rose up, took his hat
in his hand and passed it around for contribu-
tions, and we felt like raising a million dollars
for the solid man as a token of our love and
reverence.

RECITATIONS.

THE DEATH OF GARFIELD„

BY MISS A. O. BRIGOS.
At early morn, upon the silence fell,
The moiirnfnl message of the tolling bell,
Ronsing from slumber with the tidings dread,
Our nation orphaned, and our chieftain dead !
Poor mnrdfiivH mnn I The ^mpv weeks of <!£!n
The pra.verR, the tears, the ceaseless vigils vain!
Too snre the aim— the mad intent to slay —
Kor love, nor skill, tk» iistal end oonld ttaT*

What nerved the arm to do the bloo«lj deed, '
So phiinly traced ihut, "He who rnof nun

read?"
Dlscordaut factions, clamorous for power,
Learn ye the lewion of this awful bourl
From lowly cot, to proud, aiiceslrHl hall ^

IJach heart is wounded l>y the asMuwin's ball-
Each home is dnikencd by a cloud of Kloom
The shadow resting o'er nn open tomb.
Heartfelt the tears the weeping millions shed,
Who loved him, living, and who mourn him,

dead ;
Nor we aloui mi distant nstions share
Our sore bes-^v^ment and the griof we bear.
England's 'orcd queen, in sympathy sincere,
Her floral offftfiog lays upon bis bier.
Half-mast the flags in foreign ports onfhrled—
The deadly shot is felt throngbont the world.
World-wide his fame— the warrior, statesman,
< sage.

The patriot, martyr— honor of our age I
His name, immortal, as the work he wroaght
In world of action or in realms of tboaght I
When Natnre aims with preconcerted plan.
To show the world her noblest type of man.
She rears his childhood 'neath no marble dome,
But rocks his cradle in a humble home ;
Trains hia young feet the rugged steep to climb^
Fires his yonng soul with energies sublime.
Displays a crown before bis eager eyes,
Bids him ascend, if he would reach the prise,
Till, step by step, amid exertion great.
He carves his way to manhood's high estate.
Our hero, thus, hath gainfd earth's topmost hight,
And, stepping heavenward, disappeam from sight
Leaving to ns, from that bright land afar.
But gleams of glory through the gates ^ar.
Beloved Ohio, 'tis thy sacred trust
To guard his birthplace and his precious dust—
His earthly home, whore mother, children, wife,
With bim enjoyed their sweet domestic life.
How worthless now the pride and pomp of state
To those sad hearts, so doubly desolate !
Nor can a nation's love — its tenderest care,
Assnage the grief these stricken ones mnst bear!
'Tis He, alone, the Christian's hope and stay,
Can heal the wounds and wipe the tears away.

BABY'S MISSION.

Pillowed on flowers, with a half opened bud
in its tinv hand th** hahv lioa a k«o..»;a.i :_.»
of repose. Nothing can be lovelier than the
delicate face, the little lips just parted, the
V^te brow shaded by soft silken curls.

■ana

THS COMPLETE PliOaSAM.

There it nothing of the repulsion of death
which some people always suffer beside a corpse
to be felt by the most sensitive here.

As beautiful now as in his brief sweet life the
darling seems to be asleep; but it is a frozen
sleep.

The strong man. pale with suppressed emo-
tion, strives to seem resigned for the sake of
her who is leaning on his strength because grief
ha. crushed her own. How their hearts
thrilled with joy when the little nursling was
given them! What plans they formed-v^hat
hopes they reared for the future of their pre-
cious one I Everything is over now. The lit-
tle garments must be folded up and put away
There will be no need of wakening in the night
to take care of baby. Baby is gone.

The minister speaks tender words and prays
a prayer of thankfulness and trust. He has
been to so many baby-funerals in the last
quarter of a century, during which he has led
his flock, the words of comfort come readily to
his lips and he utters them in the sympathy and
sincerity of his heart. He feels that such as
this wee blossom are the flowers fittest for the
kingdom of heaven.

The last sad rites are performed. There is
one more little mound in the cemetery and one
more desolate home in town. These bereft
parents are members of the lai^est house-
hold under the stars-4he household of mourn

THE CHOSEN.

Whkt braloa that are crowned and gHIUt.
Wh«u souls that are choMn have birtk,
Sad sounds are in heaven uplifted.

Though peana are snug upon earth ;
For the (trea* Oirer knoweth how cm'el

Are rarest, best gifts of bis hand ;
When he feedeth the brain with his ftiel.

He aoourgeth the heart with a brand.
Woe, woe to the man that is dowered.

Woe, woe to the thoughts that are shod.
With the lightnings of God and empowenl

To climb o'er the dnat and the sod !
For the world rolleth rocka in the highway,

And coldljr looks on ftom afar,
While the maaaea caat atonee (Vom each bjwu
Crjring, " l>own where the rest of na are l-

ing

The world is full of sympathetic hearts, but
It IS also full of hearts, busied with their own
cares and perplexities ; and although they may
•incerely sympathize with the afflicted, yet they
will, after a time, chide those who are persist-
ently sad.

Was that little life a failure? Why did it
come into this busy world if it was so soon to
be taken away? To these questions we may
reply. Its mission was to broaden and enlanre
the lives of all who loved him. Their care for
him gave them a comprehension of the mystery
of childhood and a feeling of the Fatherhood
of God that without him they might never
have possessed. The little spirit, flying heaven-
ward, draws by an invisible chain the hearts of

lather and .—.I »-;.,,-

. " - . •"•'""^= '" tnc land of tiie blest
wnere their loved one awaits them. Its holv

TvZ " *"°'"P"'''<'''' The baby lived not

Small, ill-visaged curs IVom dark placet.
Rush snapping at upward bonisd feet,
And aerpenu with human shaped facet,

Glide forth where the blowwms seem awtMt
Black bate of fool envj and malice
Beat foil in the face of the aoni ;
And scandal makes cerUin her chalice

And droppetb some truth in the bowL
The aonl, stnining hard at the bonldtr,

Removes it with mtter and hurt ;
And the world caats a sneer o'er its sboalte.

And laughs at its rags and its dirt.
Weak souls that were touched with dedn

But sat down half-waj to And reat,
Peel hate for the ono climbing higher,

And hail it with iiisuit and jest
The aonl groweth saddened and weaiy

But the gifted of God must go o« ;
The eagle cries ont IVom his eyrie,

" Come np where the great dwell aloarl*
But alaa I what availeth the distance?

The world pnta a glass to its eyet,

And the aonl'a Tery inmost ezistenot

It peuetratet, probea, and decrict.

AN ENEMY

By REV. DR. DEEMS.

Always keep an enemy on hand. « brisk,
hearty, active enemy. Having one is prool

that you are somebodv. Wi«h».u;.ck.. ^

worthless people never have enemies. Men
who never move, never run against anything ;
andwhen a man is thoroughly dead and utterly
buned nothing ever runs against him. To be

aj I

THE COMPIETE PMOOBAir.

run againtt it proof of exittence and potidon :
10 run against »ometl)ing is proof of motion.

An enemy ii, to say the least, not partial to
you. He will not flatter. He will not exag-
gerate your virtues. It is very probable that
he win sliglitly magnify your faults. The
benefit of tliat is twofold. It permits you to
know that you have faults and are, therefore,
not an angel ; and it makes them of such size
as to be visible and manageable. Of course,
il you have a fault you desire to know it;
wlien you become aware of a fault, you desire
to correct it. Your enemy does for you this
valuable work which your friends cannot per-
foi-m.

In addition, your enemy keeps you wide
awake. He does not let you sleep at your post.
There are two that always keep watch, the
lover and the hater.

Your lover watches that you may sleep. He
hushes noises, excludes lights, adjusts sur-
roundings, that nothing may disturb you. Your
hater watches that you may not sleep. He
keeps your faculties on the alert. Even when
he does nothing, he will have put you in
such a state of mind that you cannot tell what
he will do next, and this mental fui vive must
be worth something.

He is a detective. Through his expert agency
you soon discover wh6 are your true friends,
who are your enemies, and who occupy a
neutral ground.

When your enemy assails you, the indifferent
one will have nothing to say, or chime in. not
because he has really anything against you. but
because it is so much easier to assent than to
oppose, and especially than to refute ; but your
friend will take up cudgels for you on the in-
stant. He will deny everything and insist on
proof, and proving is very hard work. ITiere
is not a truthful man in the world that could
afford to undertake to prove one-tenth of his
assertions. The next best thing to having a
hundred real friends is to have one open
enemy.

MUSIC.

ALICE WHERE ART THOU .-Instrumental

ITS JUST AN IDEA OF MYOWN;-
Comic Song.
Hi Madiog the papers eaeh di^,

Itefleetlag on mattera and ih\ .fg^
Qaile often tba grave and the gay,

Will giv« me an Idea that clings ;
Would many bi^ bank* that have (hiled,

And left working iiirii poor and alone
Be broke if director* were Jsil<>df

It's Just an idea or my own.

OHOBIW.

It's Just an idea of my own, yoo know,

It* Jast an idea of my own ;
Don't blame me if I should be wrong, you ka(N>

It's just sn idea of my own.

In polities both parties flgbt,

The people the damage must pay,
And which side is wrong or is right

What matters to ns, any wny f
Would stalwarts and halt'-breetls con trad

And growl like two dogs at a bone,
If boodle was not the sole end,

It'sJnst an idea of my own.

onoBira

We love the sweet Kirls to admire ;

But who in bis heart won't confess,
They all of them seek to aspire

To very odd fashions in dress ?
Tlie bonnets that now they adore

At least a mile round they have grown.
What racetracks they'd make to be sure!

It's Just an Idea of my own.

OHOBUS.
Now often a man's sent to jail

For stealing a mouthful of bread,
When those who steal millions get bail,

Unless beforehand they have fled ;
One rnle for the rich and the poor '

Let Justice dispense from her throne
Twonld suit the world better I'm sore,

It'sJnst an id«» of my own.

CHOBOa

READINGS.

NOT SO GREEN AFTER ALL.

The other day a merchant traveler, operating
for a Philadelphia shoe firm, boarded a train on
the Alton road at Joliet. and was soon attracted
by the charming face of a sucker lass, who aot
on at Pontiac. He thought he saw that The
was a sweet, innocent young thing, who had
never betn arouadany. and he wended his way

•ng, you kaow

TBE COMPLETE PHOORAM. ft

He bcholdi himself risinif from post to post in
h.s dangerous profession, until he fancies him-
»«lfthecommunderofa great fleet. He wini
brilliant victories :-weaIth. honors, fame, sur-
round him. He is a great man His name ii
>n the mouth of the world. There is a halo of
glory around his brow.

Filled with the idea, ho starts! Hi, young
lieart heavmg with great purposes, his eyes
gleammg «i,h the fire of his enkindled soul
his slender form expanding to its utmost height,
and h.s l.ps. as he pacn the silent deck e*
cla.mmg. •■ I will be a hero ; and, confiding in

■ociety

" It i» a very stormy day. miss." said the
merchant traveler.

"I» that so?" the asked with a great
•how of interest. Here, indeed, was a sweet
example of rustic innocence. Storming like ail
furies, and had been for nine consecutive hours
and yet she seemed to know nothing about it!
"Poor, credulous, simple thing," bethought,
••the'll be madly in love with me in fifteen
minutes."
"Going far?" he inquired.
"Oh. an awful long way I "

"How sweet and childish !" thought the pZiZce . , k " '"° ' ""'' •^°"
ripsack man. * I ^^"^"^ ''«"«. I will brave every danger !

gripsack man

" How far are you going? " he asked

"Oh, wayoflri"

"To St. Louis?"

" My, yes, and further than that."

"I'm awful glad. Ill have yourcompanv
a good while then," ,aid he, "and I know we
•hall be great friends." '

" I hope so," she replied,

"You have beaux, don't you?" the drum-
mer suddenly asked.

" No. I used to Have, but "

•• Ah I never mind. Til be your beau on this
trip. Now. tell me your name, please."

" Matilda-Maiilda Haw~well it used to be
Hawkens, but it is Jordan now. "

"WTiat! You are not married?'

Such

was the romantic dream of young Horatio Nel-
son, afterwards the hero of the Nile, the victor
of Trafalgar, and the greatest naval commander
in the world I And what young man has not
had imaginings equally romantic?

Where is tlie poor sailor boy who has not
dreamed of glory and greatness ? What young
^».w student has not seen in himself a future
Littleton, Coke, or Story ? Where is the print-
er's apprentice who has not intended to Ik a
Franklin? What y .urg mechanic has not, in
fancy, written his . ame beside the nnv.es of
Arkwright, Fulton ..nd Rumfoid? Wh.it boy-
ish artist has not in imagination, rivalled
Raphael or Michael Angelo? What youthful
orator has not gathered the glory of Burke
Chatham, or Patrick Henry around his own

" No 1 I poisoned my fifth husband the other n me ? Nay • the"e neve'r ''Ls T""' "' °""
ly. and you.-oh! you look so sw..,. v„.. Lr-„ . .. '^; '""' "'=^^'/''"' * y°""g "'an.

day, and you,— oh ! you look so sweet ! You
look as if strychnine would make such a beau-
tiful cojpse of you 1 Come, now won't you
iriarry me?"

The drummer excused himself, and the jolly
Pontiac girl and her beau, who sat behind
pretending to be asleep, laughed all the way to
Bloomington

THE DREAM OF GREATNESS.

REV. DANIEL WISE.

Yonder on the calm, moonlit sea. gliding in
•olemn majesty over the unruffled waters, is a
splendid ship. Among the dark forms upon
her deck, may be discerned a pale-faced boy.
sonic sixteen summers old. He is leaning over
lie bulwarks, absorbed in dreamy reverie. His
'magination is traversing the future of his career.
Filled with the gay iUusions of hope, he peo^

, - / --••t, .■■Oil,

of any advantages, who did not rise to eminent
success in his hours of reverie. For youth is
the period of dreams, in which Quef n Mab,
with her fairy crew, holds undisputed .eigri
over the imagination, and revels, at will, in the
hall of fancy, in the palace of the soul.

But why. since all dream of gre»tness, do so
few attain it? The answer is obvious. Young
men are not willing to devote themselves to that
process of slow, toilsome self-culture which is
the price of great success. Could they soar to
eminence on the lazy wings of genius, the
world would be filled with great men. But this
can never be ; for, whatever aptitude for par-
ticular pursuits Nature may donate to her favor-
its rhsMr.-^n, she conducts none but the labor-
ious and the studious to distinction.

Great men have ever been men of thought
as well as men of action. As the magnificent
river, rolhng in the oridc of its mighty waters.

I( I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

owes its greatness to the hidden springs of the
mountain nook, so does the wide-sweeping in-
fluence of distinguished men date its origin from
hours of privacy resolutely employed for self-
development. Tlie invisible spring of self-cul-
lure is the source of every great achieve-
ment.

RECITATION.

THE HEROES OF 8UMTEE.
BY MISS A. O, BBIOOS.

Ebb the smiliog Anrora had opened the door
For the aun that had left as the evening before,
Ere the deep hae of darkness had faded to white,'
Or the east had been touched by a pencil of

light,
The Bky was lit ap by a bright sndden glare.
Like a lightning flash cleaving its way through

the air,
And the deep thnnder-tonefl of the coming aflray
In echoes rolled over the storm-threatened bay.
A moment of silence— a pansing for breath-
Then the sky was on fire with the missiles of

death;
And the frightful explosions, the volcanic roar.
Shook the earth till it quaked from the swi to

the shore.
Rebellion was sonnding the key-note of wrath,
Waking Discord and War in its perilous path.
Gun answered to gun with a deafening report,
Shells screeching destruction bnrst on the doomed
fort;

Most nobly they stmggled, that brave little band,
■Gainst the demons of darkness, the foes of onr
land ;

•Mid the heavy bombardment by day and bv
night, '

No palsy of terror, no tremor of fright.
Unnerved them for duty; but each at his poet
Sent a stunning reply to the blood-thirsty host
Their i>arracks were fired, and their flag lost its

place.
And the spectre of Famine stared each in the face
They rushed through the tempest of shot and of
shell ;

They raised their old flag from the place where
it fell ;

And the hammer rang out through the war's rap-
ing blast ^
Like the voice of a patriot, tme to the last;
Till again from the ramparts the colors nnfhrled
•Mid the hearty applsoae of a wondering world. ,

' Their cartridges fklled, bnt they did not giTe«>er
, They tore up their clothing and made them soma
I more.

I Determined to balance accounts with the' foe,
, They stood at their cannon and dealt blow'ftw
[ blow.

The flames raged within and the walls cmmbled

fast;
Yet they struggled with destiny, firm to the last.
The heat was intense.-Lest the powder should be
Blown np by the fire, 'twas rolled into the sea
The smoke wrapped them 'round with its mantle

of gloom ;

They seemed like brave martiyrs awaiting their

doom;
The terrors of death they conld look in the fiKe,
But they never would yield up the fort in di».

grace.
The rebels beheld them, admiring, amazed !
" No signs of retreating ! No white flag is raised I
We'ell give the bold heroes their terms of release
And permit them to go from their strong-hold in

peace."
'Twas a noble surrender ;— how else conld it he ?
They went forth salntfng Ihe flag of the free;
They named their own terms, nor let glory on

shares,
Marching forth to the notes of onr national aim.

********
The dread years of conflict forever are flown.
And History claims their events as her own.
On the brightest of pages, embellished by Fame,
The "Heroes of Sumter" have written their
name.

MUSIC.

SILVERY WAVES; Instrumental

COLLOQUY.

MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY.
For three young gentlemen and four boys.
Characters : — Mr. Burt, Mr. Crandall,
Agent, Eddie. Tommey, Johnney. Chariie.

Scene:— ^ piainiy furnished sUtm^-room,
Charlie, lying on a couch. Mr. Burt rock-
ing a cradle with his foot and darning *
stocking.

Mr. Burt (Sings)

"Bylobaby Duniing,

Mamma's gone a hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin,
To wn^ u^ baby— <-»"

THE COMPLETE PltOORAX.

ihe walla crnmbled

£Hfer Eddie. Pa, Pa. Tommey and Johnney
are calling me names-Can't they stop teasing

Mr. Burt. Of course they can. What did
they call you, Eddie ?

EddU. They called me a black pullican.

Mr. Burt. A black pullican !

Eddie. Yes, Pa, a black pullican ! They
said Ma was a -woman suffager, you was a
probationer and they was devikrats— Can't
they stop ?

Mr. Burt. Oh ! never mind. Eddie, they
were only talking politics. They are naughty
boys to tease their little brother. I wouldn't
play with them if I were you. Sit down and
read your new book and don't make any noise
I want to get the baby to sleep. (Sings) —

" Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber ;
Holy angels guard thy bed ;
Heavenly blessings without number "

Tommey (Crying). Oh! oh! oh! Jones'
dog has bit me. See how it bleeds ! oh ! oh i
oh 1 He's torn a great hole in my pants, toe-
look here ! oh-ho-ho-ho—

Mr. Burt. Here, Eddie, you rock the cra-
dle, I must go and see to that boy. Tommey.
why didn't you let the dog alone? I've told
you he'd bite you sometime. Now you see
what comes from disobeying me.

Tommey. Do you think I'll run mad, Pa>
Mr Burt. May be so. I can't tell.
Tommey. Oh! oh! oh-ho_ho-ho! I
Jon't want to run mad I

Mt. Burt. There! there! stop crying. I
won't do any good now-you'll wake the baby. |
You must take off your pants so I can mend '
them. Ml put some sticking-plaster on the bite
and you can go to bed for the rest of the day.
Oh, dear ! how much trouble you do make !

Tommey. I don't want to go to bed— can't I
put on my Sunday pants. Pa?

Mr. Burt. Your Sunday pants ! of course

you can't. Do you want them all rags, too?

You'd be sliding down the roof next. No j

shut up your crying and go to bed. I shall

know where you are then. Shut up! I say.

Eddie, (calling). Pa, Pa, O. Pa. hurry up I I

•^ "' .!.c uaoy 3 got anotner tit.

Mr. Burt. Put that plaster on the sore, I

say. Towmey, and go to bed. (Rushes to .he

cradle.) Yes. poor little baby , it has got

another fit. There? there! Papa's eetle dar-
ling ! Eddie, bring the camplior. <juick ! Then
there! there! eetle birdie's coming to. Did
Papa s eetle darling have an old. naughty fit?
All right now. eetle sweetie. (Sings.)

" Rock-a-by baby on the tree top.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
When the bough bends the cradle will fall,
Down comes rock-a-by baby "

(Enter J/r. Crandall.)

Good morning. Neighbor Crandall-take •
seat. How goes the world with you ?

Mr. Crandall. Oh ! Im having a high old
time. I ve come over to tell you that rice has
nz.

Mr. Burt. Ha! ha! Is that so?
Mr Crandall. I guess you'd think so if you
had been at our house an hour ago. I tell you
what, we've had a circus I

Mr. Burt. A circus? How did that happen ?
, I didn t see any street parade,
I Mr. Crandall. No, had it all to ourselves.
1 thought this morning, as rice must be easy to
cook, we'd have some for dinner ; so I took out
a quart or two and put it over the fire to boil.
Well, the plaguey stuff kept rising and rising. I
took about half of it out into another kettle and
still It kept swelling until it overrun both kettles
and boiled over onto the stove. Such a time '
There is, at least calculations, over half a bushel
I of It. I've brought you over a pailful to see if
j you can't help us get rid of it before my wife
I gets home, or she'll have the laugh on me
\Mr. Butt. Thank you! I guess we can.
I We are all fond of boiled rice and milk. It
will save cooking another meal to-day ; and 1
have so much sewing and darning on hand I
hardly know which way to turn. It takes a
great many stitches to keep a family in any
presentable shape. But really the rice did play
a good joke on you.

Mr. Ctandall. I'll bet that's what they put
into bread to make it rise. My wife used *o
make good b^ead. but she don't get any timt
to attend to such things now since she has so
much society business on hand : and, som-haw,
—1 don't have very good luck cooking

Mr. Burt I can't make bread ; it is always
flat and soggy, but I've got it down fine oo
lohnnv-cake and eriddles.

THE COMPLETE PBOORAM.

s:-

Mr. CrandaU {Noticing the sick boy on the
couch.) What! is Charlie sick?

Mk Rurt. Yes, he's quite out of sorts to-
day. I'm afraid he's coming down with the
measles.

Mr. Crandall (Goes and looks at him). Yes,

No! no! I can't have that sticky

Mr. Burt.

stuff around.

Eddie. Please, Pa, do let us make some.

Charlie. Yes, Pa, I want some too.

Tommeyand Johnney. (Peeking through
the door.) And .we too, pa. We like molasses

, , , ' /• • — > *■"- """1.^ i-iuu .wc loo, pa. we II

yes he s got the measles fair enough. You are candy, too, let's ..ave a candy pull

in for it now, old fellow. We have just gone
through with a siege of it at our house. I, tell
you, I had my hands full.

Mr. Burt. I expect a time, but if they all
get through safe I shall be thankful.

Mr. Crandall. They'll get along all right if
you only keep them in out of the coW, feed
them on spare diet, and give them plenty of
sage and saffron tea. (Takes his hat.)

Mr. Burt. Don't be in a hurry Mr. Cran-
dall. I'm so busy I don't get out much and it
seems good to have a friend drop in who can
sympathize with me.

Mr. Crandall. Oh ! I must go. I left some
lard over the fire to fry some cakes and I'm
afraid it is all burnt up by this time. Good
day.

Mr. Burt. Good day. Well, I must leave
off darning and go to mending, I suppose.
Who ever thought boys could make so much
work? I'm completely upset in my intellect—
don't know what to do first.

Enter Johnney (iZx^ing and holding his head).
Oh! my head! my head! boo-hoo-hoo-hoo I It
aches so ! boo-hoo-hool

Mr. Burt. What has broke loose now?
What is the matter now, Johnney ?

Johnney. Oh ! oh ! oh ! I fell out of a pear
tree. Oh! my head! my head! boo! hoo!
hoo!

Mr. Burt. I never did see such children!
always getting hurt! Stop yelling: You'll
wake up the baby. What were you up in the
tree for? Come and let me put some camphor
on your head. You have got a bump for cer-
tain this time.

Johnney. Do you think it will ever get well.
[Pa?

Mr. Burt. Yes, if you'll keep quiet. Go
and lie down on the bed with Tommey and
don't you get to scuffling. If you do I'll take
a rawhide to you both— do you hear ? I must
sit do-.tn t" ^^-y mending.

Eddie. Pa, Pa cao't 1 «aake some molasses
candy?

Mr. Burt. I tell you, you can't have any
candy— (They all cry) There now ! You've
waked up the baby. I've a mind to give you
all a spanking. Shut up! Don't let me hear
another whimper.

Johnney. Pa. pa. Tommey's broke the look-
ing-glass—hit it with his ball and stove it all to
pieces— ( Door bell rings. )

Mr. Burt. Hush! Don't you hear that
bell? Go back to your room. I'll attend to
your cases as soon as I can find time. (Opens
the door.)
Agent. Is the lady of the house in ?
Mr. Burt. Certainly she isn't. She's out.
She is perennially and eternally out.
Agent. Where can I find her?
Mr. Burt. Why go down to the Woman's
Suffrage Club rooms and if she isn't there, go
to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals; and if she has kjt there, look for her
at tlie hall of the Association for Relieving the
Miseries of the Senegambians, and if she has
finished up there, look for her at the Church
Aid Society, or at the Ninth Ward Soup House,
or at the Home of the One Legged, or at the
Refuge for Infirm Dogs, or at the Hospital for
the Asthmatic, or at the St. Polycarp Asylum,
or at some other society rooms : and if you get
on her trail you'll see more paupers and strong,
minded women and underclothing for the
heathen than you ever s?v before in the whole
course of your life. •

Agent. I wanted to sell her a cool-handled
flat-iron, just out. Do you t. irk she will buy
one?

Mr. Burt. She will if you can prove that
the naked cannibals in Senegambia are yearn-
ing for cool-handle flat-irons.
Agent. I intend, also, to offer her a new

kind of immovable hair-pin, which

Mr. Burt (Interrupting him). All rightl
You just go down to the home of the Decrepit
and persuade those cripples to cry for immov-
able hair-pins and she will order them by the
ton

THE COMhLETE PROOBAU,

Agent. Has she any children ?

Mr. Burt. Well, I'm the one that appears
to have them just now.

Agent. Besides. I have a gum top for a
feeding bottle. This is the nicest thing you
ever saw

Mr. Burt (Interrupting him). Now I'll
tell you what to do. You gel these paupers to
swear they can't eat the soup they get at the
Soup-House with spoons but must have it from
a bottle with a rubber nozzle, and Mrs. Burt
will keep you so busy supplying the demand
that you won't have a chance to sleep. Just
try it. Buy up the paupers— bribe 'em!
Agent. How will 1 know her if I see her?
Mr. Burt. Why she's a large woman with
a bent nose, and she talks all the time. You'll
hear her talking as soon as you get within a I
mile of her. Siie'll ask you to subscribe for |
the Senegamliian fund and the Asthmatic
Asylum before you can get your breath. Prob-
ably she'll read you four or five letters from
reformed cannibals. But don't you mind 'em.
My opinion is she wrote them herself.

Agent. Shall I tell her you told me to call
upon her?

Mr. Burt. It doesn't make any difference.
But you might mention that since she left
home the baby has had four fits, Johnny has
fallen from a pear tree and cracked his
skull, Charlie is coming down with the
measles and Tominey has been bitten by
Jones' dog. It won't excite her— it won't
trouble her a bit, but I'd like her to have the
latest news. Tell her if she can manage to
drop in here, for a few minutes, before the
Fourth of July, she might, maybe, wash the
baby and give the other children a chance to
remember how she looks ; but she needn't if it
will make the disabled mendicants or the
asthmatics miserable. Mind and mention i. u
lier, will you ?
Agent. I will. Good day, sir.
Mr. Burt. All right, then. Good ,»ay.
Well. I must go and spank Tommey for oreak-
ing tliat looking-glass and take a turn ihrough
the domicile to see what new calamities have
befallen me. Then I'll sit down to my mend-

" • I 1 — ' ""'"v tttj laiTtc »nu itjrtunc

inventing a fire-proof and breakage proof habi-
tation for boys between the ages of two and
•wen'y- (Curtain falls.)

MUSIC.

GOOD'NIGHT:-Instrumental.

MUST WE NEVER MEET AGAIN:
Vocal duet.
Must we never meet again.
Must our wajs be far apart,
Must I ever feel the puin
Of a sorrow burdened heart?
Are the hopes so bright and dear
Doomed to have their lustre wane;
Must I live a life so drear,
Must we never meet agaiu ?

In the MUKshine of our youth,

Love had birth aud wanned our hearts,

With the dreanis of j(.y and truth,

That its truthfulness iiii|mrts ;

Years appeared but to cement

Firmer still the blissful chiiin ;

Must it be asunder rent.

Must we never meet agaiu ?
Oft when doomed afar to roam^
'Twas thy love illumed n.v nearly
And the thoughts of thee and home,
Bade all sorrowiug depart ;
Never once by worn or deed
Have I caused you aught of pain,
Wherefore nnike my bosom bleed,
Must we never u>eei again ?

END OF PROGRAM.

Any oj th., following exercises dm ti substi'
futedjor- those in the program when it is dt-
strahe to change it; or added in roder to
lengtnen it.

ALIKE.

OtJi f.«m the church yard cold and dim

.fust as the sun went down,
'I'wc women came, one in costliest crap*

And one in a plain chintz gown.

From their swollen eyes the tears fell fast
As they clasped each other's arm ;

The one with jeweled flutjers while,
The other a toil-browned pnlm.

A few weeks since, and that hauHhty dam-
Would Imve turned in Hcornful pride.

Nor deigned to have touched e'en the garmeat's
hem
Of the woman by her side.

THE COMPLETE PBOOBAM.

m «

But now she drinks, with a hangry look,
Her comforting words so low, ,

Telling of peace He gives His poor,
That the rich can hardly know.

For beyond the gate are two small graves,

Jost seen in this twilight hour;
The one is marked by a marble shaft,

The other, a single fl.iwcr.

'Neath one in a casket, satin-lined,

Is a little baby face
'Bound which the ringlets like pale spun-gold

Cluster thick 'mid the flowers and Jace.

In the other, in a coffin plainly made,

Wrapped up iu spotless white,
Is another child, a precious pearl,

Hid away from a mother's sight

And now each day in the twilight dim.

Side by side they sit and weep.
Far apart in life— from mansion and cot—

At the grave's dark door they meet.

All o'er this earth, be we rich or poo.,

The mother's love is the same;
When the angel of death takes our darliogs
away,

'Tis alike to us all— the pain.

More precious than gems about her neck.
To the poor is her child's embrace ;

And the rich would give all her hoarded wealth
For one look at her dead child's face.

TRIFLES.

A LITTLE speck of mould may encompass a
world of beauty-hedges and forests, and sylvan
retreats, peopled with happy beings, playing
among the fields and pastures which our gross
vision never detects.

A drop of water may contain another world
of living beings, full of grace and action, and
jewelled like the rainbow— seemingly moved by
the same passions which inspire our more pre-
tentious race.

Everything is comparative, and. for aught we
know, this great globe that we inhabit, when
compared with the universe, may be to that only
what a drop of water is to the ocean.

Whatgreatresults may come from little things !
-- _p_r„, ....ov.n wy .He \r:::u, lays a great City in
the dust, wiping out, in a few hours, the work
of many a weary year, consuming treasures of

art which nothing can replace, and leaving the
busy streets an uninhabited wilderness.

The air is full of the seeds of life and death
and these invisible germs or spores may iake
the king from his throne and the beggar from
his hovel and lay them down to sleep on one
common level, beneath the verdant sod.

You pick up an acorn in your autumn rambles
and carelessly embed it in the fertile soil ; it is a
small matter and, perhaps, you never think of
It agam. A hundred years hence, long after
I you are dead and forgotten, a weary traveler
t hes down to rest under the shadow of a mighty
oak whose sturdy, wide-spreading branches,
with their wealth of foliage, form a cool shady
retreat from the sultry summer sun.

A word is only a breath and it may be uttered
during a tick of the pendulum; but that quiet
"yes 'or "no." "stay " or .'go." may de-
termine the destiny of the one who speaks it
anJ often of those with whom he is associated.
If he be a warrior or a statesman it may de-
termine the destiny of nations.

A word, once spoken, can never be recalled •
It has gone off into space to do its work for good
or evil. A mans whole character may be un-
consciously betrayed by a single word.

Nothing is more potent than a human thought
even though it may never find any outward
utterance. It is the fountain-head of every-
thing that makes existence desirable or converts
it into a curse.

A snowflake is not much in itself, but if the
flakes fall thick enough they can check the
movement of the mightiest engine that man
ever made.

A drop of water is a very insignificant thing,
but there is nothing can resist its influence

floo*d ' ""***''* *'* °"'*"' '' ""**"* into a roaring
The loftiest mountain is only an aggregate of
grains of sand. The invisible atom is the basis
of everything that exists. Little things are not
!rifl^ ''"P''*^' '■°'' «f« « made up of seeming

THE LOVE OF READING.

SIR JOHN HERSCHEL.

If I were to pray for a taste which, under
every variety of circumstances, should be a
source of happiness and cheerfulness to me

through hfe. however things might go amiss it
would be a taste for reading. Give a man this
taste and the means of gratifying it and unless,
indeed, you put into his hands a most perverse
selection of books, you can hardly fail of mak-
ing a happy man. You place him in contact
with the best society in every period of history
-with the wisest, the wittiest-with the tender-
est. the bravest, and the purest characters that
have adorned humanity. You make him a
denizen of all nations~a contemporary of all
ages. The world has been created for him
It IS hardly possible that the character should
not take a higher and better tone from the con-
stant habit of associating, in thought, with a
class of thinkers, to say the least of it, above
he average of humanity. It is morally impos-
sible, but that the manners should take a tinge
of good breeding and civilization from having
constantly before ones eyes the way in which
he best bred and best informed men have
alked and conducted themselves in their in-
tercourse with each other. There is a gentle
but perfectly irresistible coercion in the habit
^f reading, well directed, over the whole tenor
of a man s character and conduct, which is not
Ae less effectual because it works insensibly
and because .t is really the last thing he dreams
Of. It permeates his whole being and stamps
tois character for time and for eternity

TBS COMPLETE PROOBAM.

Toward the close of my speech I became
much ,n earnest, and after warning the bovs
against bad company, bad habits and the sa
loons, I said, "

"Now, boys, let us give three rousing cheers
for empeiance and cold water. Now. .he
three. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" And
taking off my cap. I waved it most vigorously
when away went the cigars right into the midi;
of the audience.

The last two cheers were very faint, and were
nearly drowned in the laughter of the crowd

have been relieved could I have sunk through

he platfonn out of sight. My feelings were

st^l more aggravated by a boy coming up th^

eps of the platform with one of those ieadful

aga.. say,ng. » Here's one of your cigars. Mr.

cap or hat when going to a meeting. I am
ashamed to say it was some time after that b^
fore I gave up cigars altogether.

THE KNIFE OF BOYHOOD.

BY LOUISE VPHAU.

COUGH'S EMBARRASSMENT.

The only instance of embarrassment I could
not overcome occurred many years ago. It
was my own fault, and proved a sharp lesson
to nie. I was engaged to address a lai^e

iT. K t M "'''■'" '" '^' "^''™°°"' »he me?t.
>ng to be held on the lawn, back of the Baptist
churcn ,„ Providence. R. I. l„ the forenoSn a
friend met me and said : "I have some first-
rate cigars : will you toke a few ? "
"No. I thank you."
"Do take a half a dozen."
' I Have nowhere to put them. "
^ou can put half a dozen in ycur cap "
1 wore a cap in those days, and I put the '
cigars mto it, and at the appointed time I went
to the meeting. I ascended the nlaffnrm and

Children As it was out of doors I kept my hat

Z.°\ °^ '^'''"e *=o»^' «»<» » forgot all
about the cigars. ^ "

I PBIZB It, I love it, this jack-knife of mine!
No money a,uld tempt me my prize to resign !
Through the h»b'rintha of boyhood it^ZL .
sure guide, j'tvvei. ■

And the notebes it cot were my «fety and pride.
How long seemed the years I most patiently wait
Of the wonderful things which a jack-knife Lid

""""ff Jon!"''' ""'"" "*' "^"* "'• "^ '"^

But with pocketa and pants came the coveted
prize; ™'

And I felt-well, a. proud, for a lad of my si«e

A. a millionaire does who haa worked his ow>'

way ""■

From a farmhouse to life in a palace to day.

In that back seat at school. Oh, the nicks that I
I made!
I there .made my mark, though Time, the old

While lifting my classmates to honor and fame.
Has left me still plodding on. ever the sam?
Thls^nife'8 neat and trim as a knife coald w«U

THE COMPLETE PU00S41C

Though I broke off the blade jnet here, m yon

Bee;
It was when I weut flthiug with Fred for brook

troat,
And the eels pulled so bard, our fish-poles gave

oat.

"And the handle?" I split that by letting it fall
Once when I went nutting, and climbed a stone

wall ;
It slid from my pocket and cracked on the rocks,
For jack-knives, like people can't stand too rude

shocks

When once yon get started iu going down hill
Yon are just like the grain that's put into the

mill;
It falls and it falls till it's gronnd, drop by drop;
So, in going down hill, it'ii the foot where you

stop.

'Tie the same old jack-kuife thongb, in handle
and blade.

It's been broken more times than a routed bri-
gade;

But, fresh from the workshop, it always comes
back

With some grace or some beanty all other knives
lack.

I love it, I prize it— my long cherished friend !
It shall stay by my side till my life here shall

end.
Tis the knife of my boyhood — its beanty ne'er

&de8.
Though it's had six new handles and sixteen new

blades.

COMPLAINING.

BY MRS. G. 3. HALU

Wk are ever complaining,

Whether sunshine or raining,
A general topic, " the weather."

And oft when we meet

Onr friends on the street
We mingle our sorrows together.

Sordelimes we will say,

" What a beautifnl day !
Tet, (an X ions some t'-ouble to bororw,)

Wtii turn np oor eyes

To the clear, asure skies,
A " say, " It will rain on the morrow."

In summer, " 'Tis torrid,"

And " Perfectly horrid ! "
It is either too wet or a drouth ; ^

In wiuter we freeze.

In the cold, piercing breeze, - '

And wish we were living down South.

If the weather is calm, ^

Then that is no balm —
"So still we can scarce get a breath !"

If a gale in the street.

Stirs the dust at our feet,
" We shall certainly smother to death r*

When freezing and snowing.

And fearfully blowing.
To face the rude blast no one cares;

And people, amazed.

Think that " Nature is crazed.**
When 8ho only is * ' Putting on airs."

Then Indian Snmmer,
, That bright welcome comer,
Clad in goM color, orange and red,

Has passed by this fall

With a cold, formal call.
And a nod of her beautiful head.

No doubt, her excuse

For this shameful abuse,—
If she the reason had told, —

Would have been with a wheeae^

A cough and a sneeze,
" I have token a terrible coldl "

All things have their season;

Yet, lacking in reason.
We think ourselves wonderfully wise;

But forget that each care

And the trinls we bear.
Are blessings though sent in disguise.

We may groan and may grumble.

May murmur and mumble.
From dewy morn until even ;

We can not at leisure.

At will or at pleasure.
Change this little earth into heaves.

A LEAF FROM THE LIFE OF A SCHOOd,.
GIRL.

BY HISS A. O. BRIGGS.

It was midnight, dark and dreary,
Long I pondered, aad aikd wearv.
O'er the dreaded task of writing;
But I pondered all in vain.

Though my pen and ink were nenr m«,
Yet how little could they cheer me,
When each truant Ihonglu— oh, deaV me

Had forsook my aching brain I
liongl tried, with vain endeavor,
To recall the wanderers;— never
W i mortal schoolgirl more perplexed!

I must, yet could not write.
My teachers would refuse me,
Should I Rsk them "o excuse me,
And of negligence accuse me,

In delaying thus to write.
"Oh, this is, sure, most trying
To patiencel " s lid I, sighing.
And I sent my paper flying

Bather s.wift acioss the floor.
Suddenly there came a rappii;g,—
Sort of spiritual rapping.
As of some one gently tapping.
Tapping at my chamber door.
My lamp was faintly burning,

Casting 'round an air of gloom,
As 1 peered with trembling caution
Through the dimly lighted room.
Though the knocking was repeated,

Somewhat louder than before.
Still I durst not rise and open

The spirit-haunted door.
3pirit-haanted, I was certain.
For at that untimely hour.
It could be no mortal visitant,

But some unearthly power
That had come thus to disturb me.

Then, methought, my table shook;
And every object in the room

The same queer motion took.
Then ghosts of murdered momenta.

By Procrastination slain.
Came reproachfully to greet me

In this nether world again;
.Till my braiu grew wild and dizzy;

And I started for the door,—
As again I beard the knocking—

Determined to explore
And solve this dreaded mystery—

When, lot to my surprise,
No frightful apparition

Came forth to greet my eyes,
But poor, ^H Pont, the bouse dog.

As oft he'd done before,
Stoo«l knocking there, with wagging tail

Vanished then each frightful shadow;

And, appearing in a trice.
Came a baad of merry mnsM
9

TUJS VUMPLETE PROGHAM.

Kindly proffering advice,
" Never trust distorted Fancy,

The deceiving little elf f
But search the cause immediately

And find it out yourself;
Take no trouble for the morrow ;

Keep the mind and conscience clear:
Perform each duty in its time ;

And never yield tp fear."

COLLOQUY.

AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MATTER.

SCENE.-/^« office with a desk or table on which
are an inkstand, a pite of ledgers and som,
extra sheets of paper. Mr. Pinchem. with
gray wig and whiskers and spectacles, sits
in his office busily engaged in figuring uA
hts accounts. He does not look up from his
paper, but keeps on figuring while his clerk
enters and takes a seat near the table in such
a position as to both face the audience.
Clerk. Mr. Flnchem, I— I—
Mk Pinchem. Have you got those goods off
for Kalamazoo?

^aerk. Yes. sir, they are off. Mr. Pinchem.

Afr. P. And about that order for starch?
Clerk. That has been attended to. sir. Mr.
Pinchem—

Mr. P. And that invoice of tea?
Clerk. That's all right, sir. Mr. Pinchem.
1 have —

Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar?

x,^'Z.^', ^*'''" '^^''^ °^ '^ yo» directed, sir.
Mr. Pinchem, I have long—

/v. P. What about Bush and Bell's con.
signmentr

C/fr*. Received in good order, sir, Mr.
Pinchem. I have long wanted

Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo?

Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem. I hav«
long wanted to speak to you—

Mr. P. Ah ! speak to me? Why, I thought
you spoke to me fifty times a day.

Clerk. Yes. sir, I know, but this is a private
matter. '^

^/n />. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I see
how much we made on that last ten thousand
pounds of stfap-Six times four are twenty-four-
six times two are twelve and two to carry make
fourteen ; six times nought.are notWng and one

THS COMPLETE PROGRAM.

}dl{

to carry makes one ; six times live are thirty ;
•even times four— ah ! well go ahead. I'll finish
this afterwards.

CUr*. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with you
ten long years, —

Mr. P. Ten eh ! Long years, eh 1 any longer
than any other years ? Go ahead.

C/er*. And I have always tried to do my

iuty.
Mr. P.
Citrk.
Mr. P.

Have, eh? Goon.
And I now make bold-
Hold on ! What is there bold about
it ? But, never mind. Til hear you out.

Cltrk. Mr. Pinchem I wa.u to ask— ask— I
want to ask—

Mr. P. Well, why don't you ask then? I
don't see why you don't ask if you want to.

CUrk. Mr. Pinchem I ^-ant to ask you for
— for—

Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand of
my daughter. Ah I why didn't you speak right
out? She's yours, my boy, take her and be
happy. You might liave had her two years ago
if you had mentioned it. Go long. now. I'm
busy. Seven times six are forty-two. seven
times five are thirty-five and four are thirty-
nine, seven times eight

Cierk. Mr. Pinchem—

Whatl You here yet? Well, what

Mr. P.

is it?
Cierk.
Mr P.
Clerk.

I wanted »o ask you for—
Didn't I give her to you, you rascal!
Yes, but what I wanted to ask you for
was not the hand of your daughter, but a raise
of salary.

Mr. P. Oh ! that was it, eh ? Well. sir. that
is an entirely different matter ; and it requires
rime for serious thought and earnest delibera-
tion. Return to your work. I'll think about
it. and some time next fall, I'll see about giving
you a raise of a dollar or so a week. Seven
times eight are fifty-six and three are fifty-
nine —

{Curtain Falls.)

SHUTTING OUT CARE.

W« may open the door to oar neighbors
And open the door to ear Aiends ;

Wo S!±~ '•.''-•-I— 1^- -' ...

J —' — •!Tiii3 garsia 3( oar xsoie

While friendahip with ooorteay blends;
W« M«j Mitber oar dwr onet sbont w—

Our helpmeet and children so fair—
But lut un i'oiget uot to buuish,

From these tiuder nieelingx, dull core.
It wulcbea at doors mid at windows;

It whistles through crunuies and crackst
ItKi elh the good man the headache;

It piaches and tortures niid nicks;
It sits down umisked at the table;

It crouches beside the down lied ;
It takes ull the brightness irom slumber.

It tukea all the sweetness from bread.
Of all things to make our lives happy,

Of all things lo m:ike our lives fair,
There's nothing from home's cheerful fire
So sacred, like shutting out Care.

THE HOLIDAYS ARE COMING

BY UI88 A. O BBIGG8.

" Tm holidays are coming!"

Says the merchant, and he smilea,
As he loads his groaning counters

With the very latest styles ;
While his windows gleam and gUttw

In their holiday array,
And he reaps a golden harvest

From the elegant display.

" The holidays are coming ! "

Shoots the scho'>lboy in his glee
" We'll have a short vacation
From books and study free-
Old Santa C will bring; ns

A heap of Christmas toys ;
And won't we just he jolly—
We merry girls and boys ! •»

" The holidays are coming ! "

Says the father to himself,
As he lays away a parcel

On the npper cloeet-shelf;
While behind a pile of lumber.

In an nnfreqnented shed,
He has found a safe concealment

For the little skates and sled

" Hie holidays are coming ! "

Says the mother in her pride,
As the little fancy fixings

Are aecorely laid aside
For the merry Christmas roomlnc.

When the eager, little eyes
Will sparkle with the pleaonif

Of a Keaaiov Mirpriie.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

The holidajs are coining I

There is magic io the soaud.
How it thrill* the heart with rapture!

How the piilMg leap „nd bound I
And ihey ut the bruin to planuiog

With an euergetic will
While the linKera do iu bidding

With alacrity and akill

The holidays are coming—

• mJ^*^ '""'* wrought a mystic spe]].

There are secreU in their keeping

No mortal tongue may tell,
Till the silcuce shall be broken,

The mysteries unsealed,
And friendship's hidden tokena,

At length, shall be revealed.

The holidays are coming-
How potent is their sway I

A flood of olden memories
Oleam o'er the darkened way j

They gladdened the despairing,

Believe the conch of pain,
And, 'neath their cheerinii radiance,
The old grow young again.

The holidays are coming—

Yea, even now are here.
We wish yon " Merry Christmas"

And many a glad New Year.
Long years of peace and plenty

Prom pain and sorrow free—
Ood bloss you and protect yoa

Wherever you may be.

A DESPERATE SITUATION.

MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S MISTAKE-A SCENE OF CAR-
NAGE.

"Mv dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopendyke
dropping h« razor and examining his chin with
starmg eyes. - my dear bring the court plaster
quick: Ive ploughed off half my chin."
dvti^'ll^u'*'^" ^'^'"^"ded Mrs. Spoopen-
dyke, bobbmg up and fluttering around her
husband. ..Great gracious, what a cut ! Wait
a^mmute ! " and she shot into a closet and out

'Quick ! " roared Mr. Spoopendyke. •■ I'm
bleedmg to death I fetch me th»» ....... „, ™

terl" — " P'«s-

"Oh dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke.

end ? K^' u'"' P""y • " y'"'*! Mr. .Spoop.
wall ? Got some sort of a notion that there is a

you I Bniig me some coirrt plaster before I
pull out the side of this house and get some
from the neighbors I "

Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopendyke
that she had put the plaster in the clock
. " Here it is. dear! " and she snipped off .
piece and handed it to him.
Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his

^ngue holding his thumb over h,s wound
When It was thoroughly wetted, it stuck fast to
hjs finger while the carnage ran down his chin.
He jabbed away at the cut. but the plaster
hung ,0 h.s digit until finally his patienc'e Z
thoroughly exhausted.

" What's the matter with the measly busu
ness?- he yelled. " Wher'd ye buy thfs plj^

uHn his" •''^' Y ^^""'»''' P'"««'"^ »t the
cut •» h s chm. .. Leave go that thumb 1 " and

he whirled around on his heel and pegged at it

plaster? he shrieked, turning on his trembline
wife. .. Who asked ye for a leach? Bring mf
something that knows a thumb from a chfn! "
and he planted hi, thumb on the wound and
screwed it arouird vindictively. This time the

htru;h:^°^"'"'^^^"^-'^---ror

^J^^'^'a '1" ^^^ "^•''' '^"^•" *™>«d Mrs.
Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be

you ve got the same idea that the court plaster

has ! P raps you think that mouth was cut with

that this hole in my visage was meant to sue-
cumb to the persuasion of a bit of plaster!
Come off! Let go that mouth! " and as he

sifVhaVi^n^r^hr^'''^"^''^'*'"*'

••I'k^olTo^^^doT"'^"-^^^"^^^*'
•'Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled

^li ,!*r.T."f'"'*: " W*'^^ <J'd you want to
•3.. f....n X u ,ost tnree gallons of gore for? Oh
you know how to do it ! You want a linen back
and a bottle of mucilage up at your side to be
a country hospital. Stick I Dod^astyeJ"

THE OOMPLXTK PROORAM,

and he clapped the wrong hand over Ws jaw.
" III hold ye here till ye stick, if I hold ye till
my wife ieains something I " and Mr. Spoopcn-
dyke pranced up and down the room with a
face indicative of stern determination.

"Let me see, dear," said his wife approach-
ing him with a smile, and gently drawing awaj*
his hand she deftly adjusted another piece of
plaster.

'• That was my piece after all," growled Mr.
Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and glancing at
the palm of his hand to find his piece of plaster
gone. "You always come in after the fu-
neral."

" I guess you'll fi. d your piece sticking in
the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoopendyke
pleasantly.

" Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. Spoop-
endyke, verifying his wife's assertion with a
glance. •• If I had your sight and a pack of
cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set up for an
astronomer I " and Mr. Spoopendyke, who evi-
dently meant astrology, wore that piece of
blood-stained court plaster on his hand all day
long, rather than admit, by taking it off, that
his wife had ever been right in anything.

Upon the ma of bio* above drift lightly (o Md

fro, —
But the world is strangely dark to me at noon, or

night, or morn,
I cannot see the aunehine bright, nor do J heed

theitorm;
For O, I've wept each blinding tears while att.

ting here beside
The dearest friend I ever knew— the little girl

that died i

Dead I dead 1 apon my knee she sat— it was hxt^

yesterday —
And we together watched the clouds in these*

of blue at play,
And with a smile that angels wear, " Papa," she

said, "I see
A pretty angel in the clouds and he is beckon-
ing me I "
And ere the twilight boar had come that happy

summer day,
The ungel in the noonday cloud had beckoned

her away;
With him she walks in spotless white, the

" waters still " beside,
To me she is a ihded flower, the little girl that
died I

THE LITTLE GIRL THAT DIED.

BETTY ■. H0LIU3.

Dcad! dead I my little girl is dead I O, can it,

must it be
That she will never, never more sit smiling on

my knee —
No more at evening time I'll hear the pattering

footsteps fall,
No more shall see her among the flowera, the

sweetest flower of all.
Come back I come back ! I wildly cry, bat, O, I

cry in vain —
I'd give the world were it all mine to see her

smile again;
•Tis bnird to say "thy will be done "while sit-
ting here beside
The clay cold form of all I love— the little girl

that died I

Dead ! dead ! my little girl is dead— the bii^s

sing out their lay —
The world is bright, the flowers in bloom, the

uiiticiUiea at piny,
And stately cloods, like great white ships, with

■ails as white aa aaow,

Dead ! dead ! she drooped— she fell before time's

chilling breath—
In waxen beauty now she lies, so beaatiital in

death, —
O, 'tis not strange the angel has beckoned her to

biro,
Nor strange iLat I have wept and wept till thf

sunny world is dim.
I look upon her lying here, and when I try t»

pray,
" O father give her back to me " is all that I can

say;
Bat in his boose she dwells with him, while I

left ontaide.
And she to me can only be the little giii that

died!

Dead I dead! the mother 'cross the way clasps

her baby to ber breast;
The wild bird has her birdlings all safe in her

little nest,
And little children at their play, I bear them

IsDghing now,
But death's seal is on my darling's eyes, the

death damp on her brow,
Alone with Ood in sorrow will my days creep

■lowly by,

THX COMPLETK PROGRAM.

0. »av>l •ogel io the olouda, ooald »oa loV. h.r I -n. .u

mon, th.n ly '"" '""• ""I ,^« "'her d.y.I walked down .tr«, behind

three pretty girl,. They cooed and c^.lt
"ch other like .0 many turtle doves

corner »lioi> »_.• ■ . ^ . .

Will. Ulh Md ho,,, „d pr.,„ „d ,„„, , I.,
Her lorin away,

— "'""J luiuc uoves. At u
rner. hey parted. '-Good-bye. dear ' cried
one. -Good-bye, .weetest," said another

kssed and vowed to see each other on Satur'.
«ay. 1 hen one went her way, and the o.h. •
two walked on together. °""''

" "'":;' ^*'« """ «''"" «'d the one who
had called her "sweetest,- as soon asMev
-re out of earshot. " She's perfectly dt^a'

neriormaway, ' were out of earshot •■ v;h-'. —"" -» «"»

Heaven I know will brighter be for the little gir. vinces Zl. "° """""°" "«* '''»*-"'- -n-
mat died. |

An Old Bachelor

AN OLD BACHELOR ON FEMALE
FRIENDSHIPS.

STRIKING INSTANCE OF MANS DE-
VOTION.

BT PAIHIMAB niU.

me^rin w '^ The very thought make,

ml^ \^""" "" '^'^ «°°'" **ve3. good

mothers; but fnends? No. Why, who ever I w?" "^f.'''" '"" " "'"""^ y«nt««.

knew a woman who was not quite wilhng ^ r"" P*"* '"« ''•«>tB aud told the troth.

the next tea-drinki':^ c^^T ^:^ZlS2lT^''^''' '''''^'^
slander each oth-rt /-»..../•-_ .. " "'^X ^'" ''"h a girl named Sally Skreeli

slander each otherl Out of cowardice, pi^b-
ably, they inevitably stab in the back

Men certainly slander each other as much
as women do. but there is a difference. When

sto';?v'"or :^'"""y.''«*" '«"'"g a disgraceful
story of another, circumstances may compel
hm, to courtesy; but he never makes a sb^w
of friendship. He will perhaps bow to the Jer-
«.n he ha, abused, but he does not shake haVds

arm in arm about the city with Z. VVhen two * *"" ^**^'° " ^«"-
' en are intimate you may feel confident that ^**'' ^''J^' ''>«> w«»«oM
t.^y do not slander each other. It is hi, enemy '

He fell In love head over ImgIs.

Now Sally's father wasn't worth
A dollar or a foot of earth,

And Jake's paternal parent owed
Most every other man he-knowed }
Bat Jake, who had a valiant heart.
Vowed that he'd work and get a start*

And with the help of Sally, dear,

are intimate you may feel confident Vh"at I ^**'' *'"^' whowaseold
r,( u -«■ each other. It is his enemy "* "^ P^tty— that is, pretty old.

o» whom a man tells evil tales. I -

But women who have just' robbed another
woman of her character, as far as «.^S.---

k ss, will ask Tier to lunch, will embrace her

at parting. wUl no;" .Je "^Ja^^i ZZ her' 7 . ''* "'"" '' '"'"

"dear." -«»mea to caU her An old maid's matrimonial chance

1 Orow very alim as time adianoes.

P|«tended that for her dear Jacob

The heaviest cross she'd gladly take np j

But, really, she cared no more

For Jake than for the shoes he won.

mx OOMPLXTW PnOOMAM,

And thli eipUlus whjr tM\j Bkraela
PropoMd to slinre Juke's bed and mealak

Tbejr luarrietl. Tiiiir flfd oo apao»—
Jake rcuted uld Uill Hci'ui;giua' pliuM

And went to wu. k rem>lveil to make
A fortDue I'ur lii« Hulljr'a oake.

Pooraoul, he toiled with all hia nilKbt,
From early luoru till late at night ;

But, ah I no kind, approving word
From Sally'it iipa waa ev«r heard.

She lay urnuud, chewed wax and sung

Love aongM ithe'd learned when she waa young ;

Bofc- old love leitera she bad got
From boobies, long since gone to pot ;

Yawned o'er a scrap book filled with boah
Collected by her Cousin Joah ;

Trimmed her old hat in various waya
With all the gew-gawa she could raise.

In fitct, she proved heiself to be
A slip-shod lump of frivolity.

Poor Jake, ha worked and ate cold meals,
Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,

Washed his own clothes w hen Hunday came
And aewed fresh buttons on the same.

Oot breakfast while his Sally slept,
Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—

There's no n ,. talking, Jacob strove
To prove how perfect was his love.

One day Sal ate too many benna,
Grew sick end went to other scenea.

Prom (hat day forth Jake t^ idoni spoke,
Or smiled, or worked— hie heart was broke.

In the poor-house now he sits and grievee
And wipes his eyes on his threadbare aleevea.

UoBAL.— I've told yon this to let yon see
What an all fired fool ;< man can be.

MERRY CHRIST tAS.

BY MISS A. n. BRIGGS.

'Wtt tow to look back, through the vinta of years,
t& the scenea of our childbnod, hd vivM sad

To forget the atem pictures so blottt'd by tean,
la tba happy eoooeit of an earlier day.

Hid the plaaeing tllnaiona that ttnty nay weave.
The dreams we may dream in bermystieal
bowers.
There's naught that our erednlou (kith may de
ceive,
Like the visions we saw in those innocent hours.
Old Tims, bis vast circuit revolving around,

Is nearing the stationa— is sbort'ning the way j
From cycle to cycle, retracing the ground,

Remembrance attends as our escort to-day.
Again we are children— .»gain we are free,--

No cares to molest in the midst of our Joye—
And Christmaa is coming, with old SanU 0.

To deal out the gina to the giria and the boya.
Again it ia even' jg— again, side by side,

The little knit stockings f 'e hung in a row,
hi the old-fashioned firepi ace, so roomy and wide,
In hopes they'll be filled ftrom the top to the toe,
With all aorta of goodies that little ones prise—
With plum cakes and candies ; with nuts and
) with toys;

With pretty wax dolls that will open their eyes;
With knives, tops and skates for the ftiuloving
boys.

Oh, what pictures we make.

Of old Santa, so queer I
Of the rides he must take
With his nimble reindeer t
And we firmly resolve, as we Jump into bed,
To catch a sly peep at his funny old head j
Till Morpheus, wishing the secret to keep.
Just touches our eyelids and puts ns to sleep.
The hours hurry past,

Without dreaming or waking-*
Night is over at last

For the daylight is breaking.
And need it be told
That we find, on arising,
, Whatonrstoukiogs will hold
Is a matter surprising ?

We children, grown older, still share in the jeya
Of the bright, laughinggirls and the fh)licsome
boys;
And we wish " Merry Christmas " to one %nd te
all;
To the grave and the gay ; to tlie great (it>d the
small ;
To the rich and the poor; to the old atd the
young ;

'V^ A»m«»w •.n4in« S.rtA ^^^T^ A-^ —-^

To every climate ; to every zone
Where theji)le8sings of Cbristendoiu evtf wen
known.

I in bcrmyatiail

oofl flklth m*y d«

M innocent boara.
ring aronDd,
Drt'nioK the wa/ 1
be gronnd,
ea<H>rt to-dajr.
re are free, —
■t of our Jojt—
old S«n(« 0.
rie and the bojiL
by etde,
lung in ■ row,
> roomy and wide,
the top to the toe,
.tie onea prise —
; with Duta and

open their eyes;
or the Aiu-IoTing

irf

ip into bed,
y old bead ;
)t to keep,
Ota na to alacp^

ikin^'

king.

>ld

lare In the Jejs
A the fhtlicaoma

' to one «nd te

le great It blithe

he old ati tb»

zone
tdoui avcf wen

©onpplcte ppogpanp ^o. 2.

—FOR

School and Evening

ENTERTAINMENTS.

ARRANGED BY

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

MUSIC.

CLICKETY-CLICK MARCH. (Inst)
A SUBSTITUTE WANTED.

Chief E. ineer Dean, of the fire department,
calle-^ u the jflice where I make shoes for a
I'Viiig. and handed me a big white envelope,
ootifying me that I was drafted, and must re-
port myself for examination at Lawrence on the
If 'h day of August.

Now I consider it the duty of every ciiiren to
give his life, if need be, for the defence of his
country; so, on the morning of the eventful
i8th, i put on a clean shirt and my Sunday
clothes and started for Lawrence, to see if I
could get exempted.

Lawrence, as you know, is situated on the
Merrimac River, and its principal productions
are mud, dust, and factory girls, ''he city
proper, at least that part I saw, consisted of a
long, narrow entry up one flight of rtairs
adorned overhead with a frescoingof gas me-
ters, carpeted with worn-out tobacco quids, and
furnished with one chair, two settees, and sev-
eral huge square packing cases marked " Q.
M. D." Scattered around this palatial en-
trance-hall were S(jme forty or fifty conscripts,
looking very much as if they expected to be
exempted by old age before the young man

^^B with a f»mj^imia vni.s*..^k. aU^-.U ^.ir.. ^i.

of their turn. Moat of them were doomed to

disappointment, however, for while they counted
the hours of delay, a door would suddenly open,
and the tall young man would single out some
one and march hiu. through the open doorway,
to be seen no more, liy and by, after several
hours' waiting, my turn came.
"John Smith ! " shouted the doorkeeper.
"T- it's me," says I. With a cheer from the
crowd of weary waiters, I passed through (he
open portal and entered a large, square room,
where two persons sat writing at a table, and
a third, evidently a surgeon, was examining a
man in the last stages of nudity.

One of the writers at the table, a young man
with blue hair and curiy eyes, nodded to me,
and dipping his pen in the ink, commenced :

" John Smith, what's your name ? "

"John Smith," says I.

" Where were you born ? "

" Podunk, Maine."

"What did your great grandfather die of?"

" Be hanged if I know," says L

"Call it hapentoo." says he. "and youi'
grandfather died of the same— did he? "

"Mebbee so," says I.

" Did you ever have boils ? "

"Not a boil."

"Or fits?"

"Nary a fit."

"Nor dilirium tremens?"

"No sir-ce!"

"Or rickets?"

"i'il show you preily soon," suid I, becom-
ing somewhat excited.

}' I

•• Wd yoB tver havft tHe measles? " «iy, he
"or the whodping-cough or the scarlet fever? •'
Here I took off my coat
"Or the itch?"

a JZT "'''k '*"'* '• "*'^' '*'''-»"'J I shoved
L?„^:?»K'r" °"^*!''>- !•>- '-hesof

7Zr£- COMPLETE PHOGHAM.

"And cardiac disease.'
"No? -said I.
"And pericarditis.*
' Thunder I" said

" Stop talking ! Now count after me-one • •
;^J*-"J*» been itching fortL'"usrtei | frigh^"* ' '' ^^ ^' """"* '''^" ^^\f dt^d with^

„:_ » . — — • "*-"'"B «or me last ten

minute, to knock your pesky head off. yZ
Jtd.^ mean. low-Hved. contemptible whelp.

"My dear sir." said the mild-spoken. gentle-
»any surgeon, laying his hand on my arm.
" "'" y°""^'f. I pray. Don't let your an^
passions nse. but take off your clothes so I can
•ee what you are made of."

So I suppressed my anger, and withdrawing
to a corner, I hung my clothes upon the floor
and presented myself for examination.

"Young man." said the surgeon, looking me
^ght m the eye. •■ You have got the myo-

"Hey!"

"You have got the myopia."

"Asthma I Two I"
"Two!" I yelled.

"Exostosis of the rightiistula! Threel-
" Three I " I gasped.
"Coagulation! Four!"
"Murder." said I. -Four.'"
"Confirmed duodenum of the right ventricle !"
O. doctor! dear doctor! ain't you most
through? I feel faint."

"Through? No; not half through. Why
my friend Pandora's box was nothing toZr'
chest. You have sphinxiana. and glories./
and,conchologia and persiflage, and-''

th Jf 17 7 ''"'" ''''"^''*^ '° J '"ned against
the table for support.

^of.HlSir.L ^"''.f'- °''^- anterior

"Yes sir," said 1 '• anH \ ^^^a """"^ * permanent luxa

little Bininier wla drop of s^t^hT' ^^fT"*^ °' "^^ "S^'' P'-'^nx."
«, excel J. ,„..l!l'T/ ^'°"«.''^-' -a''" ! My only answer was a deprecatory gesture

"And scrnfiilnnc ^;„.u-_: . ' * "^

an excellent eye-opener of a morning."
"And there seems to be an amaurotic ten-

"Pshaw!" says I.
ice^s^alaurlct:- '* *^* •" ^'•^

"Was your famfly ever troubled with epi-
lepsy ? said he, mounting a chair and feeling
tu? top of my head.

A J , — -'-I'lti.aiory gesture

And scrofulous diathesis and omnipoditis."
I sank to the floor in utter despair
;• Eluriation! " he yelled,-for he saw I was
gomg fast,-" and maxiUarium, and-"
****** « #
When I woke to consciousness again, I found

"eaf b: \!:T °^ ^^'«'' - -P*^ ''-kel
near by, and the surgeon astride my chest
shoutmg something in my ear. of which, how-
ever. I could hear nothing.

I smiled feebly in acknowledgement of his
attentions. At a sign from him, two attendan

mW Kn«*r_ 1*/*. « 1 •

"Only two of the boys." says I "and wh.„ ^"''""°"'- ^! ^ sign from him, two attendants
they catch them from the n^ghbors' cWrdre; 7 T""' ^"1'^^^'"^ ''^^d ^im into a chd
my wire always goes at 'em ^h^^^^fintl^ol" ^^:::: :^'S^}'^ >" "« ^-e with

_„ ., , - *• '"^'Bitoors cniidren

comb, the first thing."
Jumping off the chair, he hit me a lick in

before I had »,me to remonstrate, his arms
were around my neck, and his head pressed
against my bosom, the same way that Sophia

drilss. ' ''"' *''"'' ^ "'"^ '^""*^' °^

"Just what r thought," said he ; - tuberculosis

and hemoptysis, combined with « defect Jn the

scapular membrane and incipient phthisis f" ^

"Heavens! " says I ; -what's that?"

., . . , , . . ' —"*••» "I UK race with

he violence of his exertions,-they hoisted me

cLded^''* ** examination pro-

Finally after naming over a host more of ail-

ments, be arose to his feet, drew a long breaUi

wiped tlie perspiration from his face with a stray

newspaper, and commenced.
"Young man," said he.-and his eyes kH,,

ened with delight ashespoke.-..you are reaH,
the most interesting subject 1 ever met.
xxeahy a most wonderful easel I doD't know
when I have enjoyed a half hour so thoroughly
Why, sir, with the exception of two, or at mosi

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM. ^

— .."..aij. woum you be
willing to come around to my boarding-house
after tea, so that I can spend the evening aus^
:ultating after the other three ?" I was sorry to
■cfuse him. but I had promised Sophia Ann
that I would be home to tea and I told him she
would worry if I staid. Seeing there was a
lady m the case, he politely excused me

"And now. my good fellow." said he, grasp-
•ng my hand warmly, "just go into the next
room. Captain Herrick willgive you furlough to
go home and provide a substitute, or pay your
commutation fee. Boy. call the next on the

"But. sir." said I. aghast at his concluding

reti;7r"'°"'^^"'="'''--p'--

••Really, my friend." said he. "the fact is.
you have so many diseases I actually don't
know which to specify, besides they serve to
counterbalance each other and keep up a sort
of equilibrium; such a constitution I'U warrant
to stand any amount of hardship. Dr. Coggs-
well will be glad to get your commutation fee ;

shall be delighted to examine him."

I did not stop to parley further, but going into
the next room, procured my furlough, took the
train for home and never looked behind until I
was safe m the arms of Sophia Ann and my
dear children. '

And now can anybody tell me where I can
find a good substitute, warranted diseased in
head heart, lungs and legs? To such a man
I will give three hundred dollars down ; or if
he prefer, at the rate of five dollars a piece for
each symptom: and, I promise him. in behalf
of our Uncle Samuel, food and clothing for
three years, together with medical attendance

hi''ra:r"^'^""™'"^"^"^\"''y°^

iiecall the sad vision of days long gone by.
;Ti8 vaiu that yon tell nic you'll never foraet me
To (he^laud of the 6h«n.«,4 you'll ne'Sltwu

Far ^way'from your sight you will cease to regret

You'll won forget Kathleen and Erin-go-Bragh J

(")
Oh! leave not the laud, the sweet land of your

childhood, '

Where joyously passed the first days of our youth'
Where gayly we wandered 'mid valley and wild-
wood,

Oh ! those were the bright days of innocent truth

RECITATION.

BAY BILLY."

THE WAR HORSE.

A veteran's story,

MUSIC.

YOU'LL SOON FORGET KATHLEEN.

OhI leave not yonr Kathleen, there's oo one can
cheer her,

Alone in the wide world onpited 8he';i sigh,

Yoc may talk of horses of renown
What Goldsmith Maid has done'
How Dexter cut the seconds down'
• And Fellowcraft's great run;—
Would yon hear about a horse 'that once

A mighty battle won ?
'Twas the last fight at Fredricksburg-

Perhaps the day yon reck—
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,

Kept Early's men in check,
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away

The fight went neck and neck.
Bij?ht stoutly did we hold the wing

'Gainst odds increasing still;
Five several stubborn times we charged

The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten hack, reformed,
And kept our column still.

At last from out the center fight

Spurred up a General's Aid,
'•That battery must silenced be ! "

He cried as past he sped.
Onr Colonel simply touched his cap,

And then with measured tread.
To lead the crouching line once mora

The grand old fellow came.
No wouu«ied man bnt raised his head

And strove to gasp bis name ;
And those who oonld not speak nor sUr

" God blesMd him » jnst the same.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

#!l

J;!' !

For he waa all the world to as,

That hero gray and grim.
Kight well be knew that fearful slope

We'd climb with noue but him,
Though while his white bead led the wajr

We'd charge through thick and thin.

This time we were not half way up,
When 'midat the storm of shell,

Our leader with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bay 'nets fell;

4Dd as we bore him back, the foe
Bet up a iearful yell.

Our hearts went with him ; back we swept.

And when the bugle said.
"Up, charge again ! " no man was there

But sadly hang his head;
" ^v^'y^ no one left to lead oa now,"

The sullen SAldiers said.

Jnst then, before the laggard line,

The Colonel's horse we spied.
Bay Billy, with his trappings on.

And nostrils swelling wide.
As though still on his g<tllant back

The master sat astride.

Bight royally he took the place

That was of old his wont,
i'nd with a neigh, that seemed to say,

Above the battle's brunt,
"How can the Twenty-second charge

If I'm not in the front?"

Like statues we stood rooted there

And gazed a little space;
Above the floating mane we missed

The dear familiar face;
But we sitw Bay Billy's eye of fire.

And it gave ua hearts of grace.

No bugle call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done —

Down all the battered line we felt
A lightning impulse run;

Up^ np the hill we followed Bill,
And captured every gun.

And when upon the conquered height

Died out the battle's hum,
Vainly 'mid living and the dead

We souirht our hero dumb :
It seemed as if a spectre Rt«ed

To win that dajr had come.

And then the dusk and dew of night

Fell softly o'er the plain.
As though o'er mau's dread work of defith

The angels wept ngaiu,
And drew night's curtain gently 'round

A thousand beds oi pain.

All night the surgeons' torches went

The ghastly rows between ;
All night with solemn step I paced

The torn and bloody green;
But all who fought in that big war

Such fearful siglita have seen.

At last the morning broke. The Uuk

Sang in the merry skies.
As if to e'en the sleepers there

It bade " Awake and rise! "
Though nought but that last trump of all

Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more with banners gay
Stretched out the long brigade;

Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade;

And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men
Were in their place that morn;

And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon
Stood six brave fellows on.

Now touched my elbow in the ranks,
For all between had gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hoar

When, as with misty eyes.
To call thd old familiar roll

The solemn Sergeant tries.
One feels the thumping of the heart

When no prompt voice replies.

And as in falt'riug tone and slow

The last few names were said,
AcroA the field some missing horse

Came up with weary tread;
It canght the Sergeant's eye, and'qnick

Bay Billy's name he read.

Tea, there the old bay hero stood.

All safe from battle's harms;
And ere an order could be heard,

Or the bugle's quick alarmii,
Down all the fVont from end to end

'9m troops presented arms.

-W(W«

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Mot all the shonlder stnps on earth
Conld still that mighty cheer,

And erer from that famoDs day
When rang the roll-call clear

Bay Billy's mime was read, and then
The whole line answered "Here."

BLACK TOM.

Hdhtso by his rebel master
Over many a hill and glade,

Black Tom, with his wife and children.
Found bis way to onr brigade.

Tom had sense, and tmth, and oonrage,-
Often tried where danger rose —

Once our "lag his strong arm rescued
From the grasp of rebel foes.

One day Tom was marching with na
Through the forest as our guide,

When a ball from traitor's rifle
Broke his arm and pierced his side.

On a litter white men bore him
Through the forest drear and damp,

Laid him, dying, where oar banners
Brightly fluttered o'er onr camp.

Pointing to his wife and children
While he suffered racking pain

Said he to onr soldiers round him,
" Dmit let them be Oavet againi"

" No, by heaven ! " out spoke a soldier ;—
And (Mat oath was not pro&ne, —

" Our brigade will still protect them —
They shall ne'er be slaves again."

Over old Tom's dusky features

Came and staid a joyous ray ;
And with saddened friends around him,

His freed spirit passed away.

TRUE NOBILITY.

It does not consist in a pompous display of
weslth, a high sounding name, a long line of
ancestry whom the world delighted to honor ;
nor, yet. in jeweled crowns, steel-emblazoned
armor,or costly apparel of purple and fine linen,
liiuccd, these adjuncts as frequently indicate
the absence of a truly noble heart and mind as
otherwise. It too often happens that the form
instead of the substance of things is the object J

desired, and as so many are incapable of di»
tinguishing between appearance and reality, it
is a very easy matter to dazzle their eyes with
a false display of greatness and goodness.
Since the world sets so much value on a lofty
title, it is too frequently the case that its pos-
sessor makes little effort to merit the name he
bears That man is not to be relied upon who
makes his name and inheritance the stepping-
stone to his entrance into good society.

It is not an evidence of nobility to do a
praiseworthy act at the risk of personal safety
when you have hopes of a liberal reward.
There are many who will expose their lives to
save that of another when they have reason to
believe that the risk involved will be amp»y
remunerated who would refuse to do so when
they have no such expectations. We pay
homage to men who have slain thousands on
the bloody field of war and won many battles
for the sake of victory. We call them great ;
yet a rouf h sailor who plunges into the sea to
save a drowning child for humanity's sake alone,
has a far nobler heart beating within his sun-
burnt bosom than the victor of a thousand
battles. Were I called upon to name four
words as synonymous with the word nobility, I
would say truth, honesty, bravery, charity.

OVER THE RIVER.

OVBB the river, over the river —

The river silent and deep —
When the boats are moored on the shadow shore

And the waves are rocked to sleep ;
When the mists so pale, like a bridal veil,

Lie down on the limpid tide,
I hear sweet sounds in the still night-time

From the flowing river's side ;
And the boat recedes from the earthly strand,

Out o'er the liquid lea — •

Over the rivei-, the deep dark river,

My darlings have gone from me.

Over the river, over the river,

Once in summer time
The boatman's call we faintly beard.

Like a vesper's distant chime ;
And a being fair, with boft, dark hair

Paused by the river's side,
For the snowy boat with the golden oera

That lay on the sleeping tide ,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

i!?a

And the boatnuu's eyes gazed into hen,

With their misty dreamlike hoe-
Over the river, the silent river
She posscd the shadows through.

Over the river, over the river

A few short moons ago
Went a pale young bride with fair, slight form,

And a brow as pure as snow ;
And music low, with a silvery «ow,

Swept down from thn starry skies,
As the shadows slept in her curling hair,

And darkened her twilight eyes,
Still the boat swept on to the spirit shore

With a motion light and free-
Over the river, the cold, dark river,

My tiister has gone from me.

Over the river, over the river,

When the echoes are asleep,
I hear the dip of the golden oars,

In the waters cold and deep ;
And the boatman's call, when the shadows fall.

Floats out on the evening air, •

And the light winds kiss hid marble brow,

And play with his wavy hair ;
And I hear the notes of an angel's harp,

As they sweep o'er the liquid lei
Over (he river, the peaceful river,

They're calling— calling for me.

FAME.

The Orator spoke, and the crowd was hushed,
Men held their breath as the quick words

mshed;
Stem eyes grew tearib], cold hearts grew hot ;
Though the hours sped by, they heeded them

not;

And they swore to fight till the worid should
see

The tyrant dead and their country free.

The Orator ceases— the curtain falls,

The echoes die through the silent halls—

Th«y fought in vain, for the Orator's word

Stayed not the sweep of the tyrant's sword.

And the riveted chain clanked on as before

And the Orator's words are remembered no more,

Scanty his gnerdon, scanty his fame,

He lives in story, only a name.

The Poet sang and the earth grew still,
And he moulded men's hearts at his own sweet
will:

And they asked his name that it might be en>
rolled

With the names of earth's greatest in letters of
gold—

And his pale cheek flashed and his heart beat
high,

And he said— "Nor my name nor my song shall
die."

He paused, and earth's voice, silent so long,
Grew sevenfold louder, and drowned his song.
As the tide of time through the centuries rolled
The rust eat in through the letters of gold;
And newer ongs seemed sweeter to men,
And the Po ,8 songs are not heard again,
Save by a few with less heart than head,
Who grope for his thoughts in a tongue that is

dead.

Scanty iiis guerdon, scanty his fame,
j He lives in story scarce might but a name.

Ill
The Thinker sat pale in his lonely cell
And mused on the thoughts he had shaped so

well ;

And his keen eye looked through the coming

years.
And he saw through the baze of his happy tears,
His shapely thought through the world expand
TUl its impress was stamped ou the sea and the

laud;

And he thought to himself, 'mid his vision of

fume, — ■
" Surely the world will remember my name."
And the Thinker died, and his thought went forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the

north.

But talent such changes ou genius rang
That the world forgot from whose brain it

sprang ;

And men deemed that the frolt of the thought of

the sage
W: „ue slow grown produce of many an aga

Scanty his guerdon, scanty his fame,

He left in story not even a name.

MUSIC.

"MOONLIGHT O N THE H UDSON. "-(Init \
A SMART HUSBAND.

MR. BOWSER TEACHES MRS. BQWSRK HO*P T* "
DO BUSINESS.

I WANTEDtosend offfora lady's fashion maga.
line, and on a dozen different occasions begged

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I hi8 vision of

•f Mr. Bowser to write the letter and send off
the money. He kept promising and neglecting,
nan like, but one evening he said :

" Give me the name of that magazine and I
will get a letter off to-morrow."

" It's gone," I answered.

" Humph I Do you mean to say that you
wrote a business letter t "

" I do. I ordered the magazine and sent in
a year's subscription."

"And chucked the $2 into the letter, I sup-
pose?" *^

"Yes, sir."

" Well, that's about what I should expect of
you. You'll never see either money or maga-
zine again. If some post-office official doesn't
steal the money, they will gobble it at the end
of the route and swear they never got it. Mrs.
Bowser, you are as simple as a child. "

" But it may come all right."

" Yes, and we may discover a box of gold in
the back yard. There's but one way to do
business."

"How's that?"

" See this P. O. money order for thirty-eight ?
1 am going to send that to Boston to-morrow.
It will go straighter than a crow, and there's no
cause for worry. However, it's useless to try
to teach a woman how to do business."

Three or four days went by, and then he sud-
denly inquired :

"Have you heard from that magazine, Mrs.
Bowser?"

" Not yet."

" I suppose not. When you do hear please
let me know. After 40 or 50 years experience
of this sort you may learn how to do business."

Two days later he asked me again, and I
was then able to show him a letter ackiiowledg-
ing receipt of the money, and a copy of the
magazine.

" It seems to have gone through," he said,
as he handed the letter back; "but that was
owmg to Providence. Probably the parties had
heard of me and hesitated to defraud you for
fear I d raise a row."

" What about the order you sent off, Mr.
Bowser?"

He jumped out of his chair and turned pale
and gasped :

" ^y gum I but I'd forgotten about that ! 1

ought to have had an acknowledgement three
days ago."

" Can't have been lost, eh?"
"N-no."

" It was the only proper way to do business,
wasn't it?"

"Of course it was, and of course it got there
all right. I'll probably get a letter to-morrow."

" But it's so queer."

" I don't see anything so queer about it. 1
shall probably have a letter begging my pardon
for the delay."

A letter arrived next day. I saw by Mr.
Bowser's perturbation when he came home that
something was wrong, and he finally handed
me the letter. It read :

" No post-office order has beenreceiv-' from
you. Please do not try any more chest ^ts on
us."

" But you did send it," I protested.

"Oj course I did."

" Directed your letter all right ? "

"Certainly."

" Staujped and posted it ? "

" Look here Mrs. Bowser, you talk as if 1
didn't know enough to get aboard a street car
and pay my fare 1 "

"But it's so queer. There is but one busl-
ness way of doing business, Mr, Bowser. After
40 or 50 experiences of this sort you may learn
how to do business."

He glared at me and was too insulted to
reply. He went to the post-office and made
complaint, and for the next two weeks that lost
order was the topic of conversation. The offi.
cials sought to trace the letter, and Mr. Bowser
made affidavits to this and that, and the hunt
was still going on when, in dusting off his secre-
tary and straightening up his loose papers I
found a letter scaled and addressed to the
Boston firm. I had no doubt it contained the
missing order. I quietly handed it to Mr. Bow-
ser as he came home to dinner, and his face
turned all colors before he could open it.

" Mr. Bowser." I said, •• you men folks have
curious ways of doing business. It is sing— "
" I'd like to know Kow this letter got here ? "
he demanded.
" You left it here, of course."
"Never! Because I scolded you about your
careless way of sehding off money, and because
you wanted to get even with me for it. you took

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

':i h

1 '
i

'il

■ 1

iillt
M

thb letter from my pocket and detained it.
Mrs. Bowser, this is the laststraw to the camel's
load ! Do you want alimony or a lump sum ? ' '
Next day he was all right again, and he even
stopped at the sale and brought me up half a
dozen pairs of gloves Detroit fm Pnss.

"BOY WANTED."

People laughed when they saw the sign again.
It seemed to be always in Mr. Peters' s window.
For a day or two, sometimes for only an hour
or two, it would be missing, and passers-by
would wonder whether Mr. Peters had at last
found a boy to suit him ; but it was sure to
appear again.

" What sort of a boy does he want, anyway ? "
one and another would ask, and then they
would say to each other that they supposed he
was looking for a perfect boy, l id in their opin-
ion he would look a good while before he found

one. Not that there were not plenty of boys

as many as a dozen used sometimes to appear
in the course of the morning, trying for a situa-
tion. Mr. Peters was said to be rich and queer,
and for one or both of the reasons boys were
anxious to try to suit him. " All he wants is a
fellow to run errands ; it must be easy work and
sure pay." This was the way they ulked to
each other. But Mr. Peters wanted more than
a boy to run errands John Simmonds found
it out, and this is the way he did it. He had
been engaged that very morning, and had been
kept busy all the forenoon at pleasant enough
work ; and, although he was a laiy fellow, he
rather enjoyed the place. It was toward the
middle of the afternoon that he was sent up to
the attic, a dark, dingy place, inhabited by
mice and cobwebs.

" You will find a long, deep box there," said
Mr. Peters, «• that I want to have put in order.
It stands right in the middle of the room ; you
can't miss it."

Jim looked doleful. •• A long, deep box, I
should think it was I " he said to himself, as
the attic door closed after him. •• It would
weigh 'most a ton, I guess ; and what is there
in it ? Nothing in the world but old nails and
■crews and pieces of iron and broken keys and
things— rubbish, the whole of it. Nothing
worth touching ; and it is as dark as n pocket
■p here, and «9W ^sjdes, Hqw the wind

blows in through these knot-holes ! There's •
mouse ! If there is anything I hate, it''s mice I
I'll tell you what it is, if old Peter thinks 1 am
going to stay up here and tumble over his rusty
nails, he's much mistaken. I wasn't bred.fpr
that kind of work."

Whereupon John bounced down the aKic
stairs three at a time, and was found lounging
in the show-window an hour afterward, wiien
Mr. PeCers appeared.

" Have you put the box in order already i'
was the gentleman's question.

" I didn't find anything to put in order.
There was nothing in it but nails and things."

" Exactly. It was the < nails and things ' that
I wanted put in order. Did you do it? "

•• No, sir. It was dark up there, and cold ;
and I didn't see anything tha. was worth doing.
Besides, I thought that I was hired to run
errands."

"Oh," said Mr. Peters, " I thought you were
hired to do as you were told." But he smiled
pleasantly enough, and at once gave John an
errand to do down-town and the boy went off
chuckling, declaring to himself that he knew
how to manage the old fellow ; all it reeded was
a little standing up for your rights.

Precisely at 6 o'clock John was called and
paid the sum promised him for a day's work:
and then, to his dismay, he was told tliat his
services would not be needed any more.

The next morning the old sign, " Boy
Wanted," appeared in its usual place.

Before noon it was taken down and Charlie
Jones was the fortunate boy. Errands— plenty
of them. He was kept busy until within an
hour of closing. Then, behold ! he was sent up
to the attic to put the long box in order. He
was not afraid of a mouse nor the cold, but he
grumbled much over the box. Nothing in it
worth his attention. However, he tumbled
over the things, growling all the time, picked
out a few straight nails, a key or two, and
finally appeared with the message : •' Here's
all there is worth keeping in that box. The
rest of the nails are rusty and the hooks are bent
or something."

" Very well," said Mr. Peters and sent him to
the lost-ofiice. What do vnis tl'.lr.k ? B" t'-~
close of the next day Charlie had been paid
and discharged, a^nd the old sign bung in the
window.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

md sent liitn to

"I've no kind of notion why I was dis- of Peters & Co. He had a little room, neatly

chaiged." grumbled Charles to his mother, fitted up, next to the attic, where he spent his

" He said he had no fault to find, only he saw evenings, and at the foot of the bed hung a

that I wouldn't suit. It's my opinion that he motto which Mr. Peters gave him. " It tells

doesn't want a boy at all." j your fortune for you ; don't forget it," he said.

It was Crawford Mills who was hired next, when he laughed and read it curiously : " He

He knew neither of the other boys, and so did that is faithful in that which is least is faithful

his errands in blissful ignorance of the "long in much." " I'll try to be, sir." he said, and

box " until the second morning of his stay,
when in a leisure hour he was sent to put it in
order. The morning passed, dinner time came
and still Crawford had not appeared from the
attic. At last Mr. Peters called to him : "Got
through?"
" No, sir ; there is ever so much more to do."
" All right. It is dinner time now, and you
jiay go back to it after dinner."

After dinner back he went. All the short
afternoon he was not heard from ; but just as
Mr. Peters was deciding to call him again he
appeared.

"I've done my best, sir," he said; "and
down at the very botton of the box I found
this."

"This" was a I5 gold piece. "That's a
queer place for gold," said Mr, Peters. " It's
good you found it. Well, I suppose you will
be on hand to-morrow morning." This he
said as he was putting the gold piece in his
pocketbook.

After Crawford had said good-night and gone
Mr. Peters took the lantern and went slowly up
the attic stairs. There was the long, djep box
in which the rubbish of twenty-five years had
gathered. Crawford had evidently been to the
bottom of it. He had fitted pieces of &hingle to
make compartments, and in these different
rooms he had placed the articles, with bits of
shingle laid on top, and labeled thus : " Good
screws," "picture nails," "small keys some-
what bent," " pictvre hooks," " pieces of iron
whose use I don't know." So on through the
long box. In perfect order it was at last, and
very little that could really be called useful
could be found within it. But Mr. Peters, as
he bent over and read the labels laughed glee-
tully, and murmured to the mice : " If we are
not both mistaken, I have found a boy and he
nas found a ioriune."

Sure enough. The sign disappeared from
the window and was seen no more. Crawford
became the well-known errand boy of the firm

he never once thought of the long box over
wlich he had been so faithful.

All this happened years ago. Crawford
Mills is errand boy no more, but the firm it
Peters. Mills & Co. A young man. and a rich
one. " He found his fortune m a long box of
rubbish," Mr. Peters said once, laughing.
"Never was a I5 gold piece so successful in
business as that one of his \\m> been ; it is good
he found it."

Then after a moment of silence, he said,
gravely : "No, he didn't ; he found it in his
mother's Bible— ' He that is faithful in that
which is least is faithful also in much.' "

MUSIC.

- RUTH "—VOCAL. (Sacred Quaitette.)

"RUTH.

Entbkat me not to leave thee,

Or to return fh>m following after thM^

For whither thou goeat I will go,

Where thou lotlgest I will lodge,

Thy peoDle shall be my people,

And thy God, my Gkid,

Where thon diest I will die.

And (here will I be buried.

The Lord do so to me and more also,

If anght bnt death part thee and me.

RECITATIONS.

FROM THE FACTORY.

BY J. A. ARKLBY.

' I'M coming home to die mother, when bright '

September leaves
Have faded to a rusty brown, rad yellow s|(ia«

the abeATM.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

^^Hiw

-t

1 ,

1 j

1 1

t
- 1

Nil

When all the brisht and beftateoos hues that

Bummer ranbeams bronght,
Hare periahed, like my early life, and vaniahed

into nanght;
I'll be aa aad a eight aa anght beneath the Aotamn

aky,
How glad I am, how aad I am, to haaten home

to die I

" That dear old home 1 I mina it well, npon the

breezy hill,
How coald I leave Ita aheltering eavea /or thia

hot, atifling mill ?
And down the valley, green and cool, beaide the

old mill brook,
A hundred nameleaa bloaaoma bloomed, in n ^ny

a pleaaant nook.
The white sheep dotted all the hill, whoae fleecea,

colored brown,
Were by yonr patient ftngera wrought, to make

my home-spun gown.
I knew no pitin in those yoang daya, in homely

comfort dressed,
No racking congh, no deadly fear, my buoyant

heart oppressed.
Oh, mother dear! had I bnt stayed beneath your

watchftal eye,
I might not now be coming home, within yonr

arms to die.

" Ton know it was the other girls who worked

and roomed with me.
Ton cannot think how tannting that those

thoughtless girls could be.
They laughed so at the nseftal clothes your wis-
dom did provide,
I had to lay my home-spun hose and thiok-soled

shoes aside.
I binsh to think bow quickly I was led to jeer

and laugb.
And talk of nanght bat beanx and dress, and

Joined their senseless chaff.
I often cry to think of it, as sleeplessly I lie,
Bnt O fbrgive me, mother! for I'm coming home

to die.

" A rush of tender memories cane of those same

girls to-night.
How lovingly they tended me from dark till

morning light !
'The tempting things they bronght to me from

out their scanty store,
And their troubled, anxious fhces aa they closed

«y chamber d9Qr,

And left me for their long day's work wifhin tba

dusty mill,
Are kindnesses I'll not forget till this poor heart

is still.
I know 'twill be the hardest thing to bid the

giria good-bye.
And tell them I am going home, I'm going home

to die.

" Now don't come out to meet me, when the train

goes rattling down,
Bnt stay at home, and wear for me, that old grajr \

wincey gown
And muslin cap I laughed abont and said 'twaa

such a fright,
I want to see them on yon, and I'll know tiiat all

is right.
And I want to hear you spinning, and the mur-
muring of tbe mill,
And see the welcome light shine ont from the

old honse on the hill.
But, oh, you must not fret and grieve, for Heaven

is very nigh
Tour weary, suffering daughter, who is coming

home to die."

LET THE CLOTH BE WHITE.

BY WILL CARLTON.

Oo set the table, Mary, an' let the cloth he white!

The hungry city children are comin' here to-
night ;

The children firom the city, with features pinched
an' spare.

Are comin' here to get a breath of God's nntaintcd
air.

They come from ont the dungeons where they

with want were chained ;
From places dark and dismal, by teara of serrow

stained ;
From where a thousand shadows are murdering

all the light,
Set well the table, Mary dear, and lei the cloth

be white !

They ha' not seen the daises made fot the hearl'i<

behoof;
They never heard' the raindrops npon a cottage

roof.
They do not know the kimea of «>pbvr an' of

breeae,
They never rambled wild aa' free beneath the

flHwat tCMt.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAae.

The /bod tb»t they h.' eaten w». moiled by
others' greede, '

The Tery air their Inngs breathed wa« ftill o'

poiHon aeeda^.
The Tery air their souls breathed was full o'

wrong and spite,

Oo set the table, Mary dear, an' let the cloth be
white!

The fragrant water lilies ha' never smiled at
them.

Thy never picked a wild flower from off its
dewy stem,

Tney never saw a greensward that they could
■afely pass

Unless they heeded well the sign thatsays. " Keen
off the grass."

God bless the men and women of noble brain an'
heart

Who go down in the folk-swamps and take the
children's part t

Those hungry, cheery children that keep ns in
their debt, ^

And never fail te give us more of pleasure than
they get I

Set well the table, Mary, let nangbt be scant or
small.

The little ones are coming; have plenty for 'em

ttJi>

There's nothing we should furnish except the
very best *'

To those that Jesus looks upon an' called to him
and blessed.

THE EGGS THAT NEVER HATCH.

Thkbb's a young man on the comer.

Filled with life and strength and hope.
Looking far beyond the present.

With the whole world in his scope.
He is grasping at tomorrow,

That phantom none can ca'toh;
To^ayisloet. He's waiting

For the eggs that never hatch.

There's an old man over yonder,

With a worn and weary face,
W.th searching anxious features,
^And weak, uncertain pace.
He is living iu the futnre,

With uo desire to ca«ch
The golden Now. He's waiting

For the eggs that never hatch.
4

There's a world of men and women.

With their life's work yet nndone,
Who are sitting, standing, moving

Beneath the same great snn ;
Ever eager for the future,

But not content to snatch
The Present. They are waiting

For the eggs that will never hatch.

—Merchant lYttutOer

PRAYERS I DON'T LIKE. '

I DO not like to hear him pray

Who loans at twenty-five per cent*
For then I thiuk the borrower may '

Be pressed to pay for food and rent.
And in that Book we all should heed

Which says the lender shall be ble^t,
As sure as I have eyes to read,

It does not say , " Take interest 1 »

I do not like to hear him pray

On bended knees about an hoar,
For grace to spend aright the day,

Who knows his neighbor has no flooK
I'd rather see him go to mill

And buy the luckless brother bread
And see his children eat their fill, '

And laugh beneath their hnmbi'e shad.

I do not like to hear him pray,—

" Let blessings on the widow be,»»
Who never seeks her home to s»y,l-

'' If want o'ertakes you, come tl> me."
I hate the prayer, so long and load.

That's offered for the orphan's weal,
By him who sees him crushed by wrong

And only with his lips doth feel.

I do not like to hear her pray,

With jeweled ears and silken di«ai,
Whose washerwoman toils all day.

And then is asked to " woik for lea.'*
Such pious shavers I despise ;

With folded arms and face demnra,
They lift to heaven their "angel » eyea

Then steal the earninge of the poor.

I do not like such soulless pra.reni,^

If wrong, I hope to be forgiven,—
No angel'B wing them npward |)eiin;

They'ra lost a million miles from heana I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

THE NEW BONNET.

Ilji

A r.iousH little maiden bongbt a fi>oli(h little

bonnet,
With • ribbon and • ftether. end • bit of lace

npon it ;
And, that the other maideua of the little town

might know it
She thonght she'd go to meeting the next Snnday

Jnst to ihow it. '

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger
than a dime,

The getting of it lettled prored to be a work of
time;

So when 'twas fairly tied, and the bel la bad stop-
ped their ringing,

And when she came to meeting, anre enough, the
folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at

the door ;
And she shook her raffles ont behijid and

smoothed them down before.
" Hallelnjah ! Hallelnfah I " sang the choir above

her head.
" Hardly knew yon I hardly knew yon 1 " were

the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, rery

That she gave her little month a twist, her little

head a toss:
For she thought the very hymn they sang was

all about her bonnet,
With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of

lace npon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon
or the prayer.

But pattered down the silent street, and harried
down the stair.

Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-
box on it.

Had hidden, safe flrom critic's eye, her foolish
little bonnet

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of

you will find
In every Sabbath service bnt an echo of your

mind ;
And the silly little bead, that's filled with silly

little airs,
Will never get a blessing from serason or ftom

prayei*.

MUSIC .

WAVES OF THE OCEAN-GALOP.
(Inst Duet)

RECITATIONS.

WHAT IT IS TO BE FORTY.

To discover a sprinkle of gray in your heard,
A tbiDucHB of crop where the upland is cleared.
To note how you take to your slippers and gown,
And hug to the fire when you get borne from
town —
Ah, that's what it is to be forty.

To find that your shadow has portlier grown,
That your voice has a practical, business-like

toue;
(That your vision is tricky, which once was so

bright.
And a hint of a wrinkle is coming to ligbt—
Ah, that's what it is to be forty.

A sleigh-ride, a party, a dance, or a dine ;

Why, of coarse you'll be prenent, you never de-
cline ;

But, alas ! there's no invite ; you're not " young
folks," you see;

You're no longer a peach, but a crab-apple tree —
Ah, that's what is to be forty.

A daughter that grows like a lily, a queen —
And ttiat tilooms like a rose in a garden of green,
A dapper young clerk in nn ice-cream saloon,
Both a dude and dunce, is to carry off soon ;
And a boy that is ten and the pride of your eye
Is caught smoking vile cigarettes on the sly —
Ah, that's what it is to be forty.

At twenty a man dreams of power and itime;
At thirty his fire has a soberer tiame ;
At forty bis dreams and his visions are o'er.
And he knows and he feels as he ne'er did before
That a man is a fool till he's forty.

"SHINE! BLACKING, BOSS?"

Within the broad metropolis,
Along its pavements gay,

There is a sonnd we never miss
As round we pick oar way ;

While they at pennies toss.
Will stop and with a business air
Inqnire : " Shine 1 bbukin^, hoH * *

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

cb once was 60

0, be It dark or bo it llgbfr—

E'en during rain or sleet—
No matter what the hoar of night,

Borne " Arab " yon will meet ;
He'H scan you o'er— boots tirst of all—

With air of piquant aance,
And then A-om out his mouth will drawl

His cry: "Shine! blacking, bow?"

When nature says that he must rest
From labors of the day,

He oarea not whure he makes bis neat —
His head on steps he'll lay ;

His feet he stretches 'cross some path-
Then sleeps as if on moss,

And wakened by some stumbler's wrath,
He cries: "Shinel blacking, boss ? "

When at the gates, some early dawn,

St Peter's bell he'll ring,
Unlike his mates, who look forlorn,

His blacking-box he'll bring;
And when St. Peter opes the door,

For words he's not at loss ;
He's ready with his gamin's roar

To cry : " Shine, blacking, boss ?"

BUBT ABNOLD.

THE HAND THA I ROCKS THE WORLD.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

Blbbbimos on the hand of Woman I

Angels guard its strength and grace
In the palace, cottage, hovel,

O, no matter where the place !
Would that never storms assailed it ;

Rainbows ever gently curled ;
For the band that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rocks the world.

Infancy's tbe tender fountain';

Power may with beauty flow ;
Mothers first to guide the streamlets;

From them souls unresting grow.
Grow on for the good or evil,

Sunshine stream'd or darkness hurled;
For the band that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rocks the world.

Here upon our natal sod !
Keep, O keep the child soul open
Always to the breath of God I

All true trophies of the Ages
Are from Mother Love impearled ;

For the hund that rocks the cradle
Is the baud that rocks the world.

Darling girls, with Eden mtwic

Ringing yet in each young heart.
Learn and ireuHure household knowledge,

Precious in Life's future part.
When you'll too, exulting mothers,

Bravely lioyed and gently girled.
Feel tbe hand that rocks the crwdle

Is the hand that rocks the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman I

Fathers, sons, and dHughtern cry,
And tbe sacred song is mingled

With the wortihip in the sky.
Mingles where no tempest darkens,

Rainbows evermore are curled ;
For the hand tbot rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rocks the world.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

What a hollow mockery is often the senti-
ment expressed by the above words. To one
instance of genuine fraternal affection, there are
hundreds where the very relationship vjijch
should bind one another in firmer tie; serves
only as the whetstone of mean jealousy, despic-
able spite and absolute hatred.

Strange as it may appear, an elder brother
often looks down with contempt at the manly,
independent efforts of his younger brother to
gain a position in the business world by his own
exertions, and instead of encoir raging him and
removing the obstacles in his path, he, piqued
at that very independence, docs all that lies in
his power to injure and harm him.

Are there such bigoted narrow-minded broth-
ers ? To our sorrow, we. must confess thnt there
are, and to add to the obloquy and mean-spirit-
edness of the action, it often happens that such
a one pretends to the Chrisrian graces, is a
shining light in his church, an kier, one, who
by his /«frtf^/«^ would seem to be on the path
of righteousness, but by \i\i pricHce violates the
holiest of ties.

rcr-— .pi It IS in accordance wiih his real
nature that such a brother should act the hvT»o-
crite, and cowardly give the thrust in secret,
which he dared not openly do.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

We can pity such a brother, for at hit heart
corwcient- and remorse, like •erpenti' teeth,
mutt be continually gnawing, and even his
gray hairs will not shield him from the merited
doom that v ill overtake him when once his
duplicity, trickery, and hypocrisy are laid bare.

To the brother who is persecuted, we advise
patience and forbearance. An independent
spirit, a plucky determination to work and win,
an enterprising activity which has brought
invariable success, will always awaken the
jealousy of the less-gifted, who imitatt^t very
actions which they pretend to deride; and.
after all, such exhibitions of malice, spite and
meanness are only the homage which conscious
inferiority pays to superior merit.

"I WANT MY BALLOON."

As I paaaed down the street, one bright snnny
day,

A'oomical sight met my gase —
A scene that, for mixture of sorrow and hn,

Will haont roe through all of my days.
On the walk stood a child, who, with "ii^aii
l.M" yells

Of dismay, Bl«red np to the sky,
Where a tiny red object was gliding away,

And fast growing dim to the eye.
As nearer I came, he londly bawled ont:

" I don't want to loae it so soon !
0, sir, catch it quick. O, make it come back I

I want my nice, pretty balloon 1 "

" Little lad," then I said, " It will never retnm.

Why did yon let go of the string ?
Pray did yon not know, when you loosened year
hold,

Yonr plaything wonld snrely take wing? "
"Why, sir," sobbed the child, "I thoaght it
wonld stay,

And float eloae above me nntil
I wearied of watching it bob up and down,

And could draw it back to me at wilL
Oh, won't yon please catch it— it's going so fast-
Do stop my niue, rosy balloon I "

• ♦ • ♦ •

Ah ! many there be in this world'^ bnsy throng

Who hold in their hands the fhiil string
That bound to themselves wealth, laurels or love.

Or some other valuable thing :
Bat, alaal like the child, they loosened their

Parhape msMl/ testtng its power }

nut realised too late, whut their reokleasness
wroinilit,
As they wati'h«><l it soar 'hove them so flu;
Then, frantic, they strove their tight hold to r»>
gain
But too oft 'tia humanity's dmmi,
To, by their own fully, lose what they prise
most,
And then cry for the vaulshMl balloon.

GRAN DM AS REST.

" Ht giveth hU beloved Oeep."
OBAMDMA was tired and weary.

Weary with team and with pain ;
Pot by the staflfanc' the rocker,

She will not need them again.
Into sweet rest she hath entered,

No more to suffer or weep,
After life's long, fltlul fever

Grandma has fallen asleep.
Hills that she loved now enfold her,

Hid in their boHom she lies ;
Heeds not tht« song of the robin,

Beauty of liloHom or skiea.
Over her bed the green grasses

Soon will HO lovingly creep;
Ont 'mid the daisies and clover

Orandma is lying asleep.
Best the worn feet now forever,

Dear wrinkled hands are so still.
Pulseless the heart that no longer

Borrow can quicken or thrill.
Tears will glide o'er her gently,

Fading the shadowland deep,
Drive back thy tears, wonld yon wake her?

Orandma has fallen asleep.
Oh I beantiftil rest for the weary,

Beantifhl sleep for the trae,
Lying so peacefully ever.

Under the sunlight and dew.
Floats throngh onr heartstrings a qniver

Like breath of a whisper sweet,
" He giveth— to his beloved-"

And grandma has fallen asleep.

LIBBIB J. SUEBMAM.

MUSIC.

" LIFE'S DREAM IS O'ER." {Vocal Duet.)

IlT

QmtnUo .>-The night shades are falling,
And fiMt father uoand as ;

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

«lr raoklcMOMa

TIm bright noon la giMming,

And darkly llghu th« rale;

TVnor .-Fw, fkr from my oonntry,

And Ar flrom tby loving unlie,

AloDo must I wkoder,

And ue'er mo tbao again.

6Vm/ro/to .--Ob, aDgeia of heaven I

reiMr/-M/ beart ever aball be tbino, loT*.

CbntnUo : wuard liim from evil I

Otntn, > uml r, . •.-Ah I wby oMiet thoa not be

L inf cwul
Ob, I' vti . ».y one r iment»
A montv'Mt, fftimU j.
Thy hear. 'r. ,; oiag on my breast,
Llfe'e long uream ia o'er, life'a dre^m ia o'ar
Farewell ( FareweUI

(II.)
ContraUo .-Oh, tell me if ever,
When life's storms beat against thee,
And bright hopes are broken.
If then tbon wilt think of me ;
Tenor. -The night winds are sighing.
Of hopes that are dying,
Forever my darling.
Shall they breathe sweet thonghbi of th«e.

CABIN PHILOSOPHY.

J»' torn de back-log, ober, dar— an' pnll yonr

atoo'ea np uigher.
An' watch dat 'posanm cookiu' in de skillet by

deflre:
Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks U, make

my feelin'sflow.
An' I'll grin' yon out a fi»c' or two, to take befo'

yon go.

Now, in dese busy wnkin' days, dey's changed
de Scripter fashions,

An' you needn't look to miraknla to ftirnisb you

wid rations ;
Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, yon

got to go and fetch 'em,
An' ef you's wantin' fishes, yon mns' dig your

wnms 8d' ketch 'em ;
for you kin put it down aa aartin dat the time is

long gone by,

When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum out de

sky I

Ef you stumble on a hornet'a-naa'an' makede crlt-

tera acattar.
Yob needn't atan' dar Ilka a fool an' argffv da

matter ;

An' when de yallar fever come« an' aettlaa all
nroon',

' Tie better dan de luranteeu to shuffle out o'
town I

Dar'a heap o' dreadful mnalc in de very flnea'
fiddle ;

A ripe an' metier apple may be rotten in de mid-
dle;

De wiaea' lookin' trabeler may be de biggw' fool-
Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' kiudo'
mule;

De preacher ain't de boliea' dat war's de meekea'
look.

An' doea de londea' bangin' on the kivor ob da
book I

De people paya deir bigges' bills in bnyln' lota
an' lau's ;

Dey soa'ter all deir picayunea aroun' de peanut
Stan's ;

De twenties an' de flftiea goes in payin' orf deir
rents,

But Heben an' de organ grinder giu de coppei
cents.

I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too

much o' eatin' ;
But frolics froo de wnkin' days, and snoozes atd«

meeting' ;

Dat jines de Temp'ance 'Ciety, an' keepsagittin'
tight,

An' pulls his wa»«rmilliona in de middle obde
night 1

m ys think sbost it ketf r,
tes',

diskiver dal

ully, an' put it to liie

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muakete in

deir ban's,
Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's,
Had better drop deir guns, an' go to marchin' wid

deir hoes

An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cotton-
rows.

Or de State may put 'em arter while to drillin'
in de diches,

Wid more'n a single stripe a-runnin' 'cross deir
breeches.

Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall ia misrht*

IMS':

flafet*' phm ia gin'nilj da

so' an' nice,
Bat it busted upde renters
You see, dey bofe waa human bein'a jea' like me

»n' yon,

idelnbly Paradise I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

■'•'.

An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid not a

thing to do ;
Wid plenty wuk Itefo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to

make,
De;'d nebber thought o' loafin' rouu'au'chattin'

vid de snake.

— iSnibner'a Magatine.

THE SIN OF OMISSION.

UABOARET E. 8ANQSTBB.

It iaa't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing yon leave undone,
Which gives yon a bit of a heart-ach«

At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten.

The letter yon did not write.
The flower you might have sent, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts to-night.
The stone yon might have liflod

Ont of a brother's way,
The bit of beartsome (x>un8el

You were hurried too mnch to aaj,
The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle and winsome tone
That you had no time nor thought for,

With troubles enough of yonr own.
These little acts of kindness

So easily ont of mind.
These chanches to be angels

Which even mortals find,—
They come in night and silence.

Each chill, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and dagging,

And a blight has droppe'l on &ith.
For life is all too short, dear.

And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our bJow compasaion

That tarries until too late.
And it's not the thing yon do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heart-ache

At the setting of the sun.

READING.

PENALTIES OF CIVILIZATION.

THE LITTLE CARES AND WORRIES THAT AF-
FLICT CIVILIZED MEN.

What taxes we do pay for being civilized !
fust loo^ at those two pictures, the one of a sav-

age and the other of a civilized man sallyihg
forth for his day's work. The savage seizes his
bow and arrow, and perhaps his toina|iawk,
and bounces out of his tent, leaving Mrs. S. to
bring water from the stream and to skiimish
around for dry wood to build a fire wherewith to
cook the squirrel, opossum, rattlesnake or
other vermin he may bring home for dinner.

Mr. Nineteen Percentury has eaten a light
breakfast, consisting of fried fi^h; omelette
aux fines herbes, beefsteak and wheat cakes,
preceded by an early glass of seltzer water, and
is about to start for business. First he puts on
his arctics, then his hat, then his overcoat, then
his wristlets, then he feels in his pocket to see
if his watch is there, and compares it with the
parlor clock to ascertain whether they agree]
feels in his inside breast pocket to assure him-
self that certain documents are there ; feels in
his outside breast pocket to know that his hand-
kerchief is all right ; slaps his pantaloons
pocket to satisfy himself that his wallet has not
been left in his dress trousers (he calls his busi-
ness garments pantaloons or pants and his social
ones trousers ;) then he looks inquiringly to-
ward the ceiling, trying to think whether there
is anything else. Here Mrs. N. P. comes in, a
consulting inquirer.

" Have you got your pen knife ?"

No, he has not, and he is sure to want it dur-
ing the day. It is found on the table in the
next room. He places it in his right hand vest
pocket.

" Have you got your pencil case and memo*
randumbook?"

No — hunt — found— left hand vest pocket.

" Cigar case ?"

He feels left hand overcoat pocket. " Yes,
all right."

"Match case?"

Feels — yes — examined — empty — replenishei
— left hand pantaloons pocket.

"Office keys?"

Feels — yes — all right.

"Latchkey?"

Feels pistol pocket — yes.

"Card case?"

Searches through six pockets — no — must be
in dress waisicoai. It is — empty — replenishes
— left hand vest pocket.

" Don't forget those letters you have to mail."

" Oh. no." Letters want stamp— none in the

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

ase and memo-

[)ty — replenishei

houM— never mind— get them at druggist's,
only he is always out of them— letters to be
carried in hand.

" Don't go without your paper to read in the
cars."

" Oh, dear, no, where is it? " Paper found
—left hand overcoat pocket.

" Umbrella ? It might rain."

•' Ugh ? " He doesn't know — dubious — looks
out of window. "See weather i' obabilities
— newspaper — safest pcriiaps to take it. Um-
brella propped up against table, handy."

"Now, are you sure you have the right
change for your car fare ? "

Full change, pocket— pants pocket— no —
ten cents borrowed from w.fe— all right— now
he'll be off. Buttons up overcoat, pulls on
gloves, picks up letters and umbrella. " Good
bye."

"Oh! Have you got your eye glasses ? "

Umbrella and letters placed on chair, glasses
taken off, coat unbuttoned — exploration through
numberless pockets — no — probably dress waist-
coat — yes — upper left hand vest pocket — button
up — umbrella, letters — all right. " Good-bye."

" Oh I Niney, dear, you bettei leave me a
little money before you go, I want to pay
Madam Hazelquirke to-day."

" 1 ! ! "

And this is civilization.

MUSIC.

"CHANSON DES ALPS." (Instrumental.)

COLLOQUY.

CHRISTMAS AT LYNDALE HALL;
or,

THE GRE/.TEST CATCH OF THE SEASON.

Adapted by Miss A. 0. Briggs, for several
Ladies and Gendemen.

Characters.

John Farland
Lady Clara Farland
Miu Ada Rou

A bsCbelof frOiu luSla.

A wealthy gentlemtin.

Hit wife.

Lady GUii»'b daughter.

KaUOhallia ^ John Parland'H niece.

Counl Eienzo ' A youug nobleman.

Lord Anuetlejf A gueat at Lyuedale Hall.

Several other Ladiei and GenUemen Onesta.

Mrt. Green The housekeeper.

Harry Fakin$ Footman.
Other Servanti.

Scene i . Pau/ Hylton, in his bachelor apart-
ments in India, is reading a letter. Having
finished the letter he givi-. vent to his pent
up thoughts and emotions in the following
soliloquy:

Paul H. Heigh-ho ! How time passes I It
is fifteen years, this very day. since I sailed for
India. Fifteen years since, standing on board
the steamer Ocean Queen, I bade farewell to
the only tried and true friend I had in the
world. I shall never forget his last words.
"Remember, Paul," said he, " that whether you
win or fail I am your friend and brother.
While I have a shilling, half of it is yours ;
while I have a home, you shall share it. II
India fails, come back to me. Return when
you may, your first visit must be at my house."

For the first few years we exchanged letters
by each outward-bound and returning steamer,
but after his marriage with Lady Clara Ross,
that wealthy and aristocratic yoimg widow,
there has been a continual dropping off, until
if I hear from him once or twice a year I think
myself fortunate. Perhaps the extra demands
on his time and attention by Lady Clara and
her daughter leaves him but little leisure for
correspondence.

This good, long letter, just received, breathes
forth the same kind sympatliies as of old. A
longing comes over me to return to my native
land— to grasp again the hand of warm-hearted
John Farland. I can never feel at home here.
The scenery, the climate, and the people are
uncongenial. I will close up my affairs and
sail on the next steamer. John shall know
nothing of this. I will answer his letter in per-
son and treat him to a genuine surprise.

Scene II. A nicely furnished libracy at Lynedale
Hall. Paul Hylton is ushered into the room

Footman, Mr. Farland is about the premise*.
I will call him. Your card, please.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

^ulH. Never mind the card nor the name.
Tell him a friend wishes to see him. (£>//
footman.) Well, I declare, these clothes do
look a little out of place in such an elegant
mansion— I never once thought of them. I am
too careless about such things! but John won't
care whether I'm dressed in style or out of
style if he is at all as he used to be. Wonder
if he'll know me I {^Enter John Farland, bows
and fresents kis hand, but does not recognise
him.)

John F. Your countenance is familiar, sir,
but I really can't call you by name.

Paul H. John, don't you know me ?

John F. (Gnatiy surprised.) It can't be Paul,
Paul Hylton 1

Paulff. Paul Hylton it is, indeed 1 Come
to spend Christmas with you.

y. F. [^Shaking his hand warmly.) Welcome
home, old boy, I am so glad to see you !
Meant to give me a surprise, did you ? Well,
well, you have succeeded admirably. Did
you get my last letter? ( They take seats.)

Paul H. Yes ; just before I left India. It
was in fact that good cheering message which
confirmed my decision to return.

John F. Glad something started you f Just
think, it is fifteen years since you left us !

Paul H. Yes ; fifteen years, John, of hard
work and worry, of self-exile— of strange vicis-
situdes. Do you think me nruch changed ?

John F. Now that I know you, I can see
that you look, on the whole, quite natural; only
time has added a stray wrinkle or so to the
forehead and touched with a slight frost those
raven locks; but it was your voice that I first
recognized— there was no mistaking that,
Shoul you have known me had I dropped
down unexpectedly in India ?

PaulH. Yes; I think I would have known
you anywhere.

y. F. Come back to stay ?

PaulH. Well, yes. I guess so. I'm heartily
tired of India. It may do for fortune-seekers,
but it is not a place I would like to make my
home.

J. F. So the world has not prospered with
you, Paul? I'm sorry. You deserve a better
fate. My old-time promise holds good. If you

„_ „, „„j, „aj, vuinc to mc. \tuiter

Lady Clara.)

iMtlyC. Oh.beg pardon, {Mthavti^ haughty

I toss of the head.) I did not know you were en-
! gaged. Perhaps, with a house full of visitors,
you can spare time for more than one.

7. F. ( Very meekly. ) To be sure, my .dear, to
be sure ! I am very remiss, Lady Clara. Let
me introduce my old friend, Paul Hylton, to
you. (Makes a very haughty bow.) He— he
( J^ith hesitation) has come to spend Christmas
with us. [She surveys Paul slowly from head
to foot.) What room will suit Mr. Hylton best?
He will want good fires— England is very cold
after India.

Lady C. I understood you, that our list of
friends was quite complete. You had bettei
send for the housekeeper, There are no rooms
to spare. (Sweeps haughtily out of the room.)

y. F. (Rubbing his hands and looking per-
plexed.) Lady Clara is— is tired to-night ; we
have so many guests.

Paul. H. John, be quite frank with me. I
am an uninvited guest ; if I have come at an
inopportune moment, 1 will go away and return
after the holidays are over.

y. F. Nothing of the kind,— how can you
speak so, Pr'iil ? You are my friend and guest
—welcome a.ways as flowers in May. Lady
Clara is rather peculiar ; she has always been
amongst grand people, you know. I think it
would, perhaps, be as well not to say that you
have been unfortunate before her. She would
not understand, you see. I'll ring for Mrs.
Green, the housekeeper. (Rings the bell. Enter
Mrs. Green. ^ Mrs. Green, this is my old friend
Paul Hylto come from India to make us a
visit,— have you any pleasant room vacant ?

Mrs. Green. (Surprised and delighted.) Bless
my stars! I guess I know this gentleman !
Can it be possible that you are Paul Hylton ?
I used to live at your house when you were a
little boy. Do you remember me ?

Paul H. (Shaking hands with her.) Mrs.
Green, you dear old soul, how are you ? I have
often wondered what had become of you.

Mrs. G. I left town shortly after your father
died and your beautiful home was broken up.
That was a rascally piece of business, cheating
the orphan out of his rightful property 1 I
never could get over it. Your uncle wanted me
to stay and live with him but I could not think
of such A thing. Weii, he and his family are
all dead now with the exception of a scape*
grace son who drank and gambled until he lest

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

the home hit father left him. to it didn't do
them much good after all.

Paul H. That is generally the case with ill-
gotten gain. It was % gigantic fraud. The per-
petrators covered up their tracks so well, the
law could not reach them, but, it seems re-
tribution did.

J. F. Have you a nice room for our old
friend, Mrs. Green ?

Mn. G. Beg pardon, Mr. Farland, I was so
surprised 'o see him again that I quite forgot to
answer y r question. I'll look the house over
and see that he has the best room there is to
spare— bet your life on that. {^Exit Mn.
Green. )

Paul H. My mother, you know, died when I
was quite young and Mrs. Green was as good
to me as a mother could be. Father used to
say, " Be a good boy, Paul, and obey Mrs.
Green, for if she should get discontented and
leave I don't know what we could do." I was
very much attached to her, and cried heartily
when she went away.

J. F. Yes, she is a most worthy woman. 1
guess our household machinery would wabble
some if we didn't have her for a regulator.
(Aa/* Challis opens the door and starts back at
seeing a stranger,)

Kate C. Oh, excuse me I Uncle, can I speak
with you a moment ?

J. F. Certainly, my child. {Leaves the room
afe^u moments, then returns.)

Paul H. Who was that beautiful young girl,
John? Lady Clara's daughter?

John F. Oh, no; thank fortune, she has
none of the royal blood in her veins ! She is
my poor dead sister Nellie's child— one of the
dearest and best girls in the world ! Since her
mother's death she has made her home with us.
When she comes back I'll call her in and intro-
duce her.

Paul H. Thank you. She has a sweet face,
and if, as I judge it to be, it is an index to her
disposition, I shall be glad to make the ac-
quaintance.

7 /". Yes, poor girl. Tier parents are both
dead, and she is quite alone in the world. I am
the only near relative she has and I would lay
down my life for her any time. You can see
for yourself how matters stand. Everything is
not as harmonious as it might be. Kate is the
sunshine of my home. Paul, as you value your

own peace of mind, never marry an imperious,
self-willed woman.:

Paul H. It is most surely the one great
calamity from which I should hope to be
spared. {Kate knocks at the door— Mr. Far.
land opens it. )

Kate Challis. All right. Uncle. Mrs. Green
has arranged things very nicely.

J. F. Glad to hear it. Come in Kate and
let me introduce you. {She st-fs into the room.)
Mr. Hylton, this is my niece Miss Kate Challis.
{They shake hands.) Kate and I will try and
make you feel at home, won't we, Kate ?

Kate C. Of course we will. {Bell rings) I
have often heard Uncle speak of you and of the
good times you used to have when you were
boys together, so I feel well acquainted with
you. I know we shall enjoy your visit exceed-
ingly.
y. F. Kate, was that the first dinner bell ?
Kate C. Yes, sir ; it just rang.
y. F. We must go down to the drawing-room
or Lady Clara will be quite out of patience.
Scene III. In the drawing-room. It is filled
with guests when Mr. Farland, Paul Hylton,
and Kate enter. Kate very quietly seats her-
self. No one pays her the least bit of attention.
Mr. Farland introduces Paul. Lady Clara
and her daughter. Miss Ada Ross, exchange
significant glances. He appears <j . lie at ease
and takes a vacant seat beside Kate Challis.
Miss Ada Ross. Our arrangements are quite
complete. Count Rienzo. We are to have a
grand Christmas ball. Won't that be just
jolly ?

Count Rienzo. Oui, Mademoiselle Ross. Je
serais charmd si vous-voulez dancer avec moi.
Quel dommage that I not can speak good
English !

Miss A. R. Yes, it is too bad, but you can un-
derstand all we say to you.

Count R. Oui, si vous parlez bien lentement.

Miss A. R. You will soon learn to speak our
language by hearing it constantly.

Paul H. Do you enjoy dancing, Mic«
Challis?

Kate C. Oh, yes, very much, Mr. Hylton.

Paul H. Then I may claim you for a dance
or two ?

Kate. Most assuredly, I should be delighted to
dance with you. {Lady Clara and daughter ex-
change amused glances.)

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

if; I.

Lady Qara. Oh, by the way, Lord Annesley,
have you heard that Parkwood Grange has been
recently sold to a very wealthy gentleman who
is having it fitted up in the most magnificent
style intending to make it his residence ?

Lord A. Yes, I rode over to the Grange to-
day and was perfectly charmed with the
grandeur of the place. It excels by far any
nobleman's castle in this part of the country. I
am informed that the fortunate proprietor made
the purchase through an agent, and although
everybody is on the qui vive to learn further
particulars, the strictest secrecy is maintained.
It is rumored, however, that he is very rich,
very eccentric, and a bachelor. There's a
chance for you, Miss Ada.

Miss A. R, That's so. Lord Annesley. I
must surely set my hook for him. He will be
the greatest catch of the season.

Paul H. That would not, perhaps, be a bad
plan for you Miss Challis. If he is such a big
fish in the matrimonial frog-pond it might bo
well to try your luck at angling {^Another ex-
change of glances between Lady Clara and her
daughter.)

Kate C. I've no faith in my skill as an angler,
Mr. Hylton— it is wholly out of my line of bus-
iness.

Miss A. R. Well spoken this time, Kate. He
would probably look for a lady more nearly his
equal in social position. I would dearly love
to be mistress of Parkwood. Don't you think,
Lord Annesley, that I could preside over the es-
tablishment with becoming grace and dignity ?
Lord. A. Certainly, Miss Ada. Nothing
could be more appropriate. You may depend
on my influence to further your interests in that
direction. It takes some sharp maneuvering to
catch these shy old fellows, but they're worth
fishing for.

Miss A. R. Thank you. Lord Annesley, I
shall hold you to your promise. How I wish
he would happen to be at the ball ! I would
smile my sweetest and look my prettiest ar.a
take his old bachelor heart by storm.

Lord A. That would, indeed, be a grand op-
portunity, but let us hope for better luck in the
future. (Bell rings— Each gentleman escorts a
lady to dinner— Paul Hylton accompanies Kate
Chaiiis.)

SCENE IV. In the Library. Paul Hylton,

alone, reading tht morning paper. Enter Kat*
Challis. He l-iyt down his paper and ad-
dresses Kate.

Paul H. Merry Christmas, Miss Challis I
Why, you haven't been crying! What is the
matter? Do tell me what it is.

Kate C. I ought to be ashamed of myself, I
know, but Lady Clara has decided that I am
not to go to the ball.

Paul H. Why not, pray ?

Kate C. I have no dress suitable, and with
so many visitors at the hall Lady Clara thinks
there will be no time to see about one.

Paul H. Where do Lady Clara's come from ?

Kate C. From London. Dresses for my aunt
and cousin arrived three days ago.

Paul H. You must surely go to the ball,—
buy a dress Kate.

Kate C, I have no money. {Smiling.) My
uncle buys everything for me. He will not
know 1 want this until it is too late.

Paul H. What a thing it is to wan* money !
I wish everybody could be rich— yourself, es-
pecially, just now.

Kate C. Yes, it would be nice. You can
sympathize with me in this—can't you, Mr.
Hylton? Uncle says you have been unfortu-
nate — I don't know why the best people must
always be poor. It is hard to be dependent on
others, but my uncle is very kind, so I'm not
wholly friendless, you see. O, Mr. Hylton, I
forgot to return your "Merry Christmas," and
here is a little keepsake I have brought you. It
is merely a trifle, but please accept it as a token
of remembrance. {She hands him a small par-
cel. He opens it and finds a nice silk handker-
chief with his initials embroidered on it.)

Paul H. Thank you, Kate,— please let me
call you so. It is a perfect beauty ! Did you
embroider this so exquisitely ?

Kate C. Yes, sir ; I got up early and have
jii-l finished it. That is right, call me Kate. I
li!:«. it bttier.

Paul H. And you must call me Paul— will
yoij ?

Kate C. You are so much older, Mr. Hylton,

it would almost seem like showing disrespect.

Paul H. Never mind the disrespect, Kate.

friendship levels all disiincnons. Will jou

call me Paul?

Kate C. V/hy, yes ; since you wish H, but

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

{Smiling.') My

me Paul— will

Lady Clara would be shocked to hear me call
you so.

Paul H. A fig for Lady Clara! Yo . may
call me Mr. Hylton before her and the family,
if you like, but when you speak to me alone
remember 1 am " Paul."

Kate C. Yes, Paul, I will remember it. Are
you going to help us decorate the Hall with
holly for the ball ?

Paul H. Yes, Kate, after I go down to the
office and telegraph concerning some very im-
portant matters which demand immediate at-
tention.

Kate C. I'll not detain you then, Paul. Ha!
ha ! how queer that sounds.

Ml wish it, btit

Scene V. John Farland and Paul Hylton in
the library.

J. F. {Consulting his watch.) It is some
little time yet before the dancing-hali will be
opened and as the arrangements are all com-
pleted, we may hope for a little quiet talk in
the interim. I do sincerely hope that after
Lady Clara has succeeded in marrying off Miss
Ada to her satisfaction we shall have fewer
balls and parties and more domestic enjoy-
ment.

Paul H. This I suppose is to be a wonderful
affair from the number of notables who are in-
vited. I have a better suit than this which I
must wear on the occasion, but even that will
compare quite unfavorably with the elegant ap-
parel of the other guests.

y. F. Who cares for the elegant apparel ? I
don't, do you?

Paul H. Well, no, perhaps not enough for
my own good. {Enter Lady Clara in a great
rage.)

Lady C. Is it possible, John, you have ordered
this box for Kate fiom London? I can hardly
believe even you capable of such a f .Hy.

y. F. I have ordered nothing. I did not
know Kate required anything. What do you
mean?

Lady C. There is a box just come from Lon-
don addressed to Miss Challis, containing the
most magnificent dress I ever saw — far better
than I or my daughter can afford. Shoes,
gloves, fail, opera cloak, wreath, bouquet, and
all complete. If you did not order it, who
did?

y. F. Most certainly, I did not. Is there no
bill or memorandum, or anything by which you
can tell from whence it came ?
Lady C. Not a word !~not a fold of paper I
y. F. What does Kate say, herself?
Lady C. {Contemptuously.) Kate I She pre-
tends to be surprised ; but it seems very strange
♦o me. I do not like anything underhand.

y. F. (Rings the bell impatiently— a servant
enters.) Send Miss Ciiallis to me at once!
{Exit servant— Kate enters apparently very much
con/used.) Kate, cm you guess who has made
you this beautiful and very valuable present ?

Kate C. No, Uncle ; no one has ever gi-. en
me anything but you.

y. F. That will do. Wear your dress, my
dear, and look as nice as you can.

Kate C. Thanks, Uncle, I will wear it.
{Leaves the room.)

Lady C. Your niece must have a fairy god-
mother. {Contemptuously.) I do not like mys-
teries ; nor do I approve of a poor penniless
girl, like Kate, being dressed hke a duchess !
{Leaves the room in a huff. )

y. F. Who can have sent Kate that dress?
I shall never hear the last of it. Yet I am glad
some one cares for the child.

Paul H. She should marry a neighbor, then
you could take refuge with her sometimes. I
would like to see her in that dress before she
enters the ball room. Perhaps I'd better not
attend this evening.

y. F. You absent yourself from the ball ? I
shall not listen to such a thing. Your clothes
will be plenty good enough and Kate will be
greatly disappointed if you do not go. She is
a very graceful dancer. When she passes the
door I'll call her in.

Paul H. I am glad she can enjoy dancing.
1 imagine she must have a great many heart-
aches. Nothing is harder for a sensitive soul
to endure thar he taunts of an overbearing
woman.

y. F, Thatisi true, Paul, I v An*t s«e how anf
person should take do'i ht in saying bitf-r
things to a poor and de;.ndent orphan. Mj
spirit rises in rebellion, sometimes, bu^ I sup
pose discretion is the better part of valor and l
..tte my ,;;?" tn ,?eep jrom expressing iiiy thoughts
in words more forcible than elegant.

Kate {Knocks at the door and enters all dressed
for the ball.) Why, Uncle, you and Mr. Hy)..

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

■ m

v;.'

•■.if

ton will be too late if you don't hurry and make
your toilet.

7. F. Well lone, Kate ! You will be the
belle to-night. That dress is a perfect beauty.

Kaif C. Well done, somebody! W)'oever
sent me this hac! good taste in selecting. Isn't
it a nice Christmas present, Uncle?

y. F, It certainly is, my chiJ., T hope you
will have a good tiirit Who ilu' you dance
with?

Kate C. O, with you and Mr. Hyltc;-. of
course, and, I dare s;r. . Mr. Hui!iplire> will
ask me ,^■5 well. He is nearly b stranger he«>,
;'tiu knov

7- F. \'o\x are a good jjirl, Kate. Give me a
i'ws r"'^ tnen ru s away. {She pretends to kiss

fii'M. )

P ^ ;/ //'. Kiss me too t I am not your uncle.
b!tt ', am his oldest friend, and here is a piece
oi mistletoe — see! j

'}'. F. Yes, give him a kiss Kate. Poor Paul ! '•
Kv'j has no one in the wide world to kiss him.
(SAe drops her head bashfully. Paul takes her
hand and presses it to his lips. She smiles and
leaves the room. )

Scene VI. Tableau .-—The Belle of the Ball.
Represents a ball-room with the dancers on the
floor.

Scene vii. John Farland and Paul Hylton
alone in the library.

y. F. So you think you must leave us, Paul ?
Where are you going?

Paul H. To London, John, to seek my
fortune.

y. F. If there should be any way in which
you would like to start do not hesitate for want
of capital. Remember, Paul, my purse is
yours. We are brothers, you know. If I were
a bachelor— («jfAj sadly)— M I were a bachelor,
you should share my home, but a married man
can't always do as he would.

Paul H. I can not think of staying longer.
I know a lengthy visit would not be at all pleas-
ing to Lady Clara.

y. r. .. vdy Clara, I am sorry to say 5 mr,^
one of .. lost amiable of' women.

Paul, luanks, John, for your kind ofls - j |
assistance. If I have good luck I hope nof o
need financial help, but there is one boov: j \
must ask before I go. Give it to me and I shall j
be the happiest of men.

Paul, you know you
i.:<!ce, Kate, to be my

ihe sweetest, truest.

/ F.. Anyihin^ I hav,
■A iti b« Li:op.t welcome *-.>.
Paul M Give ire youv
w iTt*

[y F. jViy nie.:« Kat* I
luul-il. Your nie»«i~
best ^\x\ in the world !

y. F. Willingly, most willingly; but Paul,- my
dear boy, what will you keep her on ? Kate
cannot n/e on air, ycj know,

Paul //. I wiU find the ways and means if
you A il! b'lt give your consent.

y. i'. \ &\\\ sc giad i There is no one I care
for 80 mtich as you, Paul. I would rather give
Katie to you than to a prince. Go and ask her
yourself— see what she says, and bring her to
me.

Paul H. I'm afraid she will feel insulted by

an offer of marriage from an old, old bachelor

I lik;' me ; I can but test my fate, and if she

^ hould refuse, I must abide the consequences,

(suppose. (Exit Paul.)

y. F. Popping the question is something new
in his line. He will find it rather an awkward
affair. Well, well, may success attend him.
( Takes hi} flute and plays to while away the time
—Enter Paul with Kate on his arm.)

Paul H. Kate has promised to be mine,
John. Give us your blessing.

y. F. That is yours in perpetuity, my chil-
dren. May yours be a peaceful and happy
home if not the abode of wealth and luxury.

Kate C. I shall not mind being poor at all
Uncle, I'm used to it. I can help Paul in many
ways and not make myself a useless burden on
his hands to support. If we live in London, it
will be so near you can come and see us often.
y. F. You may depend on a visit from me
whenever I need a fresh supply of sunshine,
and that will probably be quite often. We
must tell Lady Clara. ( They look at each other
in c'ismay.) Paul, you had better take the news
'self.

• I H. Well, if I must, I must, but I had
■^ iiei face the dragon in his cave. Nevermind
' Here goes I ( E.vit Paul. )
i<eNE VIII. In Lady Qara' s boudoir. Lady
Clara and Paul Hylton alone.

^<fy C. Why, Mr. Hylton I Kate is a mere

>..«•£.'. and you, old enough to be her father!. I

'. ' :,N,i!.i call you both two precious simpletons.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

sweetest, truest,

s and means if

boudoir. Lady

Of course, if Mr. Farln d has given his con-
sent. I liave nothing to do in the matter. Miss
Challis is not under my control. I may, per-
haps, be permitted to say, I think it a singular
arrangement for two persons entirely without
fortune to marry. I hope it may end well.

PaulH. It is a little singular, Lady Clara, I
confess, but love can accomplish wonders.

Lady C. So it seems. When is this affair to
come off?

Paul ff. I am going to London for a week
and shall hope to claim my bride on my return.
Lady C. In a week ! It will be impossible
for her to leave so soon.

Paul I^. You need not trouble yourself con-
cerning a wedding outfit. I will see that she
has everything needful for the occasion.

Lady C. You will need no very elaborate out-
lay. Being penniless and of no social standing,
you will of course expect a very quiet wedding.
PaulH. Most, certainly, I should prefer it
under any circumstances. Grand weddings sel-
dom turnout well. We will reserve our wedding
feast until we can invite our friends to a home
of our own.
Lady C. Which will not be very soon, I fear.
Paul H. «Then we can do without it. A
man's life does not consist in the multitude of
his riches nor a true woman's happiness in the
splendor of her entertainments. Kate and I
can be happy together even in the obscurity of
our poverty.

Lady C. I don't know about that. I should
prefer a little less love and a little more luxury.
Paul H. Tastes differ. Lady Clara. A love-
less home would be to me the most desolate of
desolations. I must take the next train so I
will bid you good-bye.

Scene IX. The Wedding Day. TJte family in
the drawing-room with the exception of Kate.
Enter Paul Hylton.

y. F. Why, Paul, what makes you so late ?
It is neariy time for the ceremony.

PaulH. The train was delayed on account
of an accident on the road. Where is Kate ?

Lady C. Oh, she is in her room crying her
precious eyes out, I suppose, for fear you would
not come,

7- F. {Rings for a servant who enters the
room.) Take this package to Miss Challis and
inform her of-Mr. Hylton's arrival.

Lady C. It is so late she had better dress be-
fore coming down.

7. F. An accident on the road ? Anything
serious ?

Paul H. No injury to life or hmb, 1 believe,
but a smashing up of several freight cars in a
collision. We were obliged to wait until they
could clear the track.

Lady C. Have you a place to take your bride,
Mr. Hylton ?

Paul H. Oh, yes, we shall have very com-
fortable quarters,— as good a home as persons
in our circumstances could expect.

Lady C. I am glad to hear it, Mr. Hylton.
Kate has lived with us so long we, of course,
have some interest in her welfare.

y. F. Did you succeed in securing a good
position, Paul ?

Paul H. Measurably well. It will do until
I can find something better. {Enter servant
with the mail.) Lady Clara opens a letter ad-
dressed to Mr. John Farland and family, and
starts back in surprise.

Lady C. Here is a card from Parkwood
Grange. {Reads.) Mr. and Mrs. Paul Hylton
at home after January 15th I Can it be possi-
ble, Mr. Hylton, you are the gentleman who ha*
recently purchased Parkwood Grange?

Paul H. The same mysterious personage.
Lady Clara. It has been the one dream of mv
life to buy back my eariy home. I learned, on
my arrival, that it was for sale and instructed
my agent in London to make the purchase. The
arrangements are now completed, and after a
short wedding trip we shall settle down under
the old paternal roof.

y. F. {Stepping forward and grasping his
hand.) Well done, my boy, I congratulate
you. Does Kate know anything of this?

Paul H. Nothing at all. She probably has
been expecting upper apartments in some
crowded tenement block in London. She mar-
ries me for myself you see.

y. F. So then our little Kate has secured the
greatest catch of the season. How is that. Miss
Ada?

Miss A. R. It seems, Mr, Farland, you took
our little jest in earnest. I shall look for Some-
thing besides riches when I marry. Nothing

short of the little "Countess," would suit
me.

y. F. AhM see. When Coint Rienzo can

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

talk a little better English, we may expect
another wedding.

Miss A, R. I have a desire for rank and sta>
tion. I do not fancy untitled gentlemen. Blood
it what tells, you know.

y. F. Yes, the good rich blood of robust
health is the best blood I know of. I should
much prefer it to the sickly blue blood of titled
aristocracy.

Lady C. I think Mr. Hylton. ( IVith a defer-
tntial smile) it would have been better had you
appeared in your true character.

Paul H. I made no mention, whatever, of
my financial affairs ; but as you seemed to take
it for granted that I lacked the means to wear
better clothes, I suffered you to remain unen-
lightened on that point as long as it should be
for my pleasure to do so. My little experience
at Lynedale Hall has done me a world of good.
It has showed up in their true light the false
distinctions in social life; it has proved the
truth and sincerity of my old friend, John
Farland, and given me the sweetest, noblest
little wife man was ever blessed with.

Ijody C. Had we known your real standing
yours should have been one of the grandest
weddings on record. It is all your fault, Mr.
Hylton.

J^tul H. No apologies are due, Lady Clara.
The arrangements are all right. I would not
wish them otherwise.

Lady C. We must cut short our discourse.
The clergyman has arrived and we must pre-
pare for the ceremony.

Scene x.

Tableau.

A QUIET WEDDING.

MUSIC.

PEACEFULLY SLUMBER.

Pbaosfolly slumber, my own darling sop;

Close thy deer eyelids, and sweetly sleep on ;
I A.1I things lie buried in silence proforind.
■ Sleep ; I will scare e'en the goats floating round.

Tis now, my dearent, thy life'8 early May ;

Ah ! but to-morrow is not as to-day ;

Trouble and care round thy curtains shall soar;

Tbeu child, tbou'lt slumber so sweetly no more.

AngelM of heaven ns lovely an thou,
. Float o'er thy cradle and smile on thee now.

Later when angels around thee shall stray,
'Twill be to wipe but thy teardrops away.
Peaoefully slumber, my own darling one,
Watch by thy bedside, till dark night is gone;
Careless how early, how late it may be, '
Mother's love wearies not watching o'er thee.

OPTIONAL

FRANK RUBYS CHRISTMAS.

BY P. HAMILTON MYERS.

'TWAS Christmas Eve; the snow fell fast,
Fell through the twilight, dun and grey;

And now a breese, and now a blast, ,
The wind went whistling on its way.

Through all the city's whitened streets

Gift-bearing people homeward sped ;
In car and stage were crowded seats

And crowded roofs were overhead.
Pedestrians, bending to the storm,

Signalled in vain the autocrat,
Who stamped to keep his great feet warm,-"

Jehu in oil-cloth coat and hat.
But all was mirth, each heart was gay ;

Well could they storm and tempest stem :
Twas eve of blessed holiday,

And happy homes awaited then/*, —
Homes in which joyous shouts would ring,

Homes radiant with the light of bliss,
Wherv; red-lipped children climb and cling

To win the first paternal kiss.
Piled presents and the fireside glow, —

On such a scene one fain would dwell ;
But of this night of sleet and snow

I have another tale to tell.
Frank Ruby's years were forty-five ;

"And half that period and more,"
He said, " I've labored hard to drive

The wolf of hunger from the door.
"Yet here we are, this night of storm—

Our cabin floor is bare and rough,
Our fuel scant, we are not wurm,

We fieldom have quite food enough.
"Our rhilren are too thinly clad

Though they are good as good can be;
And Edwin, oh, my darling lad!

He sleeps beneath the briuy sea."
Patient and pale, beside him stood

His wife, aud begged liim not to yrieve-
Sbe told him that the Lord was K"od,

And this, His biesued Christmas Eve.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

" Perhaps he looki upon as now

In pity." so the womaa said.
Franic Ruby's was a wrialcled brow,

Frank Baby shook a doubting head.
"To-morrow all the town will feast:

I longed to get some treiit for yoa,
But did not dare to spend the least

Because the rent was almost due."
" 'Tis right," she said, " for I hare dared

(Remember, it is Christmas time!)
To spend— nay, husband, be not scared!

It was for Mem, and but a dime.
" 'Twas but this once ; you know, my dear,

Thejt never had a toy before ; — "
Is it the rattling wind they hear,

Or mortal hand that shakes the doo r?
They hnste to open, they bring a light :

An old man bending 'neath a pack.
Begs food and shelter for the night;

His white hair streams adown his back.
They help him in ; he scarce can hear

The words of welcome which they speak ;
And yet he feels the warmth and cheer

For smiles light np his aged cheek.
He lowers his bundle to a chair.

Shakes from his clothes the clinging snow,
Shakes it from cap and beard and hair

Then sits beside the fire's full glow, —
And laughs while Frank piles on the wood

And rubs his hands before the blaze ;
And when the good wife brings him food,

He laughs again, but little says,—
And little they, so deaf is he.

So busy with his frugal meal.
And with that cup of steaming tea.

Whose warmth his very heartstrings feel.
Two little Christmas stockings hung

Gaping beside the roaring hearth ;
" And have you children ? Are Ihey yonng ? "

The old man asked with air of mirth.
They nodded, and he shook with glee.

" Ha, ha! " he said, " I've guessed aright.
And, surely down the wide chimney

Old Santa Clans will come to-night."
They made bis bed before the fire.

With blankets which they ill could spare;
And, wearied all, they soon retire,

But not without an evening prayer.
Morn came, and still the snow did fall.

Frank feared his ancient guest would stay ;
He >new there was not food for all : —

Alas, for snob a Christmas Day I

He hears his children leap from bed.
He hears their voice of noisy mirth.

As shivering (eaqh in nightgown red)
They hasten to the fireless hearth.

"O, father, father! come and see
What Santa Claus brought me and ais,— •

Our stockings ftill as full can be ;
And on the top, see, what is Mte^"

They rush \a him in eager strife ;

Their little hands outstretched they hoM ;
In each he sees — as sure as life ! —

A bright broad disk of coined gold.

" What can it mean ? It is some trick I "
Husband and wife astounded say.

They rise, they dress themselves full quick,
They haste to where the stranger lay.

Their ancient guest he sleepeth well :
Frank Ruby gives him many a dhake ;

He seems enchained by some strange spell
Never was man so hard to wake.

Once ..ore ! he rises nimbly now,
He biands erect in manly grace ;

He tears the '^\ite wig from his brow
And fling;r 1 1 < (alse beard from his face

" My son, my son ! " the fatlier cries.
Dame Ruby swoons upon his nerk ;

"Tis Edwin stands before their eyes,
Saved from the sinking vessel's wreck.

To paint a pleasure great as this,

A joy so tender, so divine.
Such lasting ecstasy of bliss, —

Needs more presuming pen than mine.

The parents think not of the pelf,
T) r .A^ ies " roll upon the floor;

They )i.:y ihink of Edwin's self
Nor ask nor guess if he has more.

Not so with him, thelMisterous youth,
Who from the land of gold had come.

And who had labored hard, in truth,
To gain and bring some thousands homa

" I've also brought my own strong arm,"
He said, *' nor e'er again will stray."

Frank Ruby fAtred no future harm,
Frank Ruby kept that holiday.

He called his poorer neighbors in ;

A smoking turkey graced his hoard ;
He laughed, as those may laugh who .fin

And thenceforth tnisted in the Lo^^'^.,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

AS gi;»r?c a^ -t-he telephone.

Oni. nig!;i .i weli-known merchant of a town
In the West, who had been walking 'or some
time in the d-;,wnward path, came out of his
house and started out for a night of carousal
with some old companions he had promised to
meet.

His young wife had L .ought him with im-
ploring eyes to spend the evening with her, and
had reminded him of the time when evenings
passed in her company were all too short. His
little daughter had clung about his knees and
coaxed in her pretty, willful way for papa to tell
her some bed-time stories; but habit was
stronger than love for wife or child, and he
eluded her tender questionirg by the deceits
and excuses which are the convenient refuge of
the intemperate and so went on his way.

When he was some distance from his house
he found that in changing hi? roat he had for-
gotten his purse, and he could not go out on a
drinking-!. out without any money, even though
his family needed it, and his wife was econo-
mizing every day more and more in order to
make up his deficits. So he hurried back and
crept softly past the window of his own home,
in order that he might steal in and obtain it
without running'the eauntiet of other questions
or caresses.

But as he lou 'd through th window some-
thing sta ' his fe"!. There is a fire in the
grate withi. -for the night was chill— and it lit
up the pretty little parlor and brought out in
startling effect th» pictures on the wall. But
thes< vere r.. ininj^ to the picture n the hearth. !
There, in the soft glow of the hre-light, knelt |
his child at her mother's feet, its small hands
clasped in prayer, and its fair (. ad bowed ;
and as its rosy lips whisj -d eac! word with
childish distinctness, the 1, •'ot V ened, spell-
bound, to th words whicl e h elf had so
often uttered at his own momer's knee :
" Now I lay me down to sleep."
His thoughts ran back to boyhood hours ;
and as he compressed his bearded lips, he
could see in memory the face of that mother,
long ago gone to her rest, who taught his own
infant lips prayers which he had long forgotten
to utter.
The child went on and completed her little

verse, and then as prompted by her mother,
continued :

"God bless mamma, papa, and my own
self "—then there was a psi se, and she lifted
her troubled blue eyes to her mother's face.

"C;od bless papa," prompted the mother,
softly.

" God bless papa," lisped the little one.

" And please send him home sober."

He could not hear the mrther as she said

this ; but the child followed in i clear, inspired

tone —

"God blesf papa— and please— send him—
home sober. Amen."

Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm
when the door opened so suddenly ; but they
were not afraid when they saw who it was re-
turned so soon. But that night when little Mary
was being tucked up in bed, after such a romp
with papa, she said in the sleepiest and most
contented of voices :

' " Mamma lod answers almoif. tj quick ai
the telephone, doesn't he?"

J^'rom the Bapti . eekly.

ANTIETAM.

I'VE wandered o'er Antietam, Jolin

And stood where foe met foe
Upon the fields of Maryland

So many years ago
The circling hills rist just the same

As they did on that day,
When yon was fighting bine, old boy,

Ana I was fighting gray.

The wlntlip- strenm runs 'neath thebridifc

Where Bi. inside w n bifi fame;
Th. locust trees upon the ridge

B yond are ther< ihp same.
The irds were singing mid the trees—

T . . 1 bullets on that day
When you as fighting blue, old boy,

And I was lighting gray.

T SAW aop&fn iTiA T>iin1fA«* aV.»»«|.

That stood beside the wood,
Where Hooker made that famous cfaaige
That Jlill so well withstood.

»y her mother.

and my own
and she lifted
ther's face.
1 the mother,

ittle one. '

ober."

er as she said

clear, inspired

! — send him^

ir feet in alarm
nly ; but they
fhu it was re-
len little Mary
r such a romp
>iest and most

it 1.S quick ai

ti / 'eekfy.

he brid,^

eea—

wy,

^ai]g<j

is;

i ■ ■ ■:.*■'

1 '

."'^"'^.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Tli mrr«d and marrwl by war aud tim«

Ai w« Arc, JohQ, (o-d«7,
For you were fiKhliug blue, old boy,

As I WM flK'it'''it gra/-

IT.

I etood beoenth the ■ignal tree

Where I that day was laid,
Aud 't*a« your arma, old boy, that brought

Me 10 this friendly shade.
Though leaves iire gone, and limba are bare.

Its heart is true to-day
>M /ours was then, though flghting blue,

10 me, though flghting gray.

J icnrked th*i spot where Mansfield fell-
Where Richurdwon was slain

With Stark and Donglnas mid the com,
And Brand amid the grain.

Tlmir names are sacred to us, John ;
They led us in the fray.

When you were flghting northern blue,
And I the southern gray.

vr.

I thought of Burnside, Hooker, Meade,

Of Sedgwick, old and brave ;
Of 6tonewalI Jackson, tried and true

That strove the day to save,
I bare<l my head, they rest in peace,

Etch cue has pjused away,
Deiith musters those who wore the bine

With those who wore the gray.

vir.

The old Pry mansion reare its wall

Beside Antietam's stream,
And far away along the south

I ""w the tombstones gleam.
Tliey mark each place where Little Mac

And Robert Lee that day
Maie proud the north, though wearing bine,

And soi'.ui, though wearing gray.

VIIL
Teq, John, it^ave me joy to stand

Where we once fiercely fought.
The nation now is one again—

The lesson has been tanght
S3W..... .~-,^_ u^roH x-jr jiauewm crown,

And we can say to-day
We're friends, though one was fighting Uiw

And one was fighting gray.

PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY.

•' Walkin' out dis mawin to bcholc de bew.
tiful in r.ttnr'."' began Prewdcnt Gardner ai he
arose, "my mind recollected dat I had been
axed to spluin de true secret o" happiness. In
<le fust place, when am a man happy? It it
when he has lots o" money— when he has fixed
his enemy— when he travels an' sees de world
—when he has a good home? An' how many
grades of happiness kin you count up? An"
what am happiness, when you boil it down?

" Happiness, as an old black man like m«
defines it," continued Brother Gardner, " am
not sto' clore. a fat wallet, a big house an' ic«
cream ebery night afore you go to bed. When
I looked about me arter a wife I didn't look fur
anything gaudy. I knew I mus' ma'ry a black
woman or none at all. I knew shed be away
off on her Clreek an' Latin, an so when I got
[ my ole woman 1 war" not a bit dis'pinted.
She am as good as I am. an' what more can \
ask? When I war" free to start out I reasoned
dat I mus' job 'round at dis an' clat, kate I bad
no trade. I nebber counted on havin' more dafl
a cord of wood an' five bushels of 'taters ahead,
an' I nebber have had. 1 knew I'd have to
live in a small house, own a cheap dog. live an'
dress plainly, an" keep dis black skin to d«
grave, an' it has all happened jist as I 'spccted.
I am happy kase I havn't spected too much. I
am happy kase 1 doan't figger on what 1 havn't
got. I am happy kase I reason dat de weather
can't alius be fa'r, money can't alius be plenty,
good health can't alius last, an' yer bes' fr'endi
can't alius be counted on. If dar' am ar»y
secret of happiness I believe it am dis, an' we
will now begin de reg'lar bizness of de occafr
''""• Detroit Free Pnu,

PEOPLE WE MEET.

Do you ever watch the people you daily meet
in the crowded streete? Look at this man com-
ing toward you, see how his fists are clenched
as though he had a death-grip on something,
and his face has the picture of determination
expressed thereon ; we hope we shall not see a
murder recorded tke next morning. And here
comes one just the opposite, all smiles, his arms
•wing carelessly, and hands open. He seemt '

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

V ,'t«l

u happy as the couple who now approach us,
who are very much interested in each other's
pleasant conversation ; a marriage may be the
record in the morning paper from this inter-
view. Here comes one who thinks he owns
the whole pavement, he tries to walk upright
and straight, he presses his lips close together
and starts off all right, but what he has taken
inwardly controls his outward locomotion. And
again another couple evidently man and wife,
for their conversation does not seem to be of too
pleasant a nature. And so you can go the live-
long day and cull out the happy and contented
from those who are unhappy, desperate, and
determined. You can tell by the index of the
face if a person has been successful in his busi-
ness relations during the day, or whether he
does not see poverty or suicide staring him in
the face. If the reader will only take the
trouble to observe the people he meets in one
day who are soliloquizing to themselves, he will
be astonished, and find himself at times doing
the same thing.

A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A
STAR.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

Shi had b«en told that God made all the stara
That twiixrfied up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
A« If it were a new and perfect world
And this were its first eve. She stood alone
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised and her sweet mouth
Half parted witn the new and strange delight
Of beaaty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky,
That looked so atill and delicate above,
Filled her young heart with gladness, and the

eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half-smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently in the edge of the last tint
Ofsi^nset, where the blue was melted
Into the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood doddenly. A Jangh of wild delight

Burst A'nm hor Wna an,\ »..»<-:-— __ I I j^

..J , „„„ J ,„_ „j, ,,_, ;jj;uu3^

Her simple thoujtht broke forth expressively,
" Father, dear father I God has made n star ! "

TWO VISITS.

BY N. E. M. HATHEWAY.

The fire in the kitchen was out,

The clock told that midnight was padt.
The cook was in bed and asleep,

And the door of the pan try was fast ;

\
When six little mischievous mice

A-8trolliog for plunder and play
Caiue in by a hole in the wall

They had gnawed for the purpose that oay

First Sharp Tooth and Spry hurried through^
Followed cl iiely by Pry Nose and Fuzz 5

And lastly came Shy Toes and Sleek-
Then, oh, what a frolic there was !

They danced on the best china plates—
These six little mischievous mice ;

They nibbled the fruit-cake and pies ;
They scattered the sugar and rice.

With nothing to startle or harm,
They kept up their frolic and feast

Till the stars faded out of the sky,
And morning appeared in the east.

When they came to the pantry agaia,
They spied in the midst of the floor

A structure of wire and wood
Unseen on their visit before.

It seemed to their curious eyes.

Well fitted for pleasure and ease,
With six little rooms; and each one

Had ♦ables of bacon and cheese.

They viewed it around and around.
They snuffed the sweet smells with delign*

" 'Tis a house built Tor us," they exclaimed.
" And we were expected to-night ! "

Then Sharp Tooth and Spry and the rest
With nothing to make them a^ftiid,

Crept into the six little rooms
Where supper was waiting and— staid I

They came to the pantry no more,

For this was iiie end ot them all ;
And the cook nailed « stout piece of tin

On the hole they bad made in the wall

rpose that atkf

FOR

School ano Evening

ENTERTAINMENTS,

ARRANGED BV

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

MUSIC.

RECITATIONS.

ISAAC'S ADDRESS.

My mens, de subjick of my address dis
ebenm is Lack of Faith. I see it in front an'
behind, an' to de right an' left of me almost
ebery hour in de day. Fifty year ago ef I
went to a cuU'd man an' axed de loan ob two
bits fur a week I got it widout de least hesita-
shun. He didn't draw down his left eye an'
whisper, "Chestnuts" an' softly inquaref he
had hayseed in his ear. In my juvenous days,
when an ole man cum to me an' put his hand
on my head an' tole me dat spreein' 'round
nights wasde side doah to State Prison, I didn't
grin in his face nor whisle in his ear. Ef I
wanted a cup o'shugger or a drawin' ob tea ebery
naybur was willin' to lend, nebber doubtin' dat
I would repay at de airliest moment. Twenty
year ago. I could walk into a butcher shop an'
order a soup-bone an' tell him to charge it, an'
<lat bone would go up to my cabin in all faith
an confidence. Let me go inter a butcher shop
h-moTTor an' gin' dat order an' de butcher
would pint to a dozen signs ob, -No Trust,"
an look pon me as crazy. Dar was a time
when I could git a patch put on my bute an'
waiK on wid de remark dat I would pav fur it
{>« week. Ef I should try da. on to-morror,
I would git de collar from de policeman befo'

|I could walk up an' down all de alleys in
Detroit widout an onkind remark bein' remarked
tome Only yisterday, as I was gwine up an
alley to look fur my dog, a white man Jked
oberh,sback fence an' said. "You is jist one
tZ ■" T '""'^ '"«".-dem chickens is
gone ! De world 'pears to hev reached dat
stage when nobody believe an' everybody
doubts Ef I git on a street kyar. de contctor
wants his cash befo' you set down. Ef I lo
on de railroad a pusson cum 'round befo' we
hev gone five mile, an' demands de fare Ef
go to de postoffice fur a stamp, de clerk reaches
out ftjc my two cents afore he tears de stamp
ofl. Ef I want to borry shugger or tea de
naybursar'jistout. Ef I go to"! nt a ho"; d
owner wants a month's rent in advance. De
good ole days, when man had faith in man, an'
to doubt a man's word meant dat he was a ras-
cal, hev departed, probably nebber to return
nomoah. It grieves an' pains me. I want to
hev faith an don't want to doubt, but de state
of affairs affects me mo' or less. 1 fine myself
hesitatm' when Waydown Beebe wants de loan
ob my Sunday coat to 'tend a pray'r-meeun'.
I fine myself fishm' foi excuses when PicKles
Smith wants de loan ob half a dollar fii, a week
I cotch myself wonderin' ef Shindig Watlcins
takes me fur a haystack when he wants to
borry my new rug to lay in front ob his stove

. ; "°''\ '. "" " H^"/- i^"i5 »Ule ob thines

.s too bad 1 It fills me with sorror to think fb
It an 1 m greatly afeered, my frien's. dat it is
neber goin' to grow no belter.

TUB COMPLETE PROGRAM.

'•'

WHERE DO YOU LIVE?

I kuOTT % man and his name was Horner,
Who used to live on Grumble Corner,
Grnmble Corner in Cross-Patch Town ;
And he never was seen without a frown.
He grambled at this and be gmmbled at that ;
He growled at the dog, he growled at the cat ;
He grumbled at morning, he grumbled at night ;
And to grumble and growl were his chief delight.

Ho gmmbled so much at his wife that she

Began to grnmble as well as he ;

And all the children wherever they went^

Reflected their parents' discontent

If the sky was dark and betokened rain,

Then Mr. Homer was sure to complain.

If there was never a cloud about

He'd grumble because of a threatened drought.

His meals were never to suit his taste ;

He grumbled at having to eat in haste ;

The bread was poor, and the meat was tongh,

Or else he hadn't half enough.

No matter how hard his wife might try

To please her husband, with scornful eye

He'd look around and then with a scowl

At something or oilier begin to growl. .

One day, as I loitered along the street,
My old acquaintance I chanced to meet
Whose face was without the look of care
And the ugly frown that it used to wear;—
" I may be mistaken, perhaps," I said,
As, after saluting I turned my head ; *
" But it is and it isn't the Mr. Homer
Who lived for so long on Grumble Corner."

I met him next day, and I met him again.

In melting weather, in pouring rain.

When stocks were up and when stocks were down

Bnt somehow a smile had replaced the frown.

It puzzled me much. And so, one day,

I seized liia hand in a friendly way.

And said, " Mr. Horner. I'd like to know

What can have happened to change you so ? "

He laughed a laugh that was good to hear.

For it told of a conscience cnlm and clear ;

And he said, with none of the old-time drawl,

* Why, I've changed my residence; that is all."

** Ch.TBged your residenc e ? " " Yes," snid Horner

" It wasn't healthy on Grnmble Comer,

And so I moved. 'Twas a change complete ;

.... — _..... ,, „.,., .„„ ,„,^ ,.,. ^,,^.j.-„._jjjgj2ircct.'

Now every day ns I move along

The strsete so filled with the busy throng.

I watch each face, and can alwsya tell

Where men and women and children dwell

Aud many a discontente«* mourner

Is spending his days onOinmble Comer,

Sour and sad, whom I long to entreat

To take a house on Thanksgiving Street. -

MARY'S LAMB WITH VARIATION*

Mollis bad a little lamb
As black as rabber shoe,
And every where that Mollie went

He emigrated too.
He went with her to church one day—

The folks hilarious grew
To see him walk demurely
Into Deacon Allen's pew.
The worthy deacon quickly let

His angry passions rise,
And gave him an unchristian kick

Between his sad brown eyes.
This landed lamby in the aisle ;

The deacon followed fast
And raised his foot again, — alas I

That first kick was his last ;
For Mr. Sheep walked slowly back

About a rod, 'tis said,
And ere the deacon could retreat

He stood him on his head.
The congregation then arose

And went for that ere sheep ;
When several well directed butts

Just piled them in a heap.
Then rushed they straightway for the do«f

With curses long and loud.
While lamby struck the hindmost man

And shoved him through the crowd.
The minister had oilben heard

That kindness would subdue
The fiercest beast, " Aha ! " he said,

" I'll try that game on you."
And so he kindly, gently called,

" Come, lamby, lamby, lamb,
To see the folks abuse you so

I grieved apd sorry am."
With kind and gentle words he cam*

From that tall pulpit down.
Saying, " Lamhy, lamby, Iamb,—

Best sheepy in the town ! "
The 'amb quito dropped his humble air,

-■ .id rose from off his leet.
And when the parson landed he

Was past the hindmost eat

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

kM he shot ont the open door,
And closed it with a slam,

Jle named a Califoruia town

I think 'twas " Yuba Dam."

MUSIC.
READING.

"JT IS MY MOTHER I "

In one of the fierce engagements with the
rebels, near Mechanicsville, in May, 1864, a
young lieutenant of a Rhode Island battery had
his right foot so shattered by a fragment of
shell that, on reaching Washington after one of
those horrible ambulance rides, and a journey
of a week's duration, he was obliged to undergo
amputaHon of the leg. He telegraphed home,
hundreds of miles away, that all was going
well, and with a soldier's fortitude composed
himself to bear his suffering alone.

Unknown to him. however, his mother, one
of those dear reserves of the army, hastened up
to jom the main force. She reached the city
at midnight, and the nurses would have kept
her from him until morning. One sat by his
side fanning him as he slept, her hand on his
feeble, fluctuating pulsations which foreboded
sad results. But what woman's heart could
resist the pleadings of a mother then ? In the '
darkness she was finally allcvved to glide in and
take the place at his side. She touched his
pulse as the nurse had done ; not a word was
spoken, but the sleeping boy opened his eyes
and sa.d, •• That feels like my mother's hand •_
who is this beside me ? It « my mother ! Turn
up the gas and let me see mother 1 "

The two dear ones met in one long, joyful,
sobbing embrace, and the fondness, pent up in
earl, heart, sobbed and panted and wept forth
Its expieesion.

The gallant fellow-just twenty-one-his .-g
amputated on the last day of his three years'
service, undf went opera ^on after operation,
-v:. at last, wucu death drew nigh and he vras
to J by tearful frierds that it only remaine;: to
make him comfortable, said, <• I have looked
aeath in the face too many times to be afraid

now. Leaning his head upon his tender
mother's breast his spirit took its flight to join
the noble band of hero martyrs who have so
valiantly laid down their lives upon their coun-
try's altar.

A PRACTICAL JOKER.

" Now you say that you have always been s
loving, faithful wife, and that your husband
had no cause for complaint, do you ?" asked a
lawyer of an Indiana woman, opposing her
husbanci's petition for a divorce.

" Yes, sir, I do say that very thing," was the
reply.

•• You never threw sticks of wood at him, or
hot water over him, did you ? "

•• Oh, I don't know, but I 7nay have done
that once or twice in a playful way."

" Oh. you did ? And ueie you joking when
you chased him all over tiie house with a red-
hot poker?"
" Yes, I was ; and he knows it, too."
" Didn't you sew him up in the bed-clothes
one night and pound him with a club ? "

" Well, now, the idea of a man trying to get
a divorce from his own lovin' wife for a little
joke like that ! ' '

"Oh, so that was a joke too, eh? Was it
intended for a joke when you knocked him
down cellar and threw three fiat-irons after
him? "

"Of course it was. I always was a jokey kind
of woman."

" I should say so. You thought it a joke
when you locked him out of the house with the
thermometer below zero, and he had to sleepin
th - hen-roost. That was a joke, eh ? ' "

"Pshaw, now! He's gone and told you of
I that httle caper of mine, has he ? Well, he
never could take a joke, nohow."

" A few more jokes of that kind would have
killed him,"

The judge thought so. too, and gave the man
his •• bill ; " whereupon his r.pouse of the past,
said :

"The idee of a man bein' allowed a divorce
from tli.^ true and lovin' wife of his buzzum for
a few little jokes like that I There ain't no jus-
tice in it!" *

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

MR. BLIFKIN'S FIRST BABY.

That first baby was a great institution. As
soon as he came into this " breathing world,"
as the late W. Shakespeare has it, he took com-
mand in our house. Everything was subservi-
ent to him. He regulated the temperature, he
regulated the servants, he regulated me.

For the first six months of that precious
baby's existence he had roe up, on an average,
six times a night

" Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " bring a light,
do ; the baby acts strangely ; I'm afraid it will
have a fit.'*

Of course the lamp was brought, and of
course the baby lay sucking his fist, hke a little
white bear as he was.

" Mr. Blifkins," says my wife, " I think I
feel a draft of air ; I wish you would get up
and see if the, window is not open a little,
because oaby might get sick."

Nothing was the matter with the window as I
knew very well.

"Mr. fllifkins," said my wife, just as I was
going to sleep again, " that lamp, as you have

placed It, shines directly into baby's eyes,

strange that you have no more consideration ! "
I arranged the light and went to bed again.
Just as I was dropping to sleep —

"Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, "did you
think to buy that broma, to-day, for the
baby?"

" My dear," said I, " will you do me the
injustice to believethat I could overlook a mat-
ter so essential to the comfort of that inestima-
ble child?"

She apologized very handsomely, but made
her anxiety the scapegoat. I forgave her, and
without saying a word to her, I addressed
myself to sleep. " Mr. Blifkins," said my
wife, shaking me, "you must not snore so~you
will wake the baby."

"Jest so— jest so," said I, half asleep, think-
ing I was Solon Shingle.

"Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, "will you get
up and hand me that warm gruel from the
nurse-lamp for baby?_the dear child, if it
wasn't for his mother I don't know what he
would do. How can vou slppn so^ Mr. Blif-
kins?"

"I suspect, my dear," said I, "that it is
because I'm tired."

" Oh, it's very well for you men to talk about'
being tired," said my wife. "I don't know
what you would say if you had to toil and
drudge like a poor woman with a baby."

1 tried to soothe her by telling her she had
no patience and got up for the gruel. Having
aided in answering to the baby's requirements,
I stepped into bed again, with the hope of
sleeping.

"Oh, dear! " said that inestimable woman^
in great apparent anguish, " how can a man,
who has arrived at the honor of a live baby of
his own, sleep when he don't know that the
dear creature will live till morning ? "

I remained silent, d after awhile, deeming
that Mrs. Blifkins had gone to sleep, I stretched
my limbs for repose. How long I slept I don't
know, but I was awakened by a furious jab in
the forehead from some sharp instrument. I
started up, and Mrs. Blifkins was sitting up in
the bed, adjusting some portions of the baby's
dress. She had, in a state of semi-somnolence
mistaken my head for the pillow, which she
customarily used for a nocturnal pincushion. I
protested against such treatment in somewhat
round terms, pointing to several perforations in
my forehead. She told me I should willingly
bear such trifling ills for the sake of the baby.
I insisted upon it that I didn't think my duty,
as a parent to the immortal, required the sur-
render of head as a pincushion.

This was one of the many nights passed in
this way. Thf truth is, that baby was what
every man's f st baby is— an autocrat, absolute
and unlimited.

Such was the story of Blifkins, as he related
it to us the other day. It is a little exaggerated
picture of almost every man's experience.

RECITATIONS.

PLUCK AND PRAYER-

Thebe wa'n't any use o' frettin',

And I told Obadiah so,
For ef we couldn't hold on to things

We'd jest got to let 'era go.

•-•JUS ui ;a:a;

Alouf^ with the rest of ns,
An' It didu't seem to be wnth oni
To make eiob a dreffle fuss.

whin*

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

To be tore, the barn was most empty,

An' com an' pertaten sca'oe,
An' not much of anything plenty an' cheap

Bat water — an' apple-sass.
Bat then,— as I told Obadiah—

It wa'n't any nse to groan,
For flesh an' blaod couldn't stan» it; an' he

Was nothin' but skin an' bone.

Bat laws I ef yon'd only heerd him,

At any hoar of the night,
A-prayin' out in that closet there,

'Twonld have set you crazy quite.
I patched the knees of his trousers

With cloth that was noways thin,
But it seemed as ef the pieces wore oat

As fast as I set 'em in.

To me he said mighty little

Of the thorny way we trod,
But at least a dozen times a day

He talked it over with (}od.
Down on bis kuees in that closet

The most of his time was passed; —
For Obadiah knew how to pray

Much better than how to fast.

But I'm that way contrairy,

That ef things don't go jest right,
I feel like roll in' my sleeves up high

An' gittin ready to fight.
An' the giants I slew tliat winter

I a'n't goia' to talk about ;
An' : didn't even complnin to God,

Tho' I think that he found it oafc

With the poiut of a cambric needle

I dmv the wolf from the door,
For I knew that we needn't starve to death,

Or be lazy because we were poor.
ia' Obadiah he wondered.

An' kept me patcbin' his knees,
ay' f bought it strange how the meal held ont,

^;i' strange we didn't freeze.

But I said to myself in a whisper,

" God knows where his gift descend* ;
An' 'tisn't allis thr t faith gits down

As fur OS the finger-ends,"
^c I •toui'tu^i) hitva no one reckon

My Obadiah a shirk ;
For some, you know, haTO the gift to pray

An' othMB the gift to work,

THE CLASSMATES.

BY HISS A. O. BRIGGS.

' TwAS midnight, and the halls of YmU

Were desolate and lone.
Commencement day had come and paaiei

And with it all had gone
Of those who oft in daily qnest
Of learning there had met.—
All gone?— Ah, no, within ita walls

Six classmates lingered yet.
Six classmates lingered yet to spend

An hour before they part
In social converse, friend with friend,

In interchange of heart,
To breathe their plans for ftatnre day*

Into each other's ears,
And set a time to meet again
In the dim lapse of years.
" I go," said he of the lofty brow,

" I go in search of fame.
I would twine me a wreath from the ku«|
bough;
I would win a deathless name
For me shall the nation's shout ascend,

And the clarion blast ba blown ; —
I scorn to tread earth's by-way patha^

Unknowing and nnknown."
Then he the gentle-bearted spake :

"I haste to the light of home ;
I go where the loved of my kindred dwel^

And ne'er may I wish to roam.
I claim the hand of my fair young bride^

And, far from worldly strife,
Will dwell content in the shady bowera

Of sweet, domestic life."
Then spake the one of thoughtful mien:

" I'll nature's realms explore ; —
These shallow draughts from Learning's Kmnl

But give me thirst for more.
Philosophy shall teach to ma
Her grand, unerring laws.
And Science lift the mystic veil
From each mysterious cause."
" I leave," said he of tho stalwart form,

" These balls for a foreign shore.
I would worship the goddesc Fortune aow^

I would gather the shining or*.
My ships shall dot the spacious mu.

My buildings fill the land ;
And sums, untold, of preoione g»ii
8hall be at my comuumd,"

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

'!■ \

" Since li/e ia short, at best,
Why vex the mind with needlen oare*?—

The sodI with ragne nnrestr—
I'll quaff the sweets from pleaaare'a bowl •

And merrj shall I be. *

A life of seir-inaicted toil

Is Hot the life for me.**

*• I bnild," aaid the one of sober speech,

" No fanes of crambling clay ;
I fling ndt time as worthless chaff

That winds m-y bear away ;
Vy highest aim shall be to tread

The path my Sarior trod,
To cheer the drooping sonl and lead

The erring back to God."

••♦••••

Long yean had passed .wthey met agais-

But ah I how changed were they!
With raven locks and aubnm curls,

Old Time had mingled gray ;
The stalwart form was bowed with years,

Care-marked the loftly brow ,w
The old men, gazing through their tears,

Contrasted Mm with now.

Pirst spake the one who sought for ftme:

'I've climbed the topmost height.
And placed above thera all my name

In burning letters bright ;
I've feasted on a nation's praise,-—

But oh ! I'm weary now j—
I find the laurel wreath of fame

Hay press an aching brow."

Then he who lived for love came forth.

With feeble steps a;jd slew ;
A mourner's sable weeds he wore ;

His heart seemed crushed with wosi
••My earthly joy is o'er »» he said.

In sorrow's plaintive tone,
" My loved ones sleep the sleep of death:

rm left on earth alone."

*' Alas ! " sighed piuasnre's devotM,

" A foolish choice was mine I
I've drained the diege of pleasure's cap-.

Its wormwood and its wine,
Its wild delusions lured me on

With many a biroken vow.—
«. oKtiucr ana s niSef iumu

I OMBe bMteM yott atir."

Then spake the one who toiled for gold
"I've wealth at my command ;

I've ships upon the boandless sea.
And buildings on toe land j

I live in splendor, but alasl
Joy dwells from me apart ;—

I find that gold is not the thing
To satisfy the heart"

Then he of thoughtful mien replied i

" I've delved for learned lore.
The truths I've gathered seem to m«

But pebbles from the shore ;
While far beyond my mortal ken

Unnumbered treasures shine,
Guarded by mysteries too deep

For finite powers like mine."

Then Biwike the philanthropic one

With mdiance on his brow ;
" I've sought not wealth, nor love, no> f*m %,

Nor pleasure's faithless vow ;
But I have found enduring joy •

And brighter grows the way
Till from earth's darkness we eme:^

To heaven's eternal day."

And then and there a solemn pledge

Was registered above,
To spend their few remaining yean

In bumble deeils of love.
All selfish aim9 ignoble seemed ;—

Too sordid,— too confined I—
The grandest, noblest work of maa

To gnide and bless mankind.

MUSIC.

THE MANAGING WIFE.

A LESSON FOR HUSBANDS.

AOArTBO BV HUS A. O. BRIOes.

FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN.
Scene r. a pleasantly furnished mm. Hfr,
Ezra Newton sits by his desk looking over kii
yearly account. Mrs. Newton sits *y the tatl»
kntttmg He seems busy for a few monunf.>,
<»Jterthe curtain rises, then closes his book and
looks up.

Mrs. Newton. Well, how do you come out?

Mr. Newton. I find that my sxnf ns*s .H-..r-
ing the last year, have been thirty-Wve» c«^
over a thousand dollars.

THB COMPLETE PROGRAM,

-seven ctots

Mn. N. And your income has been a thou-
sand dollars ?

Mr. N. Yes, I managed pretty well, didn't

Mrs. N. Do you think it managing well to
exceed your income ?

Mr. N. Ha ! ha 1 what's thirty-seven cents ?

Mrs. N. Not much, to be sure, but still
something. It seems to me that we ought to
have saved instead of falling behind. •

Mr. N. But how can we save anything on
this salaiy, Elirabeth? We haven't lived
extravagantly. Still it seems to have taken it
all.

Mrs. N. Perhaps there is something in which
we might retrench. Suppose you mention some
of the items.

Mr. N. The most important are house rent,
one hundred and fifty dollars, and articles of
food, five hundred dollars.

Mrs. N. Just one-half for the table !

Mr. N. Yes, just h;ilf. and you'll admit that
we can't retrench there, Elizabeth? ! Hke to
live well. I had enough of poor board in
boarding houses before I married. Now, I
mean to live as well as I can. '

Mrs. N. Still we ought to be saving up some-
thing for a rainy day, Ezra.

Mr. N. That would be something like car-
rying an umbrella when the sun shines.

Mrs. N. It is a good thing, however, to have
an umbrella in the house for fear it may be
needed.

Mr. N. I can't controvert your logic, Eliza-
beth, but I am afraid we shan't be able to save
anything this year. When I get my salary
raised it will be time enough to think of that.

Mrs. N. Let me make a proposition to you.
You say one-half of your income has been ex-
pended on articles of food— are you willing to
allow me that sum for the purpose?

Mr. N. You'll guarantee to pay all bills out
of it?

Mrs. N. Yes.

Mr. N. Then I'll see to the rent, the coal
and gas bills and shift the entire responsibility
of i!»-oviding for the table upon you. It will be
a weight off my shoulders ; but I can tell you

savings.

Mrs. N. Perhaps, not ; at any rate I will
engage not to exceed my allowance.

Mr. N. That's right I shouldn't relish
having any additional bills to pay. As I am
paid every month I will hand you half the
money. Remember, you are to set a good
table and live within your means. What s left
you may have for pin money.

Mrs. N. All right I You'U see howl can
manage.

Scene ii. Mr. and Mrs. Newtm in the sam*
room. He has his fiaptr, she, her knitting.
He looks upfront hU paper and addresses his

wife.

Mr. N. You manage to keep busy, little
woman. One would think we had a large fam-
ily by the way you click those knitting needles
—as though your very life depended on it. I
declare, if you are not knitting a child's stock-
ing—who's that for, pray ?

Mrs. N. For the poor little motherless boy
on the alley. His father is so busy cobbling
for others that he don't seem to know his own
little boy's feet are bare. Mrs. Smith has just
given him a pair of new shoes out of their
Store, and I have volunteered to furnish him
with stockings.

Mr. N. I suppose you buy the yarn out of
your pin money.

Mrs. N. Most certainly. When I am so
prospered as to be getting rich out of my pin
money I feel it my duty to help others who are
worse off than myself.

Mr. N. Getting rich ! ha ! ha ! I guess not
very fast.

Mfs. N. I have not been running behind-
hand. Has your board been satisfactory ?

Mr. N. Couldn't wish for better. You are
a first-class cook— that's one thing.

Mrs. N. And an economical one, that's
another. I see that nothing is wasted. We
have lived well and yet I have managed to lay
by a little. How is it with you ?

Mr. N. That's more than I can say. I've
not exceeded my income, however. We have
lived fully as well, and I don't know but better
than we did last year. How you can save any-
thing is a mystery to me.

Mrs. N. It is all in knack. Ezra.

i ve some good news to tell you.
Can you guess what it is?
A rise in salary ?

You must have gone to guessing

Mr. N.
my dear.
Mrs, N.
Mr.N,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

•cliool \ Yes. I'm to have twelve hundred dol-
lar, a year I will still be as good as my word.
You shall have half of it.

Mn, N. Thanks f That will give me a bet-
ter chance to increase my savings.

Mr. N. He, or she. that is faithful in small
things shall be made ruler over greater ones.

Scene hi. a nicely furnished parlor, Mr. and
Mrs Newton sitting by the table.

Mr. N. This seems something like it. I
shall not mind the difference in rent-only a
hundred dollars-when we can have all the
modern improvements and a landlord who is
famed for keeping things in good repair.

Mn. N. Yes. and don't you think I have
done well to save enough to furnish our netv
parlor? The old furniture was getting some- 1
what antiquated. '

Mr. N. You have indeed, my dear. How
could you doit?
Mn. N. Knack, I tell you. Ezra.
Mr. N. I don't know how it is. I can never
come out ahead. I might as well pay the extra
hundred dollars rent, for I have saved no more
smce my salary was raised than before. There's
a hole in my pocket somewhere. It will leak
out. j

Mrs. N. Let me look it up and mend it for

youthen. Here's a document, my dear, which

may be of interest to you. {Hands him a paper)

Mr. N. (Reads it and see.ns greatly surprised)

How is this. Elizabeth ? A deed for this house

and lot ! There must, surely, be some mistake.

Mrs. N. A veritable deed— no mistake about

It ! I have bought us a home out of my pin

money. I am your landlady. Give me the two

hundred and fifty dollars per year for rent and

we soon shall have an accumulated fund from

which to draw when necessity requires.

Mr. N. You are a manager, that's a fact.
How did you do it ?

Mrs. N. Not by miserly pinching and starv-
ing, but by the good common sense method of
making the most of everything, taking advan-
tage of the market and paying cash down every
time. The accumulations of the past ten years
have been loaned at legal rates to responsible
parties— the owner of this building being one
of my heaviest borrowers. They Y.z.vf k.-r.t tH=^
secret well, and allowed me tg treat yeu to a
pleasant surprise.

Mr. N. You shall have your rent promptly,
my good landlady, and I've half a mind to give
you the whole purse, since you are such a
wonderful financier.

Mrs. N. Not quite so bad as that, my dear,
but remember the truth of the old proverb ;
"It is not so much what a man earns. a« what
he saves that makes him prosperous."

MUSIC .

PERSONAL INFLUENCE. '

There is nothing that will let the light into
the soul like personal influence ; nothing that
can lift one up out of the darkness, and lead
one mto the divine and quickening light, and
I baptize one into the spirit of faith, hope, love,
and charity, like the magic power of a good
example ; nothing that can inspire, exalt, and
punfy. like the magnetic rays of healing and
helpmg that beam out of the eyes of noble men
and women. If your life has been deep and
broad in its experience, then you have seen lives
that were better than yours ; lives whose pure
I light shone upon you from a screner height than
I you could reach, just as the drooping flowers,
some chilly morning, have looked up through
the thick fogs and caught a glimpse of the bright
sun which scatters the mists and opens the glad
blossoms to the warm life-giving light. Whose
life is not sometimes wrapped around with fogs ?
Who has not looked up from his life-work and
seen no cheering sun above him— nothing but a
heavy, leaden sky hanging over his pathway ?
And tlien, perhaps, you have almost doubted
the sun itself-doubted goodness and doubted
God— until you have seen the clouds break
away, the fogs lift, and doubt vanish before the
beautiful radiance of some shining example?
I tell you that I believe, more and more, that
what the world needs to reform and redeem it
is, not so much a sound theology, or a profound
philosophy as it needs holier, purer, diviner
lives— lives that shall be the light of men,

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY MRS. HOWLAND.

" All qniet along the Potomac," they say.

" Ei«j6pi uow aud then a stray picket '
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and A«)

By a rifleman in 4ihe tbiokeV

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

»TUi BOthlng— • private or two now and then,

Will D«t count In the news of the battle;
Not a. • -Mr loat— only one of the men,

Moaniig out, all alone, the death-rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon
Or the light of the watch-flrea, are gleaming •
A tremulous sigh on the gentle night wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping,
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes

Keep guard— for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain
And thinks of the two in the lone trundle-bed,

Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim,

Orows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For Iheir mother— may Heaven defend her I I
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then

That night, when the love yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips— when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling.
And gathers his gun closer up to its place.

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree—

The footstep is lagging and weary ;
Yet onward hegoes through the broad belt of light

Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the
leaves ?
Was it moonlight so gloriously flashing?
It looked like a rifle—" Ha t Mary, good-bye I "

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night-
No sound save the rush of the river ;
While eofl; falls the dew on the face of the dead—
The picket's off duty forever.

Would like a handsome bonnet, Inspect* a moii>

ster heap.
But none will suit her fancy ,all too poor and chcapl
She wants somesilken hose-would be glad to buy-
Looks at several pairs, thinks they come to high I
Clerk reflects upon it, thinks it plain to see
That they surely would not come much above the

knee !

She would be glad to purchase a fine and hand*

some shawl ;
But this one is too large, and that one is too small •,
This one is too gaudy ; that one is too plain ;—
When they get some new ones she will call again.
Clerk surveys the counter groaning with its pile,
" Glad to see her always ! " thinking all the while
If he dare but do it he the words could find
To give her far more truthfully the true state of

his mind.

She stands and overhauls the goods very much at

leisure ;
Finds fault with everything just as suits her

pleasure ;
At last she makes a bargain— Oh, let the truth be

said!
She draws her purse and purchases a spool of

cotton thread !
Hauling over calico, tumbling over lace,
Looking at the ribbons, smiles upon her face,—
' Tis really very fanny how the clerks are hoi^.

ping-
How nothing aeems to suit the taste of a lady

shopping !

SHOPPING.

Hauliko over calico, tumbling over laoe •
Looking at the ribbons ; smiles upon her fnce,-
Tis really very fanny how the clerks are hop-
ping—

How nothing seems tosnit the taste of a lady
shopping.

Examines some delalne« r tbSnks them quite too
dear;

The* wUl never amwer ttn-y'r© w old and queer,

THE UNFINISHED STOCKING.

< ■

BY SARAH K. BOLTOK.

Lay it aside-her work ; no more she site
By open window in the western sun.
Thinking of this and that beloved one

In silence as she knits.

Lay it aside ; the needles in their place;
No more she welcomes at the cottage door
The coming of her children home once more

With Bweet and tearful face.

Lay it aside; her work is done and well ;
A generous, sympathetic, Christian life ,—
A faithfal mother and a noble wife ;—

Her influence who can tell ?

Lay it aside— say not her work is done ;
No deed of love or goodness ever diea,
But in the lives of others mnltipUee •

Say it is just begun.

V :]

J I

MUSIC.
COLLOQUY.

LEMUEL DRAYTON'S FORTUNES AND
MISFORTUNES.

TNE COMPLETE PJtOGRAAf.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGOS.

Characters.

Mr. Drayton,
Mrs. Drayton,
Lemuel Drayton,
Mabel Orne,
Rev. Mr. Tnu/ant,
Ladies and Gentlemen,

Conductor,

Baggage Man,

Young America,

Prise Package Vender,

Newsboy,

Passengers.

Scene i. Mr. and Mrs. Drayton and their
son Lemuel at the breakfast table.

Lemuel. I've been a thinkin'. Dad. as we
hain't got nothin' to du 'ceptin' the chores, that
1 11 go down to Bosdng.

Mrs. Drayton. {Springing from her chair and
pmm'g her hands to Lemuefs temples) O,
/. fimJ:' ;y, Ummey. are yo' gittin* crazy ? You're
!»',tom- lohave another bad spell in your head. I
k."w. Yo' wus took afore a talkin' strange.
Zcbuion, you'd best to harness up old Gray an'
go fur Dr. Jones. I'll make yo' a good dose of
catnip as soon as I can, Lemmey. and put a
mustard drafl ontoyer stummick.

L. Don't be spooney on a feller, old lady.
When a man has got money it'snothin' strange
he should wanter see furrin parts. Don't they
alius go tu the continent in all novels ? I sold
my sorrel colt yesterday for seventy-five dollars,
cash down. I guess et you'd as many green-
backs as I've got you'd wanter see a few
sights.

Mrs. D. O, Lemmey, my dear son, yo' can't
be seris f

L. Yes, I'm as seris as ever Parson Brown
f^ to a funeril. I've heern tell of Bosfing
and I'm bound to see it. There's a powerful
lot of great sights there. There's the Airther-
keneuni and the Bunker Hill Monument and
the State House an»1 ciitVi;r<' tho.. -aii .u_ n.-v.
Of the Universe. It's got a grpt name and I
reckon it's worth iQQkJn' at,

Mrs. D. Yo' don't think of goin' yita svhile?
Jest wait a few weeks, and not surt off so kinder
»> iddi Mebbee I shall feel more rcconciliated
lu it then.

L. I'm goin' this very day. I know jesi .ow
It 11 be ef 1 keep puttin' it off. I shan't n ver
git started.

Mr. D. Wal, ef you go Lem, y.u'll have ter
look out fur pickpockeu. They're thick^rn
skeeters 'round a frog pond. Some on 'en. are
rigged up in the slickest store clothes and Wear
great ?.ig rings on their fingers. « ,th sharp
kmvesshet up into 'em. I've heern tell as how
they'd tech a spring, and thf, knives would fly
open and cut through you' pocket, slick and
clean, without your never knowin' nothin' about
It.

L. I'll look out for them fellers. Dad, bet yer
boots, I will I It'll take a purty sharp chap tu
git ahead of me.

Mrs. D. Can't yo* take along the old gun
Lemmey? T-n't got no lock but they won't
know it an' most foli-a ar' afeerd of fire arms.

L. The old gun— 1 ha! 1 guess you're a
gittin' strange in your head insted o* me. No ■
I shan't take nothin' of the sort 'ceptin' my
umbnll. Ei they git tu close tu me, I'll hit 'cm
a whack over the head with that, and I reckon
they 11 understand that I mean business, and n.
mistake, by that time.

Mr. D. (taking out an old fashioned lea the*
Pocket book) Here, Lem, you'd best to put
your money intu this and keep a good look out
for fear you'll lose it. You'll hev to hussel ef
you take the fust train. I'll go out and be
harnessin while you're gittin' ready, and then
1 11 drive down tu the station. (Exit Mr. Dray,
ton.) -^

Mrs. D. Seein' you're sot on goin', I 'spose
I mought as well give in ; but you'll hev to fix
up right smart, 'cause you'll see lots of folks in
Bosting.

L. Yis, that's so, Marm. I calkeriate tu set
off in good style.

Mrs. D. Yo' can wear them new clothei
you're Dad brought to the auction, and your new
green satin jacket that Mehitabel Grant made.
I've got yoer two standin' collars done up nice
and stiff, and I'll give yo' my last year's green
and ysiiar satia bunnit strings for a neck-tie.
Yo' can take along your overcoat ef it should
be cold and your linen duster tu travel ia.

TMM COr

tlkerlate tu set

Wl.

Itm, rhati all hunk^-dorat
flnil my clothti, Mar ?

Airs. D. They're in tothcr room on the spare
bed, Yo'cango in thcif- and dress yourself.
(Exit Umtul. Mrs. Drayton Aurrys about put-
ting him up a lunch and packing his satchel.

L. (ComtngKut in his shirt sleeves.) Where's
my neck-tie ? {Mrs. D. brings it to him) You'll
hev tu tie it for me. Mar, I never could tie one
fit tu be seen.

Mrs. D. Wal, set down, then, and I'M fix it
on all nice for you. {He sits Jow "I'i she tiesit
for him) Oh; dear! I wish I : feel so

about your goin't It's bea me that

3uthin' isagoin' .u happen I

JL Hal hat Marm, you act as though I
was a baby. Guess I'm old anuff and big
anuff tu take care of myself. So you needn't
worry 'bout me.

Mr. D. {Poking his. head in at the door)
Huny up, Lem, I'm waitin*.

L. Don't fret old man, we've got plenty
time. I'll be out soon as I can git ready.
[Mrs. D. helps him put on his coat. He puts
OH his hat and swings his duster over his arm.)
Mrs. D. Here's your satchel with your
comb and brush and a change of clothes-
cause you'll want to keep fixed up slick, yo'
know, and I've put yo' up a lunch in this
basket so yo' won't git hungry on the road.
{He takes satchel, basket and umbrella).

L, Now good-bye marm. Don't worry
'bout me.

'STM PJtOOKAJtf.

n I

Mabel Ortu. Is this engaged ?
^- (^iushing and stammering). E-engaged?
Wal, no, I hain't exactly, though Mary Ann
Hinks has took quite a shine tu me and I did
buy her a bussom-pin of a peddler last sprint ;
but. then, that hain't nothin'. •
Mabel O. uf course not. May I sit down ?
L. To be shure I Set right down ! Don't be
afccred of crowden me ; I guess I can stand it
cf you can. {She takes a seal). Be you en.
gaged, may I ask?

M. O. No. {Pressing her handkerchief to her
mouth to keep from laughing).

L. You hain't ! Wal ntyw. that's curis ! 'Spect
you've had a sight of beaux, though.— pretty
gate allers does. ( Takes out hts pocket hook and
looks at it and puts it back into his pocket).
M. O. Why, how you talk I
L. Do I? Wal. I'm a man of truth, and
whatever I say I'm in a'rnest about. I'm a
man of truth, ef I be a man of property.
M. O. Oh ! so you are wealthy ?
L. Sarting ! or else I shouldn't bs a trav-
elin" fer pleasure. I've got seventy-five dollar
right in here. ( Tapping his pocket).

M. O. {Endeavoring to suppress a smile).
Really, sir, what may I call your name?

L. Lemuel's my name— Lemuel Drayton—
and yours ?
M. O. Mabel Orne.

Z. Mabel 1 That's a good deal like a novel
name. I read one 'tother day whert the gal's
name was Mabel ; and she killed two babies

Mrs.D. Good-bye Lemmy. (Exit Lemuel "^r ,' """^' ' ^":' ^'^'^ '''"*=^ t'^" babies
rrs. D. puts her checked apL «itltr f ' .^?.' f " °i',r"^" '° ^' ^^' ^^'^^V- ' ^ope

Mrs. D.puts her checked apron up to her eyes).

Oh, dear! oh, dear ! It's beat into me suthin's

a goin ter happen 1

Scene ii. In the Car. Seats an arranged to
resemble the inside of a car. Several passen-
gers are already seated. EnUr Lemuel. He
takes a hand satchel from a seat and putting

{A boy slops

you hain't like her.

M. O. I should hope not, sir.
in front of LemueF s seat).

Young America. Did you find a hand satchel
on this seat when you came in ?

L. Yis ; I found one. Wasityourn?

Y. A. Yes, it is mine. I left it here to securt

it on the floor apprv^aUs the seat. He feels J\\ "'"'^ """«•."«««' here to secur.
of his pocket to seTkis money is />lf {: r!.."!' "'"^^r"^ '"'.^ '""^ '^^^-^ ",.

of his pocket to see if his money is there, puts
on his linen duster, throws his overcoat over
the back of the seat, sets his lunch-basket and
satchel on thenar at his feet, settles himself
in his seat and looks around at the passengers.
In front of him sits a nicely dressed gentleman
reading a paper. One hand, ivitk a sssssit-'
ring on the little finger, is resting on the back
of the seat. Lemuel eyes him su^iciously. A
lad)/ enters and stop* tti hit ueU,

You've got cheek to take a seat alread)
engaged.

L. Don't give me any of your sass, you lit
tie runt you, why did'nt you stay here and takt
care of your truck then ?

K A. Simply because I didn't choose to. If
you had known putty, you would have passed
by the seat when you saw it was engaged.

L. You git out ! Do you spose you can make

!)^

^a5>

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

1.1

Lfi

l»

112

|3j6

Kg
■a

1.25 iu

12.2

1.8
1.6

150mm

/■J

/APPLIED J IIVMGE . Inc

^^ 1653 East Main Street
■JSS '.^ Rochester, NY 14609 USA
.=S'.j5 Phone: 716/482-0300
.^=r.== Fax: 716/268-5989

J,V

!u ?•.

TffE CO.^PLETE PROGRAHt.

over my

me 'bleve any dch nontenie ? The seau it all
free in these ere cars.

Y. A. You're a greeny. Hand
•atchel and I'll find another seat.

L. {Handing him the satchel). There, take
It and be off, or I'll whack you over the head
with my umbrill.
K A. Let me ifwe you do it, old hayseed I
L. {Riiing and brandishing his tmtbrtlla).
I mean business, young sass-box, and don't you
foigetitl

M. O. Oh ! don't strike him. Mr. Drayton,
I shall be frightened out of my senses if there is
a fight in the car. (Lemuel settles down into his
seat. Young America seats himself at the fur-
ther end of the car, facing him). ,

Z. Wal, if it's a goin to scare you so, I won't
wellop him, but he desarves it — the little up-
start!

Y, A. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! He's too green for any
thing!
Z. Do you hear him, Mabel ?
M. O. Yes, but never mind.
L. Jist as you say, Mabel, I won't tech him
ef you don't want me tu, for I've took a power-
ful shine to you and I guess you hev to me —
hain't you now ? (Looks at her enquiringly.)

M. O. I— I don't know, Mr. Drayton. (Puts
her handkerchief to her mouth to keep from
laughing.)

L. You needn't be so bashful 'bout owiiin'
it up — 'taint nothin' to be ashamed on. Look
here ! ( Placing his arm over the back of the seat)
why can't you and I make a bargain ? I hain't
engaged and you 'haint engaged and we're
both on usas good lookin' asthe next one ; and
I've got two cows to hum— a red and a brindled

You look as though you were bom under a
lucky planet, sir. Just buy a package and try
your luck.

L. I don't know.— would you Mabel?
Mebbey I'd better try my luck. 'Twould be a
nuff sight easier than airnin a livin on a farm.
Yis, I guess I'll take a package. (Feels in his
pocket for the money and finds it gone. He
starts to his feet in dismay.) He's got it ! Stop
him! Ketch holt of him! I knowed he was one
of them fellers the minnit I sot eyes onto him !
Help me hold him somebody, quick 1 (He seiMes
the gentleman, in front of him, by the shoulders.
Mabel Ome leaves the car unnoticed by Lemuel
in his excitement).

Passengers. (Excitedly). What's the matter?
What's the matter?

L. Seventy-five dollars gone like a streak i
Sarch him ! I demand that he be turned inside
out, rite on the spot ! Conductor man, here I
You jest see after this fine gentleman, ef you
please !

Conductor. What has he done ?

L Done? Hain't I jest told you? He's
picked my pocket of fayther's red leather
wallet, and seventy-five dollars that I sold my
colt for— that's what he's done ! Sarch him !
( 7he passengers are greatly excited. Several
gentlemen leave their seats and gather around
Lemuel and the suspected individual. )

Rev. Mr. Trufant. If the gentleman wishes
to search me he is at perfect liberty to do so.
Go on, sir.

L. Won't you strike, nor grab holt of my
throat, nor nothin ?

Rev. Mr. T. I'll not molest you, — proceed!
(Lemuel gives a thorough search, but finds

queer

one— both on 'em the master-hands to turn out nothing except a black pocket book containing a
the butter that you ever seed! Our butter allers few dollars, a pocket handkenhiej' and a pearl
brings the highest price, and, I vum, ef you'll
have me, you shall sell all the butter them two
cows makes, and no questions axed as to where
the money goes. And you shall dress in silk
every day, and satin tu,— by jingo ! (Enter boy
selling priae packages. )

Priie Vender. Prize packages ! Prize pack-
ages! Several thousand dollars given away !
Buy a package, sir, and inake your fortune.

L. Be ye in airnest 'bout the prizes ?

P. V. Certainly, sir, I wouldn't dare be so
bold about selling any bogus affair. Several
thousand dollars often given away at one haul.

handle knife).

Rev. Mr. T. Are you satisfied ?

L. Sarting I be; but it's mighty
where that wallet went to.

Conductor. The gentleman whom you have
just had the honor of searching is the Rev. Dr.
Trufant, of Boston— one of the most eminent
clergymen in the place.

L. Oh, my gracious! — a mipister! Marm
would be the death of me ef she should find out
that I had called a pickpocket a minister! I
mean a pickpocket a minister I— hanged ef I
kno^ what I du mtUt any how. I'm so

THE COMPLETE PROCRAif,

What's the matter?

r grab holt of my

flustered I can't seem tu tell 'tother from

which.
Conductor. It's my opinion, if you have lost

any money, that the girl who sat on the seat

with you has got it. She looked like that kind

of a character.

L. She? She? Why she was as pritty a
ga! as you'd see in an age ; and I was about as
good as engaged tu her. ( The passengers laugh
outright.) You needn't lafTI I know I never
seen her till this mornin', but there's sich a

thing as love at fust sight

Conductor. Especially when the ob'ect is a
red leather wallet with seventy-five ("iOllars in
it It seems the young lady believes in love at
first sight, too.

L. (Disconsolately.) Wal, the money's
gone ; and ef she's got it, I'll never believe in
nobody agin I I wish I was to hum— I don't
feel well. I won't go to Bosting— consarned
ef I will I I'll go back in the next kears that's
goin' my way. Conductor man, you jest hold
up a minnit while I git out.

Conductor. You'll be obliged to wait till we
reach the next station— two miles ahead.
(Lemuel sighs and takes his seat.)

News Boy. Papers! Papers 1 New York
and Boston dailies ! All about the murder !

L. What murder? (In great consternation.)
Who's killed now, I wonder? Anybody on
this ere train ? What will happen next I

News Boy. Buy a paper, sir, and read all
about it. (Hands out paper.)

L. Where's the murder?

News Boy. In New York— A dreadful thing !
Body hacked all to pieces I Buy a paper, sir ?

L. No I haint got no money to buy nothin'.

Conductor. How are you going to pay your
fare home ?

/- Oh, I've got anuflf left for th<\t I guess in
my jacket racket.— LucV.y I kept a little change
out o' the wallet.

Conductor. You don't seem to enjoy your
journey very much.

L. You're right there, Boss ; ef I ever live tu
git home alive, I'll never be fool enuff tu think
of goin' oflftravelin' again for pleasure.

Baggage Man. Baggage rechecked ' Bag-
3=o- -=— "j.jnva 1 \iQ ucmttct.'^ /iny o3g?agc,
wr?

/. None but what I kin take care on myself.
It's enuff to lose my money, let alone givin' up

my baggage into the bargain. You don't play
none of your games on me, old feller.

Baggage Man. Ha ! ha I You're from the
country I reckon. Haven't traveled much.

L. No, but I've traveled enuflf to-day to
lam a thing or two. You don't ketch me in
sich a box agin—not much I

Conductor. Aldeena Junction! Junction!
Passengers for the Falls change cars I

L. Mr. Conductor, is here where I git out?

Conductor. Yes ; you'll have to wait half an
hour and then take the next train back. Where
do you live ?

L, In Spookey Holler, sir.

Conductor. I hope you'll get home all right.

L. Yis ; I hope so. Ef you ever come my
way jest cum over tu our house and make us a
visit. Good-by.

Conductor. Thanks! Good-by.

Scene III — Lemuers return. Mrs. Drayton is
cut feeding the chickens when she sees Lemuel
coming up the street Thinking it must be his
ghost returning to infonn her that he hasjusi
been killed, she rushes into the house where her
husband sits reading, and, throwing herself
into a chair, commences wringing her hands
in agony.

Mrs. D. He's killed I he's killed ! My
Lemmey's dead and I've seen his ghost. It'«
a comin' up the road with them same ciothes
on that he wore away— the green and yaller
neck tie that I tried onto his neck this very
mornin*. and the new jacket that Miss Grant
made and his umbrill and satche! and dinner
basket— jest as natural as life! O Lemmyi
Lemmy ! I knowed suthin' was agoin tu hap>
pen! Oh, dear! 0\i, As2^c\ (Buries her fact
in her checked apron and sobs disconsolately.
Footsteps are heard outside.) Oh, goodness,
gracious! he's come! he's come! (Mrs. D,
rushes frantically into anoi.ier room and stands
peeking through the nearly closed door.— Enter
Lemuel).

Mr. D. Lem, what are you back so soon
for?

L I've seen anuff of the worid I Consam
Bosting ! and consarn the huH worid entirely !
I've had my pocket picked and I don't know
nothin' about nothin*.

Mrs. D. (Comity^ into the room.) Your

THE COMPLSTE PXOGHAM.

pocket picked I {J)iimpka$Ufy.) I said so. I
knowed suthin' was agoin to happen 1 Twas
beat into me ! ( Lemtul thrmvs his hat down on
the table, and out rolls the missing pocket-book. )

L Gracious Peter ! it's here ! it hain't ben
filtered I The gal was an angel arter all i
Hurray ! Hail Columbia I happy land ! Come,
Mann, let's have a little dance. (Seises his
mothef's hand and pulls her around the mom.
In his viild antics he upsets the churn, which is
placed behind a screen — out of sight. )

Mrs. D. There, now, Lemmey, jist see what
you have done! You've upsot that hull
chumin' of cream I Didn't you know no bet-
ter?

Mr. p. Be you crazy, Lem ? Set down and
tell us all about it.

L. 'Tain't no use cry in' for spilt milk nor
spilt cream nuther. Mar, seein' the money's all
right. ( lakes a seat. ) I remember it all now —
slick as can be. I was dreadfully skittish 'bout
losin' my money, and took it out of my pocket
and put it inter my hat and then forgot all
about it. Bimeby a feller cum along sellin'
priie packages warranted tu win a fortir.'. I
thought I'd jest go in for a share, so I put my
hand in my pocket for the money and found it
was gone. One of them slick chaps with a big
ring onto his finger sot in front of me — I tell
you what, I raised a rumpus with him. I
grabbed him by the collar and searched his
pockets for him but didn't find nothin', and,
— land of Goshen ! who do you think he was,
Mar? I hope tu die ef he wan't a minister
from BostingJ So you see, Dad, taint alius a
sure thing 'bout them big rings, 'cause other
folks besides pickpockets sometimes wear 'em.
I guess it's jest as you say. Mar, that I ain't fit
to go to fun-in parts. I'll stay to hum and put
my money intu the bank and marry Mary Ann
Hinks. I don't want to travel no more. I've
seen anuffof the world I Yis, I'll marry Mary
Ann and settle down fur life in Spookey Holler.

FAULT FINDING.

If any one complains tliat most people are
lelfish, unsympathetic, absorbed in their cwn
pursuits, their own happiness and their own
sorrow, the chances .ire, ten to one, that the
cpinplainant is conspicuous for the very faults

he condemns. His thoughts are so concen-
trated on his cwn affairs, that he is impatient
because other people are similarly preoccupied
He is unable to enter into their grief or their
joy. When he is wretched, he is amazed and
indignant that any one can be happy. When he
is happy he thinks it intolerable that other
people should be so oppressed with their pwn
sorrows as not to make aierry with him in his
gladness.

He has so high an estimate of the importance
of his own work that he thinks other men ought
to spend u large part of their time in watching
and admiring it, and he wonders at the selfish-
ness which keeps them at their own occupations,
when they ought to be showing their sympathy
with his.

This absorption in everything that relates to
himself is the explanation of the universal
indifference of which he complains. To secure
sympathy, we must give as well as take. The
country that exports nothing will have no
imports ; but if it infers that all the rest of the
world is in wretched poverty, with n? mines and
no timbers, and no glorious harvests, the infer-
ence will be a false one.

As soon as a man finds that he is beginning
to think that all human hearts are cold let him
suspect himself.

When an iceberg floats away from tl en

fields which lie near the pole, it cools d j.-s
into which it drifts ; the very Gulf-stream Sf-^ks
in temperature as soon as the mountain of ice
touches it.

In the crowd, it is the man that pushes hard-
est whQ thinks that everybody is pushing him ;
it is the man who is resolved to make his way
to the front, who complains that everybody
vants to get in front of hinu If people speak
roughly to you. it is doubtless because you first
spoke roughly to them. The world o'f humanity
is a looking-glass in which ycu see reflected
your own features.

THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR,

You all know her. bnc it is who pokes her
hesd cut of the window every time *'cur (^^11
rings, and never knows who threw the dead
cat over into your yard.

She is the Khedive who secures a rsNrved

8 are ao coneen-
it lit is impatient
larly preoccupied
heir grief or their
he is amazed and
happy. When he
;rable that other
;d with their pwa
ry with him in his

of the importance
:s other men ought
' time in watching
lers at the selfish-
own occupadons,
ig their sympathy

ng that relates to
of the universal
lains. To secure
'ell as take. The
Ig will have no
ill the rest of the
with an mines and
arvests, the infer-

It he is beginning
s are cold let him

y from tl en

it cools a .j.t
Gulf-stream sr'^ks
; mountain of ice

that pushes hard*

<f is pushing him ;

to make his way

that everybody

If people speak

because you first

irorld of humanity

ycu see reflected

r DOOR.

is who pokes her
y time yeur be!!
> threw the dead

ecures a rsaerved

i L

ii-'

! ?iri;

■hi:

^Mm

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

•eat at the knot-hole in the fence and lets her
neighbor know what the rest of the neighbor-
hood had for dinner. She sets her ash barrel,
invariably, several inches past her party Hne, so
it scourges over on your sidewalk.

She has something less than a million chil-
dren, and they make a play ground of your front
stoop and use their own as a front parlor. They
look upon your front gate as their own personal
property and swing on it until they break the
hinges. They pick your choicest flowers and
leave iheir carts and hobby horses in your path-
way.

She cooks cabbage three or four times a week
and gives you the benefit by throwing open all
the windows. She always beats her carpet on
wash-day and makes your shirt fronts look as
though they were ironed with a brick.

The children begin playing foot-ball next to
your bedroom just about bed-time and don't
finish the game until after midnight, and then
wake you up in the morning quarreling about
who won the game. They have, at least, half
a dozen pet cats that fight their battles nightly
under your chamber window until you haven't
a bootjack, shoe brush, or any other get-at-able
within your reach; and their watchdog sets on
your front steps and barks an howls alternately
from early evening until daylight.

When a new family moves into the neighbor-
hood, she sits by the closed blinds and takes an
inventory of the furniture and reports to her
chosen friends in the block the result of her
investigations. In the winter she sees that her
snow is shoveled onto your side walk and chokes
up your gutter until it gets red in the face.

She runs from one to the other witli all the
choice bits of gossip she can pick up and
manages to keep the whole neighborhood in a
very active state of fermentation.

A funeral is a picnic to her, and she swaps
comments on the appearence of the coffin and
the mourners over the front balcony. When
her funeral day comes around, there isn't water
enough in the neighborhood to get up a good
sized weep.

held by the hand a boy of fourteen. a« both
stood gazing at the tent, shook his head in •
solemn manner and observed :

" It's no use to cry 'bout it now, sonny, kas*
we am not gwine in dar no how."
" But I wanter."

" In course you does. All chillen of your
size run to evil an' wickedness, an' dey mus' be
sot down on by does wid experience."
" You used to go," urged the boy.
"Sartin, I did, but what was the result? I
had sich a load on my conscience that I
couldn't sleep nights. I cum powerful nigh
bein' a lost man, an' in dem days de price of
admission was only a quarter, too."
" Can't we both git in for fifty cents ? "
" I 'speck we might, but to-morr«r you'd be
bilin' ober wid wickedness and I'd be aback*
slipper from church. Hush up, now, kase I
hain't got but thirty cents, an' dar am no show
fur crawlin' under de canvas."

The boy stfll continued to cry, and the old
man pulled him behind a wagon and continued :
" Henry Clay Scott, which would you rather
do— go inter de circus an* take de awfullest
lickin' a boy eber got or have a glass of dat
red lemonade an' go to Heaben when you die ?
Befo' you decide, let me explain dat I mean a
lickin' which will take ebery inch of de hide off,
an' I also mean one of dem big glasses of leJnon-
ade. In addishun, I would observe dat a circus
am gwine on in Heaben all de time an' de price
of admisshun am jest to be good an' mind all
dat is said to you in dis world. Now, satt, what
do you say?"

The boy took the lemonade, but he drank it
with tears in his eyes.

A RELUCTANT CHOICE.

After the circus had opened to the public
yesterday, a gray-haired colored brother, who
8

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

"Movs my k,rm-chair, fhithfhl Pompey,

In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompej,—

Massa won't be with yon long;
And I lain would hear the south wind

Bring once more the aonnd to ma
Of the wavelets softly breaking

On the shores of Tennessee.
Monmflil thongh the ripple:! mnnnar,

As they still the atory tell.
How no Teeaels float the banner

That Fto loved •« long aad wall,

THE COUPLETS PROGRAM.

My I

JL|

Idwll lirtw to tlw Bodo

OiMming tlwt afKin I m*
Stan and atripH on aloop and aballop^

Mling ap tha Tmu

And, Pompey, whila old Maaaa'a waiting

For death'a laat diapatoh to oome,
It that exiled atarry iianner

Shoald oome proudly Hdlliig home,
Ton ahall greet it, alaTo no longer

Voice and hand ahall both be ftee
That about and point to Union colon.

On the waveo ofTenneaaee"
** Ifaaaa'k berry kind to Pompey ;

But ole darktty's happy hen,
When he'a tended com and cotton

For eae many a long-gone year.
Crar yonder miaaia' aleeping—

No one tenda her grare like me ;
Mebbe ahe would miaa the flowen

She need to love in Tenneaaee.
'Pean like ahe waa watohin, Maaaa,

If Pompey ahonid beaide him atoy;
Meblte ahe'd nmember better

How for him ahe used to pny ;
Tailing him that way up yonder

White aa anow his aoni would be.
If he aerved the Lord of HeaTea
While ha lived inTenneaaee."
Sileatly the tean wen rolling

Down the poor old dusky face,
A% heatepped behind hia maater,
In hia long aoonstomed plaoc.
Then a ailenoe fell around them

Aa they gaxed on rook and trea^
Pictured in the placid waten

Of the rolling Tenneaaee.
Maater dreaming of the battle

When he fought by ]Xarion'asid^
When he bade the haughty Tarleton

Bow his lordly crest of pride;
Man, nmembering how yon aleeper

Once he held upon hia knee,

En ahe loved the gallant soldier

Balph Vervair, of Tenneaaee.

StiU the aoiith wind fondly lingen

'Mid the vetenn'a ailveiy hair ;
Still the bondman, cloae beaide him,

Standa behind the old ann-chair.
With his dark-hned hand nplifled

Shading eyes, he bends to aee
When the woodland, boldly Juttiic

TniM aalde the '~

Thua he watdiea cloud-bom ahadowi

Olide fh»i tree to moonUIn eteat,
Softly creeping, aye and ever.

To the river's yielding breaat
Ha 1 above the foliage yonder

Something flntten wild and free f
"Maasal Massal Hallelqjahl

The flag'a oome back to Tennessee I "

" Pompey, hold me on your shoulder.

Help me stand on ibot once more,
That I may aalute the colon

As they paaa my cabin door,
Hen'a the paper signed that fteea you {

Give a Ireeman'a about with me--
' Qod and Union I ' be our watohwoid

Evermon in Tenneaaee."

Then the tnmbling voice gnw lUnter,

And the limba nftased to stand ;
One pnyer to Jeana— and the aoldier

Glided to that better land.
When the flag went down the river

Man and maater both wen ftee.
While the ring-dove's note commingled

With the rippling Tenni

JEALOUSY IN THE CHOIR.

Silver-noted,
Lily-throated,

. Starry-eyed and golden-haired.
Charming Anna,
The aoprano.
All the singen' hearts ensnared.

Long the tenor

Sought to win her.
Sought to win her for his bride |

And the baaso

Loved the laaa so
Day and night for her he aighedL

The demeanor

Of the tenor
To the baaso frigid gnw }

And the baaao,

As be was ao
Mashed, of oourae gnw ftlgid tea

Anna smiled on
Both, which piled oa
To their mutual hatred ftael ;
So to win her

Basa and tenor
•wore «fc«y>d flg^t a vocal da«L

THE COUPLETS PROGRAM.

Arkkadthai
Uks ■ Vennor

Oyekwa howling o'«r tbe plain ;

SMif whigh

TooaUi*
Th« bHS, he split his bMd in twain.

Oiowled the beaeo

TillhewuM
I«w to hear him waa a tieat;

Lower atill he

Went nntil he
4^t the solea of both his feet

Charming Anna,

The soprano,
Mourned a weeic for both these fellows;

Then she wed the

Man who fM the
THnd into the organ bellows.

THE SHOTGUN POLICY.

Two men were standing at the gate of a coun-
try farm yard whittling sticks and giving each
doU about managing women. " Talk sassy to
•em," the man on the outside of the fence said,
"an* ye'll see how they'll be fetched down."

Just then the cabin door opened, and a red-
headed, long-necked women yelled :

" Say, 'Zeke, ther flour's out I "

"Out whar?" he yelled back.

"Out'n the bar'l." she answered.

" Wall, put it back an' cover it up tighter,"
he replied, while the outside man grinned.

"Don't you see how she's hacked a'
ready?" he laughed, when the fiery topknot
disappeared.

" I does," spoke the elated victor. Presently
the same shrill voice cried :

" 'Zeke, I'se gwine over to mar's, an' ef ye
think their measles are ketchin', I'll leave ther
baby hyar."

" Dunno whether they's ketchin' er not," re-
plied the husband. "I've never seed 'em ketch
enything."

Again the head was drawn back, amid ap-
plause from the outside. The next time the
door opened the muzzle of a shotgun was poked
— SI, sut. _ .,.•.„„ „,„„,, on ine sauCy man.

" 'Zeke," came the solemn voice.

" Melindy," he gasped, looking in vain for
MDM place to dcklgi.

" *Zeke," she continued, " ther flour's out"

"Ail rite, I'm off ter the mill at once," he
answered, shiveringly.

" 'Zeke, I'm gwine overtermar's fer a spell ;
d'ye think the measles is ketchin' ? "

" No, Melindy, I seed pap ter day, an' he sed
the children wus all well."

" Kerrect," she said, lowering the gun, " I'm
off. Ye can sorter clean up the place 'till I git
back, but be shore ter stay inside while I'm
gone."

"All right." he answered meekly, moving
aside to let her p&as.—A//anta Constitution.

KATE.

Thebb's something in the name of Kata

Which many will condemn ;
But listen, now, while I relate

The traits of some of them.
There's Deli-Kate, a modest dame,

And worthy of you r love ;
She's nice and beautiful in fiame^

As gentle as a dove.

Commnni-Kate's intelligent,

As we may well suppose ;
Her faithful mind is ever bent

On telling what she knows.
There's lutri-Kate, she's so ohaeon

Tis hard to find her ont ;
For she is often very sore

To put your wits to rout
Prevarl -Kate's a stubborn maid.

She's sure to have her way ;
The oivilling, contrary Jade

Objects to all yon say.

There's Alter-Kate, a perfect peat,

Much given to dispute ;
Her prattering tongue can never tt^

Yon cannot her re/hte.
There's Dislo-Kate, in quite a f^t,

Who fails to gain her point ;
Her ease is quite nnfortnnate,

And sorely ont of joint
Equivo-Kate no one will woo ;

The thing would be absurd,
She is so Ciithless ^ud nntme,

Yon cannot take her word.
There's Vindi-Kate, she's good and tme^

And strives with all her might
Her dnty faithfully to do,

And battle for theright

THR COMPLETE PROGRAM.

t\\

TWtIi Butt-KaK • «oaBti7 !•« ;

Qnlto A»d of rani mmdw •
81m likM to trsinple tbrongh tb*

Aod loTM tlMavcijirMiia.
Of »n tha maidaiu yon nn And,

Thara'a nona Ilka Edn-Kata ;
Bacania aha alarataa tba mind

And alma to aomathing grant

DICORATIVE.

**I HAW • tnnnal \ " tha maldan anid,
^ And oloaer to tha drammer drew ;
"Thay nlwaya naka me feel afraid

Of aome dlaaatar ; don't they yon ? "
And then tba drnmmar abook bla nuna.
" Yon'ra lafa enough with me," anid be.
. whataTar bappena to tha train,
Yon alwaya can rely on me I "
And, with aaraplitting wbUtle'a abriak,
Tha train plnnged in the black abyaa ;
Tba drnmjj.er sought her bloming ebeak.

And fraaooed it with manly kiaa.
Emboldened by her aweet alarm,

Ae on they tore tbrongh that eolipaa,
He laid her bead npon bla arm.

And Mexed a dado on her lipa.
" Ah, me ! " tba maiden aweetly amiled,

Aa abe arranged her tnmbled hat.
And once again the aonbeama filed
^^ In at the window when they aat ;
" Ah, me ! for onoe that borrled peat
Waa robbed of ereiy atartllng fear.
I thank yon for yonr intereat ;

Excnae ma, air ; I gat oiT hen 1 »
And ao aba left bim drowned in aigba,
And on the aea of aoft dreama toaaed
Of her aweet lipa and pan, bright ayea^

So qniokly gained and qniokly loat
To dream ! bnt, ah, at laat to wake

And learn that in the tonnePa din,
Bhe'd aeixed npon her chance to anaka
Hia watch and chain and diamond pin

H|||l

^■ftit'

Hill

A WORD OF ADVICE.

YooNO men, you are the architects of your

own fortune.. Rely upon your own strength of

body and .oul. Take foryour star, self-reliance.

,s-^ ar,c5 hiduBiiy. inscribe on your

banner, "Luck U a fool, Pluck it a hero "

Don t Uke too much advice ; keep at your helm
and steer your own ship, and remember that
the great art of commanding is to uke a fair
share of the work. Dont practice too much
humanity. Think well of yourself. Strikeout
Assume your own position. Rise above the
envious and the jealous. Fire above the mark
you intend to hit. Energy, invincible determi.
nation, with a right motive, an the levers that
move the world. Don't drink. Don't chew
Don't smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive.
Don t marry until you can support a wife. Be
in earnest. Be self-reliant. Be generous. Be
civil. Read the papers. Make money and do
good with it. Love truth and virtue. Love
your country and obey its laws. If this advice
be implicitely followed by the young men of the
country the millennium is near at hand.

HOME GLIMPSES.
BY MRS. If. A. KIDDBR.

Wi paaa from time to time
On the dty'a great highway,

And only see

The multitude.
And the ahopa ao bright and gay.

Perhaps an area-gate

And a baaement home quite bank

And the anziona.

Pallid fiMsea
Of the chUdnn playing there.

Ay, little we have seen,

Aa we went with harrying ftei

On our missions,

Large or little.
Of the bomea atetw the atnet

Bnt now we glimpeea get
That bleaa our eyes each di^

Of the happiest, ooiiest

Hearths and bomee
As we take our aSrial way.

How many changing soenee,
My neighbor, we may trace

OrtlM >lriIljMl n.^1. I.l-

Knmble home
And the earmea's dwelUqg-plMeak

THB COMPLETE PEOGRAM.

A, modMt UbU Ml,

A Ibod wifli walUng nigb—

And now « mother

Biagiag aweet
Her Iwbyt lallaby.

A worn num eittlng down
At the window taking rest,
A little bright
And enrly hand
Boft leaning on hia breaat
Tea, it ia aeTea p. m.
Aa we speed along np-towa,
And many a modeat
Lamp ia lit,
And the cnrtaina not pnlled down.
And Terjr glad are we—
To all the wortd akin—
We now may get
Aglimpee of heaven
On earth, from the homea within.
There many bleaainga aweet
And many a joy are aent.
For love and peace
And hope may dwell
In the hambleat tenement

THREE FRIENDS.

Thibi were three demons came out of the deep •

Prienda that blighted the eye to see ;
That frightened the dreamer oat of his sleep,

And chilled the heart with a sodden leap
And nambed the brain with their stealthy creep.

A ghastly, terrible, horrible three.
" War" waa one, and his anble pinme

Shadowed a face that waa cmel as hate;
He awakened the dawn with the snllen boom
Ormnrderons gnns; like a pall of gloom
Hong the smoke of his breath, and pitiless doom

His mailed hands held like a sod) less fate.
Life was his meat and hia drink was gore';

Red to his knees he walked in blood ;
Laughed as he raged down the carmine shore,
Raising his voice in the horrid roar
And shrieks of his victims, aa more and more

They swelled the ghaatly flood.
And "Rum " waa another one, grisly and grim ;
Crueller, ten times told than you'd think :

Hiaerv nnianna.* «*. 1 1 %. , '

' » — . .,„ DiTBiicrs Brim,

Death eternal, and hate, and sin.
Want and woe ; he poured them in.
And gave to the world to drink.

Hia victims were numberleaa aa the * ^ft\ t^

Maiden and yonth and hoary age ;
The wisdom and courage of my lands,
HearU of manhood, and dimpled handa,
Tbey came to bis death feast, ghoatly bMidi^

Weak fools and the strong-minded sage.
And the third— h« came with a goblin amil*

Gentle and kind he seemed to be;
Bat the heart of the fiend waa foil ofgnUa,
In hia merriest momenta all the while
His thoughts were cruel, his plana war* vUai

He waa the worst of the three.
At feast and wedding he sat elate.

With luscious lips he kissed the bride;
He petted the little, he pleawd the great,
While he wrecked the home and destroyed tha
atate,
With a away like the rule of an iron fittai

That you couldn't reaist if you tried.
Oh, woe was the home where he entered In I

He darkened the hearthstone that heatood bj
And Ikcea pale, and wan, and thin,
Looked up in fear at his mocking grin,
And the victims knew, aa they acooped him in,
Th^ were ho^^less slaves of the demon " Pie.'*
Bwlinffton /ToNfays.

THE COWBOY.

H« came ttom the land'of the setting sun.
This biasing atar of the first degree ;

A cowboy bold, all ripe for ftin,
The home of the tenderfoot to see.

His eyes were black and bis hair was long;
: . rim «r Wa hat was soft and wide :

A d >iis gmm mpam ««•«# 1

With -"rr"finnitfMmmi_ ifm'r

His mnBiJiii^i0^'ii'y^-^-^x'^ ,X. ,

1V> the I
The small

He waa a terror to city cure.
A pistol was thrust through his leathern belt

And a knife reposed in his horseman'a bootk
Every inch a king he doubtless felt ;

A Western hero, right on the shoot I
He ogled the ladies day by day

As be gracefully ambled to take the air ;
Oh, he was a daisy, this cowboy gay ;

One of the brave who deserve the fair.
What sensitive maids, in his mind, were seen

Hopelessly pining for him in Tain,
What scalpa of awaioa, with Jealoni>y green,

Adnnad tUa conqnering lord of tiia pUinI

flMA^ll III . ^ _ - fc. » '. ■

wMWilM-MiHMiliiJIi^Biiww^^jr " '

Jl b«y IMoMi «ttk InySi^m,. '

» a terror to citv en™. "* w,^

THE COUPLETS PROGRAM.

H« weloomMl (ha tanglflfbot, hot and atrong ;

And terrible oatha thia creature awore I
For a deadly oonfllot he a««med to long,

HIa thirat waa ei<«Milve for hiimnn gore,
Till he atlrr-d up a Keuileuiao, mild and allm,

Who wielded dailjr a bloodleaa pen.
Bat " the aand " waa there, all the aame, in biro;

And ha want for the braggart right there and
then.

Ha raaohad for that cowboy'a ringleta long,

Aad palled him down from hia wild maaUng ;
And wiped the atreet with the buokakina atrong,

While the spur* reaounde<l with merrjr clang—
And he left him a wreck, did thia man of might

With the broadcloth ault and bat of ailk ;
And theamall bojr aooffed at thebacklaaa wight

Aa he limped tu the lockup weak aa milk.

No more with the cattle the cowboy dwella j

Hia pistol and knife in the pawn-ahop reat;
The masUng a tipoart file propfis;

He will gallop no more in the far South west.
And hik maater has atudied his lesson well,

Let roughs and rowdies of this take note,
•TU the swaggering cowards who boast and swell,

And a man may be braro in a broadcloth coat.
—Jokh S. Adam, in BoaUm QUbe.

Ul bar girdle thb world with bar ribbaBsof loT^
And lift the White Croat all iu plague apoU

above;
Let her acattar Christ's leaven ttvm ahore onto

abora.
Till wrong and oppremion ahall yn aa no mora.
" Sba halh done what aha ooald," aaid the Saviour

to men,

I Who aoorned at the servioe she rendeivd Him
then;

" Bbe hnth done what aha ooold," ba it a*id of vm
all,
When the cnrtiOn of ailanoa ahall over us Ml.

—Vnio»aitiud.

THE SPOOPENDYKSS.

THE OLD GENTBMAN TAKES RXEKCISS ON A
BICYCLE.

LET HER DO WHAT SHE CAN.

Let her do what she can for humanity's Kik3,
Whatever the form that her service may take,
Whether high in the cojujjy^^jjf fbarch or of
■d 1o«T9« at

■ 1. 1 - jflWBIP

la (iMAmcan jungle iar over the sea.

Or here in the land that the Lord has made free

ing wait ;
oe hall :
ift ground

Let her do what she can, for the world's pleading

wail
Rises up on the breeze, is abroad on the gale ;
If her heart for the good of her fellows lie stirred,
Restrain not her efforts, in deed or in word.
Let her walk in your fellowship, brother and

friend.
Wherever your steps for humanity vrend ;

.— .» ,1^1. ,Tnjii ,...^ ptTfH^t ui 3cr r n:c Same,

Let your strength to her wisdom and love be
AlUed.

" Now. my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke.
hurrying up to his xvife's room, " If you'll come
down in the yard I've got a pleasant surprise
for you."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke,
" what have you got, a horse ? "

"Guess again," grinned Mr. Spoopendyke.
" It's something like a horse."

"I knowl It's a new parlor carpet. That's
what it is I"

" No, it isn't, either. I said it's something
like a horse ; that is, it goes wlien you make it.
Guess again."

"Is it paint for the kitchen walls?" asked
Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently.

" No, it ain't and it ain't a hogshead of
stove blacking, nor a set of dining-room furni-
ture, nor it ain't seven gross of stationary wash
tubs. Now guess again."

' Then it must be some lace curtains for the
sitting-room windows. Isn't that just splendid ? "
and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted her husband on
both cheeks and danced up and down with
delight.

"It's a bicycle, that's what it is I " growled
Mr. Spoopendyke. " I bought it for exercise
and I'm go to ride it. Come down and see
me."

" Well, ain't I glad," ejaculated Mrs. Spoop-
endyke. You ought to have faatt exercise,
if there's exercise in anything, it'a in a bicycle.
Do let's tee it!"

THE COMPLETE PMOGRAM.

At>m abora onto

BXBKCISB ON A

walU?" asked

Mr. Spoopendyke conducted hit wife to the
y«rd and descanted at length on the menu of
the nMciiine.

" In a few weeks Ml be able to make a mile
a minute." he said, as he steadied the appara-
tus against the clothes post and prepared to
mount " Now you watch me go to the end of
this path."

He got a foot into one treadle and went head
first into a flower patch, the machine on top,
with a prodigious cr.is!i.

"Hadn't you bcitti ije it up to the post until
you get on?" suggL!,ted Mrs. Spoopendyke.

"Leave me alone, will ye?" demanded Mr.
Spoopendyke, struggling to an even keel. " I'm
doing most of this myself. Now you hold on
and keep your mouth shut. It takes a little
practice, that's all.

Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and scuttled
along four or five feet and flopped over on the
grass plat.

"That's splendid!" commended his wife.
•• You've got the idea already. Let me hold it
for you this time."

" If you've got any extra strength you hold
your tongue, will ye?" growled Mr. Spoopen-
dyke. " It don't want any holding. It ain't
alive. Stand back and give me room, now."

The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled to
the end of the path and went down all in a heap
among the flower pots.

"That's just too lovely for anything ! " pro-
claimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You made more'n
a mile a minute, that time."

"Come and take it off I " roared Mr. Spoop-
endyke. "Help me up! Dod gast the bicycle I "
and the worthy gentleman struggled and
plunged around like a whale in shallow water.
Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting him
and brushed him off.

"I know where you make your mistake."
said she. " The little wheel ought to go first,
like a buggy. Try it that way going back."

" Maybe you can ride this bicycle better than
i can," howled Mr. Spoopendyke. " You know
all about wheels 1 What you need now is a
lantern in your mouth and ten minutes behind
time to be the City Hall clock ! If you had a
bucket of water and a handle you'd make a
steam grind-stone I Don't you see the big wheel
has got to go first?"
" Y«s, dear," murmured Mrs. Spoopendykf,

"but I thought if you practiced with the little
wheel at first, you wouldn't have so far to
fall,"

"Who fell?" demanded Mr. Hpoopcndyke.
" Didn't you see me step off? 1 tripped, that's
all. Now you just watch me go back."

Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, but
the big wheel turned around and looked him in
the face, and then began t< stagger.
•• Look out I " squealed Nus. Spoopendyke.
Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched awsy and kicked
and strugled, but it was of no avail. Down he
came, and the bicycle was a hopeless wreck.

" What'd ye want to yell fori " he shrieked.
"Couldn't ye keep /our measly mouth shut?
What'd ye think ye are, anyhow, a fog horn ?
Uod gast the measly bicycle I " and Mr. Spoop-
endyke hit it a kick that folded it up like a bolt
of muslin.

"Never mind, my dear," consoled Mrs.
Spoopendyke, 'I'm afraid the exercise was too
violent anyway, and I'm rather glad you
broke it."

" I s'pose so." snorted Mr. Spoopendyke.
' ' There' s sixty dollars gone. "

" Don't worry, love. I'll go without the car.
pet and curtains, and the paint will do well
enough in the kitchen. Let me rub you with
arnica."

But Mr. Spoopendyke was too deeply grieved
by his wife's conduct to accept any office at
her hands, preferring to punish her by lelfing
his wounds smart rather than get well, and
thereby relieve her of any anxiety she brought
on herself by acting so outrageously under the
circumstances — Brooklyn EagU.

AN INQUISITIVE CHILD.

One of those unnaturally bright children who
are always getting people into difficulties was
at a prayer meeting the other evening, with his
mother, when he asked aloud :
" Ma, say ma— who was Dinah More?"
"Hu-u-sh." whispered his mother cauti-
ously. "It's a hymn."

" No. it ain't ma " <>nn»;n...<1 *!.• L c.t

" it's a woman's name ; who's say going home
to Dinah More?"
"Willie," said hii mother in a ghastly vofct.

THB COMPLETE PROGRAM.

It means

"you're disturbing the meeting,
going to lieaven to die no more."

"Dine no morel Oli, ma; don't tliey eat
anything there?"

His mother explained as well as she could,
and WiUie sat still for half a minute, his bright
eyes roving about the church. Then he asked
m a shrill whisper :
" Ma, is God out of town ? "
"No-<x no-no." answered the distracted
woman faintly.

" Then whafs Mr. Kelly running this meeting
for, ma?" continued the sweet child.

The choir sung him down, 'but the meeting
closed with a moment of silent prayer and his
gentle voice was distincdy heard saying :

"Old Mrs. Jones* switch don't match her
hair like yours does, ma I "

^ ' A

DON'T MARRY A MAN IF HE DRINKS.

YouKo ladies, pray listen to me,

-And keep Just an quiet as mice.

While I sing yon s song— it is not very long—

Which contains a piece of advice:
No matter what people may say.

No matter what somebody thinks ;
If you wish to be happy the rest of your days,

Don't marry a man if he drinks ;

Don't many • man if he drinks.

He may be so handsome and gay.

And have such a beautiftil voice ;
And may dance so divinely you'll feel in your
heart

That he must be the mac of your choice ;
If his accents are tender and low,

And sweeter than roses and pinks.
And his breath quite a differect thing, yon may
know

Tour exqnisits gentleman drinks;

Tour exquisite gentleman drinka.

Just think of the sorrows and cares.

The heartrending sighs and fears ;
Of the words and the btows, and emeleat woes,

And then think of the ocean of tears ;
Think of Toodles the drunkest of men.

His attitudes, his coughs, and winks,
And than think what a dignified pair yon wUl

make
, If yoo many a man that drink*.

Young hulies, look well to yonr hearts,

Don't throw them away on a sot.
Or a man who is niven to treating his lMend«,

Whatever his station or lot ;
Though his pride may uphold him awhile.

Yet sooner or later he sinks ;
Then if yon would be happy the rest of your daysi

Don't marry a man if he drinks.

—Fulton, {N. Y.) Timet.

WRONGS WILL BE RIGHTED THEN.

I WONDKB now if any one
In this broad land has heard

In favor of downtrodden boys .

One solitary word ?
We hear enough of" woman's rights,"

And •' rights of workiogmen,"
Of " equal rights " and " nation's rights,"

But pray just tell us when

Boys' rights were ever spoken of I

Why, we've become so used
To being snubbed by every one,

And slighted and abused.
That when one is polite to as

We open wide our eyes.
And stretch them in astonishment

To nearly twice their size.

Bo 's seldom dare to ask their Mends

To venture in the house ;
It don't come natural at all

To creep round like a mouse ;
And if we should forget ourselves,

And make a little noise,
Then ma, and auntie sure would say,

" Oh, my, those dreadfbl boys I"
The girls bang on the piano

In peace ; but if the hoys
Attempt to tune with fife or drum.

It's " stop that horrid noise I "
"That horrid noise I " just think of ttf

When sister never iails
To make a noise three times as bai

With everlasting " scales. "

Insulted thus, we lose no time

In beating a retreat ;
So ofif we go to romp and tear

And scamper in the street.
No wonder that sc many bo*s

Such wicked men become —
'Twere better far to let them hav*

Thehr games and plays at homa

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Periutpc the text that teacher qnotea

Sometimea— " Train ap a child "—
Means only train the little girls,

And let the boys ran vild.
Bat patience, and the time shall coma

When we will all be men,
And when it does, I rather think

Wrongs will be righted then i

KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP.

Ut boy as yon travel this mnadane sphere.
Ton will find many things exceedingly queer,
That often will canae yon to open yoar eyes
In a manner expressive of greatest surprise,
When yon arouse from a golden dream,
And discover that things are not what they

seem ;
If fickle Hiss Fortune should give yon the slip.
Look her square in the face with a stiff upper lip.
If folks pass you by with a cynical sneer.
Because in fine clothing you cannot appear ;
Never be cast down by trifles like that,
Though ragged yonr jacket and napless yoar hat ;
If your heart is all right and level your head,
Supposing that yon can show " nary a red ; "
They have dollars, you sense, and that's the best

grip.
Meet them square in the fiw^ with a stiff upper

lip.
If your girl should forsake yon for some other

fellow,
Don't act like a calf and foolishly bellow.
For girls handle their cards with a gambler's art.
Oft playing the deuce with a fellow's poor heart ;
Let them play a lone hand awhile at the game,
If it's diamonds they seek let them work for the

same;
There's as good fish in the sea as ever did nip,
Tour luck may yet turn, keep a stiff upper lip.
So my boy when you buffet the wind and the

wave
Remember life's voyagers should ever be brave,
Though tempests may gather and breakers may

roll.
Keep yonr boat in deep water, look ont for the

sbcsl.
When the waves are dark look aloft to the stft<i.
If the vessel is wrecked why cling to the spars,
Heed the old mazim, "dont give up the ship,"
Whose anchor is hope ; keep • stiff npper lip.

DONT WORRY.

If you want a good appetite, don't worry.
If you want a healthy body, don't worry. If
you want things to go right in your homes or
your business, don't worry. Women find a sea
of trouble in their housekeeping. Some one
says they often put as much worry and anxiety
into a loaf of bread, a pie or a cake, into the
weekly washing and ironing, as should suffice
for much weightier matters. This accounts
largely for the angularity of American women.
Nervousness, which may be called the reser-
voir of worrying— its fountain and source— is
the bane of the American race. It is not con-
fined to the women, by any means, but extends
to the men as well. Even business men are
sometimes afflicted,- so we have heard, and so
our ad , not to yield to this habit will be
most kinuiy received by all classes of readers.
What good does fretting do ? It only increases
with indulgence, like anger, or appetite, or
love, or any other human impulse. It deranges
one's tempei, excites unpleasant feelings toward
everybody, and confuses the mind. It aftects
the whole person, unfits one for the proper com-
pletion of the work whose trifling interruption
or disturbance started the fretful fit. Suppose
these things go wrong to-day, the to-morrows
are coming, in which to try again, and the
thing is not worth clouding your own spirit and
those around you, injuring yourself and them
physically— for the mind affects the body— and
for such a trifle. Strive to cultivate a spirit of
patience, both for your own good and the good
of those about you. You will never regret the
step, for it will not only add to your own hap-
piness, but the example of your conduct will
affect those with whom you associate, and in
whom you are interested. Suppose somebody
makes a mistake, suppose you are crossed, or a
trifling accident occurs; to fly into a fretful
mood will not mend, but help to hinder the
attainment of what you wish. Then, when a
thing is beyond repair, waste no useless regrets
over it, and do no idle fretting. Strive for that
sercuity of spirit that will enable you to make
the best of all things. That means eontent-
ment in its best sense ; and contentment is the
only true happiness of life. A pleasant disposi-
tion and good work will make the whole siu^
roundings ring with cheerfulness.

T ■;

if- f.11.'

! '!'•

onpplete ppogpaw^ ^0. 4.

-FOR-

ScHooL AND Evening

ENTERTAINMENTS.

ARRANGED 15 Y

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

MUSIC.

RECITATIONS.

CALEB'S COURTSHIP.

E. T. CORBETT, IN HARPER'S MAGAZINE.

I HADN'T uo time fer courtin' when I was yoang
an' spry,

For what with workin' an' savin' I let the years
- goby;

Then I was buyin' an' buildin'— and farm work

never gits done —
Till at last I counted my birthdays, and found I

was fifty-nne.
" High time," sez I, "to be choosin' a saitable

pardner for life."
Bo I jist sot down an' considered where I'd better

look for a wife.
I wanted her young an' harnsome— of course—

au' Atiddy an' neat,
Smart at bakin' an' chumin', quick with her
hands an' feet.

But slow with her tongue (for talkin' jist wastes

a woman's time) —
An' as saviu' with every penny as ef 'twas a silver

dime;

An' ef she was good at mendin' an' scrubbin' an'

cleunin' house,
I made np my mind to take her ef she was poor

as a niounn.

W«il, it cost some time an' trouble to diskiver a
g»l to my mind-*-.

There was lots on 'em to choose from, but the best

was hard to find.
At last, arfter lookin' and thinkin', I settled on

Eunice Stout,

The deacon's youngest darteiwnineteen or there-
about.

Pretty— yes, as a pioter; made the bestbntter.
too, '

That ever was sent to market. See. "I neaa
she'll do. . K «»»

Whenever I've stopped to the deacon's, she's as
busy as a bee —

Alius a-workin' an' doin'— yes ! that's the wife

for me! "
But now that I'd done my choosin' sez I to my*

self, " What next ? "
I didn't know much 'bout wimmin', an' I'll own

I was some perplexed ;
So I asked advice of a neighbor-<A«< was the big-
gest mistake —
Things mightn't hev gone so crooked ef I'd never

said nothin' to Jake ;
But he was twenty year younger, an' the gals all

liked him, ye see, —
So I asked his advice about Eunice— jist like a

fool as I be I
Sez he : " Why, man, it is easy ! Yon must take

her out to ride.
You must bring her home from meetin' an' stick

close to her beside ;
I YoH must go to see her of evenin's; yon must

buy her some pretty things—
A book or A breastpin, mebbe, some ribbons or

some rings;
Then tell her her cheeks is rosy, tell her her eye.
i» bright; '

THE MPLETE PROGRAM.

Tell her yon loTe her dearly, an' dream of her at

night;
Tell her—" Bat here I stopped him. " It's easy

talkin' " sez I,
" But I never did no courtiu' an' I'm half afeard

tc try, —
I'll make ye an offer, Jacob; ef you'll go with me

to-night.
To kinder keep up my courage, an' see that

things goes right.
Tackle the deacon, mebbe, an' show me how to

begin,
I'll give ye ayearlin' calf— I will, as snre as sin is

sin ! "
Waal, the Imrgain was strnck. • Me an' Jacob

went to see Eunice together.
Jake, he talked to the deacon 'bont crops an'

cattle, an' weather ;
Eunice, she kep' very quiet— jest sot an' knitted

away.
An' I sot close beside her a-thinkin' of somethin'

to say.
Many an evenin', I noticed, when she went for

apples an' cake.
Inter the pantry, 'twas alius, " Come hold the

candle, Jake.'
As ef she counted Ami nobody ; then she'd give

me a smile.
Boon's I offered to help her, an' say 'twam't worth

my while.
I'll own 'twas quite surprisin' how long they'd
hev ter stay

A pickiu' out them apples, but Jake told me one
day.

They was tryin' to find the best ones, so's she

could give 'em tofn«;
An' surely Omt was flatferin', as any one could

Bee I

Once I bought her a ribbon-Jake said it onghter
be blue.

But a brown one's for more lastin' an' this one

was cheaper, too ;
Aij' once I took her out ridin', but that wasted

half a day,
Au' I made up my mind that walkin' was pleas-

anter anyway.
Waal, I'd been six months a-conrtin' when I sez

to Jake, sez I :
" It's time that we was married; here's Thanks-

givin'drawin' nigh—
A flfHt-rate day for a weddin'; an' besides, to say

the least,
I can make that Thanksgivin' turkey do fer part

of the weddin' feast"

So that night I mustered courage to the very

sticking p'int,
(You wouldn't never mistrusted that I shook in

ev'ryj'int)
We was couiin' along from meetin'. Sez I, " I'd

like you to sar
That yon hai'i". no objfctious, Eunice, to be

married Thanksgivin' Day."
She looked at me siniliu' an' blushin' as red as a

rose and ns sweet,
I scursely knew fer a niinnet ef I stood on my

head or my feet ;
Then—" I hevn't the least objection," sez she

as I opened the gate ;
But she didn't ask me to stop, she sez only, '• It's

gittin' ruther late."
I looked all 'round for Jacob, but he'd kinder

slipped out of sight ;
So I figured the cost of n weddin' as I went along

home that night.
Waal, I got my house all ready an' spoke to the

parson beside,
An' arly Thanksgivin' moruin' I started to hev

the knot tied.
But before I come to the deacon's— I was walkin'

along quite spry.
All rigged in my Sunday best, of course— a sleigh

comes dashin' by ;
Thar was that Jacob a-drivin', an' Eunice sot at

his side.
An' be stops an' sez, " Allow me to interduce my

bride!"
Si> that was the end of my courtship. Ton see I

started wrong,
Askin' advice of Jacob an' takin' him along;
For a team may be better fer plooghin,' an' hayin'

an' all the rest.
But when it comes to cour/in'— why, a single boss
is best!

ROLL CALL.

BY N. G. SHEPHErtB.

"Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried ;
" Here ! " was the answer loud and clear,

From the lips of a soldier who stood near ;
And " Here ! " was the word the next replied.

" Cyrus Drew ! "—then a silence fell—
This time no answer followed the call ;
Only his rear man had seen him fall

Kii'ied or wounded, he could not telL

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

wv.

BlMt.

There they stood in the Aiding light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plum to be read as open books.

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew,

And crimaonilyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day, in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire ;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

" Herbert Cline ! » At the call . re came
Two stalwart soldiers into line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr I "—and a voice answered, " Here I "
" Hiram Kerr ! " but no man replied :
They were brothers, these two;-the sad wind
siglie<l

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
" Ephri ,m Deane ! "-then a soldier spoke;
'•Dean carried onr regiment's colors," he said
When our ensiKU was shot; I left him dead,'
Just atler the enemy wavered and broke.

Close to the road-side his body lies ;
I paused a moment and gave him' a driak
He murmured his mother's name, I think.

And Death came with it and closed his eyes'."

Twas a victory-yes ; but it cost us dear ;
For that company's roll, when called at night
Of a hundred men who went into the fight '

Numbered but twenty that answered, " Here' "

OUR FIRST LESSON IN COURTSHIP.

One bright moonlight night in the days of
"lang syne." when log school-houses, cheap
schoolmasters, and birch rods were the only
mstrumentai;ties used for teaching the "youne
Klea how to shoot." we chanced to attend a
spclhng-school. in a certain rural district, the
geographical location of which it is not neces-
sary to mention. It was there, however, where
our eyes first fell on a -fairv form," that
immediately set our heart in a blaze. She was
sixteen or thereabouts, with bright eyes, red
cheeks, and cherry lips, while the auburn rine-
lets clustered in a wealth of profision around

her beautiful head, and her person, to our
entranced imagination, was more perfect in
form and outline than the most faultless statue
ever chiseled by the sculptor's art. As we
gazed, our feelings, which never before had
aspired giriward. (we were scarcely eighteen)
were fully captivated, and we determined to go
home with her that night or perish in the
attempt. As soon, therefore, as school was
dismissed and our lady-love suitably bonneted
and cloaked, we approached to offer our services
as contemplated, and realized, more fully than
ever before, the difference between resolving
and doing. As we nea.ed her to put our design
into execution, we seemed to be stricken with
sudden blindness, then red. green, and yellow-
hghts flashed upon our vision and disappeared
hke witches in phantasmagoria! Our knees
smote together like Belshazzar's. and our heart
thumped with apparently as much force as if it
were driving ten-penny nails into our ribs !

We. in the mean time having reached Sally's
side, managed to mumble over something
I which IS. perhaps, known to the Recording
Angel, but surely is not to us, at the same
time poking our elbow as nearly at right angles
with our body as our physical conformation
would admit.

The night wind blew keenly, which served to
revive us, and as our senses returned, what
were our emotions on finding the object of our
primal love clinging to our arm with all the
tenacity a drowning man is said to clutch at a
straw! Talk of elysium. or sliding down
greased rainbows, or feeding on German flutes!
What are such "phelinks" in comparison with
those mighty ones that swelled our heart nigh
unto bursting off our waistcoat buttons! Our
happiness was simply ecstatic, and every young
lady or gentleman who has ever felt the throb-
bings of a newly pledged love, will completely
understand the worid of bliss hidden under that
common word.

Well, we walked on pleasantly toward oui
ijallys home, conversing very cosily and
sweetly as we walked along, until so coura-
geous did we becom, -at we actually pro-
pose'l to go in and sit awhile, to which our
_ iLine™ - . ry g . a^suualy consented. Alas for
us ! how soon were we to be reminded that

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

Sally had a brother of ten summers, who
accompanied us along the way. and who was
in wonderfully high spirits at the idea of his
sister having a beau ; and he would circle
around us. every now and then giggling in
the height of his glee, and examining us as
closely as if Sally and ourself were the world-
renowned Siamese twins and he was taking his
first look. Bill, by the way. was a stub,
chuckle-headed boy, whose habilir-ents would
have made the fortune of an -ordinary dealer in
mop-rags. ■ .. ,. -,,«,

At length we arrived at the bars, artd while
we w«re letting them down. Bill shot past us
and tore for the house as fast as his legs could
carry him. He flung the door open with a
bang and shouted at the top of his voice •

"Mother! Mother! Jim Clark is conjin'
home with Sal ! " ,

" Is he ? " screamed the old woman in reply
"Wai. I declare! I didn't think the saphead
knew enough to ax any gal to go home with
her.

We suddenly recollected that we had prom-
ised to get home eariy. and bidding our Sally a
hurried good-bye concluded not to go in

MUSIC.

READINGS.

A FRIGHTENED CONTRABAND.

A PORTLY, young Contraband was engaged
by one of our junior staff officers as his body
servant, and brought down to his quarters to
attend him. It chanced that the officer had
served his country gallantly at Sharpsburc
where he losta leg. below the knee, the absence
of which had been made up by an artificial
hmb. which the captain wore with so easy a
grace that few persons who met him suspected
his misfortune-his sable attendant beingamong
the number of those who were blissfully ignor-
ant of the fact. / 6 "■

The captain had been «' out to dine " and
returned in excellent spirits to his ^n^ TTpn^
retmng. he called his darky servant to assist
nim in pulling off his riding boots.

" Now, Jimmy. look sharp, said the captain

"The fact is. I'm a little-ic-flimsy. Jimmy,
t night. Look sharp an— ic— pull steady. ' '

"Ise alius kcerful Cap'n." said Jimmy,
drawing off one long, wet boot, with consider-
able difficulty and standing it aside
." Now-ic-mind your eye, Jim ! The oth-

chuckled and showed his shining ivories as he
reflected, perhaps, that his master was quite as
" tight" as he deemed the boot to be.

"Easy, now — ic— thats it, , Ic— rull
away!" continued the Captain, good-natur-
ediy, and enjoying the prospective joke, while
he loosened the straps about his waist which
heldh.s cork leg up-- Ai;«,_ic_you've got
It! Ylp-//}^r« you are ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh, dear !
Oh. dear! " screamed the captain in great ap-
parent agony, as contraband, cork leg. riding
boot and ligatures tumbled across the tent in a
heap, and the one-legged officer fell back on
his pallet, convulsed with spasmodic laughter
At this moment the door opened and a lieuten'
ant entered.

" Gway fum me, g'way fum me, lemmy be »
lemmybe! I ain't done nuffin," yelled the
contraband lustily and rushing to the door
really supposing he had pulled his master's leg
clean off. "Lemmy go! I didn't do nuffin-
gVay ! g'way ! " and Jimmy put for the woods
m his desperation, intent on making good his
escape. The captain searched diligently for
him, far and near, but was never able to find
track or trace of him afterward*.

HAPPINESS.

BY WALTER COLTON.

She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the
hurricane, smooth as the water on the ver^e of
the cataract, and beautiful as the rainbow, that
smihng daughter of the storm ; but, like the
mirage in the desert, she tantalizes with a delu-
sion which distance creates and which contigu-
ity destroys.

Yet when unsought she is often found, when
unexpected often obtained : while those who
seek for her the most diligently, fail the most.
.^cause ihey seek her where she is not.

Antony sought her in love ; Brutus, in glory;
Caesar, in dominion ;_the first found disgrace-
the second, disgust; the last, ingratitude; and

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

i'h

each, destruction. To some she is mo^ kind
but not less cruel ;— she hands them hei' cup ;
and they drink even to stupefaction, until they
doubt, with Philip, whether they are men. or
dream, with Alexander, that they are gods.
On some she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an
aspect moro bewitching than an Italian sun, but
it is only to make her frown more terrible, and
by one short caress to more deeply embitter the
pangs of separation. Yet is she by universal
consent and homage, a queen ; and the pas-
sions are the vassal lords that crowd her court,
await her mandate, and move at her control.
But, like other mighty sovereigns, she is so sur-
rounded by her envoys, her officers, and her
ministers of state, that it is extremely difficult
to be admitted to her presence chamber, or to
have any immediate communication with herself.
Ambition, Avarice, Love, Revenge, all seek
her, and her alone. Alas! they are neither
presented to her, nor will she come to them.
She dispatches, however, her envoys unto them
—mean and poor representatives of their queen.
To Ambition, she sends Power ; to Avarice,
Wealth ; to Love, Jealousy ; to Revenge, Re-
morse:— alas! what are these, but so many
other names for vexation and disappointment ?
Neither is she to be won by flatteries or by
bribes: she is to be gained by waging war
against her enemies, much sooner than by pay-
ing any particular court to herself. Those that
conquer her adversaries, will find that they need
not go to her, for she will come to them. She
has no moie respect for kings than for their sub-
jects : she mocks them, indeed, with the empty
show of a visit, by sending to their palacts all
her equipage, her pomp, and her train ; bat she
comes not herself. What detains her ? She is
traveling incognito to keep a private appoint-
ment with Contentment, and to partake of a
dinner of herbs in a cottage.

A little womont creature, his onoe bright eyt*

grown dim ;
It waa a collier's wife and child— thev called bim

little Jim.

And oh I to see the briny tears fast hnrrying

down her cheek,
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she wae

afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken -• she loved far bet^r

than her life ;
For she had all a niother'a ^oart— bad this poor

collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the

sufferer's bed,
And prays that God would spare her boy and

take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child— soft fall the
words from him ;

"Mother, the angels do so smile and beckon lit-
tle Jim !

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but ch I I am
■o dry!

Just moisten poor Jim's lips again ; and,moiher,
don't you cry."

With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid
to his lips ;

He amiled to thauk her as he took each little,
tiny, sip.

LITTLE JIM.

The cottage was a thatched one, the ontaide old

and mean,
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat

and dean ;
The nijfht was dnrk and stormy, the wind wns

howling TflM,
As a patient mother sat beeide the death-bed of

her child :

" Tell father, when he comes fVom work, I said

good-uight to him.
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor

little Jim !
She knv-f? that he was dying ; that the child she

loved so dear,
Had ottered the last sentence she might ever

hope to hear : —
The cottage doqr is opened, the collier's step is

heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither

speak a word.

He felt that all was over, he knew hia child was

dead,
He took the candle in his bund und walked

toward that low lied,
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd

fain conceal —
And see, his wife hus joined him— the stricken

couple kneel :
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they hnm-

blyaskofHim,
In heaven, once more, to meet again their own

poor little Jim.

MUSIC.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

RECITATIONS.

SLANG PHRASES :— A SATIRE.

BY FRANK CLIVE.

Bmpmcted Wife.— From these few lines my

whereabouts thou'll learn-
Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern :
The language of this people is a riddle unto me.
And words, with them, are fragmenU of a reck-
less mockery !

For instonce as I left the cars, an imp with

smutty face,
Said "Shine?" "Nay m „ot shine," I said

"except with inward grace."
"Is 'inward grace' a liquid or a paste?" asked

this young Turk;

"Hi Daddy! what is inward grace?«^,ow does

tne old thing work ?"
"Friend," said I. to the hackman whose breath

suggested gin,
-Can^theeconvey me -traightway to . reputable

°" forget-'*'"" •"*'«'«««* I "hall not soon

'"'^Yo;'b:n"'''""""^''''«™«'~'^
"Nay. nay I shall not bet," said I, "for that

would be a sin ;
Why don't thee answer plainly ?-Cou thee take

me to an inn?

Then why prevaricate?" Said he, pervenely,

"Nowyershoatin'."
"Nay, verily. I shouted not," q^oth I; "my

speech is mild; ' ^

^°* dX~^ *'*'""' *" "^ *'"''*'' ^"'"•••^ *-
Thee^ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of

"See here! my lively moke." ^\A he, " Yos ' I ^«..- ^ *t,

«li... „„ .^ „„g^ gj^,^ , „ '=' *o« i -arncd there no longer, for plain-.poken men

JlIcA tnA '

108

" ■^"<* ''•'•'» tl"* "J" I ' "ling on style ' thee tella
awillfnllie!"

At that he pranced around as if "« bee wero in
his bonnet "

And with hoHtile demonstrations, inquired if 1
was "on it!"

" ^\ T!"!!? '^'" ''•*'* "P'"'"» *»'^»«'f I cannot
tell," I said.

He swore that something was " too thin ; " mow-
over it was " played ! "

But all his jargon was surpassed, in wild absniw
dity.

By threats, profenely emphasized, to "put »
head "on me!

"^T"'"^ ^"*''" ""'" '• ""'"* •"'"•''• «»

Whereat he fell upon me with blows and carsea.
too, ^

But failed to work that miracle-if such was his

design —
For instead of putting on a head 1-, strove to

smite ojf mine!

Thee knows I cultivate the peaceful habit of onr
sect,

But this man's conduct wrought on me a sinsn.

lar effect ; *

For when he slapped my broad-brim off. and

asked, " How's that for hiith ? "
It roused the Adam in me, and I smote him bio

and thigh \ ^

The throng then gave a specimen of calumny

broke loose,
And said I'd "snatched him bald-headed." and

likewise " cooked his goose,"
Although I solemnly aiBrm, I did not poll bis

hair.

Nor cook his poultry either-for he had no ponl-

try there,
They called me " Bully boy," although I've seen

nigh three-score years ;

And said that I was "lightning" when I <'-ot
upon my ear ! " *

And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear or
dressed in drab,

" You know how 'tis yourself! "said one inconse-
quential blab ! .

Thee «.u conceive that by this time I was »om«.
what perplexed ;

Yea, the placid spirit in me has seldom been so
vexed —

I've had these plain drab garments some twenty

yeaw," said I

With such perverters of our tongue can have no

unity,

I0«

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

III

THE FRENCHMAN'S TOAST.

AT THE CHARITY DINNER.

BT LITCHriBLD MOSLIT.

S '

Milan and Gentlemans.—Yoxx excellent
chairman. M. le Baron de Mount Stuart, he
have say to me - make de toast." Den I say
to him dat I not have no toast to make ; but He
nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is
von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can
make proper; and. derefore. vid your kind
permission, I will make de toast. < • De bregete
IS de sole of de feet." as you great philosophere.
Dr. Johnson, do say in dat amoosing leetle vork
of his, de Pronouncing Dictionaire ; and, dere-
fore, I vill not say vere mooch to de point.
Ven I vas a boy. about so mooch tall, and
used for to promenade de streets of Marseilles
et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe. I
nevare to have expose dat dis day would to
have arrive. I vas to begin de vorld as von
garcon-or vat you call in dis countrie. von
vaitre m a cafrf-vere I vork ver hard, vid no
habihmens at all to put onto myself, and ver
leetle food to eat. excep' von old bleu blouse
vat vas give to me by de proprietaiie, just fori
to keep myself fit to be showed at ; but. tank '
goodness, tings dey have change ver mooch for
me since dat time, and I have rose myself
seulement par mon Industrie et perseverance.

Ahl mes amis! ven I hear to myself de
flowing speech, de oration magnifique. of you
Lor Maire. Monsieur Gobbledown. I feel dat
Its IS von great privilege for von (ftranger to
sit at de same table, and to eat de same food,
as dat grand, dat magestique man. who are de
terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de
metropolis ; and who is also, I for to suppose, a
ha terman and de chef of you common scoun-
trel. M.Iors and Gentlemans, I feel dat I can
perepire to no greataire honneur dan to be von
common scountrelman myself; but helas! dat
plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of
your great cil6. not one liveryman servant of
von ot you compagnies joint stock. But I
must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentle-

"d""'/! 'T°"*' Shakespeare, he have write,

-e tmg n. beauty are dc joy for nevermore."

It IS de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more

entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft
voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady I It
IS de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. It
is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our
existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not
inebnate ; and, derifore, vid all homage to
dere sex de toast dat I have to propose is
" De Ladies I God bless dem all 1 "

MUSIC.

RECITATIONS.

THE VOLUNTEERS WIFE.

BY M. A. DENNISON.

" A»' sure I was tonld to come to your Honor,
To see if ye'd write a few words to me Pat '

He's gone for a soldier, is Misther OConnor, '
Wid a sthripe on his arm and a band on his hat

An' what'Il ye tell him ? It ought to be aisy
For aicb as yer Honor to spnkct wid the pen —

Jist My I'm all right, and that Mavoorneen Daisy
(The baby, yer Honor), is bctther again.

For whin he wint ofif it's so sick was the childer
She niver held np her blue eyes to his face :

And whin I'd be cryin' he'd look but the wilder
An' say, "Would you wish for the oonnthry'»
disgrace ? "

So he left her in danger, nn me sorely gratln'
To follow the flag wid an Irishman's joy •—

Oh ! it's often I drame of the big drums abatin'
An' a bullet gone straight to the heart of me
boyl

An' say will he sind me a bit of his money.
For the rint an' the docther's bill dae in a
wake ; —

Well, surely, there's tears in yer eye-lasher,
honey I

An' faith, I've no right with such freedom to
spake.

Yon ve overinach trifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I II find some one wiUin'-Oh, what rsn it be ;

What 8 that in the newspaper folded np double?
Yer Honor, don't hide it but rade it to me.

What, Patrick O'Connor! No, no, 'Mifomeotherl
Dead I dead ! no, not him I Tla a wake acarce
gone bjr.

Dead 1 dead ! why, the kiaa on the oheek of bis
mother,
It hnan't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry. i

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

The sun had just set; its farewell rays still
bnghtened the western horizon and lingered
lovingly on the distant mountains of Syria The
full moon rising in the east, tinged with its
silvery light the nppling waters of the Euphra-
tes. The sky was clear, the air calm and
serene ; the fading splendor of day blended
harmoniously with the paler tints of approach-
ing twilight, *^

The shepherds had withdrawn their flocks •
the eye could perceive no motion upon the gray
and monotonous plain ; deep silence reigned
over the desert, broken only, at long internals,
by the discordant cries of some solitary night-
bird or the still more dismal howls of the prowl-
ing jackal. ^

As the shades increased, we could distinguish
only the whitish phantoms of broken columns
and mouldering walls. ..Syria," said I to
myself. .. to-day so depopulated, formeriy con-
tained a hundred powerful cities. Its fields
were dotted with villages and hamlets, inhabited
by a prosperous and happy people. Ah ! what
lias become ofthose ages of abundance? What
has become of all the brilliant creations of the
hand of man? Where are the ramparts of
N,neveh? the walU of Babylon? the'palaces
of Persepohs? the temples of Baalbec and
Jerusalem? Where are the fleets of Tyre?_

Don't (ell me I It's not him ! O. God, am I crazy ?

Shot dead ! O, for love of swate Heaven, say no
Oh I what'U I do in the world wid poor Daisy I

Oh, how will I live, an' oh, where will I go!

The room is so dark, I'm not seenin' yer Honor
I think I'll go home-" and a sob thick and
dry.

Came sharp from the bosom of Mary O'Connor
But never a tear-drop welled ap to her eye. '

THE RUINS OF PALMYRA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MISS. A. O.
BRIGGS.

the dock-yard, of Anrad?^th« workshops of
Sidon ? -and the multitude of *.ilors. of pilot.

of merchant, of soldier., of laoorer.. of harveat.;
of herds, and all that vast concourse of human^

aI,? I t"" '"''"''"''* 'hese deserted plain,!

.Alas! i have gone over this ravaged land! I

I have visited these palaces, the theatre of so

much splendor, and I have found only abandon-

ment and solitude. I have sought the ancient

people and their works, and I have found only

■n the dust. The temples have fallen ; the
palaces are overthrown : the ports are blocked
"P. the cities are destroyed; and the land,
destitute of inhabitants, is only a desolate place
of sepulchres. Pause here, worldly Ambition,
and learn an impressive lesson of the instability
of earthly honors and achievements.

MY WELCOME BEYOND.

MRS. A. GIDDING PARK.

r.Hv^V

Who will greet me first in heaven,.

When that blissfol realm I gain,*^
When the hand hath ceased fiom toiling

And the heart hath ceaned from pain •
When the last farewetl is spoken, *

Severed the last tender tie,
And I know how sweet, how soleinii, '

And how blest it is to die ?

As my barque glides o'er the water*

Of that cold and silent stream,
I shall see the domes of temples'

In the distance brightly gleiim — ^
Temples of that beanteons city

From all blight and sorrow free ;
Who adorn its golden portals

First wm haste to welcome me ?
Ah, whose eyes shall watch my coming

From the other fairer shore,
Whose the voice I first shall listen

That shall teach me heavenly lore ; '"
When my feet shall press the mystic

Borders of that betler land,
Whose face greet my wandering vision f

Who shall clasp the spirit hand ?
Who will gi-eet me first in bearen*
Oft the earnest thonght tf ill rise
Musing on the unknown glories
Of that home beyond the akiea.

106

THh COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Who will be ny hMTMly mrator ?

Will it ha MOM Mraph bright r .
Or kD aogvl fVoni the oonntlcM '^

M/riMls of that world of light T

No, not th«M, for they haro neTor

Gladdened hero my mortal riew ;
But the dear onea gone before me,

They, the loTed. the tried, the traa,
They who walked with na liAi's pathway,

To iu Joys and grielk were given.
They who loved na beat in earthland

Be the flrat to greet in heavea.

MUSIC.

READINGS.

SOMETHING IN STORE.

A POLICEMAN, patroling one of our avenues
yesterday, was called into a shoe-shop, the
proprietor of which was an honest unsuspecting
burgher, and asked :

"Can you tell me if der Prince of Vales Is
Mill in der city ? "

"The Prince of Wales! Why, he hasn't
been here."

" Ish dot possible f My frent vhas der Bresi-
dent here about two veeks ago ? "

" No."

" Vhas dere a big riot down town tree veeks
•go, in vhich some Outchmans got kilt ? "

"No sir."

" Vhas dere some ferry boats got blowed
up?"

"Never heard of any."

" My frent, ledt me ask one more question.
Vhas some orphan asylums all burned up one
night last veek und der leedle shildren roasted
like ducks in der oofen ? "

"Of course not."

" Vhell, dot exblains to me. I haf a poy,
Shon. He vhas oudt nights und doan* come
home till a o'clock next morning. Vhen I ask
him aboudt it he says some orphan asylum
burned down, or some ferry boat blew oop or
der Prince of Vales vhas in town and vhants to
•ee him. So dot poy has been lying to me ? "

" Looks that way."

" Vhell, to-night he vhill shlip oudt, as usual,

und by one o'clock he vhill come creeping In.
I shall ask him vhere he vhas all dere time lo
long ; und he vhill say Sheneral Sherman vhai
in town. I shall tell him dot I take him out to
der barn und introduce him to a school-house
on fire, und vhen I am all tired oudt mit club-
bing him I belief dot poy vhiU see some shokes
und sthay home nights. I tought it vhas funny
dot so mooch happens allter time und dey doan
put it in der Sherman bapers. Vhell. vhell. I
vish it vash night so I could pegin to show him
dot I am der biggest sheneral of all, prett>
soon already."

ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.

THE LOVE OF MOTHER THE SAME IN ANY LAN-
GUAGE.

BuRDETTE departs from the humorous to the
pathetic in the following : We were at a rail-
j road junction one night last week waiting a few
hours for a train, in the waiting-room, in the
I only rocking chair, trying to talk a brown eyed
I boy to sleep, who talks a good deal when he
I wants to keep awake. Presently a freight train
arrived, and a beautiful little woman came in,
escorted by a great big German, and they talki
ed in German, he giving her evidently, lots of in-
formation about the route she was going, and
telling her about he.- tickets and her baggage
check, and occasionally patting heron the arm.
At first our United States baby, who did not
understand German, was tickled to hear them
talk, and he " snickered " at the peculiar sound
of the language that was being spoken. The
great big man put his hand upon the old lady's
cheek, and said something encouraging, and a
great big tear came to her eye. and she looked
as happy as a queen. The little brown eyes of
the boy opened pretty big, and his face sobered
down from its laugh, and he said : " Papa, is
it his mother?" We knew it was, but how
should a four-year-old sleepy baby, that
couldn't understand German, tell that the lady
was the big man's mother, and we asked him
how he knew, and he said : " O, the big man
wassokindtoher." The big man bustled out,
we gave the rocking chair to the little old moth-
er, and presently the man came in with the bag-
gageman, and to him he spoke English. Ht

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

uid : "Thii it my mother, and she does not
speak English. She is going to Iowa, and I
have got to go back on the next train, but I
wan( you to attend to her baggage, and see lier
on the right car. the rear car. with a good seat
near the center, and tell the conductor she is
my mother, and here's a dollar for you, and I
will do as much for your mother sometime."
The baggage man grasped the dollar with one
hand, grasped the big man's hand with the
other, and looked at the little German with an
expression that showed that he had a mother
too, and we almost Knew the old lady was well
treated. Then we put the sleeping mind-read-
eron a bench and went out on the platform and
got acquainted with the big German, and he
talked of horse trading, buying and selling,
and everything that showed he was a live busi-
ness man. ready for any speculation, from buy-
ing a yearling colt to a crop of hops or barley,
and that his life was a very busy one and at
times full of hard work, disappointment and
hard roads, but with all his hurry and excite-
ment, he was kind to his mother, and we loved
him just a little, and when after a few minutes
talk about business he said : <• You must ex-
cuse me. I must go in the depot and see if my
mother wants anything," we felt like taking his
fat red hand and kissing it. O, the love of a
mother is the same in any language, and it is
good in all languages.

And the eyea be dimmfd by bitter tean
In their search for liKht may rHJI not.

Strength for today on the down-bill track
For the traveileni near the valley •

That up, far up ou the oiher side
Ere long they may safely rally.

Strength for to-day, that our prevloui yontk

May happily hIiuo temptation,
And build from the rise to the Het of the suu

Ou a Btroug and sure foundation.

Sirength for to-day, in house and home
To practice rorbearaiicettweetly ;

To scatter kind words nud loving deeds,
Still truHting in God completely.

Strength for to day is all that we need,
And there never will be a to-morrow :

For to-morrow will prove bat another to day.
With iu measures of joy and sorrow.

Phila. Itmt^

RECITATION.

STRENGTH FOR TO-DAY.

MUSIC.

RECITATIONS.

FOUND DEAD ON THE BATTLEFIELD.

AN INCIDENT OF GETTYSBURG.

Stbenoth for to-day is all that we need,
As there never will be a to-morrow ;

For to-morrow will prove bat another to-day,
With measure of joy and sorrow.

Then why forecast the trials of life,
With much sad and grave persistence.

And wait and watch for a crowd of ills
That as yet have no existence?

Strength for to day— what a predonsboon

For earnest sonis who labor!
For the viilling hands that minister

io the needy friend or neighbor.

Strength for to-day that the weary hearta
In the battle for righ^ may qoail sot {

BT MISS A. O. BRI008.

When we gained, at last, the victory and cleared

the bloody ground,
On the awful field of Gettysburg, among the

dead was found
A soldier, who had fallen with that noble martyr

band.
Clasping fast his children's likeness in his cold

death-stiffened hand.

Wounded in the raging conflict, nnperceived by
hnman eye,

From the trampling feet of foemen be had crawl-
ed away to die.

Weak and faint, had sunk exhausted. No on*
heard his feeble moan ;

No one soothed bis bitter anguish, lying on that
field alone.

Loudly roared the booming cannon ; loudly rose

the deaf 'ning cheers ;
Din of angry, clashing weapons, grated banhly

in his ears;

lot

TMr tOMPLSrE PROGRAM.

rem "d ; and th«

And the grouixf •»'NNi«mn

•ky WM thick .>;mpnM
With the iiolphuro*, clV/iid« of battle, lowering

darkiy i)i'«rlu>*4

Through Mt ncbin« htm --ame tbrooging all thf

niemoiiM oi Ut lift,
Mingled with inuiMM» longing for hU children

and hia wile.—
Oh, what dimsord for • deathUU Oh, whatlonft-

liaeaa to miu

Tender mlnUtry of lored onea in m moment auch
aa thia!

Pleading for hia helpleaa orphana with hia laat

expiring breath,
He was gazing atlll npon them when hia evea

were dim In death.
No ear caught hia dying meBeage,-on hia iipa

the mystic seal —
But more touching, far, than langnage, tbia mute

eloquent appeal ! '

Parents, with your darling children Inyonrpleaa-

ant homes of ease,
Undisturbed by fear of danger, can ye think of

scene* like these ?

t^ yon ff >8e the angnish that a parent's heart
must I, ;r,

Yielding ..p iU precioos idols to tha world's
nnfee.ug care?

finch the sacrificial offerings on onr oountrr'a
alUr laid I '

To redeem oar nation's honor snch the priceless
ransom paid !

Let 00 thankless sonls receive it with ingratitude
profane,

Nor forget the living loved onea who are mourn-
ing fur the slain.

Land of widows and of oij bans, land baptised
in human gore,

Land of heroes and of martyrB,— hallowed ground

from shore to shore-
Land of progress, land of freedom, land revered

in every zone.
Land of patriots, bardi, and sages,— proud, we

claim thee as our owu !

&!.__. L.

By the tears of sore bereavement, by the blood

in battle shed,
By the valiant veterans living, « ' ^\i. saiut'^d

martyrs dead,
By the noble deeds recorded, gl<><--u^ *«;.•* c?.

history's page,
Pledge we ne'er to prove nnwork'ty i-r v. ■wtnd

a heritage I

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.

BY Wll-HAM CULLBN BRYANT.

Fair is thy site, 8orr«n(o, green thy shore,
Black crags behind ibee pierce the clear bine
skies;

The sea, whow 'Orders rnled the world of yore
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing. drowned the cities on his steep* ■

And murmuring Naples, spire o'crtopplng spire,
8iU on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue.
Heap her green breast when April suns are
bright.

Flowers of the morning— red. or ocean-blue.
Or like the mountain-frost of silvery whito.

Onrrenta of fhigrance fron the orange-tree.
And swards of violets, breathing to and ftt>,

Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea.
Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.

Yet even here, as under harsher climes,
Teara for the loved and early lost are shed j

That soft air saddeDn with the ftineral chimea:
Thoee shining do » ers are gathered for the dead.

Here once a child, a smiling, playfhl one,
All the day long caressing and caressed,

Died when its little tongue had Just begun
To lisp the names of those it loved the best.

The father strove his strnggling grief to quell,
The mother wept as mothers use to weep,

Two little sisters wearied them to tell
When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.

Within an inner room, his couch they spread,
His funeral couch ; with mingled grief ^nti?
love.

They laid a crown of roses on hia head,
And murmured, " Brighter is hiscrown alwve. '

They scattered 'ronnd him, on the snowy sheet
Laburnum's strings of many-colored gems,

Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet.
And orange-blossoms on their dark-green stems

And now the hour is come ; the priest is there :

Torel"* ^•^ !<* --4 v-<<. .....

Ajr!.!-,,.- .,„ 1,^, auH uciiaarc lOiica ; iUfey go

With sin jiin rites of blessing and of prayer.

To lay the little one in earth below.

THE COMPLETB KOGKAM.

101

Th« door !■ opened ;— harki Urn quick, glad cry i

Carlo bM waked, bM waked, u-id la at play I
The tittle Miatem laugh and leap, and try

To olimb the bed on which the infaut lay.
^iid there he alta alive, and gayly ahakea

In kia full handa the bloaaoms red and white,
ind amilea with winking eyea, like one who
wakea

From long, deep alumben at the morning light.

MUSIC.

COLLOQUY.

THE WRONG BAGGAGE.

DRAMATIZED BV MISS A. O. BKIGGS.

CHARACTERS. .

Horatio Holt, A Wealthy Bachelor

Anna Brown, Hu Servant.

John mison. His College Chum.

Sambo. Mr. mison's Colored Servant.

Mr. James Stewa. t, Mr. Holts Uncle.

Mrs. Sarah Stewart, •• « Aunt.
Jenny Stewart, )

Sophy Stewart, j «• .. Ccusins.

Rose Millington, A Lady Friend of the Stewarts.

Scene i. Mr. Horatio Holt is sitting in an easy.

chair with his feet on a foot-rest and a cigar]

in his mouth reading— A servant enters.

AnnaB. Here's a letter, Mr. Holt; tic;
postman just brought it. (Hands him the letter
and goes out.)

Horatio Holt. Confound the girl! I was
just in the most interesting part of the story.
JStunge how absorbed one will get reading
SI '.uprobable love-scenes! Love— bah ! I
don't believe in the article I In matrimony, as
in everything else, people are actuated by mo-
tives of self-interest. I know several young
ladies who would like, confoundedly well, to
marry me; but they don't get the handing of
my money— not if I know myself and I rather
think I do, ( Opens his letter and reads aloud. )

"Cousin Horatio. Our parents are to celebrate
their silver wedding next Thursday, and we
want you to be sure and be here. We have in-

vitrd several ffiendu whom you used fo know,
and we expect a very pleasant time. There 's
a very beaunful and accomplished young lady
fri< nd of ours wli.. i« coming— we are sure you
will be pleased to make her rfrquaintance. Per-
haps you may fall in love— who knot <; ' Just
think of it I ,v crusty old bachelor, l.ke >ou.
falling in love I Uon't get angry at our little
jokes, but you must surely come.

" Sincerely Your Cousins,
"Jenny and Soi-hy Stewart
" P. S. Father sends kind regards, and says
that bankers here are paying one per cent,
higher interest than the bankers with whom
you deposit, so if you have any money to in-
vest, he thinks you had better bring it here.
"Yours once more,

"Jenny and Sopkv."
{He folds his letter deliberately, puts it tn his
Pocket and, taking up his cigar, smokr^ a few
whiffs, and then resumes hii soliloquy. ) The
immortal Homer hath asserted in his never-dy-
ing Iliad, that the best part of a woman's lett«r
is the postscript. The famous old fellow is qui *•
right. It is certainly very true in this casi
Let me see, if I visit my excellent cousins and
take with me ten thousand dollars, I shall get
one percent, more interest, which will be just
one hundred dollars more per annum— worth
saving, at any rate ! I can stop on the way
and visit my old college chum, John Wilson ;—
as for the young lady they write about, she'll
find that Horatio Holt has seen too many pretty
girls to be so easily duped as they may think.
Yes. I will go. I will pack my valise, draw my
ten thousand from the bank, and take the next
train.

Scene ii. Mr. Wilson is seated in his library
looking over some papers ; a servant enters
with a card.

John Wilson. Ah, ha I My old college
chum ! Bring him up here, Sambo.

Sambo. Yis sah ! (Leaves the room and re-
turns with Mr. Holt. Exit Sambo.)

John W. Glad to see you, old boy. How
do you do ! ( They shake hands warmly. )

H. H. First rate ! How's yourself?

2- ■- »\.. Mgiii. \incy laxe seals.) Do
you know 'Ratio, I've been wondering why in
the world you didn't visit me. You haven't

ItA

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

' i %\ '!'.

gf;'

been nere since my marriage. That isn't show-
ing proper regard for our old-time intimacy.
You've no profession to tie you to your, office,
no cares of a family,— notiiing to do but to live
on the interest of your money, to go when you
please and come when you've a mind to;—
what excuse can you find for this negligence?
H. H. It is, really, too bad, I know, John.
I've been contemplating a visit here, for some
time, but haven't got started till now.

7. W. You've never met Mrs. Wilson. I'm
sorry she's not at home ; you would like her, \
know, I do.

H. H. Undoubtedly ! I enjoy the society
of intelligent ladies ; and Mrs. Wilson must be
one of that class, I am sure, or you would
never have fancied her.

7. W. Most assuredly she is— a woman
any man might be proud of! She has gone
to the city to spend a week with her mother,
so I'm keeping bachelor's ball. {Rings for a
servant. Sambo enters.) Cigars and wine for
two. Sambo.

Sambo. Yis sah ! {He leaves the room and
returns with the order.) Anything moah
wanted, Massa Wilson?

7- W< Not at present, Sambo. {Exit
Sambo. Mr. Wilson passes the wine to Mr.
Holt and takes a glass himself. They touch
glasses.) Here's health to your lordship and
the wish that you may ere long exchange the
monotony of a bachelor's life for the social
enjoyment of double blessedness. ( They drain
their glasses and refill them.)

H. H. Thanks for your good wishes ! Here's
health to your majesty.— May you reach the
top round of your profession and enjoy a long
life of peace and prosperity.

{They drink, and placing their glasses on the
table, help themselves to cigars and resume their
conversation. )

7- ^- This seems quite like old times.
Chum. Are you as much of a reader as you
used to be ?

H. H. About after the old style, I guess.
My happiest hours are spent in my library.

7- W< That's all well enough if not carried
to excess ; but these book-worms are liable to
become misantliropical. Why don't you go
into society more, marry some fine young lady
and take more interest in the real world around
you?

H. H. I don't know what answei to give
you, John, concerning your well-meant solici-
tude, other than that given by the immortal
bard when he replies •• Not that I love Caesar
less, but that I love Rome more," 1 like the
ladies measurably well, but I like my books
better. The majority of young ladies are either
vain and frivolous, mere puppets of fashion, or
artful, plotting and mercenary— would marry
any one who has money and good social
position ; and precious little do they care for the
husband whom they have duped into matri-
mony.

7. W. They are not all so, 'Ratio. Marry
one of the few exceptions.

H. H. Do you know, my dear vagabond,
{Knocking the ashes from his cigar.) I really
think I found one of those few exceptions to-
day. It's a secret, John, and you must never
breathe it to anyone. I sat in the train to-day
by the side of the fairest, loveliest, most angelic
being that was ever created without wings. I
was completely charmed by her conversation
and general ease of manner. I could hardly
tear myself away when the train halted at the
station and I was obliged to leave her. Do you
believe in love at first sight ?

7' tV. Well, yes, there have been instances
of that kind, I have no doubt— a feeling of
congeniality— a sort of natural affinity so to
speak —

H. H. Just so. It seemed as though I had
known her before. Maybe it was in that state
of preexistence— that glorious land where, it is
said, all true matches are made.

7 H^. I begin to have some hopes of you,
Chum. You are really growing poetic. How
did you let so radiant a vision vanish without
seeking a mutual understanding then and there ?
It was, most certainly, a very unbusiness like
transaction for so shrewd a man.

H. H. Oh, I could not muster courage. She
would have misconstrued my zeal and regarded
my outspoken frankness as bold impertinence.
There is an overruling power which shapes our
destiny ; and if our match was prearranged in
heaven, we shall sometime meet again.

7 IV. It is well you can philosophize so
coolly ! People are wont to be more impetuous
In affairs of the heart.

H. H. By the way, John, I wish you would
keep an eye on my vaJise. There is an even ten

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Ill

thousand dollars in it that I am going to take to
the city. Are your servants trustworthy ?

J.W.I don't know about that. Ten thou-
sand dollars ! {Starting up. ) Why didn't you
tell me of this before ? Where w the valise ?

H. H. In the hall, I suppose, Anyway, I
gave it to the servant when I came in.

J. IV. You are the most careless fellow I
ever knew ! {Hurries from the room and returns
with the valise. ) Is this it ?
H. H. Yes.

J. W. You had better unlock it and see if
your money is safe. {Mr. Holt takes the key
from his pocket, unlocks the valise and thrusts
his hand therein. )

H. H. Bless my soul ! ( Withdrawing his
hand in great consternation. )
J. W. {Excitedly.) What is the matter?
H. H. Why, look here ! I don't believe the
valise is mine. ( Draws forth some crochet work
and a nice sample of embroidery.) The money is
gone!

y. W. Sold! (Springing to his feet.) Out-
witted by the angel you met on the train I

H. H. So it seems. I tell you women are
as treacherous as cats. Well, the money is gone
and I shall be obliged to look it up.

y. W. What can you do ? What steps can
you take to recover your money ? Have you
any clue to her whereabouts ?

H. H. No clue at all, except that she had a
ticket to the city. I must start forthwith so as
to be in time for the train. I'll put the police
on her track as soon as I reach the city. Ten
thousand dollars is a little too much money to
be swindled out of in that shape. {Seizes the
satchel and startsfor the door.) Good-bye, John,
will call on my return.

y W. Hold on a minute, 'Ratio. Don't get
crazy ! I'll take a day oflf and go with you.

Scene in. At Mr. Stewart's. The doorbell
rtn£s and yennie and Sophy rush to open the
door. A young lady entets.

yenny. O, Rose Millington, you can't think
how glad we are to see you. {Kissing affec-
tionately.) ^ ■"

Sophv. Me, too. Roc- 1 /T!t^.. A--— -»-- V
we began to fear you were not coming. The
train is fully an hour behind time.

Rose. Is it as much as that ? I knew we

were late. The scenery is grand along this
line. I enjoyed my trip ever so much !

yenny. {Helping Rose divest herself of het
wraps.) I am delighted to think we shall have a
whole day to visit before the party. I've so
much to say to you I don't know where to
begin.

Rose. Say the first thing that happens to
come into your mind and the rest will follow.

Sophy. Did you bring that embroidery you
wrote about? Oh, I hope you did ! I am almost
dying to see it.

Rose. Well, then, you must certainly see it
forthwith. It's in the valise and I will go and
get it now. {Sophy runs for the valise and piac
ing it upon a chair. Rose takes her key and pro-
ceeds to open it.) Oh, gracious me! {Peering
into the valise.)
Sophy. What's the matter. Rose ?
Rose. Why, this valise is not mine— at least,
the contents are not. Just look here! {She
pulls out two silk handkerchiefs, a necktie, a pasr
of gentlemen' s socks and a collar box.) Why, girls,
I don't understand it at all. I must have taken
some one else's valise— Oh, I know ! It belongs
to your cousin Horatio. {She laughs heartily.)

yenny. Belongs to Cousin Horatio ! Why,
Rose, what do you mean ?

Rose. Your cousin, Horatio, came into the
train and took a seat by me. I knew him in-
stantly from the description you wrote ; and suth
a flirtation as we carried on exceeds your most
ardent imagination. He's just splendid 1 If he
wasn't such an incorrigable old bachelor, I'd
just set my cap for him. Don't you tell him
though. I wouldn't have him know, for the
world, how smitten I was with him. I suppose
he took my valise and I took his. What a
funny mistake ! It is quite natural, for they ara
just alike and the key to one. fits the other.
yenny. But where is Horatio now ?
Rose. I am sure I don't know. He got out
at the second sfition from the city.

yenny. Stopped over to see his friend Wilson.
Sophy. Well, we can soon tell if this belongs
to Horatio, for if it does, his name will be on
some of the clothes. {Opens his collar box and
examines a collar.) Yes. here it is— •' Horatio
Holt." Oh my! (The three girls burst out
laughing.)

Sophy. I wonder if he brought any money
aloig with him to put in the bank.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

- Tinny. Ui's see C l,She plunges her hand into
the value and drawx forth a package.) \Vhy here
is something. Just look here, girls. ( 7 hey undo
it and end it contains money.) Ten thousand
dollars, the label says, I can't undertake to
count It What a monstrous sum and how care-
Jess he is 1 Now girls, if you will only do as I
*ay, we'll have lots of fun. Did he know who
«ou were, Rose ?

Rose. I don't think he did. I didn't tell
Aim, though he might have guessed.

yenny. Well, that's good. We'll put the
things back just as we found them. Your train
was late and the afternoon express is nearly due
He will be in on that if he discovers his loss in
time.

Sophy. [Sitting by the window.) Why. here
he comes now !

7'nny. Rose, run into the dressing-room
and take the valise along too. Don't come out
until we call you. {Exit Rose-doot^bell rings.
^nny hurries to open the door.) Why. Cousin
Horatio, how do you do ?

ir.H. Do! {Excitedly.) I don't do-I'm
done! From this time forth I will never again
occupy a seat In a car beside a feminine fraud.
Women are shkms and humbugs ! The whole
world is as selfish as a hog !

Jenny. Why, Cousin, you appear to be ex-
cited ! What is the matter ?

H: H. Matter ? Matter enough I should say
to excite any one ! I've been swindled out of
ten thousand dollars just by being foolishenough
to sit beside a woman on the train. I've ex-
changed valises with somebody-that's what's
the matter I

Jenny. Wliy, Horatio, how you talk ' Is it
possible? Pray sit down and collect your
thoughts. {Offers him a seat.)

H. ti. Can't stop a moment. I'm going to

find the chief of police and see if I can get mv

money back. '

Jeni^. You'll, probably, be obliged to offer

a reward for its recovery.

H. H. I'll give a hundred dollars to any one
who wHl return it safe and sound.

Jenny Witness that, Sophy, he'll give a
hundred dollars. Come, sit down Horatio. We
are good detectives and we'll see what we can
do far you.

H. H. No fooling, girls ! Every minute's an
hour ! I want to hunt up the culprit before she |

leaves the city and have her brought to justice
Jenny. Sophy, just tell that person in the
other room to step in here a moment, perhaps
she can aid us m this matter. {She haves the
room and returns with Rose. )

Sophy. Miss MiUington. our cousin. Mr.
Holt.

ff. ^ Bless my stars ! {Greatly surprised.)
isfment.^ '^ ( WM «..///«^.^,,J.

Sophy. Why. what is the matter ?

iV. //. This-this is the lady who. I supposed,
took ni;. valise !

Rose. And this is the gentleman whom I met
on the train.

Jenny. {Bringing in the valise.) Here's your
baggage. Horatio, see if the money is safe.

//. H. Of course it is !

Jenny. And what about the prize ?

H. H. You and Sophy shall have your hun-
dred dollars. I'll be as good as my word.

Jenny. No ; give it to Rose. She's the one
who brought your baggage safely through after
you had been so careless as to make the ex-
change.

A-^i "\ ^*'"" '''^ *''*" ^^''^ '' '»>«". since I
did her the injustice to suppose she intentionally
captured my property. Will you please accept
the promised reward as a slight atonement for
accusing you so wrongfully ? {Offering her the
money.)

Rose. Put up your money, Mr. Hok, and
learn to be more careful next time. It is no
wonder, under the circumstances, you should
suspect me. The mistake is quite natural
however, for the satchels are just alike.

H. H. Well, all's well that ends well and
this seems to have turned out better than I
expected. But you must excuse me for a short
time, ladies. I promised to meet Chum Wilson
down town. He accompanied me to the city
to help ferret out the thief. Ha ! ha ! ha ! It is
a comical affair any how ! {Leaves the stage )

Sophy. How excited he was, poor fellow!
I could hardly keep from laughing him in the
face.

Rose. I nearly choked myself stuffing my
handkerchief into my mouth to keep from v\L
gling right out. * *

Jenny. What do you think of me, girls ?

Rose. You acted your part well. I never
could have kept a sober face as long as you did.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

itleman whom I mot

Jtnny. Well, now's a good time to look at
that embroidery. {Rum and brings in (he
satchel. Rose opens it and displays her fancy
work.)

Sophy Oh! that is elegant ! I must make
one just like it.

Jenny. It is lovely ! I must make one too.
Rose. You can get your materials when we
go down town and you can finish them up while
I am here.

Jenny. Won't that be nice ?
Sophy. Why girls, here's a carriage and
cousin Horatio is getting out. I wonder who
that stylish looking couple is in the carriage.
(Enter N. Holt.)

H. H. You see I wasn't gone long. Met
Chum Wilson and his wife who were so worried
about my mishap that they had started out to
look me up. Chum says that since the culprit
has been found, he is not willing to let her
e,;c ;;'e so easily, and he has. accordingly, com-
missioned me to invite her to take a ride with
diem and see the city. Will Miss Millington
please favor us with her company ?

Rose. I shall be delighted to do so, Mr.
Holt, and will hurry on my wraps so as not to
keep you waiting. {Leaves the room.)

Jenny. So you have repented so soon of
your rash determination and are actually going
to occupy a seat in a carriage beside a " femi-
nine fraud ? " What do you suppose Miss Mil-
lington thinks of a gentleman who could make
such a speech as that?

H. H. Say no more about my foolish threats.
I came very near losing my wits— that's a fact.
Well, it was a funny episode !

Sophy. A very romantic coincidence, I
should say.

Jenny. She it nice,— don't you think so.
'Ratio?

H. H. k very pleasant young lady !

Jenny. I never shall tell what highly com-
plimentary things she said about a certain cousin
of mine ;— I promised I wouldn't and I'm not
going to betray her confidence.

H. H. There now, Cos, you are just aching
to tell me— how hard it is for a woman to keep
a secret!

Jenny. No harder than for an old bachelor
to keep from falling in love when the right one
comes along.
Sophy. And she has come, it seems, Horatio.

H H. Pshaw ! girls, stop joking. I'm
young and bashful, you know. Where are
Uncle and Aunt Stewart ?

Sophy They have gone down town to do
some shopping— will be home by the time you
return. {Enter Rose.)

Rose. I am ready, Mr. Holt, if you are.

H. H. By-by, girls I Don't look for us till
we come. {Rose and Mr. Holt leave the stage.)

Sophy. What a splendid match they would
make!

Jenny. How funny it would be if such a
thing should happen • Wouldn't we have a
good joke on him !

Scene iv. Mr. Stewart is holding his evening

paper. Mrs. Stewart has her mending basket.

7 he girls, Sophy and Jenny, are crocheting.

Mrs. Stewart. What can detain them so

long ? It must be they are going to dine with

the Wilsons.

Mr. Stewart. I wish I could have seen him
when he came to-day. He likes money so well
he must have been somewhat excited at the
prospect of losing a cool ten thousand.

Jenny. Excited !— well, I should say so ! It
was just too funny for anything !

Sophy. You should have seen him when
Rose made her appearance— he turned all sorts
of colors. I do believe he is completely smit-
ten. They occupied a seat together all the
way, until he dropped off at Smithville ; so they
feel pretty well acquainted. He never once
mistrusted who she was, but she knew him
from the description we had given her.

Mrs. S. I hope the impression may be
mutual ; for Rose don't have things any too
pleasant at home since her father's second mar-
riage.

Jenny. Auntie Holt needs just such a
daughter as Rose would make. It would be
just too lovely for anything !

Mr. S. I don't believe Horatio Holt will ever
marry any one, so don't go into ecstacies ovet
your own imaginations. He is polite and at-
tentive to all ladies, as any gentleman should
be.

Sophy. We shall see what we shall see if we
wait long enough.

Jenny. { Looking out the window. ) Yes, and
we shall see them in a moment, for here they
come!

114

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Sophy. (Meets them at the door.) Here
come the truants! We thought you had surely
eloped, you've been gone so long.

H. H. Not quite so bad as thatl Mr. and
Mrs. Wilson insisted on our dining with them
and we could not well refuse.

Mn. S. {Shaking hands with Rose.) I
didnt Itnow as we were ever going to see you,
Horatio spirited you away so unceremoniously.
(Shaking hands with Horatio.) How do you
do. 'Ratio, I've a mind to be provoked at your
staying so long.

H. H. You can't stay provoked. Auntie, if

you try ; so you'd better not make the attempt.

Mr. S. (Shaking hands first with Rose and

then Horatio.) So you caught the culprit— did

you?

Yes, and imprisoned her for life.
What do you mean ? You are not

H. H.

Mrs. S.
married ?
H. H.

No ; but the next thing to it ;— we
are engaged.

7enny. Engaged I
Sophy. Engaged I

H. H. Yes. engaged ! Who has r better
right "i

Sophy. Horatio Holt, you are the queerest
specimen of humanity I ever saw !

H. H. What is there queer about that ?
Didn't you and Jenny deliberately plan this
very catastrophe ?

Mrs. S. It is all right, Horatio. Nothing
could have pleased us all better.
S'phy. Yes, but it is so sudden !
H. H. So are a great many things which
turn out well. A long courtship is a big hum-
bug. See! here is the promised reward for
the return of my money ! { Taking Rose's hand
and displaying a diamond engagement-ring.)

Mr. S. Love, like the measles, comes but
once in a life-time, and the older you get the
harder you have it.

H. H. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I guess you are right.
Uncle.

Jenny. It is a sudden attack, 'Ratio, you
never had the first symptoms of it before.
(Shaking Rose playfully.) You feminine fraud !
You confidence woman ! What do you mean
by stealing our staid old bachelor cousin ? I'll
set the police on yniir track— see if I don't !

Rose. Not quite so rash Jenhy 1 Forgive me
this time, I'll never do so again.

H. H. I'm a novice in such matters, but I
believe congratulations are in order.

Mr. S Certainly, my boy. ( Taking them
both by the hand. ) In behalf of myself and the
whole household we offer you our warmest con-
gratulations and best wishes for your future hap-
piness and prosperity.

Sophy. Since you believe in going with a
rush I have a plan to expedite matters. Why
can't we celebrate to-morrow's anniversary by
a double wedding ?
H. H. Good ! What say. Rose ? *

Rose. I've no dress suitable for such aa oc-
casion.

Jenny. Yes you have, too. Rose. That new
party dress will be just the thing !

Sophy. We can go out in the morning and
purchase the veil, flowers, and other fixings,
you know.

Mrs. S. Yes, Rose, that will be nice ; and
then, as our wedding day will be the same, we
can celebrate it every year together.

H. H. This arrangement would please me
exceedingly, but I must leave it to Rose to
decide.

Jenny. You can get ready— can't you.
Rose?
Rose. Yes, I guess so.
Mrs. S. It is late ; and we must be up early
to complete our arrangements for to-morrow.
H. H. ( Turning to the audience.) Will see
Good night I
Tableau— A Double Wedding.

MUSIC.

you later.
Scene v.

COLLOQUY.

THE NEW GIRL.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

For two ladles and two Kentlemen.
Characters.

Mr. Meredith,
Mrs. Meredith,

Mr. Selwyn,
Pattie.

Scene l. Mr Meredith is dressed in business
costume, ready for his morning walk down town
to his office.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.
Now, CharJ'e. you'll be sure

eady — can't you.

Mn. Mendith.
to remember?

Mr. Meredith. To remember what? {He
looks bewildered as if trying to recall something
which has escaped his memory. Mrs. Meredith
drops her hands despairingly at her sides). ,

Mrs. M. Charles I you don't mean to say
that you have forgotten already ?

Mr. M. My dear. {Fumbling in his pocket
forhts gloves.) I have not forgotten, but I
don't exactly remember.

Mrs. M. The oysters.

Oh, yes ; the oysters.

And the two ounces of double

Mr. M.
Mrs.M.
zephyr.
Mr. M.
Mn. M.

Exactly.

And the depot hack to be waiting

at 2 o'clock for your cousin from Philadelphia.

Mr. M. {Slapping his hands on the table in

surprise.) She is coming to^ay, I declare to

goodness !

Mrs. M. And a dozen Havana oranges for
desert, and two pounds of white grapes, and
some of those delicious little Naples biscuit—
oh. and let them send up a girl from St. Clair's

Mr. M. A— which?

Mrs. M. A girl, you goose, for general
housework. Phebe went home this mornii.g
with tlie face ache, and I can't be left alone,
with company coming and all. Mind, she's a
good cook and understands waiting at table.

Mr. M. Yes, yes. my dear, just so.but I must
be off. for I expect a client will be waiting for
me. {Hurries off the stage. )

Mrs. M. { Qasping both hands over her head
tn a son of tragic despair.) Dear me! I do
hope he will remember, but he is so forgetful '
I wonder if all men are as heedless about doing
errands as he is. Well, I must go and see how
brother Tom is getting along in the kitchen.
Scene ii.—The Kitchen.

, ..-. . ui.«iv^/» u f/ri fits

hands and knees in front of a range, trying
to coax a most unwilling fire to bum. He rises
as his sister enters.

Mr. Selwyn. Well. Kate. I guess that fire
will go after a while, but it seems to have got a
contrary streak this morning.

Mrs, M. Tom. {Anxiously.) Can you make
* lobster salad ?

Mr. S. Like a book.

Mrs.M. Aad coffee?

Mr. S. I learned in Pari*.

Mrs. M. Good ! And I can make buttermilk
biscuit— and between us we can get up a decent
lunch for a young lady from Philadelphia. As
for dinner

Mr.S. Well?

Mrs. M. Providence must provide.

Mr. S. There's an old chintz-colored rooster
in the barn-yard. If I could catch hirn I'd
have a chicken stew.

Mrs. M. Did you ever make a chicken stew.
Tom?

Mr. S. No.

Mrs. M. Then you don't know what you ars
talking about.

Mr. S. Yes I do, too. Onions, potatoes,

celery, pearl barley, with a pinch of salt

Mrs.M. {Impatiently.) Nonsense? Go pick
that lobster out of its shell and leave off roman-
cing. You are a deal better at poetry and
newspaper sketches than yon are in the kitchen ;
though, to be sure, goodness knows what I
should do without you just in this particular
emergency, dear old book-worm ! {Door-bell
rings.) There goes the bell ! How I do look I
1 hope it is no fastidious caller.

Mr. S. Perhaps it is the new girl, Kate, I
wouldn't go into hysterics. Take things a
httle more coolly just as that fire is doing.

Mrs. M. Well, I must answer the bell I

suppose. I hope it is the girl. {Leaves the room,

opens the door and the following conversation

goes on behind the screen. )

Pattie. Does Mr. Meredith live here?

Mrs. M. He does. Come in I I am so glad

you are punctual, my good girl! From St.

Claire's Intelligence Bureau, I suppose. No.

don't take off your things up here ; the servant's

room is down stairs ; you may as well come

down to the kitchen. {Mrs. Meredith leads the

Mr. Selwyn is on his ^^/f^^''^;^ «W^ ^oman neatly though

tofa7ange,tryiZ t^^S'^:::^.:!^'^ '''":^^''''^^ '^'^^ '^ rather

What is your name?

{.^ome-

bewildered expression. )
{Patronizingly.)

Pattie. My name ! Oh, it is Mailha.
what confused. )

Mrs.M. Martha? What an ugly name ! I
think 1 shall call you Pattie, Have vou good
references?

Pattie. I— I believe so. ma'am.
Jfrs.M. I think. {Surveying her from head
ffoot,) you are a little overdressed for your

116

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

. \

situation ; but, of course, you have plainer
clothes when your trunk comes?

Pattie, Oh, yes ma'am. These 4re my
Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes; but I guess I
shall not soil them.

Mn. M. {^Handing her a domestic apron. )
Here, take this to keep your dress clean.

Pattie. Thanks, ma'am. Do you keep a
man cook? {Glancing at Mr. Sehvyn who is
busy wrestling with his lobster.)

Mrs. M. {Somewhat disdainfully.) Cer-
tainly not! This is my brother, Mr. Selwyn,
who is kindly assisting me to make a salad. I
expect >w« to do the cooking. Do you under-
stand getting up nice f- ,: s?

Pattie. Yes, I can <_ everything in that line.
But the gentleman isn't doing that right. He
will never get the meat out of the shell in that
way. Let me show you, Mr. Selwyn. (She
soon has it ready for the salad, while Mrs. M.
and Mr. S. stand by watching the process.)

Mr. S. Bravo ! There is nothing like know-
ing how, after all !

Mrs. M. And now, Pattie, I will show you
where things are, and leave you to get up as
nice a lunch as you can ; for at 2.30 o'clock we
are expecting my husband's cousin from Phila-
delphia. I want everything in perfect order.
{Taking her into the pantry they talk loud
enough to be heard outside.) I keep the flour in
this bin. Here is the sugar in these boxes
labeled Confectionery A, Granulated, Cut
Sugar and Light Brown. Here are raisins,
citron, currants and other preserved fruits, and
here are the spices and flavoring extracts.
Butter you will find in the refrigerator, and eggs
in this pail.

Pattie. Thanks, Mrs. Meredith, I guess I
•hall have no trouble in finding everything I
need. { They return to the kitchen. )

Mrs. M. I will go into the dining-room and
arrange the table, so as to be sure and have
everything ready in time. And Tom, I guess
you can be excused now from longer service in
the kitchen.

Mr. S. I will finish this salad, now that I
have commenced it. But you need not look
perturbed, Pattie, if that is your name. I win
be careful not to get in your way. And you
ask my sister if I am not a handy sort of a
fellow around the kitchen. {Mrs. M. shakes

her head and rolls up her eyes at him, but ht
affects not to perceive her warning gestures.)

Scene hi. The Dining-room. {Mrs. M. set-
ting the table. Her brother enters.)

Mr, S. Kate, that new girl is a jewel ; a
gem of the first water. Depend upon it, she
has not always worked in a kitchen. I quoted
Shakespeare, apropos of something or other,
and she recognized the grand old words ai
once— her eyes brightened, and you shonld
have seen the color come into her cheeks I

Mrs. M. Quoted Shakespeare to a common
kitchen girl ! {In amazement.)

Mr. S. But I told you she is not a common
kitchen girl.

Mrs. M. { Disdainfully. ) I don't believe in
high life below stairs !

Mr. S. {Consulting his watch.) Why Kate,
that train must have come in half an hour ago
—it is 2:38 by my watch— time your Philadel-
phia friend was here if she is coming.

Mrs. M How provoking I Miss Meredith
must have missed some connecting train. How
vexed Chariie will be ! But I dont so much
mind company coming at any time now ! I
have such an excellent girl.

Mr. M. Here comes Charlie now, puffing
and blowing from his haste to get home in time
for lunch.
Mrs. M. Sure enough !
Mr. M. {Enters.) Where is she?
Mrs. M. Where is who ?
Mr. M. My cousin from Philadelphia?
Mrs. M. Not come.

Mr. M. No ! {Draws a sigh of mingled rt-
lief ana regret.) Then it is not so unlucky af-
ter all.

Mrs, M. What is not so very unlucky?
My dear Charies, you are expressing yourself
altogether in a riddle.

Mr. M. That I forgot the oysters, and the
zephyr wool, and the servant girl

Mrs. M. Forgot?

Mr. M. Yes— forgot I Isn't th^t plain Ene-
lish?

Mrs. M. But you did not forget. You sent
her. She is here now in the kitchen.

Mr M, {Greatly surprised.) I have sent
no one. Never thought of the girl from that
moment to this, I give you my word and honor.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I don't believe in

t that plain En^.

Mn. M. Then who did send her ?

Mr. M. Ring the bell. Let us have her up
here. Who knows but she is one of those con-
fidence women, with an eye to the forks and
spoons ! {He jerks the bell with emrgy. In a
moment the new girl comei up courtesying:)

Mr. M. {/n amazement.) Why, it is Mar-
tha Meredith. It is my cousin from Philadel-
phia. (Shakes hands with her warmly. )

Mr. S. (/« a stage whisper.) I wish she
was my cousin from Philadelphia. Didn't I
tell you, Kate, she was no common kitchen
girl?

Mrs. M. Oh, good gracious! {Clasping
her hands nervously.)— and I took her for a
ccok !

Pattie. * id I am cook when occasion re-
quires, Cousin Kate. Don't be vexed at me
for humoring the joke ; indeed I couldn't help it.
I will show you how to make some nice new
dishes to-morrow.

Mrs. M. Indeed, you shall do no such
thing ! We will ride down town this afternoon
and get a girt. I'll never trust Charlie again
to do any important errands— he is so forget-
ful!

Mr. M. I will own up this time— I don't see
how I could have forgotten it.

Pattie. Don't, I pray you. my good cousin,
worry over the matter ; had you sent the girl
you would have spoiled our little joke, and I.'
for one, have enjoyed it exceedingly.

Mr. S. And I, too, for it proves to Kate my
superior powers of discernment.

Mr. M. V/ell. it is a joke, that's a fact
And now. Cousin Martha, if you haven't pre
pared sufficient food to appease our hearty ap-
petitesi will leave it to brother Tom to kiss the
cook. I believe that is always allowable when
the lunch is scrimped.

A DRUNKARD.

A DRUNKARD is a moral light-house, serving
as a warning to the young to avoid the wreck
of all that can bless humanity, or endear one to
those around him. He is a constant illustration
of the tremendous power of the appetite, and
ot Its degrading influence, when the intellectual
nature and the moral sentiments are brought
under the tyrannical control of the lower pro-

pensities. When the man. with a mind capable
of unlimited development, and a soul of vast
capabilities and noble aspirations-the noblest
specimen of the handiwork of the Creator-is
made an abject slave, thrust down from his high
possibilities to a situation far below the brute-
transformed from an immortal being in the
■mage of his Maker, into a fallen spirit, a
demon, a fit inhabitant of regions of dark,
ness and despair-how utter is the ruin !-ho»
great the condemnation !

A LEGEND.

There has come to my heart a legend,

A thing I had half forgot,
And whether I read it or dreamed it.

Ah, well, it matters not.

It is said that in heaven at twilight,

A great bell softly swings,
And man may listen and barken

To the wonderful music that rings.
If he puts from his heart's inner chambw

All the passion, pain, and strife.
Heartache and weary longing,

That throb in the pnlsee of life—
If he thrust from his sonl all hatred.

All thoughts of wicked things.
He can hear, in the holy twilight.

How the bell of the augels rings.

And I think there is in this legend,

If we open our eyes to see,
Somewhat of an inner meaniqg.

My friend, to yon and to me.

Let ns look to our hearts and question ;

Can pure thoughts enter in
To a soul if it be already

The dwelling of thoughts of sin?
So, then, let ns ponder a little;

Let as look in our hearts and sea
If the twilight.l)ell of the angels

Could ring for ns,- you and me.

CHARLIE MACHREE.
BY WILLIAM HOPPIN.

Comb over, come over the river to m«,
If ye are my laddie, bold Chariie Machree!
Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn
Who say ye'ro faint-hearted, and dare not pl.ats

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Bat the d«rk rolling river, thongh deep m the

I knovr csDoot scare yon, nor keep yon from me;
For stont is your l>8ck aud strong is your arm,
And the heart la yonr bosom is faithful an>.
warm.

Ciome orer, come over the river to me,
If ye my laddie, bold Charlie Machree.
I see him, I see him. He's planged in the tide
His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside, —
Oh ! the dark, rolling water shoouiswift as the seh,
Bat blithe is the glance of his bonny bine e'e ;
His cheeks are like roses, twa bads on a bough ; —
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie,
now?

Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go.
But ye cannot bear Charlie to the dark lock

below I
Come over, come over the river to me.
My true-hearted laddie, v^ Charlie Machree!
He's sinking, he's sinking 1— Oh, what shall I do!
Strike ont, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're

thro.
He's sinking, O, Heavens!— Ne'er fear man, ne'er

fear;
I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here !

He rises, I see him, — five strokes, Charlie, mair.
He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair :
He, conquers the current, he gains on the sea. —
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree?
Come over. Come over the river to me.
And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree.
He's sinking, he's gone, O, Ood, it is I,
It is I who have killed him !— help! help!— he
must die.

Help ! help !— ah, he rises I— strike ont and ye're

free.
Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me !
Now cling to the rock, now gieve ns yonr hand,—
Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, safe on the land !
Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep;
I canna speak to ye:— I only can weep.
Ye've crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for

me.
I \nd I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree !

THE CANAL-BOAT.

BY MRS. H. B. STOWE.
Of all the ways of travelling which obtain
among our locomotive nation, this staid vehicle,
the canal-boat, is the most absolutely prosaic

and inglorious. One sees all thei« is in the
case,— a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of
water,— and that is all.

Did you ever try it ? If not, take an imag-
inary trip with us, just for experiment.. •• There's
the boat," exclaims a passenger in the omnibus,
as we are rolling down from the Pittsburg Man-
sion House to the canal.

"Where?" exclaim a dozen voices, and
forthwith a dozen heads go out of the window.
" Why, down there, under that bridge ; don't
you see those lights?"

"What, that little thing!" exclaims an
experienced traveler ; " dear me ! w can't
half of us get into it ! "

"We! indeed," says an old hand in the
business. <• I think you'll find it holds us and a
dozen loads like us."
" Impossible ! " say some.
" You'll see," say the initiated ; and. as so.,
as you get out, you do see. and hear. too. what
seems like a general breaking loose from the
Tower of Babel, amid a perfect hailstorm of
trunks, boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and every
describable and indescribable form of what a
Westerner calls " plunder."

•• That's my trunk ! " barks out a big, round
man.

" That's my bandbox ! " screams a heart-
stricken old lady, in terror for her immaculate
Sunday caps.

" Where's my little red box ? I had two car-
pet-bags and a—" <• My trunk had a scarle— "
" Halloo ! where are you going with my port-
manteau ?"—" Husband ! husband! do see
after the large basket and the little hair trunk-
—Oh, and the baby's little chair ! "

"Go below, for mercy's sake, my dear! I'll
see to the baggage."

"Mercy on us!" says one. after surveying
the little room, about ten feet long and six high,
" where are we all to sleep to-night ? "

" Oh me ! what a sight of children ! " says a
young lady in a despairing tone.

"Poh!" says an initiated traveler; "chil-
dren! scarce any here. Let's see: one; the
woman in the corner, two ; that child with the
bread and butter, three ; and there's that other
woman witu two. Really, it's quite moderate
for a canal-boat. We can't tell, however, till
they have all come."
" AU ! fer mercy's sake, you don't say there

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

out a big, round

I doa't say there

are any more coining I " exclaim two or three in
a breath ; • • they ccuf t come, then is not room I ' '
Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of
this sentence, the contrary is immediately dem-
onstrated by the appearance of a very corpu-
lent, elderly lady, with three well-grown daugh-
ters, who come down, looking about them most
complacently, entirely regardless of the un-
christian looks of the company. What a mercy
it is that fat people are always good-natured !

After this follows an indiscriminate raining
down of all shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages,—
men, women, children, babies, and nurses.
The state of feeling becomes perfectly desper-
ate. Darkness gathers on all faces,

"We shall be smothered! we shall be
crowded to death! we can't stay hen y are
faintly heard from one and another; and yet,
though the boat grows no wider, the walls no
higher, they dp live, and do stay there, in spite
of repeated protestations to the contrary. Truly,
as Sam Slick says, '• there's a s^Ato/ wear in
human natur."

But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy,
and divers interesting little duets and trios arise
from one part or another of the cabin.

" Hush. Johnny ! be a good boy," says a
pale, slender mamma to a great bustling, white-
headed phenomenon, who is kicking very much
at large in her lap.

•• I won't be a good boy, neither," responds
Johnny, with interesting explicitness ; « I want
to go to bed. and so-o-o-o ! " and Johnny
makes up a mouth as big as a teacup, and
roars with good courage, and his mamma asks
him if " he ever saw his pa do so ? " and tells
him that " he is mamma's dear, good, little
boy. and must not make a noise." with various
other observations of the kind, which are so
stnkingly efficacious in such cases. Mean-
while, the domestic concert, in other quarters
proceeds with vigor.
•• Mamma, I'm tired ! " bawls a child.
"Where's the baby's nightgown?" calls a
nurse.

" Do take Peter up in your lap and keep him
still. '^

"Pray get some biscuits and stop their
mouths."

Sundry babies strike in " con spirito " as the
musicbooks have it, and execute various flour-
tthes; the disconsolate mothers sigh, and look

as if all was over with them ; and the young
ladies appear extremely disgusted, and wonder
" what business women have to be traveling
'round with babies."

" What, sleep up there ! /won't sleep on one
of those top shelves, /know. The cords will
certainly break."

The chambermaid here takes up the conver-
sation. and solemnly assures them that such an
accident is not to be thought of at all, that it is
a natural impossibility.-a thing that could not
happen without an actual miracle ; and since it
becomes increasingly evident that thirty ladies
cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there is
some effort made to exercise faith in the doc
tnne ; nevertheless, all look on their neighbors
with fear and trembling ; and when the stout
lady talks of taking a shelf, she is most sol-
emnly pressed to change places with her alarmed
neighbor below. Points of location being after
a while adjusted, then comes the last struggle.
Everybody wants to take off a bonnet, or look
for a shawl, to find a cloak or get a carpet-bag.
and all set about it with such zeal that nothine
can be done.

" Ma'am, you're on my foot I " says one.

"Will you please to move, ma'am?" says
somebody who is gasping and struggling behind
you.

" Move ! " you echo. " Indeed. I should be
very glad to. but I don't sec much prospect

" Chambermaid ! " calls a lady who is strug-
ghng among a heap of carpet-bags and chil-
dren at one end of the cabitf.

" Ma'am I " echoes the poor chambermaid,
who is wedged fast, in a similar situation, at
the other.

" Where's my cloak, chambermaid ? "

" I'd find it, ma'am, if I could move."

" Chambermaid, my basket ! "

" Chambermaid, my parasol! "

" Chambermaid, my carpet-bag! "

" Mamma, they push me so! "

" Hush, child ; crawl under there and lie stiH
till I can undress you."

At last, however, the various distresses are
over, the babies sink to sleep, and even that
much-enduring being, the chambermaid, seeks
out some corner for repose. Tired and drowsy,
you are just sinking into a doze, when bang!
f oe« the boat against the sides of a lock ; ropes

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

•crape, men run and ihout, and up fly the
heads of the top shclftic , who are generally,
the more juvenile and airy part of the com-
pany.

"Whafs that! What's that?" flies from
mouth to mouth, and forthwith they proceed to
awaken their respective relations. "Mother!
Aunt Hannah 1 do wake up ; what is this awful
noise?"

" 0. only a lock ! Pray be still ! " groan out
the sleepy members from below.

"A lock!" exclaim the vivacious creatures.
ever on the alert for information ; <• and what
M a lock, pray?"

" Don't you know what a lock is, you silly
creatures ? Do lie down and go to sleep."

•• But say. there ain't any danger \n a lock, is
there ? " respond the querists.

" Danger! " exclaims a deaf old lady, pok-
ing up her head. •< What's the matter? There
hain't nothin' burst, has there ? "

" No, no, no ! " exclaim the provoked and
despairing opposition party, who find that there
is no such thing as going to sleep till they have
made the old lady below and the young ladies
above understand exactly the philosophy of the
lock. After awhile the conversation again sub-
sides; again all is still; you hear only the
trampling of horses and the rippling of the rope
in the water, and sleep again is stealing over
you. You doze, you dream, and all of a sud-
den you are startled by a cry.

" Chambermaid ! wake up the lady that rtrants
to be set ashore."

Up jumps the fhambermaid, and up jumps
the lady and two children, and forthwith form a
committee of inquiry as to ways and means.

"Where's my bonnet?" says the lady, half
awake, and fumbling among the various articles
of that name.
" I thought I hung it up behind the door."
"Can't you find it?" says the poor cham-
bermaid, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

"O. yes, here it is." says the lady ; and then
the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the shoes,
receive each a separate discission. At last all
seems ready, and they begin to move off, when
lo! Peter's cap is missing. •• Now where can
it be?" soliloquizes the lady. "\ put it right
here by the tabic leg ; may be it got into some
of the berths."
At this sugfestion. the chambemwid t "-js

I the candle and goes 'round deliberately o every
I berth, poking the light directly in the face of
every sleeper.

" Here it is." she exclaims, pulling at some-
thing black under one pillow.

" No, indeed, those are my shoes," says the
vexed sleeper.

"Maybe it's here." she resumes, darting a^
I something dark in another berth.
' " No. that's my bag," responds the occupant.
The chambermaid thei. proceeds to turn over
all the children on the floor to see if it is not
under them. In the course of which process
hey are most agreeably waked up and enliv-
ened ; and when everybody is broad awake,
and most uncharitably wishing the cap, and
Peter, too, at the bottom of the canal, the good
lady exclaims, " Well, if this isn't lucky '—here
I had it safe in my basket all the time ! "

And she departs amid the— what shall I say ?
—execrations ?~of the whole company, ladies
though they be.

At last, however, voice after voice drops off ;
you fall into a most refreshing slumber, it seems
to you that you sleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the chambermaid pulls you by the
sleeve:-" Will you please to get uj-. ma'am?
We want to make up the beds."

You start and stare. Sure enough, the night
is gone. So much for sleeping on board canal-
boats.

Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexi-
ties of the morning toilet in a place where every
lady realizes most forcibly the condition of the
old lady who lived under a broom : •• All she
wanted was elbow room." Let us not tell how
one glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces,
one ewer and vase, for thirty lavations, and—
tell it not in Gath !— one towel for a company,
nor recite the exclamations after runaway prop^
erty that are heard.

" I can't find nothin' of Johnny's shoe! "

"Here's a shoe in th<i water-pitcher is

this it?"

" My side-combs are gone ! " exclaims a
nymph with disheveled curls.

"Massy! do look at my bonnet 1 exclaims
an old lady, elevating an article crushed into as
many angles as there are pieces in a mince-pie.

"I never did sleep so much together in my
life, echoes a poor little French lady, whom
' pair has driven into talking English. But

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

ni, pulling at some*
my shoes," says the

! ! " exclaims a

we must not prolong our catalogue of distresses
beyond reasonable bounds, and therefore we
will close with advising all our friends, who in-
tend to try this way of traveling for pitasure,
to take a good stock of patience and clean
towels with them, for we think they w.,1 find
Abundant need for both.

THE RIVER STYX.

•• Wb'bb all born fl-ee an' equal," ig a pretty lit-
tie speech,

i<n' quite a warmin' sentiment for aocialisto to
preach ;

>/ut be it false or be it true— however it may
be —

It don't Uke long afore we lose that born equal-
ity,

For some 'er rich and some 'er poor, some coarse
an' some ar' flue

An' custom forces us, yon know, to draw the ao-

cial line;
But there's a time when poverty an' wealth '11

hev' to mix-
There ain't no graded ferry-boata npon the River

Btyx.

Ther' ain't no weak offloiala that a pieoa of Midi!
fix,

A-workin' on the ferryboat that ran* aoioaa tb4

Styx.

Most ev'ry one has got a greed for money moreer
lesB — t

A dollar alius had iu welght~an' alias will, I
guess;

It's pretty late to try to change the character of
men —

So things must be unequal here aa they hev'
alius been.

But there's a power that is bound to level every.

thing
An' place a ragged beggar on on equal with •

An' there's a time when poverty an' wealth'U
hev' to mix

An' that's upon the ferryboat that mnsaorow th*
Styx.

THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. '

Tlie Emperor of Russia with an iron rod controls
The earthly destiny of fall a hundred million

souls ;
For many thousan' miles aronn' his power is

complete
All' rich an' poor, at his command, must worship

at his feet.

An' when his majesty desires to see a foreign

land
A special train, or man of war, is ever at his

hand ;

But all his wealth an' iuflnence an' diplomatic
tricks

Won't put a special ferry-boat Upon the River

Styx.

Most anyone that's ever been away npon a trip

Will know how quick a porter moves if he can
get a " tip."

He'll scrape aroun' an' bow an' smile, an' some-
how when he's done,

Your sleepin' berth is some'at better than is the
av'rage run.

But there's this consolation to the countless mil-
lions who

Caa never feel but only see the wonders wealth'!!
do;

BV JAMES SMITH.

ViiLD blew the gale in Gibralter one night,

As a soldier lay stretched in his cell;
And anon, 'mid the darkness, the moon's sllvef
light

On his countenance dreamily fell,
Naught could she reveal, but a man true as^te^

That oft for his country had bled ;
And the glance of his eye might the grim kioy
defy

For despair, fear, and trembling had fled.

But in rage he had struck a well-merited blow.

At a tyrant who held him in scorn *
And his fate soon was sealed, ftfr alas r honest
Joe
Was to die on the following morn.
Oh 1 sad wlw the thought to a man that had
fought
'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave,
To be shot through the breast at a coward's

behest,
And laid low in a criminal's grave I

Tne night call had sounded, when .Trw waaaresiied

By a step at the door of his cell ;
'Twos a comrade with whom he had ofka

caroused.
That now ent«red to bid him fiuewelL

THE COMPLETE PROCRAit.

%-r\

»t -■ I-:

■i . i I

" Ak I Tmb, ta U jtm ooma to bid m* adlta r
Tit kind, mjr lad ; Rive me yonr hand I

W«/i—n«y .—don't |«t wild, niMn, and m«ke me a
child f—
I'll ba aooo in a happier land."

With handa claaped in allenoe, Tom monrafbllT
•Mid, '

" Have yon any requeat, Joe, to make ?—
Ramember by me 'twill be Ailly obeyed :

Can I nny thinn do for your take ? "
* When it'a over to-morrow," he aaid, filled with
aorrow,
" Send thin token to her whom I've aworn
AH my fend love to ahnre! "-Twaa a lock ofbia
hair,

And a prayer-book, all faded and worn.

" Here'a tbia watch for my mother ; and when yon

write home,"—
^ And he dashed a bright t«ar fh>m his eye—
"Say I died with my heart in old Devonshire.
Tom,
Like a man and a soldier !— Good-by ! " I

Then the sergeant on gnard at the graUng
appeared,
And poor Tom had to leave the mid cell,
By the moon's glim'ring light, with • hnakr
"Oood-nightt
Ood ba with yon, dear comrade,- fitrewell ! "

" Make ready ! " eiolaimed an Iniperlons voice ;

" Present I "—struck a chill on «•«< h mind j
Era the last word was spoke, Joe hod cause ts
rejoice,

For "Hold I -Hold I" cried a roica from
behind.
Then wild was the Joy of them all, roan and boy,

As a horseman cried, " Mercy I— Forl»«ir ' "
With a thriJIinK " Hurrah !-a free pardon !-
'Hnsiah I "
And the mnskets rang loud in the air.

Soon the comrades were locked in each others
embrace;
No more stood the brave s<ildiers dumb :
With a loud cheer, they rheeled to the right-
about-face.
Then away at the sound of the drum I
And a bri((bter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair
land,
Where the lovers met never to part •
And he gave her a token— true, warm, and
unbroken —
The gift of hia own gallant heart

THAT SEWING MACHINE.

Oray dawned the mom in a dull, clondy sky

When the blast of a bugle resounded.
And Joe, ever fearless, went forward to die.

By the hearts ot true heroes surrounded.
"Shoulder arms!" was the cry as the prisoner
passed by;

''To the right about-march ! » waa the word ;
And their pale faces proved how their comrade
was loved.

And by all his brave regiment adoni.

Bight onward they marched to the draad field of
doom;
Sternly silent they coveitsd the gionnd ;
Then they formed into line amid sadness and
gloom,
While the prisoner looked calmly araoad.
Then soft on the air rose the accents of pnyer

And faint tolled the solemn death-bell,
B.- ..- _„„., vH t,uc oana, ana wita upllited
hand.
Waved the long and the lasting fcrewel!.

, t

*' What is the day of a woman woith,
And what ito pleasurea on thin dull earth t
Tis work in the morning, work at noon,
No song has life, and never a tune.
I don't complain of my daily task ■
It's light as ever a one could ask.
To cook the food that my loved ones eat;
To keep my household appearing neat;
To wash my huslwud's hickory shirt ;
To keep the warfare up on dirt ;
To scold my daughters and cuff my boys ,^—
Theae are the model houaewife's Joys.
But there is one thing that I can't go.
That's making God's footstool a vale of woe;
And that's the eternal needle and thread->
Rver a working and never ahead ;
While Mrs. Green, Just over the way,
Plays the piano a half of the day.
How does she do it? I needn't tell,
All of the neighbors know it well.
When I am stitching away, most dead,
Bewwax and tliimhie, needle and thread,
Doin«r the fustest that's in my power.
But not pro«reH8ing a yard mi hour.
She'll make a dress up for n queen.
In half (he time, on her sewing-machine j

THE COMPLETE PUCCUAM.

cried a voice from

Theo dinK th« piiino the rest of the day
Or out in tlie doory.rd pUy crnquet.
I tometimefl m\t,h I lind mnrried Green,
Joel for .) privilege of tliut niacin iie"
Bo iMg the wife of Parmer Jones,
In ntoomnil cadence and dolorous tones,
A» ahe l>ent o'er her aewiiiK one afternoon
While tbehirde were trilling the aongs of June
The farmer, uiieetn, was atnuding near
And the womau'a plaint fell on his ear.
He turned away at the closing word
And she never knew that her emg was heard.
But Farmer Jones heard au inward voice;-!
"Jouee. does your wife regret her choice?"
For Joaiah Green had b«en her heau
Id the days of their courting long ago.
The granger felt a secret pain,
As he seemed to be living those days again.
Then a happy notion his thonuhl beKuiled,
Which the more he pondered the more he smiled
Next tirao the sewiDg circle met,
Jones left his wife at the parson's gat«,
Then hurried away toward the town,
At a 8pee«I that startled the looker on.
But when the afternoon was o'er
HiH team stood there by the parson's door.
As he handed his wife np to her seat
He thought she had never lookeil so sweet
And somehow or other she saw in him,
Bidiug along in the twilight dim,
The gallant yuung man, half bold, half shy,
Who woo her heart in the days gone by.
When the morning meal wiw done next day
And Jones, the farmer, had gone away
T<» his work in the meadow making hay.
His ^ife with dusting pan and broom
Wftut to battle with dirt in the sitting-room.
But scarce had the good wife pawed the door
And begun operations on the floor, '

Wh«)n standing next to the further wall,
Mahogany cabinet, cover and all ;—
The morning light brought to her eyes
The outlines of her longed-for prize.
She stood for a moment with hands upraised,
Then softly whispered, " God be praised ! " '
Then close to the magical thing she crept,
And bowed her head on itu top and wept.
She wept and lamented in bitter tones
That she ever regretted wedding Jones.
She loves her husband more and more.

GREENBACKS.

The following was wiltlen acrow the back ol oae ol
those lilIU :
Grbkn be thy back ujwu thee,

Thou pledge of happier days.
When bloody-handed treiison

No more its head shall raise;
But still ft-om Maine to Texas

The stars and striiM-s shall wave
O'er the hearU and honiea of freemeo,

Nor mock one lettered slave.

Pledge— of the people's credit

To carry on the war
By Airnishing the sincwa

In a currency at par ;
With cash enough left over

When they've cancelled every note
To buy half the thrones of Euroi)e

With the crowns tossed in to boot

Pledge— to our buried fathers

That sons ol patriot sires
On Freedom's sacred altars

Relight their glorious flre»—
That fortune, life, and honor

To our country's cause we give}
Fortune and life may perish.

But the government shall live.

Pledge— to our uuborn children

That, fVee from blot or stain.
The flag, hauled down at Sumter,

Shall yet float free again ;
And, cleansed from foul diuhonor,

And rc-baptized in blood,
Wave o'er the land forever.

To Freedom and to God !

THE DYING SOLDIER.

■ — jT''^» <!!itn cTcr MIC Tvns Dotore,

And vows on the lid of her new machine
That she would'ut give Jones for ten like Green.
Qnrge E. Macdonald.

It was the evening after a great battle. All
day long the din of strife had echoed far, and
thickly strewn lay the shattered forms of those
so lately erect and exultant in the flush and
strength of manhood.

Among the many who bowed to the con-
queror, Death, that night was a noble youth in
the freshness of his early life. The strong
limbs lay listless and the dark hair was matted
with gore on the pale, broad forehead. His
eyes were closcti. As one who ministered to
the sufferer bent over him, he, at first, thought
him dead ; but the white lips moved, and slowly,
in weak tones, he repeated :

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

ii: ",

5 1 I

" Now I lay me down to sleep ;
I pray the Lord my eonl to keep ;
If I should die before I wake, ,
I pray the Lord my soul to take;
And this I ask for Jesus' sake.'*

As he finished, he opened his eyes, and meet-
ing the pitying gaze of a brother soldier, he
exclaimed. - My mother taught me that when I
was a little boy, and I have said it every night
«ince I can remember. Before the morning
dawns I believe God will take my soul for
Jesus' sake ; but before I die I want to send a
message to my mother."

He was carried to a temporary hospital and
a letter was written to his mother which he
dictated. It was full of Christian faith and
filial love. His end was calm and peaceful.
Just as the sun arose his spirit went home, his
last articulate words being :

" I pray the Lord my aonl to take;
And this I ask for Jesus' sake."

So died the noble volunteer. The prayer of
childhood was the prayer of manhood. He
learned it at his mother's knee in his far distant
Northern home, and he whispered it, in dying,
when his young life ebbed away on a Southern
battle-field. It was his nightly petition in life,
and the angel who bore his spirit home to
neaven, bore the sweet prayer his soul loved so
well.

God bless the saintly woras, alike loved and
repeated by high and low, rich and poor,
wise and ignorant, old and young, only second
to our Lord's Prayer in beauty and simplicity,
Happy the soul that can repeat it with the holy
fervor of our dying soldier.

And e'en the brown coasins who Jive on the
farm.

The plain country cousins, the nncnltured eons-
ins,

The sweet country conaina who lire on the
farm.

The sweet country cousins ! oh, aren't they a
treasure !
How handy to have at the vacation time I
And paying one's board is a too costly pleasur. ,
When all can be bad without spending a dime'
How pleasant to live on rich cream and ripe
berries.

Fresh golden-hned butter and cakes light and
warm,

Free nse of the horses, the carts and the wher-
ries
Of sweet country cousins, who live on the farm I
The plain country cousins, the uncultured cous-
ins,

The sweet country cousins who live on the
farm!

COUNTRY COUSINS.

How dear to my heart are the sweet oonntiy
cousins
When dog days of summer begin to draw near.
When bricks have grown hot and when sun-
strokes by dozens
Fill body with anguish and bosom with fear!
The green waving fields and the sweet-smelling
breezes
The 'scaping from turmoil to oniet and ««lm
Tlit^ rich creamy milk which the ready hand
seises,

How dear are the sweet country consins in sum.
mer.

How fragrant the meadows, romantic the
dawn !

But straightway your faces begin to grow glum-
mer
At thought of their visit next winter to town,
The theater, the concert, the lecture, the money
Expended in tickets! The thought gives a
qualm.
The sequel of summer is not quite so funny-
Why don't the sweet cousins remain on the
farm?

The brown-visaged cousins, the great awkward
cousins.

The bothersome cousins should stay on the
farm.

Rwol New Yorker.

HIS NOBLE WIFE.

Ym, as yon say, I've had two wives— I married
very young —

And many years have passed since first my wed-
ding bells were rung.

My first wife was a slender girl, with braida of
silkfir, hnjr ;

No creature ever walked the earth more beanti-
Aillyikir.

! oh, areu't they a

i who live on the

Her Toloe was like the mormur of a aoftly flow-
iDg nil,

Her cheeks were like the snowy flowers that «row
npon the hill. **

Too fair was she for this cold world, and so one
summer day

She smiled at me a smile of love and gently
passed away. " '

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

125

My second wife— yon've heard of her? She's

famous now, yon know,
And if God spares her to her work her fame will

brighter grow ;

A stately woman, filled with thoughts too grand
for her to stay

At home with me and wear her life, her noble
life away.

Oh, I am proud of her! She is the grandest of
all wives,

A martyr who devotes her life to rescue other
lives

Froin all the bondage womeii know, to show them
tneir true sphere,

Emancipate them from their bonds, and give them
freedom dear.

Her picture's printed every day in north and east
and west ; -

Her speeches printed are at length, and they are
of the best.

Ah, yes, my wife returns next week ; she's had a
lengthy tour.

She's made some speeches that I know will thro'

the years endure.
It "^M»lea«ant thing to me to see her sitting

And telling me of triumph, that she's witnessed
lar and near :

To hear her speak in golden words about the
glorious day

When all the bonds of womankind will severed
be away.

To see how people honor her as one above the

I tell you that it makes me glad, and fills with
pride my breast.

I hope to see her here at home-to have her by
my Side, '

A woman so renowned her name is known the
country wide.

But sometimes in the twilight hour when I sit

here alone,
I dream of one who's sleeping now beneath the

sculptured stone;
I seem to bear again the voice I loved long yeara

To clasp again the little hand as softly white as
snow ;

To see the gentle eyes again, to stroke the silken
hair,

To hear the tripping of her feet .down the cot-
tage stair.

Aud then old songs she used to sing come troop-
ing throngli the years.

An.! I repeat them o'er again, half-blinded by my

'^"rt then I take and kiss and kiss the gloves she

used to wear,
Tlie rinx ,hat once her finger held, the lock of

golden hair ;
And thu« I Hit through silent hours which have

like minutes sped.
Forgetting all the ones who Ut. in dwamin. of

the dead.

But sometimes when the darkness falls and
drives away the day,

To one lone grave out on the hill I take my silent
way;

And there I kneel and think of days, of happy

days of yore.
And hear old songs that once were snng by lips

that are no more ;
And see sweet eyes that used to look in mine

with trust and love.
That still look at me here below from splendor

up above;

And hear a voice sound in my ears, and hear the
little feet.

That now on paves of glowing gold in rhythmic
gladness beat

But how I'm talking t I've near made a burden

of your life-
Come 'round next week. I'll introdnce yon to

my noble wife.

Difficulty isthe nurse of greatness, a harsh
nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children
into strength and athletic proportions. The
mind, grappling with great aims and wrestling
with mighty impediments, grows, by a certain
necessity, to their stature. Scarce anything so

convmces me of thp r-inor-u.. -r .1.- t

- \r"-"j 01 iiic Human in-
tellect for indefinite expansion in the different
stages of Its being, as thispowerof enlai^ing it-
self to the height and compass of surrounding
emei]|;encie8 — Bryant,

I : :

i'f I

-POR-

ScHooL AND Evening

ENTERTAINMENTS.

ARRANGED BY

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

MUSIC.
READINGS.

MR. BOWSER BOUND TO HAVE A CA-
NINE PROTECTOR.

Ever since our marriage Mr. Bowser has
been looking after a house-dog, and a good
share of our troubles have arisen over this fact.
On a hundred different occasions I have asked
him what he wanted of a dog, and on a hun-
dred different occasions he has raised his voice
and replied :

" What do we want of a dog? Did you ever
see a family which amounted to shucks which
didn't keep a dog? Nature gave us the dog to
protect us— to be a sort of companion. There
are people who can strike terror to a dog's
heart by one look, but I am not one of those,
Mrs. Bowser— no. thank Heaven!"
"Can't you protect us, Mr. Bowser?"
" Certainly I can, and do ; but suppose I am
off my guard some night, and a burglar enters
our house?"
"And burglars the dog?"
"That's it ! Sneer at the poor dumb brute,
because nature made him a dog ! Under the
circumstances I have stated, we should prob-
Hhly owe our lives to the faithful guardian."

HE BROUGHT HOME A DOG.

It was a dog with a certificate of character from
his last owner. He was guaranteed to be a
vigilant, trusty, tidy, kind, and to have a spe-
cial hankering after the life-blood of house-
breakers. He carried his head to the left, as
if trying to see his left hind foot, and there was
a suspicious squint in his eyes. He had been
badly knocked about, from all appearances,
but the boys who brought him explained that
this was the result of tackling an elephant and
coming off second best. The beast growled
at me and snapped at the baby as Mr.
Bowser brought him in, and when I protested
against the invasion, I was answered with:

"No wonder he growls! A dog knows an
enemy on sight. He feels that you'd like to
murder him, and he property resents it. Come
here, Rambo."

That night the dog had the run of the lower
part of the house. We had no sooner got to
bed than he began to howl. Mr. Bowse;'
threatened him from the head of the stairs, and
then he barked at intervals of five minutes for
an hour. Mr. Bowser silenced him after
awhile, and I was just getting to sleep, when 1
heard the beast gurgling and growling ami
worrying something. I wanted Mr. Bowser to
go down stairs, but he utterly refused, saying ;
" He has probably

GOT HOLD OF A BURGLAR,

and 1 don't want to be appealed to to call him off.

. THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

)flst go to sleep and let Rambo alone
haven't been as safe for years."

Next morning the beast bit the cook in the
leg as she went down, and the minute the door
was opened he lit out for parts unknown. We
soon discovered what lie had been worrying.
It was Mr. Bowser's new winter overcoat, and
it was reduced to a roll of strings and tatters.

"You brought him home! " I exclaimed, as
I pointed to the ruins.

" I did, eh ?" replied Mr. Bowser, as he sur-
veyed the heap. •« And you lay right there, and
knew what he was at, and never said a word ! "
" You said he was chewing up a burglar."
"Then I was talking in my sleep, and you
knew it! Mrs. Bowser, you don't get a new
dud for a year ! "

The next dog was a hound. The owner told
Mr. Bowser that he was a good deer dog, and
$10 changed hands on that account.

"But what good is a deer dog?" I asked,
when Mr. Bowser explained this fact.
" To run deer, of course. *
" But where are the deer?"
••That's just like you! You expect to look
out of the back door and see a dozen! I pro-
pose to go where the deer are. Did you ever
see a kinder face on a dog?"
"He looks very simple-minded."
'Does he? Well, don't you fool yourself.
You may owe your life to him yet. He's

BETTER THAN FORTY BURGLAR-ALARMS."

The canine deserved credit for one thing,
«e slept soundly on the parlor sofa all night.
On the second afternoon he got out, and a
little terrier weighing ii ounces ran him three
times around the house, and finally drove him
mto a barrel partly filled with plaster.

" Did I buy him for a fighter?" shouted Mr
Bowser, as I related the occurrence. " He
••- n, of course. I bought him for a runner. ' '

He whistled for Archimedes, as he had
named him, and the animal came creeping in
tnd Lc* under the lounge. When routed out
of that, ne made a dive for Mr. Bowser's feet,
just in time to trip him up and let him down
with a jar that made the roof shake. The
scared brute then jumped into the crib and lay
down on baby's head, from which position he
was lifted to be flung over the alley fence.

••Is that the way they run deer?" I asked
Mr. Bowser.

187

••WHOSE FAULT IS IT?"

he demanded. •• You had that dog terrified as
soon as he struck the house. It was bis mortal
fear of you that made him act so. If you don't
have something awful happen to you, I'll miss
my guess."

It wasn't a week before he came home with
another canine. The beast was undersized, out
at the elbows and down-hearted. When I
asked what he was good for, Mr. Bowser replied:

••If you knew anything about dogs, you
could see at a glance. He's a rat-terrier."

" Does he terrify rats ? "
Does he? In one week there won't be a
rat on this whole square ! "

•• Wouldn't it be as well to stand the rats as
the dog?"

•' That's you, exactly ! That's a specimen of
your mercy! It's a wonder to me that such
murderous feelings as you carry in your heart
don't meet with fitting punishment."

The terrier didn't do anything" remarkable
for the first three days, except to fill up and
sleep. On the fourth day, as we were eating
dmner. we heard a row in the back yard, and
as we got to the door we saw the terrier penned
up m a corner of the yard, tail down and eyes
rolhng. and a small rat was keeping him there
and havmg lots of fun. The rodent skipped at
sight of us. and the dog crawled under He
barn. I laughed till I fell down, but Mr. Bow-
ser was very stern and dignified. After he had
pulled the terrier out and flung him over the
fence, he came back to me and said :
•• Are you satisfied now ? "
•• That the dog is a ratter? "
'• No, ma'am ! Satisfied that you have once
more, cut of pure malice towards a helpless
animal, driven him from home to a life of mis-
cry ! It's a wonder to me that you don't mur.
der our child 1 "

BRAVE KATE SHELLEY.

BY MRS. M. L. RAYNE.

J5,-K»; .._^ ,„ ^ naagtity woi i<(,'

Thbouqh the whirl of wind and w«ier.

Parted by the mabing steel,
FlMhed the white ^lare of the heHdMg!,,

Flew th« iwUl wToIflng wheel

I !

litiilvli.i

3L!

Aa the midnight train swept onward,

Bearing on ita iron wings,
Throngh (be gloom of night and tempest

Freightage of moat precious things.
Little children by their mothers

Nestle in unbroken rest,
Stalwart men are dreaming softly

Of their journey's finished quest,
While the men who watch and guard them,

Sleepless stand at post and brake;
Close the throttle! draw the lever!
Safe for wife and sweetheart's sake.

TffM COMPLETE PROGRAM.

HE CANT HELP IT.

Sleep and dream, unheeding danger;

In the valley yonder lies
Death's debris in weird confusion.

Altar fit for sacrifice !
Dark and grim the shadows settle

Where the hidden perils wait;
Swift the train, with dear lives laden,

Rushes to its deadly fate.

Still they sleep and dream unheeding.

Ob, Thott waHchfiil One above.
Save Thy p»»<>Bie in this hour !

Bave the ransomed of fhy lovejl
Send an angel from Thy heaven '

Who nhal I crI ai ine troubled air,
And reveal the powers of evil

Hidden in the d*;kcfc8rt there.

Saved : tTf> yet they know their peril,

Comes a -aming to alarm ;
Saved! the piecions traic is resting

On tho brink of deadly harm.
Ood hAs sent His angel to them,

Biave Kat9 Shelley, hero-child!
Strngglitig on, alone, unaided,

Through that night of tempest wild.
Brave Kate Shelley! tender maiden.

Baby bauds, with splinters torn,
fiaved iljB lives of sleeping travellers

Swiftly to death's journey borne.
Uother% wept and clasped their darlings,

Breathing words of grateful prayer;
Men, with faces blanched and tearful,
Thanked God for Kate Shelley there.
Orrater love than this bath no man,

When the heavens shall unfold,
And the judgment books are opened.

There, in characters of gold.
Brave Kate Shelley's name shall cenler.

'i\Iid the pure, the brave, the good.
That of one who crowned with glory,
Her heroic woinaubo<od.

"Dot vhas der troubles mit me_I vhas to«
tender-hearted," replied Carl Dunder. as a po-
liceman warned him that he would have a case
against him for keeping his saloon open after
hours.

"You see." he continued, as he wiped off
the bar « if I vhas all closed oop.mit my boots
off und ready for bedt. somepody goes rap i
rap! on der door. 1 think it vhas against der
law, but like enough it vhas my brudder
Henry, who Hfs in Puffalo, und so I opens der
aoor. Who you think it vhas ? "
"I can't guess."

"It vhas a boleecemans! He looks all
aroundt. vhalks in softly like cats, und says dot
he vhas m such awful pains dot he must have
some whisky or die. I can't help dot I vhas
porn mit a heart like a paby. I ddan' like to
J see dot man die. und I gif him some whisky,
und he tells me he vhiU pay cop vhen he cuts
der coupons off his bonds. You see how it
Vhas,'

" Yes."

" Vhell, der next dime I vhas all closed oop

somepody goes rap ! rap ! on der door. I tinks

It vhas my wife's sister, who lifs in Mt

Siemens, und I vhas a brute if I doan' let her

come in. Vhen I opens der door, who vhas

" I don't know."

" It vhas an aldermans ! He slips softly in

und drops on a shair, und .says to n^e • • Carl

I vhas played oudt. I make more ash ten

speeches in der Council to-nigl,t, und I vhas all

, exausted till I can't shtand oop. For der sake

|of my innocent children gif me some peer!'

Vhel dot vhas me mit my tender heart again.

und I draw him a quart of peer, und he drink

him oop. und tells me to put it in der anniral

estimate next spring. Could you plame me for

dot?

" No. but you must obey the law."
"Oxactly ; but some odder times I hear a
rap! rap! on der door, und I tinks it vhas my
poyShon. who vhas oudt on a farm mit his
uncle. Shon vhas a ponrt rw... ,.-^11:1.

, . " i — !' "•"■« i. hive tu sec

him. und I opens der door. Who you tinkb Jot
vhas?

"John I"

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

" Not some previous. It vhas a barty mit a
white blug hat on, und he carries a big cane,
und he looks solemn. He vhants whisky
straight, und vhen I tells him dot der law catch
me oop, he pounds on der table mit his cane
nd calls out : • Hang der law ! Vhy, I vhas
der man who makes all der law in Detroit I '
Vliell. dot makes my heart tender again, und
he drinks his whisky oop, und tells me dot I
shall send my pill to der Transportation- Com-
pany. Can I help dot ? "
"You'll have to help it."
"Vhell, one more time I turn eaferypody
oudt und lock oop der doors, und shhp into
bedt. 1 vhas dreaming like thunder, vhen
somepody rattles on my door und calls me to
get oop. Maype it vhas my frend , Capt.
Gross, who runs avhay from his vife in Puffalo.
If so, I likes to see him. I open der door, und
who you tJnk it vhas? "
" Your grandfather."

'• Not quide, my frendt. It vhas a man mit
a silk hat, und a gold-headed cane, und a pig
stomach, und he says he vhas a doctor, who
mus' have some whisky to keep off der shmall-
pox. Dot appeals to mv heart, und vhat can
I do? I tell you I like to obey der law, und
shut oop my place, but if you come somedimes
und find der back door open, und some men at
der tables, you shust remembers dot it vhos our
glub-night, und dot we drink some butter-milk,
und discuss old dimes in Shermany."—/)*/^,,/
Pne I^ess.

RECITATION.

THE LIGHTNING-ROD DISPENSER.

IP the company in willing, I've a word or two to
say,

Of a lightning-rod dispenser that came down on
me one day ;

Oiled to order in bi« motions-eanctimonious in
Ins mien —

Hands as white as any baby's, an' a fl«M» unnat'-
ral clean ;

Not. n. vrtmUlA U-J Lt- . i i -

-••■■—•« "«« li.s raiment, teeth and linen
guttered white,

And bis new constructed neck-tie was an inter-
estiu' sight t

Which I almost wish a razor bad made red that

white-skinned throat,
And that new-constructed necktie had composed

a hangnian'H knot,
Ere he bronglit hia sleek-trimmed rarcaxs for my

woman-folks to see,
And his buzz-saw tongue a-runnin' for to gouge a

gash in me I

Still I couldn't help but like bim-as I fear I
al'ays must,

The gold o' my own doctrines in a fellow- heap o'
dust ;

For I saw that my opinions, when I fired 'em

round by round,
Brought back an answeriu' volley of a mighty

similar sound.
I touched him on religion, and the joys my heart

had known :

And I found that he had very similar notions of

his own !
I told him of the doubtings that made sad my

boyhood years:
Why, he'd laid awake till morning with that

same old breed of fears !
I poinleil up the pathway that I hoped to Heaven

to go:

He was on that very ladder, only just a round
below I

Our politics was different, and at first he galled
and winced ;

But I arg'ed him so able, he was very soon con-
vinced.

And 'twas gettin' tow'rd the middle of a hungry

summer day —
There was dinner on the table, and I asked him

would he stay ?

And he sat him down among ns-everlastin' trim
and neat —

And be asked a short crisp blessin' almost good
enough to eat t

Then he fired up on the mercies of our Eveiw

lastin' Friend,
Till he gi'n The Lord Almighty a good tirst-class

recommend ;

And for full an hour we listened to that sugar*
coated scamp —

Talkin' like a blessed angel-eatin' like a blasted
tramp 1

My wife-she liked the stranger, smiling on him.
warm and sweet ;

^" on'the"*""" '"'°"" ''*"'" tl>«ir guests aw

THE COMPLETE PSOGXAJIf.

And he hinted that some ladies never lose their
youtht'ul charms,

And caressed her yearlin' baby, an' received it in

his arms.
My sons and daughters liked him— for he had

progressive views,

And he chewed the cud o' fancy, and gi'n down

the latest news ;
And / coHldu't help but lilce him— aa I fear I

al'ays must,
The gold of my own doctrines in a fellow-heap o'

dust. *^

Whatever else it comes to, at lowest price Ml
put;

He was chiselin' desolation through apiece of
app?e-pie,

When he paused an' gaaed upon as, with a tear

in his off-eye,
And said, "Oh happy tm'yl-your joys they

malte me sad !
They all the time remind me of the dear ones

once / had !

A babe as sweet aa this one; awifeo/mortas
fair;

A little girl with ringleta-like that one over
there.

But had I not neglected the means within my
way,

Then they might still be living, and loving me
to-day.

I-signed it I while my family, all approvin', stood
abont;

The villain dropped a tear on't-but he didn't

blot it out!
That self-same day, with wagons came some ras-

cals great and small ;

They hopped up on my bnildin'sjnstaaif they

owned 'em all ;
They hewed 'em and they hacked em-ag'in mv

loud desires —
They trimmed 'em off with gewgaws, and the,

bound 'em down with wires ;
They hacked 'em and they hewed 'em, and they

hewed and hacked 'em still,
And every precious minute kep' a runnin' op the
bill.

"One night there came a tempest; the thunder-
peals were dire ;

The clouds that marched above ns were shootiniz
bolts of fire;

In my own house I. lying, was thinking, to mv
blame, '

How little I had guarded against those bolts of
flame,

When crash— through roof and ceiling the dead-
ly lightning cleft.
And killed my wife and children, and only I was

J6It I

"Since then afar I've wandered, and naught for

life have cared,
Save to save others' loved ones whose lives navt

yet been spared ;
Since then, it is my mission, where'er by sorrow

tossed,

To sell to worthy people good lightning-rods at
cost

With flnre and strong protection I'll clothe your
buvldinga o'er;

Twill coat you— twenty dollars (perhapi a triJU
more;

To find my soft-spoke neighbor, did I rave and
rush au' run .■

He was suppin' with a neighbor, just a few miles
further on.

"'Do you think," I loudly shouted, " that I need
a mile o' wire.

For to save each separate hay-cock ont o' heaven's

consumin' fire 7
Did you think, to keep my bnildin's out o' some

uncertain harm,

/ was goin' to deed you over all the balance of
my farm ? "

He silenced me with silence in a very little while.
And then trotted oat the contract with a re-as-
suring smile;

And for half au hoar explained it with exasner-
atin' skill, ^

While his myrmurdums kep' probably a-runnin'
np my bill.

He held me to that contract with a firmness
queer to see —

'Twas the very first occasion he had disasreed
with me !

And for that 'ere thunder story, ere the rascal
finally went,

I paid two hundred dollars, if I paid a single
cent.

And if any ligbtnin'-rodist wants a dinner-dia-

logue

With the reataunmt department of an enterprisir
dog,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

•t Iow«at price I'll
to pay 80 much per

Let him set hie month a-rnnnin', Jaat inside my

outside gate ;
Aud ni bet two hnndred dollars that he don't

have long to wait.

—F)rom " farm Fe$lival»."

READING.

A LIFE SAVED.

He wanted legal advice, and when the lawyer
told him to state his case, he began :

" About two years ago I was fool enough to
fall in love."
" Certainly — I understand."
" And for a year past I have been engaged
to her."
"Of course."

" A few months ago I found, upon analyzing
my heart, that I did not love her as I should.
My affections had grown cold."

" Certainly they had— go on."
" I saw her pug nose in its true shape, and I
realized that her shoes were No. 6."

"Exactly, and, you made your mind to
break off the match? That was perfectly
proper."

" Yes, that was my object ; but she threatens
to sue me for a breach of promise."

" Certainly she does, and she'll do it, too.
Has she any love-letters from you ?"

" That's the hang of it. She tallies up 326."

" And do they breathe your life ? "

" I should say they did ; but I think I've got
her tight. All them letters are written on wrap-
ping paper, and with pencil, and I've come to
3sk you if such writing as tnat will stand law ? "

" Of course it will. If you had written it
«rith a slate and pencil she could hold you."

" Great hokey ! but is that so ? "

" k is."

" And she's got me fast ? "

" She has."

" Well, that settles that matter, and I sup-
pose 1 11 have to give in and marry her ? "

"Unless—"

"Unless what?"

" You can buy her off."

" Egad ! that's it— that's the idea, and you
have saved my life 1 Buy her off— why didn't

I think of it before ? Say, where's the dollar
store? I'll walk in on her with a set of jewelry,
a flirtation fan, a card case and two bracelets,
and she'll give me a quit-claim deed and throw
in all the poetry I ever sent her to boot ? "—
Detroit Free Press.

A HAPPY MAN.

Wbbn I met Brown this morning he was a total

wreck,
And looked as though a hurricane had struck

him on the neck,
A multitude of scratches his features were adoru<

ing,
And his two eyes from sympathy had both gone

into mourning.

One hand he carried in a sling, the other held a

crutch,
But still these woeful injuries did not affect him

much;
For his face was bright and happy, aad he wore

a look of cheer,
And he smiled a smile of welcome as he came

hobbling near.

"See here, young man," I said to him, " now tell

me what's the matter;
You'd better put your necktie straight and inter.

view your hatter.
Oh, tell me now what fearful chance has torn

away your clothes,
And stole the ruby from your cheeks to put it on

your nose."

" Well, (hie) " said Brown, in answer, as he lean-
ed against a po«t,

"Of all the reasons to be .t;lnd I think I have the
most.

I scarce can speak forjoyfolness, thenewsisse

elating ;
My mother-in-lnw was killed last pight. and I've

been celebrating."

— H. D. Muii in Chicafm Jira-n •

MUSIC.

WHY HE WAS BOUNCED.

" Do you think you can sell dress goods ant?
ribbons?" inquired Mr. Nathan Waltrou*

189

[)

IH'

III :

T '

•enior member of the retail finn of Waltrous
and McGill, of Houston, Texas. The party
addressed was a florid young man with a florid
nose, florid moustache and florid hair. He was
•n short, quite a Florida youth, and his name
was Theopolis Duggan.

" I reckon so," he replied.

"Can you be suave?"

•■•Which?"

" Can you support a becoming address in the
presence of ladies— politeness, suavity, you
know?"

" Oh, yes." answered Duggan, •• in the last
place I worked the boys all said I was the sua-
viest man in the troupe, and a rustler among
customers."

" What business was it ? "

•• Pumps— wooden and iron pumps and hy.
draulic rams."

"Quite a different line from dress goods and
ribbons."

" Well, yes. but 1 ain't afeard to tackle 'em."
Mr. Waltrous gave him a trial. The boys in
the store labelled him "Pumps" from the first
moment of his initiation into the dress goods
and rfcbon department. The second day a
petite brunette inquired for some "chicken
down " nun's veiling. Pumps commenced to
sweat.

" What color is it ?" he blurted out.

The girl only rewarded him with a stony
stare. Pumps rushed off after a new stock of
information and inquired :

"Is this a provision store or a butcher
•hop?"

"Why?" asked a one hundred and fifteen
pound salesman.

" Because there's a gal there by the show case
who wants some chicken down."

The one hundred and fifteen pounds of pure
and unadulterated suavity waited on her.

"Show me some elephant's breath cashmere,"
said an elderly lady in gold bowed spectacles.
Pumps dropped a roll of paper cambric, and
again started down the road after some more
information.

"What's elephant's breath?" he gasped.
•• Hanged if I ain't thinkin' I've struck a me-
nagerie."

" it is a shade of woolen goods," murmured
another salesman, moving up towards the el-
derly lady and selling her a large bill.

TJ/E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

, ' Bet your boots I'll catch on," said Pumps
swaggering before the glass where ladies try on

I bonnets and hats.

I Another young lady interviewed Pumps in
the afternoon and said :

" You know soutache on grey velvet is con-
sidered very chic."

•• It U just the chickiest thing agoin," ob-
served Pumps.

The young lady looked grieved.

"Show me some giraffe colored cashmere "
she said quietly.

■ Another animal wanted," muttered Pumps
breathlessly, as he reached the other end of th*
store. He, of course lost the sale.

"Show me some crinolettes," demanded a
spare wdman with a cast in her eye. Pumps
was nonplussed. '

" If I was you I woldn't get a crinolette," he
ventured.

"You wouldn't! " sneei d the lady.

" No, not at this s; :.son of the year. I'd get
a pair of striped stockings and a poke bonnet."

The lady walked out.

"What did she want ?" inquired Mr. Wal-
trous, who had kept his eagle eye on the pro-
ceedings,

" She was hankeriu' after a crinolette," said
Pumps, " and I don't think we have them in
stock."

"These are crinolettes," said Mr. Waltrous
sternly, and pointing to a pile of garments

"Them! Why I took them for base'b.-vlJ
masks," said Pumps.

" You will have to do better than this," re-
marked Mr. Waltrous, impressively.

"There is a woman up at the front end who
wants some Apollonaris, Hadn't I better go
out and get her a glass of seltzer ? "

Some more condensed suavity waited on the
lady and sold her a polonaise, a moliere waist-
coat, an ostrich feather fan and ten yards of
plum-colored velveteen. Pumps was para-
lyzed. *^

"You fellows have got the thing down mid-
I'n fine, he said, pulling his vermillion
moustache before the mirror.

" Evidently you have considerable to learn in
this business," said Uic head sai«man to
Pumps.

" All I ask is a fair show for my money," re-
turned Pumps, dejectedly.

VIE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

a crinolette," he

"What would you do il a lady were to
quire for an imported jersey ? "

" What are you giving us? - whined Pumps.
"This is no stock yard or dairy farm."

"That, my dear fiiend " said the head sales-
man, "is a short jacket introduced into this
country by Mrs. Langtry. What if she should
inquire for a tournure ? "

"Me— oh— I'd •'

"That will do," shouted Mr. Waltrous, bob-
bing up from behind a bale of sheeting ; " you
can just tournure back on this establishment,
and hunt work in a lumber yard."— 7>.raj
Siflingz.

SAIRY JACKSON'S BABY.

CNCLE JACK KNEW THE LORD WOULD PROVIDE

A Bi- of crape, hanging side by side with a
strip of satin ribbon which had once been white,
but was now discolored by constant use.'
swung idly from the tack which held it in place
at the entrance to one of the tall tenements bn
the west side. It is in the district known as
Blackchapel, and all the houses thereabout are
occupied by colored folks.

There is always a pathos about a scrap of
crape at the door, especially if the grim an-
nouncement is hung out for a child. But the
lean leggid and woolly headed black children
who were playing shinny in the street were too
young to allow their sport to be interrupted by
the presence of death.

"ONLY SARAH'S LITTLE BOY."

If any one had asked the stout negress
who lolled at the door, they would have been
answered with : •• Oneley Mis' Sarah Jackson's
httle boy. An' it's de Lawd's bressin' he gone,
kase he's bin ailin' ebber sence he was bawn.
Whar does she lib? Up on de top i^o', in de
reah. Yo' cawn't miss it. Jess knock hard on
de do', kase Miss Jackson may be sorrowin'
like, on 'count ov it bein' her Johnnie."

And then, if one had followed her direction,
he would have wondered if there never would
be any end to the bare, steep flights of dirty
stairs, with the too brief landings, and the
musty, dark halls, and the black, woolly heads
thrust but of half open doors in a spirit of youth-
ful inquiry.

>n- 1 But there is an end to all things, and at last
the top is reached. It is lighter here, and the
air sf . . a little more wholesome, although tJie
same musty smell of crowded quarters is to be
noticed. A ladder leads up to a hole in the
roof, and the sun sends a slanting ray down
through the aperture. The block of sunlight
strikes the entrance to one of the three doois
on the landing, and has only the effect of bring-
ing out in greater relief the worn pine boards
half hidden by an accumulation of dirt.

It is very quiet on this floor, so quiet that
when the visitor listened he could hear a sound
of sobbing, and then a low voice crooning
words of comfort. A knock at the door brings
the answer: "Come in." The room is not
more than twelve feet square, and is considered
a large room for a tenement. But the question
of accommodations is not taken into considera-
tion now.

There are two persons in the room. An old
woman, whose tears made shining tracks upon
her black skin, was bending over a young
woman who rocked to and fro in an old chair,
sobbing and moaning for her baby. The room
was uncarpeted and miserable. Bags and wads
of paper stuck loosely in the holes in the broken
wmdow panes helped to give an indescribable
aspect of desolation to the room.

Upon the only table in the room, its atten-
uated form wrapped in an red shawl, rag-
ged and threadbare, was the dead baby. Its
httle black face, tinged with a grayish hue. was
turned up toward the cracked ceiling, and the
hds hardly concealed the dull white of the eyes.
The babe had been dead since the day
before, and the mother was too poor to bury it.
Her husband was away somewhere. He had
deserted her months before, so she need not ex-
pect him in her hour of trouble.

•THE LAWD WILL PERVIDE.

As she rocked the door creaked on its hinge
and an old negro entered. He was lame, and
made his way carefully along with a cane A
high hat that had seen years of hard service
rested on a fringe of grayish wool which cover
cd the back of his head, and a bandanna
handkerchief made a picturespue substitute for
both collar and cravat.

" Hullo. Jack, yo' back agen?" said the old
woman, •• Sairy's bin taken on powerfl senct

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

■Xh -

yo's bin gone, an' she mos' cried her eyes out.
Did yo, git enny money ? "

"No, an' I'st done clean pestered out, a-
trampin' and a-trampin'. What wld de rheu-
matics and de sorror 'bout Jacky, I ain't
mahself."

•• Uncle Jack," said the young woman, jump-
ing up, "I'lJjes' ask yer ter go to one moah
place fur de money. Jes' one moah. I'se done
washin' fur dis lady, and mebbe she help me."
•' Come, come, gal," said the old man; •< I'se
doin' all I can fer yer, but the good Lawd will
pervide. Jes put yo' trus' on him."

" I know. Uncle Jack, I know dat ; but we
mus' do somethin'," she said.

With unsteady hand she wrote a note in a
cramped hand on the back of a grocery bill,
the only piece of paper there was in the house.'
The paper was blistered with her tears.

Mbs. Reed— Would yon please to help me a
Httle, I am sorry to ask you, but my Baby died
yesterday at noon, with the Brown-keeten and
the gnatar in the throat. We have done what we
could. I have been sick myself and the little
earning i had saved i had to pay out for medcin.
I am not feehng well.

From Sarah Jackson.

Uncle Jack hobbled out of the door and down

the stairs. He had to go a long distance, and

when he came back a gentleman came with

him. He had come in answer to the letter and

to see the dead baby was buried decently. Not

long ago his own baby had died, and when he

stood by the table and saw by the light of

the one lamp in the room the face of the little

dead baby he broke down and wept. His tears

mingled with those of the poor black folks

about. A common grief had torn away the

barrier of race, color and station, and he was

as sincere a mourner as old Uncle Jack, who

stood with bowed head near him. And as the

old bandanna neckerchief seemed to grow

tighter and tighter around his throat he said:

" I knew de Lawd would pervide, Sairy, I knew
it, chile, kase he allers does "—New York Sun.

LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY.

What did you say, detir— breakfast?

8n!r.«shf>w I're slept too late;
You are very kind, clear Effle;

So, tell them not to wait.

I'll dreaa as quick as ever I can,

My old hands tremble sore,
And Polly, who used fo help, dear bMrtI

Lies t'other side o* the door.
Put up the old pipe, deary,

I couldn't smoke to-day ;
I'm sort o' dazed and frightened,

And don't know what to say.
It's loaesome in the house, here,

And lonesome ont o' door

I never knew what lonesome meant, »

la all my life before.

The bees go humming, the whole day long,

And the first June rose has blown
And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day.

Too old to be left alone I
O heart of love I so still and cold,

O precious lips so white—
For the first sad hours in sixty years,

Yoa were out of my reach last night.

You've cut the flower ? You're very kind.

She rooted it Inst May ;
It was only a slip ; I pulled the rose

And threw the stem awny ;
But she, sweet thrifty soul, bent down.

And planted it where she stood ;
" Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said

"Asleep in this bit of wood."

I can't rest, deary— I cannot rest ;

Let the old man have his will,

And wander from porch to garden post

The house is so deathly still ;
Wander and long for a sight of the gate

She has left ^jar for me —
We got so used to each other, dear,

So used to each other, you see.
Sixty years, and so wise and good,

She made me a better mnn.
From the moment I kissed her fair young fac»

And our lover's life began.
And seven fine boys she has given me.

And ont of the seven, not one.
But the noblest father in all the laud

Would be proud to call his son.
Oh well, dear Lord, I'll be patient.

But I feel so broken up ;
At eighty years it's an awsome thing

To drain such a bitter cup.
I know, there's Joseph and John and Hal,

And four good men beside,
But a hundred sons couldn't be to me '
Like the wonau I made my brid*.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

Mr liUle Polly, ao bright and fair I

So winsome and good and sweet !
She bad roses twined in her sunny hair,

White shoes on her dainty feet :
And I held her hand — was It >e«t<rday

That we stood ap to be wed ?
Ami— no, I remember, I am eighty to-day.

And my dear wife, Polly, is dead.

THE SLEEPING SENTINEL

A TRUE STORY OF THE REBELLION.

BY FRANCIS DE HAE8 JANVIER.

'TWAS in the saltry summer-time, as war's red
records show.

When patriot armies rose to meet a ftatricidal
foe;

When from the North, the East, and West, lilce

an upheaving sea
Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make onr country

truly free.

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows
veiled decay.

In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier
lay;

Heart-broken, hopeless, and fortom, with short
and feverish breath.

He waited but th ' appointed hour to die a cul-
prit's death.

Yet but a few brief weeks before, untroubled

with a care,
He roamed at will and freely drew his native

mountain air.
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks from

many a woodland font
And waving elms and grassy slopes give beauty to

Vermont ;

Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the
soil,

Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's
toil.

Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suflferint!
country's cry

Fired luR young heart with fervent zeal, for her
to live or die.

The field of strife whose dews are blood, whose

breezM, war's hot breath,
Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose

busltandmnn is dvath.

Without a murmnr he endured a service, new

and hard ;
But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced

one night on guard.
He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray

morning found
His prostrate form-a sentinel asleep upon the

ground I

So, In the silence of the night, aweary on the snd,
Bank the disciples, watching near the sufferins
Son of God ;

Yet Jesus, with compassion moved beheld their
heavy eyea.

And, though betrayed to ruthless foes, forgiving
bade them rise :

But God is lovo-and finite minds can faintly

comprehend
How gentle Mercy, in this rule, may with stern

Justice blend ;
And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found

none to Justify,

While war's inexorable law decreed that he must
die.

Twas night.-In a secluded room, with measured
tread and slow,

A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely
to and fro.

Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord
rent;

On brothers armed in deadly strife :— it was the
President !

The woes of thirty millions filled his burdened
heart with grief;

Embattled hosts, on land and soa. acknowledged
him their chief ;

And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plain-
tive cry

Of that poor soldier aa he lay in prison, doomed
to die I

Then left he .,!!:^« few fond tear., by firuu.eHs

hiilf concealed,
A ble.8l,,. ,„„l , parting p,ayer, and he wa« on

the field—

"Twas morning:— On the tented field and tbrongh
the heated haze,

FlaRhed back, from lines of burnished arms, the

Kiin'rt efliilgent blaze.
Wiiiip, from a sombre prison-liouBe, seen gJcwIy

to emerge,
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a

muffled dirge.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

And in tha midst, with iUtorlng step, and pale

and ADzioa* face,
In mauuclea, between two gnarda, a aoldier liad

bia place.
A youth, led out to die,— and yet it waa not

death, bat ahame,
That soiote hia gallant heart with dread, and

ahook bia inanlj fhinie.

Still on, before the marshalled ranks, the train

pursued its way
Up to the desiKuatM spot whereon » coffin lay—
His coffin/ And, with reeling brain, despairinir

desolate— *'

He took hit station by its side, abandoned to his
fate t

Then came serosa hia wavering eight strange pic-
tures in the air ;

He saw his distant mountain home, he saw his
parenta there.

He saw them bowed with hopeless grief, through
fast declining years ;

He saw a nameless grave ; and then the viaioo
closed— in tears!

Yet once again. In donhle file, adranolng then
he saw

Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to exeonte the
law —

ilut saw no more :-his senses swam— deep dark-
ness settled 'round —

And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal vol-
ley's sonnd t

Then suddenly he heard the noise of steeds and

wheels approach.
And rolling through » cloud of dust appeared a

stately coach ;
On; past the guards, and through the fields its

rapid course was bent.
Till halting mid the lines, was seen the nation's

President !

Ho came to save that stricken soul, now waking

from despair ;
And from a thousand voices, rose a shont which

rent the air !

The pardoned soldier understood the tones of

jubilee.
And bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand

that made him free !

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM BRUDDER
GARDNER.

The honored and honorable president of the
•aimc KiJn Club" gives frequently, in the

privacy of the club meetings, bits of wisdom
which it would be worth our whiles to read,
ponder and Inwardly digest.

"At midnight last niglit," said the old man
m a solemn voice, as he looJccd up and down
the aisles--" at midnight last night de spirit of
Brudder Charies Climox Gosport. a local mem-
ber of dis club, passed from y'arth to dc un-
known. Only a week ago he sat in dis hal, ,
to-night he am dressed lor de grave. What
ackshun will de club take ? "

"I 'spose. sah. "said Rev. Penstock, as he
rose up, " dat it am in order to present resolu-
shuns to de effect dat he was a man ob de high-
est integrity, liberal-hearted, high-minded, and
dat his loss am a sad blow to de hull city."

"Yes, such a resolushun am in order. Brud-
der Penstock. Can you remember dat you ever
took Brudder Gosport by de hand an* gin him
one word of praise for his hard work an" honest
ways I "

' ' ^— I— doan' remember dat I ever did, sah. ' '

•• Am dar a pusson in dis hall who can
remember dat he ever put himself out ter favor
Brudder Gosport ? "

Not a man answered.

•• Kin any one ob you remember dat you took
any pertickeler interes' in how he got along?-'

Not a word was heard in reply.

" To be a little plainer," continued the presi-
dent. " am dar one single pusson in dis hall
who eber felt five cents worth of anxiety for
Brudder Gosport' ^worldly or spiritual welfare?"

The hall was so quiet that the sound of Elder
Toots scratching his back on the sharp edge o(
the window-casing gave everybody a start

" Not a man in dis hull citv. so fur as we
know, eber put hisself out to favo' or to speak
a word in praise of our lamented brudder an'
yet we have the cheek to talk of a resolushun
settin forth his many virtues an* our heartfelt

h°T7'T "i"' tl ^' *^°^" P^" "° "i'^h bigness
heah ! I should be ashamed to look his widder
in de face if we did. It am de way ob de world
to let men alone when a little help would give
em a broad an' easy road. We h'ar of dis
man or dat man havin' won de gratitude of de
people, but we doan hear of it until he an,
dead. When a man has gone from y'arfh de
papers an= de public suddenly diskive^'how
honest he was. what a L>,g heart he had, how
much he was alters doin' an ' what a loss to Os

ng(, bits of wlidom
our whiles to read,

said the old man
aolccd up and down
St night de spirit o»
)sport, a local mem-
m y'arth td de un-
he sat in dis haii ,
r de grave. What

< •

I
!v. Penstock, as he
sr to present resolu-
I a man ob de high-
I high-minded, and
de hull city."
am in order, Brud-
tmber dat you ever
hand an' gin him
ird work an' honest

at I ever did. sah."
lis hall who can
mself out ter favor

^mberdat you took
)whe got along?"
eply.

ontinued the presi-
pusson in dis hall
rth of anxiety for
spiritual welfare?"
he sound of Elder
the sharp edge of
'body a start.
)t^', so fur as we
favo' or to speak
ited brudder, an'
Ic of a resolushun
an" our heartfelt
ss no sich bizness
look his widder
way ob de world
help would give
We h'ar of dis
e gratitude of de
»f it until he am
; fron™ v'arth. d?
ily diskiver how
art he had, how
what a loss (o ds

■ «r I

PPEAL.

world his death will prove. De time to praise

a man is when he am livin' beside us. Praise

hurts nobody, but many a good man has grown

weary fur want of appreciashun. There am

seventy-two of us in dis hall to-night, an' we

have to own up dat not one of us eber went

outer our way to prove to our brudder dat his

upright life war any mor' "preciated by us dan

as if he had been a hoss-thief ! And to pass a

resolushun. now. would be to brand ourselves

hypocrites. Let no one dare to offer one."

NOT A DROP MORE.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

kl!9

A PBNNiLKas rum drinker was pleading for
brandy on trust. The argry reply of the rum-
Beller, " Not a drop more ! " was the means of his
•igning the pledge and becoming a temperate and
wealthy man.

* ' Not a drop more I "

Did he say that to me?
When money is gone

There's no trusting I see f
" Not a drop more I "

When I paid him in gold
For the richest of wines,
Now my band be would hold I

" Not a drop more ! "

That was never the word
While the clink of my silver

For brandy was heard ;
And even while copper

I brought to his door
He never once thundered,
" Not a drop more ! "

" Not a drop more 1 "
Then, so let it be !
Gold, silver, and copper

Hay yet be for me.
Then, when he shall watch

For a bit of my pelf
Not a cent more, I'll give,—
I prefer it myself.

SOME ONE'S SERVANT GIRL.

Hhk stood there leaning wearily
Against the window frame.

Her face was patient, sad, and sweat,
Her garments coarae and plaha.
9

" Who is she, pray?" I asked a friend ;

The red lips gave a curl —
" Really, I don't know her name,
She's some one s servant girl."
Again I saw her in th-,- street.
With burden trudge along.'
Her face was sweet and patient still

Amid the jostling throng.
Slowly but cheerfully she moved,

Guarding with watchful care
A niaiket-busket, much too larg«

For her slight haud to bear.
A man I'd thought a gentleman.

Went pushing rudely by.
Sweeping the basket from her haud

But turning not his eye :
For there was no necessity,

Amid that busy whirl.
For him to be a gentleman

To " some one's servant girl."
Ah, well it is that God above.

Looks in upon the heart,
And never judges any one
By just the outer part !
For if the soul be pure and good,

Who will not mind the rest.
Nor question what the gurmeuta were

In which the form was dressed.
And many a man and woman fair.

By fortune reared and fed,
Who will not mingle here below

With those who earn their bread.
When they have passed away from life.

Beyond the gates of pearl,
Will meet before their Father'g throna
With many a servant girl.

Musia

RECITATIONS.

THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE.

BT THEODORE TILTON.

W« gathered roses, Blanche and I, for little Madm

one morning. —
"I am a «,ldier's wife," eaid Blanche, "and

dread a soldier's fate 1 "

Her voice * little tf^nbled then «. under aome

torewaming, —

A soldier galloped up tha lane and halted at
(ha gate.

140

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM

{ \ !

*'''''«'.';:rrii;r!r'^"^ -- wow. ...a .. br... . ..p

- - I the cause from failing?

And when I thnuked him, Blanche inquired
" Bat none for me, bis wife ? "
The soldier played with Madge's curls, and stoop-
ing over, kissed her :

" Your father was my captain, child ;— I loved
him as my life ! "

Then suddenly be gallopi/. off, and left the rest
unspoken.
I burst the seal, and Blanche exclaimed—
*' What makes you tremble so ? "
What answer did I dare to speak?— how should
the news be broken ?
I conia not shield her from the stroke, yet tried
to ease the blow.

— — r% ♦

God pity our poor lovers then, who face the
battle's blaze?

And pity wives in widowhood!— But is it una-
vailing ?
O, Lord, give Freedom first, then Peace,— and
unto Thee be praise I

WHO LIVES?

BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

"A battle in the swamps," I said,— "our men
were brave but lost it ; "
And pausing there,—" the note," I said, " is not
in Malcolm's hnnd."
And first a fiush went through her face, and then
a shadow crossed it,
" Read quick, dear May,— read all I pray, and let
meanderstand."

1 did not read it as it stood, but tempered so the
phrases
As not at first to hint the worst,— held back
the Atal word,
A«d hair re-told his gallant chaige, his shouts,
his comrade's praises,-
When, like a sUtn« carved in stone, she neither
•poke Dor stirred !

Oh I nexer yet a womab's heart was frozen so
completely!-
So nnbaptized with helping tears!— so passion-
less and dumb I
Hpell-bonnd she stood and motionless— till little
Madge spoke sweetly :
"•Dear mother, is the battle done?— and will
my father come ? "

I laid my finger on her lips, and set the child to
playing;—
Poor Blanche ! The winter on her cheek was
snowy, like her name!
What eonld she do but kneel and pray?— and
linger at her praying?
©, Christ, when other heroM die, woau other
w{*satb«aam«r

In the way of rlghteouwiess U life ; and in the oatb
way thereof there Isnodeath.-Piov. 12-28.

Eabth is opaque.
And when it comes between the soul and

heaven
It bides from us the presence of our God.
Then, blindly groping o'er a dreary waste.
We seek for roses add are pierced with thorns.
With hunger faint, we plucked the tempting
fruit, *

Mellow to touch bnt bitter to the taste ;
Thirsting, we drink from bubbling ' wayside

springs.
Whose rapid waters but increase our thirst ;
Wearied, we seek refreshment in repose.
But vexing cares and wearing discontent
Disturb our slumbers and it brings no rest.
And is this life ? Ah, no j 'tis living death !
Those only live, to whom this mundane sphere
Seems but an atom in God's boundless plan—
A stepping-stone to brighter worlds beyond :
Whose feet press earth, but whose undying muIs
Their heavenward course so eagerly (lursne,
That nought to them obscures the encoring light
Which beameth from the throne of Deity.
They hunger not for tempting fruits of earth
Nor thirst for failing waters ; bnt sustained
By heavenly manna, go from strength to strength.
Dispensing love and light aud joy to nil
With whom they journey toward the Promised

Land.
To them there is no death. Earth's mission o'er
They cross the tide to that celestial clime.
Where life immortal crowns the welcome gnesti
Aud bliss eternal cures the ills of time.

NIAGARA.

Monarch of floods I How shall I approach
thee ?— how speak of thy glory ?— how-extol thy
beauty and grandeur? Ages have seen thy

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.
awful majesty ; earth has paid tribute to thv i f R Vn,. i,,.,- a^ ' i.-
p...nc»: ,h, be., a„a l^ ,„o„g ^ll co4fbJS,f "'"""""* """"•" "
have bent the knee at thy footstool I But none P. B. WeU what of it ? f . i. ™i . ,■ .
have de^Hbed none can <.et„rib. .hee, |i„ advlncri tm. da "' o"L thri"

N'rre 'nir b; rr^ofrnt-din^'e'Lt; *' r^'"' '" "«"t':m s

elenteot. „i„g,ne b/ek the »l°'o? ,t "igh? CO ;.ln!. "ylt.'r""' """ "" '" "■" '-"

nmg, and outroanng the thunder of the tern-
pest J Allied to the everlasting hills,— claiming
kindred with the eternal flood, thou art pillared
upon the one. the other supplies thy surge.
Primeval rocks environ, clouds cover, and the
rainbow crowns thee. A divine sublimity rests
on thy fearful brow, an awful beauty is reveal-
ed in thy terrific countenance, the earth is
shaken by thy tremendous voice. Born in the
dark past and alive to the distant future, what
to thee arc the paltry concerns of man's ambi-
tions ?— the rise and fall of empi s and dynas-
ties, the contests of kings or the crash of
thrones? Thou art unmoved by the fate of
nations, and the revolutions of the earth are to
thee but the pulses of t-r Kings before thee
are but men. and mar y ;... of insigniricance.

" Thoa dost n.*ko the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty ;
And while it rushes with delirious joy
To tread thy vestibale, dost chain its steps
And check its rapture, with the humbling view
or its own nothingness."

FLEEING FROM FATE.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

Characters.
^l-7ohH Briggs, A Wealthy Old Gentleman.

T/J'r 1^' "" Son.

Sf Cooper, An Old-fashioned Farmer.

Ruth Cooper,
Miss Gwenny,

ScE.NE I. Mr. John Briggs and his son Philip
tn the library. "^

John Briggs. Philip, you are twenty-eight
years old to-day.

Philip B. So the family record says, father,

and 1 am disoosed to nlar* imni;r:» —n

upon It and upon you in the matter of dates
and such things.

7- B. You are quite too flippant and trifling
for a young man of your age. Since your Aunt
Pnsc.lla left you five thousand a year, you nave
fclt obliged to do nothing but spend the money
That very liberal income ought, certainly, to be
enough for a single man, but you draw on me
too. '

P.B. {Indignantly.) I'll endeavor to draw
on you less. sir. if you are so miseriy as to
begrudge me a trifling sum. once in a while.

J. B. It is not that. Philip. You are quite
welcome to a check, now and then, for I know
that you neither drink, nor gamble, and I don't
mmd your horses, your club, your natural his-
tory raze, nor your luxurious tastes ; but still
you spend more money and get less for it than
most young men of your age. You use too
much money— decidedly too much !

P.B. I don't find it too much, sir. In fact.
I was thinking what a graceful thing it would be
If you were to double it— a mere trifle to a gen-
tleman of your means. I have to ute most
pitiful economy, I assure you.

.7. B. Oh, that's it, ehr Well. I'va no notion
to become a bankrupt through your extrava-
gance, but there is a way to double your resour-
ces If you will only follow out a long-cherished
plan of mine. You have heard me speak of
Philander Spriggs of New York?

P. B. Money-lender and Skinflint? I have
heard of him.

7". B. Nonsense, Philip. He i» a most
worthy, as well as a very wealthy man. and if
he prefers to invest ready money in short loans

* , — —>*,-* .^««^ iiiuiicy m snort loan*

yi rrtendfrom the City, sometimes.

P' B. Not at such usurious rates, I hope.

7. B. No matter. I don't propose that ion
borrow of him. He has an only child, a daugh-
ter, who will inherit all his vast property, just
as you will mine. *- /. j

P A Does she shave notes, father?

/. B. Phil, be kind enough not to indulge
m chaff when I am talking seriously. I have
.seen her and talked with her. She U young.

I4'i

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

l.andsome, well educated, — a society gentle-
woman with domestic tastes.

P. B. Well, father, you are not so o^d, and
since you admire her so much, I see no reason
why —

y. B. Stop your nonsense and listen.
Spriggs and 1 have talked it over an<^' we have
concluded, if you two come togethr to chip
in equally and settle a half-million on you on
your wedding day. This, with what you have,
will do well enough for a while.

P. B. Td like to oblige you, father. I sup-
pose I must marry, some day ; but it will be
some one I love, and I trust she will be a woman
oi good family— oi as good pedigree, at least,
as oun.

y. B. Some one you love I How the deuce
do you know you will not love her till you see
her? Good family! Of course you are entitled
to that. The peerage of England is full of
Briggses. Your grandfather made three hun-
1 "d thousand dollars in hides and tallow, and
M .! had not invested it in real estate that
muv.:: 'ed itself ten-fold before he died, I
f:''OjM! ave been in the same business to-day,
■^:::-' you .n my counting-room or warehouse.
^ .■ ' indeed! You're a foolish boy, Philip,
nnd y ur aunt's legacy has ruined you.

P. n. I wish, sir, there were a half-dozen
more old aunts to continue my ruin in the same
way. It is of no use getting angry, father.
You can't keep it up 1 I'll take to anything you
say— law, physic, divinity, sell my horses, drop
my club, read by the cubic foot, but to marry
— excuse me i

y. B. See here, Phil, you can marry to
please me, and I will not only start you fairly
in life now, but leave you all I have when I am
gone. {Impatiently.^ Marry to suit some foolish
fancy o{ your own, and I'll— yes, I'll found an
asylum for idiots. Now, do you understand me ?
{Leaves the stage.)

P. B. The old gentleman means business,
there's no dodging that— So they have arranged
the property matter all satisfactory, it seems.
The idea ! We shall have a quarrel if I stay
here ;— better give the dear old fellow a chance
to cool off. I'll pack rry hunting and fishing
tackle and be off. It will be pleasanter for me
to ruralize a while.

fashioned farm-house,
•window soliloquiaing.

Philip sits by the

i ,

Scene ii. /« tht sittin^rvom of an old-

P. 3. Here I have been a whole week, liv-
ing in clo.ver, the best that the farm can afford
at my command ! These mountain brooks are
full of trout, and jjood Dame Coopei knows liow
to cook them, too. Her chickrn pot-pies and
apple dumplings are delicious. If I stay here
much longer, I shall increase my avoirdupois to
aldermanic proportions. I've stnsck luck in a
boarding place. A quiet family, no mistake.
A staid old couple, kind and clever as the day
is long, but it is almost too monotono'is. If
they only had a pretty daughter— a simple
rustic maid to chat with me, or a green, good-
natured ^on to accompany me in my rambles
I'd like it better. Ah I here comes a carriage—
a railway hack. It's stopping at the door. I
I guess Dame Cooper is going to have another
boarder. Oh, the Dickens I *hat a pretty girl J
Dressed in good taste, and in the latest style. I
wonder who she is. A worn out teacher ? No,
there is no look of the schoolma'am about her.
A governess in a rich family, perhaps,— a lady
anyway I I'll go to my room before she enters.
{Leaves the stage. Door belt rings. Dame
Cooper rushes in and opens the door.)

Mrs. Cooper. Why, it's Gwenny, I declare I
{They kiss affectionately.)

Miss Gwenny. You dear old Aunty Ruth,
I've come to have a good time with you.

Mrs. C. And so you shall, my dear. How
did you leave the good folks at home.

Miss G. { Taking off her wraps. ) All well and
sent you lots of love.

Mrs. C. I should think they might come and
bring it themselves sometimes.

Mtss G. Well, Aunty, you know papa can't
very well leave his business, and mamma thinks
it her duty to stay at home if he can't go with
her.

Mrs. C. Nonsense ! It would do thervi both
good to get out into the country for a spell ;
and they could come as well as not.
Miss G. You couldn't make him think •■
Mrs. C. Well, I'm glad you've come, any-
how.

Miss G. Who was that young gentleman.
Aunty, that sat by the window when I came .?

Mrs. C. A Mr. Bee who is boarding with
us. It don't look as if he had any call to work

\ilip tils by tfu

nny, I declare I

might come and

ung gentleman.

for • livinf . |udg?ng by his white hands and fix
up«, and he's plenty of money.

Mi» G. Bee ! Then he isn't a busy bee ? But
he is really gccd-looking ; and if he be agree-
able, he'll do for a walking stick.

Mn. C Oh, he's ever so nice. Me and my
old man, we've taken a great liking to him
He never finds fault with anything and don't
make a mite of trouble. Here Gwenny. you
sit down in this easy-chair and rest yourseW
while 1 set the sunper-table. You must be tired
traveling so far.

Miss G. No. I'm not at all tired. I boi.glit
a new piece of music just before I started, and I
guess I'll sit down and practice // over. {Goes
to the piano and opens it. )

Mrs. C. Yes, do. if you feel like it That
piano has hardly been opened since you were
here last summer. It will seem really good to
hear it again. Mr. Bee played a few tunes last
night, but he said he hadn't his notes and
couldn't play without them.

Miss G. Then he is a musician ? So far, so
good. I've brought a whole stack of music
with me. because I knew you and Uncle Seth
like to hear me play.

Mrs. C. {Setting the table.) That's so. we do
{Gwenny plays until the tea bell rings. Enter Mr.
Cooper.)

Mr.Coooper. Wall! Wall! Ruth she told
me somebody was in here I'd be glad to «ee
How de do Guinney ? How do you stand it ?
{Shaking hands.)

Miss G. O. I pretty well. Uncle Seth. how

THE COMPLETF PROGRAM

are you ?

Mr. C.
summer.

Miss G.

Mrs. C.
hands. )

Pretty middlin' smart for me this

How's your par and mar?

Quite well, thanks. {Enter Mr. Bee.)

Miss Guinney, Mr. Bee. ( 7hey shake

And now I guess we'll take seats

around the table. ( They are seated )

Mr. C. This jest balances the table It
seems kinder sociable to see you here again
We always have lively dmes when you come
I guess Mr. Bee won't get homesick while you
are here.

Afr.B. I'm not one of the homesick kind,
but I hke a good, jolly time, howeven

M. C. Where have you been to-day. Mr.
iieer

Mr. B. Up on the mountain gathering
flowtrs and geological specimens. The plants!

I I've taken to my room and put them in the
[ press : but there are a few of my more substan-
j tial tre.nsures.

I i/vA ^' ^^^^' "'*^'" "'""* "'^'■*' °" "'c table?

I rid a known you thought so much of them
1 d sent you up in the sheep pasture. There's

[ a hull lot of the pesky things up there. As for
bugs-you can find all you want on my potater
vmes. "^

Mr.B . They're too cofnnwn. I'm searching
for rarer species to preserve in my cabinet

^mC I see you are a lover of natural
h.story Mr. Bee. It is one of my follies, too. as
Uncle Seth calls it.

^ Mr. C. It's all owen to your bringing up, I
s pose If you'd lived on a farm all your days,
you d have got s.ck of weeds, stuns, and bugs
long afore now. It's what I've been a fightin'
agamst ever sense I was knee high to a toad •
but with city folks it's different.
Mr. B. Yes ; bug hunting is a treat to us
Mtss G. Do you find any rare varieties for
your herbarium. Mr. Bee ?

Mr. B. There is such a diversity of surface
and soil in these hilly countries-valleys and
uplands, woods, ponds, and running brooks —
that Nature finds a genial home for all her
nursel.ngs. I have never seen a more delight-
ful field for botanical research. If you enjoy
such rambles. I would like to introduce you (o
some of my favorite haunts to-morrow.

MissG. Thanks. Mr. Bee. nothing could
please me better.

Mr. C. I must say, you are two simpletons
well met.

Mrs. C. You mustn't notice what he says
Mr. Bee. he's always joking-Guinney knows
him so well she don't inind-do you Guin-
ney ?

Miss G. No : Uncle Seth will always say
just what he has a mind to. I suppose our
rambles will seem foolish to him. He has lived
with nature all his life, and we are only occa.
sional visitors. O. Aunty, your good, fresh milk
and butter is such a treat!

Mr. B They are the genuine article-no
gam— Faymg that.

Mr. C. You city folks make such a fuss,
abody d think you had been fed on milk and
water all your lives.

Miss G. It is about so. Uncle Seth. No
I wonder we are such namby pamby. weak and

I^i

144

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Ft -

silly things. It takes country air and country
fare to make good blood and muscle. \

Mr. B. As thrives the body so thrives the
brain, I suppose. We may, therefore, hope to
outgrow our follies. That's a nice colt of yours,
Mr. Cooper.

Mr. C. Yes, he's handsome and full of life,
yet gentle as a lamb. I've broke him to saddle
soGwenney, here, can ride him, and I've another
saddle horse besides the farm team — that bjg
black feller out in the pastur — so you and she
can gallop over the hills to your heart's con-
tent.

Miss G. O, Uncle Seth, you're just as good
as you can be, if you do say some cutting
things, once in a while. Your heart is all right,
and we can overlook an occasional slip of the
tongue — ca'"t we, Mr. Bee?

sure, shut up in the city all the while, or obliged
to go to crowded, fashionable resorts for my
summer outings.

Mr. C. My old woman thinks there's no-
body like Gwenney to fix up things 'round the
house. She painted all them picters herself and
made all them little trinkets for us. She's alus
busy — 'bout one thing or another.

Mr. B. They are, really, very nice, and
brighten up a home wonderfully.

Miss G. Ha ! ha I most gentlemen seem to
think a woman's fancy work a foolish waste of
time. I am glad you and Uncle Seth think
otherwise. I like to chink in my leisure mo.
ments with something either useful or ornamen-
tal.

Mr. B. " A thing of beauty is a joy forever,"
MissGwenny, and, viewed in that light, things

Mr. B. That we can. We city folks are not which of themselves would seem pi.rely orna

such simpletons as not to appreciate such whole-
souled hospitality.

Mrs. C. I've fancied tliat Mr. Bee was get-
ting lonesome with us two old folks : but now
Guinney's come I guess we shall all wake up.
( They leave the table. )

Mr. B. I think I heard you playing. Miss
Gwnney before I came down to tea. I am ex-
ceedingly fond of music. Will you please favor
us with some more ?

Miss G. Yes ; after I help Aunty clear the
table and wash the dishes.

Mrs. C. No, Guinney, one of the neighbors'
girls is here to help me. She' 11 wash the dishes,
but she's too bashful to come in here, and it
won't take me long to clear off the table.
{^Gwenny seats herself at the piano and plays a
lively instrumental piece. After playing one tune
she stops.)

Mr. C. My stars ! Don't she know how to
handle them keys? Her father made us a
present of that piano so she could play on it
when she comes out here summers. It rests
a body to hear sich music as that. Me and my
old woman would git awful lonesome if it wam't
for lookin' forard to her comin' to spend most
of the summers with us ; and once in a while
she comes up and spends a week or two in the
winter.

Mi%s G. Vfs; Uncle Seth drives such good
horses, I like to come out into the country for
my sleighrides. It is really nice to have such
a good old uncle and aunty. I should die,

mental are useful also. Our world could have
furnished nourishment for man and beast from
the life-sustaining products of the soil. Let
those who cavil at the beautiful in art, ask God
why He created foliage and flowers. [^Etaer
Mrs. Cooper.)

Mrs. C. It is the last day of school down
here at the district school-house ; and they are
to have compositions and singing and speaking
pieces to-night. The schoolma'am has sent us
an invitation to attend.

Miss G. A regular old-fashioned school ex,
hibition ?

Mrs. C Yes, I believe that is what they call
it. One of the boys was just in to borrow my
little flax spinning-wheel. He says theyw-nt
it in a play they're going to act on the stage.

Miss G. That'll be just nice I What say ?
Let's all go !

Mr. B. Nothing could please me better. I
haven't attended one since I was a little boy.

Mr. C. Nor I either. That'll sort o' bring
back old times. Will you go, Ruth ?

Mrs. C. Yes, of course, I'll go. We must
hurry up and start early so as to get good seats.

Scene hi. In the farm-house parlour. Philip
Briggs alone, soliloquizing.

P. B. Nearly two months since I came here
— it docsr. t StCiTi possible ! vjwcnny Is guiiig
home to-day. This awakens me to the stern
reality^-the painful loneUness I shall feel when
she hat gone I I can't stay here— I can't stay

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

I4e

jned school ex.

anywhere without her. I have never met her
equal. In her companionship, alone, can I at-
tain the full enjoyment of existence. She can
lead me to higher aims and nobler manhood.
What do I care for old Spriggs and his millions?
What do 1 care for my father's rash threats of
disinheritance? They may do what they like
with their money ; give me but Gwenny and I
can be happy anywhere. Thanlts to good, gen-
erous Aunt Prisciila, her legacy has left me in-
dependent of their favours. It is much earlier
tiian my usual time for rising. Dame Cooper
is busy in the kitchen and Uncle Seth, good,
clever soul, is doing the morning chores. I could
not sleep and so came in here hoping to get a
chance to speak to Gwenny alone. Ah! hce
she comes ! I hear the footsteps on the.

(Gwenny enters, and starts back in sut^rise at see.
ing MrB.)

Miss G. What ! up so early ! I thought I'd
surely be the first one up this morning.
Thoughts of going home kept running in my
head and I could not sleep. I believe I'm get-
ting nervous.

P, B. I know J am, Thos- very thoughts
kept me awake all night. Gwenny, ( Taking her
hand.) You must not leave me. You don't
know how lonely I shall be when you are gone !
I have been sailing under false colors, but in-
nocent of any intent to deceive. I have a way,
among my friends, of using my initials, and so
am called among them, P. B. or Mr. B. When
your aunt asked my name I told her Mr. B. not
tiiinking, for the moment, what I said, and as it
did not matter, I did not take the opportunity
to undeceive her ; but I desire no concealment
from you, unless you do not care for me. Then
we will part as we met ; but I shall be a chang.
ed man. (He waits a moment for her reply.)

Miss G. You must know, Mr. Bee, that I am
not wholly indifferent toward you.
P. B. Then you do care for me ?
Miss G. Yes; I hav« enjoyei your society
very much.

P. B. If you must go to-day, I will go with
you and ask your father'* consenf to claim you
for my own May I ?

Miss G. I fear it will do no good. He has
already made a choice for me and if I do not
obey iiis will, may prove very obitinatt.

P. B. I can satisfy him of my Mcial posi.
tion and my ability to maintain you. I have
means of my own.and have,— w?!l, I may tay I
had great expectations; but my father, who is
several times a millionaire, has taken it into his
head to select a wife for me. I prefer to choose
for myself. If you will be content to share what
I have, Philip Briggs does not care for more.

Miss G. Piiilip Briggs ! (Re/easing herself
from his grasp and looking at him wonderingly. \
Is your father's name John?
P. B. Yes.

Miss G. And he lives in Philadelphia?
P. B. yc%. (Gwenny bursts out laughing.)
Miss G. Don't feel vexed, Philip, I am only
laughing at the similarity of our positions. My
father chose a husband for me in the same way.
and it was to escape discussion of the mattei
that I took these few weeks' rustication. Mrs.
Cooper is my old nurse, and I have always call,
ed her aunt. She was married from our house.
Her husband had very little money, so my fath-
er bought them this farm and stocked it. But
O, Philip, just think how your father and mint
will chuckle ! You are Philip Briggs and I am
Gwenlian Spnggs.
P. B. (Greatly surprised.) Is it possible !
Miss G. In fleeing from f&te—{/nierruptin£
her.) *

P. B. We found each other. (Takes ku
hand. Curtain falls.)

MUSIC.
READINGS.

A TIRESOME CALLER.

Young Spoonogle never knows when to leave
when he calls on a young lady ; he likes the
sound of his own voice so well that he talks on
and on, while the poor girl grows light-headed
with the tax on her strength and wishes the
mantle-piece of Elijah would fall on the tire-
some caller.

There is a young lady in a certain city who
made up her mtnH tn

lesson.

So one Sunday night when he called, she was

as cordial as possible up to eleven o'clock.

jThcn. having had a feur-volum« history ol

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

'1^:

Spoonogle's Me, whh an extended account of
his Influence in politict and business, she be-
gan to get diziy and have a ringing in her ears.
At that moment her young brother rushed
into the room, and said hurriedly :
" Pa wants the morning papers, sis I "
" Look in the vestibule, Willie," she an-
swered gently. •• I think I heard the boy leav-
Ing them some hours ago."

Spoonogle never took the hint but drawled
on about one thing and another in which th?
oft repeated letter I, as usual, bore a conspicu-
ous part.

The next interruption was the head of the
house, who entered briskly rubbing his hands.
"Good morning— good morning," he said
cheerily. -Ha! Spoonogle, you're out early.
Well, • early bird catches the worm.' It's go-
ing to be a fine day, from present appearances."
Spoonogle was dazed, but he concluded the
old man had been drinking, and sat back with
a " Come one, come all, this rock shall fly from
its firm base as soon as yours truly " air that
was decided and convincing.

A half hour passed away, and the good
mother hurried in.

" Dear me I I'm late," she said as she en-
tered. «• I smelled the coffee an hour ago and
knew breakfast was waiting ; but— oh ! Good
morning Mr. Spoonogle 1" Then the sweet
youth took the hint, and drawing himself to-
gether. he got out into the hall and opened the
front door, just as the hired girl rung a bell,
and the small boy yelled <• Breakfast I " over
the banisters.

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

We sat within the fhrm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breese, damp and cold,
An easy entrance night and day.

Not fiir away we saw the port,

The strange, old-fashioned, silent tows,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

Tl^ wooden boosea, quaint and bnwa.

Wfl sat and Ulked nntil the night,

Descending, filled the little roomt
Our fttces faded Crom the sight.
Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many n vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been and might have been
And who were changed and who was dead.

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel with seei^t pain

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again ;

The first slight swerving of the heart,

That words are powerless to express.
And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake

Had something strooge, I could but mark ;
The leaves of memory seemed to mak')

A mouruful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips

As suddenly, from out the fire.
Built of the wreck of stranded ships.

The flames would leap and then expire.
And as their splendor flashed and failed.

We thought of wrecks npon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their fivmea,

The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,

All mingled vaguely in our speech.
UntU they made themselves a part

Of fhncies floating through the brain.
The long-lost treasures of the heart.

That send no answer back again.

O, flames that glowed ! O, hearts tha, yearned J
They were, indeed, too mnch akin,—

The drift-wood flre without that burned,
The thoughts that burned and glowed withia

" MENDING THE OLD FLAG."

BY WILL OASLXTOir.

I» the silent gloom of a garret room,

. ,„„m, jj creepmg,

Prom day to day the old fla'g lay^
A veteran worn and sleeping :

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Dingiljr old, Moh wrinkled fold
By the dust of years was shaded ;

Wounds of the storm were upon its form ,
The crimson stripes were faded.

•Twas a monrnfu! sight in the day-twilight,

This thing of hnmble seeming,
That once so proud o'er the cheering crowd

Had carried its colors gleaming :
rilitined with mould were the braids of gold,

That had (laHlied in the son-ray's kissing ■
or faded hue was its field of bine,

Aud some of the stars were missing.

Three Northern maids and three from glades

Where dreams the South-land weather,
With glance:) kind and iheir arms entwined ;

Came up the stair together :
They gazed awhile with a thongbtfnl smile

At the crouching form before them j
With clinging holds they grasped its folds,

And out of the darkness bore them.

They healed Its scars, they found its stars

And brought them all together
(Three Northern maids and three from glades

Where smiles (lie South-land weather) ;
They mended away through the summer day

Made glad by an inspiration
To fling it high at the smiling sky

On the birthday of our nation.

In the brilliant glare of the summer air.

With a brisk breeze round it creeping,
Newly bright through the glistening light,

The flag went grandly sweeping:
Gleaming and bold were iu braids of gold.

And flashed in the sun-ray's kissing •
Bed, white, and blue were of deepest hue •

And none of the stars were missing.

THE LOST KISS.

I Pirr by the half-written poem, *

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, " Hud I words to complete it.

Who'd read it, or who'd anderstand?**
But the little bare feet on the stairway.

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,

Cry up to me over it all.

Rn T <raf!>o> U .,.. _v»- I- •

-- - n — *"•• •*• «*i* — iTiitrit: w»3 urUKeS

The tear— faded thread of my theme,
Telling how, ns one night I sat writing,
A fairy broke in on my dream.

A little inquisitive fairy
My own little girl, with the gold

Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy
Blue eyes of the fairies of old.

'Twns the dear little girl that I scolded^

*' For was it a moment like this,"
I said, when she knew I was busy,

" To come romping in for a kiss ?
Come rowdying up from her mother

And clamoring there at my kne«
For ' One 'ittle kiss for my dolly

And one 'ittle uzzer for me ? ' '

God pity the heart that repelled her

And the cold hand that turned her away I
And take from the lips that denied her

This answerless prayer of to-day !
Toke, Lord, from my mem'ry forever

That pitiful sob of despair.
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet

And the one piercing cry on the sUir I

I put by the half-written poem,

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, " Had I wonls to oomplete it.

Who'd read it, or who'd understand 1 "
But the little bare feet on the stairway,

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,

Cry up to me over all.

~J(mt» Whiteamb Sit^

THE COMING OF THE KING.

"They shall see the king In his beauty. •
All day we watched and waited.

Waited at our darling's side,
While her frail bark slowly drifted

Out upon a shoreless tide.
We had wept in bitter anguish.

We had prayed with burning tearo,
While our hearts drew back affrighted.

Looking down the lonesome years.
AH in vain our tears and pleading,

All in vain our sorrowing ;
We could only watch and listen

For the coming of the king.

Oh, the terror of the coming.
Of the grim and ghastly foe I

Oh, the darkness of the pathway
Where onr darlbg'a feet must go J

148

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Oh, the glorjr of tbe iiqmmcr,

Bending akiea ao blue and clear,
And the splendor of the roses, V

And the bird-snngs ftr and near.
Mast she leave thin world of beauty.

All the Joys our love cotild bring,
And lie down in darksome silence '

At the coming of the king ?

Came he solemnly and slowly,

As a lord who claims his own,
Touched the white humU clasped together,

And they were as cold as stone.
Suddenly the blue eyes opened.

While our hearts grew faint with fear,
lu their depths of solemn rapture

Faith and hope were sbioing clear.
Did she see the golden portals ?

Hear the songs the blessed sing?
" Perfect peace " she softy murmured,

At tbe coming of the king.

When the days are long and lonely,

Summer days most sweet and fair,
When we gather in the gloaming

'Round our darling's vacant chair.
Say we softly to each other,

" Fairer scenes than we can know,
Sweeter airs and softer voicea,

Made our darling glad to go."
Shines her happy face upon us.

Still a smile is lingering,
So in patient trust we tarry

For the coming of the king.

Advocate and Gmrdttm.

OUR LOST TREASURE.

I SAW my wife pull out the bottom drawer

of the old bureau this morning, and I went

softly out and wandered up and down until I

knew she had shut it up and gone to her sew-

•ng. We have something laid away in that

drawer which the gold of kings could not

buy and yet they are relics which grieve us

until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dare

look at them for a year, but I remember each

article. There are two worn shoes, a little chip

hat wjth part of the brim gone, some stockings

pantaloons, a coat, two or three spools, bits of

broken crockery, a whip, and some toys. Wife

poor thing, goes to that drawer every day of

her Ufe and prays over it. and lets her tears fall

upon the precious keep-sakes ; but I dare not
go. Sometimes we speak of the little one, but
not often. It has been a long time since he left
us, but somehow we cannot get over grieving
Sometimes when we sit alone of an evening I
writing and she sewing, a child in the street
will call out as our boy used to. and we will
start up with beating hearts and a wild yearn
•ng, only to find the darkness more of a burden
tiianever. It is so still now 1 I look up to th.
window where his blue eyes used to sparkle t
my coming, but he is not there. I listen for hi-
pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing
laugh ; but there is no sound. There is no one to
search my pockets and tease me for presents
I never find the chairs turned over, the broom*
down, nor ropes tied to the door knobs I
want some one to ask me for my knife ; to ride
on my shoulders ; to lose my axe ; to follow me
to the gate when I go. and to meet me at the gate
when I come home, and to call "good-night"
from the little bed now empty. And my wife
she misses him still more, his afTectionate ca-
resses, the many little cares she gladly endured
far his sake ; and she would give her own life
almost, to wake at midnight and see our boy
sweetly sleeping in his little crib the peaceful
slumber of innocent childhood, as in the past
when our little family circle was unbroken.

MUSIC
COLLOQUY.

HOW HE MANAGED AUNT BETSEY.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

^or two laales and two gentlemen.

Characters.

Aunl Betsey Blatchford, A Stingy Old Widow.

I ?;'"' ^'^- i%r AT/....

Marcus Wayte. The District Schoohnaster.

Ives WayU, His Cousin, a Music Dealer.

Scene I. Aunt Betsey sits knitti,,^. Delia Gra*
ts ttoning. -^

Delia Gray. Aunt Betsey, may I go over to
the Drew place to singing-school to-night?

Au^tBttuy. No. you can't; and theres
the end on 1 1 {.Knitting away spHefuify )

D. G. Oh. Auntie, all the young folks will
be there. I ve worked hard all the week —
done a big washing, made soft soap, whi'te-
washed and cleaned the pantiy and kitchen,
besides doing our regular work, and this is the
last piece of the week's ironing, which would
li.ve been done an hour ago, if I had not left
off to get supper.

Aunt B. I know that, Delia; you're a good
gal. and a spry worker as ever was; but I
.lon't b'ltfve in gals larkin' 'round the neigh-
borhood the hull time. They're a deal better
off tu hum. sewin" on their patchwork, or cut-
tin' rags for a new kitchen carpet.

D. G. But I promised the schoolmaster,
Aunt Betsey. He is to call for me at half.past
7, and he will see me safe home afterwards

Aunt B. Wal. what's that? Ut him eo
away agin. °

D. G. There's to be a dance out in the new

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

]«

-..^^ v#ui III inc new

barn after smging-school, and I've ironed my
pink calico dress so neatly, and my laces are
all done up. O. Aunt Betsey, I'll work so
hard on the carpet rags all the rest of the week
if you will only let me go this once !

AuHtB. {Wheeling herself around in her chair,
and eyeing Delia sharply through her silver-brnved
spectacles.) Wal. go. ef you're so sot on it>
riiem singin'-schools don't amount tu much-
nothm' but a clean waste of time and money
In my day. ef we could jine intu the psalm
tunes ,n meetin', 'twas all any gal ever thought
of dum . *"

D. 6. Everybody plays and sings nowa-
aays.

AuHl B Humph! They'd a deal better
play on the washboard, and sing callin' hum
ihecows. That's the sort of singin' thatpays!
I tell you once for all. Delia, 'tain't no use
you re gutm' any sich high-fangled notions in
your head; so, let this end up the singin'-
school business. [^Rising and laying aside her
kmtttngwork.) I guess I'll throw on my bun-
nit and shawl, and go over to Mr. Simmonses.
Iheir hu-ed man said this mornin* that
MISS Simmons wasn't quite so well as she

.:~rr' .■=''• ^' >°» &° ^f^'^^ I git back, lock
the key under

much like going anywhere! Aunt Betwy
means well, no doubt, but she is so set in her
way It IS hard getting along with her. (Bell
rmgs. She opens the door. The Schoolmaster
enters.) Good evening. Mr. Wayte. You are
early. I didn't expect you so soon.

MarklVayte. Yes. it is early. | was down
tins way so I thought I would drop in here and
wait. What, all alone?

D. G. Yes; Aunt Betsey has gone out to
call on our next-door neighbor.

Af. IV. Good 1 Do you know. Delia. I hate
to encounter that old tigress. She makes a
complete drudge of you. Did she have any
objectK,ns to offer to your going to-night?

£>. G. Siie refused outright, at first, to give
her consent, but finally yidded enough to al-
low me to go this once. She gave me to under-
stand, however, that this is to be the last time
I must tlnnk of going to singing-school. She

^. IV. O. Delia ; and those lessons on the

i^aves the s/agr.)
D.G. Oh, dear! I

mat.

m to tired, I don't feel

- — ■ — — i-'v'ac lessons on tni
Batlett's"? ' ^ ''"' been giving you at Dr.

D. G [Sadly.) They will never be of any
use, as I shall never have an instrument to
practice on at home.

M. W. Does your Aunt know people some-
times earn their living teaching music ?

£■ ^^^°" couldn't make her believe it.
J^- W. And you have such a taste for it,

tawr'nu' "'°'' "'^" ^ '"'<=-* decided
talent! Oh, we must not let the thing drop.

You must have an instrument-it won't cost

much to hire one by the quarter-and go on

with your lessons. "^

■^- G. It will be impossible.

Af. IV. I'll see about that. My cousin has
a music store. I'll send him to see your
aunt. '

D.G. [Shrugging her shoulders.) Yoyxdon'x
know Aunt Betsey.

M.IV. {Looking at his watch.) I guess we
had better start soon, so as to walk slow and
visit along the way.

D.G. {Handiug him a magazint.) Here's
a new magazine Anna Wells sent me ; perhaps
you'd like to look if n„«, A_j — ., r

..uu timv j; you ii

exrn«. ™« , r.... moments • ■■ ^

go with you.

I get ready to

^f ' ^ ^*«^'"Jy» {Miss Gray leares th,
rvom. Mr.WayUtunuov0^afiwpagcso/tk4

THE COAfPLBTS PROGRAAf.

f- ' !

.Ja|.

magoMin* and nadi.) Ah' nere is a poem
Laura M. Colvin. {Reads aloud.)

THE SINGER OF ONE SONG.

It it a gloriou thing to wear,

Tlie poet'a well ear ued baya,
To troM fair broidery ofworda

Upon the coming da ;

Ti) write grand cpica that sball aeod

Their echoes dowu the age,
To breathe such lyrics an shall please

The scholar and the sage.

Blind Homer's lines glow iu the eyes

O/ an admiring world ;
And glorious Shakespeare is a host,

With banners all unfurhd;

Scott's mind is variously rich.

Like great Achilles' shield ;
While many a worthy leader mors,

Wins in (he lettered field.

And yet, though dazzling is the hmt

Of this illustrious throng,
Sometimes, all hearU thrill more nnto

The writer of one song;

Like "Home, Sweet Home," or, dearer yet
That quaint " Auld Robin Gray ; "— *

Such rainbows, made of smiles and tears,
Must always win their way.

Though summer's sweetest songsters sing,

Where woodlands vocal be ;
One plaintive bird may charm as more^

Beneath the old roof-tree.

How grand the power, with ftwest words,

Breathed with no seeming art.
That can ontreach the pn>ud('St lays,

And thrill a nation's heart !

Af. IV.

■con?

£>. G. It never takes me long to get ready,
fcr I haven't much to put on.

M. tV. " Beauty unadorned is adorned the

most."

I D. G. Don't flatter 1

M. IV. A well-merited compliment is not
flattery, Delia, ( //e takes his hat and they leave
•he stage. )

(Enter Delia Gray.) What, ready so

TniMm

rrttjrsc 111} tji

Scene ii. /tigs
playing on an organ.
IVayte, enters.

/lis ffiusic-room,
His cousin, Mark

by Ives IVayte. Why. Mark. I haven't seen
you in an ago.

M. W. I'm teaching, you know, and a ped.
agogue don't get much time for calling ( Takes

a seat.) ^

/ iV. There muit be some particular at.
Ira. tion in the district You have your Satur-
days and Sundays?

M. IV. Not wholly. In order to add to my
somewhat meagre salary, I have taken a few
music-scholars at my boarding-place, besides
teaching singing-school, one night in a week,
and leading the choir on Sundays. '

/ fV. You an busy, that's a fact I Hope,
among your pupils. I may find sale for some of
my fine organs or pianos.

M IV. That's just what I came to se^ you
about.

/. IV. Ah, ha ! Good !

M. IV. A young lady has been taking les-
sons on the sly— or. rather. 1 have taken pity on
the girl and given her lessons at such times as
she could steal away from a tyrannical old
aunt who keeps her drudging most of the time.
The poor child is passionately fond of music.

/. IV. And you are passionately fond o'
her ?

'M IV. You've guessed it exactly this time.
I think if anyone can coax the old woman into
buying an organ, you can. for you are a born
salesman.

/. W. The girl has got real talent for
music, eh?

Af. IV. A wonderful talent

/ IV. And poor ?

Af. IV. She is. but the old lady has plenty of
money if she only chose to spend it in this way ;
and she ought to do it. for she hasn't a child in
the world to be hoarding up money for.

/. IV. Plenty of money and plenty of orej.
udices. eh ? '

Af. IV. That'sjustit (5w»7/>f^.)
/ IV. Very well! I'll promise to do the
best I can— to oblige you. Mark, for I see your
heart is in the business.

Af. IV. To be frank with you, Ives, I'm in
love with Delia Gray. We are both poor, If
she could be qualified to give music lessons we
might be married and take the Wiersells Acad,
eniy— a boarding and day school— dont vou
see ? She is the dearest little giri in the wortd-
I wish you could see her.

THE COSfPLETE PXOG/lAAf.

, I haven't wen

came to sc you

real talent for

/ IV And cut you out?
M. W. No danger. She is as true as she is
beautiful.

/. IV. It there any one In the neighborhood
the old woman seems to have a grudge against?

Af. ly. Not in the immediate neigliborhood
I've often heard her speak of tiir Nugents who
live some distance off. but attend the same
•hurch. as being very big feeling folks and liv-
ing beyond their means.

/ M< I have just sold an instrument to
them. Ail's fair in love and war. I'll manage
old Auntif, see if I don't! The organ is as
good as sold.

M. IV. You're a brick, cous. Help us out
m this matter and you shall be best man at my
wedding.

Scene in. Aun/ Betsey iih knitting. Takes a
pinch of snuff and commences to soliloquiae.

AuntB. My! How it rains! I'm afeerd
Dcha '11 hev a bad time gittin' hum. She's
pretty thick with the doctors folks. Ml hev to
break that up. No good comes of gaddin' so
much. Folks '11 think she is runnin' after the
schoolmaster ; but he's sich a stiddy old feller;
and tiiey say he's got a gal in the place he
come from. He looks on Delia as a little gal.
most likely, she's so much younger. The doc-
tor's wife's full of fun and good company ; so I
spose Delia likes tu run over there ; but I must
put a stop to it. I can't hev her wastin' her
time. Tom Bates, our hired man, he had to go
out to-night tu see his brother off for Florida.
Bimeby he'll be taken it intu his head, like as
not. to go there too. He's a proper good farm
hand_I don't see how I could git along with-
out him. Oh, dear! Life's up-hill business
anyway. [Door-bell rings.) How that started
me! Hope 'tain't no tramp, and me all liven
lone here ! ( Opens the door.)

Ives Wayie. {Stands in the door shaking th
rain from his cap.) Is Mr. Nugent's place near
here ?

Aunt B. Bless your heart, no 1 It's nine
good miles on the other road. However came
you to take this way ?

/. W. I've a parlor organ out here. {Glanc-
ing backward. ) that I was to deliver to Miss
Nugent.

Aunt B. Guess you'll hardly deliver it to

Nugent? Wal. I wonder what folly she'll be
guilty of next ! Nugents folks is noways fore-
handed— dont see how they can afford it!

/. IV. Oh, everybody is getting pi?n«s and
organs nowadays. It is so pleasant to have
music in the house, you know. When anybody
IS tired and blue, it seems to rest them and
cheer them up again. Would you be kind
enough to allow me to bring it in hcic ?
AuntB. What mail this rain?
/. W Oh It IS packed in rubber wrappings.
I II take them off in the porch so it won't injure
this nice new carpet ;-fhat reminds me of one
my mother lias just finished up in Nantu.ket.

Wi./i. .'. Yis. you may fetch it in. I never
^een a par:or organ. There was a man come
'n -n plum ,me with a monkey at the end of a
'')n.; <(tring...

-'• W Oh, this is quite a different affair. If
I <.. .d put out my horse and sleep to-night in
your barn—

Aunt B. Land sakes ! Ml light the lantern
and you can put yourhorse right into the stable.
Our hired man ain't to hum or he'd do it for you.
And there's a spare bed-room opens out of the
kitchen that you're welcome tu. {Lights th*
lantern.)

, uk ^ ^°" ^""^ '■*''*"y "^"^ '"'"*'• "ladam.
( Wheels the organ into the room. ) Now I 11 take

your lantern and drive out to the stable. {Leaves
the stage. )

Aunt B. ( Walks around the organ and views
it closely.) Looks sutliin' like a book-desk.
Wonder where the handle is tu grind out the
music. It's a pretty stylish piece of furniture,
that's a fact ! Won't Nugent's folks hold their
heads higher 'n ever when they git that sot up.
mtu ther parlor! I'll go right off and bring in
some doughnuts and cider, cause he must be
cold and hungry ridin' so fur. I peer tu take
kind of a likin' tu the ch.np.he's so old fashion-
ed and natial,--jest like he wastu hum. {Leaves
the room and returns with the cider and dough-
nuts. She meets Ives Wayfc at the door.) You
can hang your wet coat right up here in the
kitchen where it'll dry all nice by mornin' ; and
then come in tother room and have suthin' tu
eat. ( They enter the room and she hands him a
chair bv the iab/x, \

L iv. You're just like my mother, so kind
and thoughtful ! These daughnuts are delicious.

*,. A p„w .^.„, ,., K„ „.„,,, ijsiszi^^rHXhruS::

15il

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

M (

the nicest lunch I've had in a long time I I'm
a lucky chap to get into such comfortable quar-
ters this stormy night. Do you live aloJje ?

Aunt B. Sakes alive, no ? I've got a niece
that lives with me and a hired man that works
tlie farm ; but Delia, she went out jest afore
rlie rain, and I guess she's a waitin* fur it tu
hold up, cause she didn't take noumbarill; and
lom. he's gone to see his brother off for Florida.
Beats all how crazy folks is gittin' round here
'bout them orange groves I Tom's brother,
he's^ saved by a few hundred dollars an' he's
goin' down there tu buy him some land and set
it out tu oranges : but I tell Tom it'll be «ve or
six year afore he can git anything tu speak on
ofTen his land and he'll wish many times he
was back agin a workin* Jim Maynard's farm
on shares— tell you what, this goin' tu Florida
ain't what it's cracked up to be !

/ W. That's so, madam. It isn't so easy
to make a fortune there as some may think.

Aunt B. Wish you'd speak kinder discour-
agin' 'bout it tu Tom. I'm afeerd he's gittin'
sort o' discontented sense his brother's thought
o' goin* ! Tom's a gettin' good wages and he'd
be orful foolish tu leave 1

/ W. You're right, he would ! I'll do all
I can to discourage him. for I hate to see a
young man lose everything he has earned by
hard work just because some unprincipled land
sharks are booming up a tract of worthless
swamps to speculate on.

Aunt B. I'm glad you see it as I du. You
can hev more influence over Tom than I can-
cause he'll think a man has got better judg-
ment 'bout sich things than a woman has.

/ IV. I'll have a good talk with him when
he gets home; I think I can set him right.
And now, as you are so kinl as to give me food
and shelter for the night, I will, with your per-
mission, play a few airs for you on that instru-
ment—Just to show you its tone and compass.

Annt B. Sartin, I'd be much obleeged tu you
ef you would. 'Twould be ruther of a good
joke for me tu hear Matildy Nugent's organ
afore she hears it herself— wouldn't it r w ?
(He seats himstlfat the organ and pfays several
old-fashioned tunes— such as Aunt Betsey used to
sing when she was a girl. ) Beats all how r, ch
iiiusic there is in that thing ! Kin you play
"Old Rosin the Bow?"
/ W: I think I can. {ftays a tAnmgh.)

Aunt B. Seems most like 't was speakin'? I
never heerd one of them parior organs afore !
Be they very costly, mister ?

/. IV. Only one hundred and twenty-five
dollars. I throw off five dollars for cash down.
Aunt B. Seems like a good deal of money.
( Shakes her head and hesitates. ) But. arter all,
what's money ef you can't have any good on it t
And Delia, she's dredful fond of music. I'm
a'most sartin she could lam tu play on thai
there instrument, and it sounds sort o' nice tu
hear them old-fashioned tunes that folks used
tu sing when I was a gal !— My money's my
own. I guess I can du as I'm a mind tu {De-
fiantly.\ And I will, tu ! I hain't got nobody
in the. world to du for but Delia, and she'd al-
most jump out of her skin to hev sich an organ.
I say. Mr. Musicman, cf you'll leave that organ
jest where it stands and cart up another tu
Matildy Nugent, I'll take it and pay you cash
down — there now !

/. W. Well, madam, since you desire it, I
think it might be managed. The instrument
is here— that counts for something.

AuntB. It's proper sightly. Delia has ben
a good, hard working gal— Play that last tune
over again. Mr Musicman, she's a comin' up
the path, I heerd the gate-latch creak— (i%
commences playing.) Yis, here she comes, and
the schoolmaster tu. {Enter Delia Gray and
MarkWayie.) Good evening, Mr. Wayte.

M. fV. Good evening, Mrs. Blatchford. {The
musician leaves off playing and jumps up in well..
feigned surprise.)

I. W. Why, Mark Wayte, are you here ?
M. IV. Hello, Ives t what brought you up
here ?

/. W. Missed my way. I think I'm pretty
lucky to find such good shelter.

M. W. Th.it's a fact. Mrs. Blatchford. my
cousin. Mr. Wayte. Miss Gray, Mr. Wayte.
(They ska,: hands.)

D. G. Am I dreaming? What i.s this!
How came it here ?

Aunt B. It's a present I'm goin' tu make
you. Delia. (Smiling pleasantly.) Comt and kiss
me, can't you ? (She rushes to her aunt and
kisses her fondly.)

D. G. It is so kind of you. Auntie, to sur-
prise me so I Isn't it nice, Mr. Wayte ? .
/W: IV. Perfectly grand !
'.untB. I'll hire tfae KhooUnaster to ^ve

\"\ ,,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

think I'm pretty

What is this}

>linaster to pve

y*u music lessons ; and we'll take solid comfort
out o' this ere— see ef we don't !

M. W. I board just below here, Ives, you
must go home with me and spend the night.

/ W. Thanks, Mark, it is so long since I
have seen you I guess I will accept your invita-
.ioii.

Aunt B. Ef you're agoin' hum with him, I'll
go and git your money. {Leaves the room )

/ W. Didn't I tell you. Mark, it was as
good as done ?

M. W. (Laughing.) Bravo ! I think you
ought to have a diplomatic appointment.

I. W. I like this business better, {hnter A
B. and hands him the money.) Thanks! You'll
find that instrument first class in every respect.
Aunt B. It's suthin* tu git ahead of Matildy
Nugent. She needn't be puttin' on airs over
my gal. Delia's done a sight of worksence she
come here and she desarves the organ ef any.
body ever did.

/ W. I trust you will enjoy your present.
Miss. Gray. Cousin Mark is a very successful
music teacher, and under his instructions you
will, doubtless, make rapid progress.

D. G. Thanks, Mr. Wayte, I shall apply
myself, since auntie has been so kind as to buy
me this beautiful instrument, and I hope, in
rime, to make a j-ood player.

Aunt B. I know it's gittin' late, but jest
play one more tune, Mr. Wayte. so Delia and
the schoolmaster, here, can see how nice it
sounds.

/ W. Well, then, let it be something in
which we can all join. Mrs. Blatchford. do you
know " Home, Sweet Home.'"

Aunt B. Land sakes, yis ; I've sung it many
a time when I was a gal.

I IV. It is just as good now as it was then,
-one of the good old tunes that never wear out.
We'll sing it as a very appropriate closing piece
for the pleasant evening spent in your own
sweet home. (Mrs. Blatchford seems delighted
Olid her aged, trembling voice blends in the mel-
o'y, while they all sing, "Home, Sweet
Home."

Mid pleaanres and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
A charm from va& skies seems to littllow na there
Which, seek through the world, ii not met with
eisewher*.

IfiS

An exile from home, splendor duzsles in vain ;
Oh » give me my lowly thatched cottage again !
The birds sing gayly, that come at my call,-^
Give me them with the peaceof mind dearer than
all.

HOW sweet 'tis to sit 'ueath a foud father's
smile,

And the cares of a mother to soothe and begu lie-
Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam,
But give, oh 1 give me the sweet pleasures of
home.

To thee I'll return, overburdeuf .; with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there.
No more from that cottage ai^ain will I roam ;—
Beit ever so humble, there's no place like home.

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place M,e home!
There's no place like home I

(The gentlemen take their hats.)
I IV. I'll be over in the morning. Mrs.

Blatchford and have a good, serious talk with

Tom. I guess I can set him all right on the

Florida question.
Aunt B. That's right-so du ! (T^i^ Messrs.

Wayte bid Mrs. B. and her niece good night and

bow themselves out. Curtain falls.)

WORKING AND DREAMING.

BY MES. A. L. LAWBIB.

All the while my needle traces

Stitches in a prosy seam,
Flit before me little faces,

And for them the while I dream.

Building castle llRht and airy

For my merry little Kate,
Wondering if the wayward fairy

Will unlock the golden gate.

Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,
Just as all fond mothers do,

And for her, my thoughtful Lily,
Twining laurel leaflets, too.

In the far-off future roving

Where the skies are bright and fiilf
Hearing voices charmed and loving,

Calling all my darlingi tbei*.

ISi

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

il . >

Through the distant years I'm tracing
Dewy pathways bright with flowers,

And along their borders plncinu
Here and there these peta of ours.

And the wliile my fancy liiigeia
In that hope-born summer clime,

Pretty garments prove my fingers
Have been busy all the time.

And I care not though around me
Romp the little merry band ,

Never could the spell that bound me
Break at touch of softer hand,

Than the little hand of Nora,
Soiled in search of blossoms rare ;

For she says they're gifts that Flora
Bade her bring to deck my hair.

So my summer days are flying
On their swift, oblivious track ;

But while love meets fond replying
1 would never wish them back ;

But their precious, fragrant rosea

I would gather and entwine
In a wreath, ere summer closes.

For the autumn's pale decline.

THAT TERRIBLE CHILD.

It was in the cars. The ladies were sitting
together, busily engaged in conversation. On
the seat facing them sat a little five-year-old
boy. He had been looking out of the window,
apparently absorbed in the moving panorama
of the outside world. Suddenly he turned from
the window; he began searching about the
car, exclaiming in high, piping voice :

"Mamma, which man is it that looks so
funny? "

" Sh ! " cautioned his mother. But the boy
was not to he hushed.

" I don't see the man with the bald head and
funny red nose."

The " sh " was repeated. By this time the
car was in a titter, save and excepting one
elderly gentleman with a very bald head and a
very red nose. His eyes were riveted upon his
paper with a fixedness that was quite frightful.
Again the boy :

" Oh ! now I sec him ! Hb i what a bright
nose I What makes it so red, mamma?"

•• Georgie ! " shouted his mother, in a stag*
whisper ; but George was not to be stopped.

" Mamma," he continued, •• what made you
say he had a light-house on his face ? I don't
see any light-house."

Again, "Georgie!" and this time with a
light shake.

Once more the piping voice, the bald-headed
passenger gazing at his paper more tiercelv
than ever, and growing redder ever moment : '
" Mamma, I don't think his head looks like
the State House dome. It's shiny like it. but
it isn't so yaller."

While the titter went around again. Georce's
mother whispered rapidly to the boy, and gave
her young hopeful a box on the ear. which
seemed to partially divert his attention from the
bald-headed passenger, but not entirely.
He cried once more through his tears :
" You said his nose was red as a beet, mam-
ma ; I didn't say nothing."

Strange to say the bald-headed passenger
didn't take part in the suppressed laughter that
followed, but he put on his hat and hid his nose
»n the paper, over which he glared at the boy as
if he wanted to eat him. And yet where was
the boy to blame }— Boston Transcript.

SCHOOL-GIRLS IN A STREET-CAR.

Four young misses rode up in a Madison
street car a few evenings ago. They were good
samples of latter-day young women, and they
managed to keep the attention of all the other
passengers during the trip. Two were high-
school giris.and the passengers soon learned that
the other two were boarding-school misses who
had been met at the train by the two city girls.
The boarding-school samples wore their hair
clipped close, and affected the air of the dash-
ng young serio-comic vocalist' who sings the
jockey song and dances to the accompaniment
of a two-penny whip. The home productions
were girlishly innocent.

"Commencement was so jolly," burst otii
one of the boarding-school girls. "I did hate
to leave. It broke me all up to leave the dear
professor."

"Which one?" asked a high-school ^irl
betraymg signs of the most intense curiosity.
"Why, the French professor, of course.

mother, in a stag*
t to be stopped.
" what made you
his face ? I don't

this time with a

'. the bald-headed
)er more fiercelv
r ever moment :
s head looks like
shiny like it, but

d again, George's
he boy, and gave
I the ear, which
ittention from the
3t entirely.

his tears :

as a beet, mam-
Jaded passenger
3ed laughter that
and hid his nose
red at the boy as
i yet where was
tnscript.

REET-CAR.

p in a Madison
They were good
omen, and they
of all the other
'wo were high-
oon learned that
tiool misses who
e two city girls,
wore their hair
»ir of the dash,
who sings the
accompaniment
lie productions

Ily." burst otjt
. "I did hate
leave the dear

B'h-school trirl.

" . - ^ — .

ise curiosity,
or, of course.

TRIUMPH.

]55

He's such a dear, sweet little fellow, and
he has such ai. elegant mustache. It's a but-
terfly.' '

A chorus of giggles bubbled from the listen-
ing trio.

" Oh. I forgot to tell you. I went buggy-rid-
mg Saturday night. Oh. the moonlight was deli-
cious." continued the gushing young lady, •• I
was with that dear music-teacher of mine." she
concluded, with a simper.

••Oh, how did Mammy Podd come to let you
go.' " queried the city miss, clasping her hands
ill an agony of suspense.

•■ Ut me go? Vou bet. I gave her the double
dodge and a slip. Oh, how is that delicious]
minister I met during the holidays?"

••Why haven't you heard? He's going to
New York. His throat's sore, and he has got
to leave this terrible climate."

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

•Isn't that perfectly sad? Oh hn» ^ f"i '" *^^ .'^'°^°Phy of de thing," h,

>! Dear m^ ; don^t you'th^k r.irr i^^^T'''-^ — n-s.nse plan

...,_. , ' ■ ^"> "WW warm

It is! Dear me; don't you think it will be
cooler to-morrow ? "

"Oh. yes indeed ; it's always cooler to-mor-
row. It seems to me. Do you have to study

much out there? I've had an elegantsufficiency
of high-school. '

"Oh. no indeed ; us girls bought a key to
our.mathics.'and we write all the other an-
swers on our cuffs. Mammy Podd's got fair
eyes, you know." *

" Oh, Clara ! "broke in the other high-school

r h'" r.fL^^"^''°"- " ^ '^^'•e"' t« tell you.
Fred and Eddie are coming up to-night. Fred's
got a new suit and a cane."
••Dear me!" gasped the boarding-school

aress i Mas he got a moustache vet? "

narrow spot in the road, where the mud was a
foot deep, his old mule had given out. and the
wagon was stalled. The man sat on a log by
he roadside, smoking a corn-co- pipe and cn-

Z"^ * t""; '"'' *"^ ''*^'" ^'*=^'*"g t»'e situa.
Hon. I asked ;

" Well, what are you going to do? "
" Nuffin'. boss." he answered
••Going to leave the rig rigl.t there until it
sinks out of sight ? "

sheS:'-''''''""^""" ''°''" *''°"' ^'^ f""- "
•' And you are in no hurry? "

to.vn/'' ''"■ '" «°' "" ''^ *«'' »° «« to
^^•' Well, you take things pretty cool. I must

an'*fj; ''r* •'"''I '°* **°'"' •'"'' ''^'f =" hour
an seedefilosophy ofde thinp '• h», 1

•• Ize working . L!,!' _ A^'"^' . ''^ ""s^^red.

■"> dis dif.

ficulty."
I got down and took a seat, and it wasn't ten

^Xd '':r K?""" ^^^"'' ^'"^ ^°- ^^

perched on the bales, came up from the rear.

th. /° • ^^'-^^^^'^ de rumpus ? " demanded
the driver, as he checked his mules

" Dun got stuck fast."

"Oh-ho! Come along, boys, an* eit dat
ole mewl outer his trubble." " £« <«at

They all got down, each took a wheel and

;;;f„:ud'T"''^''''^^^°"-^^''--"^^^^^^^

the mud, and was ready to go on
, "See de p'int?" queried the 'owner of the
ng, who hadn't lifted a pound himself.
" I do.

I'Dat's w-hat ails de black man to-day-
ham t got no filosophy. He-haw. now, JuHuI

Ash' I'n- aV noo ! " shouted the onductor grrilht un 'n T'^ ""'^"' "°"' J"''—
"Gracious!'- "Stop the car!" •• We^Uei foL whi^^^ " ^""^ ^"'^ ole backbone! So
^st! ''screamed the young women inrhofu T^: ^^ "^"""^ ^°' '^^er 1 "-Z>.,,,,>

past! " screamed the young women in a chofu
as they rushed for the door.
A gust of glad sighs blew them out

PHILOSOPHY IN THE MUD.

AN OLD DARKEY PROVES THAT "ALL COMES TO
HIM WHO WAITS."

Out about four miles from Natchez, I came

S^Ia^trj;^" ^'° ""^^ -dedVortrn
*'th a jag of wood on a one mule wagon. At a

RULES AT A GUTHRIE HOTEL.

find'tvlf " V*"' '^"^' are troublesome, y„uH
find t. e kloroform in a bottle on the shelf

Ichai'fx^a;" '"'"'"' ''^'^ ''---'"'-

murSeHnXr '"* ^"^^ '"^*" that there I.
murder m the house, and you must get up.

Hease nte your name on the wall-pa-r ..
we know you've been here. ^^ ' ^

%> Q-

186

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

The other leg of the chair Is >.t rh^ closet, if
jrou need it

If that hole where that pain jt glass is out is
loo much for you. you'll find a pair > pants
back of the doo*- to stuff in it.

The shooting of a pisto! is no cause for any
alarm.

If you're too cold, put the oilcloth over your
bed.

Caroseen lamps extra ; candles free, but tiiey
mustn't burn all night.

Don't tare off the wall paper to lite your pipe
with. Nuffof that already.

Guests will not take out !hem briks in the
mattress.

If it rains through ths? hole overhead, you'll
find an umbreller und^r the bed.

The rats won't hurt you, if the; Cn chase
each other across your face.

Two men in a room must put up witl. en"
chair.

Please don't emyty the sawdust out of ir/;
pillers.

Don't kick about the roches.. "We doat
charge extra.

If th<«re's no towel handy, use a piece of the
t.^vgKX.~ Philadelphia North American.

A JUMPER FROM JUMPVILLE.

HB CONFESSES THAT KB WAS JUST A TRIFLE
TOO SM.IRT.

"SAVr'' he cfilled as he walked across the
•treet to a policeman yesterday at the circus
grounds, " have you seen a slim little chap
with a red moustache and a diamond pin?"

"I don't remember."

" Well. I want to hunt him up. If you'll
i elp me find him I'll give you a yoke of two-
jc;ar-old steers "

"What she done?"

'• Say f I'm mad all over, but I can't help
but— ha ! ha 1 ha I— laugh at the way he gum-
fuwled mc half an hour ago. I'm a flat. I
am! I'm rich pasture for cows I I'm turnips
with a heap of green tops 1 "

"What's the story i"'

"Well. I was over there under a wagon

counting my money. I brought in |i 5. I wai
a wondering whether I'd better keep it in my
hind pocket or pin it inside my vest wlien th :
little chap comes creeping under and savs ;
•Pardnj;-, there's a wicked crowd aroumi iJre!
Put th.Ai money in your boot.' Say I "
I " Yes "

"Struck me as the sensiblest thing I c;ilc.
do. It was in bills, and I pulled off my ri,,'ht
boot and chucked 'em in, Say ! d'ye see ai'y.
thinggreca in that?'
"No."

" Well. \ h.uln't w-alkcd iround long before

a chap comes up ana reman. s that he hat i,5 to

bet to a quarter shat lie can : uijun o me Sa>',

d'>e know me?" "

" No."

" Well, when I'm home I'm the tallest j amp.
! i-t of Was .ienaw county, I jump higher and
farther iha-i anything animal or human. 1
kivtr ti;ore ground than a panther: I sail
higher than a jumpin" boss. I'm open io even
bets day or night, and I go out and jumo 'It en
feet to astonish the children. When t!t r 'ere
stranger offered sich odds I looked at his legs
for a minute and remarked that I was hii
huckleberry."
" I see."

" Say. up went the stakes, off cum my bute*
and I outjumped him by three feet six."
"And what?"

"And when I looked around for my butej
that infernal little hornet with the sandy mus-
tache had made off with the one the cash was
in. Say 1 "
" Yes."

"I live on Jumpin' creek. I'm the creek
myself. I'm called a daisy when I'm home,
and every time I trade bosses or shot-guns or
dogs I paralyze the other feller. I'm previous.
I'm prussic acid. I'm razors. Say I "
"Yes."

"If I kin lay hands on that little chap I'll
make every bpne crack. But it was a good one
on me. Eh? Ever see it beaten? Played mj
for a fool and hit me the fust time. Say '
you see me— ha! ha! ha !— laughing. (...
think I'm tight: i'm mad. But say r'd
J .> ing Creek was too smart, :.!(-• !!•?
r; . • d something to thin his bl. , , ,: iie
goi u /rom a chap who didn't seem to . . .• ..mty
from the band-wagon ! Say ! Ha ! ha ' :■ , '

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf,

THE WIDOW OSHANES RINT.

Whisht there! Maiy Murphy, doan think me In-

sane,
:i» t I'm dyin' ter tell ye of Widder O-Shone •
.-:!-e =iT lives in the attic oixt mine, doan ye know
4 V d.«fl the foine washiu' fer ould Misther

Slioow.

•

Wi.l iiiver a chick nor a child tir track in,
Her kitchen is always as nate as a pin ;
An' her cap an' her iipron is always tl.'atclane-
aii, amoighty foine gurrel is the Widder O'Shune.

An' wnd ye helave me, on Satui-day uight
W«i heard a rough stip comin' over our flight;
Au Mike, me ould man, he jist hollered to me,
" Look out av the door an' ^ce who it moight be. "

Ac' I looked, Mary Murphy, an' save me if there
Wusu't Thomas Muhoue on the uppermost stair
(He's the landlord ; ye're seen him yerseir, wid a

cane),
An' he knocked on the door of the Widder

O'Shane.

An' I whispered to Michael, "Now what can it

mane
That his worship is calling on Widder O'Shane? "
Hint day comes a Friday wid us, doan you see,
So I knew that it wusn't collectin' he'd be.

" It must be she owes him some money for rint
Though the neighbors do say that she pays to the

Giot;
Yon take care of the baby, Michael Brady," says

"An' I'll pape through the keyhole, I will, if I
die."

The howly saints bliss me ! what shnldq't I see
But the Widder O'Shane sittin' pourin' the tea;
An' the landlord wus there, Misther Thomas Ma-
hone,
. sittin' one side ov the table alone.

All' he looked at the Widder O'Shane, an' sez he

It's a privilege great that ye offer ter me ;
Fer I've not onoe eat down by a fair woman'-

side
Since I sat down by her that I once called me

brid«k

"An' is it ye're poor now, Widder O'Shane i
Ye're a dncent woman, both tidy an' clone •
An' we're both n us here in the wnrruld alone,
Wud ye think ol uuitin' wid Thomas Muhone?'!

Then the Widder O'Sh.ine put the tea kettle
down.

An' she says, "Mislher Thomas, yer nnme is a

crown ;
r take it most gladly "-an' then me ould man
Hollered, " Bridget, cum in here, quick as y-r

can."

So then, Mary Murphy, I riz off that floor,
An' run into me attic an' bolted the door ;
An' I sez to me Michael, " Xow, isn't it m'ane ?
She'll have no rint to pay, will that Widdni
O'Shane."

• — rbufA's Cotttp<inton.

I KNOW NOT THE HOUR OF HIS
COMING.

I Kwow not the hour of His coming ;

I know not the day or the year ;
But I know that he bids me be reJdy

For the step that I sometime shall hear,

I know not what lieth before me,
It may be all pleasure, all care ;

But I know at the end of the journey
Stands the mansion He went to prepare.

And whether in joy or in sorrow.
Through valley, o'er mountain or hill

I will walk in the light of His presenc ,
And bis love all repining shall still.

I know not what duties are waiting
For hands that are willing and true ;

And I ask but the strength to be faithful,
And do well what He gives me to do.

And if He should bid me stand idle-
Just waiting— in weakness and pain,

I have only to trust and be faithful,
And sometime He'll make it all plain.

And when His voice calls, in the morning,
..t noontime, perhaps, or at night,

With no plea but the one. Thou hast called n..
I shall enter the portals of light.

—Exiro, HaUovk.

4* ^<i i. i

FOR

School and Rv^ninq

ENTERTAINMENTS.

ARRANGED BY

MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

COLLOQUY.

MR. BAYBERRY'S DILEMMA.

DRAMATIZED Uy MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

Characters.

Mr. J3a.j/3erry

Mrs. Peabody '

Miss Delilah Dobbins \
Miss Selina Peabody \

A rich old bachelor.
A poor widow.

Step-sisters.

Scene i. Mr. B^yberry at home, sitting in his
easy-chair, soliloquizing.

Mr. Bayberry. 1 never was in such a peck of
trouble in all my life. {Abstractedly stroking his
whiskers and frowning in perplexity. ) I used
to think if ever I fell in love, I'd know my own
mind; but I'll be hanged if I ain't plum beat
this time, and no mistake. I'd ruther dig a
hull field of pertaters or cut medder six weeks
stiddy, than to tell which of them two girls I
like the best. I've studied and studied for
hours at a time, whether I'd ask Selina Pea-
body or Delilah Dobbins, an' the more I study
on it the more befuddled I git. Them bein'
step-sisters, too. makes it all the worse, fur
when I go to the house, I'm sure to see 'em
both ; and I'm plagued ef I can tell which one
I'd ruther have. Delilah'i a leeUe the peak-

edest, but then she's got sich leetle white hands,
sich black eyes, and her cheeks are as red as
any double hollyhock I ever see. And then
Selina, she's plump as a wood-pigeon, and
with hair like streaks of sunshine, and eyes as
blue as bachelder buttons. Of course, folks'll
talk ef I marry either one of 'em, bein' as
they're poor, and Miss Peabody takes in wash.
ing ; but I reckon I'm able to please myself,
and ain't got to say <• By your leave " to no-
body. I've got one of the best farms in the
country ; my house is snug and cozy, and I've
a good solid nest-egg in the village bank, be-
sides. Most any girl 'round here would be
glad to jump at the chance .- and I must many
soon, for Miss Cranebill, my housekeeper, has.
hinted pretty strong of late that I must look out
for another housekeeper before long. I s'pose
she has an eye to being mistress here, but she'll
get left on that, I'm thinkin'. Pshaw ! what a
dunce I be, anyhow ! I wonder what I'd best
to do ! Je-rusalem ! I've got it now ! {His
face brightens up -with the new idea.) I see my
way now clear as daylight, and I shan't have
to marry Miss Cranebill, or go without a house-
keeper either. I'm going to leave it all to chance
or Providence, ruther. an' the first one of them
girls I see by herself I'm goin' to pop the ques-
tion to right straight off! And now that the
business is settled and off my mind, I'll go
down and see Squire Simpson 'bout tradin'for
that gray horse of his'n. (Rises and puts on hit
coat and hat and leaves the stage.)

160

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Scene ii. Miss Delilah Dobbins, standing be.
fort a mirror in her own room, trying on her
new bonnet, ami talking to herself.

161

Delilah Dobbins. I do hope it won't snow
to-morrow, for I want to go to church. I de-
clare, this bonnet is becoming— just the thing
for my complexion. Of course, Mr. Bay berry
will be there; and if I don't get a proposal
from him this time, it won't be my fault. I'm
tired to death of working and drudging and be-
ing a nobody. Won't I put on style, though,
when I get the handling of his rusty dollars! I
shall be an old man's darling, and he will let
me do just as I please. To-morrow I'll just set I

my wits to work, and {^Her mother calls. I

Mrs. Peabody. Delilah! Delilah! I

Delilah. Dear me! there's ma caHIng, what '
do they want now ? I s'pose I shall have to
run down stairs and see.

Scene hi. Mrs. Peabody and Selina are iron,
ing. A basketful of clothes stands on the floor
ready to be taken to its owner. Delitah
flounces into the room in a huff—provoked
at being interrupted in her pleasant soliloquy.

Delilah. Well, what do you want now ? I
can't t e up-stairs a minute without hearing
"Delilah! Delilah!" It is enough to provoke
a saint. I declare to goodness, I'll get mar-
ried, and see how you'll get along without me
then.

Selina Peabody. If you get a chance, you
mean, Delilah.

Delilah. If I ..get a chance!" I know

what I am talking about. Miss Selina, I'll soon

be through with this drudgery, see if I'm not '

Mrs. Peabody. I think you'll have to carrv

Mrs. Sunonson's clothes home, Delilah, Ned

has to go to mill, and

Delilah. I won't do any such a thing. Carrv
home clothes Indeed, as if I were a servant!
Why don t Sehna go. if anybody must?

Mrs. P. Selina has been ironing since early
tins mornmg, and is tired out.

Delilah. Well, upon my word ! (S^eeringly.)
Selina s getting migluy fine, of late, •;• a litfle
work lays her out. Anyhow, I r" .nt budge
'1 Mrs. Simonson goes without clothes all the
'lays of her life. I'm busy fixing my dress to
(vear tq gh«rgh to-morrow ; so ypu needn't call

till

supper's ready. {She leaves

me any more
the room.)

Mrs. P What shall we do, Selina? Mr Si-
monson is our best customer, and she's so par-
tickler 'bout bavin' her clothes early Saturday

[ afternoon. Delilah's so fract'ous

S.lina. Never mind Delilah, ma. I'll take
the clothes home. I'm not so very tired, and
you won't have much to do for supper I
parched the coffee in the oven while I was iron-
ing. and there's enough cold biscuit and apple
sauce. ' '^

Mrs R Oh dear! I do hate to have you'

go, after working so hard

I Selina. Pshaw, ma! It won't hurt me-don't
I worry. {^P„ts on her bonnet and shawl and starts
\<ff with the clothes.)

Mrs. P. What a difference in my two girls !
Dehlah has very high notions in her head-
get married, indeed ! She would make a poor
stick for any man.

Scene iv. Footsteps are heard outside. De-
lilah hastens to open the door. Selina enters
followed by Mr. Bayberry. whom Delilah does
not, at first, see.

PfM. So, you've come, at last, have you?
Might as well have staid all right while you
was about it! {In great surprise.) Why, Mr
Bayberry. is it you ? Do come in, won't you ?
Mr. B. Wall, I don't reckon I'll stop this
time. Miss Delilah, I only jest come to bring
my wife home on a visit.
Delilah. Your wife?

^n A Yes. my wife! I'm ym.r brother-in-
law now. Miss Delilah. Selina can tell you
better'n I kin, how I met her a-goin' to Squire
Simonson's and popped the question on the
spot ; and the Squire he mistrusted somethin'
and begun a-jokin' us. ano the fust thing i
knew I was a-ridin' off on his old gray boss to
git a license ; that's what kep' us so late ; and
the Squire he manied us; so that's all. I'm
a-goin' over to git the light wagon to take Se-
hna hum : and I guess she'll hev' her things
picked up and ready agin I git back.

Mrs. P. Isn't this a very sudden affair, Mr
Bayberry ?

Mr. n. Not so very suddin' with me. I've
ben a-thinkin' it over fur quite a spell, and I
reckon Providence had a hand in bringin' h
about jest now, *

ifli

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Mh. P. Well, you have secured a prize, if
•he is my daughter.

Mr. B. So I callterlate, Miss Prnbody ; I'll
see that SeHna has as good and comfortable a
home as any woman ever had, and shall ex-
pect you and Delilah here to come over ni-I
make yourselves neighborly.

Mn. P. Thanks, we shall be glad to do s,.,

and hope you and Selina will come here < Iten.

Mr-. B. Sartinly, we will, but I must be

a-goin', the roads are bad, and it is gitiin' lafc

I'll be back in an hour or so, Selina.

Selina. All right. I'll try and be ready when
you come. [He haves the stage.) \

Delilah. So, Miss, you've, at last, succeeded
in entrapping Mr. Bayberry ! T ran see through
your sly manoeuvres. You kn.: • he was going
to be there, and that's the reasca you were so
willing to take the clothes.

Selina. 1 knew no such thii.g, Delilah, it was
a complete surprise to me. I r»ver once sus-
pected that Mr. Bayberry cared for me.

Delilah. I suppose you think you'll m;il<eme
believe that !
Selina. You can do as you like about if.
Mrs. P. Why, Delilah, what does ail you?
A body'd think you wanted Mr. Bayberry your,
self.

Delilah I wanted Mr. Bayberry ! The old
curmudgeon I Do you suppose I'd marry such
a stingy old miser as he is? He'll do well
enough for Selina, who never did look very
high, but when I marry it will be some more
polished gentlpman.

Mrs. P. Polished fiddlesticks ! I've heard
enough of such nonsense. Mr. Bayberry is a
good, respectable man. and will make Selina a
kind and indulgent husband. I'm proud of
such a son-in-law.

Delilah. Wait till you sec my beau ideal.

Mrs. P. I really hope he will be a beau ideal
until you prove yourself more worthy of a hus-
band real. But supper is getting cold, we must
sit down and eat, so Salina can be ready when
Mr. Bayberry .cturns.

Black Magnet of Tennessee." was in the ante-

room. He had been three months working his

ay up from Tennessee to speak before the

club, ind, 'o far as had been observed in the

*i' c.i^s h • ' d been in tovMi, lie was

a mod-

MAKING OF ' TTE EARTH.

%viii.., ,.,^ .r.-.;tmg hau Dcen auly opened
Brother Gardner announced that the Honorable
Scalpilusas Johnson, better known as " The

I rst. quo' man, wiili a very slim appetite for a
' gicat orator. The subject of his address was:

"How did dis yere world git yere?" and there

were grounds for believing that it would prove

both instructive and interesting.
I When the honorable was brought in by the

committee it was -^ .1 i v.. ; . ,, ^dthe Jniild and
j demeanor of a great philosopher. He toed in
a bit as he walked, but he was very perpcndic-
ular in his carriage, and there was no question
but what he felt right at home in the presence
of an audience. He was out at the elbows, and
there was an off-color patch on one knee, but
there is no law in this country to compel a
philosopher to wear store clothes. He moved
with easy grace to the platform, put a small
lump of rock salt in his mouth and quietly be-
gan:

" My frens, is dar' one among you who ever
stopped to think dat dis world was not alius
yere ? Probably not. You hev gone fussin'
around without thought or care whether dis
globe on which we hev the honor to reside is
one thousand or one millyun y'ars old. [Sen-
sation.] Did you eber sot down on de back
steps in de twilight an' ax yerself how dis world
cum to be yere anyhow ? How was it made ?
How long r':d it take ? How did de makin ' be-
gin? No; none of e hev. Ye hev put in
v'r timeshcotin' era s, playin* pclicy. spottin'

lien hi^usesan' Sicepin' in de .,hade, an' ye
ar a pack of pore, ignorant critters in conse-
kence. [Signs of indignation throughout the
haH '

"Mvfrnes." continu.-u the speaker, "what
occupied dis yere space befo* de world took lu
place ? Some of you n- ( ubt "S-lieve it was a
vast body of v -ter— a jreat ocean full of
whales. Other v arf ed dat it wasone f
plain, whar* per- .mor m* watermelons g-«
dehull y'ar rou i. [Vumt yum!] You ^
all mistaken. It was simply goneness— emp
ness—nuffinness— space. It was de same emp-
tiness dat you see when you look skyward.
[Smiles of incredulity.] De space at present
occupied by his world could hev once bin
bought fur an ole dun-cuU'd mewl wid bis tecf

THE COMPLETE FROLRAM.

gone, an* it would hev bin a dear bargain at dat. i periods- de ice period de drift rvri^H A. a\^
De reason t wasn't snIH ».-.« h.L ..- ,),-. ..... I _. . . , V^rxoa, ae antt period, de dirt

De reason it wasn't sold was bekase dar' was
nobody yere to buy it— —

NOBODY TO GIT UP A BOOM."

The speaker here paused to take a sip of
waf"- and renew his rock salt, and tlien said ;
•• ilow did dis world git a start? Some of
you may hev wondered about it, but it is mo"
likely dat you has dun let it go, an' paid no
'tenshun to de matter. In de fust place de
Lawd bad to find de space. You can't build a
cabin till you git de space to build on. [Sen-
sation. ; Dar had to be a space to put de worid
in. De atmosphere had to be shoved aside to
make a big hole, an' when de hole was dar de
world comm -need to make. You liev red dat
ebery thing was created in six days. Mighty
long days dose were. I has figgered on it a
good many ti' les, an* I'ze tellin" ye dat it took
thousands of y'ars. fAgitati -n.J Dar was a
powerful lot o' periods to gc frew wid befo'
tilings come out ship-shape.

DAR WAS DE CHAOTIC PERIOD—

a time when eberything was was w rong side up
an' inside oi; .. Flames was a-rollin', de oceans
aheavin'. mo -ains ribin' up to sink away
..,,'in, an* dar was -^o tellin' who would cum
out on top. Dat ^..riod lasted fur 10,000 y'ars,
an' it was a goo.i thing d we wasn't around'
("Here!" " Here! "]

•• De nex' period was passle period— a
time when everything was passled it accord-
in* to common sense. De oceans war giben
boundaries de ribers war' giben beds— de
mountains war' distributed around togive moas'
eberybody some side hill, an' dar wasagineral
pickin' ober and sortin' out to make a eood an-

period, de grass period- and finally all was
ready an* waitin' fur de man period. De world
had bin created an' was all right. Birds were
flyin' around, chickens roosted so low dat you
could reach up an' pick 'em. [applause] an' de
boss an' ox an' cow stood waitin' to be milked.
It was a beautiful scene. I kin shut my eyes
an' see it. If you could hev bin right dar' at
dat time you would hev busted yourselves on
*possuman' yams [awful whoopsj, de fattest
kind o' pullcts-de biggest sart o' 'possums—
de heaviest yams an* de moas* gigantic water-
melons-all right dar' beggin* of you to eat
'em up widout costin* a cent."

Here the applause was so uproarious that the
speak-r had to pause for several minutes. Dur-
ing .excitement Elder Toots struck Antimony
Johnson in the stomach with his knee, and
Brother Johnson lay apparently lifeless for four
^Vater^)ury minuter.

" Den man an' woman war* created,'* said
the orator when his voice could once more be
heard, •• an' things has gone along bang-up
eber since. I has bn pained an' grieved to
h'ar dat sartin cull'd men hev contendeddat.de
black man was bo'n fust. In fact dat Adam was
jist about my size an' complexun, [Applause.]
Gem'len, doan* you believe it. It hain't so.
If it was so we'd be walkin' into barber s >pf
kept by white men an* layin' ourselves back
fur a shave. We wouldn't hev dis fuzzy h'ar
We wouldn't be so liberal in de size of de fut
an' de length of de heel. We could pass a
smoked ham hangm' in front of agrocery inde
night widout Ptoppin' to look if de grocer war-
in. [Awful sciisation.]

• My frens. wid dese few homog u& disq lal-
ifications I bid you good-night, as de bo,, us

an' you didn't lose nuffin' by bein' out of town
De nex' period is known as de coolin' off per-
iod. Eberything had bin red hot fur 20 000
y'ars an* it took a heap o' time before dey'got
cool nuff to handle. When dey did we had a
surface composed of water an' -.ich Fur
thousands of y'ars dar wasn't 'nuff sile fur a
grasshopper to scratch in, nor 'nuff grass fur

to makeaprp^net''*'''"" a -^-i--' .-' •■ ^ ••

rv II <- ',■ " ■■ a p«i' •-• Avi::cc pants. ■

[Yellsof dr ight.]

•My fre

continued
watier

emptied the water jJitcher. " Dar war* odder I hum

has satisfir,' you
on de soundness of my theory. Think of these
things fur yourselves. Animadvert on de dia-
phragm doorin' your hours of leisure. Doan*.
accept til ngs as you find ti _m, but inquar' of
yourselves why de thusness of de thisness em-
ulates de consanguinify of de concordance "

After the terrific applause had subsided and
the dust settled down Brother Gardner arose
ai! ; said :

I— I can't zactly make it all out, but i
purty close. L«t us go

the speaker as he guess he hit de mark

i' I' }"■ i\

THE COAfPLETE PROGRAM.

TOO SCIENTIFIC.

''*'J

WHY THE OLD MAN COULDN'T EVEN SELL it
KBFRIGRNATOR \% HOT WEATHER.

An ice box, on which was asign " For Sail"
•tood in front of a Brooklyn grocery store the
other day. and when a woman stopped to ex-
amine it a man. with his hands and overalls
showing grime, came out and said :

" Madam, dot was the beegest bargain in dis
whole country. I paid |i8 for dot ice box, und
now I sells him for-for-vhell, J make der
pnce so shcap dot it pays you to shplit him oop
for firewood."

" Been in use a long time, I see," she ob-
served as she looked inside.

•• Madane, I gife you fife thousand dollars if
I doan' buy him only last year."
" What's the principle on which it works ?"
" Der best principle in all dis worldt, mad-
■me. It vas by der oopright, horizontal, ro-
tary pnnriple, und nobody can beat it. My
son he runs dis grocery for me while I runs my
boiler und engine shop. Dot makes me know
all about ice boxes."

"A boiler isn't an ice box." she remarked, as
she looked into it again. |

•• Shust so, madame, but der principle vhas
der same. Dis vas a ten-flue ice box, mit a re-
turn draught. She vhas seex-inch stroke, pat-
ent cut-off, tested oop to i8o pounds, und vhas
fixed oop mit a low water indicator und all der
latest inventions. If dot ice box explodes on
you I gife you one million dollars, und any
shild can run it."

'" Explode ! Mercy on me, but I don't want
anything around to blow me up ! It must be
some new fangled arrangement."

" Madame, Igif you my word he vhas as safe
ash a trunk oop in der garret. He consumes
his own smoke, vhas provided mit a check

draught of der latest style, und "

" I don't want it." she said, with a decided
snap in her voice and hurried away as if she
feared an explosion.

At that moment a young man came cut and
asked:

•• Faddcr, doap' vqu ifu||(e. a sale I "

"No."

• Vhas you tell her ? "

" I say to her dot it vos by der oopright, hor-
uontal, lotary principle, mit return flues. s«-ex.
inch stroke, patent "

"Fadder, you go avhay and leaf me to sell
him. You vhas too scientific So mooch tali<
makes peoples afraid. I shust tell em dot it
w- for sale by a family who vhas going to
L rope for der summer, or to wind oop an es-
tate, und before to-morrow he vhas sold. Yov
vhas all right on engines und boilers, but you
vhas way oflT on ice boxes. All der principle
about him vhas to sell hi.n for ten dollars cash
—Bnoklyn Eagle.

JIM.

"Jim has a ftitnr« IVont of him,"—
That's what they used to oay of Jim,
For when yonn(( Jim was only ten
He mingled with (he wisest men,
With wisest mm he used to mix,
And talk of law and politics;
And everybody said of Jim,
" He has a future front of him."

When Jim was twenty yean of «g«,
All costumed ready for life's stage,
He had a perfect man's physique, '
He knew philosophy and Greek •
He delved in every misty tome
Of old Arabian and Rome,
And everybody said of Jim,
" He baa a fatnre front of him."

When Jim was thirty years of age,
He'd made a world-wide pilgrimage,
He'd walked and studied 'neath the'tnai
Of German nniversities,
Had visited and pondered on
The sites of Thebes and Babylon ;
And everybody said of Jim,
" He has a fntnre Iront of him."

The heir to all earth's heritage

Was Jim at forty years of age,

The lore of all the years waa shut,

And focused in his occiput ;

And people thought, so mnch he knew,

" WhAtwont^rnna «l.t~-. ., T.-- •,. . .~

'— "s~'"3« i/:iij tvxiiaoi'

They more than ever said of Jim,
" He 1)98 n l^tiire frpnt of bijji

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

At fifty 7Mn, thongh Jim was chanRfd.
H« had hia knowlMlge well arranged,
All Ubulated aysteinlMd,
And ndrquutrly •yntheitizrd j
Hit head waa so well tlllfd within
He thoaght, "I'm ready to Ix-gln."
And everybody nuld of Jim
"He haaa future front of him."

At sixty— no more need be said —
At silly years poor Jim was dead.
The preacher said thiit such as ha
Would shine to all eternity;
In other worlds beyond the bins
There was great work for Jim to do ;
And o'er his bier he said of Jim
" He has a future front of him."

The great deeds we are going to do
Shine 'gainst the vastnesa of the blue,
Like sunset clouds of lurid light
Against the back^roand of the night-
And so we climb the endless slope,
Far up the crownless heighU of hope,
And each one makes himself a Jim,
And rears a flitnre front of him.

S. W. F08H, in Yankee Blade.

WAIL OF THE UNAPPRECIATED.

Thk poets all have sang their songs in tones of

loving praise.
Of flghtin' men, and all that set, for conntlew

years and days.

Until I think it's almost time to make Pegasus
prance

lo ringin' in some word for them as never had a
chance.

I know a dozen fellers now, that aomehow staid
behind,

And why, no one could never tell, for ther „fl8

men of mind.
All brainy men and statesmen, too, as modern

statesmen go,
Bnt, somehow, in this crooked world, they've

never had no show.

There's old Jim Potts, what onght to b© in Con-
gress right to-day.

He han't no head for bnsiness-conld never make
It nay :

nut when it comes to tariff, or internal revenne-
^o^v what old Jim he doesn't know ftfn't ^orth
a-lookin' through.

But pore old Jim (a brainy man, oa I bava aaid
l)efore),

And several more (Inoludln' me) oat roond tha
grocery at«re,

And there we run the country, aocordin' to our
lighu,

And we flgger how the workingman is looain' all
his rights.

But yet, with all onr good, hard sense, some loud
and windy cuss

Can put a standin' collar on and raise a little
fuss,

And everybody flocks to him and lands him to
the sky.

And leaves us men of solid worth plnm stranded
high and dry.

SAVED BY A SONG.

" Nbabeb, my God, to Thee,"
What, can it be I bear aright

That sweet, old song in such a place-
Beneath the bar-room's glittering light?

Listen ; it Is a woman's voice
That drifts upon the breeze to me,

From yonder gilded, gay saloon,
" Nearer, my God, to Thee."

Where have I heard that song before?

Memory adown the long years speeds;
I hear once more, those precious words,

And then the preacher softly reads
A few lines from the book of life;

Then some one softly strokes my head
And -whispers, oh, so tenderly :

" Poor little boy, yonr mother's dead."

Oh ! how it all comes back to me !

Those whispered words, that tender song,
My boyish heart was well-nigh broke-

I cried for mother all night long.
I see the cosy sitting-room,

The straight back chairs 'ranged in a row-
The moonlight stealing thro' the blinds,

The jessamine swaying to and fio.

And tJiere my mother's rocking chair.
From which a sweet face often smiled,

As with her Bible on her lap
She turned to bless her darling child.

Bnt that was years and years ago ;
What am I now? A wretch to'shnn,

Going down the road to rnin fest,

I'm OQ t])e arepkw4'9 " bPBM>v«r4 nw »

166

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Somehow that tong has reached my heart

And seemed to pierce it thro' and thro'
And called forth feelings, that I'm sure,

Naught else on earth could ever do.
My throat is parched from want of rum,

My head seems growing wild with pain ;
But, mother, hear your boy to-night :

I'll never touch a drop again.

LUKLLA D. StILLMAN.

THE MISTLETOE.

The wind blows cold, and the sun is low.
And the sapphire sky has changed to gray ;

But blithely, blithely over the snow
The children troop from the woodland way,

Laden with holly and evergreen,

And the mistletoe peeps out between.

Prom many a church tower far and wide
The bells ring out with their meriy chimes,

Telling glad tidings of Christmas-tide;
And the old folks dream of bygone times •

But the lad»-Oh the lads, they whisper low

As slyly they hang up the mistletoe.

Grandfather sits in his old armphair
Spreading cold hands to the cheerful blaze •

Dear grandmamma, in her kerchief fair, '

Remembers Christmas in her young days •

But the maidens smile, and their soft cheeks glow

As they linger under the mistletoe.

With a wreath of laurel and ivy bound
On the ruffled curls of her silken hair.

Baby sits like an Empress crowned,
(Her only throne is a cushioned chair.)

Ah » many a kiss is in store, I know

For our small sweet Queen 'neath the mistletoe.

Open the purse and unbar the door ;

liCt the Christmas angels in to-night-
Hparte that remember the sad and poor

Are filled with joy, though the purse grows
light ;

The milk of kindnoss should freely flow
rnder the holly and mistletoe.

Ut anger, and envy, and strife all cease
Old wounds be healed, and old w;onge set
rignt ;

We bail the birth of the Prince of Peace-
Shiiie into our hearts, O kindly Light

That brotherlv Invn mn.. >-n ^ -' '

Vmlei the holly and mistletoe!

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN,

BAYARD TAYLOR.

An old and crippled veteran to the War Depart-
ment came,

He sought the Chief who led him on many a field
of fame—

The chief who shouted " Forward ! " where'er his

banner rose,
And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying

I068*

" Have yon forgotten, General," the battered sol-
dier cried,

*' The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I

was at your side ?
Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lnn-

dy's Lane ?
'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to

fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the chief, " my brave

old soldier, no 1
And here's the hand I gave yon then, and let it

tell you so ;
But you have done your share, my friend ; you're

crippled, old and gray.

And we have need of younger arms and fresher
blood to-day."

"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon
his brow,

" The very men who fought with us, they say are

traitors now ;
T.^ .y've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old
I red, white and blue,

I And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that
drop is true.

"I'm not BO weak but I can strike, and I've a

good old gnu.
To get the range of traitor's hearts, and prick

them, one by one.
Tour minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth

while to try ;
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my

powder dry 1 "

" God bless you, comrade ! " said the chief, " God
hless your loyal heart !

But younger men are in the field, and claim to
have a part ;

They'll plant our sacred banner firm in each re-
bellions town,

And woe henceforth, to any hand that dares to
pall it down I"

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAt.

"Bnt, G«ieral,"-«till persisting, the weeping I

veteran cried, I

" I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're

my guide ;
And soma, you know, must bite the dust, and

that, at least, can I ;
So give the young ones place to fight, but me a

place to die !

" If they Bhonld fire on Pickens, let the colonel
in command

Pnt me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in
my hand :

No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the
shell may fly,

I'll hold the stars and stripes aloft, and hold them
till I die !

" I'm ready. General ; so yon let a post to me be
given,

Where Washington can look at me as he looks
down from Heaven,

And say to Putnam at his side, or, maybe, Gen-
eral Wayne,—

'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at
Lundy's Lane.'

"And when the fight is raging hot, before the
traitors fly,

When shell and ball are screeching, and bnrsting

in the sky.
If any shot should pierce through me, and lay

me on my face.
My soul would go to Washingtou's and not to

Arnold's place."

167

COUSIN JOHN.

A QBAY Thanksgiving morning.
In the farmhouse on the hill.

Looked soberly down on the deacon
More gray and sombre still ;

As he sat in his armchair muning
On the fire that wouldn't w,

While his good wife, brif.k '«(»! cheerflil.
Was bustling to and fro ;

And once she paused in passing

lo touch him en the head ;
" We musn't forget what day it is ;

Fatb«r, give tbaoks," she said. '

" Give thanks," the deaco\i answered

In a slow uncertain way,
"Give thanks that the farm is mortgaged.

And our son has gone astray ?

" No matter whose fiinlt begun it,
The thing was done somehow.

And everything's gone agin us
From that time up to now.

"I've heard the neighbors talking
When I'd just catch ' Deacon Browa' •

And ' driving away that boy of his,'
And ' the farm a running down ; '

"It's true enough, too, Abby,

Leastways the latter part ;
It's queer how things will slide sometime.

With a mighty little start.

" First, there was the cow that strangled,
And the coll that hurt his feet.

Then there was the flood in haying
And the winter that killed the wheat

" So it's been going on steady

Till now the chances are
That before another Thanksgiving

We'll be eating poorhouse faro.

"You'd ought to seen last evening

As I went in and out.
How that there one old turkey

Kept following me about •

" He knew what day was coming,

He's got it learned by heart,
And I think he was disappointed

That he couldn't play his part.

" But a real Thanksgiving Dinner

We rightly can't afford.
And then it seems to me 'tworld b«

Too much like mocking the Lord.

" I know He's just and right«ou8

But one thing I must say ;
The things I've mostly prayed for

Have gone the other way."

The deacon panned s, moment

For his handkerchief, just here.
While the patient, wife sighed softly

And brushed away a tear ;

Thfin looked up as her husband
^ Tossed something square and white,
" Here, wife, just read this letter ;
It came to me Iiwt uight."

16»

|I3

A pnszling letter, surely !

There was Bcaroely mere than a line >
" Be Bare and kill the turkey ;-

A friend is coming to dine." i

'• Well, tbat strikes me," said the deacon,
" As cool fer this time o' year."

Bnl bis wife said, " Oh, it is cousin John I
You know he was always queer ;

This is just bis way of saying
He means to give us a call,
So, father, I guess we'll have fo keep
Thanksgiving after all."

* * * * # •

In proper time, the turkey,

With goodies on each side,
Lay smoking on the table.
Quite calm and satisfied.

And the deacon mused in silence.

With his shabby best coat on.
While his wife was hurrying to'the door

To welcome oousin John.

But what, in the name of wonder.
Are the sonnds the deacon bears ?

He rises and follows after.
For he cannot trust his ears.

Then stops in blank ampzement

At the sight he looks upon.
There's Abigail, dean gone crazy,

A hnggin' and kissin' John.

No— it isn't John who is saying,

In a voice of long ago,
"So. you've killed the turkey, father! "

And " I'm the friend, you know."

In a dream the deacon listens.

While the voice goes on until
It says " I've paid the mortgage.

And the homestead is ours still."
* * ♦ « »

That evening when the deacon

Knelt down beside his chair,
The spirit of Thanksgiving

Would overflow his prayer.

And. at its close, he added,

"And, OLord, from this day,
Nc- matter what I ask for

T/fE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Just do tbu other way."!

A CONVINCING ARGUMENT.

At a certain town meeting, the question,
whether any person should be licensed to sH,
intoxicating beverages, came up. Tlie clergy-
man, the deacon, and the physician, strange as
't may appear, all favored it. One man spoke
against it because of the mischief it did The
question was about to be put. when from one
corner of the room there arose a woman. SI'e
was thinly clad, and her appearance indicated
the utmost wretchedness. After a moment's
silence, all eyes being fixed on l,er. she stretched
her attenuated body to its utmost height, and
then her long bony arms to their greatest length
and raising her voice to a shrill pitch, she called
upon all to look at her.

" Yes! ■• she cried. •• look upon me and then
hear me. All that the" last speaker has said
relative to temperate drinking being the fatlier
of drunkenness, is true. All practice, all ex-
I perience declare its truth. All drinking o/
alcoholic poison as a beverage, is excess.
Look upon me. You all know me. You all
know I was once mistress of the best farm in
the town. You all know. too. I had one of the
best, the most devoted of husbands. You all
know I had fine, noble-hearted, industrious
boys. Where are they now? You all know.
They he ,n a row side by side in yonder church-
yard ; all. everyone of them filled a drunkard's
grave! They were all taught to believe that
temperate drinking was safe ; excess alone to
be avoided ; and they never acknowledged ex-
cesu They quoted you, and you, and your
pointing with her shred of a finger to th^
minister, th. deacon and the doctor, as
authority. "They thought themselves safe under
such teachers; but I saw the gradual change
coming over my family and prospects with dis-
many and horror. I felt we were all to be
overwhelmed in one common ruin ; I tried to
ward off the blow ; I tried to break the spell,
the delusive spell, in which tl,e idea of the
benefits of temperate drinking had involved my
husband and sons ; I begged. I prayed, but the
odds were greatly against me.

"The minister said the poison that was de-
siroymg niy husband .inH bQ"S"— -^-j -j^.^j,
agent for good if rightly used ; the deacon.

(who sits under \H pulpit and who took our

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

farm to pay his rum bills), sold them the poison ;
the physcian said a little was good, and excess
should be avoided.

" My poor husband and my dear boys fell into
the snare, and they could not escape, and, one
after another, was conveyed to the dishonored
grave of a drunkard.

" Now, look at me again ; it is probably for the
last time ; grief and privation have done their
work. I have dragged my exhausted frame
from my present abode, your poor-house, to
warn you all,— to warn you, deacon ! to wain
you, misguided guardian of the people's health ;
to warn you. false teacher of God's word ! "
and with her tall form stretched to its utmost,
and her voice raised to an unearthly pitch she
exclaimed : ■• I shall soon stand before the judg-
ment-seat of God, I shall meet you there and be
a witness against you all."

The wretched woman vanished— a dread
silence pervaded the assembly— the clergyman,
deacon and physician hung their heads. The
president of the meeting put the question: ' • Shall
we have any more license to sell alcoholic
poisons as a beverage ? " The response unani-
mous : " No! "

160

A LOSING MOTTO.

" Vfn I dink of dose dimes in Vickspurg."
said Hoffenstein, •• I feels sorry for Jake vil-
liams. I vent to him when he opened his
sthore und I says : ■■ Villiams, I dells you de
bnncipal secret uv de wholesale grocery pees-
ness. Ven you py von dousand parrels of
bork, dake den bounds oud uv dose parrels
und you make vifty tollars. Veil. Herman, ven
I clo.d him dot he says :

"• HofTenstein. my name was Villiams. my
motto vas honesd in eferything. und don't
get scard in nodting. Hoffenstein, my vrent.
I don't cm swindle.'

"I nefer say no more to dot man, Herman •
und at the end of dree year he sell de grocery
peesness oudt and opened a soda-water stand,
mit de motto. • Honesd in eferything und don't
get scared at nodting.' Efe-y day dat motto

"At the end of seexmonds I met Villiams on
de sdrect und, four dogs mit de mange und £*o j

differend colored patches 'on his bants rolled
verefer he vent.

" Herman, vonefer you see dogs mitde mange
voUow aman, he don't own noding in dis vorld
but de esteem uv dose dogs. You don't can
keep a poor dog und a poor man avay from
von onudder unless you boison von ov dem.

" • ViUiams.' says I, when I met him. • if you
had dake my odvici vhen you went into de
grocery peesness. you don't been dis vay.'

" • Veil. Hoffenstein ; ' he say. • I don't can
swmdle; und all I haf got vas dese dogs, und
I haf all de veek been drying to sell dem.'

" Ven a man like Villiams goes around dryin
to sell old vorn-oudt dogs, he vas poor ; und I
says to mineself. ' Villiams vas hard up, und
I'll py von uf de dogs shust to encourage him
in peesness.'

" Herman, I gif him vifty cents for a vatch
dog vich he says neffer lets a tief come de house
around. Vat you dink. Herman, Villiams le
swindled me in de trade. Ven I dook dot (!< g
home mit a sdring he vas plind. After Villiams
swindled me mit dedog, he let some odder man
use his motto und now he is biospering mit de
insurance peesness. Nefer dalk about honesd,
Herman ; beople vill dink you vas a sa-dine
fish."

THE TERRIBLE WHISPERINGGALLERY.

BY LYMAN llEECHER.

Could all the foi-ms of evil produced by in-
temperance come upon us in one horrid array,
it would appal the nation and put an end to the
traffic in ardent spirits. If in every dwelling
built by blood, the stones from the wall should
utter all the follies which the bloody traffic ex-
torts, and the beams out of the timber should
echo them back, who would build such a house,
and who would dwell in it? What if, in every
part of the dwelling, from the cellar upward,
through all the halls and chambers, babblings
and contentions and voices and groans and
shrieks and wailings were heard day and night?
What if the cold blood oozed out ard stood in
drops upon the walls ; and, by preternatural
art, ai' tlie ghastly skulls and bones of the vic-
tims destroyed by intemperance should stand

fro

upon tht walb. m horrid sculpture, within and
without the bnilding. who would rear such a
bu.Id.ng? What if. at eventide and at mid-
night, the airy forms of men destroye.;! by in-
temperance were dimly seen haunting the dis-
Mllenes and sto.cs where they received their
bane.-following the track of the ship engaged
m the commerce._walk:„g upon tlie waves -
fluting athwart the deck, -sitting upon the rig-
ging, and sending up. f.om the hold witliinand
from the waves without, groans and loud la-
ments and wailings.-who would attend such
stores? Who would labor in such distilleries?
Who would navigate such ships ?

Ohl were the sky over our heads one great
whispering gallery, bringing down about us all
the lamentations and woe which intemperance
creates, and the firm earth one sonorous medium
of sound bringing up around us. from beneath
the wailings of the damned whom the commerce
in ardent spirits had sent thither ;-these tre-
mendous realities assailing our sense would in-
vigorate our conscience and give decision to
our purpose.

TlfE COMPLiLTE FRVGRAM.

THE WIDOW.

OxcoosK me if I shed some tears
Uad wipe ray nose away ;

Und if a Inrap vos iu my troat,
It cornea np dere to shtay.

My sadness I shall now unfoldt
Und if dot tale of woe '

Doa'd do some Dutclirnaus any good
Denldon'dpelief Ikuow.

Yon see, I fall myself in love,

Und effery night I goes
Across to Brooklyn by dot bridge

All dressed in Sandny clothes.

A vidder womaus vos der brize,
Her bnsbaod he vos dead •

Und all alone in dis colt vcr'ldt
Dot vidder vos, she saidt.

Her heart for love vos on der pine,

Und dot I like to see ;
■"' "^-" '=^= i nupe,i dot heart

Vos on der pine for me. .

I keeps a batcher shop, yon know,

Und iu a shtocking stout,
I put avay my gold und bills,

Und no one gets him oudt

If in der night some bank cashier
Goes skipping off mit cash,

I shieep so soundt as nefer vas
Vhile rich folks go to shmasb. '

I court dot vidder sixteen months,'

Dot vidder she courts me,
Und vhen I says, " Vill you be miner '

She says, " You bet I'll be I "

Ve vos engaged— oh ! blessed fact I
I squeeze dot dimpled hand ;

iler head upon my shoulder lays
Shust like a bag of sand.

Before der wedding day vos set,

She whispers in my ear,
"Hike to say I haf to use

Some cash, my Yacob, dear.

" I owns dis house und two big farms,
Uud ponds nnd railroad slitock ;

Und up in Yonkers I bosseas
A grand big peesness block.

"Der times vos dull, my butcher boy,

Der market vos no goot,
Und if I sell,"-I squeezed her hand

To show I uiiderstoodt.

Next day — oxcoose my briny tears
Dot shtockiug took a sh-ink ;

I counted out twelve hundred in
Der cleanest kind o' chink.

Und later, by two days or more,

Dot vidder shlopes avay ;
Und leaves a note behindt for me
• In which dot vidder say:

" Dear Shake,

Der rose vos redt,

Der violet bine —
You 8ee I've left
Und you're left, too."

A FAST AGE.

We are born fast and die fast! W^ arow

fast, jump out of childhood f=>c* i- -—

and women fast, get married fast, and puH
long lifetime into a few fast yeaiu.

We walk fast, talk fast, eat fast, sleep fast,
dress fast, make money fast, and lose it fast.

We work fast, drink fast, smoke and chew
tobacco fast, gamble fast, beggar families fast,
break down our constitution* fast, and go to
ruin fast.

We build towns and cic.'s, hotels and opera-
house;, railroads and banks fast.

We hold our elections fast and politicians
and rum-shops are corrupting us fast. We are
adopting foreign customs and follies fast. In
fact, as a people, we ate getting along fast gen-
erally.

Everything, now-a-days, is on the run. Ra-
pidity is the characteristic of the age. Motion
by steam, intelligence by lightning, light and
power by electricity, are only features of a sys-
tem which are universal. The whole body of
humanity has quickened its pace and fallen into
"double-quick time." Movement in every en-
terprise and in every direction, has attained a
speed which distances all old experience, and
IS prophetic of a collapse. Here lies our dan-
ger. Reaction will follow some time. It is often
wise to '. make haste slowly." Beware of the
spirit of our fast young America !

TJ/E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Itl

MUSIC.
READINGS.

JUDGE NOT!

Dramatized by Miss A. O. Briggs.

Characters.

Mrs. SneUing
Miss Prime
Afrs. Hubbard

Wife of a poor mechanic.
The village dressmaker.

twenty.five dollars. Then there's herbonnet—
that come from New York too. Miss Dunn's
work ain't good enough for her of late years
Why, the ribbon on that there bonnet must uv
ben four and six a yard, at the least calcula-
tion, to say nothin' of the feathers. She's got
three new dresses jest made up tu my certain
knowledge ;-a new black Allapacca that
shines so you can see your face in it, one d
them stylisli plaid wools, and a rich heavy
black silk that'll almost stand alone.

Mrs. S. Really ! J wanted one of those
fashionable plaids at Brown & Chapin's. They
are so warm and durable for winter I 1 was
looking at them the other day when Mrs. Hub.
bard came into the store. She stopped at the
dress counter and spoke to me, and then hur-
ned on to the fancy goods departmcm. I
fancied her greeting was rather cool.

Miss P She's gittin' up in the world, you
see. I s'pose she'd cut us all ef we wan't sis-
tren in the same church. Time was when she
was glad enough to git me to sew for her I've
had her beg and beg and beseech me to give
her a day. or even a half day, m my spring
hurry. Now she's got a seamtress. as she calls
that stuck-up girl that sets in the sittin'-room all
day This seamstress makes the rhildren's
clothes, but hern are cut and fitted in New York
when they ain't made there.

Mrs. S. She's dreadful extravagant for a
church member. Well, she has plenty of money
to do with and don't have to pinch and save as
we do. Dear me! I'm afraid the streaks aie
going to show in this old merino, the best we
-ran do with it.

Miss P I guess I can hide the worst of

them under the pleats so they won't be noticed

It IS too bad you couldn't uv bought one of

them new plaids !-they're all the fashion jest
now. ■'

Mrs S. I did think, at first, I'd try to get
one : but the children have been sick ; and Mr.

Wife of a rich manufacturer i c„„)r . , "'■'■" ""-•^ '< ana Mr.

A *ln,,.i f . I n '"^ ^ ^""'^ •'^^ •'^^^ unusually dull, so I

A piatnly furnished room A.., '-ally can't afford it. I wonder how if wauld

^ -Jeem to have a new dress.

once in a while.

Scene i.

,, - -J- ^-"-.j'.cc* room 'U,

Snelhng stands iy the ta6ie waskiu. ,//,.,

S"^^^'"/^^^--'*^'--^:^ "" ""' o^^'iged tJm^ke^^r^ld;.;:^
^''^^'^. Mss Prtme ,s basting up a dr.. 1 the time : turning them inside out and Tsid"

Aftt c- //.•_-. -r . . I down, and nlannin.r ^^a ^ __.._:. t .

ITS

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

when she first set up housekeeping. She had
to do her own work then as well as her own
Bewing. Now I don't believe she takes a needle
in her hand from niornin' till night ; while you
and I, Miss Snelling. don't git many play-
spells.

Mrs. S. I'm afraid there isn't much spirit-
ual growth, Miss Prime. People that have
their hearts set on dress and high living can't
find much time for better things.

MUs P. That's what 1 think ! How do you
hke them big sleeves, Miss Snelling?

Mrs. S. I think they are very pretty. There
isn't cloth enough to make mine so. is there ?
Miss P. Oh, no : it will be hard squeezing
to get out even tiglit sleeves. Ef you only
could afford velvet enough for new ones ! but
then I don't s'pose this old stuff is worth it. I
hain't cut no full sleeves yit ; but Miss Dunn
says she'll git me a pattern when she goes down
to New York next week. I wouldn't please
Miss Hubbard enough to ask her to let me look
at hern. What am I goin' to do for new
backs ?
Mrs. S. There's the cape, you see.
Miss P. Why, so there is! I never calcu-
lated the cape. I was studyin" an' contrivin' all
the while you was a gittin' supper. Says I
"Miss Snemng'll have to have them backs
pieced and then- everybody in town'll know it
was made over. {.Mrs. Snelling takes out her
dishes and brings in some medicine in a iea-aip
for the sick child. The child cries but ske coaxes
is to take some.')

Mr.-, S. There now, lie down and go to sleep.
You needn't take any more medicine to-night.
{She carries away the cup and sits dmun to her
sewing still rocking the cradle. Miss Prime
takes up the cape and examines it.)

Miss P. That was a lucky thought— this
cape. It don't seem to be worn as much as the
rest, neither.

Mrs. S. No, it isn't ; I only kept it for very
cool days. 1 thought of it in church, Sunday,
right in the middle of tlie sermon—Queer, was-
n't it .? I was so dreadfully afraid you couldn't
get it out. So, as soon as I came home, I took
it out and looked at it ; sure enough, h was the
very thing.

Mtss P. I see Miss James has pot a npw
Cloak this winter. She hain't worn hern more
than three winters, to my knowledge, and it's a

good cloak yit-enough sight better'n you oi 1
can afford. Wall, these nch folks are jest as
worldly, for all I see, as if they wasn't profes.
sors.

Mrs. S Time was, as you say. Miss Prime
when we were all plain people together, with
good feelings towards each other. I think of it
very often-the days when Susan Hubbard
and I used to send our little presents to eaci,
other and be neighborly. That was before the
Jameses moved here or Lawyer Martin's people
She's so intimate with them now, she hasn'teot
any time for old friends. Many and manys
the time I've sent her things right off my table
when I had something I thought she'd like •
and when her Jane was sick with the scarlet
fever I sat up with her night after night. We
used to be just like sisters.
^ Miss P. I hate to see folks so snubbyjest
cause they've got up in the world. It's agin
the Scripture. (Rises and puts away her -xcrk
and dons her bonnet and shawl.) I've got it all
ready so you can get along wi.h it now, I guess
I wouldn't mind staying oier my time jest to
give you a helpin' hand if it wasn't church
meeting night ; but, you know, it's very import-
ant all should be there that can. To be sure
Miss Hubbard is so took up with other things
now that she never goes; and though Miss
James jmed by letter when she came, she's
never ben to a business meetin'. For my part
I think we've got jest as good a right to vote in
church-meetin' as the men have, and speak
too. if we want to, though Deacon Smith has
set his face agin it of late years. So, you see
I'll have to go : and there's only the facing to
face down and them side seams to stitch up-
and the hooks and eyeP to put on, and the but'
ton holes to work ond set on the buttons The
sleeves are all ready to baste in. I've turned
down the skirt the right length so all you've got
to do IS to pleat it and set it on the band John
Lockwood is to be dealt with to-night for goin'
to the theater last time he was in New York
For my part, / never did put much faith in his
religion— and the more some of us stay away
the more the rest of us ought to go. Don'J
forgit to take in that shoulder seam a little For
my part. I think his sister ought to be laboreci

with for cJnn-i"' o.'-U e;

.... .J- -.n^!., „,..n so..ij3 as sne does on tlie
piano ;_clear love songs-and plays opera
pieces. Miss Allen says. Now which b the

ht better'n you oj 1
:h folks are jest as
they wasn't profes.

>u say, Miss Prime,
:ople together, with
Jther. I think of it
» Susan Hubbard
tie presents to each
'hat was before the
er Martin's people,
now, she hasn't got
Many and many's
right off my table
lought she'd like ;
:k with the scarlet
t after night. We

ks so snubby jest
world. It's rtgin
ts away her ruirJi
vl.) I've got it all
i.'i it now, I guess,
r my time jest to
it wasn't church
I it's very import-
can. To be sure
with other things
id though Miss
she came, she's
i'- For my part
a right to vote in
•ave, and speak,
:acon Smith has
rs. So, you see.
nly the facing to
inis to stitch up;
on, and the but'
e buttons. The
in. I've turned
so all you've got
the band, John
o-night for goin'
IS in New York.
™uch faith in his
>f US Stay away,

to go. Don't
am a little. For
ht to be labored
she does on the
i plays opera

which is the

'vorst ra like to know, goin' to the theater or
playin opera pieces? Miss Hubbard's Jane
does that too. when she's home vacations. That
piece under the arm don't look so very bad
Miss Snelling.-there aint mor'n two or thre-'
hours work on it. any way-VVal. good-night I
Miss Snelhng. , '

Mn. S Good-night. (M„ Prime goe, out)
Two or three hours' work ! I should think there
was; and how can I ever find time to finish it?
If Miss Pnme had worked more and talked
less she might have nearly made the dress by
tins fine If I could only afford to have her
another day but that's out of the question.
Well, thank fortune I don't give up everything
to dress and display as Susan Hubbard does
bringing scandal in the church, setting herself
up over everybody. ^Dcor tell ring,,) Dear
mel VVho s come now, and no fire except in
the kitchen! (6<,« and opens the door. Mrs
Hubbard jnlers.) Good-evening Mrs. Hubbard
Mrs. Hubbard. Good-evening. Jane, remem-
ber I am Susan. Thought I'd run in and see

Mrs.S. {Conducting her (0 the kitchen.) You'll
have to come in here as there's no fire in the
front room.

Mrs H. Don't mind me-we never used to
keep but one fire, you know. How bright and
;,7, ^""^ •"'"'"" '■'• ^"'^ «'^^y* so neat as

Mrs. S Poor folks can't afford to keep but
one fire these hard times.

Mrs. H. I haven't forgotten old times, Jane
when we were all beginning the world together'
You seem to. though, for then you used to run
n and see me. and I was thinking to-night you
Kave not been up to our house since October

Mrs.S.i don't like to go where I'm not
'vanted. I might happen to meet some of your
grand company there and you would be
ashamed of me.

Mrs.H. Hush! Jane, you ought to know
."e better. You didn't use to let me pay thTe
Visits to your one. then. I am aware you have
« great deal to keep you at home. I know how

1 r .T r^ ''''''^'■"" ^^'^ "«'«• (^''^ on
^J^'mble and takes up some work.) This is to
goso, isntit?
Airs. S. Yes. but don't bother with that
Mrs. H. I can work and talk, you know.

THE COMPLETE PHOGRAJIt,

I do?^ ,?^ ' ^°"' *° '''"«'' "«««"«? but

I Church discipline, we women are apt to make »

ad matter worse by talking it over among

cern t^'Al '°. ^.°f' *''*' it doesn't con-
cern So I thought I'd just run in tociMy.
and bring my thimble, just as we used to do
for each other. Those were plea«»nt time^
don't you think so? '

canfTretly."''""'*°*"J°'''-'^-K»'bor^

isn^f^"?"^ ^''T''y ^"'^ ^oA to live right,
n t It ? Every lot has its trials. I „,cd to env;
rich people tiieir happiness. Now that Mr. Hub-
bard has done so well, we have to live differently

has. the more care ,t brings also. To be sure, as
far as dress is concerned. I dont think half as
much of It as I used to when I had to plan and
contrive about every cent. Why. I've often
found myself planning about my Ling in sL^
mon-time! «f you will believe it. and hoH

mine. I have no such temptation now.

Mrs. S I should like to try a little prosperity
by way of change. I'm tired of slaving.

Mrs. H. O. Jane, don't choose-don't choose
your trials. I used to say that very thing'Z
he Bible says "Every heart knoweth iu own
bu^erness " Rich people get very little sym"
pathy. It ,s very difficult to bring up children
with so many temptations around them I
would give all I possess if my Robbie was a,
steady and industrious as your boy. Poverty
>s somewhat inconvenient, it is true, but it isn't
tbe worst of misfortunes. ( The two women seu,
tn silence for a few minutes. )

Mrs. S Jane, shall I tell you what this put*
me in mmd of? *^

Mrs. H. Yes. what? '

Ms S. Of that New Year's night the winter
Robert was sick, and our children were all lit-
tie, when you came 'round and brought them
over to spend the afternoon and boiled candy
for them ^nd let them pop com and crack but-
ternuts They brought us home a plateful of
braided sticks, and were in high glee at the
good time they had had, Poor little things!
!. ■; f---^" \ "ccn for you they would have passed
a dreary New Years, their father was so sick
and I was so worn outl Why. only thint .

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

, \

tfiey had been teasing me to b :y them lome
candy and I actually didn't feci that I cou! !
afford it I I've thought of it often lince. Somt- '
how, thia winter there's scarcely a day when it
doesn't come into my mind, and I always feel
like crying. (Mrs. Snellino /aJies out her
handkerchuf and burus ktrfact in it as though
w**ping. Mrs. Hubbard takti out her hand-
kerchief and wipes her eyes.)

Mrs. H. Don't cry Jane ; I haven't forgot old
limes. {Rises and takes up a parcel she had
brought with her.) You won't misunderstand
me now, will you. when I tell you I have
brought you over a Christmas present? [She
opens the parcel and displays the very dress pat-
tern Mrs. .Snbllino had wished so much tobuy.)
I was afraid you wouldn't take it as it was k • u •
meant :f .1 just sent it. Here it is-the pattern , °"7 """ *' "'^^ ^'"''^ ''"San by

NOT WHOLLY A FEMININE FAULT.

I "It's a queer thing to me that you w mc^
can't get together for ten minutes witho -. gov
siping about somebody," said Bixby. in a tone
of disgust to his wife, after a lady caller haa
left his house the other day. •• \ believe th.u
if there were but three women on the face of
the earth, two of them would get together and
gossip about the other one. It's born in yoi,
women to gossip, ""lank Heaven, it isn't a
mascuHne failing! Whatever our faults may
be, we don't gossip."

Half an hour later. Mr, Bixby and an ac-
quaintance of his were carrying on the follow-
ing conversation while being shaved in neigh-

I saw you looking at so long in Brown &
Chapin's the other day. I went down town
that day to get you a present and was afraid
you would find me out, so I kept at the other
end of the store. Now you won't misunder-
stand, will you, Jane?

Mrs. S. {Again putting her handierrhie/fo her
eyes.) O, Susan, I had such hard thoughts, votJ
don't know 1 I don't misunderstand yo-, w*
Indeed I don't. But I have judged > .; <, ju
wrongfully ! Can you ever foigive m •

Mrs. H. Never mind that now, f is 4,,,jy
natural. I could see just how you felt ; iof the
more I tried to be neighborly, the colder you
seemed. It did grieve me, for I always loved
you as a sister. But about the dress. Ann
was not very busy, and as we are about the
same size i had ner measure me and make the
skirt. Every little helps when one has so much
to do. If you will let me know when Miss
Prime comes to make it up, Ann shall come
over and sew with her.

Mrs. S. O, Susan, you are better to me than
I deserve. How can I thank you enough for
this beautiful present?

Ms. H. It is only repaying, in part, old
favors, Jane. Let us foiget our past estrange-
ment and live as we used to live in the good
old days of yor«.

Mrs. S. So let us do, and I promise now,
from this time forth, never to misjudge so kind
and true a friend as yo« have ever proved your-
self to be.

" Wonder if that story about Jenkins and his
wife is true ? "
" What story ? ••

"Why, haven't you heard it? It's town
talk."

" I haven't heard anything. Let's have it."
" Why, they say his wife thinks of leaviiie
him." *

"No?"

" Shouldn't be a bit surprised if it was true,
from certain little things I happen to know."
"What do you know?"
" Oh, I don't believe I care to say anything
just at present. It isn't always best to tell all a
fellow knows. But. to tell the truth, somehow.
I never did think much of Jenkins. Did you ? "
"Oh. I don't know. He always seemed to
me, a pretty decent sort of a fellow."

" Well. I always had my own private opinion
of him. I hear he owes bills all over."
" That so ? "

" Yes. I know of three or four myself. I
guess he's a fellow who likes to fiy pretty high •
and they say his wife's fearfully extravagant '
"She is?"

" Yes ; and I guess they have some pretty
high old times when the bills come in. Say,
did you ever see Jenkins with too much fire-
water on board ? "
" No ; don't know as I ever did."
" Well. I have ; and more than one*' fnn
i've an idea that's had a good deal to do witb
the trouble between him and his wife."

;nkins and his

1 Onc<* trtn

"Perhaps SO."

" I'm pretty sure of \t. Maybe I can tell
you more the next time I see you '
" Do."

■ All right ni kc^p my eyes and ears open.
Good day."

TJIE COMPLETE PROGHAAf. „j

THE KING AND THF GOBBLER.

YOUNG MAN! HIS IS FOR YOU.

1. Save a part of your wtekly earnings.
even ,f ,t be no more than a quarter dollar, and
put your savings monthly in a savings bank

2. Buy nothing till yon can pay for it. and
buy nothmg that you do not reed.

A young man who has grit enough to follow
these rules will have taken the first step upward
to success in business. He ,„ay be compelled
to wear a coat a year longer, even if it be un-
fashionable : he may have to live in a smaller
■wuse than some of his young acquaintanc-s •
h.s w,fe may not sparkle with diamonds nor be
resplendent in silk or satin, just yet ; his chil-
dren may not be dressed as dolls or popinjavs
his table may be plain but wholesome, and the
whiz of the beer or champagne cork may never
be heard in hU <f«._ii: . <_. .

g. " and here fit on my

A roBBLEB h« sat in a dirty old atoll,
Working with elbows aud hHuimer and owl
A KiiiK with his mantle and crown came by
With his feet on the earth and his nose in th«

sky.

" Ho! ho 1 " quoth the cobbler, "ha ! ha! I dart

eay,

If he had to work like me all »he day
TJ.i« mighty, import. ■ .n.1 f.,H«y old swell
Would not like his bil o-half so well."

"Com, try, "said th,i
crown,

And I to your last will most gladly sit down :
If I can't mend a boot, a noise I can make,
Which for work in this life we too often mi.-
take."

The Kint; smashed a finger in hitting a nail
And the wax kept him Arm on the seat of the
pail.

At last he got angry and terribly swore
That mending of boote should be stopped ever-
more.

"This crown," roared the cobbler, "won't keen
out the cold ; "

r"6"»; «-urn may never „.,» *i. ,^ -«.-.»., «Tuai,Keep

be heard m his dwelling ; he may have to get t i, ""''' '

along without the earliest fruit or vegetables • * ^' "?^ f**"" ''"""'• ^'^ ^'""^'"^ ^y the gold,
he may have to adjure the club-room Ii^.f^J "l'^"'" *'"*"""'"«"-«'>«» here he fell down-
theatre and the gambling hell, and reverence
the Sabbath day and read and follow the pre-
cepts of the Bible instead, but he will be better
off m every way for this self-discipline. Yes
he may do all these without detriment to his
manhood or health, or character. True, empty-
headed folk may sneer at him and affect to-pity
h.m ; but he will find that he has grown strong,
hearted and brave enough to stand the laugh of
Jje foohsh. Hehasbecomeanindependentman.
He never owes anybody, and so he is no man's

Slave. He has become master of himself, and .. „ , -<^ — ' '«' ^"ras «e sai(

a master of himseU will become . leader amonjr r J " " «"*"' ""''•''«••■ " """^ «««» thing

men, and prosperity will crown his every enter- 1 °^ "* ^'™ 8**''"« ^ ■'"•°'' ^ » King."

Young man! life's discipline and life's suc-
cess come from hard work and ^^rU c-if
oemai ; and hard-earned success is all the

7.TI Vl"' """ *'^^" "''' y^^*-^ ^^"'"b "p on
your shoulder and you need propping up.

Itere are more checks about it than Marmrva
gown." o J -

They looked at each other and laughed at the
game

(And, had we been there, we had just done the
same).

Said the King, "Let as both to our stations re-
tnm;

Putting things to the proof is the right way to

learn."
The King died in battle, the cobbler in bed
And as he was dying these last words he said :'
^ I ve been a good c.bbler, a very good thing-
T h«~. -here I'm going I shan't be a E

THAT TERRIBLE BOY.

Hk breaks up your pipe and bangs up yonr desk.

And yonr clothing he daubs up with dirt •
He clatters your room, and be mu.ses your'hair.

And hia rights he will loudly assert }'

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

lii
tii

lit

1-25 IIIU

I
1

12.2

2.0

1.8

1.6

150mm

rf>;

.!V -^^

•/.

j^s 1653 East Main Street
^^^ Rochester, NY 14609 USA
^^Fl^ Phone: 716/482-0300
.^?!^S Fax: 716/288-5989

1<P

178

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

He team ronnd tb« hooM like kyokeofyonng
steers.

And he slidee down the banistet rail, ^
To the immiDent risic of his life by a fall,

And he holds np the cat by the tail.

He ooTors your chair with a coat of fresh tar,

In the paddle he plays all the time.
HiA face is begrimed, and his hands are a eight,

And forever he begs for a dime ;
He worries yoa over that terrible congh,

Will always go ont in the storm
Until yoa watch with a sickening fear

By the side of his feverish form.

He always will sit on the cold paving stones.

And he climbs the rongh, ragged willow.
He bonnoes yoa ont of yonr bed in the night.

And he sleeps with his feet on yonr pillow.
He breaks the face of your l)est marble clock,

Turns somersaults on the back stairs,
And when yonr back's tamed he plays yon some
trick

That comes on yoa all unawares.

Ton think he is sick and worry all day,

And go home with a dnil, heavy heart,
To find him perched np on the clothes reel in air.

In a way to give yoa a start ;
Yoa think he is well and work with a vim.

And go home at the end of the day
To And him in l)ed with poultices on

In the worst of a terrible way.

He's a torment, a rogne, who keeps yoa ou pins,

In short, he's a terrible tease.
He quite rales the roost with a very high hand.

And always does what he may please.
Bat in spite of all this, when he's quiet and good

He's a comfort, a blessing, a Joy,
And nothing oonld fill up the spot in yonr heart

Oocnpied by that terrible boy.

ASCERTAIN YOUR WEIGHT.

I ?

In psblio places nowadays there stands a hand-

some scale,
Without proprietor or clerk to tell its simple

tale;
But passers-by may read the words engraved

upon a plate.
To " Drop a nickel in the slot and ascertain your

weight"

A moral's here, good people, if yonll taka a i

D* jt's thought,
A lesson for life's guidance 'tis and most sno*

cinctly taught;
Fbr if it be the part of man to have a boat with

Ate,
It surely is the thing to do to "ascertain your

weight."

So, if yon think that politica aflbrds yon widest

scope,
If to pull the wires deftly is yonr purpose and

your hope.
If yoa fancy that yonr destiny's to glorify the

Just drop a nickel in the slot and aaoertain yonr
weight

If yoa dream that you're an actor, and imagine

yon're endowed
With graces and with gifts to win the plaudits of

the crowd.
If sock and buskin visions fill yonr soul with joy

elate,
Just drop a nickel in the slot and aaoertain yonr

weight.

If yon feel that yon're a poet, and by right di-
vine belong

To those whose wings have borne them to Par-
nassian heights of song.

If ballads, rondeaus, triolets, yon long to incu-
bate,

Jnst drop a nickel in the slot and ascertain your
weight

If yon deem yonr forte the story, and yon only

ask the chance
To ran a tilt with Haggard in the rt^ons of

rtmanoe,
If another " Robert Elsmere " yon are eager to

create,
Jnst drop a nickel in the slot and ascertain yonr

weight

If yon see yourself a lawyer, or a doctor, or s
bean,

If yon think that as a lover yon oonld make a
touching show,

If yon deem society the field yon onght to culti-
vate,

Jnst drop a nickle in the slot and ascertain yonr
weiilit

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Ib abort, irlwto'w the pAth to which ambition

poioto the way,
Reoeat thia legend to yoaraeirere yet jon make

For it iu well that modesty, befon it is too late,
Should drop a nicked iu the slot aad oscertaio its
weight.

W.L. Keese in Harper.

SCHOOL-GIRLS' TRLALS.

BY MISS A. O. BRIOOS.

I OITBW hare heard thia expression,

Prom ladies whose schooldays are o'er,
" How I envy a bright, happy schoolgirl)

I wish I eonid be one once more."
And IVi, thooght that old Time's many chan-es

Most have darkened those once happy days •
Or that memory, slighting their sorrows '

Gilda only their Jcya with ita rays.

we, "bright, happy school-

For I'm snre that
girls,"—

As, doobtless, yon all are aware-
Have many things rather unpleasant

For poor hnman natora to bear.
Oar slumbers at mom mnst be shortened :

Oar duties at home, be done well ;
And, like the poor convicts in prison.

We mnst start at the sonnd of the bell.

No matter how stormy the weather,

We each mnst be found in onr place
When the second bellsommona toaileLce,

For tardiness is a disgrace.
And, after the morning's devatioDa,

Our eyes must be kept on onr book ;
If we whisper— no matter how softly-

Our teachers will give na a Utvk.

T >« school hooka I How hard and provoking

The mysteries are that they teach I
Like the fox-tempting grapes in the fable,

A little bit out of our reach I
We mast call in th«» »\A nf . *...h..

Which makea na appear rather amall ;
And our vanity ainka below aero,—

We feat wa know aottdag at aU.

At length, oomea the hour for reciting—
If our lessons an learned thera's no fear,

But if they an rot, fate has marked na—
Our destiny soon will appear.

When other girls, smiling and happy,
Are diHmiaied at the close of the day.

We are beckoned to atill keep onr sitting-
Till onrlcaaonaaie learned, wf mnst stay

Of course, we must write compositions,
V/hat school-girl but shudders with dread

At the mention of ihis peicftil duty?
How many harsh aayinga aro aaid t

We have just got a note from Miss Folly,
Requesting our presence to-night

To a party— the first in the season-
But alaa ! we the offer must alight

Our parante and teachers together

Have joined in a league, it must be,
That school-girls must sit in the corner

Nor daro to assert they aro free.
Our minds must be kept on our studies

Till we grow so dulMooking and sad.
That everyone flies from our presence

As though with much learning we're mad

If we chance to go out of an evening,

(A thing which occurs very rare )
Wherever we go, thoughts of school-day*

Most surely will follow us there ;
For the persons we meet think this subject

Is all that onr minds comprehend •
So, out of well-meaning politeness, '

To onr compass of thought they descend.

"Yon are going toachool, did yon tell me?"

Says one in a qti'^^tioning tone,
"And how do yon like the new teachers t

Are yon studying French all alone?
How oft do you write compositions ?—

I hope that the school will succeed-
How many attend there this quarter?

A very good number, indeed I '»

And Ihns, like a spirit of evil.

School haunts ns by night and by day-
Like onr shadows, so closely pursuing.

There's no hope of getting away.
Oh I the trials of school-girls are many.

And whence shall we look for relief? '
Our ftiends only smile when we tell them '

Oar muBerona aooroaa of v*<«f

WrW

TJ/£ COMPL&TS pnoGkAii.

fjtoh;^

SCHOOI^BOYS' TRIALS_IN REPLY.

BY MISS A. O. BRIOGS.

Taijc not of tbe trfaU of school-girlf,

or leMons ao hard to recite,
or nilM to preTent social pleaanraa,

And eaaaya p«rpIexinK to write;—
I'll tell you or triala, severer,

That dull in aachool-bojr's way,
Woes added to tlioae yon have mentioned,

Commaada he is foroed to obey.

Lilce yon, he mnst write oompositioni^

Lilce yoo, be contented to hear
Tlie same set or unTsrled qnestions,

Whererer'the chance to appear;
Mast oon o'er his taslt by the lamp-light,

And nerer be tempted to roam,
But sit, like a dunce, in tbe comer,

Forbidden to stir ont rrom home.

But the worst or all things are those Fridays,

When he's called on the stage to declaim.
And he reels like a wretch on the gallows—

A martyr to learning and ranie.
His limbs qnake in terror boneath him •

His visage tnrns pale with affright;
His brain is a scene or conrnsion

Whence mem'iy has taken its flight

He knows not the words he is speaking ;

His voice he can scarcely command ;
The skirts of his coat he is seeking,

Knowing not what to do with his banda
He gases around at his schoolmates

Who their laughter but illy suppress ;
And the critical looks that they give bim

Add another new pang to distress.

Clouds or darknexs seem passing berora him ;

The room's whirling 'round like i, top ;
There's a pause.— Can't proceed any Airther,

And makes up his mind be must stop.
Takes his seat, feeling deeply dejected,

Draws a long and most sorrowful sigh ;—
Would sell himself quick for a sixpence

If anyone'^ wishing to buy.

Talk not of the trials of school-jiirls—

O, never be heard to complain !
But pity yonr poor, frightened brothan

When called to the rostmm again.

E PLURIBUS UNUM.

BY JOHN PIBRTOMT.

Thb harp or the minstrel with melody rings
When the Muses have Unght him to touch and
to tnne it;
Bnt though it may have % Ibll octave of strings,
To both maker and minstrel the harp is a
unit.

So the power that create*
Onr republic States,
Into harmony brings then at different
dates;
And the thirteen or thirty, the Union oaoedone
Are " E Pluribns Unnm "—of many made one.

The science that weighs io her b«)anoe the
spheres,

And has watched them since first th'j Chaldean
beg^n it.
Now and then, as she ooonts them, and measnres
their years.
Brings into onr system and namet a new
planet.

Tet the old and new stars,
Ventis, Neptune and Mars,
As they driv* round the snn their in-
visi»ile cars,
Whether raster or slower their races they run-
Are " E Pluribus Unnm "—or many made one.

Id bnt one fly Ihti

or that system or spher>."
track.

Or with others conspire ft a general disper-
sion,
By the great central orb they would all be
brought back.

And held each in her place by a wholesome
coereion.

Should one daughter of light
Be indulged in her flight.
They would all be engulfed by old
Chaos and Night :
So, must none of our sisters be suffered to riin-
Por, "E PInribus Unnm," we oU go, if ooe.

Let tbe demon of discord onr melody mar.

Or Treason's red hand rend our Union asunder,
Break one string from our harp, or ejtinguihh
one star,

The whole system's ablaze witb its lightuinu
and thunder.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Let the Alooord b« hnsbed I
Let the trmiton be crnabed,
Thongh " Legion " their name, ell with
victorr flnehedl
For aje naat cnr motlo eUnd, fronting the eun :
E Plnrihiu Unum "— Ooii^A wmw§, we're OHI.

THE BIBLE IN THE WAR.

FFOl* AN ADDRESS BY REV. DR. TAYLOR.

NOTHINO has more touched my soul than
when I heard of that poor rebel dying,
stretched out upon one of the battle-fields
of the PeninsuJa, with the Bible open beneath
his hand and his skeleton fingers pressed upon
the words, "Yea> though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil, for Thou art with me ; Thy rod and Thy
staff, they comfort me."

Oftentimes this Bible has been the only
gravestone that has marked the resting-place
of many an unknown soldier. Many could be
known in no other way than by their Testa-
ments in their pockets, saturated with their pa-
triot blood ; and sometimes the story of their
fate has been first uttered to the sorrowing
home circle in the silent sentences of that pre-
cious Word.

! could tell you of an officer's wife from New
England receiving a box from her husband in
the army South, and when she came to open it,
there was nothing there to tell why it was sent.
There were the clothes, and the sword, and
many little relics he had carried in his bosom.
No letter had been written to tell the story ; but
there was his Bible I Wher. it was opened,
there were found, heavily underscored, simply
these words: "Woman, why weepest thou?"
and, "Why should it be thought an incredibls
thing with you that God should raise the
dead ? " That was all ; but it was enough. It
was the story oiT death !— it was the note of
resurrection !

CH0O.S1NG A VOCATION.
Dramatiied by Miss O. A. Rriggt.

EPITAPH ON OWEN MOORE.

Owen Moore was owin' more
TfaHD vjtveu H«iore oouid pay ;

80 owin' more caaaed Owen Moore
To np and roB away.

* Characters.
Mr. Smith An old fashioned farmer.

Mrs. .Smith His wife.

Miss JiKintha Smitn His niece.

John Jacob Finlay An admirer of Miss Smith.
Mrs. Harlem The landlady.

Scene i. At thi farm-houst Mrs. Smith is
lianiiH/r stockings. Mr. Smith is ioMug at
piiturt painted by his niece.
Mr. Smith. She hain't got no talent to speak
on. Most anybody who's got any taste in that
line could do as well as this ere. Don't see what
put sech an idee inlu her head ! She must sar-
tinly be losin* her wits to think of paintin' pic-
ters for a livin*.
Mrs. Smith. O, pa !

Mr. S. Let her stick to her dressmakin'—
there's money in that.

Mrs, S. Yes, "but it is hard-earned money.
She's gittin* dreadful nervous over it. -'Tain't
as though she was a little young flirt of a girl.
She's goin' on twenty-five.— old enough to
know her own mind and to be able to choose
an occupation for herself.

Mrs. S. Old enough to know better than to
go careering off to the city where she ain't
known and won't be appreciated.
Mts. S. O, pa, don't talk so dreadful.
Mr. S. Truth is truth, and i can't make nothin*
else outen it. And there's John Jacob, he's
'bout as good as told me he expects to marry
her soon's he gits money enough to build on
that new farm of his'n. He's a good stiddy
feller; Jacintha 'd better think twice afore she
throws sich a chance as that away.

Mrs. S. Here comes John Jwob now ! (Mr.
Smith goes and opens the door. John Jacob , a
green good natured fellcw enters. Mr. and M* f.
Smith shake hands with him, and txchangtr^
neighborly gtettings request him to take a chatK
He sits dawn, takes off his hat and looks around. )
John Jacob. We're havin' a pretty, middlin'
good spell of weather jest now.
Mr. S. Yes. pretty fair for this time o' year.
J. J. F. They say potatoes is comin' up. i
reckon they'll be pretty high afore spring.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Mr. S. Thit's to. Gueu we'd best to hold
•nto ourn ef they don't begin to rot. You had
a monster good crop this year.

7. 7. F. Yes'; ef they do as well as I expect, I
"hall clear the mortgage off my farm next
•pring.

Mr. S. Wall, said I That'll be doin' fust
rate!

7. 7. F. I s'pose it'll be a year or two afore
I can build. Don't want to run in debt. "Slow
•nd sure " is my motto.

Mr. S. That's so, Jake. You've got the right
Idee.

7 7F' Where's Jacintha?
Mn. S. She's gone over to the corners to do
•ome tradin'.

7' 7- F' Somebody was in to our house a
day or two ago a sayin' suthin' 'bout her goin'
•way this winter.

Mt$. S. Yes. she's ben a talkin' about it for
quite a spell.

Mr.S, The gal's got intu her head to go to
the city and du paintin' for a livin',

7' 7- F. Paintin' ! paintm' !— why, it ain't a
woman's business-climbin" up on ladders and
» hangin' unto scaffolds; besides white lead is
pixen to be breathin' in all the time.

Ms. S. It ain't that. Mr. Finlay, it's paintin'
of picters in a studio, I bleve she call it. Pic-
ters, you know, sech as you put in frames.

7 7 J^- Oh, that's it, eh I

Mr. S. 'Tain't much better, 'cordin' to my
idees. '

Mrt. S. O. pal (IJe/rrca/in^fy.) why couldn't
you have said artist insted of painter. Tliat's
What it is, Mr. Finlay.

Mr. S. What's the difference. I'd like to
know?

7- 7- F. Whichever way it is.it won't suit
tHf. There's a deal too many artists in the city
BOW. It's a woman's business to stay where's
she's known till she gits married and then help
her husband save his money.

Mrt. S. (Gentfy.) Wouldn't it be as well if
she could earn somethin' herself?

7' 7- F (Shakes kis kead.) It ain't in the
natur of things. 'Tain't woman's spere to be
•ettin' up in business for herself in that way.

Mr. S. Earn indeed I I'm nyillin' to eat every
»i-pence sns earns for tuS sext ten years a pic-
ter paintin'.

O, oa. she may do first rate, who

Mrs. S.
knows?

Mr. S. Wall, time'll tell. But ef she don't
come back afore the winter's out. sick of her
job. I'll miss my guess.

7- 7 F. I spose her mind's so sot on goin'
that nothin' can keep her. Wall. I swan, it's
too bad ! I wouldn't uv believed it of Jacintha
ef you hadn' a told me yourselves.

Mrs. S. Jacintha's made her home with us
for the last ten years, ever sence her father died
and I hate to part with her ; but she says that
everyone has special work to do and it's uphill
business to do anything else.

Mr. S. Wall, let her go. Experience is a
good schoolmaster, ef he don't charge too hi£i.
for teachin*.

7- 7- F. Them's my sentiments. Let her live
and larn. She'll be glad to come back to dress-
makin' agin. {Looks at /its watch.) My stars 1
It's gettir.' late. Time I was to hum doin' up
the chores. {Bids them good day and leaves. )

Mr. S. What a simpleton Jacintha is. ef I
must say so. She can't help but see that John
Jacob takes a shine to her ; and what a good
home she would have I But she's of age and
there's no use talkin' to her I s'pose.

Mrs.S. None in the least. Her mind is made
up. I heard her say so to-day. {Enter 7acinlha
with her arms full of bundles.)

Mrs. S. You ought to have been a little soon-
er. John Jacob has just gone from here.
7acintha S. Good. I'm glad he's gone I
Mr. S. Yes ; and he'll stay gone, too. He
don't 'bleve in gals goin' off to seek their fortin
any more'n I do.

7. S. It may be that I shall not succeed, but
I intend to risk it. I've saved a little money,
enough to last me till I can gain a foot-hold;
and if I make no more than by dressmaking, it
will be much pleasanter. If John Jacob don't
like it. he may lump it; I ask no odds of him.
Mrs. S. I don't see how you dare be so posi-
tive, my dear.

7. S. Because I know I am in the right.
Auntie. It will be unpleasant forme to leave you
and uncle Smith, especially so much against
your will, but I feel that duty to myself de-
niands it.

Mrs. S. You are not going until after the
quiltmg at Mrs. Brown's? She's made ereat

THE COMPLETE PROCRAif.

It*

calculations on having you there. I s'pose it's
partly because she's John Jacob's sister that
makes her so anxious for you to attend. She
probably thinks matters will be settled then be-
tween you ; and you 11 give up going to the city.

J.S.\ shall be obliged to disappoint her, for
I've bought my ticket and am going on the
morning train.

Mr. S. Remember, Jacintha, I wash my
hands of it all ; and I want you tohavenothin'
more to do with that gal, Phebe.

Mn. S. Why, husband, she's yourown niece I

Mr. S. I don't recognize no woman for a
niece that don't hear to reason. (Leaves the
stage.)

J. S. I'm sorry uncle feels soangry with me ;
but success will reconcile him.
Mrs. S. I hope so.

Scene ii. An artisfs studio— very plainly fur-
nished but neat and comfortable. Miss Smith,
brush in hand, is giving the finishing touche'sl
to a picture before her on the easel,
y. S. These are humble lodgings, it is true,
but still quite cosy. I'm bound to live within
my income until success shall warrant more
commodious quarters. God gives each son and
daughter of the human race a special craving
for special work, and this should be our guide in
choosing our vocation. Too much power is lost
by the jolt and jar and ceaseless friction caused
by being off the track. {Enter Mrs. Harlem,

the landlady, and handing her a Utter takes a
seat.)

Mrs. Harlem. The postman just brought it
I see it is from Willis & Harwick. I hope it
brings good news. Read it please, I am impa
tien to hear what they say. (Miss Smith opens
the letter and reads.

Mrs. H. There's business for you. I knew
that picture would take. Fifty dollars is a low
price for it, but you can command better pay
when you get your name up.

7. S. Yes, it does very well to start with. O,
Mrs. Harlem, I've just finished your little
Johnney's picture. Come and see how you like
it. (They go to the easel.)

Mrs. H. It is perfect. Miss Smith. He looks
just as though he could speak to me. Oh, how
I shall prize it 1 My Johnney, why could you
not have been spared to me, my own darling
boy ! (Duties her face in her handkerchief for a
few minutes.) It will be a great consolation to
me to look at him and feel that he is still living
and happy with the angels in heaven. I am a
poor woman, but I have not always been so.
The friends of my prosperity have not all dei
serted me. Only the chaff is blown away- the
I pure wheat remains. I still have influence with
influential people ; and this painting will bring
you other patronage.

7. S. I shall be most thankful for any favors
in that direction. Mrs. Harlem, and shall strive
to give good satisfaction.

Mrs. H. And you will succeed every time,
my dear ; I am sure of it. I am alone this
evening. Come down and take tea with me,_
don't bother to get your own supper to-nig'lit.
Come, it is all ready but pouring the tea. ( They
both rise logo.)

7 S. Thanks, I shall enjoy it ever so much.
(Leave the stage.)

7 S. « Miss Jacintha Smith,

"Dear Madam :-The winter scene you left
with us on exhibition we have just sold for fifty
dollars. Enclosed please find check for the
same, minus our commission. The gentleman
who made the purchase is refurnishing his
library and wishes three other pieces by the
same artist— Spring, Summer and Autumn— as
soon as you can finish them. Please inform us
by return mail if you can fill the order.
"Very Respectfully,

"Willis & Harwick."

Scene III. A nicely furnished studio. Beauti.
ful paintings adorn the walls, and there art
others, on easels, in different parts of the room.
Miss Smith is sitting before an easel with brush
in hand, soliloquizing,

7. S. Two years since I dkme to the city\
My brightest dreams have been more than real-
ized. Love for my work, and patient, perse-
vering industry have brought success. (A loud
rap at the door. She rises and ppens it, and is
greatly surprised to meet her uncle and aunt from
the country.) Oh, how do you do. Uncle Isaac
and Aunt Phebe ? ( They shake hands. ) I'm so
glad to see you ! Be seated.

Mr. S. I seen suthin' 'bout your picters in
our paper t'other day. Jacintha, and I sez to your
aunt Phebe. sez I. ..S'pose we go down to the

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

'iH i*

iti't ►*

iil' !

city and see how the gal is gittin' along. I'll
bet she wants to come home afore this time."

Mn. S. I've been wantin' to come and see
you for a long time ; but. someliow, your uncle
Isaac kinder laid it up against you for leaving
us ; bi't I guess he's all over it now.

Mr. S. My 1 Yis, "tain't best to keep up hard
feelin's alius; but I was quite put out at you for
throwin' so good a chance away— mebbey
'toin't too late yit John Jacob's ben payi;i'
attenshun to Uetsy Dow for quite a spell, but
they ain't married, and I don't know as they're
a-goin' to be.

7- S. Well, let him keep on paying attention
to her for what I care. He isn't my style of
man. Take off your wrai)s, and I will order
our dinner sent up from the restaurant. I have
only to telephone for it.

Mn. S. No ; thank you, Jacintha, we eat
our dinner on the cars just before we got here.
I put up luncheon enough to last us till we git
home ; and I've brought you a nice roll of but-
ter, a whole baked chicken, and this glass of
currant jell. ( Taiinj^ them out of a large lunch
basket.) I thought it would seem good to have
something fresh from home.

7- S. O, thank you, Aunt Phebe, it will, in-
deed, seem good. ( Takes the things and sets
them away behind a screen. ) Take off your over-
coat, Uncle Isaac, and let me help you divest
yourself of your wraps. Auntie.

Mrs. S. No, Jacintha, your uncle has some
business to see to before we go back, and we
must take the train so's to git home by chore
time.

7. S. Then you are only to make such a
short stay I It is too bad. I want to have a
good visit with you.

Mr. S This'll hev to do for this time, I
guess. I hain't got no one tu help 'round the
farm this winter, and so I can't spend much
time a-visitin'; but your aunt Phebe's ben
a-worryjn' about you, and I thought we'd best
to come down and see ef you was in need of
anything to make you comfortable.

y. S. Well, what do you think. Uncle Isaac,
does it look much as though I need help from
tny friends ?

Mr. S. No, I don't kno^y as it does ; but
!. must ta„e a deal of money to keep this thing
a-goin'.

7 S. Yes. it does.

Humph ! be careful you don't gH

Mr. S.
into debt.

7. S. Yes, I'm careful to pay as I go.

Mr. S. That's right. Keep on the safe side,
and don't be too extravagant. You alius did
like fine things.

7 S. And I intend to enjoy them as I go
along, as far as 1 can afford to indulge my
taste.

Mr. S. That's all well enough ; but be sure
and lay up somethin' for a rainy day.

7 -S' Of course, any sensible person will do
that. Uncle.

Mrs. S. [Looking at a painting on an easel.)
How much do you expect to get for this, Ja-
cintha, when you get it finished?

y. S. It is an order. I shall, probably, charge
about seventy-five dollars for it?

Mrs. S. (Starting back in surprise.) O.good-
ness me !

Mr. S. 'Tain't worth as much as that.

7- S. A picture is alway.-? worth what it will
bring.

Mr. S. Say, Phebe, what did we pay lor that
big chromo in the spare room ?
Mrs. S. Only a dollar, pa. frame and all.
Mr. S. There's for you, nowl And it's a
considerable bigger than this is.

7- S. Paintings are not valued according to
their size, but according to the skill displayed
in their vork. {Pointing to a picture.) There's
one I sold this morning for a hundred dollars,
cash down ; the gentleman will send for it this
afternoon.

Mrs. S. You don't say ! And John Jacob
Finlay is so set up because the girl he's payin'
attention to can earn her dollar a day at plain
sewing ! I wonder what he'd say, pa, to the
money our Jacintha makes I

Mr. S. Wall, wall, it beats all how you're
a-hauiin' in the money I A body must have
plenty of chink to afford to pay sich prices. I
should look at a hundred dollars a good while
afore I'd spend it for picters, that's sartin.

7- S. There are people in this city who pay
thousands of dollars for one painting. What
do you think of that?

Mr.S. Dutell! No wonder there's so much
breakin' down, cheatin' everybody and skip-
ping to Canada I Kin you tell me the near-
est way to the savin's bank? I've bought
that upland medder from Squire Dunnerlayand

fftt COUPLteTS PRQGkAht.

It pay tor that

I want to borrow a thouund dolLrs there on
bond and mortgage to pay for it. You remem-
ber that twenty-acre medder, Jacintha, a nice
piece of land as ever laid out doors I

7. S, I remember It perfectly well. It is a
nice piece of land. What interest does the
saving's bank charge you ?
Mr. S. Six per cent.

7- •S'. I'll lend you the money at four and a
half, just what the bank is allowing me for de-
posits.

Afr. S. The mischief, you will I And where
did you get the thousand dollars to lend me ?

7. S. Where other people do— out of my
business. {SA* hands kirn her hank book. He
surveys the entries.)

Afr. S. Jacintha. I give in. You've done
well to come here and open your studio, as you
call it. What wiff John Jacob Finlay say ? I
guess you'll see him afore long. He's comin'
down to the city to sell his pertaters, cause
the' re bringin' a better price here than with us.
He's a mighty close calkerlater, and is doin'
fust rate a farmin' of it on that new farm of
his'n. He ain't agoin' to build till next spring ;
but I kinder reckon he's made up his mind to
give you a call when he comes to the city, by
what he said when he was over to our house
'tether night. And, mind, now, you don't say
nothin' you'll be sorry for ef he dbes come,
jacintha, me and your Aunt Phebo would be
proper glad to hev you nicely settled in the
neighborhood. ( Takes out his watch. ) Wall,
we hain't got no tine to spare. I s'pose you'll
hev to go down to the bank with us to git the
money.

7. S. Yes, I'll telephone for a carriage and
we'll ride down to the bank and to the depot.
[Goei to the telephone.) Hello, Central! Con-
nect with Hilton's Livery, please. Hello! Hil-
ton's Livery? Send a carriage to Miss Smith,
»05 Grand Avenue. All right I {Mr. and Mrs.
Smith start at her in blank amazement.)

Mr. S. For pity sake ! What on airth is
that, Jacintha? Looks suthin like an ear
trumpet.
7 S. It's a telephone.
Mrs. S. Atell-a-what?
7 -S". A telephone for conveying messages
through the city.

Mr. S. You don't s'pose they heard what
you said down to tht ttable, do you?

7 S. Yes, and they told me they'd send a
carriage right up.

Mr. S. Did they holler loud enough for you
to hear through that trumpet ?

7 -S". They didn't speak any louder than I
did. The wire conveys the sound.

Mr. S. Wall sed, ef that aint curis I (Mist
Smith goes out and returns ready for the title. )

7 S. The carriage is here. Sorry yon
couldn't stay longer I ( They all leave thestage^
Scene iv. iss Smith Mretunrs to the studto
Seats herself at her panting.

7 -S". Dear me I how outlandish uncle Isaac
is! I didn't notice it so much when I was with
him all the time ; but he means well ; and lam
glad he is feeling better towards me. Aunt
Phebe has been on my side all the time, and I
guess she has finally talked him over to see
things as she does. Anyway, he is all right
now. {A loud rap at the doot). I wonder who
that is? I guess he thinks Im hard of hear,
ing. {Goes to the door. John Jacob Finley
enttts. His pants are tucked into his boot legs
and he has a whip nver his shoulder.

7 7 ^- How de do Jacintha. I guess you
didn't expect to see me to-day.

7 S. How do you do, Mr. Finlay, it is quite
a surprise. Be seated. (He takes a chair ana
looks around the room in w'>ntier.)

7 7 ^- A mighty fine place you've got here.
I didn't expect to see you quite so well fixed.

7 S. Yes, I think I have pleasant rooms.

7 7 ^- Don't you s -imes wish you was
back to old Berry town ^^am? It must be
kinder lonesome for you way off here alone.

7 S. I often think of my friends in the
country ; but I am too busy to get lonely. {Ht
coughs, scratches his head and seems somewhat
confused.)

7 7 F'- Jacintha, the best of us is liable t«
mistakes.

7 S. {Enquiringly) Yes?

7 7 L. I've ben a thinkin' fur quiteaspeK
of comin' down here ; but farm work's late this
fall on account of ther bein* so much rain.
{Coughs). Jacintha, somehow I haven't felt
jest right, as you may say, sence you cum away.

7. S. 'Anything serious the trouble, Mr. Fin=
lay ? I haven't heard of your being sick.

7 7 F- N-no, not as I know on. I've—
I've thought of you a good many times and
wondered ef you ever thought of me.

rr.,;*

i i

/ >

1
! ■

Ki '

i.ll; -^

Mjj

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

y.S.\ remember all my old friends in Ber-
rytown— yourself among the rest, of course.

7. J. F. I haven't committed myself yit to
Betsy Dow. though follcs have been silly
enough to talk cause I've waited on her to
parin' bees and sich places, you know.
y. S. Of course.

7. 7 F. And if you'll say so, Jacintha, we'll
let by-gones be by-gones. and 1 won't say no
more to Betsy ef you'll only consent to come
back to Berrytown when I git my new house
redely for us to live in.

7- S. But 1 don't say so, Mr. Finlay. I
wouldntcut Betsy Dow out for the world.
Pray return to her. at once. As for me. I am
too much absorbed in my work to care to marry
anyone at present.

7 7 ^- (Draws a long sigh and looks very
sad.) Wall, Jacintha, I s'pose it must be jest
as you say. but I feel terribly disappointed,
cause Id made gret calkerlations on it; and
your uncle's folks and 1 had talked it over.
They thought 'twould be the best thing you
could do. My farm's all paid for and I don't
owe a cent to nobody, And when I git the
money for them potaters I shell hev enough
ahead to build my house.

7 S. I am glad you've done so well. Marry
Betsy Dow and leave me the freedom of single
blessedness.

7 7 •''"• I »'pose them's your honest senti-
ments. Jacintha ? (Looks at her enquiringly. )
7 S. Certamly they are.
7 7 P"- Gals are so curis ! You ain't a
jokin now, jest to make me feel bad ?
7 S. I'm not joking. Mr. Finley.
7 7 ^- Wall. I swan I I thought any gal
gittin along to your age would jump at a good
chance to get married.

7 S. You are surprised, it seems, to find me
an exception.

7 7 P- Sartin I be» You don't want to be
an old maid do you ?

7 S. That title has no particular terrors for
me. It is much better than uncongenial com-
panionship.

7 7 F. So you're bound to paddle your
own canoe ?

7 -S". That is my intention, sir. If every

..fi „„._, ,rtc tuuitigc tu sinkc out for her-

•elf, choose the vocation she is best fitted for,

and earn her own living there would not be so
many unhappy marriages.

7 7 P' (Looks at his watch.) Wall, I
must hussel for that ere train or I shall get left.
(Puts on his hat, bith her good-bye and leaves. )

7 S. So the John Jacob business is finally
settled. Dear me I the fellow has more assjr
ance than brains.

JOE.

W« don't take vngrants In, sir,

And I am alone to-day,
Letistwiae, I could call the good m

Ho'ii not so far away.

Yon arc welcome to a breakfaat^-
I'll bring you some bread and tea,

You might sit on the old stone yonder,
Under thecheHluut tree.

You're traveling stranger? Mebbe
You've got Home uotioDA to sell?

We have a sight of peddlers,
But we allers treat them well.

For they, poor souls, are trying

Like the rest of us to live ;
And it's not like tramping the country,

Aud calling on folks to give.

Not that I meant a word, sir-
No offense in the world to you

I think, now I look at it closer,
Your coat is an army bine.

Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ?

That was — how many years ago ?
I had a boy at Shi lob,

Kearney — a sergeant — Joe !

Joe Kearney, yon might »' met himt
But in course yon were miles apart

He was a tall, straight boy, sir.
The pride of hia mother's heart.

We were off to Kittery, then, sir,
Small farmer in dear old Maine ;

It's a long stretch from there to Kansas,
Bat I couldn't go back again.

He was all we had, was Joraph ;

He and my old man and me
Had sorter o' growed together.

And wen happy aa we oonld be.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAU.

I wMa'l • looking for tronblo
When tha terriblr wsr bflgan,

And I wrMtlfld for grace to bo able
To giro up our ouljr mo.

Well, well, 'taln't no nse o' talking,

M/ old mnii mid, uid ho :
"The Lord lovee a willin' giver;'*

Aud tbat'e what I tried to bo.

Well, the heart and fleah are rebels,
And hev to be fought with graoe,

Bat I'd given my lifo—yea, willin'—
To look on my dead boy's fkce.

Takeeare, you an •pillin' your tea, sir,
Poor aoal 1 don't cry; I'm sure

Yon'?e had a good mother sometime—
Yoor wounds, wore they bard to cure?

Anderaonville ! God help yon f
Hunted by dogs, did yon say ?

Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir?
I wonder you're living to-day.

I'm thankftil my Joe was shot, sir,
" How do yon know that he died ? "

Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon ;
Here's the letter, and—" maybe he lied I "

Well I never! yon shake like the ager.
My Joe ! there's his name and the date;

"Joe Kearney, Seventh Maine, sir, a Ser-
geant—
Lies here in a critical state—

" Just died— will be buried to-morrow—
Can't wait for his parents to come."

Well, I thought God had left nn that hour.
As for John, my poor man, he was dumb.

Didn't speak tor a month to the n^U'^'ors
Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to m. ;

Never been the same man since that Monday
They brought us this letter you see.

And you were from Maine 1 from old Kittery ?

What time in the year did you go ?
I just disremember the fellows

That marched oat of town with our Joe.
Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir?

It's gettin' too warm out o' door,
If I'd known you'd been gone for a sqjer,

I'd taken you in hem afore.
Now make yonrself easy. We're humble ;

Wo Kansas folks don't go for a show-
Sit here— it's Joe's chaii^ take your hat off;

"GftU&tiberl" My Qod! yea we Joe!

187

PROFANITY.

«. H. CHAPIN.

Profanity is a brutal vice. He who in.
dulges in it Is no gentleman. I care not what hit
I stamp may be in «>ciety, I care not what clothes
he wears, or what culture he boasts-dcspite all
his refinement, the light and habitual i.iking of
God s name betrays a coarse nature and a bru-
tal will. Profanencss is an unmanly and iilh
vice. It certainly is not a grace in conversation,
and It adds no strength to it. There is no or-
game symmetry in the narrative that is ingrained
with oaths ; and the blasphemy that bolsters
an opinion does not make it any more correct.
Nay, the use of jhese expletives argues a lim-
ited range of ideas, and a consciousness of be-
Ing on the wrong side ; and if we can find no
other phrases through which to vent our chok-
ing passion, we had better repress that passion.
Again, profanencss Is a mean vice. It indicates
the grossest ingratitude. According to general
estimation, he who repays kindness with con-
tumely—he who abuses his friend and benefac-
tor—is deemed pitiful and wretched. And yet,
O, profane man. whose name is it ypu handle
so lightly ? It is that of your best Benefactor !
You. whose blood would boil to hear the ven-
erable names of your earthly parents hurled
about in scoffs and jests, abuse, without com-
punction and without thought, the name of your
Heavenly Father. Finally, profanencss is an
awful vice. Once more. I ask. whose name is
it you so lightly use? That name of God-
have you ever pondered its meaning? Have
you ever thought what it is that you mingle thus
with your passion and your wit ? It is the name
of Him whom the angels worship, and whom
the heaven of heavens cannot contain !

Profane man. though the habit be ever so
strong, when the word of mockery and blas-
phemy is about to leap from your lips, think of
God, and instead of the rude oath, bow your
head in silent prayer for mercy and forgiveness.

BE TEMPERATE.

Whatever a man may have been, let him
yield to the demon of strong drink, and it re-
quires no prophet to teU what he will be. He

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

hevUabljr goes down. Manlineu fadet out of
hli nature ; the tokens of honor, Intelligence
and integrity vanish from the face that is
flushed from excess and jaded with riot and
debauchery, and with accelerated speed he
hastens on the downward path. In his sober
..noments he often curses the instrument of his
ruin, but he is poweriess to escape the evils that
encompass him ; he knows not how to break
the chains that bind him down. He becomes
a worthless idler, a miserable cumberer of the
ground. In the busy hive of human toil there
is little indeed that he can do, and he has little
inclination to do even that. An outcast from
all that is pure and high and holy, he may some-
times turn a solemn thought to the graves where
•lumber those whom once he loved and whose
love for him endured while life remained, but
memory stings him as with scorpion fangs. Re-
flection isbittertohis soul ; his brain, benumbed
with poison, no longer thrilled with thoughts that
wander through eternity ; and he, whose genius
once irradiated the land and whose eloquence
charmed the listening multitudes^ cracks his
maudlin jokes, moistens his lips v/ith the burn-
ing draught and stupefies himself until his pain
and sorrow are forgotten.

Oh, lit is a fearful thing to see men on whom
God has set, aa with his own signet, the impress
of intellect and genius, debase themselves to
this hell of sin and shame and misery ; and yet
men laugh and smile and dance as they tread
this downward path, and only wake to their
danger when they fiind themselves fettered with
bonds they cannot break and sunk in wretched-
ness from which they cannot escape. Let those
who have not yet entered upon this dangerous
road flee for their lives from a path so full of
peril, and let those who already find themselves
entangled in these terrible snares cry mightily
to God for deliverance, and hasten to escape
ere it becomes impossible.

EPH GOT THERE.

OOKED HONBST BUT HE STOLE THE COLONBL's
CHICKENS.

" You Northern folks don't begin to know
the Southern nigger as he 5: " observei! the
colonel as he lighted » fr?8h cigar and leaned
back in his chair. °

"No?"

•' They are not vicious, but they are without
nrtoral obligation. Confound him. he's • thici
from head ^.Q heel ; I never saw an honest nig.
ger yet.'

"That's very sweeping, Colonel."

" But its truth. I'll defy you to find me an
honest nigger in all Georgia."

" I should say that gray-haired darkey over
on the cotton bales could be trusted to watch
a gold mine."

• You would, eh ? Heah. boy, tome heah ! "

" What's wanted. Kurnel Peabody ? " asked
the old man, as he came over with his hat in
his hand.

"Say, Eph, I want you to do me a little
favor this evening."
"Sartin."

" I'll pay you for doing it"
" Dress you soul, sah."
" I want you to steal me a couple of young
chickens and bring them to the store at seven
o'clock."
" Steal'em fur suah ? '•
" Yes. I'll give you a dollar.*'
"All right. Mars Peabody, I'll hev 'em dere
by sebcn o'clock if I'm alive."

"What do you think of the nigger now?"
asked the colonel as the old man moved away.
I'm astonished."

Well, you be on hand at seven o'clock to
see the chickens. He'll have 'em here."

So he did. He came to the back doer of tlie
store with a couple of pullets in a bag, and as
he handed them over he said :

" he got 'em fur you, Kurnel, an' dey is as
fat as butter. Don't reckon you'll .lebber say
nuffin* 'bout it. eh?"
" Not a word, Eph. Here's your dollar."
I had no argument to make that evening.
There were the nigger, the chickens, and the
dollar. What could I say ? Next morning 1
went down to the colonel's office, and I had
scarcely stepped inside when he called out :
•• What do you think of the nigger now?"
"Anything new happened?"
" I should say so I Where do you tliink old
Eph stole those chickens? "
"I have no idea."

'' But I have. The infernal rascal stole em
from ray own coop, and three or four more
with em I"

THE COMPLETE TROGRAU,

to find me an

9 me a little

}u think old

M'CALLA AND THE MIDDY.

HOW THB LATTIR GOT HQCAIlt.

" WHBiT I tailed with Lieutenant-Commander
McCaila teveral ycariago,"iaida young naval
officer to a Wainington reporter, "lie had
already made a reputation aa a rigid dlKipli-
narian. One day it chanced that a young mid-
inipman whom he had tent aahore went a trihe
beyond the instructiona given him with relation
to his errand. The matter waa not of the least
imfwrtance. but McCalla chided him aharply,
faying :

"When you receive an order, air, do simply
what you are told to do and never a particle
more or Iraa."

" The midshipman touched his hat respect-
fully, but he thought the rebuke uncalled for
and bided his time for getting even, A few
days later McCalla summoned him and said :

" You will take a boat, sir, and go ashore to
the postoffice. See if there is a package there
for me. •• • Ay, ay, air,*

"The midahipman took the boat and went
ashore. When he returned McCalla asked :

" • Well, sir, waa there a package for me at
the postoffice ? '

" Yea sir,' replied the midshipman, touching
his cap.

• ' Where la it? * " • At the postoffice, sir.'
" • What ? you didn't bring it with you ? '
" ' No, sir,' " ' Why not. air ? '
" ' Uecauae I had no ordera to do ao, air.'
" ' I told you to get the package.'
" ' Beg pardon, air, but I underatood you to
tell me merely to see If there was a package for
you at the postoffice, and I could not venture
to do a particle more nor less than my instruc-
tions indicated.'

•' McCalla looked just then as if he would
have liked to eat up that midahipman, but it
was impossible for him to aay anything. The
midshipman had got square."

THE REASON WHY.
" When I waa at the party,"

Said Betty (aged just four),
" A little girl fell off her chair,

Bight down apon the floor ;
And all the other little girla

Began to laugh, but me~
/didn't laugh a single bit,**

Said Betty, geriloaslj.

" Why not f " her mother aakad her,

Fnll of delight to flod
That Betty— hiraa her little hearth
Had been po aweetly kind.
" Why didu't yoM laugh, darting t

Or don't yon like to tell T"
"I didn't laugh," Mid Betty,
" Caoae it was me that fell I "

MATTIE S WANTS AND WISHES.

QBACI OUBOOir. .

I WANTS a piece orcal'co

To make my doll a deaa;
I doesn't want a big piece ;

A yard'll do I gneas.
I wiMh you'd fred my needle.

And find my flmble, too—
I has such heape o' aewin'

I don't know what to do.

My Hepay tored her apron

A tam'lin' down the stair,
And Cnsar's lost his pantooonB.

And needs anozxer pair.
I wants my Hand a bonnet ;

She hasn't none at all ;
And Fred must have a Jacket;

His oBser one's too small.

I wants to go to grandma's ;

Ton promised me [ might
1 know she'd like to see ne ;

I wants to go to-night,
She lets me wipe the dishea,

And see in grandpa'^* wnteh—
I wish I'd free, four pennies

To buy some bntter-aooteh.

I wants some newer mitten»—

I wish yon'd knit me some,
"Cause most my finger fVeesea,

They leaks so in the fnm.
I wored 'em out last summer,

A pnllin' George's sled ;
I wish you wouldn't langh io~>

It hurts me in my head.

I wish I had a cookie ;

I'm hungry's I can be.
If you hasn't pretty large onca,

Ton'd better bring me free.
I iviab I had a »»'»i»f»

Won't yon buy me one to keey t
0, dear! I feels so tired,

I wante to go to aleef ,

11 ?

3 5 tS

U r.

For School and Evening Entertainments.

MUSIC.

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS.

BY MISS A. O. BRIQGS.

Kind Friends : — With joy we
fi.Tcet you and extend to you our most
cordial welcome. As tlie traveler
across the arid sands of the desert
hails with delight the fertile oasis, so
we, loaded with the cares and per-
plexities of this busy world, love to
throw aside our burdens for a while,
and to rest and refresh our energies iii
these pleasant reunions, the oasis in our
life-journey. Nor is it for the present
only that these little gatherings are
gratifying. Our lives are largely made
up of memories, and we shall love
through tlie coming years, to look
back to them as sunny spots amid the
lights and shadows of' the past.

Though our amateur efforts this
evening may lack the finished grace
and elegance of professional experi-
ence, we trust you will accept them for
just what they are— simple recrea-
tions^-and forget the exacting require-
ments of the critic in the indigent
forbearance of the friend.

We shall offer you a variety of the
best we have at ^ur disposal ; and
while we aim at amusement, we have
not forgotten, amid the laughter-pro-
voking scenes of the ludicrous, to in-
terweave the more important lessons
of the wholesome moral.

Tho inlmio staee, if rightly planned,
Bscomes a t«soher, wii>8 and gi-and,
Ezpoaing faults to opoa view

And wakenn in dur minds a 8tric°)
For liiglt«r i4ai« and aoM«r life.

With this much for preface, permit
me to introduce the actors of thd eve-
ning. (Curtain rises, displaying tht
actors on the stags.)

MUSIC.

* ^ » .

READINGS.

FARMER BOFFIN'S EQUIVA
LENT.

It was a clean case of negligence
on the part of the engineer. He should
have whistled at the crossing and
slowed up. He did neither. Farmer
Boffin, driving in to market on a load
of hay, was half-way across the tracks
when the express struck the wagon.
Farmer Boffin and the two horses
never knew what struck them.

These facts were laid before Julius
Burnett, Esq , solicitor to the railroad,
and he said, in his pleasant way:
" Farmer Boffin will cost about $5,000
more than he was wor^h, if the case
goes to court. We must settle this
with the widow { t once."

So Mr. Burnett adjusted his clerical
white tie, and took the first train for
Moon's Rest. It was a hot and dusty
walk to the Boffin farm, but when he
clasped Mrs. Boffin's hand and mui-
mured a few words of apologetic sym-
pathy, the attorney was the cooler of
the two. Then he began: "The At-
lantic and Northeastern Railroad Com-
pany have sent me, madam, to offer
their deepest sympathy. No accident
that has ever happened on our line has

ments.

)reface, permit
)rs of tbd eve-

disjplaying tht

GS.

EQUIVA

of negligence
jr. He should
crossing and
her. Farmer
ket on a load
•8s the tracks
£ the wagon,
two horses
them.

before Julius
the railroad,
jasant way :
about $5,000
I, if the case
)t settle thi?

i his clerical
Srst train ^or
ot and dusty
but when he
id and mut-
logetic sym-
the cooler of

: "The At-
iilroad Com-
1am, to offer
No accident

our line has

CAUTION.

'aSiSii

1^ TBE COMPLETE PBOOBAM.

been so deepljiea^r i«d, I assure you,

madam, and "

"Them horses was wuth a plum
two hundred dollars," broke in the
widow, rubbing herejes with the cor-
ner of her apron. "Joshua wouldn't
take less. He tol' Zeph Hanks las'
April."

"As I was saying, madam," con-
tinned Mr. Burnett, " our company is
deeply grieved. Mr, Boffin was—-"
, . "4.'^', *^® wagon's all knocked to
kindhn' wood," interrupted Mr. Bof-
fin's relict.

"That's precisely what 1 came to
see you about," said the attorney,
changing his course to catch the wind
"in an hour like this, when the heart
is bowed down, a little ready monev
18 often very desirable, and I see you
are a woman who believes in doing
business in a business like manner
Now, those horses, Mrs. Boffin, I feel
sure our company would replace them,
it can be done for 1 150, can't it?
Say, one fifty?"

"Two hundred dollars won't buy
them horses' equals," said Mrs. Boffin
decidedly.

"Then we wiil pay $200 for the
horses," cheerfully assented the lawer-
"now for the wagon— we are prepared
to be liberal, Mrs. Boffin; we know
what It is to lose a wagon in this
heart-rending way— shall we say $26
;br the wagon ? ''^ ^

Mrs. Boffin nodded her head and
murm-ired: " It's nothin' but kindlin'
wood," ftdding sharply : " You've for-
gotten the hay and the harness— they
ain t no good to me now— an' that
harness wur nearly new."

"Certainly, Mre. Boffin," the lawyer
said, "I was coming to that— |l5
ought to cover that^you regard that
as satisfactory, of course. Let's see
-♦225 and |15 is $240. And now,
madam, as to that excellent husband
oi yours, it in my raeIan«fjoIy duty,"
Here he paused, and Mrs. Boffin took
ttpthe parable with: "Joshua was a
12 •

ill

powerful worker— nigh on 20 year he
run this farm— and hired men's k
wuthless."

..^^'^^c^^Zr ^"- SofiSn; let's say
$10 for Mr. Boffin, and I'll draw you
a check right now for $250."

And a check of that size went to
ihe credit of Mrs. Boffin's bank ae-
count that very day.

-•-^»>

THE RESURRECTION.

SIB EDWIN ARNOLD.
who oome»ttom Indto to iMm thtiSS^^^Si

" It was our Sabbath-eve. By set of
sun

Arimathean Joseph c;Tived, and gained

Ihe grace to lay him in his sepulchre

J^resh-hewn, where no man ever yet

was laid, :'

Shut in a garden. And did bring him

there, *^

Tenderly taken from the bloody cross,
Wrapped in fine sindon, and strewn
round about

With myrrh and aloes— gifts for bur-
ial -

From Nakdimon the rabbi— al mitob
spice

As should a king's grave sweetetL

And they set
A great stone at the entrance of th«

tomb:

And I— with one more— watched

them set the stone.
But might not come at him, to make

him fair.

Because a guard of soldiers kept the

place ; ,

Also, it was the Sabbath.

A J 11 1 "So night passed ;

And all that next slow day ; and nisht

again. **

" Then, while the first day of the wi^

was dark,
Alone I wended to his sepalohn^

TUB COMPLETE PBOGBAM.

6 I .J

liii:

■ s>

Bearing fair water, and the frankin-

oenM.
And linen ; that my Lord's aweet Wy

" alfiep
Well in tlie rock. And, while my

woeful feet
Passed through the gate, and up the

paved ascent
Along the second wall, over the hill,
Into that garden, hard by Golgotha,—
The morning brightenecf over Moab'i

peaks,
Touched the great Teraplo'i dome

with crimson fires,
Lit Opliel find Moriah rosj-red.
Made Uli v all gold, and, in the pools
In Hinnom laid a sudden lance of

flame.
And, from the thorn-trees, brake the

waking songs
Of little birds; and every palm-tree's

top
Was full of doves that cooed, as know-
ing not
Hx)w Love was dead, and Life's dear

glory gone,
And the World's hope lay in the tomb

with him ;
Which now I spied— that hollow in

the rock
Under the caraphire leaves. Yet no

guards there
To help me roll the stone I nay and no

stone I
It lay apart, leaving the door a-gape.
And through the door, as I might

dimly see.
The scatter«»d wrappings of the burial-

night.
Pale gleams amidst the gloom, Not

waiting, then,—
Deeming our treasure taken wicked-

I sped; and came to Peter, and to

John ;
And cried : 'Our Lord is stolen from

his grave
And none to tell where he is borne

away I'
iQsresv, vhsy ran iogethor, osins, and

And entered in ; and found the linen

cloths
Scattered ; the rock bed empty ; and
amazed, '

Back to their house they went. But

I drew nigh
A second time, alone ; heart-broken

now
The bright day seeming blackest night

tome,
The small birds mockers, and the city's

noise —
Waking within the walla — hateful and

vain.
Why should Earth wake, the Son of

\lan asleep ?

Or that great guilty city rise and live,

With this dear Lord, dead, in her stony

skirts? ^

Fled, too, my last fond hope, to lay

him fair.
And kiss his wounded feet, and wash

the blood
From the pierced palms, and comb his

tangled hair
To comeliness, and leave him— like a

king-
To his forgetful angels. Weeping hard
With these thoughts, like to snake-
fangs, stinging me
My left hand on the stone I laid, and

shut
The eager sunshine oft" with my right

hand.
Kneeling, and looking in the sepulchre
It was not dark within I I deemed at

first
A lamp burned there, such radiance

mild I saw
Lighting the hewn walls, and the

linen -bands;
And, in one comer, tolded by itself.
The face-cloth. Coming closer I es-
pied
Two men who sat there — very watch-

iully—
One at the head, the other at the foot
Of that stone table where my Lord

.'-J lain.
Oh 1 1 Bay 'men' — I should hftve known
uomw

THB COMPLETE PROOBAM

Had ey«« liko thein, shapes so ma-

jestical,
Tongues turned to sucU a music as

the tone
Wherewith they questioned me: 'Why

weepest tliou V

Ah, sirs,' I said, 'my Lord is ta'en
away,

Nor wot we whither 1' and thereat
my tears

Blotted all seei ^g. So I turned to wine

The hot drops off; and, look I Anoth-
er one

Standing behind me, and my foolish
eyes

Hard gazing on him and not know-
ing him 1

Inde^, I deemed this was the gardener
Keeping the trees and tomb, so was
he flesh ;

So Hying, natural, and made like man.
Albeit— if I had marked — if any ray
Of watchful hope had helped me—

such a look.
Such presence, beautiful and pure

such light * . '

Of loveliest compassion in his face,
Had told my beating heart and blind-

ed eyes
Who this must be. But I— my brow

i' the dust —
Heard him say softly; 'Wherefore

weepest thou ?

Whom seekest thou ?' A little mar-

veiled I —
Still at his foot, too sorrowful to rise-
He should ask this— the void grave

gaping near
And he its watchman ; yet his accents

glad;
Nay, each word sweet with secret

resonance
Of joy shut in it ; and a tender note
JJ{./»gntness,like the gentle raillery
W hich lovers use, dissembling happi-

ness.

NatWess, not lifting up my foolish

ucad,

•Sir,' said I, *If 'tis thou haat borne
hiai henoe,

Tell me where thou hast laid him

Tlien will I
Bear him away I ' "

" What answer came to that ? "
Fetching deep breath, the Indian
asked.

_ . And she —

Her white arms wide out-raught as

if she saw
His feet again to clasp ; her true knee

bent
As he were there to worship; her

great eyes
Shining with glow of fearless, faithful

love.
As if, once more, they looked him in

the face,
And drank divinest peace, replied,
elate :

"Ah, friend, such answer that my sad-
ness turned
Gladness, as suddenly as gray is gold,
When the sun springs in glory ! such

word
As made my mourning laugh itself to

nought,
Like a cloud melting to the blue. Such

word
As, with more music than earth ever

heard.
Set my swift dancing veins full well

aware
Why so the day dawned, and the city

stirred,
And the vast idle world went busy on,
And the birds carolled, and, in palm-
tree tops,
The wise doves cooed of love / Oh, a

dear word
Spoke first to me, and, after me, to all.
That all may always know he is the

Lord,
And death is dead, and new times

come for men.
And Heaven's ways justified, and

Christ alive, " '
Whom we saw die, nailed on thb cru^
cross I

TBX COMPLETE PSOQBAM.

WoM

PVil I

For, while I lay there, sobbing at his

feet,
The word he spake — My Lord I my

King I my Christ 1
Was my name :— ' MARY 1 '"

'• If I say the dead

Catch tone of some such melting ten-
derness

When first, their lovers in the new life
flooic

And greet and kiss them, telling them
sweet things

Of bliss beyond, and Love crowned
Conqueror ;

If I should speak of children, dream-
ing ill.

And then grown 'ware it is the dear
safe breast

Of their fond mother which they fret
upon I

If I should, like hopeless mariners

Snatched sudden from black gulfe ; or
men condemned.

Ransomed from chains, and led to
marriage feasts ;

With the swift comfort of that instant
change.

All must fall short I No language had

I then,
No language have I now I only I

turned
My quick glance upward ; saw Him ;

knew Himl sprang
Crying: ' Rabboni 1 Lord I my Lord I

dear Lord 1 ' "

MUSIC-VOCAL.

tULLUyUY.

HER CORRESPONDENT.

Jack's room, with Jack in it. He
is tramping up and down, hands
in pockets, jacket half off his
shoulders, furiously smoking a
perfectly empty pipe.

J(usk (savagely soliloquizing be-
tween puff8)--Glad I wrote it. Glad
I St Glad I've broken with her.

Only t 'y didn't do it sooner. Flirt.
Thorough flirt. Went to see her.
Found her going out. With man.
Young man. Good-looking. Also
styhsh. She says she's extremely
sorry. But unexpected arrival, and

■ I flare up. Interrupt. Wish

her very good evening. Which
means very bad one. Fling off. Lie
awake alt night. Morning, write let-
ter ending engagement. Post it.
Meant to go to Europe instantly.
. This noon. But thought I'd wait for
answer. Wonder if letter's reached
her yet. Hope it has. No; I don't.
Hope it hasn't. Ethel I (Dashes down
pipe, looks at watch.) Three-forty-
five, and she'll get it by the five o'clock
delivery. Even now I've time to go
up there and see her before it comes
— time enough. But what do I want
to do that for? Haven't I any strength
of mind? (Tears oif jacket.) Or
firmness? (Puts on coat.) Or reso-
lution? (Bathes face and hands,
brushes hair.) Or determination?
(Hurries into ulster.) Or a decent
amount of self-respecting pride?
^Snatches hat.) No; by Jove, I haven'tl
(Exit running.)

Ether, parlor. J«ok. alightly heated and
trrmendously agitated; to whom enter
Ethel I

Ethel (fondly smiling and not at aU
conscious) — Why, dear I

Jack (awkwardly)— -Ah ! — hem !
— good afternoon. Miss— Ethel 1

Ethel (instantly comprehending)—
Oh, Jack! what a foolish, good, bh'nd.
quick-tempered stupid you are I

THIS COMPLETE PSOQSAIL

187

ind not at aU

You're the most ridiculous being that
ever waa ; and sometimes you try me
almost to death, and sometimes you're
too funny for anything. This time
you're funny I Ha, ha, ha, ha I

•/«tc^ (attempting dignity) — May I
ask

Mhel (laughing)— Oh, yes; you
may ask— but whether I can get
breath enough to answer is another
matter— ha, ha, ha, ha I

Jack{mih a sort of shame faced
haughtiness)— If vou can do nothing

but jeer at me, I'd better (moves

to go).

mhel (pulling him down into chair)
—Don't be silly. Jack. You know
you don't mean to go— you're only
pretending— and you wouldn't be able
to, if you meant it — goose 1

Jack (helplessly)— Yes; I know.
Ethel, It's because I love- .

Ethel (delighted at this victory)

Of course it is. That's what you in-
tended to tell me at the very first
wasn't it? (Jack confused.) Well*
now, vou've told me; I'll tell you
something. It was my uncle !

Jac/fc— Eh ?

Ethel—Yea: Uncle Joe just from
Cahforma, He's papa's younger
brother, whom you've never seen— as
was quite evident from your behavior
—ha, ha, ha, ha 1 If you'd waited one
second, you'd have learned all about it
and .

Jack— Oh, Ethel ! what a donkey I
am! (Seizes her.)

Ethel (unresisting)- Not quite that,
but possibly soma other kind of bi.r
strong, unreasoning animal— from your
actions, I should say a bear. Good
old, jealous Jack! (Peace breaks out
with great violence.)

Servant (entering later)— Th' let-
ters, Miss. (Exit servant.)

Jack (Suddenly recollecting) -Great
heavens 1

Ethel (examining letters)— Only
one forma. Whv, Jack, what ails
rou? You're aw'utely white I Are

you ill ? You're not ? But why do
you look so? (Glances at address on
envelope.) Ah !

»^«ac*(apart)-I'd forgotten all about
It I

Ethel (with very piquant air of
being mistress of the situation)— Now
whom can this be from ? The han(i
18 a man's— very much like yours.
Jack. The resemblance is quite
strong.

Jack (apart)— What a horrible
scrape I

Ethel Heisurely opening the letter)
—And the envelope's like yours, too
—and the paper. (Reads.) "Miss
Fay" Must be from some shop-keeper
on business. (Reads,) "When
you read these lines I shall be outside

of Sandy Hook " Well, well!

What do you think of that. Jack?

Jaxik (perspiring with agony) I

don't— I can't

-ff</ie/ (thoughtfully)— Do you sup.
pose this person is really where he
said he should be when I read these
lines ?
Jack (wincing) — Merciful powers I
Ethel (resuming) — " — outside of
Sandy Hook, never to see you again."
At any rate, this isn't from a shop-
keeper. (Reads.) "You have tir^ '

me out " I don't know but that

It my be, though . (Reads.)

" — and I leave you forever /' (Jack

groans.) You don't appear interested,
and It is stuflF, I acknowledge. (Jack
groans again.) Let's go on, though,
just for fun. (Reads.) "-forever, not

to remorse " dear me, I should

hope not. (Reads) "—which ybu aie

incapable of feeling "

Jack (apart)— I wish I were dead I
Ethel (looking hard at him)— My
correspondent seems rather severe
doesn't he, Jack? (Reads.) "—but I
do leave you to one who is far my su- *

perior, no doubt ," No doubt,

truly. Any sane oerson would be.
(Renewed groans from Jack. Etnel
continues) "—in merit as he is in good

196

THE COMFLETS PROOEAM.

" ah, past tense
I love you

fortune -" how very Johnsonian

and prize essayish my correspondent
is, Jackl (Reads ) "—and who is, I
trust, worthy of your love." Why, he
means you, Jack 1 Now, are you really
worthy of my love ?

Jacfc (desperate)— Oh, Ethel 1 Stop I

Ethel (putting her hand on his
mouth)— Quiet, Jackl I've not fin-
ished reading my letter I (Beads.)
" — Ho cannot love you more tlian I

-" can't you, Jack ? — (reads) " —

loved you once " al

—(reads) "nor less than
now '

Jbc&( wildly) —Ethel I Please don't 1

Mhel (quietly) — My correspondent
is just a little wee grain brutal, isn't
he, Jack ? (Reads.) " — but you will

not care " What is your opinion

about that, Jack? (Reads.) "Fare-
well, cruel girl " do hear my cor-
respondent spout. Jack 1 " — and never
think more of "

Jack (trying to snatch letter) — I
must have it I

Bthel (holding him off and reading)
_'« Yours "

Jack — Don't read — oh, don'.- read
the sig

Bthel— ^'— moat "

Jack — Don't ; oh, don't 1

Ethel — " — sincerely " (tears up

letter and throws in grate.) I can^
imagine who my correspondent may
be— can you, Jack ?

Jack (in grateful adoration) — You
darling girl I ( Second and this time
lasting reconciliation. Only, some
minutes after )

Ethel (dreamily) — I'm afraid I'm
Borry I destroyed "that letter I — Pttck.

MUSIC.

' I

RECITATIONS.

DROWNED.

FRANK DEMPSTER 8HEBMAN.

Down upon the beach of sand,
When the night's fierce storm was

o'er,
And the morning's tender hand
Touched with light the wreck-strewn

shore,
Fishers in their suits of gray
Found her body where it lay
Cold and lifeless on the shore.

Beautiful was she, and fair ;
Pale as marble ; and her hair
Seemed like golden threads just spun
From a summer noon-day sun ;
A.nd the curtains of her eyes,
Fastened down by fringe of gold,
Hid the tiny azure skies
Underneath their velvet fold.
Scarce a dozen summers old
Was this little maid they found,
Cold and lifeless, on the ground.

So the fishers sadly spread
On the beach a ragged coat;
Laid upon it Beauty's dead ;
Lifted her into their boat.
Tearfully these fishers brown
Rowed in silence to the town,
Where the busy, bustling throng,
Half in sorrow, half in song.
On its way moves up and down.

In the holy chapel place.
With a smile upon her face,
Like an angel did she seem,
Smiling in a happy dream I
Now the fishers hear the peal
Of the solemn music steal
Through the chapel's scented air;
Now with heavy hearts they kneel
While the good priest lifts his prayei
For th«ir little maiden there.

TBE OOMPLETB PROOJtAM.

"God of heaven, earth, and love,
Look upon us from above,
In Thy mercy, while we pray I
Doth a mother far away
liong to see her child again ?
Ileal, O God, her grief with love \
Comfort with Thy blessed grace
All who miss this little face.
Bless, O God. these fishermen 1
Fill their hearts with love; and when
They like tins fnir » Inld shall sleep—
When lito'8 riijr'. *•.! 1,.]1 and steep
Shall be climbed— V e pray Thee, take
Them to Thee, for Jesus' sake I
For His sake, kind God Amen."
Then the fishers said "Amen."
Tncas as if an angel stept
In the chapel where she slept

\Vhen the service was dismissed,

Came the fishers old, and kissed

Kissed her tenderly, and wept.

She was laid beneath a tree,
Near the ever-sobbing sea.
Where the birds in summer time
Sing and tell, in saddest rhyme,
How this little rose unknown
On the ocean's swelling wave
To the sandv shore was blown ;
How the fishers came to weep.
Ere they put forth on the deep,
Here beside the little grave I

—Independent.

CONTENTED JIM.

O. p. PEARBB.

Everything pleased our neighbor Jim,
When it rained
lie never complained,
But said wet weather suited him.
"There never is too much rain for
me.

And this is something like," said
hit.

190

When earth was dry as a powder

mill.

He did not sigh
Because it was dry.
But said if he could have his will
It would be his chief supreme de-

light
To live where the sun shone day
and night.

When winter came with its snow and
ice.
He did not scold
Because it was cold.
But said : "Now this is real nice;
If ever from home I'm forced to go,
I'll move up North with the Esqui-

>»

mau.

A cyclone whirled along its track ;
And did him harm^
It broke his arm.
And stripped the coat from off bis
back ;
"And I would give another limb
To see such a blow again," said
Jim.

And when at length his years were
told,
And his body bent,
And his strength all spent,
And Jim was very weak and old :
"I Jong bars wanted to know," he

said,
"How it feels t« die"— and Jim was
dead.

The Angel of Death bad summoned
To heaven, or — well,
I cannot t«Il ;
But 1 knew that the climate suited
Jim;
And cold or hot, it mattered net-
It was to bim tbs long-soogbt spot

190

TBJB OOMPLTTil PBOQBAM.

ti'iiilt

1 f

If^'.i

THB OBSTRUCTIVE HAT.

A tONDON THIATRI BPIBODI.

^'"—"^^^ PH during pantomime Muon.
Tb« overture is beginning.

^ti Overheated MatroH (to her bus-
b«id)— Well, they don't give you much
room in 'ere, I must wy. Still, we
done better than I expected, after all
that crushing. I thougiit ray ribs was
gone once— but it was on'y the um-
brella's. You pretty comfortable whore
youare, eh, father?

Father-^0\i^ I'm right enough, I am.

Jimmy (their son, a small boy with a
piping voice)— If father is, it's more
nor what I am. I can't see, mother. I
cant t

His Mother—hot' bless the boy I
tliere ain't nothen to see yet ; you'll see
well enough when the curting goes up.
(Curtain rises on opening scene.) Look,
Jimmy, ain't that nice now f All them'
himps dancin' round, and real fire com-
in' out of the pot— which I 'ope is quite
safe— and there's a beautiful fairy Just
come on, dressed so grand, too !

Jimmy — I can't see no fairy nor

yet no himps— no nuthen. (He whim-
pers.)

His Mother (annoyed)— Was there
ever such a aggravating boy to take
anywheres 1 Sit quiet, do. and don't
fidget, and look at the hactln'I

Jimmy— I tell yer I can't see no
hactin', mother. It ain't my fault— its
this lady in front o' me with the at.

Mothtr (perceiving the justice of his
complaints)— Father, the pore boy says
he can't see where he is, 'cause of a
lady's 'at in front

Father— ^ff^\\, I cant help the 'at,
can If Hemustputupwithitjthat'salll

i/i»//i#r— No— but I thought, if vou
W;<?»«uu B siuxu uuaogiag places with

him— you're taller than him, and it
wouldn't bo in your way 'arf so much.

Father— W:^ always the way with
you— never satisfied, you ain't I Well
pass the boy across-I'm for a quiet
life, I am. (Changing seats) Will this
do for you?

(He lettlM down Immediately behind a very
large and furry and feathery ha^ which he
dodgo* for K,me time, with the reiult of
ob ainm.tan ocowlonal glimpM of a pair
oflegs on the stage.)

Father (suddenly)- D n the 'at.

Mother— Yoyx can't wondei at the
boy not seeing I Perhaps the lady
wouldn't mind Uking it off, if. you
asked her. ^

Father-Ah \ (He touches the owner
of the hat on the shoulder) Excuss
me, mum, but might I take the liberty
of asking you to kindly remove your
at ? (The owner cf the hat deijrns no
reply.) *

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

The Mother— PeoiAe didn't ought to
be allowed in the pit with sech 'atsi
Callin' 'erselfalady-and settin' there
in a great 'at and feathers, like a 'Igh-
lander's, and never answering no more
nor a stuffed himage I

Father (to the husband of the owner
of the hat)^Will yon tell your good
lady to lake off her 'at, sir, please ?

The Owner of the Hat {to her hus-
band)— Don't you do nothing of the
sort, Sam. or you will 'ear of it I

^'*'^<'//4^r— Some people are perlite,
I must say. Parties might behave a=
ladies when they come into the pitl

nw OOMPLETB PROGSAM.

It^ • Vity her 'usband oan't Umoh hor
better manners t

/Vl* /aM/r— 'Im teach her I 'E
knows better. 'E's got a Tartar thero,
'e 'as !

TAe Owner of the J£at—^m, are you
going to set by and hear me insulted
like this f

Her Husband (turning round tremu-
lously (— I— I'll trouble you to drop
mak' .g these personal allusions to my
wife's 'at, sir. Its pufBckly impossible
to listen to what's going on on the
stage, with all these remarks be'ind.

The Father — Not more uor it is to
see what's going on on the stage with
that 'at in front I I paid arf a-crown
to see the pantermime, I did; not to
'ave a view of your wife's 'at I . . 'Ere,
Maria, blowed if I can stand this 'ere
game any longer. Jimmy must change
places agau., ?.nd if he can't see, he
must stead up on the seat' that's all !

(Jimmy is transferred to his original place,
and mounts upon the seat.)

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

Jimmy's Father— \i you can indooce
that lady in front to take off her 'at, I
will—but not before. Stay where you
are, Jimmy, my boy.

The Pittite behind— Well, I must
stend myself, then, that's all. I mean
to see, somehow. (He rises.)

Peap/e behind him (sternly)— Stt down
there, will yerf (He resumes his seat
expostulating.)

//Vwiwy— Father, the gentleman be-
hind is a-pinching of my legs I

Jimmjs Father — Will you stop
pinching my little boy's legs f He ain't
doing you na 'arm— is bei

2"he Pinching Pittite— iMi hlra sit
down, then!

Jimmy's Father— \m% the lady teke
her 'at off I

Murmurs behind— On\i:r, there I Set
down I Put that boy down I Take orf
that 'at I Silence in front, there I Turn
'em out I Shame I Eto.

The Husband of the Owner of the Hat
(in a whisper to his wife)— Take off the
blessed 'at,ond have done with it, do!

The Owrer of the /Ta/— What— now?
I'd sooner die in the 'at ! (An attend-
ant is called.)

The Attendant— Ov^Gt, there, gentle-
men, please— unless you want to get
turned out I No standing allowed on
the seats — you're disturbing the per-
formance 'ere, you know I

(Jimmy is made to sit down, and woeps
silently; the hubbub Kradually nubsides—
and the owner of the hat triumphs— for the
moment.)

Jimmfs Mother — Never mind, my
boy, you shall have mother's seat in a
minute. I dessay, if all was known,
the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at
on, pore thing I

The Father — Ah, I never thought o'
that. So she may. Very likely her 'at
won't come off— not without her 'airl

The Mother — Ah, well we mustn't b«
'ard on her, if that's so.

The Owner of the Hat (removing the
obstruction)— I 'ope you're satisfied
now, I'm sure ?

7'/J^.^a/'yi^r(handsomely) — Better late
nor never mum, and we take it kind of
you. Though why you shouldn't ha'
done it at lust, I dunno : for you look
a deal 'andsomer without the 'at than
what you did in it — don't she, Maria f
The Owner of the Hat (mollified)—
Sam, ask the gentleman behind if his
boy would like a ginger-nut.
(This olive-branch is accepted ; compliments

mime proceeds without further disturb-
aaos.)

—PttneK

OOMPLETE PIOORAM.

SISTEii-S OAKl.

BY KITOKNR FIKLD.

F# not complain of SiHtoi ,' me, tor ahe

WM good anJ kintl,
0<M«bli»irj.j; witli rnro coinelineaa di>*

tiactive i/ifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that

worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from {)arlor life

to that bolow the stairs.
And that, eschewing needlework and

music she should take
Herself to the substantial art of man-

ufaoturing cake.

At breakfast, thon, it would befall that
sister Jane would say ;

" Mother, if you have got the things,
I'll make some cake to-day I"

Poor mother'd oast a timid glance at
father, like as noi —

For father hinted sister's cooking cost
a frightful lot —

But neither he or she presumed to sig-
nify dissent.

Accepting it for gospel truth that what
she wanted went I

No matter what the rest of 'em might

chnnco to have in liand,
The wnole machinery of the house

came to a sudden stand ;
The pots were hustled off the stove,

the fire built up anew,
With every damper set just so to heat

the oven through ;
The kitchon-tabie was relieved of ev-

erythi. -, to make
The ampl? hj. •■ v^-'ch Tftne required

when j«h > -pv^uDivd cake.

And, oh! tlu b ;4tl fg here and .iiere,
the flving to aud fro :

Tlie olioka of forks that whipped tho

egga to lather white aa anow--
And what a wealth of sugar !nolto<J

awiflly out of aight —
And butter? Mother /jaid audi waste

would ruin father, quite!
But Sister Jane preacrvod a mien no

pleading could confound,
Aa she utilized the raiains and citron

by the pound.

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vex.

atioua din and whirl 1

deep humiliation for the sullen

hired girl ;

grief for moihor, hating to see

things wasted so,
And of fortune for the lit Lie boy who

pined to taste tiiat dough I
It looked so sweet and yelldw — sure.

to taste it were no sin —
But, ohl how sister scolded if he stuck

his fingers in I

The chances were as ten to one, before
the job was through.

That sister'd think of something else
she'd a great deal rather do I

So, then, she'd softly steal away, as
Arabs in the night,

Leaving the girl and ma to finish up
as beat they might;

These tactics (arttui cVs'-.t .'ane) ena-
bled her to tnkf

Or shift the oredii ox- the blame on
that too-treacherous cake I

And yet, unhappy is the man who has

no sister Jane —
For he who has no sister seems to me

to live in vain.
I've ucvcr had a sister — miypbe that

is why to-daj

THK COSfPLBTW PBOOHAM.

I'm wizened and dyapeptio, insiead of

blithe and gay ;
A boy who's only forty should be full

of romp and mirth,
But I (because I'rn sistorless) am the

oldest man on earth I

na<l I a little aister — oh, how happy

Ta!iu)ild bet
I'd never let hor cast her eyes on any

chap but me ;
I'd love hor and I'd cherish her for

better antl lor worse —
I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and

sing her praise in verse;
And— yes, what's more and vastly

taore— I toll you what I'd do;
I'd let her make her wondrous cake,

and I would eat it, too!

I have a high opinion of the sisters

as you see —
. Anotiier fellow's sister is so very dear

to me I
I love to work anear her when she's

making over I'rooks,
When she patches little trousers or

darns prosaic socks ;
But I draw the line at onu thing — ^yes

I don my hat and take
A three-hours' walk when she is

moved to try her hand at cake I
— Chicago News.

MUSIC.

Soon, oh, how soon! to-day will be
yesterday. We may not call yester-
day back and live it over again, bnt
we may live bo to-day that when it is
past we shall not have to grieve over it.

THE "MODEL HUSBAND" CON-
TEST.

ITS A^FifrriNO 8KgUBL,

Scene I — At the Galahad-Oreons.

Mri. r?../9.-/}alahad!

Mr. 0..(}. (meoklyN -My love?

Mm. O.O.—l see timt tiie proprie-
tors of All Sorts are going to follow
the American examf)lc, and ofler a
prize of twenty pounds to tlie wife who
makes out the Iwst case for her bus-
band as a M<xlel. It's just as well,
perhaps, that you iiould know that
I've made up my m.nd to enter you!

Mr. Q.Q. (gratifie-n— My dear Cor-
nelia I really I'd no idea you had such
a

Mrs. G . (7.— Nonsens ! The draw-
ing-room carpet is a jKjr^'ect disgrace,
and, as you can't or won'; provide the

money in any other way. why

Would you like to hear wl. ;it I've said
about you ?

Mr. (?..(?.— Well if you re sura it
would'nt be troubling you too much,
I should, my dear.

Mrs. a.-G.—i:hQ\\ sit wii re I can
see you,' and listen. (Shereai ■•.) "Ir-
reproachable in all that jk;i lins to
morality"— (And it would b- a bad
day indeed for you Galahad, if [ ever
had cause to think otiierwise!) "mo-
rality; scrupulously dainty and neat
in his person "—(Ah, you may well
blush, Galahad, but, fortunately, they
won't want me to produce you!)- "he
imports into our happy home the leli-
cate refinement of a prmx dicvalu ■• of

f.liAnldAn t'»»lo " /\J7';il ,.,,.. 1.:.. 1I-. J
!....i„. ^ rj lit jruU h.:siui , ;.^KO

your dirty boots of! the steel fender?)
" We rule our little kingdom with a

lu'ii

TBW COMPLETE PJtOQRAM.

III

joint and equal away, to which jej^lousj
•nd friotioa are alike unknown; he
considerate and indulgent to my worn-
anly weakness "—(You need not stare
at me in that perfectly idiotic fashioni)
— " I, looking to him for the wise and
tender support which has never yet
been denied. The close and daily
scrutiny of mutiy years has discovered"
—(What are you shaking like that
for ?)— "discovered no single weakness;
no tamt or flaw of character; no irra-
tating tnck of speech or habit." (How
often have I told you that I will not
have the handle of that paper-knife
sucked? Put it down; do J) "His
conversation— sparkling but ever spir.
itual— renders our modest meals veri.
table feasts of fancy and flows of soul"
. . . "Well Galahad?

irr.(?..6r._Nothing,mydear;noth.
ing. It struck me as well- a trifle
flowery, that last passage, that's all I

Mrs. 0..0. (8everely)-If I cannot
expect to win the prize without de-
flcendmg to floweriness, whose fault is
that I should like to know? If .you
can't make sensible observations, you
had better not speak at all. (Continu-
ing.) " Over and over again, gatherin<r
me in his strong, loving arms, and
preasmg fervent kisses upon mv fore-
head, he has cried, 'Why am f not a
monarch that so I could place a dia-
dem upon that brow? With such a
consort, am I not doubly crowned?' "
Have you anything to say to that
Galahad?

Mr a- C— Only, my love, that I
—I don't seem to remember having
made that particular remark.

Mr$. Q.. a—Then make it now. I'm

?";« I wish to-be as accurate as I can
{Mr. G.-O. makes the remark— but
without fervor.)

Scene II.— At the Monarch Jones's.

Mr. M.- J.— Twenty quid would
come in precious handy just now, after
all I ve dropped lately, and I mean to
pouch that prize if I can— so just you
sit down Grizzle, and write out what
I tell you; do you hear?

Mrs. M..J. (timidly)— but, Monarch,
dear, would that be quite fair? No
don't be angry, I did'nt mean that-^
i 11 write whatever you please.

Mr. i/:- J".— You'd better, that's all!
Are you ready? I must scre.v my-
self up another peg before I begin
(He screws.) Now then. (Stands over
her and dictates) "To the polished
urbamty of a prfect gentleman, he
unites the kindly charity of a true
Christian." (Why the devil don't you
learn to write decently, eh?) "Liberal
and even lavish, in all his dealings, he
IS yet a stern foe to everv kind of ex-
cess"— (Hold on a bit.'l must have
another nip after that)— "every kind
of excess. Our married life is one
long dream of blissful contentment, in
which each contends with the other in
the loving self sacrifice." (Haven't
you corked all that down yet?) "Such
cares and anxieties as he has he con-
ceals from me with scrupulous consid-
eration as long as po-!sible"— (Gad I
should be a fool if I didn't I)— "while
I am ever sure of finding in him a
patient and sympathetic listener to all
my trifling worries and difficulties "—
(Twof's in difficulties, you little fool
--cant you even spell?) "Many a
time, falhng on his knees at my feet,
he has rapturously exclaimed, his ac-
cents broken by manly emotion, 'Oh,
that I were more worthy of such a
pearl among women! With such a
helpmate, I am, indeed, to be envied I' "
Tnat ought to do the trick. If I don't
ro:ip in after that I (Observing

SI K

Tma COMPLETE PROOSAJL

't'.

khftt Mrs. M,-J.*a shoulders are con-
vulsed.) "What the dooce are you gig-
gling at now.
Mrs, M.J. — I— I wasn't giggHn

Monarch, dear, only

Mr. M-J.—On]y what I

Mrs, M.'J. — Only cryin"' I •

THE SEQUEL.

"The Judgj.* appointed by the >pirited pro-
pneton of All Sort, to decide the. ' Model H us-
band contest— which was establishe.l on line-i
timilar to one recently iimuKurated by one of
our Nhw York conteniporaries— have now is-
• their Hward. Two competitors have sent
m certiflcaten which have been found equally
ftT/h'HV^ ""A P"''*'. Xi?-, ^^- Cornelius
Mrs. Wnselda M-inarch-Jones. Aspen LodM.
Lordship Lane. Tne sum of twenty pounds '
will consequently be divided be' ween these
two Iadie«, to whom, with their respective
spouses; we beg to tender our cordial felicita-
""°«' - Punch.

THE HUSKIN' BEE.

The huskin' bee wuz over, ez the sun

wuz going' down
In a yaller blaze o' glory jist behind

the maples brown,
The gals wuz gittin' ready 'n the boys

wuz standfn' by.
To hitch on whar they wanted to, or

know the reason why.

Of all the gals what set aroun' the

pile of corn thet day,
A-twistin' oft the rustlin' husks, ez ef

'twas only play,
The peartest one of all the lot—'n

they wuz putty, too —
Wus Zury Hess, whose laftin' eyes cud

look ye through an' through.

Now it happened little Zury found a

red ear m the pile.
Afore we finished huskin', 'n ye orter

seen her smile ;
Fur, o' coorse, she held the privilege,

if she would onlv dare.
To choose the feller she liked best 'n

kiss him then 'n there

20S

My I how we puckered up our lipa »d

tried to look our best,
Each feller wished he'd be the one
, picked out from all the rest ;
Til Zury, arter hangiu' back a leetle

spell or so,
Got up 'n walked right over to the

last one in the row.

She jist reached down 'n touched hei)
lips onto the ol' white head

Xeter Sims, who's eighty year ef

he's a day, 'tis said ;
She looked so sweet ol' Peter tho't an

angel cum to say
As how his harp wuz ready in the land

o' tarnal day.

Mad? "Well I should say I was, 'n I

tol' het goin' hum
As liow the way she slighted me hed

made me sorter glum.
'N that I did'nt think she'd shake me

right afore the crowd —

1 wuz'nt gointer stand it— 'n I said so

pooty loud.

Then Zury drapped her lafFin' eyes 'n

whispered to me low,
"I didn't kiss ye 'fore the crowd—
, cause— 'cause— I love ye so,
JV I thought ye wudn't mind it if I

kissed ol' Pete instead.
Because the grave is closin' jist above

his pore ol' head.

Well— wimmin's ways is queer, sorae-

times, aud we don't alius know
Jist what's a-throbbin' in their hearts

when they act thus'n so

All I know is, that when I bid good

mght to Zury Hess,
I loved her more'n ever, 'n I'U never

love her less.

MUSIC.

TEX COMPLBTB PROGSAM,

f 'I

THB DRAMA OF THREE MORN-
INOS.

Persons t

Hx, a sane, sound and young American

husband.
Shi, a loving, lovable and young

American wife.

80ENK J.

Morning^ tfliS. TL^ and %b.% together
in their new house. Something very
nearly approaching the 'Uight that was
never on sea or land" envelopes them in
its mystic splendor. It is,in/act^ the rays
of the honeymoon, in the first quarter ,
with liberal assistance from Venus, morn-
ing and evening star of their private
heaven.

Hb {with the pitiable indecision of the
newly wed)— It is no use, you siren, I
must got

Shi {from the family circle— of his
arms)—Whj mU you go so early, love?
It is only nine.

(The clock promptly contradicts this
Statement by striking ten.)

Hi {glad to be backed up even by a soul-
less thing like a clock)— Ten.my darling,
and I am due at the ofSce at 8.30.

She — Ten, then ; if you must be as
accurate — as accurate as if you had
been married ten years instead of ten
days I

He {ardently}— is it only ten days
since I first called you mine I Ten
days? Why, it is ten months— ten
years— ten centuries I

Shk {with the glance and demure purs-
it^ of the lips of one who expects tender
contradictions)— Does it seem so long a
timef

Hb {after tender contradiction) — Ten
centuries of bliss I I date the begin-
ning of my life from the hour you be-
came mine ; before that I did not live.
I Shb (with reproach in her eyes) — If ave
you forgotten our courtship?

He— No, my angel ; I remember it,
but as one remembers a lovely prelude
to a far lovlier melody.

8hk — Will yon aiwavs think so !
wonder ?

^«— Always, my darling.

{A long poMse ensues, at the end »f
which the clock strikes the half -hour, and
Hb springs to his feet,

Hx— Half-past ten I I must go.

^VM— (rising also, and hanging on his
arm) — Yes ; you must go. There— go
(Shb VfVbA one arm round his neck and
leans towards him). Yes; I will be
heroic. Qol {^m adds her other arm to
his necklace). Qol

Hb faintly, and with a fatal note of
indecision in his tone) — Business, my
dear one.

Shb {interrupting) — 0\ business,
business, business I Why are'nt you
mmething—anything except an Ameri-
can business man I Do you know
what it means to be an American man
of business, heart of my heart ? No ?
It means to be a slave to honrs,to early
hours, to direful, hateful, aggravating,
uncivilized, early hours I

[They laugh as if this were a burst of
originality).

He— That is what I am, a slave to
business. Though Geoffrey said yes-
terday morning that I might as well
have gone to Europe for all the good I
bave been at the ofl9ce since we were
married . He added, however, that he
would give me six months to "get over
it"; he says such an attack of spoons
can't last!

Shb {with fiashing eyes)— Oaxi\ lastl

He— Geoffrey is a fish in matters of
sentiment.

She— He needn't think, because he
is dull, ugly and soulless, without sen-
timent or delicacy, or depth of feeling,
that all men {here She pauses to drop a
fervent kiss on the lapel of his coat) are
like him.

He— What have I ever done to de-
serve the love of such a sweet woman I

She — You've loved her I Oh, do you
think you will always love her just as
well as you do now?

( They sit down to discuss this momen-
tous question in a few words and a good
many kisses. After havitig answered ii
in the affirmative^ with ten thousand vari
ations^ Ha rises resolutely).

TBB COMPLBTE PBOOBAM,

r other arm to

1 matters of

Sb— I must go.

..®.?^ ^^^^ ^""^opf^g /«*)— How
ihall I liv B tfarongh this long day f

H«~I will come home early, love.

Shi — By two o'clock?

Hk— Not quite as early as that, bios-
lom, but by four.

Shk— Pour ! It is an eternity till
then.

(Shb rises with a long sigh, and puts
up her face to be kissed. Hk kisses her,
and SuK kisw him ; then they draw apart
a/ew paces, amd Shb looks at Mm with
a smile.)

He— Goo—

( The word dies on his lips. Sbs smiles
ageun, and they rush into each other's
arms. The clock strikes eleven. They
look at the clock reproachfully, as if they
suspected it of striking with the malicious
intention of separating them.)

Hk (with stern resolution on every feat-
mre)—l must go . Good-by—

Shk— Oh, don't say good-by t It
sounds as if you were never coming back.

HK-^Aufwiedersehn, my darling.
Can I bring you anything ?

She — No, thank you.

Hk— Have you any commissions f

Shk — No, dear. I never, never mean
to weigh you down with errands and
requests and commands, as some wom-
en do.

Hk— Another proof that I have se-
cured the most sensible little woman in
the world, as well as the dearest and
sweetest and prettiest.

She (modestly)~l dont know that I
am all that, but when I have visited
my married girl friends I have often
noticed what pack-horses they make
oftheir husbands, and I resolved that
I never would treat you so.

Hk— It is a pleasure to serve you.
dear one.

( They embrace, and He leaves the room.
Shk listens till the outside door closes, then
runs to the window and kisses her hand to
htm till Um passes out of sight. She goes
to a mirror, arranges her disarran''sd
hair, smiles at herself, then goes toUir
own room to hi Id a silent parley with her
Hmrdrpbo «t$totki most fete king fown in

which to welcome **tho onh man in the

world" on his return.)

SOKNK II.

Morning, iSSp. The same room in
thetr house. Hk, with the air of the typ.
teal American who believes in digesting
the news of both hemispheres and Jus
breakfast at the same time, is snapping up
a fau tariff trifles. Shk is writing notes
and filling out checks, witii the manner of
a woman who has thoroughly tnastsrsdceU
the details of business. There is an
atmosphere of restful calm over all,
which shows clearly enough that the young
couple are sailing in that zone of ealms
whose longitude and latitude in life's
ocean are determined by the duration of
the honeymoon. After swallowing the
entire editorial page whole, Hk rises,
takes a few turns up and down the room,
and pauses, rather expectantly, at her
desk.

Shk {signing her name with a fine an.
gular flourish, to her last note, and with'
out looking «/)— Going, Prank?

He— Yes.

, Shk— Will you be home {pauses to
fold her note accurately) to dinner f

He— Didnt I tell you that I was
going to dine out ?

Shk— Oh, yes. Is the Hunts' num*
ber 883 or 884?

Hk— I really can't teU you. Why
don't you have a book for addresses ?

She— I have; but I never find what
I want until long after it has come to
me.

He— (/« the tone of one who realizes to
the full how futile it is to suggest any
thing practical to a woman)— Yon mieht
index it .

Shk {with wifely determination to show
him that she sees his drift)— \ might in-
dex it if I had a dozen olerks; and I
might compile a pocket edition of the
directory, but I am not likely to do
the one or the other. {A slight pause
ensues, then Shk continues, refiectiveffy i
remember^now- the Hunts nVLmber U
§84 (Sua direcs an envelope and en-
closes her note, and hands her husband six
very large envelopes and four tiny onts,\
Don't forget to mail them.

. ta

TBS COMPLETE PROOSAM.

Ht {distribuHng the enoelopes over his
PfrsoH, notimthout difficuity)—! am not
likely to forget them 1

Shs — You'd better carry one in your
A ^ *o remind you of thq others.
And, Prank, will you stop at the flor-
wts and order me a bunch— a large
banch— of violets f I am going out to
dmner myself. Sweet ones, you know.
Don't let them palm off those scentless
things upon you.

H«— I'll get the right kind. ( Then
with the easy smile of the husband, who
feels secure in his power to keep what he
has won, B.xg0es on.) I shall have to
look into your repeated absences from
home, my dear I There must be a mag-
net somewhere among our friends. I
dare say I treat him regularly to my
bMt cigars— the ungrateful beggar.

Shi — There won't be a man present
this evening who is worth parting one's
lips for. I think men have degenerated
Badly in the past year; they never
Memed so vapid and dull and generally
tiresome before I was married. This
i» a duty dinner, anyway, a kind of
half-mourning affair. The guests
would rather stay away, and the hosts
would rather have them, and neither
side can help itself, so the dinner will
begin and end with a poorly suppressed
aigh I The feet is, there are so many
dinners that everybody is surfeited
nowadays. A result of the modern
spirit of entertaining for the sake of
displaying one's house and its appoint-
ments, and one's gowns I (Shb ends
her strictures with a touch of fine phil.
osophic scorn in her voice).

He— Why do you aid and abet such
a spirit ? Why do you go ?

Shi— That's just like yon, Dear, to
suggest my sUying away, when you
know I haven t worn half my trousseau
gowns yet I

Hi (anxious to get off this tack)—
Speaking of duty visits, Leslie, we
must call upon Jack Henshaw and his
wife if we are going to. I say, I wish
you'd leave my card and let it go at
chat. It will be equal to an emetic to
have to sit under their honeymooning.

SnS- Tf ma.r «.n» V... -^ 1 1 mi

-3_=. -,, .,,CT.jr iivrc im a\J UUU. 1 Uey

must be over the worst of it; they've
been married a month now.

*u-^i?~;T®** ^ ^^•' *^*y *w rtfll In the
thick of it; I dont know how people
can make such idiots of themselves;

■nl^T^!" ■""* "" didn't; but you
will find that nearly all of them do
Frank, and other people have to put no
With it. ' ^

Hb {going toward the door)— You
leave my card, Leslie ; then you can go
in the daytime, and youll only see
Mamie, and it won't be so bad.

Hb goes into the hall, dons his topcoat
and hat, and returns to the neutral ground
of the threshold. Shb has begun some
pen-andink calculations.

He — Good-morning, dear.

She (with a cheerful but abstracted
smtle, and with a hasty upward glance)-^
Good mo-^ing, dear.

( The front door closes after him).

Hb (on the steps)— By Jove, I forgot
all about it. *

Hb opens the door and returns to her
side.

She— What's the matter? Have yon
forgotten your handkerchief?
He — I forgot to kiss you good-by.
(He bends down and kisses her with
respectable, married-man's ardor).

She— Look out for my hair, Clnmsyl
I wonder why a man can nover kiss a
woman without mussing her all up?

Hb (meekly)—! don't know. I'm
sure I try hard— and often enoueh—
not to I ®

Shb (accepting his pleasantry with a
folerant smile)— I am glad you came
back, Frank. I shall want some mon-
ey to-night, if you please.

Bx (taking out a note book)— V\l put
It down, so I won't forget it.

She— And, Frank, wont yon stop
at Clipper's and order a brougham for
me? It must be here at half past seven;
not a second later, for they dine at
a quarter to eight. Oh, and can't you
telephone for some coal from your
office? And I wish you would find
time to go to market and see how the
grouse look You needn't get any—
I want to pick them out myself; I
want to know if they are fat— that's
&u. while you are tnere you may
as well order a saddle of mutton: that
wiU save my gomg down to-morrow if

THE COMPLETE PBOOSAM.

tturns to her

the grovM are not &t. Ob—and you
really must call at Tiffany's and tell
them to send my sapphire heart home
to-day; I want to wear it. It can't
take them more than a month to make
a slight change in an ornament.
That* all, dear. Don t forget: brough-
am, coal, gronse— don't order them—
saddle of mutton. Tiffany's, money
and— Oh, yes, the violets ; don't for-
get, the sweet ones.

Hb— Can't you think of some other
little thing.

She (** 7i'«^)— You used to say
that you only lived to serve me I

Hb— I've found out, since then, that
a man often speaks the trath unwit-
tingly I

(Hb Mf wA, and Shk rwmta her figur-
ing mtnout delay—it being unnecessary to
wateh a year-old husband out of sight w
speed him on his way with blown kisses.)

Shb Eighteen from fifty leaves —
tea from fifty leaves forty, and eight
from forty leaves thirty-two. If I pay
$18 for that hat, I shaU have $82
left out of this month's allowance. I
dont need the bonnet, but it is time
I had a new one. I don't want mother
to think that Frank doesn't give me
as much money as Jimmy gives Sue.
A woman can't be too careful about
these little matters, especially in the
first year of marriage, when the eyes
of her family are on her to see how
it has turned out I'll get the hat to
show them that marriage isn't a fail-
ure!

(Sfb leaves the room with the step of a
womon who knows her mind— and the world.)

SCENE m.

Morning, 1890. Hk w oIotm »n his den.
Am iM clock strikes nine Hb throws dovm
tA« morning paper, rises, throws the end of
his cigar m a eu^Mor, lights afresh cigar,
gtes into the hall, examines bis necktie criti-
cally, and finally decides that it will do, puts
on MS hat and cocrf, then steps to the foot of
the staircase.

Hb (raising his voice to its highest domes-
tie pitch)— QooA morning, Les, I'm off.
^ (Hb listens mrelessty while he draws on
his gloves. mere ia ho rtply, and iw goes
out, cloring the door after him with an
attempt at noislessness. A second later Shb
rms down the alairaand into hi$ den.
18

Shb (gwiing indignantly at M$ emptw
SLmw"?! 'P'o^^ vnth early monwng

There, I knew I heard the ttmt
door speak ! That forgetfiil thing has
gone down town, and I wanted Lo ask
him about Baby's carriage, and hsv-
ing her vaccinated, and the Aimace,
and a dozen other things. He knew
it too. I told him in the night not
to let me forget to remind him of
something, but he forgot it, as usual.
Oh, and there's Wagoner's bill for
the piano lamp that I wanted to ask
him about! And (a faint waU eoma
floating down from the second story, mnd
She pauses abruptly) there's Baby I

{Tht wail rises to a higher key, and Shs
d%sappears vp the stairway.)

QUICK OUBTAIN.

Lueile Lovell, in KoOe FieWs Washing^

ton.

IN DE MORNIN*.

LIZZIB TOBK CA8B.

Good-by, chile I I ain't here for lone
I'se a waitin' patient for de dawning

De angels dar is a pullin' mighty strong
And I'll meet ye, honey I in de
momin'.

When de stars fell down, I 'member It
well.

Yet I dont know de year I was boa
in,
But I goes by a star dat neber has fell.
So I'll meet ye, honey I in de momin*.

I mind back yonder in old Tennessee
Howde spec!ilators come Without a
warnin'.
But now I'se a waitin for de Lord t*
come fov me
And I'll meet ye, honey I in d«
momin*.

What hab I done dat de Lord let me
stay
A waitin' so long for de dawnin'f
lOw^iiiu 13 gcsun- a&Tti ana a Etdia^
away.
Bat 111 meet ye, honey | in da
momin*.

TBW COMPLETE PB09SAM.

1 "i

DoD^ 017, chile! I moat mv sood.
night,
For your mammy's done hud a
warnin',
To close np de shatter and pat oat de
light,
Bat ni meet ye, honey 1 in de
mornin'.

Detroit Fret Press.

MY AIN JOB.

WILI,IAX LTLX.

The VMI and leddy o' the ha»

H? lankeys at their feet;
They oask in silks an» and satins braw,

And dazzle a' the street.
The leddy she's a stately quean

He!t son a gallant fine;
But there's nae Joe like my ain Joe,

An' there's nae lore like mine.

The laird's son lo'es a guid Scotch reel.

An' I lo'e ane mysel';
He Towed twad please him unco weel

Gin I wad be his belle.
Hoo ilk ane stared as ban* in ban*

Wq cantered down the line;
Tet there's nae Joe like my ain Joe,

An' there's nae love like mine.

The laird made bauld a kiss to try

Afore the gentles a'.
There,8 ane before ya, laird, quoth I,

An' he's worth ony twa.
I ne'er kenned ony guid to come

Prae mixing o* the wine,
An' ne'er a Joe but my ain Joe

Oan hae a kiss o' mine.

A LAST PEAYER.

^ HBLKN HUNT JACKSON.

Fftther, I scarcely dar» to pray.
So clear I see, now it is done,

That I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun;

So clear I see the things I thought
^ Were right or harmless, were a sin;
no clear I see that I hav« sought,
Unoonscions, selfish aims to win ;

So clear I see that I have huri
The souls I might have helped to
save

That I have slothful been, inert.
Deaf to the calls thy leaders gave.

In outskirts of thy kingdom vast,

Father, the humblest spot give me
Set me the lowliest task thou hast,
Let me repentant work for thee!

THE STORY OF DON.

XABIE MORB MARSH.

A woman lived alone with her doir
To the dog there was little in the world
besides the woman — ehe fed him and
kept him warm and comfortable, and
be was grateful.

To the woman there was nothing in
the world besides the dog. He stood
guard over her poo' possessions while
she was away at her work, and when
she came home at night he was glad
to Bee her and barked with delight.
He was a ftiend, loving, and kind,
and true ; what more could she ask f

She had had something more— or
was it less f There had been a man,
who was her husband, and she had fed
him and kept him warm and comfort.
rt)le, but he had not been grateful.
He had not even guarded her posses-
sions while she was away at her work.
He had sold them and pawned them,
untU they were pitiftilly few— then he
had gone away and left her.

And she had lost all faith in men and
had come to be cynical and hard, for
nature had somehow reversed things
sadly in the man and the dog that she
had known best — the dog was noble
and. the man was a cur.

There are bad dogs and good dogs
Just as there are bad men and good
men, and this woman happened to have
known a better class of dogs than of
men, that is all.

One day the dog sickened His legs
stiffened and his body grew rigid, the
pupils of his great honest eyes dilated
until there was neither S!»ht nor reco"^
nition in them, and his breath came m
quick, shuddering gasps. Then there

TBV OOliPLETB PBOGBAM.

ma a gradaal rehtxation of the tense
mnsoles, and he lay limp and pantinir,
trying by a feeble wag of his tail to
show his dear mistress that he knew
her.

Soon the paroxysms came again, and
now and then a low, pitiful moan,
almost homan in its agony, told how
the poor beast suffered.

Each convulsion left him weaker, un-
til at last with a great effort he raised
his bead a little and licked his mistress'
hands with a tongue already cold and
stiffening, then his head fell back heav-
ily and there was a rattling in his chest
and he was dead.

With a quivering sigh the woman
drew the dog's head into her lap as she
sat beside him on the floor. She did
not weep. Her eyes were hot and dry.
She took his soft ear between her fin-
gers and stroked them as though he
had been alive. He was the only thine
she had had to love.

A shadow fell across the threshold
and a man called her name. An angry
look came into her eyes as she saw her
traaat husband before her.

His voice was gentle and his words
were lull of repentance. " I have come
back to take care of you, Anne, if I
may. We will go to some new country
and put the old life behind us."

The woman spoke no word, and the
man stooped down and patted the dog's
neck. "Don, old fellow you were
more of a man than your master," he
said. "Don was loyal and true, Anne,
and I was not; but if he could he
would plead for me now, for I feel that
I am not humbling myself enough
when I ask to take his— the dog's—
ice, Anne, in your heart. Poor,
neglected little wife, will you let me
try?

The stem lips trembled and the hard
lines in the woman's face were softened
by tears as she bowed her head ; and
there, over the faithful heart of the
dead dog, their hands clasped in the
new compact.

MUSIC.

THE EIYERED BRIDGE.

EVA WILDER MCOLASSON.

It's Still an' shady ondemeaf

The old roofs mossy spread.
An' throo the floorin's broken plank*

Ye see the river-bed.
An' grass an' other weedy things

Is rooted 'long the wall ;
It won't be no time skesly till

The kivered bridge '11 fall.

They ain't no travel on it since

They buiit the railroad bridge
From Meeks's paster-land across

To t'other side the ridge.
But, me I whilse ary plank stays firm.

To hold a critter's hoof
I'll drive my team to town beneaf

The kivered bridge's roof.

Fer what was good enough fer dmya

When I was young an' spry,
With life a-8tietchin' out befom

An' taxes nowbar nigh,
Ull do fer hair that's scant an' white

An' eyes that unly see
The back'ard hours of love, an* seen—*

The years thet uster be.

I never strike the holler floor

Whar mouldy mosses bide
But whut bright smiles an'rosj cheeks

Seems flickerin' at my side.
We're comin' home fom church agin,

Myse 'f an ' Sary— oh I
It Ipeare ez real as life, an' yit

'Twas fifty year ago.

But, Jest fer sake o' times thet's done

An'— folks I uster know.
The kivered bridge '11 ketch my trade

Ezlongez I'm below.
It may beresky travellin' thar

An' two mile out the way,
But mem'ry hallers things; an then-*

Thar ain't no toll to pay.

B ANNERM AN RODE THE GRAT.

A. WERNER.

I rode through the bush in the bura-

ing noon.
Over the hills to my bride ;
The track was rough and the war wm

long,

IKV OOMPLSTB PSOOBAM,

6 ft- -■ « 1. i

And Bftnnerman of Dandenong,
Ho rode along by my ude. ^

A day's march oflf my benutiftil dwelt,
T • ^^ ,*^* Murray streams in the west,
Lightly lilting a gay love song,
Rode Bannerman of the Dandenong,
With a blood-red rose on his breast.

*'Red, red rose of the western streams,"
Was the Long he sang that day —
Truest comrade in hour of need —
Bay Mathinna his peerless steed—
I had my own good gray.

There fell a spark in the upland grass.

The dry bush leapt into flame ;
And I felt my heart grow as cold as

death.
And Bannerman smiled and caught
his breath,
But I heard him name her name.

Down the hillside the fire-flood rushed

On the roaring eastern wind ;
Neck and neck was the reckless race-
Ever the bay mare kept her pace,
But the gray horse dropped behind.

He turned in the saddle "Let's

change, I say."
And his bridle rein he drew.
He sprang to the ground— "Look

sharp!" he said.
With a backward toss of his curly head
" I ride hghter than you." *

'Down and up- it was quickly done-
No words to waste that day I
Swift as a swallow she sped along,
The good bay mare from the Dande-
nong —
And Bannerman rode the gray.

The hot air scorched like a furnace
blast
From the very mouth of hell^-
The blue gums caught and blazed on

high
Like flaming pillars into the sky ;
The gray horse staggered and fell.

s-o-. Tifvj. liicj nc uri6u-f— " ijor her
dear aake^ ridel"

Into the gulf of flame
Were swept, in less than breathiaa
space, ^

^® ^augliingeyes, and the comely face,

And the lips that named her name.

She bore me bravely, the good bay
mare — "^

Stunned and dizzy and blind :
I heard the sound of a mingling roar \
'Twas the Lachlan river that rushed'
before.
And the flames that rolled behind.

Safe, safe, at Warranga gate,

I fell, and lay like a stone.
O lovel thine arms were about me then.
Thy warm tears called me to life again!

But, O God 1 that I -me alone 1

^® ^^®^[^'»P«ace, my beautiful one

and I, by the streams in the west,

But oft through the mist of my

dreams along
Rides Bannerman of the Dandenong.
With the blood-red rose on hui
breast.

MERE COYNESS.

"GVay dahl
Jonofan Whiffles Smiff!

Yo' heah me,
Doa yo' came aneah me,
'Nless yo' want er biff

On de mouf

Knock yo' souf

'Bout er milel

Don' yo' smile

When I say

•G'wayl'
Jonofan Whiffles Smif,

Cos I feels
Jes mad from head ter heels f
No such pusson sips
De honey from dease lips I

Stop yo' teasin'

And yo' squeezin';

'G'way,

I sayl
Ahl" Yftn_v««

OaUop"! ""*'

Mtrckant Trmvdtr,

THB DYING NBWSBOY.

MRS. EMILY THORNTON.

Iv u sttfo hmn and oh«erle«, Jim, the newsboy,

dying >»y,

On a roagh but clean straw pallet, at the fading

of the day ;
fkant the furnitare abont him, bnt bright flowers

were in the room.
Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with

perftime.
On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn

I«g«.
Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible

stained with age.
Now he could not hear the verses ; he was flighty,

and she wept,
With her arms around her yonugeet who close to

her side had crept

came the

Blacking boots and selling papers, In all weath-
ers, day by day,
Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was

eating life away.
And this ciy came with bis anguish, for each

breath a struggle cost,
" 'Ere's the morning Sun and 'froM— latest news

of steamship lost.
Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the

cry fell to a moan,
Which was changed a moment later to another

frensied tone ;
"Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine

'em like an even-star.
It grows late Jack! Night is coming. Evening

papers, here they are ! > "

Floating from that attic chamber

teacher's voice in prayer.
And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners

kneeling there.
He commended them to Heaven, while the tears

rolled down his face,
Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet

words of peace and grace.
Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched

and the poor,
Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always

open door,
For the sick are in strange places, mourning

hearts are everywhere,
And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet
sympathy and prayer.

GOOD OLD MOTHERS.

Boon a mission teacher entered and approached

the hnmble bed ;
Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with

the cool hand on his head.
" Teacher,'* cried he, " I remember what you said

the other day ;
Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through

Him I see my way.
He is with me! Jack, I charge yon of our mother

take good care
When Jim's gone. Hark! boots or papers,

which will I be over there ?
Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up!

Papera ! Read God's Bock instead.
Better'n papen that to die on! Jack— "one

gasp, and Jim was dewL .. I

Somebody has said that •• a mother's love it
the only virtue that did not suffer by the fall of
Adam." Whether Adam fell or not, it is quite
clear that the unselfish love of a good mother
is the crowning glory of the race. No matter
how long and how sorely it may be tried, iu arms
are ever open to receive the returning prodigal.
One faithful heart never loses its affection for
the wanderer who has strayed from the fold.
Adversity and sorrow may come with all their
terrible force, but the motherly affection clings
to its idol closely. We never see a good old
mother sitting in the armchair that we do not
think of the storms which have pelted into her
cheerful face without souring it. Her smile is
a solace, her presence a benediction. A man
may stand more exertion of some kinds than a
woman, but he is apt to lose much of his
laughter, his cheerfulness, his gentleness and
his trust. Yet we rarely find a frail mother
whose spirit has been worn threadbare and un-
lovely by trials that would have turned a doren
men into misanthropes and demons. A sweet
old mother is common. A sweet old father is
not so common. In exhaustless patience, hope,
faith and benevolence the mothers ar« sure to
lead. Alas, that their worth too often is not
fully known and properly appreciated until
they pass beyond mortal reach I God bless the
good old mothers 1

THE CURTAIN PALLS.

; :|l

■m

i .

' ^,

CtoWMS an capering in motley, drnms are

beaten, trumpeu blown,
I«oghlDg crowds block up tbe gangway— hnsky

is tbe showman's tone.
Rapidly the booth ii filling, and the rustics wait

to hear
A cadaverous strolliDg player who will presently

appear.

Once his voice, in tones of thunder, shook the
crazy caravan ;

Now he ent«red, pale and gasping, and no sen-
tence glibly ran ;

Bad and vacant were his glances, and his mem-
ory seemed to fail.

While with feeble effort striving to recall Othel-
lo's tale.

O'er his wasted fo»-m the spangles glittered in
the lamp's dull ray ;

Ebon tresses, long and curling, covered scanty
locks of gray ;

Rouge and powder bid the traces of the stern,
relentless years.

As gay flowers hide a ruin tottering ere it dis-
appears.

Not with age, serenely ebbing to the everlasting

sea,
Calmly dreaming of past plasnies, or of mysteries

to be;
Nay, the melancholy stroller kept his onward

pilgrimage,
Until death, the pallid prompter, called him

from life's dusky stage.

Lofty hopes and aspirations all had faded with
his yonth,

And for daily bread he acted now in yonder can-
vas booth ;

Tet there flashed a fire heroic from his visage
worn and grave,

Deeper, Italler came his accents — Man was mas-
ter. Time the slave.

And again with force and feeling he portrayed
the loving Moor ;

Told the story to the Senate— told the pangs
which they endure

Who are torn with jealous passion, while de-
lightedly the crowd

Watched the stroller's changing aspect, and ap-
plauded him aloud.
SM

Was it but a trick of acting to depict a frensied

mood,
That there came a sodden silence, and Othelle

voioeleas stood ?
Ah, 'twas all Othello's story Nature left the

power tell —
'Twas hia own sad drama ending aa the dark-

gieen curtain fell.

While they shouted for the stroller, and the
hero's fate would see,

He had made his final exitHo'ned a higher com-
pany.

With no loving kiss at parting, with no friend to

press his hand,
The invisible scene-shifter had a^i. ailed the

Spiritland.

Huskier still became the showman m he forward

came and bowed.
Vaguely muttering excuses to appease the gap-
ing crowd ;
Then he knelt beside the stroller, but his words

were lost on air-
Never more uprose thecnrtala on the flgoie ly-
ing there.

One brief hour their oarea forgetting, his old
' comrades of the show

Stood around his grave in silence, and some hon-
est tears did flow.

Then tbe booth again was opened, crammed with
many a rustic boor,

And another strolling player told the story of tbe
Moor.

A SURE CURE.

•• I BELIEVE you have a son, madam," said
the seedy looking person who stood between
the lady of the house and the back yard.

" Well, what consarn of your'n is it if I have
twenty sons? "

" The interests of the human race, maaam,
are my interests. Your son is at this moment
on the cigarette route to destruction. You
have heard of Professor Koch's cure for con-
sumption, I surmise?"

"I have."

The seedy one struck a Liberty-enlightening-
the-world attitude and said : '• And I, madam,
have discovered a cure for cigar^e consump-
tion. It is a secict t|iat I keep locked in my

f.-i

THE COAfPLMTX

overaoat breast pocket But common human-
ity demands that I save your son from his fate.
I am essentially an after dinner speaker, how-
ever,"

The woman gave him a square meal, and
after the chap had distended himself to a ter-
rible degree he wrote a few magic words on a
piece of paper, breathed on .it, and gave it to
his hostess with the monition: "Open it in
three minutes. It is a sure cure. Good-by,"
Then he went ?ivay quickly.

The paper, when opened, disclosed the
words, "Kill the boy."

B«t 4h4t plalanthropist had drifted thence.
S/. Joseph News,

PBOSMAJi.

WHICH IS WHY.

THE PARTING.

By ROBERT NICOLU

IfT heart is aad and wae, mither,

To have my native lnod--
Its bonnie glens, its bills sae bias

Its memory-hannted strand.
The frimuda I loved sae long and weel

The hearts that feel for me;
Bnt mither, mair than all I grieve

At leaving thee.

The band that saft my bed has made,

When I was sick and sair,
Will carefblly my pillow lay

And hand my head nae mair;
The e'en that sleeplessly could watch

Beside my conch of pain
Will ne'er for me ftorn night to dawn,

E'er wake again.

There's kindness in the warld, mither,

And kindness I will meet,
Bat nane can be what thou bast been,

Nane's praise can be sae sweet ;
Kae ither e'er can love thy son

Wi' love akin to thine,
And nane can love thee, mither dear,

Wi' love like mine.

I'll keep thee in my inmost soni

Until the day I dee.
For saft, saft is my mither's hand.

And kindly iaher e'e ;
And when Ood's spirits fhr away

To him my soal shall bear,
My deepest Joy will be to meat

My mither then.

GEORGE W. SLAUSON.

Wall, ov all the derned contraption^

'Ith which we bev to do.
This highfklatin' votin' scheme's

The meanest ov the crew.

I ased to make 'er heap-o-caah

Upon erlection days,
Er wiuDin' doubtAil voters I

From the errors ov their wayt.

End I count this importation

Ov dark Anstmliau ways.
The hardest blow et liberty

Hei bed for meny days.

Down et the late erlecdon,

While standin' iu er lina,
1th half er dosen voters;

Erquaintances ov mine.

I watched er feller in the box
End wondered how he'd vot«^

Ez I bed risked npon him
Er legil tender note.

While er nabor 'et stood by me

Kept strainin' ov bis eyes,
Ez if bis int'test in him

•Might ekat mine in size.

Thet is ter say, we watched his 1

Ez showed below the door,
Er shoiBia' sort-o-nervons-like

Erbout the hemlock floor.

End then be slnnk out to the polity

'Ith ballots all complete.
The which be Toted basterly

End bolted down the street

Bat, I couldn't help er thinkin',
Tho' he'd gobbled up my note,

'Et the question still nz open,
Ez to who bed got his voter

End the obanoes for disbonsty

Ermong the floatin' tmsb
Will make the av'rage candidate

More keerftal of his cash.

Which is why, or all contraptioni
'Ith which we bev to do,
ilia highfidntin' Totin' sckeme^
2he Benaeet ot the crew.

110

WHAT DAY WILL TO-MORROW BE?

BY MISS A. O. BRIOOS.

What d«jr will to-morrow be?"— poor little
Tommejr

.. irj «"*°*"« •"«' moaniug in nccente of pflln,
What day will to-morrow be ? "— regUeMly

taraing,
He eagerly aaked it again and again.

The Death Angel'a tbadow waa hovering o'er
him,

Thronghoat the long honm of that wearieome
night,
Enahrouding the ftatnre in darkneia before him,
Eolipaing the dawn of a moruiug so bright.

It seemed to as, hopelessly watching beside him,
A qaery, prophetic j the answer was'this:

To ns was the morrow a Sabbath of sorrow, |

To Tommy, in heaven, • Sabbath of bliss. .

" What day will to-morrow be? "—Problem mo-
mentons,
Whose proper solution no morUl may reach !
Life hath some stern leasou8,-<wme unanswered
qeations.
Beyond the broad province of science to teach.

THE COUPLXTS PBOOBAU.

halls. The woman who had fiven ne tlie
orders came up and said :

" Come this way. I don't think the fire hai
much ofa start yet."

We followed her to her room and began to
sniff and snuff. There was certainly a strop,
odor of something burning, but the cleric had
taken only one sniff when he went out and rap-
ped on the next door.

" Hello I " cried a voice.

"Are you smoking?"

"Yes."

"Smoking Florida tobacco?"

"Yes; what of it?"

" Nothing. Madam, you can go back to bed
Much obliged to you for your sagacity and
wit, but both were a little too keen this time
The stmgy old cuss in that room is smokinir
awamp tobacco, and it smells like a fire eating
us way under a pine tioor.—Detnit Fne Hesl

TO THOSE WHO FAIL.

VELLIB BARLOW.

COOL AND COLLECTED.

It was ii o'clock at night, and I was go-
ing to my room in a Florida hotel, when a wo-
man came out of her room, fully dressed, and
asked:

" Do you belong to the hotel? "

" No. ma'am."

" Are there many people here to-night? "

"It is crowded."

And it won't do to start a panic. Let me say
quietly to you that the hotel is on fire. I have
known it for ten minutes, but did not want to
create an excitement."

"Are you sure, ma'am?" I asked.

"Entirely sure. sir. I smelled the smoke
while m bed. You go quietly down and tell
the clerk, and I will knock on all the doors on
this floor."

She was wonderfully cool and collected
under the circumstances. Going down by the
stairway. I beckoned the clerk aside and told

him of the fire, H*" wen* tf» 'h^ -' •--

me and ascended to the third floor, where we
found about twenty half-dressed people in the

CouBAo*, brave heart, nor in thy purpoM Alter •
Go on and win the fight at any cost '

Though sick and weary after conflict
Rejoice to know the batMeis not lost.

The field is open still to those brave spirits

Who nobly struggle till the strife is done,
Through aun and atorm with courage all nn.
daunted

Working and waiting till the battle's won.
The fairest pearls are found in deepest waters

The brighest jewels in the darkest mine • '
And through the very blackest hour of mid-
night

The star of Hope doth ever brightly shine.

Press on ! press on 1 the path la steep and rng.
ged,

The storm clouds almoat hide Hope's light from
view ;

But you can pass where other feet have troddeu;-
A few more steps may bring you safely
through.

The battle o'or, a victor crowned with hon»rs,-

By patient toil each difflcnltr nsst.
Ton then may see these days of bUter fidlnre

But spaned you oa to greater deeds at last.

CAoaiier'sJeHnMA

HE WORRIED ABOUT IT.

LYMAN ABBOTT.

glv« oat in t«n million

" Tm ran'! hMt w ,ll
jnn more,"

And he worried about it;
•' It will rare give out then, if it do««u't before,"

And he worried almat it;
I( would surely ght out, lo the wientiita aaid
Id all Mieutiilc ImmIcs that he read,
And the whole mighty universe then would l»e
dead,

And be worried about il.

"And Mme day the earth will fall into the gun,"

And he worried about it ;
" Just aa sure, and aa atraight, aa if ahot IVom a
gun,"

And be worried about it ;
" When strong gravitation nnbucklea her straps
Just picture," lie snkl, " what a feari^il collapse I
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps,"

And bo worried about it.

" And in Ie«i than ten thousand years, there's no
doubt,"

And he worried alwut it j
" Our supply of lumber aud coal will give out,'"

Aud he worried about it;
" Just then the Ice Age will return cold and raw
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms ont-

slretched in awe.
As If vainly befcoecbiug a general thaw,"
And he worrieil about ii

His wife took in washing (a dollar a day).
He didn't worry about it-
Hia daughter sewed shirts, the mde grocer t»

pay.

He didn't worry about it,
While bis wife beat her tireless rab-a dub-dub
On the washboard drum in her old wooden tab
He sat by the stove and he Just let her rub.

He didn't worry aboot it.

THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS.

"The earth will become much too umall for the
race,"

And he worried about it;
"When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure
space,"

And he worried about it ;
"The eartb will be crowded so much, without
doubt,

That there'll be no room for one's tongue to stick
out,

And no room for one's thonghte to wuder
about,"

And be worried about it

« The Onlf Stiwm will curvs, and New England

grow torrider,"

And he worried about it ;
'Than was erer the climate of southernmost

Florida,"

And he worried aboat it
"The ice crop will be knocked into small smith-
ereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of pcUtoes and
beana,"

And he worried aboat it

If yon travel o'er desert and mountain,
Far into the country of sorrow,
To-day, aud to-night, and to-morrow,

And maybe for months and for yeara,
Yoa shall come with a heart that is borsting,
For trouble, and toiling, and thirsting,

You shall certainly come to the fountain,

At length— to the fountain of tears.

Very peaceftal the place is, and solely
For piteous lamenting and sighing
And (hose who come, living or dying,

Alike from their hopes and their fears ;'
Full of cypress-like shadows the place ia,
And statues that cover their faces ;

But out of the gloom springs the bolj

And beautiftil fountain of tears.

' Wf

And it flows, and it flows with a motioa

So gentle, aud lovely, and listless.

And murmurs a tune so resistless,
To him who hath suffered and hears,

!_.. „..,i,,j.| TTitxiuut s trora spoEeB,

Kneel down there and know you're hearw
broken.
And yield to the long-cnrbed emotloa,
That di^ by the fountain «f tsan,

917

ais

TME OOMPIETJP PBOGBAM.

HARRY'S ARITHMETIC.

li!

[Pnr s little boy, holding in his hand a slate and
pencil.]

I'm glad I have a good-sized slate,
With lots of room to calculate.
Bring on ^our sums I I'm ready now;
My slate is clean, and I know how.
But don't you aak me to subtract,
I like to have my slate well packed ;
And only two long rows, you know,
Make such a miserable show ;
And please don't bring me sums to aJd;
Well, multiplying's just as bad ;
And, say I I'd rather not divide —
Bring me something I haven't tried I
— St. Nicholas.

JACK THE EVANGELIST.
As related by Straw Garver, Ilistoi-ian.

I was on the drive, in eighty,

Workin' under Silver Jack,
Which the same is now in Jackson,

And ain't soon expected back ;
And theie was a ohap among us

By the name of Robert Waite,
Kind o' cute, and slick, and tonguey—

Guess he was a graduate.

He could gab on any subject,

From the Bible down to Hoyle,
And his words flowed out so easy,

Just as smooth, and slick as oil.
He was what they called a skeptic,

And he loved to sit and weave
Hifalutin' words together,

Tellin' what he did'ut b'lieve.

One day while we were waitin'

For a flood to clear the ground.
We all sat smokin' nigger- head,

And hearin' Bob expound.
Hell, he said, was humbug,

And he showed as clear as day,
That the Bible was a fable.

And we 'lowed it looked that way.

Miracles, and sich like,
Was too thin for him to stand,

As for him they called the Saviour,
He was just a common man.

" You're a liar," some one shouterl,
" And you've got to take it back.'

Then everybody started ;
'Twas the voice of Silver Jack.

And he cracked his fists together,

And he shucked his coat, and cried—
" It was by that thar religion

Tuat my mother lived and died ;
And although I havn't alius

Used the Lord exactly right,
Wlien I hear a chump abuse Him,

He must eat his words, or fight."

Now this Bob he wer'n't no coward.

And he answered bold and free ; —
" Stack your duds, and cut your capers,

For there ain't no flies on me."
And they fought for forty minutes,

And the lads would hoot and cheer.
When Jack spit up a tooth or two.

Or Bobby lost an ear.

Till at last Jack got Bob under,

And slugged him ono't or twic't.
At which Bob confessed, almighty
quick.

The divinity of Christ ;
And Jack kept reasonin' with, him

Till the cuss begin to yell ; —
And 'lowed lie'd b^en mistaken

In his views concernin' hell.

So the fierce discussion ended.

And they riz up from the ground.
And some one brought a bottle out,

And kindly passed it round ;
And we drank to Jack's religion,

In a quiet sort of way,
And the spread of infidelity

Was checked in camp that day.

MUSIC-VOCAL.

END OF COMPLETE PROGRAM.

For School and Hvening Entertainments.

MUSIC.

TRAUMERI.

PROGRAM.

UTTLE ROMANCE. (Instrumental.)

HOMESICK.

A MAN who was canvassing in Southern
Dakota to raise money for the homestead
monument, to be erected at Mitchel rode up
to one of the sod houses on the prairie, and ad-
dressed a man silting in front of it.
"Good morning, my friend."
"G'mornin*."
"Fine day."
" Wal, nutiiin' extra?"
" How are times with you ? "
" Poor, stranger, blame poor."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, wheat's so orful low, an' I hain't got
nun to sell."
" I'm canvassing for — "
"Don't want no hail insurance."
"But this isn't insurance of any kind;
it is—"
" Got all the fruit trees I want."
" Yes, but I'm not a tree agent."
" Hain't got no use for litnin-rods."
" I'm not a lightning-rod vender."
" Don't 'bleve in patent medicin."
" Certainly not ; I called—"
" You ain't a book-agent, be ye?"
" No, no, nothing of the kind. Thisis some-
thing that I'm sure you will like to have your
name — "
" Never sign no papers for strangers."
" Of course, not, but let me explain. We
are getting money to erect a monument to the
Homestead law, and — "
"Isitdead.pardner?"
" No ; the idea is to erect an imposing granite
•baft, one bundrcd and sixty feet high, in the

centre of a quarter section of land to perpetuate
the memory of the untold benefits of the Home-
stead law."

"Yes; I calkilate they air untold. I don't
hear much 'bout "em in these 'ere parts."

" What ! don't you think you have derived
great benefits from the Homestead?"

"Not as 1 knows of."

" But it was free land for you."

"No, 'twasn't."

"Why. not?"

" Had to live on it an' work an' starve to
death."

" There was no use in starving."

" Might's well starve as t'kill m'self workin'."

" No need of either. But you could not

have got a farm without the law."
"Didn't want none."
" What made you take any, then ? "
" Cause some blame fool like you said 'twas

nice."

" But it has given you a free home? "

"Had one afore."

"Then you haven't enjoyed life on your
homestead?"

" No. Freeze ter death in ther winter 'an
blow 'way in ther summer."

"But you can sell your land."

" Don't want ter beat any other poor cuss."

" I don't believe you like farming."

"Oh, farmin'sall right when yer live in a
civ'lized country— a place where a feller kin
chop his own firewood and shoot a b'ar 'cas-
ionally or a coon. Why, stranger, there ain't
a coon in this hul country, an yer know it
Coons is cunnin, they air— they know anuflf to
keep away."

" Where did you live formerly ? "

"York State, in the northern oart of York
State."

"You can't give me anything for the monu-
ment ? "
•• Nary a cent. But I'll tell yer what, stnui-

190

ger. ef you'll get up a collection ter tmild a
sylum for cussed fools that come out here where
they can't chop a stick of wood or bile maple
sugar, or shoot a squirrel er trap a b'ar or hunt
bee trees, er gather butnuts, er strip slippery
ellum, er see a hoop pole or hear a coon for the
hul blamed summer, why, I'll chip in the wuth
uv a good boss."

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM,

ON THE OTHER TRAIN.

BY THE DEPOT CLOCK.

"ThERE Simmons, you blockhead! Why
didn't you trot that old woman aboard her
tram? She'll have to wait here now until i:oc
A. M." '

"You didn't tell me."

"Yes. I did tell you. 'Twas only your con-
founded stupid carelessness."
"She—"

"She! you fool! What else could you
expect of her? Probably she hasn't any wit;
besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly jour-
ney-got a pass up the road to the poor-house.
I II go and tell her. and if you forget her to-
night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you i"
And our worthy ticket agent shook his fist men-
»cmgly at his subordinate.

"You've missed your train, marm," he
'emarked, coming forward to a queer looking
•»undle in the corner.

A trembling hand raised a faded black veil

and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw.

"Never mind." said a quivering voice.

" 'Tis only three o'clock now. you'll have to

wait until the night train, which doesn't go ud

until 1:05." *^

" Very well. sir. I can wait,"

"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel?
•Simmons will show you the way."

" No. thank you. sir. One place is as good
as another to me. Besides. I haven't any
money."

"Very well." said the. agent, turning away
indifferently. "Simmons will tell you when
It's time."

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I
thought sometimes she must be asleep, but
when I looked more closely I could see every
•nee in a while a great tsar rolUng down her

cheek, which die would wipe away hastUy with
her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded, and all was bus.de
and hurry until the 9:50 train going east came
due ; then every passenger left except the old
lady. It is very rare, indeed, that any one
takes the night express, and almost always
after I have struck ten. the depot beoomea
silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his great coat, and
biddmg Simmons keep his wits about him fo»
once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than that func-
tionary stretched himself out on the Uble. as
usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then
it was that I witnessed such a sight as I never
had before and never expect to again. The fire
had gone down— it was a cold night, and the
wind howled dismally outside. The lamps
grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows
upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered
sob from the corner, then another. I looked
in that direction. She had risen from her seat,
and oh! the look of agony on the poor,
pinched face !

"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing
her thin, white hands. "Oh ! I can't believe
It ! My babies ! my babies ! how often have I
held them in my arms and kissed them ; and
how often they used to say back to me, < Ise.
love you, mamma,' and now. oh God, they're
against me. Where am I going? To the
poor-house ! No ! no ! no ! I cannot I I will
Inot! Oh. the disgrace ! " and sinking upon
her knees she sobbed out in prayer: "O, God,
spare me this disgrace— spare me ! "

The wind rose higher and swept through the
crevices, icy cold. How it moaned and seemed
to sob like something human that is hurt! I
began to shake, but the kneeling figure never
stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her
shoulders vmheeded. Simmons turned over
and drew his heavy blanket more closely about
him.

Oh. how cold ! Only one lamp remained
burning dimly ; the other two had gone out for
want of oil. I could hardly see it was so dark.

At last she became quieter and ceased to

moan. Then i »rfo.., a,-^...... i i.._ j r .

1. . j,.^~ ,„^..Tr3j., aiiu tuna 01 lost

the run of things after I had struck twelve,
when some one entered the depot with a bright
light. I started up. It was the brighttst light

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of
glory. I could see 'twas a man. He walked
to the kneeling figure and touched her upon
the shoulder. She started up and turped her
face wildly around. I heard him say :

" 'Tis train time, ma'am. Come ! "

" I'm ready," she whispered.

" Then give me your pass, ma'am."

She reached him a worn old book, which he
took and from it read aloud: "Come unto me
all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I
will give you rest."

"That's the pass over our road, ma'am
Are you ready?"

The light died away and darkness fell in its
place. My hand touched the stroke of one
Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his
lantern. The whistle shouted down brakes-
the tram was due. He ran to the corner and
shook the old woman.
" Wake up. marm ; 'tis train time,"
But she never heeded. He gave one look at
the white, set face, and, dropping the lantern,
fled.

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted
"All aboard," but no one made a move that
way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent
came, he found her frozen to death. They
whispered among themselves, and the coroner
made out the verdict " apoplexy," and it was
m some way hushed up.

They laid her out in the depot, and adver-
tised for her friends, but no one came. So.
after the second day, they buried her.

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up
with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet •
and when I think of the strange occurrence of
that night. I know she went out on the other
tram, that never stopped at the poor-house.

IN SEARCH OF A JOB.

Jem B is a wag. A joke to Jem is both

food and raiment, and whenever there is an
opening for fun he "goes into" it.

Jem was recently in a drug store when a
youth, apparently fresh from the "moun-
tains.' entered the store, and at once accosted
Jem, stating that lie was in search of a job.

"What kind of a job?" inquired the wag.

"Oh ! a'most anything. I want to get a
kind of a genteel job ; I'm tired of farmin'.
an km turn my hand to a'most anything."

"Well, we want a man-a good, strong,
healthy man— as sample clerk."
"What's the wages?"
" Wages are good ; we pay a thousand dol-
lars to a man in that situation."
" What's a feller got to do ? "
" Oh ! merely to test medicines, that's alt
It requires a stout man-one of good constitu^
tion-and after he gets used to it he doesn't
mind It. You see we are very particular about
the quality of our medicines, and before we
sell any we test every parcel. You would be
required to take-we say. six or seven ounces
of castor oil, some days, with a few doses of
rhubarb, aloes, croton oil, and similar prepara-
tions. Some days you would not be required
to do anything ; but, as a general thing, you
can count upon-say, from six to ten doses of
something daily. As to the work, that does
not amount to much ; the testing department
simply would be the principal labor required of
you ; and. as I said before, it requires a person
of very healthy organization to endure it. But
you look hearty, and I guess you would suit us
That young man (pointing to a very pale-faced
shm-looking youth, who happened to be present)
has filled the post two weeks, but he is hardly
stout enough to stand it ; we should like to have
you take right hold, if you are readv ; and, if
so. we'll begin to-day. Here's a new barrel of
castor oil just come in. I'll go and draw an
ounce — "

Here Verdant, who had been gazing intently
upon the slim youth, interrupted him with:

"N-no. no; I g-u-e-s-s no-not to-day, any-
how. I'll go down and see my Aunt Hannah,
and If I elude to come, I'll come up ter-mor-
rer an' letyer know."

He has not yet turned up.

music "

"EHREN ON THE RHINE."

Rs?; ,„ ,„p ■>•' wage street,

And bade his love adieu,

His gun and knaptwck at bia feet,

His company in \\vm.

tan

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

' ! it

With teats she kiss'd bim oooe again, >

Then tamed away her bead,

He conld bat whisper in his pain,

And this is what he said :

" Oh love, dear love, be tm*,

Tills heart is only thine:

Wlien the war is o'er,

We'll part no more

At Ehren on the Rhine,

Ob, love, dear love, be tme :

This heart is only thine ;

When the war is o'er.

We'll part no more

At Ehren on the Rhine."

They marched away down the village street.

The banners floating gay :

The children cheer'd for the tramping feet

That went to war away !

And one among them turn'd him 'round

To look but once again ;

And though bis lips gave oat no sound.

His heart sighed this refrain :

''Oh. love, dear love, be true, etc."

On the battle field, the pale cold moon,

\t sheoding her peaceful light :

Avid is shining down on a sonl that soon

Will speed its eternal flight:

Amid the dying a soldier lay,

A comrade was close at band :

And he said " When I am far away

And yon in our native laud.

And yon in our native land.

Oh, say to my love, * be true,

Beonly, only mine!'

My life is o'er.

We'll meet no more

At Ehren on the Shine,

At Ehren on the Rhine,

At Ehren on the Rhine."

BREAKING THE NEWS.

\ I'oir my I'm pale iind flustered and shivering in

my shoes,
I reckon you would shiver if you had to break

the news.
I suppose you've heard bow' Quimby lies on a

bunk down there,
With a pint or more of bis own blue blood mixed

np with his auburn hair?

Well, they made me a committee to go to hia

wife and tell
Her all about the scrimmage and what to her

man befell.

I went to the house up yonder, not mashed on the

job, you bet,
And my classic blue-veined forehead was bathed

in a quart of sweat.
The woman was in the kitchen a-singing a plain-
tive song.
Bat she dried up when she saw me — she knew

there was something wrong.
Then I coughed and I hemmed and stammered

and " Madam," said I, " be brave ;
Your husband is now a-Iyin'— " Gtood land ! what «

shriek she gave !
And she walked up and down a moaning and

wringing her furrowed hands,
AnA her hair fell down like seaweed adrift the

ocean sands.

"Oh, Heaven," she cried, " my husband! They've

taken my love from me,"
'And the way she reeled and staggered was a sight

for a man to see ;
« So bravis so kind, so noble ! So loving, so grand,

so strong !
And now I must wait his coming in vain all th«

dark day long !
And his children will wail in sorrow, and nev^

again in glee
Troop down in the misty twilight and clnste.

about his knee."
And so she went on a raving ; her screams for »

block were heard.
And I, like a graven image, stood there without

saying a word.

It seemed like my tongne was frozen or glued to

my pearly teeth.
And hardly a breath cnroe upward from the par-
alyzed lungs beneath,
Bnt I braced np all of a sadden, and " Madam,"

said I, again,
"I'm sorry— I'm deuced sorry— to have caused

yon this needless pain ;
Let np on your frenzied screaming; yon need not

weep and wail.
Your old man ain't dead, by a long shot ; he's

only locked np in jail."
She glared at nie for a mi xite— for a minnte or

two and then,
Said she, " So the dmnk old loafer is down there

is the Jail again?"

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

id stammered

Then shepioked ap a tab vid smaehed it all over
my princely head

And I saw she was getting ready to paint the

landscape red ;
So I skipped throngh the gate and mizcied so

liist that I tore my shoes

And they don't malce me a committee in the

future to break the news.

A TALE OF THE HOUSATONIC.

BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

IN the Honsatonic valley, mid the grand old

Berkshire hills,
Stands a large and thriving village with its shops

and stores and mills ;
Through it flows a deep, broad river which, in

accents sad and low, ,

Seeius a mournful tale repeating of the buried

Long-ago. I

Oft I've listened to the story, as I strolled alons

the shore,
Heard the sobbing waters mnrmnr, "Lovely

long-lost Jjennore ! "

Wie was but a village maiden— but » humble sew-
ing girl-
He, R favored heir of fortnne.-yonng and stylish
Allen Earie,

Spending there the Summer season from the city's
hnsy whirl.

In his morning walks he met her; often, too at
close of diiy,— '

Did he plan or did it happen f-they returned the

selfsame way
Yet no word had either spoken-neither knew

the other's name;
So, the silence was unbroken till, at length a

crisis came. *

All day long with throbbing temples, aching

limbs and weary bmin
Had she toiled at thankless labor till the eve had

come again ;
On her homeward way returning throngh the
stifling dust and heat
• Everything grew dark before her-she sank faint-
ing in the street.
Tl.onKhtle.ss people flocked around her, shuttinir
ww;, ..ji^ ,f^^.^^jj^j :ur:

He. in passing, thus had found her much in nted
o( tender care ;

Hastily the crowd retreated a« he motioned them
aside,

Ordered water, bathed her forehe-d, UH her eye-

lids opened wide
In mute, questioning amazement, noting which

he then replied : '

" Please excuse a stranger's boldness. You had

fainted by the way ;

You are ill and weak and weary on this sultry

Summer day. '

Best yon here-I'll call a carriage," and, ere she

could answer uay,
He was gone ; then, soon returning, took her to

her father's door—
Their acquaintance, how romantic! Would she

ever meet him more ?

To herself she asked the question-pretty, artless.
Leanore ! '

Days and nights of burning fever, tossing on a

couch of pain,
Followed ere, with health returning, she resumed

her tasks again ;

Met again the pleasing stranger-at thepleaaant
eventide.

Often, on her pathway homeward, he was walk-

ing by her side ;
Till the neighbors, smiling, whispered: "She

will, some day, be his bride."
Thus the time passed on till Summer, with its

wealth of blooming flowers

Imperceptibly had ripened into Autumn's golden
hours —

He must leave the charming valley-he had come
to bid adieu.

And to breathe a tender story-often told vet
ever new— ' '

Pleaaed she viewed the glowing picture which

his ardent fancy drew.
She should leave the crowded workshop with its

gloomy, prison walls,
Bid good-by to dreary drudging, enter learning's

classic hulls ; *

He the needed means would furnish her exDensea

might demand

While he traveled for diversion in a distant for-
eign land,

Till the rosy-tinted future should their bridal
morning bring ;

And he sealed the solemn compact with a rpaik-

Iing diamond ring.
He was gone, bnt hope-H bright rainbow spaaatd

her sky from shore to shore-
Wealthy, talented, and noble-what could mai

den wish for more ?

S94

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I ' \.

Thus she worshipped her ideal— trothAil, trust-
ing Leanore !
May remembrance of a schoolmate some befitting

tribute pay:
Through the tangled paths of science, trace her

steps from day to day,
As through mazes, most bewildering, with firm,

undaunted mien,
She came marching forth triumphant with the

bearing of a queen ?
How the chapel exercises, when on dreaded mus-
ter days,
We were marshaled to encounter the world's

scrutiuizing gaze.
Were e-: V'ened by her glowing thoughts, so elo-

quen ^nd grand.
Or her mirth-provoking sallies which no stoic

could withstand!
Ab ! methiul{s e'en now I see her as in school-
girl days of yore,
Her, for whom the brilliant future held such

promises in store —
None than she were more deserving — bright,

ambitions Leanore !
Letters oft with foreign postmarks, messages from

distant lands.
Welcome tokens of remembrance, warmly clasped

in eager hands —
How she prized the precious treasures ! How she

read Miem o'er and o'er !
Every night she dreamed about him ; every day

she loved him more.
It were sacrilege to doubt him — dreaming, dot-
ing Leanore !
There are moments in oar lifetime, when our

castles in the air,
Orown to beautiful proportions, most enchanting,

bright and fair,
Crumble into shapeless atoms — in an instant

overthrown —
And disconsolate we're sitting by the ruins all

alone
i>esolate mid desolation ! Aud the outlook, oh !

how drear !
In a fleeting world of changes, what can prove

substantial here!
Happy they, whose hopes are bnilded on the firm,

enduring rock.
So above life's troubled billows they withstand

the tempest's shock !
She had waited long his answer, grown impatient

of delay.
O'er his strange, unwonted silence brooded sadly,
day by day ;

Till she could not linger longer in • labyrinth of

fears;
And she penned another message through a blind-
ing mist ol tears.
Promptly came a crnel missive, in its coldness

so (lukiud !
They must close their correspondence. He had,

some how, changed his mind.
It was but a boyish fancy, hot a vision, not to

be ;
He was soon to wed a lady whom he'd met across

the sea :
Please accept his last remittance, and relinquish

further claim ;
She was good aud true and noble, and could tread

the paths of fame;
Among earth's most honored women be would,

some day, see her name
Followed other heartless praises ; bat she did not

read them o'er —
The delusive dream had vanished-— what had life

to ofier more ?
Darkness settled round about her— lone, deserted

Leanore !
'Twas a cold and snowy morning, but it ushered

in the day
Through New England celebrated in its good old-
fashioned way.
When the solemn church bells, chiming on the

frosty, wintry air.
Summoned worshipers to gather in the sacred

house of prayer ;
And the merry, jiugling sleighbells, with their

winsome cotes of cheer.
Waked responsive chords of gladness as they fell

upon the ear.
There was bustle in the building; laughing

schoolgirls, bright and gay.
Going home to spend Thanksgiving on this wel-
come holiday.
But to one, in silence sitting mid the solitude

and gloom
Of an overwhelming sorrow, in her lone aud

clieerlfs.s room,
How the merry peals of laughter from the happy

careless throng
Grated on her ears like discord in a solemn funeral

song!
She had formed a settled purpose. She would,

henceforth, dream no more —
Life, for her, had nothing hopeful— nothing

briKht for her in store.
She would end its painful struggles,^^oomed,
dMoairing Leanore.

Q ■ labyrinth of
hrongh a blind-
in its coldnese
lenoe. H« bad,
a vision, not to
he'd met across
and relinqnifih
and could tread
•men he would,
but she did not
"-what bad life
-lone, deserted
bat it nshered

in its good old-
Bbiming on the
in the sacred
lis, with their
iss aa they fell
ng ; laughing
ig on this wel-
i the solitude
her lone and
om the happy
ioleti2n funeral
She would,
«ful-<-nothing
les, — doomed,

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

i-^o

I ■%'■•!

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Ob that cold November midnight, bo« tnepierc-/
ing wind did blow! I

Forth aSe wandered, in the d^knew. throngk'
the deeply driHting snow.

Onward where the Houaatonic, bonnd in icy fet-
ters iny,

•Neatn a covered bridge which spanned it
t nrongh whose gloom she groped her way '

Near .bis bridge she found an air-holt, where the
current switYer ran ;

Then she pansed to gather conrage-atrength to

carry out her plan-
One mad plung.^-0, God foi^ive her ! Reason

was dethroned before,
(»ne wild wail of hopeless anguish, drowned

beneath the water's roar

fhus she sought the land of 8hadow»-lo«t

lamented Leanore. *

Does thi8 flckle heir of fortune, when expectine
U the least, F^nDgj

Meet, among his ^thered household, an Intruder

at the feast.
Sliding in unheard, unbidden? Doee he shnd

der with affright 'r
Does he hear the plashing water on each cold

Thanksgiving night ?
Ooes there haunt his troubled vision fhim that

far-off, mystic shore
Where the living ne'er may enter, whence the

dead return no more.

Cue with wan, upbraiding visage ?-wronged.
heart-broken Leanore!

sar

Are the aigbing in the tne tops

Sounds of praise some angels Oamt
And the snowy flake* of winter

Feathers falling from their wings f
Are the dewdrops brightly shining

In the early morning hours
Kisses left by elves and fiiiries

Where they slept among the flowenf
18 the lightning rockets flying

When the Prince of Glory comecf
And the thunder but the rattle
Of the baby angel's drums?

MUSIC.

STEPHANIE GAVOTTE.

Inst. duet.

COLLOQUY.

HOW SHE CURED HIM.

QUESTIONS.

Theodora,
Mrs. Perkins,

BYC. E. BACKUS.

Mamma, is the sky a curtain

Hiding heaven from our sight?
Are the sun and moon but windows

Made to give the angels light?
Are the stars bright flashing diamonds

Shining from God's hand afar,
And the clouds but veils of vap«Jr

Dropped from Heaven floating there?
If the sun's a window, mamma.

Don't the angels through it ileep?
Ere it kisses earth at evep
Watching o'er us while we sleep.

Girding heaven and earth aboat?
Or 8 railing made of roses
So the angels won't All out ?
14

FOR A GENTLEMAN AND TWO LADIES.

Chafacters.
VncU Joseph, ^. j^^^^

His JViect.
The Housekeeper.

Scene I. To represent a kitchen. Mrs.Pir-
ktns « washing dishes— Theodora Paring
apples. '^ *

Mn. Pirkins. Ifs a burning shame-so it
is-the cross old curmudgeon I Nothing ails
him but the hypo. He's jest as weU as any
body if he only thought so. He keeps the
house stirred up all the time ;-and you. Miss
Dora, are just killing yourself waiting on him.

Dora. Uncle is getting very nervous, it is
true, but perhaps he is sicker than we think.
Mrs. Perkins. ^

Mrs. P. LandsakesI who wouldn't be ner-
vous shet up in the house all the time ? The
old tyrant manages to keep us hopping and
bounding. If he only took half as mnrh •»-,.
cise as he gives us. he would be well enough,
111 warrant! There it goes again-that ol4
cane thumping on the floor 1 What now 1
wonder?

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

ill

li !'j

' ' f '

! ;|

'f-^ i

f ''

1 'I ■■

ij;

|] iii.<«

Dora. Yes, that's uncle calling— t must run
up stairs and see what he wants,

Mn. P. {To herself.) That girl makes a per-
fect little ninney of herself, humoring all his
whims. I'd 4ike to see myself doing it for any.
body.

Scene 2. The siek room. Uncle Joseph in
an easy chair with his feet on a footrest.
Lnter Dora.

Uncle Joseph. Well, you have come at last,
have you? I've been rapping on the floor till
my arms are ready to fall out of their sockets.
Are you all deaf down stairs, or has old Per-
kins forgotten that there is anybody here but
herself and her snuff box ?
Dora. I'm very sorry, uncle.
Uncle J. Actions speak louder than words.
Dora. How do you feel now, uncle Joseph ?
Uncle J, I'm worse.
Dora. Are you ?

Uncle J. Flesh hot, pulse high, skin flushed
— of course I'm worse. This confounded hot
room is enough to throw anyone into a fever.
Open all tlie doors and windows — quick ! {She
obeys and then returns to receive his next
orders.) Uh ! do you want to freeze me to
death — to blow me away ?
Dot a. You told me to air the room, uncle.
Uncle J. Shut the doors — put down the
windows — draw the curtains, the sun hurts my
eyes.
Dora. Yes, uncle. (Goes out and returns.)
Uncle J. {//ears a knocking.) Who's that
battering down that door ?
Dora. It's only a gentle knocking, uncle.
Uncle J. Then I'm nervous. Go and see
who's there.

Dora. (Returns.) It is Major Crowfoot,
uncle, he sends his compliments and wants to
know how you are.
Uncle J. Tell him to go to the deuce.
Dora. Yes, uncle. (Goes out and returns
soon. )
Uncle J. Well, what did he say ?
Dora. He seemed very much offended, uncle.
Uncle J. Offended ? At what, pray !
Dora. At being told to go to the deuce, I
suppose.

Uncle J. Girl, you didn't tell him that?
Dora. Yes I did. You said yourself, "tell
him to go 10 the deuce I"

Uncle J. Dora, you're a fool.
Dora. I'm very sorry, uncle.
Uncle J. Get me some water gruel, and br
quick about it too. A man must eat even if he
is at death's door. Oh dear! Oh dear I wlia»
a senseless pack I've got around mil (Dora
leaves.) I wonder if that girl is getting crazy.
Told Major Crowfoot that stuff. Ml" bet he's
hopping mad— don't blame him. Dora must
be either a fool or a lunatic. Well, I can't help
it now. Here I've got to lie day after day—
never'll be any better as long as 1 must b- agi-
tated all the time by such pig-headed people as
live under this roof.

Dora. (Returns with the gruel.) Here's
your gruel, uncle.

Uncle J. ( Tastes and throws down the
spoon. ) Trash 1 trash ! insipid as dishwater !
Throw it to the pigs.

Dora. Yes, uncle. (Starts off with the
gruel.

Uncle J. Where are you going, Theodora?
Dora, To the pig pen, uncle.
Uncle J. Girl, are you an idiot? The gruel
is well enough, only Mrs. Perkins forgot the
nutmeg.

Dora. ( Tasting.) But, uncle, it is as insipid
as dishwater.

Uncle J. Will you allow me to have an opin-
ion of my own ? It will be all right if that old
crone, down stairs, will only add the nutmeg
and give it another boil.

Scene 3. Dora enters the kitchen with the
gruel.

Mrs. P. Well, what's wanted now, Miss
Dora?

Dora. Uncle wishes you to boil the gruel a
little more and add some nutmeg. His appetite
is very poor, you know. He thinks he feels
worse to-day.

Mrs. P. He does, hey ? Wal, hand it here,
I'll see if I can fix it to his liking. The fussy
old thing ; nobody can please him. (Stirs tkt
gruel over the fire, then hands it to Dora.) I
wonder if it will do now ?

Dora. I hope so. Oh dear! (Leaves the
room).

Mrs. P. ( To herself.) I should think it
was "Oh, dear!" I'd like to know howmany
times she's run up and down stairs to-day ! She
will wait on him herself because she thinks 1
•'pose, nobody els* could stand it with him

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

, it is as insipid

'chen with the

d now. Miss

Wal, I'm glad of it. I couldn't have
patience that dear cliild has. I'm sure.
Scene 4, (Dora Enters.)
Dora. Here's your gruel, uncle
Unc/e J. "

aas

the

you want to burn me to death ? I don't believ*
there's an inch of sVin hft m my throat

Dora. You told me yourseif, uncle, that you
don't mean half you siy. How did I know that

ri-sSl-^rrsL,— ^?™^^"^™-:™:?

never saw such a snail in all my life I

Dora. Indeed, uncle, I hurried just as fast
as I could.

Uncle J. It's too late now. I've lost all my
appetite.

Dora, Won't you have the gruel, uncle?

Uncle y. No, I won't. I can't eat anything
now.

(Dora takes the disk from the room and
returns without it. )
Uncle 7. Theodora 1
Dora. Sir.

Uncle 7. I'll try just a spoonful of that gruel
before it gets cold.
Dora. Why, uncle, I threw it away.
Uncle y. Threw my gruel away?
Dora. \es. uncle, you told me you didn't
want it.

Uncle y. I told you so? Furies and fiddle
strings I you might know by this time that I
didn't mean half I say. Get me some more. If I
Mn't been bed-ridden for more than a year I
could go faster than you do. Oh dear ! to
think I shall never walk again 1

Dora. Uncle Joseph, the doctor said yester-
day that he really thought that if you were to
try you could walk as well as anybody.

Uncle y. The doctor's a fool and you may
tell him so with my compliments.
Dora. I will, uncle, next time he comes.
Uncle y. Theodora, if you do I'll disinherit
you.

Dora. Very well, uncle. (Leaves the room.)

Uncle y. (To kifiiself.\ What can ail Dora?

I never saw her half as stupid. She'd tell the

doctor that. Any half-witted simpleton might

know better.

( Dora returns with the gruel. ) I

Dora. There's your gruel, uncle, all smokine

Uncle y. Theodora, you'll have to feed me.
This annoyance has weakened me dread-
fully.

ra. Yes, "jncle. \\-vmmciKcs io feed

him.)

IK. , tv t. , . I ""■*• """wp— I accu iicr a laucrnii

Wfcr//.7.StopI stop! it's hot! You're choking And this is how she cured him

me ! Stop, I wy t Didn't I tell you to stop? Do I she's cute, no mistake.

Uncle y. What's that smoke?

Dora. I think it is Mrs. Perkins putting some
more wood on the kitchen fire.

Uncle y. No it isn't. The house is on fire.

Dora. (Rushes from the room screaming).
Fire! fire! fire! fire! help! murder! thieves!
help! help!

Uncle y Oh ! oh ! fire ! fire ! oh. dean oh,
dear I oh ! help ! help ! Will nobody come to
help me out of the burning house? Oh, dear,
do help, quick ! quick I (rafs with his cane)

Scene 5.
( Uncle yoseph runs info the kitchen). '
Mrs. P. Goodness! if here isn't master

a most scart to death ?

Uncie y. Where's the fire? Where's the
fire?

Mrs. P. There isn't any fire that I know
of only in the stove here. It always smokes
jest so when it is first kindled.

Uncle y. Where did you see the fire, Dora?

Dora. I didn't see any fire, but you said the
house was on fire and I supposed it must be so.
Do go back to bed. uncle ; it was only a false
alarm, you see.

Uncle y. I won't go back. Theodora, I
won't go back to that bed to-day.

Dora. But you are very sick, uncle, and
this excitement will surely kill you. Do go
back.

Uncle y. No, I'm not so very sick, child.

Dora. Do you really mean it uncle Joseph ?
Can you walk as well as ever ?

Uncle y. Yes, lean. Dode, Iguess the scare
I limbered up niy old stiffened limbs a little.

I)ora. Well, then, uncle, let's go into the
sitting-room. You need rest, come. {They
leave the sta^e).

Mrs. P. (Alone). Didn't I tell her it was
only the hypo? It's a good thing something
started him. The old man finds he can walk,
after all. I b'leve Dora did it a purpose.— the'
little trollop— I seen her a laughin' to herself.
*^ Wal, wal,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

MUSIC.

EVERYBODY'S DARLING.

Instrumental.

REALISTIC.

SOME fOWERPUL PORTRAITURES WITH BRUSH
AND PENCIL.

! I

I '■

" Do you— ahem !— do you ever print any art
items in your paper?" asked a rather seedy
looking,' man with long hair, a slouch hat, and
paint on his fingers, softly edging into the Post's
inner sunctum the other day.

The m.-in.nging editor glani d savagely up
from his noonday sandwich, and evidently
repressing a desire to add the long haired party
to his viands, replied in the affirmative.

" Hecause," continued the young man, scowl-
ing criiic.illy at a cheap chromo on the wall,
" because I thought if you cared to record the
progress of real aesthetic art culture on this coast
you might send yonr art critic around to my stu-
dio to take some notes."
" Might, eh !" said the editor between chews.
" Yes, sir. For instance, there's a mam-
moth winter storm landscape I've just finished
for Mr. Mudd, the Bonanza king. It's called
'A Hailstorm in the Adirondacks,' and a visi-
tor who sat near it the other day caught a sore
throat in less than fifteen minutes. The illusion
is so perfect, you understand. Why, I had to
put in the finishing touches with my ulster and
Arctic overshoes on."
" Don't say ? "

" Fact, sir ; and then there's a little animal
gem I did for Governor Glerkins the other day
~a portrait of his Scotch terrier Snap. The
morning it was done a cat got into the studio,
and the minute it saw the picture it went through
the window like a ten inch shell."
"Did, eh?"

"Yes; and the oddest thing about it was
that when I next looked at the canvas the dog's
hair was standing up all along his back like a
porcupine. Now how do you account for
that?"
" Dunno."
•• It just beats me. Waen the Governor •«-

amined the work he insisted on my painting on
a post with the dog chained to it. Said he didn't
know what might happen."

"Good scheme," growled the President
maker.

" Wasn't it though ? My best hold, hdwever,
is water views. You know George Bromley, and
how abstracted he is sometimes. Well, George
dropped in one morning and brought up before
an eight by twelve view of the San Joaquin
River, with a boat in the foreground. I'm
blessed if George didn't absent-mindedly take
off his coat and step clear through the canvas
trying to jump into the boat— thought he'd go
out rowing, you know."

" Have they carried out that journeyman
with the smallpox?" said the editor, winking at
the foreman, who had come in just then to swear
for copy.

" Smallpox ? That reminds me of a realistic
historical subject I'm engaged on now, entitled
' The Plague in Egypt.' I had only completea
four of the principal fixtures when last Tuesday
the janitor, who sleeps in the next room, was
taken out to the hospital with the most pronoun-
ced case of leprosy you ever saw, and this
morning the boy who mixes the paints began to
scale off like a slate roof. I don't really know
whether to keep on with the work or not. How
does it strike you?"

It strikes me that you'd better slide," said
the unaesthetic moulder of public opinion
gruffly.

Don't care to send a reporter round, then ? '
" No. sir."

"Wouldn't you like to give an order for a
life-sized • Guttenberg Discovering the Printing
Press,' eh?"
" Nary order."

" Don't want a seven by nine group of the
staff done in oil or crayon ? "

"No," said the editor, as he again lowered
himself into the depths of a leader on the Rou-
manian imbroglio, " but if you care to touch up
two window frames, some desk legs, and the
fighting editor's black eye for four bits and a
lot of comic exchanges you can sail in."

It's a whack!" promptly ejaculated the
disciple of aesthetic culture, and borrowing a
cigarette from the dramatic critic on account,
he drifted off after his brushes. — San Fmncisff
Post.

WEALTH AND WORK.

THE COMPLETE fiROGRAAt.

he Preiident

All that is laid of the peril of riches does
lot go for much when the opportunity offers for
..ne to improve his worldly condition. Poets
sometimes chant the beauties of poverty but
not those who write in a cold garret, with only
a crust of bread and a jug of water to keep
them alive. They are too familiar with the bit-
ter reality to make it the subject of laudatory
tong. When a man has a snug little cottage of
h.s own. with a cosey corner looking out
upon the trees and flowers, where he can sit
and write in per.ce. sure that his frugal board
will be furnished with •• convenient food - he
may romance to his heart's content about the
vanity of riches.

Savages never acccumulate wealth ; if they
did they would be sure to be robbed of it
They live from hand to mouth ; mainly by hunt-
ing and plunder. The tribe is everything and
the individual nothing. No person has any
private right of property which the tribe is
bound to respect ; and no tribe has any rights
which another tribe will not wrench from them
if they are strong enough loso. The rule
is for everyone to take whatever he can lay his
hand on. and consume it, if possible, before
anyone else can steal it from him. In such a
state of things as that there is no danger of
anyone's getting \\ h.

As soon as men begin to lay by something
which they can call their own. the first step in
civiluation s taken, and the days of absolute
barbarism are over.

When a man is ready to sacrifice everything
else for the sake of making himself rich, he
deserves to be scorned ; but if the desire after
nches should all at once die out in the commu-
nity-of which there is at present very little
danger-the wheel of progress woulJ cease to
move.

It is this desire that incites men to labor
which IS another token which distinguishes civ-
ilization from barbarism.

Savages are^ always lazy. The men make
the women work, and the women do as litfU
work as possible.

The propensitv to accumulate wealth has
done more than anything else to check the

insane passslon for war. which has always
filled the world with violence, and to do away
with the habit of private revenge.

When men have money on deposit they are
not hkely to settle a disputed claim by kncck-
ing thtir adversary down, or sticking a knife
into his ribs as was the custom in the dark
ages, when property was held by a very.pre-
carious tenure.

It is a good thing that war is every day

getting to be more and more expensive.

and when the nations feel that this costly lux-

I fry must plunge them into utter bankruptcy.

InlC^l '\ '" '''^'' the rights of other,
and let them alone.

It is an immoral thing to take the property of
others without rendering a fair equivalent.
Burglars, and all sorts of professional thieves,
do this without scruple.

There is no hypocrisy in their transaction,.
AH kinds of gambling come under the same
head, and this does sometimes put on the garb
of hypocrisy, as the soft and gentle name,
by which it is called indicates.

There are men in high stan. ,,g who becom,
nch without rendering the slightest return to
I the world at large.

To trade upon the chances of the future
with nothing in hand to trade with, is the same
, thing ,n principle that it is to risk all upon the
hazard of a die.

There are others who fail to render 2. fair
equivalent for the money which they receive
giving short weight and poor measure. andseN
hng an unsound or adulterated article knowing
It to be so I<<„er to die in poverty than to
become nch by such device.

Others become rich by accident. They
wake up poor in the morning and go to
bed millionaires at night. A great fortune
drops upon them suddenly, as if it fell from
the skies, and unless the man can keep his
head, the wealth that is thus attained i.
very apt soon to take to itself wings, and fly
away. '

It is another thing when wealth is gradually
acq„,red by the honest labor of the hands and
'"~ „ ^""' ="='«>' 13 likeiy to be bene-
fited as well as the prospered man himself. It
IS this which dignifies wealth and makes its
possessor honorable.

ftt

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

RECITATIONS.

THE MASTER AND THE REAPERS.

Teb master called to his reapers :

" Make scythe aud sickle keen,
Aud bring me the graiu from the uplands,

And the grass from the meadows green ;
And from off of the mist-clad marshes,

Where the salt waves fret and foam,
Ye shall gather the rustling sedges

To famish the harvest home."

Then the laborers cried : " O master,

We will bring thee the yellow grain
That waves on the windy hill-aide,

Aud the tender grass from the plain ;
But that which springs on the marshea

Is dry an^ harsh and thin,
Unlike the sweet field grasses, ^

So we will not gather it in."

But the master mid : " O foolish !

For many a weary day,
Through Htorm and drought ye have labored

For the grain and the fragrant bay.
The generous earth is fruitful,

Aud the breezes of summer blow
Where these, in the sun and the dews of heaven.

Have ripened soft and slow.

" But out on the wide bleak marsh-land

Hath never a plough been set.
And with rapine and rage of hungry waves

The shivering soil is wet.
There flower the pale green sedges.

And the tides that ebb and flow,
Aud the biting breath of the sea wind,

Are the only care they know.

" They have drunkeu of bitter waters.
Their food huth been sharp sea sand,

And yet they have yielded a harvest
Unto the master's hand..

So shall ye, O reapers,
Honor theiQ now thf> isore^

And garner in gladness, with songs of praise,
The gmss from the desolate shore."
— Zm DatM UnderhiU in Harper^* Magtmiiu.

THE COMMONPLACE WOMAN.

Wb have read, as yon know, for ages and ages,
Of a willow maiden devoid of a spiqe,

A fabulous, prehistoric young person,
Who on white of an egg and cracker conld dine,

to yon now of a commonplaco

Bnt I write
woman.

Who's shockingly healthy and fearfully fat,
Who never has headache or nervous prostration,
Commonplace! what conld be more s* than
that?

She doesn't " do" Kensington cat-tails or rushes,
Nor has she a screen with a one-legged stork ■

She doesn't adore Charlotte Ensse or blanc-man-
ges,
Bnt prefers nnromantic commonplace pork.

She hasn't a gift for the art decorative.
Pasting Japanese monsters on Yankee stone jar

That stands in a coruer to look so sesthetic,
Bnt that grieves to the soul the old household
Lar.

She cannot write poems that glow like a furnace,
Nor sonnets as cold as the Apeunine snow ;

For if she chops up her ideas into meter.
There's a rush in the ebb aud a halt in the
flow.

She doesn't believe she was bom with a mission
Unless, it may be, to be happy and well ;

Nor does she at all understand protoplasm.
And looks upon women who do as a " sell."

Bnt there's worse to be told of this common-
place woman.
Who owns neither bird nor dog, nor pet cat ;
They say that she's really in love with her hus-
band.
Commonplace? what would be more so than
that?

And when we all stand at the last dread tribunal .
Where great and where small are assigned
each a part.
May the angels make room for the commouplaoe

"""— "s

Who knows nanght of literature, science or
art

Oo9d HoiudMfinf.

E WOMAN.

of s commonplucei

imonplaoe pork.

I of this common-

be more so than

" THE GIPSY COUNTESS."

(dujctt.)

aipsy-Oh! how can a poor gipsy maiden like
me,

Ever hope the proud bride of a noble to
be?

To some bright jewell'd beaaty thy vows

will be paid,
And thon wilt forget her, the poor Gipsy

maid.

And thou wilt forget her, the poor Gipsy

maid. •

«
Earl-Away with that thought, I am free, I am
free,
To devote all the love of my spirit to thee ;
Young rose of the wilderness, blushing
and sweet ! i

All my heart, all my fortune, I lay at
thy feet,

All my heart, all my fortune, I lay at
thy feet. '

(2.)

Gipsy-Go, flatterer, go! I'll not trust to thine
art:

Go, leave me and trifle no more with my
heart!

Go, leave me to die in my own native
f*hade.

And betray not the heart of the poor Gipsy
maid.

And betray not the heart of the poor Ginsv
maid. '

Earl-I have lands and proud dwellings, and ail

shall be thine.
A coronet Zillah, that brow shall entwine :
Thon Shalt never have reason my faith to

upbraid.
For a countess I'll make thee, my own

Gipsy maid !
For a countess I'll make thee my own

Gipsy maid !

TJ/E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I've seen their advertisement

" No capital required j "
But boys with pluck and courage

Are just the kind desired.
Thny want a boy wVo has no fear

Of steady, pledding work ;
Who does not wait for luck or fate,

Who scorns a task to shirk.
Who slowly, surely digs his way

Through problems hard a scora^
And still has grit and courage left

To try as many more.

Who can view a two-foot column
Of figures undismayed.

And through a tough analysis
Or conjugation wade.

Who takes each school-time lesaoa
And makes it all his own,

Thus laying np his future
On good foundation stone.

Who does not wait for help to come
From fairy, witch or elf.

But laying hold on Fortune's wheel
Turns it around himself.

And if it grinds and will not move
With all his care and toil.

He rubs each shaft and gearing well
With " perseverance oil."

Who knows that luck is but a myth,
And faith is but a name,

That plod and push and patience
At last will win the game.

And lads like this are just the kind

For Will Succeed & Co.,
Who are wanting junior partneia

Way up on Fortune Row.

LITTLE DOT.

A JUNIOR PARTNER WANTED.

(BY M. E. SANDFORD.)

There's a juuiur partner wanted

By Will Succeed & Co.,
Who do a rushing business

Way up in Fortune Bow;

The touching incident that gave rise to the
following hnes occurred in one of our large
cities. Crouched upon the curbstone in a blind-
ing snow storm there was a little match-gin
apparently not more than six years old At-
tracted by her sobs, an old gentleman
approached her, and kindly asked. •• WIm .re
you. my little giri. that you are here in this
storm ? Raising her lur«e brow„ eyes, brini-
mmg with tears, she sobbed. ■< Oh. I'm only
httle Dot 1 " '

' i

" I

I '

I I

ISA

TNE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Cnraching on the icy pavemeDt,

Sobbing, shivering with the oold,
Oarmenta scant aronnd her clinging

All her matches yet unsold ;
Visions of a cheerless garret,

Crnel blows not soon forgot,
Whil.i through choking sobs the mnrmnr

"Ob, I'm only little Dot!"

Deeper than the icy crystals,

Thongh their keenbess made her start;
Is the hungry, aching longing

In the little match-girl's heart.
No kind voice to cheer and comfort ;

Ah ! by fortune quite foigot,
Who can wonder at the murmur,

"Oh, I'm only little Dot! "

Far above the clouds and snowstorms,

Where the streets have pearly gates.
In that home a sainted mother,

For the little match-girl waits.
By the throng of waiting angels.

Little one you're ne'er forgot,
In the home of many mansions '

There is room for little Dot.

THE TOLL-GATE OF LIFE.

We are all on our journey. The world through
which we are passing is in some respects like a
turnpike— all along where vice and folly have
erected their toll gates for the accommodation
of those who choose to call as they go— and
there are very few of all the hosts of travelers
who do not occasionally stop a httle at one or
the other of them, and consequently pay more
or less to the tax-gatherers. Pay more or less
we say, because there is a great variety, as well
in the amount as in the kind of toll exacted at
these different stopping places.

Pride and fashion take heavy tolls of the purse
—many men have become beggars by paying
at their gates— the ordinary rates they charge
are heavy, and the road that way is none of the
best.

Pleasure offers a very smooth, delightful road
at the outset ; she tempts the traveler with many
fair promises, and wins thousands ; but she
takes— without mercy ; like an artful robber,
the allures till she gets her victim in her power,
anu then she strips hini of wealth and money,
and turns him off a miserable object, into the
worst of our most nigged roads of life.

Intemperance plays the part of a sturdy vil-
lain. He is the very worst toll-gatherer on the
road, for he not only gets from his customers
their money and their health, but he robs them
of their very brain.— The men you meet on the
road, ragged and ruined in fame and fortune
are generally his visitors.

And so we might go on enumerating many
others who gather toll from the unwary. Acci-
dents often happen, it is true, along the road,
but those who do not get through at least toler-
ably well, have been stopping by the way at
some of these places. The plain, common-sense
men who travel straight forward, get through
without much difficulty.

This being the state of things, it becomes
every one at the outset, if he intends to make a
comfortable journey, to take care what kind of
company he keeps in with— We are all apt to
do as companions do— stop where they stop, and
pay toll where they pay. The chances are ten
to one but our choice in this particular always
decides our fate.

Be careful of your habits, these make men.
And they require long and careful culture, ere
they grow up to a second nature. Good habits
we speak of. Bad habits are easily acquired—
they are spontaneous weeds, that flourish rapidly
and rankly without care or culture.

NEIGHBOR JONES,

I'm thinking, wife, of neighbor Jones, the man
with the stalwart arm —

He lives in peace and plenty on a forty-acre
farm;

When men are all aronnd ns with hearts and
hands a sore.

Who own two hundred acres, and still are want-
ing more.

He has a pretty little farm, a pretty little house;
He has a loving wife within, as quiet as a mouse ;
His children play around the door, their father's

heart to charm,
Looking just as neat and tidy as the tidy little

farm,

-■n, ... „.„ .„.,,„^jQ| 110 iHloiica la tuo

oats;
The horses show good keeping by their fine and
glossy coats ;

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

the tidy littl*

Che 00W8 within the meadow, resting 'neuth the
beechen shade,

Learn all their gentle maonen from a gentle
milking maid.

ttS

Within the field on Saturday, he leaves no cradled
grain

To be gathered on the morrow, for fear of coming
rain;

He lives in joy and gladness, and happy are his
dnys ;

He keeps the Sabbath holy; his children learn
his ways.

He never hud a lawsuit to take him to the town.
For the very simple reason there are no fences
down;

The barroom in t village for him has not a
charm :

I can always find my neighbor on his forty-acre
farm.

w few that he ploughs them very

His acre'
dec

Tishi. .ads that turn the sod, 'tis his own

hands that reap ;

He has a place for everything, and everything in
its place ;

The sunshine smiles upon his fields, contentment
on his face.

May we not learn a lesson, wife, from prudent

neighbor Jones,
And not sigh for what we haven't got— give vent

to sighs and groans ?
The rich aren't always happy, nor free from life's

alarms,
But blest are those who live content, though

■mail may be their farms.

[Atlanta CmuA^toiixm.

SOMETHING GREAT.

Help! " cried the mother with sorrow wild—
"Help me. Sir Knight, to seek my child !
The hungry wolves in the forest roam;
Help me to bring my lost one home ! "
He shook her hand from his bridle rein:
" Alas ! poor mother, you ask in vain.
Some meaner succor will do, maybe.
Some squire or varlet of low degree.'
There are mighty wrongs in the world to right-
I keep my sword for a noble fight. *

I am sad at heart for your baby's fate,
But I ride in haste to do something great."
One wiutiy night when the sun had set,
A blind old man by the way be met ;
" Now, good Sir Kuight, for Our Lady's sake,
On the sightless wanderer pity take !
The winds blow cold, and the sun is down ;
Lead me, I pray, till I reach the town."
"Nay," said the knight; "I cannot wait;
I ride in haste to do something great."
So on he rode in his armor bright.
He sword all keen for the longed-for flghfc
"Laugh with US-laugh ! » cried the merry crowd.
^ Oh weep! » wailed others with sorrow bowed.

Help us ! " the weak and weary prayed.
But for joy, nor grief, nor need he stayed.
And the years rolled on, and his eyes grew dim
And he died— and none made moan for him.
He missed the good that he might have done,
He missed the blessings he might have won.'
Seeking some glorious task to find.
His eyes to all humbler work were blind.
He that is faithful in that which is least,
Is bidden to sit at the heavenly feast.
Yet men and women lament their fat%
If they be not called to do something great.

Flobence Tjoit.

The trial was ended— the vigil past ;
All clad in his arms was the knight at last,
The goodliest knight in the whole wide land,
Wifh face that shone with a purpose grand.
riiH kins looked on him with gracious eyes,
Vn.l said : " He is meet for some high emprise."
Ti. himself he thought : " I will conquer fate:

I will surely die, or do something great."

So from the palace he rode away ;

Tbere was trouble and need in the town that day ;

A child had strayed from his mother's side

Into the woodland dark and wide.

MUSIC .

Instrumental.

*• MAIDEN'S PRAYER,"

WELCOME. PRETTY PRIMROSt

That comes when sunshine comes.
When rainbows arch the silver show*r
Of every oload that roams,

•88

4j; I

--A

L.-I.,

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

or erery cloud that roania. ^•

I joy to see thy promise bloom

That tella of Spring's new day,

And ID ray thoughts afar I roam

O'er sunny liauiitsiiv -y.

Welcome ; Welcome ;

Welcome, primrose flower

Welcome, pretty primrose flow'r.

To me ihy coining NeeiiiH

To wiike a^ain the Springtime honr

With sunshine in the dreams.

Ah! Ah!

Welcome, pretty, pretty, prettj, pretty primrose

flow'r
With sunshine in its dreamn.

Gazing on the early flow'r

I seem to hear tlie Spring,

That calls the sunshine ev'ry hour

And tells the bird to sing ;

And as I dream, my dream is rife,

With thoughts akin to these,

Ofglnd Spring life, a sweet Spring life,

That's very dear to me. '

Welcome ; Welcome ;

Welcome, primrose flow'r ;

Welcome, pretty primrose flow'r,

To me thy coming seems

To wake again the Springtime honr,

With sunshine in its dreams.

Ah ! Ah !

Welcome, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty primrose

flow'r
With snnsbiue in its dreams.

COLLOQUY.

THROUGH THE BREAKERS.

(For two ladies and two gentlemen.)
Characters :~Ca//rt/« Barker, a retired sea
captain; Betsy, his housekeeper; John Bar-
ker, his son; Mrs. Barker, his son's wife.
Scene -.—A nicely furnished room. Captain
Barker, seated in an ea.<ty chair, reading a
letter, shifts about uneasily, scowls, stamps
his foot upon the floor as though greatly
excited.

Capt. Barker ( Talking to himself.) Blast his
hide! {Striking his fat upon I he table.) The
boy is enough to wear the life out of a man !
If I had him here I'd give him a sound thrash.

ing, as sure as my name is Obed Barker, and
I'd put him on double duty and half rations to
boot ! Betsy ! Betsy ! Betsy !

Betsy. (Rushes into the room.) Well, Cap
tain Barker ?

Capt. B. Why, it's that blasted boy of
mine ! What do you suppose he's done now.'

Betsy. Nothing dreadful, I hope.

Capt. B. Well, 'tis, Betsy.

Betsy. O, Captain Barker! What is it, for
pity sake ?

Capt. B. It's perfectly awful ! He's mar-
ried !

Betsy. Married ?

Capt. B. Yps, married ! There's his letter
—only two or three lines in the whole of it !
He's off, skylarking around on "ns wedding
tour—

Betsy. Wedding tour?

Capt. B. Yes, wedding tour; and he'll be
here with his wife this week.

Betsy. This week ?

Capt. B. Yes, this week, you mummy!
Can't you say anything but what I say?

Betsy. I'm so surprised, Captain, I don't
know what I do say. But what are you going
to do with John ?

Capt. B. Do! do! I'll disinherit him. I'll
make a beggar of him. I'll kick him out of
the house and I won't let him step a foot inside
of it. The scoundrel! I'll flog him! I'll—
I'll— Oh ! I wish I had him here now!

Betsy. Why, Captain Barker, he's your own
boy!

Capt. B. No, he ain't I I won't own him.
He's gone just contrary to my wishes. I've
told him, time and again, that I had a wife all
picked out for him.

Betsy. Did you tell him who it was?

Capt. B. Blast it all ! don't everybody know
I want him to marry that Maria Edgerly?
Oh, I wish I had him here! {Springs to his
feet and commences slc-ming the chairs
around. Betsy starts to leave the room.)
Here, here, Betsy, what are you sneaking off
in that style for?

Betsy. {.Looking arouna cautiously.) I was
getting out of the way of those chairs. When
you get to slashing things around like that, it's
time for me to go. You act like a craiy man.
I won't stir another step into the room until you
get into that chair and promise to stay there!

THE C:MPLETE PROGR/ui.

; and he'll be

Capt. B. Well. well. Betsy, don't be scared
child. Come in. Bless my stars, come in. I
wont hurt you. There, now. Til tell you. I'm
going to shut up the house and let John pick
for himself. I want you to go, too.

lietsy. I won't stir a step with you. Capt.
Barker.

Capt. B. Nobody wants you to ! All I ask
of you is to go away from here so we can shut
..le house up. You can go East and visit your
sister and I will go West on a prospecting tour.
How's that, eh?
Betsy. Capt. Barker, you are crary.
Capt. B. Crazy or not crazy, it has got to
be just as I say, so there's the end of it. Get
your duds ready for the next train. We'll'have
to step lively. {Leaves the room.)

Betsy. What a man— bound to have his
own way, right or wrong ! Well, I'm glad of a
• rest, that's certam, but it will be such a disap-
pointment to John ! I must fly around and
set tilings to rights, then change my dress, pack
my satchel and be off.

SCEXE 2. Captain Barker lying on a couch,
isjast regaining consciousness after being badly
hvrt in a railroad accident. His face is patched
in several places with healing salve. Raises
himself on his elbow and stares about.

dipt. B. Blast it all ! what does this mean ?
Avast there ! {Anna, the nurse, enters and goes
to the couch.) Where the dickens, am I. and
who are you, madam?

Anna. {Smiling pleasantly.) You are in
the village of Medford, and I am Anna, your
nurse.

Capt. B. Thank you for the information but
how came I here ?

Anna. It was a bad railroad accident and
you have had a very narrow escape, sir. What
is your nai ie, please?

Capt. B. Obed Barker, madam.

Anna. Very narrow, Mr. Barker, how do
you feel now ?

Capt. B. Hanged if I know. What's the
matter with me anyhow ? Anything broke?

Anna. I hope not, sir, the doctor pronounced
your bones all whole, but you have some bad
bruises. {Brings him a hand-glass. He takes it
(i't'-t surveys himself.)

CaptB. Well. I should think so! You
don't pretend to say that there's a bruise under
every one of them patches ?

987

Anna. { With difficulty restraining htr mirth.)
On. yes. Some of the larger patches have a
good half dozen bruises under them.

Capt. B. Half a dozen ? Why. it couldn't
have been worse if a patent harrow had run
over my face. But what did it? How did it
happen ?

Anna. Why, sir, in a collision. Don't you
remember you were on the cars ?

Capt. B. Oh, yes ! and such tumbling and
scratchmg. I knew we should find breakers
ahead, but it seems just like a dream. How
long have I been here ?

Anna. About three hours.

ad Patiettt. {Calling from another room.)
Anna! Anna!

CaptB. Hello! Wliat's that ?-who's that ?
Ahoy, there !

Anna. Only another paMent, sir, I must
go to him now, but I'll be back soon. (Starts
to leave.)

Capt. B. Hold on ! wait ! let him yell.

ad P. Anna! Anna! Anna!

Capt. B. {Shouts to him.) Stop your noise!
I say Anna, that chap ain't dangerous. I know,
for he's got a voice like a crocodile, so just
wait a minute. How many invalids have you
got on your hands?

Anna. Only you two, Mr. Barker.

Capt. B. That's good, but how is that other
chap? Is he hurt much? How is his face!
Does it look any worse than mine ?

Anna. There is but very little choice. If
there's any advantage, I think you have it, Mr.
Barker. But I must go now. {Leaves the
room.)

Capt.B. {To himself.) I've got the advan-
tage, have I? I'm plaguey glad of that, for
that woman is the trimmest built craft I've
spoken this many a cruise. I wonder if she's
got a consort? I wouldn't mind sailing with
her the rest of my voyage. By gum ! wouldn't
It be neat on John ? I could almos* forgive
him. I'll try it, too. Blast it ! There's that
other chap ! Hear him talk to her— the pirate.
{Listens. )

ad P. Anna, who is that chap in the next
room?

Capt
ness!

2d P.

B. { To himself.) None of your bua-

Well, whoever he is, I want him cut
<»'3*'"* J"8t as soon as he's able to be moved.

888

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

\ i

\W.

Cap/. B. (To himself.) Which won't be
very soon. I've got just as good a right here
as he has. and Ml stay till I get ready to go.
( Uitens but can't hear anything. ) Blast it all !
I wonder what they're saying ! It will never
do— I must stop that. Lets see, what's her
name? Oh, I've got it now, Anna I Anna!
come quick— do come !

Anna. (Hurrying in with the camphor bot-
tle. ) What's the matter, sir ?

Capt. B. Don't dash the camphor in my
eyes, I'm not fainting. I only wa ted to talk
with you a little. You shouldn't give all of
your attention to one patient. It's very lone-
some in here without you. There's another
thing, Anna, and I say it for your own good.
You know nothing about that person in there.
He may be the veriest villain on earth. If I
were you, I wouldn't go near him.

Anna. IJut that wouldn't be right, Mr. Bar-
ker, he's suffering. He needs care and there is
no one else to attend to his wants.

Capt. B. Let him take care of himself thenl
or send for his friends.

Anna. Do unto others as ye would others
should do unto you. Mr. Barker, that is the
golden rule by which we shoud hve.

Capt. B. Blast the golden rule ? that is, for
the present. It wouldn't work well in this case
at all. It would be lost on such a fellow as he
is. He ain't what he ought to be, and I don't
want you to go near him again. You've been
very kind to me, Anna, and I've taken a liking
to you. I can't bear the thought of your speak-
ing to that fellow, and you will promise me you
won't.? {Speaking low and earnestly. )
Anna. But I mustsee him just once more, sir.
2d P. Anna ! Anna ! Hurry up, I want you !
Anna. There, he's calling now. I won't
stay long and if you want anything speak to
me.

Capt. B. [To himself.) Blast his eyes ! I
wish I was where I could see him. I won-
der if he is a younger man than I am. But
then I ain't so very old— only forty-nine last
July. If Anna knows when she's well off she
will never marry a man who is a day youn-
ger than that. (Stops and Listens.)

ad P. Anna,, why do you remain so long
with that fcHow in the other room ? it is cer-
tainly very indiscreet. What is his name?
Where is he fh)m ?

Capt. B. ( To himself.) Don't you wish you
knew ?

Anna. Poor old man, he has enough to
think of without telling me his affairs I

Capt. B. ( To himself.) '• Poor old man ! "
Just hear that I I will have a wig for that bald
spot and some hair dye that won't turn foxy
I'll bet: (Listens.) '

3d B. Old. or young, I tell you Anna, once
for all to keep away from there. If the man
IS sick, let him hire a nurse and done with it.
I want you myself and if I were able I'd lock
that door and keep you, too. But I hope I shall
have no more trouble about him.

Capt. P. Such insolence ! Why don't she
cuff him ? Wait till 1 get well. I'll teach him
to abuse a poor, defenceless woman. That is
all the thanks the dear child gets for waiting
on such a scamp 1 (Listens but all is still.
The brute has got mad and gone lo sleep. I
wonder if I can't hail Anna without waking
him, I'll try, anyway. (Calls faintly.) Anna!
(A littlf louder.) ^nn^,, (Louder.) Anm\ Anna!
ad P. Hold your ongue, old man I
Capt. B. Blast your hide, I won't !
ad P. Will you attend to your own affairs?
Capt. B. I'll not lie here and have a lady
abused as you have been abusing that one.
Anna, Anna, come in here and leave that vil.
lain to himself.
ad P. Anna, don't you stir a step.
Capt. B. Oh, if John were only here long
enough to thrash that impud-nt rascal, I would
freely forgive him! Why am I tied here?
Anna ! Anna ! Don't stay with that brute
another minute. Come to me, darling I

ad P. There ! I can't, I won't stand this
any longer! Anna, give me that revolver.
Now the cartridges and a cap, I'll stop that
fellow's insolence if I have to blow the whole
partition down, -and swing for it the next min-
ute.

Cipt. B. (Loading a revolver.) Fire away,
you villain, your very first shot will be your
death knell, for I'm covering your head with a
three ounce ball. Oh ! If I could only get at
him !

ad P. Ditto, old man. If I could get in
there I wouldn't give much for what would be
left of you. Anna, just give me a description
of that man.

Capt. B. Don't you do it. If he wants to

)n't you wish you

know how I look. let him come and see me if
he dares. I'll shoot him the minute he puts
Ills head inside my door.

Anna. {Enters.) Hush I hush f Your injuries
have made you both half crary, and I'm
going- to leave you till you get better natured
Ihere now, quiet yourselves down and go to
sleep. {Leaves the room.)

Capt. B. Sleep ! with such a villain as that
in the next room ! Why. I'm afraid he would
cut my throat !

ad P. You would, eh! Anna, just hear
the threat he's making 1

Capt. B. Oh, dear ! I'm all alone ! If
John were only here or Betsy 1-1 knew there
were breakers ahead but I never dreamed of
this. (Lies down.) Oh. dear! Oh, dear! Why
did I leave my comfortable little home ! I'm
so tired I must try to get a little rest. (Falls
asleep and snores very loudly — the man
tn the next room snores aiso. Anna waits
a few minutes and then comes in with *he
Captain's supper on a tray. The Cafitain
wakes.)

Capt. B. Sh ! easy, my dear, that brute
has gone to sleep and I wouldn't wake him for
the world. Hear him snore-a perfect pig ! I
never could endure a man that snores. There
that's a dear; just set the tray right hereon
the stand, and pull your chair right up beside
Well have a nice long talk while the beast is
asleep. Uh ! how he does snore ! Did you
cook this supper, Anna ?
Anna. Yes, sir.

Capt. B. Well, it is capital; and I'm as
hungry as a bear. Just help me to a little of
that toast, please. Thank you. Now I'm
going to tell you how I'm situated. A little
cream, please. {Puts some in his tea.) Well
1 m a retired sea-captain, and I've got a snug
little pile laid away, and I'm all alone in the
world-just a taste of those hemes, please.
{Helps htm to some.) Yes. I am all alone I
had a boy. John, but I've disowned him. He
marned a woman-well. I won't say anything
against her for I never saw her. but he married
her against my wishes, and now he's cruising
round the country on his wedding tour!

Another cim of t»<» -i'- =•> '^ • v •

{She pours the tea.) We'l. when I heard of
John s marriage I told Betsy-she's my house-
*ceper-that we'd ahut up the house and let

TWZ COMPLETE PROGRAM.

John pick for himself; and I'm going to do it.

Anna. Don't you think you ought to have
waited until you saw his wife?

Capt. B. I don't know— do you?

Anna. Yes, Mr. Barker. I do.

Capt. B Well, perhaps I had. I am a little
hasty sometimes. But. Anna. I'll ,ell you
what 1 11 do ; I'll forgive John and take him
back, wife and all. if_hark! what is that?
^"'C'''f'*^\'^'''S in the next room.) Blast me
If that land-lubber ain't awake again !

2d P. Anna! Anna! where are you? Are
you going to starve me to death ?

Capt B Hist! Don't speak a word and he
won t know where you are.

• 'i^\ ^""^•' ^""''' Anna!-I say. you
in the other room, is that woman there ?

Capt B,{Shouting,) None of your business.

2a F. I 11 let you know whether it is any of
my business or not. {Moves abort the room )

CaptB. Well. Anna. I'll forgive John if
you will marry me.

^«««. Oh! Mr. Barken {With surprise.)
C^pt'B. There! there, dear. I know you
will. {Takes her hand and puts it to his lips. \
O. darling. I know you will. '

^'^ P. I know she won't. {Rushes into the
room andgtves the Captain a good shaking.)
Take that! and that! and that! you blafk'
hearted villain ! If you ever so much as lay a
finger on my wife again I'll blow daylight
through you. {Starts back in surprise.) Oh
my stars! {Anna hurries from the room.) '
Capt. B Its John, or I'm a fool ! Blast it
how came you here, my boy ?

7oAn It's father by all that's great and
good Anna. {Anna stands peeking in. lauzh-
tng heartily.) * . --f/i

hand.)^' J°''"'y°"^'"*'"' {Grasping his

John. Father, you grey-haired destroyer of
my domestic peace !

Capt. B. There, there, John, don't say

another word. If Anna will forgive me Dl

forgive you and we'll go home and be as happy

as a scnool of mackerel. Ahoy, there. Anna '

Anna. {Smotheringalaueh enters with r}'t,v\
Well? " " "^'1

Betsy Why. Captain. I heard of the acci-
dent and took the first train. And. John, you
here too? My. how you are banged up I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

IV r

I 1

ftr

Capt. B. Had a tough time steering through.

Bttsy. So it seems. I'm glad to find you
both safe and together once more.

Capt. B. { Taking Anna by the arm. ) And
this is John's wife, Betsy, the best little woman
on earth. ( They shake, hands. )

Capt. B. Will you forgive me, Anna?

John. And me, too ?

Anna. Yes, I'll forgive you both if you'll
promise to mind the helm hereafter.

Capt. B. Hurrah I Thank God, my chil-
dren, we are through the breakers to a safe
port at last ! [Springing up and clasping them
both by the hand. Betsy stands beside Anna
— all facing the audience.) And that you may
all ride as safely through the breakers on life's
voyage and reach a haven of peace at last is
the earnest wish of yours truly. ( They bow to
the audience and the curtain falls.)

MUSIC.

WARBLINGS AT EVE', INST.

" NOT A SPARROW FALLETH."

Nut s sparrow falleth but its Ood doth know,
Just as when His mandate lays a monarch low ;
Not a leaflet waveth but its Ood doth see,
Thhik not, then, O trembler, God forgetteth thee!
Far more precious surely, than the birds that fly
Is a Father's image to a Father's eye ;
E'en thine hairs are numbered ; trust him fhll

and free;
Cast thy care before Him, and He'll care for

thee!
For the Ood that planted in thy breast a soal
On his fwcred tables dotb thy name enroll ;
Cheer thine heart then, trembler, never faithless

be
He that marks the sparrow will remember thee !

will remember thee !

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.

It is in Youth that we dhoose the companions
of our age. No new friends, be they ever so
kindly, can fill the place which belongs io
those who have known us all our lives.

But there is one gu«st whp wU^^mt to see

us, unbidden, in the twilight hours of life ; one
guest against whom we cannot bar the door,
who will sit with us at our lonely firesides, and
recall to us dead days and by-gone hopes ;—
this intrusive guest is Memory.

A man who had not lived, to outward obser-
vation, a worse life than most others wa?
begging his friend to come and see him.

•■ Come often and stay late," he said ; and
then he repeated in a tone which sounded as
sad as a sob, " Above all, stay late.— I have
bad company in the midnights."

The next week his friend went to visit him,
and the two men sat together late into the
night. They had talked cheerfully enough at
first, but, at length, they fell into along silence,
which suddenly the visitor broke :

"You said you have bad company in the
midnights."

"Yes," answered the other. "All the
memories of my past life come back to me,
and they are bad company. It might have
been otherwise. I might have lived for better
things and found in Memory a genial friend
instead of a bitter taunting enemy. I might,
but I did not.

I did not rob, nor steal, nor lie— at least, not
much. I was over-sharp in business some-
times, and I said some things I did not quite
mean ; but the harm wasn't in the special acts
of my Hfe so much as in the whole principle
and spirit of it. I did not try to see how
much good I could do, but how much money I
could scrape up, and how I could push myself
on. And now it's all over and the things I
worked so hard for seem less than nothing. 1
find Memory very bad company."

" But there are books. It's the one com-
pensation. I take it, for living a good deal
alone, that a man has time enough to read
such things as he's wanted to read all his life. "
Ah ! but there it is again, /haven't wanted
to read, and I don't want to, now. Books are
among the friends a fellow has to make in
youth, if ever. If I had formed a habit of
reading, I should like it now. I should have
furnished Memory with something to do beside
holding all my old mistakes up before me as if
they were written on parchment. " No :
there's no getting away from the consequences
of the life we chose for ourselves. I chose
(nine— and the ctip my youth brewed is a bit-

THE COAfPLETE PKOGRAAf.

241

npany in the

ter draught for my age to drink. If only
youth would or old age <-<>»/a'— didn't some-
body write a verse about that ? "

Ah yes, if youth would ! If the experience
of age could serve as youth's warning ! Mem-
ory is the unbidden guest to whom none of us
can say, "Not at home ! " How terrible a
thing it is if we arm this guest against us— if
when Memory comes to us in solitude her pres-
ence fills our souls with fear and shame.

A SUNSHINY HUSBAND.

SOMETIME. SOMEWHERE.

(BY ROBERT BROWNING.)

The prayer your lips have

Unanswkbed yet !
pleaded

In agony of heart, these many years ?
Does failh begin to fail, is hope departing,

And think yon all in vain those falling tears?
Say not the Father bath not heard your prayer;
Yoa shall have your desire, sometime, some-
where.

Unanswered yet? though when yon first pre-
sented
This one petition to the Father's throne.
It seemed you could not wait the time of ask-
ing,
So urgent was your heart to make it known.
Though years have passed since then, do not
despair ;
The Lord will answer yon sometime, some-
where.

Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say, nngranted!

Perhaps your part is not yet wholly done.
The work began when first your prayer was
uttered,

And God will finish what He has begun.
If you will keep the incense burning there,

His glory yon shall see, sometime, somewhere.

Uiianswrred yet ? Faith cannot be unanswered,
Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock ;

Amid the wildest storms she stands undannted,
Nor qnails before the Inndest thunder shock.

She knows Omnipotence has heard her prayer
Auu cries, "It shall be done, sonetime, some-
where."

A sunshiny husband makes a merry, beauti-
ful home, worth having, worth working for. If
a man is breezy, cheery, considerate, and sym-
pathetic, his wife sings in her heart over her
puddings and her mending basket, counts the
hours until he returns at night, and renews her
youth in the security she feels of his approba-
tion and admiration.

You may think it weak or childish if you
please, but it is the admired wife who hears
words of praise and receives smiles of recom-
mendations, who is capable, discreet, and ex-
ecutive. I have seen a timid, meek, sclfdis-
trusting little body fairly bloom into strong,
self-reliant womanhood, under the tonic of the
cordial of companionship with a husband who
really went out of the way to find occasion for
showing her how fully he trusted her judgment,
and how tenderiy he deferred to her opinion.

In home life there should be no jar, no striv-
ing for place, no insisting on prerogatives, no
division of interest. The husband and the wife are
each the complement of the other. It is just as
much his duty to be cheerful, as it is hers to be
patient ; his right to bring joy into the door, as
it is hers to keep in order and beautify the pleas-
ant interior. A family where the daily walk of
the father makes glad the hearts of those around
him, is constantly blessed with a heavenly bene-
diction.

THE LITTLE KID IN THE HOP-YARDS.

Sons folks think there ain't no roughs tbis side

the Rocky Mountains,
Where agents bold up tenderfeet beside them

Geyser fountains.
But I have worked in York State, and found

hearts just as stony
Growin', around these eastern farms, as out iu

Arizony.

Perticklers are yeaskin' ? Well, I'm half ashamed

to tell 'em ;
Though I could slide off some incidents as slick

as slippeiy ellum :
. or snstsncs:— I was piekin' bops once up in

Franklin County
When a little boy came likewise to partnk« th«

deacoQ'a bounty.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAU,

W^-

Father 'n mother both was dead ; an' the kid

was left to tnsale
With Deacon Ore/ beard an' the world withont no

bone nor mnsole.
His grit waa good tbongh ; tell ye what, there

wan't no better piclcer,
Nor none that worlied more patiently ; nor none

that worked no quicker.

But Deacon Greybeard nover thought that no

one did his level
Unless he kep' a pickin', every minute like the

— dickeus!
From half-past four in the mornin' until half-past

seven at night,
Ton'd got to dust yourself to keep him anyway

polita.

One day 'twas dark and cloudy, an' the wind waa

blowin' chill,
An' the little kid looked peaked, like be must be

feelin'ill;
But the deacon never noticed that so long's he

kep' a workin'
An' I swan, the plucky little chap had no idea

o' shirkin.

By-and-I^ it begun to rain an' kep a growin'

colder,
An' every minute seemed as if that boy grew ten

year older.
I couldn't stand it no how ; so I traveled to the

shed,
An' carried in the little kid ; (he ought ter been

in bod.)

Twant five minutes by the dock when we heard

old Greybeard holler.
Tha boy was scart, an' started out ; I held him

by the collar.
Op come the deacon swearin' mad ; " Ool dam

ye, go to pickin' I"
'Ton tetch that little kid," says I, — ^" one on as,

takes a lickin'."

' Ton ain't no Christian man, says I, " he's sick,

an' see how's rainin'."
"Noneo* your business," says he, — ^"Theorphan

aint complainin,''

XPith 4h»t >•• n\a>^ kU «nn.t.i.4> h'tf>*' *» >S.-t i

siae his meanin'.
An* would have kicked the little kid, but for my
intenrenin',

I hit him harder thtn I meant I hodn'tooghter

done it ;
But when he kicked the orphan boy, 'twas he

himself begun it. —
When they picked bim up next momi^' he was

cold and stiff and wbitoin'.
An' the coroner fetched a verdict, " Accideota!

death by lightnin'.

DAN'.S WIFE.

Up in early morning light,
Sweeping, dusting, ''setting aright,*
Oiling all the bouB<!hold springs,
Sewing buttons, tying striigs.
Telling Bridget what to do,
Mending rips in Johnny's shoe.
Sunning up and down the stair.
Tying baby in her chair,
Cutting meat and spreading bread.
Dishing out so much per head.
Eating as she can, by chance.
Giving husband kindly glance
Toiling, working, busy life —
Smart woman-
Dan's wife.

Children meet him at the door,
Pull him in and look him o'er,
Wife asks how the work has gone,
" Busy times with us at home I "
Supper done, Dan reads with ease ;
Happy Dan, but one to please I
Children must be put to bed,
All the little prayers be said,
Little shoes are placed in rows,
Bedclothea tucked o'er little toet,
Busy, noisy, weary life-
Tired woman,
Dan's wife.

Dan reads on and falls asleep-
See the woman softly creep ;
Baby rests at last poor dear.
Not a word her heart to cheer ;
Mending-basket ftill to top,
Stockings, shirt and little frock ;
Tired eyes and woary brain
Side with ugly darting pain ;
Never mind, 'twill pass away.
She must work and never play,
Closed piano, nunsed books,

Brightness faded ont of life-
Saddened woman,
Dan's wifii.

hadn't oughtor
I boy, 'tWM h*"
iionii9' he waa
ot, " AccideoU!

t ■.

LE.

ns 1 I (-,

DpnUIrs, toning to sod ft*,
Perer holdii tb« womuu low-
Cliildren wander free to pin/
When and where they will to^ay •
Biitlget loiters— tlinner'a cold ; '
Dho looks anxious, cross, and old j
Household screws are out of pUu»
Lacking one dear putieut face;
Steady hands, so weak, but trae,
Hands that knew just what to do,
Never knowing rest or play,
Fo)d«l now and laid away ;
Work of six in one short lift -
Shattered woman,
Dan's wife.

r//£ COMPLETE PROGRA\f.

ANGELS UNAWAREt:

(J. F. WALLER.).

flf the hours of morn and even,

In the noon and night,
/'ooping down they come ftx)m heaven,

In their noiseless flight,
To guide, to guard, to warn,' to cheer ns.

'Mid our joys and cares
All unseen are hovering near tu

Angels unawares.

When the daylight is declining

In the western skies,
And the stars in heaven are shining

As the twilight dies,
Voices on our bearte come stealing

Like celestial airs,
To our spirit sense revealing

Angels unawares.

0, faint hearts, what consolation

For us here below !
That angelic ministration

Gulden us where we go.
Every task that is before ns

Some blest spirit shares,
Watchful eyes are even o'er ns,
Angels unawares.

THE COBBLER'S SECRET.

A WAuGisH cf,hi>rer once in Rome,
I'"tft>r(h»iii9prw.lamntion,

That he wns willing to disclose
Fer due consideration,
16

A secret which the cobbling world

Could ill afford to lose ;
The way to make in one short ..jj

A hundred pairs of shoes.
From every quarter soon there mbm

A crowd of eager fellows J
Tanners, cobblers, liootmen, shoemea*

Jolly leather sellers.
All redolent of beef and smoke.

And cobbler's wax and hidee ;
Each fellow paid his t hirty pence

And called it cheap besideh '

Silence ! The cobbler enters

And castfi around his eyea
Then curls his lipe-the rogue I-theu ft^w...
And looks must wondroos wise ;
My friends," he say,, " » ti. simple qnite.
TheplanthatlpropoHe; "^ "» "»
And every man of you, I think,
Might learn It If he choeo. '
A good sharp knife is all yon need

In carrying out ray plan ;
So eaay is it none can fail

Let him be child or man.
To make a hundred pairs of shoes,

Just go back to your shops.
And take a hundred pairs of boota
And cnt off all their tope ! "

THE "COWARD" IN BATTLE.

There is a regiment with its right flank rest-
mg on the woods-its left in an o^„ fidd war
a group of haystacks. Three p^cesof.X

utes, but without provoking a.->y reply

Watch this man-this Second Lieutenant of
Company F. He isalmost a giant in ,i«. „t
has a fierce eye. a roaring voice, and men
have sa,d that he was as brave a, a Tn
When the regiment was swung intopositionZi
he batery opened he said to himself :-. How
oohsh ,n us to attack the enemy when he wa^
seekmg to retreat! This blunder will cosr«
many ,,ve,. Our fire will soon be ret«rneS
and u will be good-by to half our r^imeT i
shall be one of »li» «.... ._ r.,, ,.\ "** *

*. . " "•-"- tv tail. ;r i u>*« ««— .

ofthe rear-rank privates. I'd give all the "one!

I hope ever to have." "•«: money

As three-five-ten minutes pass away and

tHe fire .. „ot returned, the Z.r^^^t

If 4.1 ^

'1 i

flit :

'i . , 1
i

' 1 1

f ■

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

pluck up heart He blusters at the men. tries
to joke with the officers on his right, and says
to himself: " This may turn out all right after
all. We are in no danger thus far, and if the
enemy retreats we shall share the credit. I
must try and make everybody believe that I
am disappointed because we have not been
ordered to advance."

Room — shriek — crash! Now the enemy
open fire in reply. They have six guns to
answer three. In two minutes they have the
range and a shell kills or wounds five or six
men. The coward's cheeks grow pale. He
whispers: "Great heavens! we shall all be
slaugiuered ! Why doesn't the colonel order
us to retire? Why are men kept here to be
shot down in this way ? What a fool I was not
to go on the sick list last night ! If it wasn't
that so many are looking at me, I'd lie down to
escape the fire ! "

Another shell— a third— fourth— fifth, and
thirty or forty men have been killed. Men
won't stand that long. They must either
retreat or advance.

"We shall advance," whispers the coward.
The order will come to dash forward and take
those guns. Shot and shell and grape will
leave none of us alive. What folly to advance !
I hope I may be slightly wounded, so I shall
have an excuse for seeking cover in some of
these ditches."

An aid rides up to the Colonel and gives an
order. The Colonel rides to the head of his
line and orders the lines dressed for an
advance. The men dress under a hot fire, and
the coward groans aloud : " It is awful to to die
this way ! How idiotic in me to accep*^ a
commission— to enter the service — to put my-
self in front of certain death ! Oh, d«ar! If I
could only get some excuse for lagging benind ! "
The lines dash forward into the smoke — the
enemy's fiie grows more rapid— the dead and
wounded strew the ground. Where and what
of the coward ? Three ^ays later, the colonel's
report will read ■
" I desire to make special mention of Ueu-

tenant . As the ^.^giment advanced, the

Captain and First Lieutenant of Company F.
were killed by the same shell, ' iving the sec-
ond lieutenant of Company F. in command.
He was equal to the emergency. Springing to
th« head of the company, he encouraged the I

men, led them straight at the guns, two pieces
of which were captured by the Company."
A month later the coward was a captain.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

In Palestine, lonn years ago, —

So rnns the Ifgend old, —
Where Eedrou's sparkling wateu flow

Across their sands of gold,
And Mount Moriah lifts his ne^d

Above the snuny plain.
Two brothers owned — aa one — 'tis said,

A field of golden g^ain.
And when the Autumn days had comi^

And nil theshockn and sheaves
Stood waiting for the harvest home,

Among the withering leaves.
The elder brother said one night,

" I'm stronger li»r than Saul,
My younger brother, 'tis bat right

That I shooM give him all
These sheaves that grew upon the pld&

We own together, sc
I'll pat with his my stacks of grain.

And he will never know."
Scarce had bf left the sheaves of wheac

When quietly there came
Across the field with stealthy feet,

And errand just the same,
The younger lad who said, " I see

My brother Simon's need
Is greater far than mine, for he

Hath wife and child to feed;
And so, to him I'll (>ive my sheaves^

It is but right, I know.
And he will never tuink who leaves

These wheat stacvs on his row."
Next morning when the brothers twain

Began to count their store.
Behold ! each fonni) his stacks of grain

To number as before !
" Why ! how is this ? " in great surprise

Each to himself tbeDenid,—
*' I'll watch to-night and see who triee

These tricks when I'm abed ! "
And so, half way across the plain

They met— each one bent o'er
With shocks and sheaves of golden grate

To swell his brother's store !
Good Saul and Simon ! — Would to<iay

More brothers miglit. be found
Who seek each other's good alway.
And in kind deeds abound.

THE COMPLETE PHOGRASf.

Due — 'tis said,

A FOWL SLANDER.

BY SUQXNB J. HALL.

Okck on a time, in Goshen town,

A doctor, Jong and lathy,
Cum with intent to settle down

An' practice allopathy.
He spread his shingle in the breeae,

Prepared his pills and 'intmeut,
And yet, like many other men.

Was doomed to disapp'intment.
Though fnll of patience in the hope

Of finally succeedin';
No mortal patients could he find

For physickiu' or bleedi '.
One night, while waitin' for a call,

He heard a sadden clatter.
An' hurried quickly teu the hall,

To ascertain the matter.
" A case o' life and death," he thought,

" I must not makfa a blunder,"—
He opened wide the entry door
An' started back in wonder.
Some village " buck " had caught a dock

An' tied it teu the handle ;
The door flew back, the duck cried quack.
The wind blew out the candle.
* * • « ♦

No more the doctor's swayin' sign

Swings in the laud o' Goshen ;
The duck is dead, its slayer is fled
From such a fowl commotion.

ONE MORE.

BY THERON BROWN.

Whbn man and time itself were peers.
In the far days before the flood,
And living souls had flesh and blood,

Five hundred or .1 thousand years,
Till birthdays ^rew a misty guess,
What signified one more or leas?

Ah me ! no thongbt may now contemn
The unit of the lives of men,
.. .. ....s..... j.„t^ (,,^ oiic lu ion

Of Adam and Methnsalem,
And one hath all the cnrea that grew
In twenty when (he world WM B«ir.

A year ! 'tis nature's mom and night,
The lifetime of a plant with dower
or seed and sprout and leaf and flowsr •

And yet before its snows are white
We claim the next, and plan to run
Another journey 'round the sun.

Our conrse of being hath no goal

Alone in passing youth or age
The onward step, the further stag*,

Is counted by the insatiate sonl,
Tha. jaunts the Future's open door
And cries for one to-morrow more.

And though the new to-morrow's beam
On thankless slight and willful waste
And greed of mortals crazed with haste

Wi > strive and scheme and wish and dreaa
Still, added to life's growing sum,
In mercy one by one they come.

One more reprieve from sorrow's streae,
One more delay for duty's stent
One more probation to repent

One more condition of success
We ever crave. The boon is lent.
We take— but we are not content

Do New Years rise and set in vain

Because uneasy spirits fret?

Not so ; the world bath wisdom yet,
And punctual sense of present gain,

And faith, whose patience waits so lonj

Its yearning doeth time no wrong.

And Heaven, that chides the rash and bUn4
Relents when love of life entreats.
And still with granted seasons meet*

The common prayer of all mankind.
And gives eternity— whose store
Of years forever yields one more.

HIS FLYING-MACHINE.

An enterprising saloon-keeper on Grand
River avenue is always on the lookout for any
novelty that may draw customers, and perhaps
this fact may have been known to a bland,
faced old man who entered the place the other
day and confidentially began :

" If I could draw a crowd of one hundred
men to your place here, what sum would you
be willing to give me ? "

" What do you mean ? " asked thesaloonist

•• If it was known that I had in my pcssetiioa

248

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

a flying-machine and that it would fly from your
door here on a certain day and hour wouldn't
the novelty be sure to collect a thirsty crowd. "
"Yes, I think so. If you have a flying-
machine and want to show it off here to-mor-
row night, I'll give you a doUor and if the
machine is a success, perhaps I'll buy it."

"Well, sir," continued the old man in a
whisper, " I've got the boss ! She flies from the
word go ! All I've got to do is to toss her into
the air, and away she sails. It's right down fine
— no chance for a failure. I'll be on hand at
seven o'clock to-morrow night."

The matter became noised about, and the next
evening a crowd had collected around the
saloon to witness the experiment. The old man
arrived on time having some sort of a bundle
under his arm. He collected his dollar and
several treats from the crowd. When every-
tiling was finally ready, he went out into the
street a short distance from the eager specta-
tors, and said :

"Gentlemen, I warrant this thing to fly. I did
not invent it myself, but I am now acting as
State agent to dispose of county rights. Hun-
dreds of men have spent years of anxious
thought and thousands of dollars in seeking to
invent flying-machines, but this one leads them
all. Please stand back and give her a chance
to rise. One— two— three— all ready ! There
she goes."

The crowd fell back, and the man let fall the
cover enclosing thir wonderful invention and
gave it a toss into the air. A dismal squawk
was heard, an old speckled hen sailed this way
and that, bumped against a telegraph post and
finally settled down on the roof of a low shed,
cackling in an indignant manner at being
turned loose in a strange neigh irhood.

The old man took advantage of their bewilder
ment to make good his escape.

ABILITY.

Webster tells us that ability implies not only
native vigor of mind, but that ease and prompt-
itude of execution which arise from superior
mental training. This would seem to indicate
that the learned lexicographer believed that
.Th'.hty is sn exceedingly rate quality, and, in
its highest sense, this is true.

But there is a business ability that is possible

without the unusual advantage of superior men-
tal training,— an ability that is recognized,
admired and emulated by all. It is a natural
capacity and shrewdness, combined with busi-
ness experience and energy— an adaptability to
circumstances, a readiness and boldness in
emergency, all regulated by a proper degree of
caution. Still, men of this stamp are too rare
for the needs of our natural growth.

While we, unquestionably, have much ability
among us. yet, for the work before us, for the
places to be filled— we speak always in a com-
mercial sense— it is a matter of great difficulty
to find capable men.

Good material for lawyers, doctors, judges,
editors, minist<'rs, farmers, and mechanics
abounds among us ; but men to whom we can
commit a large sum of money with perfect con-
fidence in their ability to invest it in some under-
taking that is likely to pay, and manage that
undertaking w\h prudence, sagacity, and hon-
esty, are extremely scarce.

There is. however, and we presume always
will be one great difficulty in this matter of abil
ity. There are too many people out of place.
If it were possible to reconstruct the various
communities of the worid with dut regard for
the fitness of things, thereby placing each per-
son in his true position, socially and commer-
cially, we would be surprised at the amount of
mediocrity that would develop into ability;
but such a state of things would render impos-
sible the oft-quoted reproach, •< The world knows
nothing of its greatest men."

The boy, just from school, is gene ally pushed
into the first opening— (we admit this is usually
a necessity) and by hard work and prudence
saves a little money. He has no special ability,
or apparent adaptability for the business, but in
course of time, he branches out on his own,
account. He takes no thought of local trade
necessities ; forgets, if he ever knew it, that suc-
cess is extremely difficult to win ; but he starts
in business because others have done so.
because it is the way of the world, because he
is expected to do so ; his venture tenninates in
helping to keep good the average of the ninety-
odd per cent, of failures, which block the pro-
gress 01 the business worid. But ability, in its
right place, property applied to honest ends, is
irresistible and will force its way in spite of
obstacles to ultimate success.

Complete ^pogpam ^0. 9
For School and EFening Entertainments.

:0: —

MUSIC.

HSR BRIGHT SMILE HAUNTS ME STILL.

(Instrumental.)

COLLOQUY.

FLORAL OFFERINGS.

Mite.

Sweet spring beauties, painted cups

Flushing when theSonth-wind passea
Beds of rose-pink centaury

Compass-flower to northward inming
liarkspnr, orange-gold pucooon,
Leagues of lilies, flame-red burning
[Unter Blanche unih basket of flowers )

Teacher.

FOR ONE LARGE

GIRL 'ND THREE SMALLER
ONES.

Characters.

Teacher,
Lillie,

AnnaA
Blanche.

Blanche.

Scene I. A mcefyfumhhedrwm. Teacher\Annm.
standtngby a smali table curveted with moss, on
which she is arranging shells and geological
sfectmens. *

Teacher.

Anna.

Teacher.

Here I stand awaiting them—

Lonely, sad, and solitary,
Till the little maidens come

From the seaside and the prairie,
From the mountain, steep and high

Where their little feet are straying
Gathering blossoms they may spy

I «v., ^V" "°""* **" ^ood-nyaiphs playing.
imter Anna with a basket of Jhtoera )
O, my little seaside girl,
What is in your garden growing?

Wild rockweeds and tangle-grass

With the slow tide coming, going;
oamphire and marsh-rosemary

All along the wet shore creeping.
Sandwort, beach-peas, pimpernel

Out of nooks and comers peeping.
(.Enter Lillie with basket of flowers. )

O, my little prairie giri.
What's ia bloom among yonrgnuses ?

LiOie.
Blanche.

O, my little mountain girl.
Have you anything to gJther ?

Milk-white everiasting bloom,
Not afraid of wind or weather,

Sweet-brier, leaning o'er the cra^
That the lady-fern hides under

Harebells, violets white and blue,—
Who has sweeter flowers I wonder ?

{Presenting her flowers.)
We hav9 gathered them for yon.
On the sea-shore these were ^wing.

{Presenting her flowers.)
On the prairies mine were found.

{Presenting her flowers.)
On the mountain mine wei» blowing.

LiUie, Blanche 'ind Anna. (/« Cbneert.)

Take them, keep them, pledges fond
Of our friendship and devotion,—

Blanche. Floral offerings from the mount,

Lillie.
Anna.

Teacher.

From the prairies —

snd the ocean.

O, my little maidens three,

I will place your pretty posies,
Ocean-nourished, cloud-bedewed,

Prairie grasses, mountain roses,
On a bed of shellH and moss.

Cnsne sad bead your bright heads
nearer.
Though your blossoms are bo fair

You three human flowers are dearer,

340

ttto

TJ/E COMPLETE PROGRAJIf.

MUSIC .

RUBY. (Vocal.)

I OPENKD tbe leaves of a book last oigbt,

Tho dust on it's covers lay dark and brown ;
As I beld it toward tbe waning ligbt,

A withered flowrit fell rustling down ;
'Twus only tbe wraitb of a woodland weed,

Wbich a dear dead band lu tbe days of old
Had placed twixt tbe puges sbe loved to read,

At tbe time when niy vows of love were told ;
A!:d memories sweet, but as sad as sweet.

Swift flooded mine eyes with regretful tears.
When thedry dim harebell skimmed past my feet.

Recalling uu hour from the vanished years.

Once more I was watcbing her deep-fringed eyes

Benl over the Tasso upon her knee.
And tbe fair face blushing with sweet onrpriae.

At the passionate p'^^ding that broke from me:
Ob, Ruby, my darling, the small white hand !

Which gathered the harebell was never my own,
But faded and passed to the far off land.

And I dreamed by tbe flickering flame slone.
1 gathered tbe flower and I closed the leaves,

And folded my hands in silent prayer.
That the reaper, Death, as he seeks his sheaves

Might hasten the hour of oar meeting there.

READINGS.

MR. DOLLINGER HAS FUN.

A PLAYFUL DOG WHOSE COUNTENANCE BELIED
HIS CHARACTER,

Mr. Dollinger, who lives on Twelfth street,
is one of the kindest hearted men in Sioux Falls.
Nothing touches him so quickly as the suffer-
ings of a poor dumb beast.

A few days ago a couple of men who were
traveling overland in a •* prairie schooner,"
anchored their craft on some vacant lots back
of Mr. Dollinger's barn. They had come from
Missouri and were going up into the Mouse
River country and stopped in the city for rest
and relaxation. They picketed out their mules,
and every day went down town where rest and
rcliixation leiails at 1 5 cents a glass, two for a
quarter.

Every time they went away they left a laige.

lean, meek and sorrowful-looking dog chained
under the wagon. He was not one of those
savage appearing dogs, with his forelegs far
apart and nose in the air, but seemed mild and
gentle and accustomed to better things. He
had a tender gray eye, a weak and undecided
lower jaw and a narrow chest that gave him
the appearance of havmg the consumption. He
had a procession of ribs on either side like a
picket fence ; he never barked or growled, and
sometimes he would cough with a hollow, con-
sumptive sound and hold a forepaw up in
front of his mouth in a way which convinced
Mr. Dollinger that he had been used to good
society.

" I believe those fellows stole that dog some-
where," said Mr. Dollinger to Mrs. Dollinger.
" He is some good old family dog that they
have enticed away from home and are drag,
ging around the country with them."

"That's just what I think," she replied. " I
noticed the poor thing to-day under the wagon
all alone. What a slender nose and high fore-
head it has."

"Yes, and such a kind eye. There isagreat
diffprence in dogs, but it all shows in their eyes.
Anybody could see that this dog wouldn't harm
a child just by his eye. I have thrown him
some feed several times lately."

" But don't you think the poor thing ought
to be untied so it can run around and get some
exercise and play with the other dogs a little ? "
I never thought of that— I believe I'll go
right out and let it loose and see it express its
gratitude by playing around me."

So Mr. Dollinger went out to the wagon.
The dog wagged his tail feebly and the lid of
his left eye kept drooping down as if he had
lost control over it.

"Poor doggie!" said Mr. Dollinger, as he
slipped down and unsnapped the chain from
his collar, " poor dogr;ie, I'll let you loose."

The dog turned par; way round when he
found he was at liberty, but did not seem
inclined to leave the wagon.

"Poor thing, you've been tied so long that
you don't know how to play," said Mr. Doll-
inger. Then he noticed the end of the chain
was on the ground and picked it up with the
intention of hanging it on a spoke of the wheel
so it wouldn't get rusty. When he first started
to raise up again he thought a Florida alligator

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

iad crawled up without being seen and talcen
hold of tlie calf of his leg. He was confident
that he could hear the bones cracking. Then
he thought of the dog. He managed to look
around with one eye and saw that it was the
dog.

" The poor thing is trying to play with you,"
called Mrs. DoUinger from the back fence.

"Don't I know it!" replied Mr. Bollinger
as he felt the blood begin to run into his shoe
He worked himself slowly around, and the
dog's forelegs remai„cd planted firmly but his
head swung with Mr. Dollinger's leg. and his
body raised up a little and swung around in the
opposite direction with little jerks.

"Nice doggie! Nice doggie!" and he
reached down his hand. "That's a nice dog.
gie-let go. and we'll run and have some fun "
This idea seemed to please the dog, and he
let gc and they ran. Mr. Dollinger started for
the fence, and the dog headed him off with two
bounds and chased him back past the wagon,
all the time barking with a voice which sounded
as If It came out of a cave that ran back under
the ground to the Nebraska state line.

"Great thunder! " yelled Mr. Dollinger. and
dodged as the dog leaped up and tried to get
him by the throat.

•; Don't go near the wagon-he thinks you're
trying to steal something!" screamed Mrs.
Dollinger. as she climbed up on the fence

Mr. Dollinger wasn't going near it-the dog
headed him off again. Then Mr. Dollinger
tore around in a circle and the dog leaped at
him from all sides at once.

He bit him in twenty different places. Part
of tl^ time he was up on his back gnawing at
the back of his neck and trying to climb up fur-
ther by scratching with his hind feet and so eet
over at his throat.

And every time Mr. Dollinger went near one
of the mules it kicked at him. And both of them
kept braying and that dog never for a single
mstant stopped that hollow, consumptive bark

Once he fell down and the dog tore along
over him and then came back at him as he gol
up and started the other way.

And Mrs. Dollinger stood on the fence and
screamca for help. The neighbors came out
around their back doors and smiled, and a man
en a load of hay with a pitchfork in each hand ,

•81

stood and yelled : " Fight him ! Why in blazet
don t you turn ar md and fight him ? '

" Look him in uie eye ! Look him steadily
•n the eye ! " yelled a man who had beaten Mr.
Dollinger m a lawsuit the day before.

And all the time the dog was right ud
next to Mr. Dollinger biting pieces out of his
person and trying to bark louder than themulef
were braying or Mrs. Dollinger was screaming.
Then the dog got hold of his coat-tail and
Mr. Dollinger started across the lots for his
fence again with the dog streaming out behind,
three feet from the ground and barking out of
both corners of his mouth. Just as he passed
the wagon two tall, rawboned Missourianscame
up on the trot.

'• I'll be doggoned. Bill, ef the durned sneak
h^n t ueen tryin' ter steal something 1 Sic him.

" Ye bet he has ! Count the things an' see
If the cussed hoss thief got anything while I
pepper him ! " and he jerked a double-barrelled
shot-gun out of the front end of the wagon.

There, take that! and that! you ornery pup!"
and he blazed away first with one barrel and
then with the other, but not till Mr. and Mrs.
Dollinger had disappeared around their comer
of the barn.

" When I go out to play with another blamed
cur to make it home-like for him. you'll know
it_where are them other clothes of mine?"
said Mr. Dollinger when he got into the house.
— Dakota Bell.

BOB'S MOTHER-IN-LAW.

She meeteth her son-in-law at the door when
the new clock tolleth fourteen and he essayeth
to let himself into the hall by unlocking the
front gate with his watch-key. And for this
ofttimes he fes f*;th her.

She knowech uis ways, and his tricks gr,. not
new unto her. She is up to all his e. .ises
and when he sayeth he was detained down at
the bank until the next morning ;

Or, that the last car had gone, and he bad t«
wilk;

Or. that he was sitting up with a sick friend :

Or. that hp t,.^o i„„i.:_j_ r-_ t . ,. . '

• ^~-Mi,g ,ur j„s collar button;

Or, thai he was drawn on the jury ;

Or. that he had joined the astronomy class ;

Or, that his books wouldn't balance ;

i'-':

:!'

flSf

TNE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Then doth sie get on to him with both feet,
for she sayeth within ht-self : " All these things
hath his father-in-law saia unto me for Jo, these
many years. Lo, this is also vanity and vexa-
lion of spirit."
And for this he feareth her yet more and more.
Why, what this country needs, to let ;-p it
from going to the bow-wows, is a few more
mothers-in-law of the good old-fashiojed
school, to stand between young houseke«pe =
and a greedy world. A home without a uiojh-
er-in-law is a home without its guardian angel.
Th;;re never was but one home established
without mother-in-law. And t! .t seems to
have bff^a a mistake. Tl-af mothc; -in-lawless
home walked right Wu ivouble. as she sparks
fly upward. It went n^ .'. o«i nXo the orch i d,
and ordered fruit for two, and ■•<■-« alt tht. rest
of us into more trouble .r^n all th'j good
mothers-in-law of to-day c a^. /". t r get ui out of.
Away with all this oiitrngcous abuse of the
mother-in-law. Have you sio sense of grati-
tude, young man? Do yoti love your wife*?
Oh, most devotedly. Well, then, where would
you have got your wife, had it not been for
your mother-in-law ?

And another thing, young man. Some day,
when you are saying smart things about your
mo'her-in-Iaw, sit down and fasten the tackle
of yc»r brilliant intellect upon the subject, and
do not ?et go of it until you have calmly, hon.
estly, imp.irtially studied the question in all its
bearings :
" My wife— how about her mother-in-law ? "

A WORD FOR THE BOYS.

JXWT one word of advice, my lively yonng friend,

(And one word, aa yon knbw, is not two).
Down a terrible path your footsteps now tend,
Tor whiskey will heat the best fellow, depend,
And the dream of to-Jay, life's to-morrow may

end ;
Believe me, 'tis fearfully true, my young friend,
Believe me, 'tis fearfally true.

I know how the tempter assails yon. f -ar boy,

Alas, none knows better than I
But the gold of the wine cup tnrrs k ., to alloy,
And woe follows qnfck in the footprints of joy,
for the pain of tn-n;nrrnw wfll rack and anno" •
The tempter's be.'t vow In a lie, my dear boy,

Balieve me, each tow is a lie. .*•

I know that the boys whom yow njeot, tay deai
lad,

Are bale, good com pau(< iris <'sic?' one, ,
With many an impulse tba' j aoi ;.f the bail,
And they join in the mirth itii mi ocstacy mad,
But the bright suu of hope {i •, '^'n ifriiljv an ij
Often sets ore the (!ny is bej^u.i, my dear liwl,

Otten Bfts ere the day is ' *!»nn.

I have J.!3.. .^ several " boys" in my time, dear
V'iijuj^man,
And royal good fellows were they,
With brain v.vih C-xA nijaut ii, his inflnltoplH.
5 ^r the noblest of dee^v; but fbev i^W u tbey
ran,

And the hopes which we s.neriphe« ra longer we

can ;
But fond hearts will monm as they may, dear
young man.
Fond hearts are brt sling to-day.

Ah ! then, for the sake ol" s ht, mother, dear boy.
Who loves yon as mu 1 ^rs will do.

Forswear, while you may, tfte wine cup's alloy;

DO naught that f.,nd heart ti> disturb or annoy ;

Encircle her face with the haia of joy,

And life will be fairer for yon, my dear boy,
All life will be fairer for yon.

MUSIC.

THE MUSIC-BOX. (Instrumental.)
THE COUNTRYMAN IN TOWN.

It was a stalwart Jerseyman,

A " hayseed " and a "Jake "
With garments all of homespnn staff

And truly rural make>-
In fuct, as countrified a chap

As yon would care to meet,
Who came to town awhile ago

And walked np Baxte street

The enterprising cloth" v. re

Eight quick]- strnc . ,;8 gait,
And knew that I>7 r -,■.■■ i"<»t the sort

For which th : v * >« a> wait.
A pnller-in made U-\. 'v) bim

In front of Coft: ?i L -A v;
And hustled him iu lit- ;v ^t>I*

Inside the open door.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

\ yoir mttet, xaj ^Mt

I " in my time, dear

The amiling CJohen said, " Yon Tuto

A bair of bants, I see ;
I sella yon now dis lofely bair

As sheap as sbeap can be.
Fife tollar fur dem all-wool bants,

Der best yoo effer saw,
, Yooet let me wrap dem np ftir yon."

The stranger answered, "naw I "

" Yon rants a goat ? I shows you dea

Dis fine Brince Alpert her«,
Und sells it to yon sheap like dirt,

Vay under gost, mine dear."
" I dunno," said the countryman ;

"I kinder like your shop,
And me1>be we kin make a trade

If yon would keer to swap."

"Toschwop? Vot'sdot?" "I want to change

This coat of mine off hand
Because— for reasons I have got—

Well, don't you understand ?
And so, If your Prince Albert then

My form and style will suit,
I'm keen to swap, and I will gire

A dollar, say, to boot"

They haggled then about the price;

The countryman was firm ;
In vain did Cohen plead his canse

And twist and writhe and squirm.
The trade was made, the dollar paid,

The bargain well to bind,
The stranger took away the coat.

And left bis own behind.

2ft3

" I'll buy it back ! " the stranger cried,

" What is it worth to you ?
One dollar? Two? Three dollars? Five?

Come now, that ought to do."
He took the coat, and handed out

A twenty-dollar bill,
And Cohen made the change and dropped

The greenback iu the till.

" A fine trade, dot," old Cohen said;

"Dem goundrymt'ns is geese."
Just theu he picked that greenback op

And wildly yelled, "Bolicel '

Run Isaac ! Keich dot raschal man I

I'm schwindelt ! Oh, I'm bit 1
Dot dwendy tollar bill I shanged

It vas von gounderfeit 1 "

The stranger, more than satisfied,

Had shaken well his feet.
And put a block or so between

Himself and Baxter street.
Though Isaac wildly ran about,

And loudly Cohen swore.
That truly rural countryman

They saw not any more.

CORMAC O'GRADY'S COURTSHIP
BY THOS. F. WILFORD.

Ten minutes passed ; the countryman

Came running in the store
And bumped against old Cohen as

He trod the greasy floor.
"I want that coat of mine! " he cried

With eager anxious air ;
"There's something in it I foi^t;

I left some papers there."

Old Cohen knew a thing or two,

And this was iu bis mind :
The man's a thief, and plunder's in

The coat lie left behind.
" ^"^n». mine frient," he said aloud,

" DoB-t try to play dot game,
I bought dot goat yoost like it vas,

Mit nil dings in der same."

OCH! Cormac OGrady, do cease you» ..^ild
talkin',
Your likes at the blarney I niver did see •
Your tongue's a machine that is always a ,toin'

And grindin' out nonsinse you're givin' to me;
Your brain is asthray, and faith it's no won-
dher, —
Now will yon behave yoursel', Cormac, I say ?
Take your arm from my waisht— no' do ; do you
hear me ?
If you don't 'pon me word I'll be goin' away.

That's right now ; be aisy,-hnsh I don't begin
talkin'
But listen.-I think I should now say » woi^ ;
With yoor bhither, .and forJin' aad aondnse aad
capers,
I can't find the manes for to make meself
'leard.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

1 j I ! .'R

- i r.i J

Sit stni DOW,— don't »ATe,— if you do I'll be
goin' J
If you want to come 'round here come dacintly
pray;
foa ought to get sooie one to teach you good
manners ;
Faith whin you are married you'll not be so

gay.

Aha I but it's thin you will sit in a corner

Wid niver u word comin' out of your mouth ;
If your wife don't conthrol you I'm greatly mis-
takin,
And larrup, and bate yon, and bang you
about ;
Ha! ha! What a figure you'll make— gracious
goodness!
Yon mane man I how dar' you ? how dar' you,
I say?
To kiss me so bouldly— well, well ! but that's
awful ; —
How dar' yon act in such a heathenish way?

Get up off your knees, yon will soil your new
throusers ;
What! marry yon? well but that bates all in
all;
Don't yon know you are axin an impidint qnes-
thion ?
But I'll think, and I'll tell yoa the next time
yon call.
Why! where are you goin'? Now sure you're
not angry, —
You know 'twas but jokin' the words that I
said;
Here's me hand if you wish it, and Cormac, me
darlin',
I'll be yours till the sod closes over me head.

Why, Cormac, he's gone ; — he has 2eft me in

anger, —
I've dmv him away ;— Oh, what shall I do !
But sure, he'll come back — Saints in heaven for-
give me !
Oh yes, he'll come back, he's too honest and
thrne : —
Who's that at the dure ? 'Tis himself! O, me
darlin',
Forgire me, — 'twas wrong for to plague you, I
know :
But I'll marry you now, and o'eijoyed and con-
tinted
I'll bo 08 your spouse throng^ llib's journey to

BE KIND TO THY SERVANT.

BY HISS A. O. BRIOOS.

Be kind to thy servant,— permit her to shait
lu thy home aud thy friendship a part.

'Twill lighten her burden of labor and care
To feel she's a place in thy heart

For lonely and sad is the pathway, at beat^

The daughters of Poverty tread —
Condemned by misfortune to toil without retl,

For a pittance of clothing and bread.

Her hands may be hard and her features nn-
couth,
Her manners uncultured may he ;
But her heart may contain precious gems in the
rough
To be fashioned and polished by thee.

Be not of the number delighting to roam,

In public their alms to bestow,
While the poor, lonely servant that's toiling at
home,

Is a stranger to kindness below.

But, true to thy ntlraion of womanly love.

Let all that benevolence share,
The servant at home and the stranger abroad,

As far as thy bounty can spare.

Scatter blessings around tbrs with liberal
band ; —

The seeds of thy sowing shall bloom
Into unfading flowers in the morning lit land,

Beyond the dark night of the tomb.

MUSIC.

LONGING. (Instrumental.)

READINGS.

CARL DUNDER.

HE IS RAPIDLY LEARNING THE WAYS OF TW
COUNTRY.

•• Vell, sergeant," saluted Mr. Dunder in a
lively way as he entered the Centra! station
yesterday to pay his respects to Sergt. BendaL

«'0h, it's you?"

SERVANT.

THh COMPLETE PROGRAM,

I like to haf lome ulk

her featnm trn*

bi9 with liberal

" Ves, she vhas me.

mil you."
"Anything wrong?"

•• No, sir. Everythings vhas all o. j., ash der
Yankee says."

" O. k. you mean. Been away ? "

"I vhas in Cleveland. Yes. sir, I go down
to Cleveland und come back alone."

"And didn't get swindled? Well, I de-
clare ! "

" Sergeant, vhas I green as grass ? Vhas I
some idiots? Vhas I crazy? Vhas I der
greenest Dutchmans in all Amerika ? "
"I've sometimes thought so, Mr. Dunder."
" Vhell. maype I vhas green sometime ago.
but dot vhas all gone. I haf to learn der
country und der peoples, you know I Maype
I vhas not some razors, but I know how to take |
care of myself shust like a Yankee— ha J ha'
ha!"

"You feel pretty jolly."
"Vhell, dot's so! Maype I vhas sharper
ash a Yankee. Hey?"
"Tell me all about it."
"Vhell. pefore I goes avhay eaferpody tells
me to look oudt for some confidence man. I
keep dot in mind. Vhen I vhas in Toledo a
man comes by me und says : • She vhas a I
werry hot day ! ' I shpot him for a confidence
man so queek ash dot, und I tells him : • If
you doan' fly avhay I'll knock you oafer to last
week I • He goes. He finds oudt dot I vhas
no haystack."
"That was good."

"Vhen I goes by der train from Toledo a
shentleman takes a seat beside me. He vhas
an awful nice man. but he haf some bad luck
Somepody robs him of $300 in a sleeping car.
Dot makes him dead broke, und maype he
doan' get oudt of Cleveland. Vhell. dot vhas
too badt. und pooty soon he says he shall pawn
lus diamond pin."
" The one you have on ? "
'• Dot vhas her. He buys her in California
for J600. but if s..^r -pody lend him I30 he can
hold It two wee ... If he doan* come mit der
money dot pin vhas mine."
" I see. It's very old."

If I hold I600 he vhlll come und pay me #30.
It vhas singular dot he trust me so. but he says
he can read my face like some books."

"So can I. Did you tell him you lived in
Detroit?"

w"Ir'~'"*yP* ^ "''* Toledo." stammered
Mr. Dunder.

"I presume so. You wanted that pin for

" Vhell, if he doan' come, of course. Pootr
soon he goes oudt to speak mit der engineer
aboudt running so fast, und some ouder man
comes in. He vhas a shentlemans, too. He
knows me right away. He says: • Vhell I
vhell ! but how vhas you. Mr. Dunder. und did
you see my fadder lately?' His fadder vhas
Mr. Hurdlebacker, who owns der First Na.
tional bank."
"Oh! he does! Goon."
" Vhell. his fadder sends him |2.ooo by ex-
press, but he doan' get her. He owes a party
on der train I40. und if I like to take a check
for Jso and lend him ^40 he was so mooch
obliged dot he can't keep still."
"And you did?"

" Doan' I like to make ten dollar? Do "ou
pelief dot nopody but a Yankee likes money ?
1 1 makes ten dollar by dot check und more ash
S500 on dot diamond. Greenhorns, eh ? Hay-
seed, eh ? Maype I can come in vhen she rains
—ha ! ha ! ha ! "

It took the sergeant a quarter of an hour to
convince Mr. Dunder that he had " let go "
again, and, when he fully realized it, he said:

" Sergeant, gaze by my eye ! You vhas '
right. I vhas so green dot sa— ;-,:■' shteals
off my eye winkers. I doan' k; ,' «; , inuch as

cabbages. In der morning "

"What?"

" Please see dot der papers say dot I vhai
an eminent citizen, a great patriot und a frienrf
of humanity, und dot I died happy. Farewell
sergeant ! I go hence ! ' '—Detroit Free Press. '

MY NEIGHBOR AND I.

"Old? Vhae Hr^f r1U^«_J _1J» T» ?

w) deeference how old he vhas."
"Well?"
• Htti. -tat se.ares me, uad I vhas all right.

I AM mad at the man on the southwest cor-
ner of the block, and he is mad at me, and its
ail on account of nothing at all. We bought
a mantel and grate just alike and costing the
Scime price. We had things just of the same
pattern, laid down by the same man. For five

yfi^k

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

E''ll

years we were like brothers. If T \^r\ a sjck
horse, I consulted him. We v .. ,i r* ,:■>.
■ house to play old sledge, ind his /an.i'y ciune
over to my house to play croqucu I'd have
turned out of bed at miiin'ght of the darkest
night you ever saw and walked twenty miles
. through mud thirty feet deep, to bring a doctor
in case of sickness, and I'm ceruin he'd, have
done fully as much for me.

In an unfortunate hour my brother-in-law
from Chicago paid me a visit. He said the
mantle was very handsome and the grate a
perfect beaui , and added :

" But you v it a brass fender?"
"No!"

" Certainly you do. It will be an immense
improvem»nt."

A day or tw o after he returned home he sent
me a brass fender from Chicago. He not only
sent it as a present, but paid the express
charges. Some one told the man on the south-
west corner that I had a brass fender.
" It can't be ! "
" But he has."
"I'll never believe it!"
"But I've seen it!"

" Then he is a scoundrel of the deepest dye I
Some folks would mortgage their souls for the
sake of showing off a little ! "

When this remark was brought to ^e I
turned red, clear back to the collar-button. I
called the southwest corner m-" a bar and a
horse thief. I said that his ^ ndfath^. was
hung for murder, and that his oldest brother
was in state prison. I advised him to sell out
and go to the Cannibal ' lands, -.» offered
to buy his house and turn it into ?. soap fac-
tory.

The usual results followed. He killed my cat
and I shot his dog. He complained of my
alley, and I made him put down a new side
walk.

He calle.) my 1 rse an old plug, and I lied
about his cow and prevented a sale. He got
my ci\.irch pew away by paying a higher price,
and I destroyed his crer^it at the grocery. He
is now maneuvering to have the city compel me
to move my barn back nine feet, and I have all
the arrangements made to buy the house next
Xn ..sm ?;nu rent •• to sn u-dcrtakcr as a coffin
ware-room.— iW: Quad in Trade's Travellet>s
Magcaisie.

AN AFFECTING SCENE.

Vtom John B. Oouffh't new book, " puujorm Mkthoti."

These children are very impressible. A
friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity,
reached the upper room of a tenement house.
It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed
ti-'in-tj. A 1 -.le in the ceiling. Thinking that
perhaps some poor creature had crept up there,
he climbed the ladder, drew himself through
the hole, and found himself under the rafters.
There was no light but that which came through
a bull's eye in the place of a tile. Soon he saw
a heap of chips and shavings, and on them lay
a boy about ten years old.

" Boy, what are you doing here ? "
' Hush, don't tell anybody, please, sir."

" What are you doing here ? "

"Hush, please don't tell anybody, sir; I'm
a-hiding."

• What are you hiding for? "
" Don't tell anybody, please, at."
•' Where's your mother? "
" Please, sir, mother's dead."
" Where's your father? "
" Hush, don't tell him. But look here."

He turned himself on his face, and through the
rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw that
the boy's flesh was terribly bruised, and his
skin vas broken.

• Vhy, my by, who b«at you like that? "
X ather did, sir."

" What did he beat you for? "

" Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos I

woulr n't steal."
" i_ id you ever steal? "
"Yes, sir; i was a street-ihief once."
" A i,v .vny won't you steal anv more ? "
" Pler-^e. sir, I went to the in ssion school,
d t' told me there *" God and of heaven
id Jesus, and they taught me, 'Thou
lalt no steal,' and I'll rs'-ver steal again, if

my father kills me for it. ' please don't tell

him."
" My boy, you mustn't stay here. You'll die.

Now you wait patiently here for a little time.

I'm going ayay to see a lady. We will get a

better place for you than this."
"Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would you

like to hear me sing my little hymn?"
Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, mother^

taVortn Schoet."

;at me 'cos I

ku, hiding from an infuriated father, he had a

little hymn to sing.
'• Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn "
He raised himself on his elbow and then

•ang;

"Gentle Jesug, me^k and mild.
Look upon a little child,
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer lue to come to thee.

" Fain would I to thee be brought
Gmcions Lord, forl)id it not :
In the kingdom of thy grace.
Give a little child a place."

" That's the little hymn. sir. Good-bye "
The gentleman hurried away fo storatives
and help came back again in less than two
hours, and climbed the ladder. There were
the chips, there were the shavings, and there
was the little motherless boy with o.,e hand by
Ills side and the other tucked in his bosom-
a.a^. Oh, I thank God that he who said.
"Suffer little children to come unto me" did
not say "respectable children," or "wel'l-edu
cated children." No, he sends his angels into
the homes of poverty and sin and crime, where
vou do not like to go, and brings out his re-
amed ones, and they are as stars in the
wov n o rejoicing to those who have been in-
strume" in •ni;«k* — !.._^l . ■ .

r//E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Do they set me a chair near the Uble

When evening'* home pleaanre. sre'nigh?
Wheu the cuiidlea are lit in the pa. lor,
And the stars in the calm Mure aky'l
And when the " good-nights » are repeated,

And all lay them down to their ,leep.
Do they think of l.e absent and waft me
A whispered "good-night" while they weepT
IV.

Do they miss me at home? Do they ml,s m^

At morning, at noon, or at night?
And lingers one gloomy shade round them

That only my presence can light ? '

Are joy« Ibms invitingly welcome,

And pleasures less hale than before,
Because one is missed from the circle,

Because I am with them no more?

in enlightening their darkness.

MUSIC

•• DO THEY MISS ME AT H.^ME?"

Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me ?

1 would t)e an assurance most dear
To know at this moment some loved one

Were saying " I wish he were here "
To feel that the group at (he fireside'

Were thinkinsf of me a« I roam-
Oh yes 'twould be joy beyond me«n«

To know that th^y missed me at home.
II.
»VThen the twilighi approaches, the «««on

That ever is sacred to song
Daes someone repeat my nam- ovci

And sigh (hat I tariy so long; '
And is there a chord in the miisie

i-uai's missed wuen my voice is away,
And a Choi i in each heart that awaketh

««gret at my wearisome stay ?

COLLOQUY.

A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.

BY MRS. G. S. HALL.
FOR A GENTLEMAN AND LADY.

A LOUD knocking is heard at the door. Deaf
old lady with her knutmg. glances at the clock.

Wrf Lady. Peers to me that clock ticks
louder n common to-night. [A Tramp opens tk,
door and walks in.)

Tramp. Go- evening, kind lady.

Old Lady. how-de.<' Whafs wantin* ?

Tramp. Please maa.u can you give me
some bread ? ^ 6 »"c

Old Lady. Dead? Who's dead?

Tramp. (To himself.) A little hard of hcarinr
I reckon! .Aloud.) Can you giv • me apiece
of bread, please ?

Old Lady. Leteesa Pen se ? Tom Peases oldest
darter ! That's sorrowful news, to be sure, and
they tobk pains to send word tu me though I
wan'f auch acquainted with 'em ! When did
she die ? What was the matter on her?

Tramp. ( To himself.) I've put my foot in it

nou/ I I'll K«* -Kis' -» ^ ■ 5 ^

■ ■■ '"^ = "' "=31 as an adder. iSpeaki

up louder. ) I asked for amething to eat.

Old Lady. Her feet? Earsipi us? Thai's tu
bad! Didn't take it in time, Ispose. Wondef

■^^■'.M

sna

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

if they tried cramb«rries?_they're powerful
good fur infermation I

Tramp. You don't underetand.
Old L Oil dear ! Iier hands tu ! Poor crea-
ture! Ft made an entire cripple i her— don't
'•pose she could help herself one atom. Must a
ben a great care tu her folks.

Tramp. I might as well talk to a grindstone.
I suppose.

0/({ L. Her nose? Cancer? Oh! that's
awful ! They say n sfortens never come single.
Earsiplus and cancer, tu, was enough to break
anybody's constitution. Must a suffered every-
thing ! Her folks can't wish her back, but it
must i)e a terrible blow to 'em (Wy)<>jf ktr gytt.)
Excuse me sir. I alius was so sympathetic I

Tramp. Have you got any cake ?

OM L. She'd shake! Reg' lar ager chills I
I guess anybody'd shake ef they had tu bear
the pain she did. Quinine is good for chills ;
but I don't 'spose there was no help for the poor
child !

Tramp. {Ytlimg.) Old Flint Ears, I would
like some pie — a piect qf—nt:.

Old L. Yis that's true, we've all got tu die,
but don't get so narvus and go inter spasums
about it, 'twon't du no good. We mought as
well be resignated.

Thxmp. Can't you give me some money ?
moHfy'i MONEY?

Old L. Honey ? No, we don't keep no bees.
I don't keer for honey ; besides, bee stings is
awful pizen tu me. I had one sting me on the
nose onse and it made a lump as big asabutnut
and shet both eyes.

Iramp. And ears, too, I reckon ! I'll try
something else. ( Takes a paper from his pocket
ami hands it to her.)

Old L. [In disgust.) I don't want any of
your old, greasy papers. I know what you be
now. You're one of these ere tramps, 'round
beggin' your livin' out'en honest folks— ben
burnt out, shipwrecked, and blowed to pieces in
a powder mill, hain't ye ? Mebbe you're hungry
I -I alius make it a pint to give stragglers suthin
t'eat, 'cause I never could stand by and see a
feller critter a starvin' tu deth afore my face and
eyes and not give tliem liothin' tu squench their
'lunger. (Gives him slice of bread.) There, I
iiuess that'll dii without any honey. And nov.'

I'd like to give you a Icetle piece of advice. I
think you'd better go tu work and am an honest

livin' instid of walkin' intu folkaes houses, tellin'
yarns ; and mebbe there ain't a word of truth in
anything you've said.

Tramp. I'd like to give you a little advice
I think you'd better put a pistol to your ear*
and blow a hole through your head so you can
hear something, and I'd like to furnish one to
doit.

Old L, You need'nt mutter to yourself,
Clear out or I'll set the dog on ye. Here. Tigc
here Tige I (Exit Tramp.) I guess I'll fasten the
back door afore anybody else cums in without
even duin' as much as tu knock. {Exit Old
Lady.)

MUSIC.

BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE WALTZ.

OVERWORK.

BY ELfJl WHEBLIR WILCOX.

Up with the birds in the early moraing—

The dewdrop glows like a preciona gem ;
Beantiful tints in the skies are dawning

But she's never a moment to look at thera.
The men are wanting their breakfast early,

She lunst not linger she must not wait,
For words that are sharp and looks that are surly

Are what men give when the meals are late.

Oh, glorions colors the olonds are taming,

If she would bat look over hills and trees ;
But here are the dishes and here is the churn-
ing—

Those things mast always yield to these.
The world is filled "with the wine of beauty.

If she conid hut panse and drink it in ;
But pleasure, she says, must wait for duty—

Neglected work is committed sin.

The day grows hot and her bands grow weary j

Oh for an hour to cool her head,
Out with the Wrds and winds so cheery !
But she must dinner and Iwke her bread.

The busy meu in the hay field working.
If incy saw her oitting with idio hiiutl

Would think her lazy and call it shiiking
And she never ooald make them anderstand.

JBE WALTZ.

Th»j do not know that tbe heart within har

Haogora for beauty and things ■oblimo,
They only know (hut ihey want their dinner

Plenty of it, and j,i«t on time. '

And after the sweeping and churning and haking

And dinner dJMlies are all pot by,
Bhe aiU mid news, though her head ia aching

Till time for aupper and chorea drawa nigh.

».r boyg at school muat look like others,

She »ay«, m ,he patches their frocks and hose
for the world is quick to censure mothers

For the least n..glect to their children's clothes
H^r huslmiid comes from the field of labor

HeBivesnopraisetohis weary wife *
8he'« dune no more than has her neigiibor-

'Tis the lot of all the country life.

r//E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Bat after the strife and weary tnasle,

When life is done, and she lies at ra«t
The nation's brain and heart and muscle—

Her sons and danghters-shall call her blest
And I think the sweetest, joy of heaven,

Tbe rarest bliss of eternal life,
And the fairest crown of all will be giren

Unto the wayworn farmer's wife.

A MODEL WOMAN.

I KNOW a woman wondroiu Wr—

A model woman she

Who never runs her neighbors down

When she goes out to tea.
She never gossips after church

Of dresses or of hats ;
She never meets the sewing school

And joins them in their spa's.
She never beats a salesman down

Nor asks for pretty plaquck j
She never asks the thousand things

Which do his patience tax.
She never makes a silly speech,

Nor flatters to deceive ;
She utters no sarcastic words,

Nor false, to make believe,—
These sfaitements may seem very >trss«

At ir t they may to some—- '
Bat jus remember this, my friends,
The woman's deaf and dnmb.

SOME OTHER DAY.

BY SUSAN COOLIOOE.

or all the words that grown folks say

The saddest are these : "Some other day »•

So ewily, carelessly, often said

B..t to childish ears they are words of dr«i*

To hops a knell, and to wish a doom,

A frost on eipectaucy's tender bloom;

tor even the buby who scarce can crawl

Know, a promise like that is no promise at ril

And that out of sight and of mind alway ^

Is that mocking mirage, " Some other day."

The years flit by, and wishes fade.

The youth in the ^rave of age is laid

And the child who bent his youthful will

Is a child no more, but is waiting still

For the pleasure deferred, tbe lelVont gam*.

Though it come at last, is never the same; ^

The bubble has dried on the mantling cap

The draught is dull as we drink it np ;

And old hopes laugh at ns as we say : '

" At last it has come, that ' other day.' "

Ah! little hearts which beat and fret,

Against the bounds by patience set.

Yours is but universal fate ;

And the old and the young 'all have to wait

You will learn, like us, to be stout in pain

And not to cry when your hopes prove vain.

And the strength that grows from a thwarted

And that service is done by sUnding still
And to bravely look np to Heaven and say •
" I shall (Ind it nil there 'Some other day ' »

MUSIC.

•ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE
DEEP."

Rocked in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep ;
Secure I rest upon the wave.
For thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call.
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall I
And calm and n^aceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
And calm and peaceful is my sle^p,
Booked in the cradle of the deep.

980

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

And soch the frust that atill is mine.
Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine,
Or tho* the tempests flery breath
Boused me from sleep to wreck and death,
In ocean cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality !

GEOLOGY AND 'TATERS.

" I didn't use to believe nothin' in eddeca-
shun," he said, as he heaved a sigh like the
groan of a sick horse. " My boy Dan'l he
got holt of books an' things and branched out
as a geologist. He got so he could talk of
stratas and formashuns, and belts and dips
and indicashuns, and one day he sez to me,
sez he.

• Dad, there's a coal mine on our land.'
•How d'ye know?' sez I.

• I've prospected and found indicashuns.
That hull hill is chuck full o' coal,' sez he.

'Und that hull 'tater patch is chuck full «*
weeds,* sez I. You see I sold short on geology
and weni long on 'taters, and I missed it. One
day a feller cum along with a squint in his eye
und offered me j8oo fur my land, and away
she went."

"And ?••

" Waal, they've took half r nillyon dollurs
wuth of coal out o' that hill and hain't reached
the middle yet."

"And ?"

" Dan'l said I was a blamed fule for sellin' of
it, and I gess Dan'l waz about right"

"And now? "

" Waal, I'm a-drivin' a mule team for a livin' ;
and all the indicashuns Dan'l kin find is that I
orter be sent to a lunatic asylum."

" And you think Daniel i$ about right there,
don't you ?"'

"Waal, Boss, I guess that's jest about the size
of it. Dan'l's got a good eddecashun and he
orter know."

A DEPOT SCENE.

It is worth a good sum of any man's money
to be on the Virginia City evening train just
before it leaves the depot. You are always cer-
tain to see three or four families leaving the
city for a day or so, and all their friends and
relatives are on hand to say good-by.

In the first place, the family just on the eve
of leaving is surrounded by a group of acquaint-
ances who want to shake hands and help get
the baggage on the cars. Then there is a great
scramble and jostle and kissing as, the engine
blows off steam, and when they find it is a false
alarm, they talk a few minutes and then an-
other kissing carnival begins.

Occasionally an outsider, perhaps a Corn-
stock reporter or a San Francisco drummer,
seeing how promiscuous things are getting to
be, rings in and kisses a pretty girl, and she,
thinking that it must be some old friend whose
face has temporarily escaped her memory takes
it in good part, and smiles on him sw°etly.

After four or five false alarms, the family
gets on board the rear car, and then for ten
minutes there is a crowd jammed in the aisle
like a pack of terriers in a ratpit, and the cere-
nony of saying "Good-by" begins again.
First they kiss the old lady, and then they
shake hands with the old man and kiss him a
few times, but don't overdo it.

Then they all stand around and begin to cry
as they wait for the train to move. When a
brake slips they fall to work to kiss for the last
time, but the train doesn't start and they begin
to talk.
" Now, Flora, don't forget to write."
" Say, Johnney, what did you say your ad-
dress is?"

" Oh, my, I forgot to bring down that little
hood for the baby. I'll send it by express."

•• Land sakes, but you forgot those ginger
snaps forma! "

" Oh. gracious, where in the world are those
keys?"

" Have you got that lunch-basket all right ? "
" With the pickled peaches ? "
"And the preserves ? "
•• And the bottle of milk ? "
"And the hard-boiled eggs ? "
" And the grape jelly ? "
Then the engine bumps the smoking-car up
against the passenger coach and the fun begins.
"O, Auntie, must you go?" and tht-y fa|)
upon aunty with a shower of smacks.

" Now, be sure and write, {smack). Give my
love to Jenny and Cousin Sara," {smack).

"Just let me have one more for luck,"
{smack).
"Oh, I forgot to kiss the baby ; here,

orld are those

quick. {train jollsand she misses the smack)

Ihen the women folks make a rush for the

door, and half a dozer men rush in to pay

their parting compliments and drop off the rear

of the train, all except the last, who makes a

sudden sprmg for the platform, decides that it

is not safe to jump, and saunters back to ride

beside the pretty girl of the family as far as

Gold Hill, while the others climb slowly up i

Union street, and arc heard to say : j

" Well, we're rid of that crowd at last." and '

.he old dame in the lead says: '• Thank God ;

for that! I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

BRACE UP.-

"Brace up!" VVe like that slang phrase

We like .t because there is lots of s^ou'l in it

You never knew a mean, stingy, snivel-souled

man to walk up to an afflicted neighbor, slap

.m on the shoulder and tell him tJbrace up'

sa big-hearted. open-handed, whole-souled

fellow .hat comes along when you are cast down

and squares off in front of you and tells yo^:

■ That won t do, old fellow, brace up • "It is

he that tells you a good story and makes vou

gh in spue of yourself. He lifts the curt'ain

tha darkens your soul and lets in the cheering

sunlight It is he that reminds you there nevX

was a brilliant sunset without clouds. He may

not tell you so in just such words, but he"^ll

r:1reir^^""''"'-^--^-''-^nin"g

aa"7urwh':'" ""^""^'^ '" """^^ ^P^^"'«tion.
and just when you expected to gather in your
^ den g„„3, stocks fell a„d you found you"
^ H ^'^"'^•■"P'-' »«"•' get discouraged, take

oner lash act prompted by force of adverse
circumstances; brace up! You h^L J a
wisdcn from experience, str gth f o^';:
struggle, brace up and go ahead f
There is no tonic like this to restore the dor

TZ "T^'"\' "'' '^°""» «^ g>""-^'i« equal to
for trengther.ing nerve and muscle;-don't
J the sjstem with patent nostrum . don"

.tlTn7jrL,:!r^-^-.^e"^.^-eup;

will ur,.'pv" "''^''•=^^''"&t«'ind enthusiasm

»ndtoutiZ "" '" ^''" «■■"'" "hicvements
•iiu to ultimate success.

^'StT"' "*'' '''"*' *• *•"• ' •"»'•«»

Upward tile gr«>n boughs reach; the fl^e of
nature, **

Watchful and glad, is lifted to the light
The strength that saves comes never from th«
ground "

But from the mountain-top. that shine around.
May he « step upon thy chosen path ;

Somewhere, ,n willing trust, the future hatk-
Near and more near the ideal stoops to meet
The steadfast coming of unfaltering feci "

Brace up! Brace up!

MUSIC.

SMITH'S GRAND MARCH-INST.

COLLOQUY.

MRS. LESTER'S SOIREE.

ADAPTED BY MISS A. O. KRIGGS.

FOR TEN LADIES AND TEN GENTLEMBN.

Characters.
Ladies :-Mn. Lester, Mrs. Warren. Polly Cat^
hne harren, Mrs. Cranston, Miss Reed, Mn.
Lcvell, Mrs. Gregg, Jerushey, Biddy, Peggy.

WaT"'^''n '^'"'' ^'•- «-«--. aS

Black, Dr. Gray, Mr. Hazleton, Pete, ffoK.
ntbal.

Scene i.

PLANNING FOR THE PARTY

' J!Ca^''""' ^" ^'■^ *' '^^' comfortably
settled in our new house, our furniture is the
richest and most elegant in town, and now.
Henry, is just the time to give a party
/^'-■^ster The weather is too unsettled.
Anna dear, do not think of it.
Mrs. L. But inHi>od t .i,,ii u

so many have entertained us. the past season.

how wiuiook not to return the compliment
They will expect it. you know.

>■ ■]

982

T//E COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Mr. L. I don't know any such thing, Anna.
Mrs. JL Well I do, if you don't. I'm dying,
moreover, to let Mrs. Cranston, the envious
creature, have a peep at our new china set, and
the elegant chandeliers — She'll be sick for a
fai tnight afterwards, I know, but she deserves a
come-down once in a while, the little upstart !

Mr. L. Well, really, Anna, I am disgust-
ed with the whole business. Our friends all
know they are welcome, at any time, without
the fuss and formality of an evening party.

Mn. L. Pshaw ! Henry, don't be such an
eld fogy I People will think us odd and stingy.
One might as well be out of the world as out of
fashion.

Mr. L. Oh for a lodge in some vast wilder,
ness where all the social follies that torment my
life might never haunt me more I

Mrs. L. Your parody is more eloquent than
reasonable, my dear. It is but an act of com-
mon courtesy ; and although you may not par-
ticularly enjoy such fashionable festivities,
you'll give your consent for this once to please
me, I know you will,

Mr. L. I suppose I must say " Yes," to this
as to every other foolish whim of yours. You
are a perfect little household tyrant ; and to
keep peace in the family I must do your bidding
—so go ahead, Mrs. Caudle.

Mrs. JL Now Henry, I would be ashamed !
How can you compare me to that old vixen ?
No husband, I am sure, gets fewer curtain
lectures than you do. But we'll let that drop
and proceed to business. Now whom shall we
invite to our party ?

Mr. L. There are the Moreleys, very intelli-
gent and neighborly people

Inrs. /-. The Moreleys ! Why, Henry, how
can you think of such a thing? They are good
neighbors enough, for that matter, but Mr.
Moreley is only a mechanic and barely makes a
living for himself and family.

Mr. L. And what of that ? They are people
of good common sense and sterling integrity.
It is not so much what a person has as what he
is ; and Mr. Moreley is one of Nature's noble-
men.

Mrs. L, You iire too democratic, — it will
never do in the exclusive society in which we
move.
Mr. L. Exclusive fidd'e&ticks!
Mrs, L We must take the world as it It,

Henry, and not as our own peculiar taste might
wish to make it— but let's hurry up and make
out our list. There are Mr. and Mrs. Lovell
from New York, Mr. Hurlingham and daughter
from Boston and the Hazletons from Philadcl-
phia, I think it a good plan to cultivate tlie
acquaintance of people from the larger cities.
They will not fail to return the compliment and
give us a party.

Mr. L. How absurd, Anna! Country villa-
gers have foolish ideas on this subject.

Mrs. L. Well, no matter, we'll invite them
just the same. There are Tom Black and his
sisters, Mr. and Mrs. Cranston, the Reeds— one
and all, Mr. and ]\lrs. Gregg and Dr. Gray and
his two forlorn old girls— they'll be sure to be
on hand punctual to a minute, before the lights
are lit or the servants ready, and they'll wear
their everlasting old silk gowns which seem to
be an heirloom in the family ; but the doctor is
worth a million, at least, so it isn't best to be
fastidious about the eccentricities of such peo-
ple. The Hon. Fernando Singleton, from
Washington, is Gen. Putnam's great grand.
mother's aunt's second cousin, and true nobil-
ity, we must count him.

Mr. L. And Mrs. Woodland and daughters,
of course.

Mrs. L. Of course not. The girls are noth-
ing but schoolmistresses and their mother is a
milliner.

Mr. L. And what has made them such?
Misfortune. Oh, when will the time come that
true merit shall receive its just reward and the
reign of money be less omnipotent?

Mrs. L. Pray don't preach. We can't re-
form society and even if we could, what would
be the sense of introducing into the first circle
people who are too poor to appear in it ? Let them
be where Providence has placed them. I've a

notion, however, to call on the Warrens

they are so enormously rich and the daughter
looks so Frenchified.

Mr. L. Ha! ha! The Warrens! They'll
bear cultivating, that's certain. The old man
is a regular old Deacon Homespun, the old
woman a second Mrs. Partington, " Koshie" is
as green as an unfledged ;Toslii^, and " Polly
Carline," though a little more civiHzed, is far
froru ucii'ig btiiliaiU.

Mn. L, But they are so very wealthy

Mr. L Cartainly, my dear, fortune docs

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I and daughters,

seem to favor some queer specimens. •• Daddy
Jtruck ile " on his old stoney farm in Pennsyl-
vania where he could raise nothing but catnip
and Caiiada thistles. In less than no time it
was gobbled up by speculators and he found
himself a millionaire. He came to our village,
built a large house and furnished it regardless
of taste or expense, and so the rural rustics are
admitted mto our exclusive circle.

Mrs. L. So much the better. They'll do to
laugh at. Tom Black and the girls will half
kill themselves, I know.

Mr. L. A very laudable reason for invitine
them ! *

Mrs. L. When we are with the Romans we
must do as the Romans do.

Mr. L. There is decidedly too much of this
too little individuality of character !

Mrs. L. Why, Henry, you are in great dan-
ger of becoming a crank. I believe you
delight in being odd just to torment me.

Mr. L. Since the weight of tlie money bags
seems the surest passport to popular favor,
wouldn't It be a good plan to consult the asses-
sors' roll before completing our list of invita-
tions?

Mn. L. You are so sarcastic! Just as
though you don't know as well as I do who
belong to our set and who do not. I've some
calls to make and must leave you to prepare
the invitations-but what shall we call our
parly? We must give it a French name, of
course-ah ! I have it now_a Soiree ; accent
over the first e. Yes. and put an R. S. V. P
in the lower left hand corner-that is so stylish i
Au revoir. {Leaves the room. )

Mr. L. That's the French. I take it, for
"good-bye." I wish she would be contented
to talk plain English.

968

Scene 1 1. The IVamns Receive the Invitation.

Mr. Warren. {Reading a newspaper, his
daughter enters with a cant.) What's that
you've got. Polly Carline? A bid to a geth-

eiin' ? *"

J'olfyC ..,;^ bid to a gathering!" Why,
Pa. it's an invitation to Mrs. Lester'f soiree.'
How very attentive ! It was f^rly yesterday she
called on us for the first time !

Mr. W. The visit was bad enough, dear
knows, and I'll not answer for the conse-
quences of the invite. The old woman. J'Ji

warrant, will run stark, starin'. crazy, mad now.
Mammy was alius an excellent critter for sar-
vice but dreadful easy upsot in the intellect,
howsomever. But 1 shan't go to any of your
sore-eyes or what you call urn. My foot's too
bad tor one thing, and I don't wanter go for
another; so I shall stay to hum. Wal. I must
go out and see what Koshie is up to. Uear-a-
me ! how I do hate to be laid up so lo«g with
this ere lame foot ! {Leaves. )
[Enter Mrs. Wa>ren with her mending basket )
Polly C. O, Ma, we have just received invi-
tations to Mrs. Lester's soiree !

Mrs. Warren. La me ! Polly Cariine, du tell !
Whatm the name of -ommon sense is that?
I never hurd of sich a thing afore.

Polly C. An evening party. Ma. The French
name, soiree, is all the style in New York, and
Mrs. Lester is very stylish, you know.

Mrs. W. Good thing you studied French
Polly Carline. I'll be blamed if I should have
guessed the meanin' on't ef you hadn't a told
me.

Roily C. O, Ma. Polly Carline is so old
fashioned! Please call me Mary Carieen
We are some of the "upper ten" now. and
must drop off our old fashioned ways. It won't
be convenient for you and Koshie to attend
will it Ma? Pa says he isn't going.

Mrs. W. I don't keer ef he don't! He
never wants to go nowheres. Du you think
I'd be so cruel as to stay away and disappint
Miss Lester ? I shall go ef I've got a leg to eg
on. "

Pj/(y C. But we'll ride, of course.
Mrs. W. What ! jest around the corner?
Polly C. Certainly. It is very vulgar to
walk, and they never do it in the city.

Mrs. W. Oh dear! I'm sorry, for it's sich
orful hard work to squeeze into thatkivered car-
rege,— Daddy sez he'll git an ominus for me
when he goes down to York again.

Polly C. An omnibus, Ma,-and oh. for
pity sake, do not say "Daddy;" it is very
bad taste and vulgar =n the extreme.

Koshie. {Enter whistling.) B;, jingo. Marm,
I'n goin' to ask Dad to let iv,e take old Pacer
and drive out to Tamarack Swamp this after-

■•■' ' ••-"" •- "=^«2 :: i gum t^..^t s wuiii chawin'

in a dog's age. Say. Polly Cariine. don't you
want to go along with^me ?
Polly C\ I've no time to go for gum, Koshie,

264

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

I've an invitation to Mrs. Lester's soiree and
sliall liave all I can do to get ready.

KoshL To go to a wliat, Polly Carline?

Polly C. A party, you goosey.

Koshie. Wal, why didn't you say so in the
lust place, then, instid of jabberin' hog latin
that nobody can't understand ? Did I have an
invite, too?

Polly C. Yes, our whole family are invited ;
but Pa isn't going and I wouldn't go if I were
you. It is to be a very swell affair, and you
haven't been out into society much yet, you
know.

Mn. IV. Now. Polly Carline, I'd jest be
ashamed of myself ! You want Koshie to stay
in the cliimbley corner the whole durin time.
How is he ever goin' out inter sarsiety, as you
call it, ef lie don't make abiginnin' some time?

Koshie. Polly thinks me a youngster, I
'sposc, jest fit to tend garding, milk old Brin-
dle, do chores 'round the house or run of
-Wait till you see the mustache I^m

haven't a microscope, Koshie,
you are so bashful you won't
Wait till you've been away to

arrent!
raisin'.

Polly C. I
and besides,
enjoy yourself.

school a term or two and get the rough edges
worn off a little.

Koshie. Ha! ha! ha! Polly Carline, that
beats the Dutch ! I'm goin', so now, and you
can't help yourself. I've jest as good a right
tiiere as you have. They'll have ice cream,
plum cake and all the fixins' ; and I'm bound
to have my share.

Mrs. IV. So you shall, Koshie, and that set-
tles it.

Koshie. I'm goin' to rig up to kill— 'nuff
sprucer than that little spider-legged chap that
waits on you, Polly. See ef I don't cut a dash !
{Goes out whistling. )

Polly C. That'.s just the trouble. Ma, he' 11 be
sure to do some outlandish thing.

Mrs. IV. Land sakes, child, no he won't
n»iither. He's too bashful to say much, and it
will do him all sorts o' good to git out and see
iuthin" of the world. Bless my surs! he's goin'
on nineteen '.

Zhlly C. Bort what are you going to wear to
the party— I would advise a rich black velvet
— iaige bodies look so digniiied in velvet.

Mrs. !V. Wal. I'd like disputly to have one,
but I'm afard there ain't none good enough in

town, howsomever, let's go to the store* and
see.

Scene III:— ^/ Mr. Cranston's. Mr. Crans-
ton reading a paper, Mrs. Cranstoncrocheting.
Door bell rings. Enter colored boy with a
baskef on his arm, presents Mrs. Cranston a
note and sets down the basket.

Black Pete. Heah's a note. Missus, from
Missus Lester. I'se gwine below heah on an
errant— will call when I comes back. {Leaves
stage.)

Mrs. Cranston. {Opens the note and reads.)
Ha! hal just as I expected, Charlie! "Irs.
Lester wants to borrow my new glass bowls.
No common glassware will do for her swell
party, and so she specifies: "Your new cut
glass bowls, please,"— There's assurance for
you ! I wonder if she supposes I bought those
elegant bowls to lend on all occasions. I shall
do no such thing — so there !

Mr. Cranston. Why, Nellie, don't be so
unladylike as to refuse a neighbor, and espe-
cially when we are so highly honored as to be
included among her guests.

Mrs. C. Honored ! I don't consider it very
much of a condescension on her part. I guess
we are as good as they are, any day, and much
better off in the world, if the truth were known,
if we don't put on quite so many airs.

Mr. C. Mrs. Lester is somewh.t airy, it is
true, but we shouldn't notice sucl little faults.
It is her nature — she can't help it.

Mrs. C. Well, she can have the old ones.
Borrowers should not be choosers.

Mr. C. Your old ones are quite out of style,
or at least, so you said when you ordered the
new — We men don't keep much track of such
things — I presume Mrs. Lester would be indig-
nant, were you to send them.

Mrs. C. She might have spared a little from
her other extravagancies and bought a set of
cut glass, with extra bowls for extra occasions,!
instead of depending on her neighbors. So
stylish and aristocratic with her nurse, her first
girl and second girl and colored waiters!— I
don't believe Mr. Lester can afford such extrav-
agance.

Mr. C. It isn't Mr. Lester's idea, Nellie.
Mrs. Lester is a very proud and selfwilled
woman, and he is the most indulgent of hus-
bands. I esteem him very highly. If he hai

:o the store» and

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

been so unfortunate as to choose unwisely in
the rnatnmon.al mart, that does not justify us
b"owll"""^ '° ""^ neighborly-I should lend the

Mrs C. Well I suppose I must, then for 7ZZ' '"'^^""T'' °' ''*" ^''^^ *'" f«"'o<'
Ir. Lester's sake and to keep p.:ceTn' ZC^t^^^
ne,ghborhood. but 1 don't at all fancy lend ne I In^o her f "' '^ °^" '"" '^^ «"^ A"'*

thmgs to that haughty woman to mak'e a sho5 least "Z'/'^^^^^^^ '^ ""''' "'"'^ "'

upon. (Brims tht h<r,.,u „^j ^..^. ., '^''"- KThey Uave the room.)

988

airing too ? So I shook her up and put her on
the roof with the pillows. Mam.

witfm/;.'^''"''"" ^ "'"P'"'*' '^'°»' Come
«.th me. this mmute, or the baby will fall off

the roof anrl V.i-«ol. ;.„ 1 ..

" ' —■ '" iiioiic a snow

upon ^Bnngs the bow/s andfacks them in the

t I " •' '' ''^' ''^••''y """'t break then
before he gets home it will be a wonder •

Mr. C. I wouldn't borrow much trouble

Biddy. {Enters and throws herself intoa chair
/^-«.) Oh. dear! Oh. dear! I'm out me
breath mt.rely I Bad luck to the ice c.ean,
Me arrums bees most worked out of jint -

1 , »^"iiuw mucn troub e m^ nrt-.i.*,^ u «-icciiii:

about them, my dear; Mr. Lester will probablvTh. i" "'°'' ^°'''*^^ °"t of jint!

stand between us and all damages ' L^' ""^'^ ^'"'^■" "'^^^ pay for the throuble,

Mn.C. Undoubtedly ; but these bowls came Mrs L iP, , ,. •
from New York and it would be impossible to >?/X ; \ ^f T '"^^'"^ " ^'"'^ ""' ^«'V
find any more like them. They cou^not be I itf'"^ Such a fright ! In another instant thf

y. Vhettrn-: ;'txeT=,r"'i.^-^^.'i-<!^«''--f.

replaced for twice the money. The pattern is

i:.d tVsoVer'^ -'- -' - -- '
nf/Nr--S'-rhJ-i,t;;

-Don t worry- Here comes the boy. (^^r

Black P. Is dese yeah de articles. Missus?

Mrs. C. Yes. these are the bowls. Be care

ful. don't break them.

Pete.

ble— No feah fo' me !

Mrs C. Take them to Mrs. Lester with my
comphnjents, and tell her I shall be most happy'
to lend her anything she may wish

Mrs. C. Good-day. {Exit Pete.) Oh. dear-
how many httle deceptions one is obi gef o
pract.ce to keep peace in the neighborhood •
SCENE IV. Preparing for the paHy. Mrs.Lester
'^r^angmgavaseofflo^en. Enter Jerushey
the nurse girl, swinging her hat and sin^ng
Jerushey. Baby ha , go.. •., Jiy-lo-Iand.
By-Io- :aud Jy loland,
Baby has ^o- .- w By-lo-land.
To see • • ,- i^hts sogrand..!

-oon ! Where d- J you leave the baby ?

>«.^0'. On top of the veranda, Mam.
J^n. L. On the roof of the veranda : ( V/,th
ireat surprise.) ^ '"

I . „ J , , """^ laiicii on mat root.

I boxed Jerushey's ears-couldn't help it_and
shut her up m the nursery with the baby forthe
aay. That s some satisfaction. Well, Biddv
IS that ice cream frozen yet?

Biddy. Sure and it don't show no signs of
freezing. Mum. its most come into butter

Mrs. L. Did you do as I told you-put the
freezer into a tub and pack ice and salt around

£i'M): Yes'm, 1 put the ice and salt around

rse suah footed. Missus, nebber stum- the s'ldt ^?*'^' ' ^"/ ^^^ '" *"^ ^^" ^™»"d
feah fo' me ! ''""^ ^ ku? , ""''"* ^''"'^'^ '^^ "«« of all that

7w«/i^. Yes'm. You

P'llows and give them a good

told me to shake up

nxjf, and didn't you tell

airing on the
iiic to give the baby an

thr.,KKi 5 • • ""'^ "' an tnat

thrubble ? ,t gits mixed with the crame all the
same. sure. I moight uv chucked it right in to
wunst and done wid it.

Mrs.L. Why, you stupid dunce ! Did you
put the ice and salt into the freezer ?

^i'My. To be shoore I did, and faith, where
else should I put it? What's the use ^v s^!
bn to saizon things, and who iver heerd uv

rol;^hrgf•"'•^^'^^"^°'^'^'^'^"--y°^

Jfrs.L Don't let me hear any of your
sauce. Miss Impudence. I thought you told
me you knew how to make ice cream

'bo^'? ^l^ '" ' ^'^' '"'''• •'"^ 't seems we
both have different ways of doing it.

nnfr ^" , ' ''"""''^ ^°P^ '°- ^^ "^'s i"stant
and turn that stuff out and wash the fieezer
thoroughly. If Pete ever gets back I'll send
him for some more cream. Dear-a-me ! it will
be impossible to have it frozen in tim.i

Pete. (Enfers with the />asiet.) Heahs youah
bow s. M ssus. She sends her '.pecks und says
she s willin to lend you suthin' moah ef yo'

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Mrs. L, Yes, here are the bowls [Looking at
them. ) all safe and sound at last,— but why didn't
you stay all day? It does seem to me you
might step a little quicker when you know we
have so much to do.

/5rV. I had to carry dese yere bowls kinder
stiddy like, you know. Missus, I come jis as
quick as I could 'thoutstumblin' an' fallin' down
wid urn.

Mn. L. Biddy has put ice and salt into the
cream and spoilt that whole freezer full. You'll
have to go to Farmer Hastings for more, and be
quick about it, do. I must go and see where
l^icidy has poured that delicious compound.
(Leaves the room.)

Pete. {Goes and uncovers the cake helping
himself to a big slice) Help yoosef, Mr. Huggins,
thankee suh, guess I will, {Eats some.) GoWy 1 dis
yeuh's good, dat's a fact. Guess I'll lay in fo'
a shah. {Puts several pieces in his pocket.) Hain't
took no reglah meal to-day. Wondah 'f she
'specks me to break my neck running clean' out
inter de country fo' moah cream. Thinks my
legs is run by steam. I reckon— only has to be
wound up in de mawnin' and set a-goin'. I
hain't had no peace sense dis yeah party was
heerdon. Bobbin' 'roun fum mawnin' tonight,
day in an' day out— and to-night I'segot to put
on my bess bib an' tuckah an' wait on de gintry.
Mrs. L. { Enters. ) You here yet ! I thought I
told you to hurry off for the cream.

Pete. Yes, Missus, I'se gwine right away-
only stopped to take bref.

Mrs. L. Well, well, for pity sake, don't stop
any longer— you can take breath as you go
along — I'm in such a hurry !

Pete. All right, missus, I'se off like a toad in
a shouah ! {Leaves the room.)

{Enter Peggy followed by a colored man. )

Peggy. Mrs. Lester, here's a gintleman what
wants to see you. {Colored gent scrapes Ms foot
and makes a low bow. )

Hannibal. How-de-do Missus ?

Mrs. L, How do you do, sir? Are you the
grentleman who is to assist in waiting this eve-
ning ?

Hannibal. Mr. Petuh Muggings tole me to
call in see you 'bout de niattah.

Airs. L. Peter mentioned two waiters one

A Mr. Dunkins, and the other- 1 have really
forgotten the name.

Hannibal. Julius Caesar Hannibal is my
name, missus.

Mrs. L. Ah, yes, now I recollect. You are
from New York, I believe.

Hannibal. Yes, I'se jest from de city.

Mrs. L. Are you an experienced waiter ?

Hannibal. Laws Missus, I'se waited on allde
hypocracy on Fifth Avenue.

Mrs. L. Really ! You must understand your
business then.

Hannibal. Truss me fo' dat !

Mrs. L. Well then, Mr. Hannibal, you may
consider yourself engaged for the evening.

Hannibal. Thankee Missus. You may de-
pend on me for shuali— good-day. {Mrs. Les-
terbows and he leaves the room, )

{Enter Peggy with a cake burnt black.)

Peggy. O, Mistress Lester, jest look o' here !
Your nice uootcake is all burnt oop ! I only
set it in the oven to hate it oop a leetle before I
put on the frostin' and Biddy made oop sich a
hot fire while I was busy in the panthry its all
burnt to a crisp— just look at it noo !

Mrs. L. What shall I do ? You blundering
blockhead ! Why didn't you have your wits
about you and take it out in time ?

Peggy. It's all Biddy's fault to be sure—

Mrs. L. No, it isn't Biddy's fault either.
Biddy hasn't been near the fire. She has been
attending to quite another affair. It wasn't
enough for her to spoil all that cream, sugar
and flavoring extract ; she must follow it up by
another stupid blunder and pour it out at the
back door where it has run the whole length of
the path to the flower garden. I don't believe
I could find another such a pig-headed set if I
should look the world over. Go and throw it
away and call Biddy to help you set the table.
{Goes and lifts up the cover over the cake on the
table.) Why, what has become of all this fancy
cake? {Enter Biddy.) Do you know anything
about it Biddy ?

Biddy. Most loikly it's that thavish naiggar's
done it. He's alius snorpin' inter things. I'd as
soon trust a fox in a hen-roost as him when
there's any cake around where he can git hii
dirty black paws on it.

Mrs. L. We shall have a pretty slim afTair,

I'm thinking ; with the fruit cake burnt to a

cinder, the ice cream half frozen, and the other

cakes nearly eaten up.

Bidcfy. The dirjy black naiKKcrl He's jest

t understand your

loik a tame crow-you can't kape noothin* where
he IS.

Mrs. L. My head aches as though it would
burst, my nerves are completely unstrung, I
must lie down a few minutes and rest. Tell
Peggy to fix the cream when Pete gets back
and let him freeze it. Oh dear! 1 feel more
like having a good cry than anything else
( Leaves the room —Pete enters.)

Pete. {Alone.) Lucky fo' me. ole Hastins was
jest comin down to de creamery wid a whole
lot o* fresh cream. Dis yeah darkey didn't
hab to drag his weary bones clean out to de
fal.m an tote all de crea.n back. Bress my
stalls de coast am cleah !_Dat cake's putty
good, no mistake. Guess Mistuh Huggins 'II
take some moah. {Uncovers the cake-BUdy
enters. ) -^

Biddy. There Mister Peter Huggins, I caught
youtiustmie! Shame on you ! You jist go
down cellar and freeze that ice cream ; and
don t you ate it all oop while you're freezin' it
na.ther. Budge ; I tell you. or I'll call Mis-
tress Lester,

Pete. Ef you do. Miss Biddy McGluggertv

tell huh 'twas yo' eat deshuggahcake-yo'
tell-tale bog trotter yo' !

Biddy. Naigur! Naigur! Yoo coal black
Na.gur! Be off this minute or I'll throw the
shovel at yoo.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

Peter. Yah ! Yah ! Yah !

make ice cream yo' is ! Yah ! Yah ! Bettiih
set up a cookin' school fo' green hawris-Yah '
Yah ! Yah !

Biddy. {Seizes a broom.) Be off. I say. or
( II give yoo a rap that '11 put moore sinse inter
yoor thick skull then yez iver had afore

agony.) What is it Peggy ? For pity sake. wh«

IS It?

Peggy- Oh! Oh! I'm so sorry I I'm sc
sorry I I didn't go to do it. sure. Oh u,e heart's
broke intirely !

Mrs. L. Wliat have you done Peggy ? What
have you done?

Peggy. Indade. Mum. the side table's tipped
over and all the dishes is broke in a hapeon
the flure Bad luck to the nasty big lafe on it !
Mrs.L. How did it happen. Peggy-You are
so heedless ! I nev >r saw such a blunderbuss as
you are ! How did you do it ?

Peg^. I loaded too many dishes on the lafe
of It. Mum. when I took them out of the china
closet Mrs. Cranston's glass bowls was on
the table, too. and they are broke into the
bargain. The plates w«z on the other table
and the cups and saucers I hadn't took out yet
and them's all there is left of the china set.
{Cries.) Oh. ho! ho! I can never forgive
meesel ! Oh ! ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! what can I do !
Mrs. L. Do ! I should think you had done
enough! I have told you. time and again, not
to pile dishes onto that leaf; now you sec what
has happened. Go into the dining-room and
pick up the pieces! This caps the climax!
{hxtt Peggy and Biddy.) Pete, run over to the
office and tell Mr. Lester I want to see him.
{Exit Pete.) Did any one ever have so much

v_ • * -••■^.; i^iu rtiiy one ever have so murh

Peggy's got the crame ready be this time a?d p ^""i- ^''' ^"' "-^X- ' '«'-
yoo go and freeze it or I'll call the mlV. "^^'^^^ yo^J ^'- jf^^' catast.opHe f

yoo go and freeze it or I'll call the mistress.

i-ete. Do yo' take me fo' a lump o' ice > How
can I freeze it? Guess I'll sweeten it wid salt
like yo did. Yah! Yah! Yaht

Biddy^ {Rushes for him.) Be off wid yez. I
say \{A heavy fall and crash of breakables is
^ar^^in an adjoining room.) Oh. my! what's

Pete Guess de house is commin' down fo'
m,,, ~ -•' •'^^■> "■"« « the matter?

... . 6* \^^riKi mio a cftatr

and bunes her face in her handkerchief Enter
My. Lester.)

Mr. Lester. Why. Anna. dear, what's the
matter? Are you sick ? {Goes to her and puts
nts hand on her shoulder. )

Mrs. L. Yes, yes, Henry. I am sick. Has

Mr L. He said some dishes had been
broken. But don't go wild over that. I believe
in making the best of things.

Mrs. L. But we've no dishes to set the table
and there's no time to send for more. What
can we do ?

Mr. Lester. We can simply pass the refresh-
ments If there are enough dishes left for that,
and let it be an informal affair. It might have
been worse. I guess we shall all live throueh
>t. my dear. *

Mrs. L. How coolly you take things, Henry f

ger I He's jest

What was that noise? Dear me ' I'm all nf n I w- i "^^ i""\ ^"""' '"" '""^mrngs, Henry f
tumble. iEnter Pe^ ^nn^:gHer:l'dll\ZlT '' ''' '''"^''"^ '''^^ "^ ''- *»•»••

THE eOAfPlETB PROGRAU:

fc M

Mr. L. Let them laugh, then, who cares ? I
wlih you were a little more independent. Anna.

Afrs. L. Mrs. Cranston's bowls are in the
general smash-up. She'll have a great time
over them. When I had planned for the
grandest party of the season, to be put to the
blush m this manner-it is really too humiliat-
ing ! (Enter Biddy with some cards. )

Biddy. There be ladies in the parlor that
wish to see you.

Mrs. L. Oh horror! Those Philadelphians !
And did you have the impudence to go to the
door in that trim after I have so frequently for-
bid your answering the bell ? I'll dismiss you
to-morrow, you good-for-nothing. Go to your
room, this moment, and put yourself into a
more presentable garb for the occasion. Henry,
you 11 be obliged to entertain the ladi-s while I
dress for the evening.

Scene V. Tht Party. Guests all seated. Koshie
Wamn sits beside Miss Reed.

Mr. Lester. Well, Mr. Singleton, a sojourn
«n our quiet village must seem quite restful after
an excitmg term in Washington.

Mr. Singleton. Delightfully so, sir. I find
It a charming retreat from the cares of office
and the clash and clamor of political factions.

Miss Reed. You haven't lived here long
enough, Mr. Warren, to have formed very many
acquaintances.

Koshie IV. No, I don't know many folks here
yet, but I'm calkerlatin' to go 'round some
afore long.

Miss Reed. You mustn't keep yourself so
much in the background.

Koshie tV. I du spend a good deal of time
in the back grounds, that's a fact, tendin' gard-
ing and sich ; but I've got a good stiddy boss
and a k.vered kerridge-jest big enough for
two— and I'm goin* out a-ridin' every once in a
while-mcbby I shall take a gal along some-
Umes, ef I can find anybody to ride with me.

Miss Reed. Indeed ! It is really delightful to
nde out into the country. I'm sure, Mr. War-
ren, you'll find plenty who will be only too glad
•ogo.

Mrs. IVarren. {Draws her chair across the
stage and seats herself by Mrs. Gregg.) How du
you du, Mrs, Gregg? It's a !on? ivhi!.- ^.-r.==
I've seen you-Where 've you kept yourself all
this time ?

Mrs. Gregg. I've been on a visit to m»
daughter at Jerico on Long Island.

Mrs. Warren. Jerico! Wy. bless me. I

want to know if there raley be sich a place ' I

alius thought it fabblesome when I read it in

I my Bible-but it's live and larn now-a-days

I that's a fact. Ain't this a charmin' Weauty of a

house though !_sich nice furniture and sich

, splendid salamanders '-they give a light that

beats even day itself. Have you seen the

grounds out in the back yard ?

Mrs. Gregg. No, really. I haven't called oi
Mrs. Lester since my return.

Mrs. Warren. My Polly says there's the
beautifulest turpentine walk that ever she seen
distendin' from the pentituch at the back door
clean down to the stable and flowers of every
perscription borderin' along it-the doublest
roses and pinks an sich-and they've had tiie
hill down to the garding degraded into heresie-
—jest for all the world like stairs sodded ove- '
— Ef it warn't so dark I raley should like to take
a retrospective view on it myself. But who's
that comin' over this way ?

Mrs. Gregg. A Mrs. Lovell. I think, from
New York.

Mrs. Ixvell. You will please excuse me
ladies, but I thought, as you are both women
of a family, I would like to enquire of you at
what age babies usually cut teeth. Mine is six
months old and is given to thrusting its hands
into Its mouth and is. at times, quite worrisome
Mrs. Warren. Wal, as tu that, I can't ex-
actly say. Some cuts teeth younger and some
older. Mebby it's teethin' and mebby it's only
wind in the stummick. I should give it a good
dose of perrygorrick and mebby it mought be
best to send for Dr. Pillsberry and hev him
I scarify the gooms.

Mrs. Lovell. Children are a constant source
of anxiety. I am worrying about baby a good
share of my time.

Mrs. Warren. That's so. Miss Lovell, I b'lere
that's your name. Miss Gregg tells me you're
from York.

Mrs. Lovell Yes, we reside there, but we
came here on account of baby's health.

Mrs. Warren. Mebby you know the cemetery
where my Polly Cadine 'tended school— It ain't
a gret ways from Centie Park, I guess, cause
we rode up there in the street cars one day. Of
all the beautifullest places I ever «een that

beats um all holler. Th ^oads is jest as
smooth as a house floor and them n,apo ica
(fardings is as good as a circus anytime
bievc I should raley like to live ther 'mTself

Jfn. Lovci Did your daughter attend
ladam La R„e's French Seminary?

Mrs IV. Y.s I b-leve that's the name.
Tl.ey had everything handy-^idn't have any

v::;:..';or'''"-''"^^°''="p-''^-nona

^^- L. You mean an elevator, Mrs. War-
ran.

Mr. m Peers to me that does sound more I
like t. Te meyrate it saves lot's o' steps Mv '
land! Am-t there a crowd on Broadwa??

Ayl^odyat.nnkmeetin'wasjestIetoutandIl
tie folks was hurryin' home. It must take
r^ keerful drivin' to keep all them team
f om runnm' ag.nst each other.' I don't likeTo
gitintosichajam. aon t like to

epecany when one isn't accustomed to it
uwni please excuse me. Mrs. Warren. Is e
opposite side of the statue. )

A/n. Z^/.r. Will 'you please favor us with
some music. Miss Warren ?
J/m ^«rr.«. I would rather be excused
Mrs. Lester. I have taken lessons only so sho't ^

T' ' "°"^' '""'^'^ P^«^- ^° listen to sol
more experienced player

Mrs IV. Polly, play „y f,^„^^^

'Long, long ago.' You can play that on T;
P-anner I'm sartin. She used'to 'play t o^ the
cord.an and sing it beautiful when we ived
floun m Pennsylvania

miv. Really, M,. I „„s,b, excused ,0.

^^uterentL:-^L r ^"''' ''■^'"' ""^''^ '*'
""wr^;,/'^^ ^wM refreshments).

iJr. Gray. Really, Mrs Lesf-r i ♦!,• ,
you've takpn , J : ^ster. I think

r ^ '^"^e" a departure in tho rj„i,* ->;---,•

«-ms.sniceandsociab.e"he;^;V;S:-
««du for this, doctor. It was my idea to dis-

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

ca^rd all formality in these little social gather-

Mr Singleton. You understand the true nhi

osophy of social enjoyment, sir.-f;^ d 7^"

undue forms and ceremonies. Our panie, ^

Washrngton are often too tedious for a'" hing

Mrs Warren. You look clean beat out MiS

Lester, ain t you well, or be the room's tlL

evelii;',: tf ? ''''•' '"^''' h"dache this

j^.u.rrL HVa^';::rofThr;:

Eonowheres. He's got a had swellin' on one
of lus feet so he can't gu on his boot-that'4 the
reason I 'spose he didn't come to-night

Mrs. Lester. Anything serious ?
s-iffhe'n"?"", ^°''g"««"ot. The doctor
Tn't set in' ''°"" '" '^'^^ '^ multiplication

Df. Gray. Ah. yes. his foot is doing very

tf- 'V"" •'^ ^" "^'^"" ^ -eek or so. '

Mrs. Warren. Beats all how he has picked

up sense you commenced to doctor him The

good whatever. I tell my old man I'd rather 'p oy
you than any alapacca doctor I know on Ef
you can t cure a body 'tain't no use tryin'To

gjewelLandsezee to me, sezee.. You're' Hgi;
Mary Ann. that's the livin' truth.' (AvSl
^J'^- ites throi,gh a tan^na, skin and all
7i:7.!;" ' '"'' ^""^ -'-^'"^ ^f ^^Prenu

Mr^'wartl ^""' '°" '""' ''^ ^— '
^J^^hie Warren. What do you caU um. Mis.

Miss Reed. Bananas.

KoshieW. I never see one of thee ere

I'ke one of them antelope mush millions, picked
afore^itwasripeand kept till it was jest'about

Mss Reed Then you don't like them?

KoshieW. Land o' Goshen. no!_du you?
them." "' ^'"^ P^'^''^"'-^'/ fond of

AW«> W. Wal. then, vou mnv ha-- ....

0.K b,te-and. sakes alive! that's enough for

Miss Reed. Thank you. but the one I hav<,

HHHyil

^^■Hl' 1

' ' 'l

H||i|

i' ' '

Bii

Iji , i

flO

TI/£ COMPLETE PROGRAM.

is as much as I can eat this evening. You I a-talkin" all the evenin' <*ith a real live poet-
don't seem to know many o/ the young ladies iier. ( Waiten rtmove the dhhes.)
•" '°*"- I Atiss Reed. Since your taste so fully coin-

Koshie VV. No.they'resomightyqueer— they jcides with my own. pray tell me who is your
laugh a feller right in the face when you go to favorite over the water ?

spealc to um. I guess most of um am't over
and above bright.

Miss Reed. You must n't judge us all alike.
Koshie IV. No more I don't, Miss keed.
I'm powerful glad 1 met you. I guess I'll
drive 'round some day and you and I'll go out
rjdin'.
M/ss Reed. Oh, that will be so nice!
Mrs. Warren. This is beautiful cake, Miss
Lester. It's raley a feast for an epica. k.
Have you got the reseet ?

Mrs. Lester. My cook has, I'll have her
write it off for you if you like.

Mrs. Warren. Thankee, I'd be much
obleeged !

Mr. Hazleton. Do you return to Madam La
Rue's Seminary, Miss Warren? ^

Polly C. Warren. Yef. T Hke it there very
much and expect to attc.uJ ^un.ther year.

Mrs. Warren. Polly 1, rMi-'t didn't hev much
of a chance to git an eticixalion when we lived
in Hardscrabble. Thv«f v.un't nothin' but a
deestrick school there, and laat didn't run half
the year. So we're bound to give her a good
chance now.

Mr. Singleton. That school in New York is
first class. I have a number of lady friends
who have graduated there.

Miss Reed. I should judge from the color of
Warren, that you were fond of

What, ove- the lake or the mill
Neither, Mr. Warren, but ii

Wal, I du like verses some.
Have you any preferences?
Any what?
Any poems you are particularly

your eyes, Mr
poetry.

Koshie W.

Miss Reed.

Koshie W.

Miss Reed.
fond of ?

Koshie W. There's some purty good ones
sometimes in the Penneyville Post. Them
signed M. E. R. I think is 'bout the best.

Miss Reed. Do you, really, Mr. Warren?

Koshie W. Them on spring and 'bout the
man in the moon is fust rate.

Miss Reed. What should you say, Mr. War-
ren, if I should tell you I wrote them ?

Koshie W. I'll be hanged — you don't say ! Ef
that ain't curus! I guess Polly Carline '11 be
down in the mouth when she finds out I've been

Koshie W.
pond ?

M--1 Reed.
Europe ?

Koshie W. As to that, I can't xactly say, but
there is some purty good ones in the English
Reader, which ef you never read um would
please you muchljj, Ml be bound to say.

Miss Rted. ( Looks at her watch. ) Really ! It
is getting late. I am the only one of our family
liere to-night, and must hurry home or they'll
begin to wowy about me.

Koshie W. You ain't goin' home alone Miss
Reed. It's as dark as a pocket out doors. I'll
go and ask marm to wait here till I see you safe
home.

Miss Reed. I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr.
Warren.

Koshie W. Land o' Massy ! 'tam't lo trouble.
I'd ruther go than not. (Goes end speaks to his
mother. They leave the room, followed by the
other guests. )

Mrs. Cranston. You are not very neighborly,
Mrs. Warren, or you would have returned my
call.

Mrs. Warren. My old man is so babyish
sense he has been so under the weather that he
can't bear me out of his sight ; but if I ever git
as near your pizaro, as Polly calls it, as I did
'tother day I shall call, you may depend on it.
Mrs. Cranston. I shall expect you. Good
night.

Mrs. Warren. Good night. Bless my stars !
I didn't know it was gittin' so late— Where's the
evenin' gone to? Polly has gone a'ready with
that little chap that come with her. and as soon
as Koshie gits back, I must go. too. O, Miss
Lester, who is that young woman that seems to
take sich a shine to my Koshie ?

Mrs. L. Miss Mary Emily Reed. Her
people are quite wealthy and she is very
literary.

Mrs. W. I don't exactly fancy the litter.
I'd ruther my Koshie would marry a good
housekeeper than a gal that makes too much
of a litter. Whoever gits my Koshie will git a
prize. There never was a better boy to his

uble you, Mr.

mother than he fs. But he'i to bashful he
dassent hardly say his s'lul's his own.

A'osAie. (EnUn.) You reddy, Manii?

Atn. IV. What I You back so soon? I
guess you didn't go fur.

A'osAie. No, another feller met her out to the
gate with a Icivered carridge and she went with
him.

Mn. IV. We must bo a goin'. then, good
night Mr. Lester, good nigiit Miss Lester— You
must both come over and make us .^ visit.

Mrs. L. Thank you. Come again. Good
night. {Exit Koshie and his mother. Mr. and
Mrs. Lester alone.)

Mr. L. Well. Anna, the last guest hasgone
and we have lived through the trying ordeal.
Everybod, seemed to be having a good time
even to poor Koshie Warren, whom Ms Reed,
the artful coquette, entertained so pleasantly

Mrs. L. Yes, the affair is over, at last, and
I for one. am heartily glad of it. I have been
completely worn out with work and worry

Mr L. I could foresee what an extra tax it
would be on your strength and nervous energies.
There IS but little satisfaction for all your anxiety
Mrs. L. None at all. It has been a com-
p.ete chapter >f accidents from beginning to
end. Tom Black and Miss Reed made fun of
the half.frozen cream; and Mrs. Cranston cast
some o< her kiio« mg winks to Mrs, Lovell —I
do believe Mrs. Warren, queer and old fash-
ioned as she is. was the truest hearted woman
>n the whole crowd.

Mr. L. There is any amount of insincerity
in general society, my dear. ^

Mn. L. We can never compensate Mrs
Cranston for the loss of her bowYs. J am so
Sony I borrowed anything from such a disagree-
able gossipmg woman I ^

Mr. L Don't worry yourself sick over that,
Anna. I will buy Mrs. Cranston the nice

sa usfied, let her grumble. I can replenish our

c nasetwhilelaminthecityandourhouse-
hola maclunery will run as smoothly as ever.

h=,n7" u ^°" ""^ "'*= '''"''"» and best hus-
band .n the world, Henry, and if I had only

r.:is/°v.^'^rf''.---e<j-y-'faii

THE COMPLETE PROGRAM.

MUSIC.

THE TAR'S FAREWELL.

When forced to bid farewell to Loo,

Pull ttway, my boys, pull .way,
' did noi know what I should do,
Pull away, pull away,
ner weeping on the quay,
H»id Mhe would be true to me,
A , we sailed away to the Southern sea;
Pull away, my boys, pull away, pull away, poB
away, pull away,
For the wiud must blow, and the ship must go.

And loving souls must part ;
But the Hhip will fnck, and the Tar come back
To the first love of hia heart, '

For the wind mu.H blow, and the ship must go.

Aud loving souls must part,
But the ship will tack, and the Tar come back
To the first love of his heart,
To the first love of his heart.
IL
But then if false should prove my fair,

Poll away, my boys, pull away,
I'd born this little lock of hair,

Pull away, pull away,
If she be false and I be free,
I'll sail again to the Southern Sea,
Where theiie are plenty as ^rood as she
Pull away, my boys, pull away, pull away, pull
away, pull away,
For the wind etc

GOOD-BY.

♦k;. .. . . ^ a«ivca myseii ;

this trouble. I am heartilv sick nf „{.,[„„ -.,

«•«• I will henceforth be content to make o"ur

nome hfe happy and entertain those only who

"e true, substantialjnends. {Curtain /alls.)

Thbbk'8 a kind of chilly feeling in the blowiu«

of the breeze,
There's a sense of sadness stealing through the

tresses of the trees ;
And it's not the sad September that's slowly

drawing nigh

But just that I remember I have come to sar
"Good-by!" ""

"Oood-by," the wind is wailing; "Good-by,"

the trees complain
As they bend low down to whisper, with their

green leaves white with rain ;
••(io«d.by,"the rrwies murmur, and the bendiuft.

lilies sigh, **

As if they all were sorry I have come to sar

^'Good-by!" ^'

IMAGE EVALUATION
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>1PPLIED^ IIVMGE . ;. ic

.^ss 1653 East Main Street
j^sr^ Rochester, NY 14609 USA
SSS-^ Phone: 716/482-0300
.=S'.^= Fax: 716/288-5989

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r/r,ff COUPLET j: program.

I reckon all have «ad It, Mine time or other—

■oA
And eM7 Iik»— with ejea cut down, that dared

not look alofl
For the (ears that trembled in them, for the lips

that choked the sigh —
For the heart that eank in sorrow as it beat a sad

"Oood-by."

I didu't think 'twas hard to say, but standing

here alone —
With the pleasant past behind me, and the foture

dim, unknown.
Spread out before ns in the dark — I cai^'t keep

back tlie sigh —
And I'm weeping— Yes, I'm weeping, aa I bid

you all " Oood-by."

When you chance to meet together in .the time as

yet to be
When yon miss the absent faces ! will yon kindly

think of me ?
Let the past come np before yon and with soma-

thing like a sigh,
Just say ; " We've not forgot him since the day

hesaid'Good-by!"*

AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

The coffin was a plain one — a poor miser-
able pine coffin. One flower on the top ; no
lining of white satin for the pale brow ; no
smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The
brown hair was laid decently back, but there
was no primped cap with the tie beneath the
chin. The sufferer of cruel poverty smiled in
her sleep; she had found bread, rest and
health.

" 1 want to see my mother," sobbed a poor
little child, as the undertaker screwed down the
top.

" You cannot ; get out of my way, boy ; why
does not someone Uke the brat ? "

"Only let me see one minute!" cried the
orphan, clutching the side of the charity box,
as he gazed upon the coffin, agonized tears
streaming down the cheeks on which the child-
ish bloom ever lingered. Oh ! it was painful to
hear him cry the words : »' Only once ; let me
•ee my mother, only once ! "

Quickly and brutally the heartless monster
■truck the hov awav en »V>9t do .■^^\^A ...:>v, .i._

blow. For a moment the boy stood panting
with grief and rage— his blue «"••. Jiitended,

his lips sprang apart, fire glistened through hit
eyes as he raised his little arm with a most
unchildish laugh, and screamed: "When Im
a man I'll be revenged for that ! "

There was a coffin and a heap' of earth
between the mother and the poor forsaken
child— a monument much stronger than graii
ite, built in the boy's heart, the memory of tha
heartless deed.

*♦•♦«#
The court house was crowdad to suffocation.
" Does any one appear as this man's coun-
sel?" asked the judge.

There was a silence when he had finished,
until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look
of strange intelligence, blended with haughty
reserve on his handsome features, a young man
stepped forward with a firm tread and a kindly
eye to plead for the friendless one. He was a
stranger, but at the first sentence there was a
silence. The splendor of his genius entranced
— convinced.

The man who could not find a friend was
acquitted.

"May God bless you, sir; I cannot!" he
exclaimed.
" I want no thanks," replied the stranger.
" I— 1— I— believe you are unknown tome."
" Sir, 1 will refresh your memory. Twenty
years ago this day you struck a broken-hearted
little boy away from his mother's coffin. I was
that boy."
The man turned pale.

"Have you rescued me then to take my
life?"

" No ; I have a sweeter revenge. I have
saved the life of a man whose brutal conduct
has rankled in ny breast for the last twenty
years. Go, then, and remember the tears of a
friendless child."

The man bowed his head in shame, and went
from the presence of magnanimity — as grand to
him as it was incomprehensible.

HE WANTED VENGEANCE.

A HUSBAND WHO DIDN't PREVENT AN ELOPE-
MENT.

I HAD been riding in the same seat with a
very plain soft of man for the last twenty miles,
when a couple boarded our car at a juncticn,
and he suddenly uttered a cuss word as long as

mE COMPLETE PROCRAAf.

\ find a friend was
r; I cannot!" he

then to take my

my arm. I mw that he was excited by their
advent, and naturally inquired if he knew
them.

"Know 'em? V.Tiy. that woman is my
wife ! " he hissed.
" And who's the man ? "
" It's a feller she is eloping with I "
"They haven't seen you yet. and they are
wcely caught. How long ago did she leave ? "
" Three days. I'll have a terrible revenge "
•• Are you armed ? "

" No ; Im too dangerous when I'm armed,
and I left my revolver home."

" Then you'll swoop down on the man and
break him in two?"

"I oner. 1 suppose, but when I begin to
swoop 1 don't know where to stop. I might
damage a doien others. My revenge must be
swift and terrible, however."
" How do you propose to do? "
" I dunno. How would you do ? "
" I should go for the man without delay."
" ^". that is the proper way. I suppose, but
If I get w,!d who's to hold me ? I once started
'n to hck a man. broke loose, and finally
cleaned out a whole town meeting. I must take
blood, vengeance, however."

"Perhaps if you would show yourself the
man would slink off. and the wife return to
your bosom," I suggested.

" I dunno. If he would it would be all right
but suppose he tried to bluff me? That would
make a fiend of me in a moment and I should
probably kill everybody in the car. I must
nave blood, however."

" Perhaps you could buy him ofT," I said
meaning it for a stab. '

" Ves. I might, but I guess he'd want .nor'n
1 ve got.

"Well, do you propos. to sit here and let
another man walk off with your wife?"

"No! By the canopy of heaven, no! I
demand h.s heart's blood f Ut me think. He's
purty solid, isn't he?"

"Yes."

" Would probably fight ?"
"I think so."

" Don't look as if he would let go for «ia ? "

" Weil. I must plan for a deep and lasting
wngeance. Let me collect my thoughts."
At that moment the woman turned and saw

him. tind she at once arow and came back to

and she pomted her finger at him and said •

"Thomas Jefferson liailey. you open your
yawp on this kyar and I'll make >«" wish
you d never been born ! At the next stop you
git off, or my feller will make your heels break
your neck! I've gone and left you. and that',
a^l there is to it. and 'taint no use to bother us.
Mmd. now. or you'll hear from me • "

And she went back to her seat, and Thomas
Jefferson rode nine miles without another word,
and as a stop was reached he dropped off as
humbly as you please. He stood beside the
open wmdow until the train moved, and then
whispered to me :

"I got off to collect my thoughts. Look out
for me when 1 turn loose for vengeance ! "

New York Sun.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

JAMES WBITOOMB RIllT.

L1TTI.B orphaat Annie's come to our house to
stay,

An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the
crnmha away,

An- shoo the chickens ofT the porch, an' dust the

hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the brend, an' earn

her board, an' keep ;
An' all us other children, when the supper thinn

18 done, "^

We set around the kitchen fire an' has the moat,
est fun

A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells

abont.
An' the gobble.nDB 'at gita you
Efyou

Doa't

Watch

Out!

Onc't they was a UtUe boy wouldn't say l.ia
pray'ie—

An' when he went to bed at night, away up-
siairs, "

His mammy heerd him holler, and his daddy
hecrd him bawl,

An' when they turn't thekivversdown.he wawi't
there at ull I

THE COMPLETE PROGRAU.

P> )

An' they M*ked him in th« ntUt-toma, an'

cubby- hole im' preas,
An' eeeked him op the ohimbly-0n«^ «n' erer'-

wherea, I guess,
But all thoyever found was thist hispnnto an'

roundabout I
Au' the gobblo'uu II git yon
JETyon

Dont

Watch
Ont!

THE FLY SCREEN AGENT.

An' one tim« » little girl 'nd alios langh an'

grin.
An' make fUn of erer* one, an' all her blood an^

kin.
An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole

folks was there,
Sne mocked 'em and shocked 'em, an' said sho

didn't care!
Au' thist as she kicked her heels, an' tnm'tito

mn an' bide,
Thoy was two great big Black Things a-standin'

by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore

she know'd what she's abonti
An' the gobble-nns 'II git yon
Efyon

Don't

Watch

Ont!

An' little orphant Annie says, when the blase is

blue,
An' the lampwick spotters, an' the wind goes

woo-oo!
An' yon hear the«ricket8 qnit, an' tJie moon is

gn»y,

An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all aqoenched

away,
Ton better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers

fond an' dear,
An' churish them 't loves yon, an' dry the

orptaaut's tear.
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'ut clusters all

abont,
Er the gobble-nns 'II git you
EfyoiJ

Don't

Watch

Oa(>

£,>^(

He had six fly screens under his arm, and
was talking to a man in front of a house jn
Hastings street.

"I am offering these at 50 per cent, below
their cash value," he explained, "because 1
want to get out of town."

" Vhell, it vhas soon coming winter, and I
like to know how some flies come aroundt den ?' '
the man answered.

"That's true enough, my friend, but the fly
question is not the only thing. These screens
iave 25 per cent, in fuel."

"Vhell?"

••They give an air of refineir^ntto ahouse."

"Vhell?"

"I don't say that they keer> out cholera
altogether, but you can't pc >,t to a house in
Detroit provided with them which has liad a
case of cholera."

" Vhelt. dot vash so."

" In buying them you help a poor man to
reach the bedside of his dying wife in Buffalo."

"Yes."

" You add at least |20O to the value of your
place."

•• Yes."

"They are not a burglar alarm, but when a
burglar finds their ^« windows, 112 tuinp
away discouraged."

•• Dot vhas good."

" The air which enter, your house is strained,
as it were, «nd must, therefore, be free of
chips, gravel, sand, dust and other substances
deleterious to health."

" I see."

" And you will take "em? "

" My frendt, vhas dose fly screens like a
watch dog ? If some poys come in dey alley,
dose dey raise a big row und let me know? "

"Why, no ; of course not."

" If I vhas in a row mit my vhife, does dose
fly screens help me oudt?"

"Of course not."

" If I come home in der night und der front
door vhas locked, und I can't get in, does dose
fly screens make it all right ? "

" No, sir— no, sir. How can you expect any
such things from fly screens ? "

" Vhell, I doan' know. I guess you petter
moof along, to der next corner. Eaferypody

;ir«nttoahouse."

the value of your

r vhife, does dose

n you expect any

wyi I vhas sweet tempered und kind, but if a
man come alon^ und impose on me und take
me for some greenl.orns, I let myself oudt und
knock him so far into next Shanuary dot fly
screens doan" keep him warm."

I^f/fVit Free Pna.

THE COMPLETE PROGRAAf.

SOME HOW OR OTHER.

KISS ME GOOD-BYE DEAR.

The Kood wife bustled about thi, bona*,

Her face still bright with a pleasant amile.
As broken SDatches of happy gong
Strengthened her heart and her hands Uia
while;
The good man sat in the chimney nook,

His little clay pipe within his lipa,
And all he'd made and all he had loat {

Ready and clear on his finger tipfc

Good wife, Ive jcBt been thinking . bit:
Noihiue has done very well this year,
Money is bound to be hard to get,
Everthing's sure to be very dear.

That IS a phrase heard in the hallway of
many a home ;.s the man of the house is hurry.
!ng away to e.-.change daily labor for daily
bread m the mart of commerce. Sometimes it

raJu: tcl^ss^^rJordThl^^^^ "^^ /-f 'ng. .nre to be very dea'r.

flower face for the HsH^'is ^. ^ "'' * T" xT "" """* ""* «"'"« '» '^'

of life =„H Vk . ' «ts warm sunshine How we're to keep the bovs at school

cla p his ttels^rf °"/ "'" ""'^ ^ """"''"' *° '" " "^""^ °^ *'«'''' -" er^t 'nl ''
wo?de?;^r^;re1:rh:•r^^^^^^^^^ '^ le.n.make balance by .nymle.«

'^.fe s k,ss d.d ,t. the baby's kiss did it. and he

that makes our happiness, but the influence we
bear with us from the presence of those we love

t for the last time, would you ever ask egain in

those pleading tones forthe kiss so tardilyliven?

Would we not remember that the relation the

flojver bears to the unive..e is as carefully pro-

dcd for as that of the brightest star ; that the

" h TJT 5 ^ °""^ ^'^'' S°" ^-^^ by side
«.th the deed of heroic worth ; that love is the
Oew of hfe : that the parting for a day mav be
the parting for a life tin. ^ ^ ^*

have

" Hor many go forth in the morning
That never come home at night !

And hearts have broken

For kind words spoken
Thit sorrow can ne'er set right."

Make the air vocal with kisses ! Many tears

-e been shed over unkissed kisses-over

^hose "dear as remembered kisses after death "

but ti,e time to kiss is the present. K.s ;o;r

>..ld.en man of business.^efore you leave

home : kiss the mother of your children a„J

-t dear old mother who sits in theXirSj

young, and then go about your
' in your soul
to kisi.

'»y's work with a -thank God
wat you have some one at home

Why, husband, dear, one would really think
That the good rich wheat is only chaff.
And what if wheat is only chaff,

So long as we both are well and strong ?
1 m not a woman to worry a bitr-

Bnt-somehow or other-we get along.
" Into all lives some rain mnst fall,

Over all lands the storm mnst beat.
But when the storm and rain are o'er

The snnshine is sure to be twice as sweet.
Through every strait we have found a road

In every grief we have found a song.
We have had to bear and had to wait,

But. somehow or other, we have got along.
" For thirty years we have loved each other.

Stood by each other whatever befell ;
Six boys have calle,! us ' father ' and ' mother.'

And nil of them living and doing well.
We owe no man a penny, my dear ;

Are both of ns loving well and strong.
Good man. I wish yon woold smoke again
And think how well we have got along."
He filled his pipe with a pleasant laugh

He kissed his wife with a tender pride :
He Mid: " I'll do a. yoa tell me, love;

X il just count up on the other side "
She left him then with bis better thought

&na iin«d her work with a low, sweet aoitt
A song that's followed me many a year^

"Somehow or other, »ve get along ! "
—Jfackaji StMthmt. *

276

ENCORES.

A GUARDIAN ANGEL.

I HE lammer sUm bend lofl and b?ue ,
The air is Aweet with wild brook's
laughter,
And over the orchard's grassy slope
Swift shadows are chasing each other
After.
A yonth and % maiden side by side—

A bashful girl and her rustic lover-
Stand by the turnstile old and brown
That leads to a field of blooming clover.

She, with a milk-pail on her arm,

Turns aside with her young cheeks glowing.
And hears down the lane the slow, dull tread

Of the drove of cows that are homeward going<
" Bessie," he said ; at the sound she turned.

Her blue eyes full of childish wonder {
"My mother is feeble, and lame, and old—

I need a wife at my farmhouse yonder."

* My heart is lonely, my home is drear, '

I need your presence ever near me ;
Will you be my guardian angel, dear,

Queen of my house, to guide and cheer me ?
"It has a pleasant sound," she said,

" A household queen, a guiding spirit,
To waru your heart and cheer your home,

And keep the sunshine ever near it.
Bnt I am only a simple child,

So my mother says in her daily chiding,
And what must a guardian angel do.

When she first begins her work uf guiding?"

"Well, first, dear Beuie, a smiling face

Is dearer fiir than the rarest beauty,
And my mother, fref^ul, lame, and old,

Will require a dau/i^hter's loving duty. ■
Ton will see to her flinncls, and drops, and tea,

And talk with her of her lungs and liver;
Qive her your cheerful service, dear —

'The Lord He loveth a cheerful giver."*

" You'll see that ray breakfast is piping hot.

And mb the clothes to a snowy whiteness ;
Hake golden butter and snowy rolls

And polish things to a shining brightness ;
Will dam my stockings and mend my coats.

And see that tho buttons are sewed on tightly.
Will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet

Th&t ^loree's uli&r Sfes issj still bufa brightly."

* YoQ will read me at evening the daily news,
The fediOQt winter night* bogniUiiii

And never forget that the sweetest (koc
Is a cheerful face, that is always smiling;

In short, you'll arrange in a general way,
For a sort of sublunary heaven ;

For home, dear Bessie, say what yon may.
Is the highest sphere to a woman given.*'

The lark sang out to the bending sky,

The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes,
And out of the tossing clover blooms

Came the sweet, clear song of the
thrushes.
And Bessie, listening, paused awhile,

Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor,
" But John — do you mean— 4hat is to say,

What shall I get for all this labor?"

meaoon

" What will you get ?" John stared, and sighed,

" So young and yet so mercenary;
So artless, yet so worldly wise —

And this is the girl I thought to marry."
But Bessie laughed. " I'm a simple child,

So my mother says, with much vain sighing)
But it seems to me, of all hard tasks,

A guardian angel's is most trying."

"To be nurse, companion, and servant girl}

To make home's altar-fires bum brightly ;
To wash and iron and scrub and cook.

And always be cheerful, neat and sprightly;
To give up liberty, home and friends ;

Nay, even the name of a mother's giving)
To do all this for one's board and clothes ;

Why, the life of an angel isn't worth living I "

" Suppose you choose, John, some other man,

Who shall rule your coming and your going.
Shall choose your home, prescribe your work,

Your pay, and the time of its bestowing ;
Who shall own the very clothes you wear,

And the children, if any the good Lord gives,
For a third of what he may possibly earn.

When he dies, and nothing at all if he lives?"

"Just think of it, John I" But John looked down

And groaned with a sigh of deep re«n«t,
" To seem so simple, and be so deep—

Qreat heaven I To marry for what she can
get
The clover may blossom and rinen and fade

And golden summers may wax and wane;i
But I'll trust no more to an artless smile,

And I'll nevBT ^mfftwe to girl ag^"

lad B«ute gaily went her way

Down through the fields of .ccnted dom,
But never again, since that summer day,

Has she won a glance from her rustic loTer.
The lark sings out to the bending sky,

The clouds sail on as white as ever';
The clovers toss in the summer winds,

But Bessie has lost that chance foreverl

MORAL.

Tonng man be advised when you've chosen your

bride.
Don't be too explicit until the knot's tied.

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

BT OOLDSMITB

EN^CORES.

jECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life j
A fellowship at twenty-five,
Made him the happiest man alive;

i \ f^^ ^"'^^ *"'■ *^*'"'' "•"' **<^^''* Wi joke
And freshmen wondered as he spoke-

And, jusi as humoar roee or Ml,

By turns a slattern or a belle ;

'Tis true she dress'd with modem gnoti

Half naked at a ball or race ;

But when at home, at board or bed, .

Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her htftd.

Could 80 much beauty condescend

To be a dull domestic friend T

Could any curtain-lectures bring

To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 'twas fits or frettinf j

oj day, 'twas gadding or coquef-ting.

Pond to be seen, she kept a bevy

Of powder 'd coxcombs at her levy;

The 'squire and captain took their statioML

And twenty other near relations ;

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke

A sigh in suflTocating smoke ;

While all their hours were pass'd betuvM

Insulting repartee or spleen.

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair ?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain arriv'd at thirty-six r
Or had the archer ne'er come «iowi»
To ravage in a country town I
Or Flavia been content to atop
At triumphs in a Pleet-etr<!et. shop.
had her eyes forgot to blaze I
Or Jack had wanted njn to gaze j
1— But let exclamation cease,

Her presence banioh'd all his peace.
So with decorum all things carry'd •
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was-married.

The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss ;
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss :
Bat, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found hU goddess made of clay ;
Found half the charms that deck'd her fiice
Arose from powder, shr«ds, or lace:
----..i tire TTorsi remama behind.
That very face had robb'd her mind.

SkiU'd in no other arta was she,
But dresnng, patehing, repartee i
17 '

Thus as her faults each day were kuowa,
He thinks her features coarser grown j
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her note :
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her «jm|
He knows not how, but so it is.
Her face is grown a knowing phyi ;
And, though her fops are wondrou dtflL
He thinks her ngly as the devil

Now, to perplex the rsTellM nooe^
As each a diSTerent way pursues.
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless powtr
Withers the beauty's transient flower,
Lol the small-pox, whose horrid gUra
Levell'd its terrors at the fitir j
And, rifling every youthful grace
Left but the remnant of » face.

The glass, grown hateful to her aigkti
Reflected now s perfect fright :
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her ayes.
In vain she tries her paste and enanu,
To smooth her skin, or hide ittt seama j
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens :
The 'squire himself waa seen to yieU,
And •v'n the captain quit (ha fiaU.

■.''■■\

Sff* I-

278

Poor madam now eondemiMd to haek
The rest of life with anxioui Jack,
Perceiving othen fairly flown.
Attempted plmuing him alone.
Jack loon was daizled to behold
Her present face lurpan the old |
With modest/ her eheeka ar« if 4,
Humiltjr displaces pride ;
For tawdrj finery, is seen
A person ever neatlj elean |
No more presuming on her swmj',
She leans good nature ererj daj {
Serenely gay, and strict in duty.
Jack Ends bis wife a perfect iMantf.

ENCORES.

IMMORTALITY.

lUBSILLOir.

|F we wholly perish with the body, what an
» imposture ia this whole system of laws,
manners, and usages, on which human
society is founded! If we wholly petish
with the body, these maxims of charity,
patienw/ justice, honor, gratitude, and
friendship, which sages hare taught and
good men h«ve practised, what are they
but empty words poeseeaing no real and
binding efficacy r Why should we heed them.
If in this life only we have hoper Speak not
of duty. What can we owe to the dead, to the
linng, to ourselvea, if all ore or wtfl 6e, noth-
ing T Who shall dictate our duty, if not our
own pleasures, — if not our own paasions?
Bpeak not of morality. It is a mere chimera,
• bugbear of human iuTentiou, if retribution
terminate with the grave.

If we must wholly perish, what to as are the
■weet ties of kindred f What the tender names
of parent, child, aiater, brother, husband, wife,
or friend ? The charactera of a diftnia are not
more illuaive. We have no ancestors, no de-
scendants; since succession cannot be predi-
ojted of nothingness. Would we honor the
illiutoious deadt How absurd to honor that
which has no existence I Would we take
thought for posterity? How frivolous to con-
cern ourselves for those whose end, like our
own, must soon be annihilation I Have we
made a Dromisef How can it bind nothing to
Bothing? Pwijur^isbutajeet The last in-
junctions of the dying, what sanctify have they,
more than the last sound of a chord that is
snapped, of an instrument that is broken ?

To sum up all: «If we must wholly perish,
then is obedtenee to the laws but an insane
swvitude: ndeis and magistrates are but the
phantoms which popular imbecility has raised
ap; jHsiice is an uowarraatabie :nMngement
■pon the liber^ of men,— an Imposifion.an
•HupiUioa j ttoUw of aaitiage is avida wan-

pie ; modesty a prejudice ; honor nnd nrobltv
such stuff iw dreams are made of; and iutcHi!
miinlew, narricities, the moat heardtM cruel-
ties and the biucicest crimes, are but the It'Kui-
"**« spo"^ of man'8 irresponsible nature-
while the harsh epithets attoched to them are
merely such as the policy of legislators ban in-
vented, and imposed upon the credulity of the

P60pl6*

Here is the issue to which the vaunted phi-
losophy of unbelievers must ineviubly lend
Here is that social felicity, that swav of rea«on"
that emancipation from error, of which they
eternally prate, as the fruit of their doctrine'
Accept their maximH. and the whole world
fa Is back into a frightful chaos; and all the
relations of life are confounded ; and all ideas
of vice and virtue are reversed; and the mont
Inviolable laws of society vanish; and all moral
discipline perishes; and the government of
states and nations has no longer any cement to
uphold It; and all the harmony of the body
politic becomes discord; and the human race
IS no more than an assemblage of reckless bar-
barians, shameless, lamorseress, brutal, dena-
turalized, with no other law thvn force, no
other check than passion, no othti- bond than
irreligion, no other God than self I Such would
be the world which impiety would make.
Buch would be this world, were a belief in Ood
and immortality to die out of the human heart.

BILL AND JOE.

O. W. BOLMSS,

OME, dear old comrade, yon and I
Will steal an hour from days gone hf—
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Jo*.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tailt
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless man;
To^ay, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and yon are Bill

You've won the great world's envied pi^

And grand yon look in people's eyes.

With HON. and LL. D.,

In big brave letters fair to ses—

Your fist, old fellow I off they go f—

How are yon, Bill ? How are yon, Joe^

YouVe worn the judge's ermine robe ;
You've taught your tiHme to half the glohaf
You've sung mankind a deathless strata;
TenVe made the dead past Vm ff^i

Tke woM may dm jon what it win,
But jou and I art Jo* and BiH.

Tha chaffing young folka itere and lay,
"See thoM old buffera, bent and grayl
Thej Ulk like fellows in their t«en« !
Mad, poor old hoy» I That's what it meana "-
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Jo»—
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side ;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguiw,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes—
Those calm, stem eyes that melt and fill
Ai Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar I what is fama 1
A fitful tongue of leaping flame ;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch ofmorUl dust:
A ftw swift yean, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joef
The weary idol Ukes his stand.
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go-
How vain it seems, this empty show 1—
Till all at once his pulses thrill •
T« poor old Joe's «' God bleaa 'you. Bill"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ean.-

In aome sweet lull of harp knd song,

For aarth-bom spiriu none too long,—

Just whispering of the world below,

Whew this waa BiU and that was Jo« I

No matter} while our home is here

No sounding name is half so dear;

When fades at length our lingering day,

Who cam what pompous tombstones say?

Bead on the hearts that love na still,

Bkjaed Jo9. IRejaeet Bdl

DOWN HILL WITH THE BRAKES OFR

O. B. JIS80P.

EKCORES.

|H0 was he, going out of the doorf
Have you all forgotten him ?

You knew
before
Hands
excellent

'•ry excellent leading man—
Wvd not tflll yoa hia

him once, but that was

ahook and eyes grew dim-

But he took a turn at the whiskycan,
And you see the end that came.

Firet, an occaHJonol little spree

Thiit didn't amount to much
Followed by weeks-maybe n.onlhs-when to

Liquor would hardly touch :
And n.,w you ,oe how ho takes off, boys,

1 he last drop left in the cup-
He « going down hill with the brakes off, bem

Won t some of you pull him up?

Blank, ofthe Blank Street Theater,

You'.o met him 7-1 knew you had.
And his wife_I see you remember her^

Ah, that was nearly as bad.
A little story of " Led Astray "—

A new Lady Isabel :
A newspaper paragraph, his, one day,

1« all that there is to tell.

She treated him badly enough, of courae,

ilut he blames himself for this
And I think it's grief-perhaps remorae-

Ihat has made him what he is.
It's a sorrow that no man shakes'off, boy^

But he tries to drown his in gin-
He's going down hill with the brakes off, bow.

tan t some of you pull him in ? ^

You see the wreck that he is to-day—

I hardly know how he Jives,
Except on the dimr bat, once in a war.

Some pitying con, >' , give,.
And even that money U takes off, boyt

And spends it all for a drop-
He's going down hill with the bmkes off. ban.

Can nobody make him stop?

It's not too late— it's nner too lata—

Never, this side of the grave ;
Though, I own, a man who invela that mIl

la a difficult one to save

""t^ V"^'*^"" ■ ''""'"' *^° •'"»''«• off. bow
The bondage that holds him low—

Be't going down hill with the brakes off ho*..
Will nobody tell him «,? *" *>«i *<»J«.

He was as clever as any of you—

Kuid, good-hearted and brave;
A man that used to be staunch and tme

It can't be too late to save.
Clear his life's many mistakes off, boys

And hell stand up to the rack— '
He's g^ng down hill with the brakes off. ban.

ButrmgoiagtofctchhuiUot '^^

fr»

A CASE OF POETIC JUSTICE.

pATHER, what is poetio Juitioe ? " uked
■*• Frc-d Suiilcy at the tea table

"What put that into the boy's head?" said
mother.

" Why, there wan noiiiething about it in our
reading- le»»«)n to liiiy, and when I ankcd Mm
Thompson wliut it uieant, she said she would
see how many of us o<iuld find out for ourselves,
and give her an iUustrntion of it tomorrow;
but I don't itnow how to find out unless you tell
me, father,"

Mr. SUnley looiceci thoughtfully for a mo-
ment, and then suiilud as if struck by some
amusing recollection.

"Poetic justice." he said, "is a kind of jus-
tice that reaches us through the unforeseen con-
sequences of our unjust acts. I will tell you a
little story, Fred, that I think will fiirnish the
illustration you are after : —

" I recall a summer afternoon, a good many
years ago, when I was not as large as I am now.
Two other boys and myself w«nt blackbcrrying
in a big meadow several miles from homo. On
our way to the meadow, as we paddled along
the dusty highway, we met a stray dog. He
was a friendless, forlorn-looking creature, and
seemed delighted to take up with us, and when
we gave him some scraps of bread and meat
from our lunch basket he capered for joy, and
trotted along at our side, as if to say, ' Now.
boys, I'm one of you. ' We named him Rover]
and, boy-like, tried to find out how much he
knew and what he could do in the way of tricks ;
and we soon discovered that he could 'fetch and
carry ' beautifully. No matter how big the stick
or stone, or how far away we threw it, he would
reach it and drag it back to us. Fences, ditches
and brambles he seemed to regard only as so
many obstacles thrown in his way to try his
pluck and endurance, and he overcame them all.
"At length we reached ihe meadow and scat-
tered out in quest of blackberries. In my wan-
derings I discovered a hornets' nest, the largest
I ever saw— and I have seen a good many. It
was built in a cluster of blackberry vines and
hung low, almost touching the ground. More-
over, it was at the foot of a little hill, and as I
scampered up the latter, I was met at the summit
by Rover, frisking about with a stick in his
mouth. I don't know why the dog and the
hornets' nest should have connected Uiemselves
in my mind, but they did, and » wicked thought
was born of the anioo.

^ "Rob I Willi' loalMtotheotherbo,,
come hero, we'll have some fun.'
"They came promptly and I explained luy
villuinouH pn.joct. I pointed out the horneu'
nent and proposed that we roll a stone down
upon It anil wmkI Hover after the stone.

'■ 'An.l (.h. iM.ys, won't it be fun to see how
asUmiHliod hell bo when the homeU come out ?'
I lauKJiingly cried in conclusion.

" They agreed that it would be awfully funny
Wo selected a good-siiod round stone, ciilk'd
Hover's s|)ecial attention to it, and started it
down the hill. When it had a fair start we
turned the dog loose, and the poor fellow, never
suHpeeting our treachery, darted after the stone
with a joyous bark. ' We had taken good aim,
and ao the ground was smooth, the stone went
true to its mark, and crashed into the hornets'
nest just as Rover sprang upon it In less than
a minute the furious insects had swarmad out
and settled upon the poor animal. His surprise
and dismay fulfilled our anticipation, and wo
had just begun to double ourselves up in parox-
ysms of laughter, when with freniied yelps of
agony, ho came tearing up the hill towards us,
followed closely by the hornets.

"'Run!' I shouted, and we did run; but
the maddened dog ran faster and dashed into
our midst with piteous appeals for help. The
homcfs settled like a black avenging cloud all
over us, and the scene that followed baflieH my
power of description. We ran, we scratched,
we rolled on the ground and howled with agony
till the meadow was, for the time being, turned
into a pandemonium.

" 1 have never known just how long the tor-
ture lasted, but I remember itwras poor Rover
who rose to the emergency, and with superior
instinct showed us a way to rid ourselves of our
vindictive assailants. As soon as he realized
that wc, too, were in distress and could give no
assistance, he ran blindly to a stream that flowed
through the meadow not far away, and plunging
in dived clear beneath the surface. We followed
him, and only ventured to crawl out from the
friendly element when we were assured that the
enemy had withdrawn.

"Then we sat on the bank of the : ream and
looked at each other through our swollen purple

cyc.idi?, while the water dripped froui our ciolL- ^g
ing, and a hundred stinging wounds reminded
us what excessively funny fun we had been haT-
ing with Rover.

V ^f .T' . "'• '""***"* """^ f^ frow guilt
huuMin Judged u. .coordiuKly. .ud creo„i,.J . p
to u.« licked my ha„.l i„ ,i|«„t Hy„„»„,y TheS
^uje^dormant «,.«, „r j,,,^;,^ „^.„^^j .^.,^

-''Boys/lMid, 'wove Im.|,,nuwf„| time
Imt I tel you whut. it served ,u. ri.-l.i ' '

■«e'tl'eroftheiucoMtr„di,,,,|„H. ,„„| ,{«.

A.'^-k.^iii*^'" '^•' ^''■- ^'" >• '" ""'clu-

•ion, u a good insUnco of iwotic ju»tife. "

MY LADY.
I LOVED a lady in my day.

She was my sur. my mo.)ri, and sun,
My Bret, my last, my only love

You d find for me no other one.

SmORBS.

Her hair was bright, her cheeks w ore red
Her eyes were autumn's browi,i«h grey'

Her hps were full-blown rosta wed
And when they parted seemed Jo sny
Some word that in the heart would stay.

A fender word which twineth yet

Amid the vines of memory •
A green frame for n.y house of thonght.
Built on the sacred truths she taught

And opened by Love's golden key. '

She could not boast miyestic heiplvt
Or cloak her words in learned i, >? ■

^or could she peer with boastful slight
in things not meet for simple eyes.

iwas love alone that made her wise.

She knew not of Theosophy.
She learnt her lore from murn.uring bees.

Ph oKophy. theol..gy, and ail the other 'ologies
Hud dimmed for her no heavenly plain,
Nur broke her childhood's link in twain.

"Jutshecould tell what nature told-
iMe understood each singing bird •

And summer's lore she could unfold'
it lived for her in one sweet word—
i Tco tfic oHjy souaa the heard.

While others puuled o'er the age ;
And chaUenges to heaven hurl«d;

She read .lone from Nature'. p.«
"There lay he, truths with flower, impearled

And far be* .re the prient and sage ^ ^
She found the secret of the world.

My merry lady-she was gay

I never knew her stern or dull.

Vr ''^ '" ^"^ '"» «'''ldren play "
Ies,.nt the flowers for US to cull.
But t«an. would Honietimcs have their way •

tor tenderest hearts are ever full. '

My lovely lady, her Hweet voice
Made sunnier youths sunny clime •

T.me,ieer shall snap the golden thro'ng

i hat binds me to that holy time.

She caught and soothed the wandering rhyme
And called it-bless her .'-called it Z^g

My noble lady, lives like here,

I reach many a lading sermon hew;
Nor have our noblest ministers
™,, ^'".'"'"^^ ''«»vens love more sweetly clear
Tl an she ; but then her sermons werei
A look, a smile, a kiss, a prayer.

How did she love me? Ah. there lie.

A Story m my answer. While
I «mw but with her own dear eyes,

&he knew no light but in my smile.
She loved me as none other may,
With love beyond our fleeting day.

Her love was from the world apart.
No jealous thought, no blighting doubt.

Could creep into that trusting heart.
And thrust the tender blossom out.

i»eep-root«d in her soul it throve

A perfect flower of perfect love. '

Dost wonder that this world of care.
Such strange pure passion did not smother?

Om dream no human heart can bear
Such heavenly guise to one another?

All, but as sunlight loves the earth

She loved me. for she gave me birth.
My lovely lady was— my mother.

No snan was ever great without divine in-
spiration. —Cicero.

-Envy is simply punishing ounelves for the
«n« of others.— Anon.

THE SINGLE MAM.

i* 'i

iIm Mitto of jroung and old, ht wIm Um

pniM of kll,
He ii feaiied at the ban(|ucl end ditlinguiihed at the

ball;
When town growi dull and tullry he may Ay to green

rctrcatt,
A welcome vUitor in turn at twenty country icatai
He need not »eek lociely, for, do whate'cr he can,
Inviialions and attentions will pursue the Single

Man.

Fathers and brothers anxiously attempt his taste to

suit;
In every trout brook he may fish, and everywhere

may shoot ;
Political opponents to hii principles concede.
He quaffs the finest Burgundy, he rides the fleetest

steed ;

And never yet weie families, since first the world be-
gan.

United, bless'd and fond as those who court the
Single Man,

The price of bread, the price of fund* on him Inflict
no ills :

He fears no winter avalanche of tradesmen's lengthy

bills;
" Academies " and " colleges " he passes calmly by;
Nor casts on fancy dry -goods stores a sad and timid

eye;
The rates of life insurance he never cares to scan,
" Trustees " and "jointures " boast no power to rack

the Single Man.

But years steal on, and he begins with careful folks

to class.
And shuns the picnic scramble, and the dinner on

the grass ;
And drrads the cold spare chamber, and the crowded

hall of mirth.
And loves the spreading easy-chair, and blazing

quiet hearth ;
And votes warm rooms and early hours the best and

wisest plan ;
But home affords few comforU to the ailing Single

Man.

He lacks a true and kindred heart his joy and grief

to share.
He lacks the winning tehderness of woman's gentle

care;
No children gatlier round him, a beloved and loving

•rnin.i
Eager to win their father's smile, to soothe their

father's pain —
■JS2

He rttea his poor dcpeodeal* u a mcrcmary claa ;
AttachmenU come not ready-made to cheer the .Single
Man.

He stirs the fire, undraws the bliml, and counts the

clock's dull chime :
Acquaintance sometimes sit with him five minutei at

a lime ;
•• Longer they really cannot suy, to nervous he it

grown.
It seems a charity to go, and leave him quite alone ! "
No earnest eyes to bis are raised, hu changeful loob

to scan.
The bland physician's queries roust suflice the Single

Man

-»^-

THE BEAUTIFUL.

BKAtrnpvL faces are those that wear-
It matters little if dark or fair-
Whole-souled honesty printed there.

Beautiful eyes are those that show,

Like crystal panes, where earth fires glow,

Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like song of birds.
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet ar« those that go
On kindly ministry to and fro,
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear

Heavy burdens of homely care

With patience, grace and daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless—

Silent rivers of happineu,

Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight at set of sun.
Beautiful goal with race well run.
Beautiful rest with work well done.

• •fStitiilii gravs rfiitit grasses creep.

Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep,

Over worn-out hands— oh, beautiful sleep.

nust (uffice the Single

A VERITABLE VALLEY OF DEAXa

BILINCB AND DKSOLATION.

mnumerable o.her -"raction. .ub.u„..a,e .hi. ! ,i„ed ,o "^^^^^ ^'''^T"""-

.«r..o„ One of .he l...er cla„. Ii,.le known | renne.. Ty he wo J„l o'f 1 """*'* *""
•nd rarely .poken of. i. .he Dea.h Valley of Icau^ ih. J "",*'°''""« °' •^m* myWeriou.
Inyo Coun.y. in many rcpecu .he mo.7r^ " !^ -V'" " ""T"' '» «'«■ »« '• -void-
markable of .hem all. Imagine a trackle..

wa.te of .and and lock. .himmering under .he
ray. of a more .han tropical .un. hemmed in
on all aide, by titantic ror k. and mountain..
whoM very impre.. U .hatof c.ernalde.olaiion
and you have a fair idea of Dea.h Valley. Geo-
graphically it i. .he .ink of .he Amargosa River
which U a marvel in i.wlf. h rise, in the
Weitern Sierras, about two mile, from the Cali.
fornia line, and flow, .ou.hward for ninety
mile., when it di.appear. from tight in the bed
of an ancient lake at the foot of the Resting
Spring Mountain.. A little further Mu.h i. re-
appear, and continue, another .ix.y mile,
when it again return, .o it. subterranean chan-
nel. Still again it reappears and flows nearly
one hundred mile., when it finally disappears
in the .ink of the Dea.h Valley, being .hrough-
out, a remarkable river.' Death Valley is
about eight mile, broad by thirty-five miles
long, and compriw. wme three hundred
square mile, of the most God-forsaken country
in the world. It look. a. if suflcring from wme
ternble curw. .uch as we read in the Scripture..
It he. far below the sea level, in some place.
I6o feet. No friendly clouds appear to inter-
cept the torching heat. The themometer
registered las degrees, week after week. No
moi5t«re ever falls to cool the burning sand.
Bnght steel may be left out after night and
never be tarnished. Nothing will decay : a
dead animal will simply dry up like parchment,
and reniain so. seemingly forever. No sound
IS ever heard ; the silence of eternal desolation
reigns supreme, it is a curious geological for-
mation, paralleled only in one instance-that of
the Dead Sea. The rocks, lava, basal and
granite .how the volcanic formation, which
probably accounts for the poisonous quality of

ItlT^Jii"''^"''' noxious gases are
"■•'■" '■"^' ""^ numerous fissuresin the rocks
^uch IS the most remarkable valley in
America. PopulaUon may press onward, but

ed ah.e by man and beast. Ceologl.t tell u.
>« i. a striking illu.tra.ion of the condition of the
whole world at an early geological epoch.
Every tourist who ha. the opportunity .houW
visa this miniature Sahara.-

LIFES BATTLE.

AIM I I'm growing old. my hair, once thick Md
brown,

I. now quite white and .ilky. .„d ,p.rK about Ihe
crown;

A year, that once seemed endleis, now p.,M, Hk. .

dream,
Vet my boa. .till ride, the billow.. .. i, flcu alon,

.he ..ream. ^

My eye once like the eagle', i, „ow much diftmed
by«ge,

And «r. alone enable, me to read the printed
page, *^

Y.t .till i, re... with quickened gl.nce upon each
lovely Kene.

^' ''*'^,;°"„'''' *'"* •"•"' P-« •"'l "-.^ge, eome

Life it full of gltdneM if we but make it ».
There', not a wave of wrrow but ha. .n undertbw.
A ..out heart and a simple fcith give, rictorr o'ef
the grave, '

And God awaitt all patienUy, aU powerfbl to tave.

Tit m a cross to live, nor it it hard to die.

If we^but view the future with tteadfatt. fe.rle«

^^'Z'Z."! !^' •'"«''* '•''«• *''«« fi"l» the

— W*/*' ^«u>e Jhrstnt
283

' 11

MRS. BUNKER'S CITY SHOPPING.

CLARA AUGUSTA.

I'VE liTed to Hurdieratch Corner nigh onto thirly
y«ur—

J Peleg ud I, when we fust married, got up house-

kecpin'here;
And all that time I've traded into Capen Jones's

(tore,
That'i t'other side the Saco bridge, with a pump

afote the door:
There's a shed to hitch yer hosses in, and that's a

grand idee
To have yer critters under cover, as anyone can see.

When Ben, my boy, got married to that city gal last

May,
And brought her here to live, with her grand high-

fiilutin' way.
She kinder changed my notions, and last fall I went

to town
To git a meetin' bunnit and a black alpacay gown ;
And when the railroad stranded me at the depot,

high and dry,
I declare, I didn't know myself— so dumfoundertd

was II

The ratUe and the clatter, it had driv my sense
away I

But I grabbed on a perliceman that was standin' in
my way,

And he sot me right and showed me the store of

Bent&Bly,
That run up seven stories—land is cheaper in the

sky!
And my goodness! there was more folks in there

a-mshin' round
Than ever come on trainin' days to Hardscratch

muster-ground!

But a nippant little feller, with his mustache waxed
and pale

Like the pindled-out extremity of a brindled mouse's

tail.
Sidled up, and then 1 asked him for a bunnit and a

gown.
" Right hand," says he, " the middle aisle, about

three sections down."

But, to save my soul and body, I couldn't find the
place;

So I asked a gal that was a-measuring off some yaller
lace.

" The other side, four sections up ! " says she ; and,
like a gun

Shot off by accident, she quit, and scooted on the
run!

I looked around, and then I see some women settin'

down;
I told 'em that I'd come to git a bunnit and a gown.

They stared at me, and then a door flew open in the
wall;

They stepped into a little room, and up went room
and all I

Jest then, I met a man ; says I : «« I want a bunnit
and a gown ! "

"Oh, yes I" says he; "three flights above, left side,
'bout half-way down."

Then I went up. « Next flight below ! " the waiter-
girl she sed ;

Then I went down and flaxed around till I was nigh
'bout dead!

And the noise was Mich, to save you, you couldn't
hear your ears !

There was tots of women settin' round in little no-
backed cheers ;

And rows of gait, aU finified, behind the counters
stood,

And them settin' women grabbed and felt of every-
thing they could ;

They passed it over, left and right, and tossed it back
•gin,

And "Cash I Cash! Cash!" them gals kept yellin'
out like sin.

I stood there like a statont ! I dassent move or stir-
TV confusion and the 'lectric lamps sot my brains
at: in a whirl
284

At last, a pile of bunnits and a stack of hats I see;
But law ! the gals that sold 'em didn't pay no heed
to me!

" I want a bunnit ! " says I, loud enough for a dead
man to hear.

"Oh, no; I shall not marry him I you're quite mis-
taken, dear,"

Says the fust gal to t'other one. " Why, Jennie's
flansee

Give her a diamond ring; and I am jest as good as
she I "

" I want a bunnit I " I yelled out, mad as a broke-up

hen.
" Oh, t'other side ! " says she. " Here, forward No.

Id"

He forwarded, and No. lo says : «• Back, three aislcf

below ! "
And, like a blamed fool shuttlecock, they danced m

toaadirol

Up stairs .nd down, up back, down front. tiJl all my
ix>nes was sore J '

\nd^then I shook that city's dust oflf from my aching

And «metime arter dark made out to find the proper

That passed the railroad depot, and nextday I bought
my gown "

^"'inTwnT""' '"'' °"^'*' '° ^"' "' J°"«'* """'^

mnl'!'Z^^'l ^ ^u"''""' "■"" "> *»°«^ '0 find
Thmgs that ., kept by Capen Jones, you'll know I've

lost my mind i

Peterson's Magazine.

EirOORES.

S8ft

Br ght and broad on the bare oaken floor ;

Half hid by the vine o'er the door.

The old-fashioned Bible, beside the low bed-
Where one of earth's sufferers lay-
Bore traces of tears that had often been shed.

And hands that were folded away.
There came o'er those features, so pale and sc
worn-^
So near like the face of the dead.

When God's precious precepts were read.

THE TWO BIBLES.

BY HELEN A. RAINS.

^ *f "j!*.* "''''' "•*' '^^ ^'•"'"'d With gold.

A Bible SO rich and so rare.
Silk curtains hung 'round it in many a fold.

And costliest vases were there •
With flowers that shed, through'that h hadowed
room.

A fragrance so faint and so sweet
I thought of green forests, of sunshine and bloom,

And traces of little bare feet.

" ^'t ^"^'''l f^ I. "»1" your mission is here.
In homes of the poor and distressed :

Your all-healing words will allay every fear
And soothe ev'ry grief-stricken breast " '

Earth's lowly have found the elixir that flows
So freely o'er Galilee's plain •

'^'^ woe'^'"'"'* '''"■"''"' ""'*' "" '■'"^ ''°'" "«'■'
And " bless the dear Lamb that was slain."

A sunbeam stole trembling as if half in fear.

And lay on the book on the stand.
Wh,ch bore not a trace of a mourning one's tear

Ormarksofalabor.stainedhand
I thought of the One who had walked with the
poor.

And died to redeem us from sin.
And op'ning the volume. I turned the leaves o'er.

And read of His teachings within.
Oh( there He has taught us to shun all display.

To give to the poor and distressed:
And bidden the weary to turn not away.

But come unto Him. and have rest.

Where weal !, and refinement entwine.
Have found ,„ the Bible, the source of all bliss,
1 guida to existence divine ? »

I turned to another, a lowlier home

Where sorrow's sad records were told :
No carpets, no curtains, no half.shadowcd room.

With moulding, in crimson and gold.

THE IRONY OF GREATNESS.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated:

And Mrs Shoddy, finding him much ftted.
Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.

Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;
Soft light from many colored candle's fell

Upon the young, the middle aged, and hoary-
On beauty and on those who " made up " well

Her china was p. miracle of beauty-
No service like it ever had been sold

And, being unsmuggled. with the price and duly.
Was nearly worth its weight in gold.

The flowers were wonderful-I think that maybe

Only another world has flowers more fair:
Each rose was big enough to brain a baby.

And there were several bushels of them there.
The serving was the acme of perfection ;

Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;
Their manner seemed a reverent affection

And oh I what stacks of things there were to e«.

And yet the man. for all this honor singled.
Would have exchanged it with the ^e.t;,t joy

t^ked by his mother when he was a boy.

ENCORES.
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.

Chables Dickens.

i ' 1

|HERE was once a child, and he strolled
about a good deal, and thought of a
number of things. He had a sister
A who was a child too, and his constant
1 companion. They wondered at the
* beauty of flowers; they wondered at
the height and blueness of the sky ; they won-
dered at the depth of the water ; they wondered
at the goodness and power of Ood, who made
them lovely.

They used to say to one another sometimes :
Supposing all the children upon earth were to
die, would the flowers, and the water, and the
sky be sorry ? They believed they would be
sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children
of the flowers, and the little playful streams
that gambol down the hillsides are the children
of the water, and the smallest bright spec^^s
playing at hide and seek in the sky all night
must surely be the children of the stars ; and
they would all be grieved to see their play-
mates, the children of man, no more.

There was one clear shining star that used to
come out in the sky before the rest, near the
church spire, above the graves. It was larger
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the
others, and every night they watched for it,
standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever
saw it first, cried out, " I see the star." And
after that, they cried out both together, know-
ing so well when it would rise, and where. So
they grew to be such friends with it that, before
laying down in their bed, they always looked
out once again to bid it good night ; and when
they were turning around to sleep, they used to
say. " God bless the star!"

But while she was still very young, oh, very
young, the sister drooped, and came to be so
weak that she could no longer stand in the
window at night, and then the child looked
sadly out by himself, and when he saw the
itar, turned round and said to the patient pale
&ce on the bed, " I see the star 1 " and then a
■mile would come upon the face, and a little
weak voice used to say, " Ood bless my brother

oiiu luc siar{

And so the time cune, all too soon, when the
dUld looked out all tkaut, and when there was

no face on the bed, and when there was a
grave among the graves, not there before, and
when the star made long rays down toward him
as he saw it through his tears.

Now these rays were so bright, and they
seemed to make such a shining way from earth
to heaven, that when the child went to his soli-
tary bed, he dreamed about the star; and
dreamed that, laying where he was, he saw a
train of people taken up that sparkling road by
angels ; And the star, opening, showed him a
great world of light, where many more such
angels waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned
their beaming eyes upon the people who were
carried up into the star; and some came out
from the long rows in which they stood, and fell
upon the people's necks, and kissed them ten-
derly, and went away with them down avenues
of light, and were so happy in their company,
that lying in his bed he wept for joy.

But there were many angels who did not go
with them, and among them one he knew. The
patient face that once had lain upon the bed
was glorified and radiant, but his heart found
out his sister among all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance
of the star, and said to the leader among those
who had brought the people thither:
"Is my brother come? "
And he said, " No I "

She was turning hopefiilly away, when the
child stretched out his arms, and cried, " Oh,
sister, I am here I Take me 1 " And then she
turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was
night ; and the star was shining into the room
making long rays down towards him as he saw
it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out
upon the star as the home he was to go to when
his time should come ; and he thought that he
did not belong to the earth alone, but to the
star too, because of his sister's angel gone
before.

There was a baby bom to be a brother to the
child, and, while he was so little that he never
yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his
tiny form on his bed, and died.

Again fhe child dreamed of the open rtw,
•nd of the company of angels, and the train of
people, and the rows of angels, with their
beaming eyes all turned npon thoae people's
faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader :

" Is my brother come?"

And he said, " No, but another I "

As the child beheld his brother's angel in

her arms, he cried, "Oh, my sister, I am here I

Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon

him,— and the star was shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was busy at

his books, when an old servant came to him

and said :

"Thy mother is no more. I bring her bless-
ing on her darling son."

Again at night he saw the star, and all that
former company. Said his sister's angel to the
leader. Is my brother come f "

And he said, « Thy mother I "

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all
the star, because the mother was re-united to
her two children. And he stretched ont his
arms and cried, « Oh, mother, sister, and brother
I am here I Take me I" And they answered
him. Not yet I "-and the star was shining.

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turnine
gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fir^
side, heavy with grief, and with his face
bedewed with tears, when the star opened once
again. *^

Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my
brother come?" '

^ And he said, "Nay, but his maiden daugh-

And the man who had been the child saw his
daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature
among those three, and he said: "My daugh-
ter s head m on my sister's bosom, and her arm
18 around my mother's neck, and at her feet is
the baby «f old time, and I can bear the part-
ing from her, Gted be praised I "-And the star
was shming.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and
«»8 o«ce smooth face was wrinkled, and his
Steps were slow and te^]^ and his back was
bent And one night as he lay upon his bed,
nis children standing mimrf k* ---j .. ..

cned so lony ago : « I see the Star I »

They whispered one another, "He is dyinir."
^y^'^ "I«. My.,. K. felJing'^frfm
me like a gannent; airt I .gv** ywwttdi the star ,

BirCORBS.

Wft

?!,* I?*!"^: /°^ ^' "^ ^•*''"' °«^ I *^«k

Thee that it has so often opened to receive those
dear ones who await me I "—

And the star was shining ; and it shines upon
his grave. *^

HOG FEEDER'S SONG.

llf the rf«dMhM heard, inconeertg or elsewhere th«
cTlJlTr.!!'"' ^"°"" " the -8WUS W.rbu7'ld
^rflT,^ '^' Tolume*. weUM the melody of te.t
performance increased a thou.and-fold, the/ »J|| ^

800. ""'H^bl^lf "" ■"?«" *" '•'•' "Hog-PeedSl
r« » . "'''*'*• • hog feeder on the Turner Plantation

orhI.Toloehe.rd.t.dUUno.of three miio..bur«^
wae not even considered remarkable In aregton whero

mni^* f ' .f ! '*""' *° '■'• •"• •»'« oonveyinga most
mujcal InTitaUon to tho hand, on plantation, five ^i"^

Oh. rise up my ladies ! Lissen nnter mo !

rm a^gwme d.s night f.r ter tnock along er you I

i\ggoo I pig-gu I Quo-whu I
Oh, de stars look bright des like dey gwineter fall

^'PV'PV-goo/ Piff/pu,/ pig-ffeef

Fn 'J!"!^'"'''*"' "i"*?'- ^»^« Jie can't squeeze froo
En he hump up ie back des like niggers do-
Oh. humpty-umpty blue ! Fig-gee I %.g^

Pig I pig I pxg.gtt I Pig! pig I pig.^oil

Oh. rise up my ladies I Lissen unler me f

I m a-gwine dis night a gullantin' out wXtob t

^■gool pxg.getl Geeo-wf^et'

%,*.Tk^1' fonse des ez sho's youer bo'n,

out CO'*- ^"'''* '" **' *•♦»•

Ma'am, you make too freel Pig-goo t pig-gee I
Piglpxgl pxggoolPtgipigT^ig.gJr^"'

W'en pig git fat, he better stay close.
Ka«e fat pig n,ce fer tor hide out en roas'—
Oh.roas' pig. shoo! Rg-g^el pig.gool
Ptg I p^lpxg-gtel Pig t pigYp!g.g^ ,

Oh^e up my ladies ! Lissen unter met
^^J-^^?.'^J(^'T^oop f~Ooo^heef

Oviopo f-Owoopee f Gee-woop f—GKoo /
• PV-9oof PV-geef Gee-o-whee /

• 'OiuwdhenandthrtvsbvM

wi4

S88

ENCORES.

FORTY YEARS AGO.

I'VE wandered to the Tillage, Tom, I've
sat beneath the tree,
Upon the school-house play-ground,

that sheltered you and me ;
But none were left to greet me, Tom ;
and few were left to know.
Who played with ua upon the green, some forty
yean ago.

The grass ia just aa green, Tom ; bare-footed

boyn at play
Were sp ting, just as we did then, with spirits

just as gay.
But the " master " sleeps upon the hill, which,

coated o'er with snow,
Afforded ua a sliding-place, aome forty years

•go.

The old school-house is altered now; the

benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same our penknives

once defaced ;
But the same old bricks are in the wall, the

bell swings to and fro ;
It's music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty

years ago.

The boys were playing some old game, beneath

that same old tree ;
I have foi^ot the name just now,— you've

played the same with me.
On that same spot ; 'twas played with knives,

by throwing so and so ;
The loser had a task to do,— there, forty years

ago.

The river's running just as stUl ; the willows on

its side
Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream

appears leas wide ;
But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where

once we played the beau.
And swung our sweethaarts,— pretty girls,— just

forty years ago.

Hie spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by

the spreading beech,
la very low,— 'twas then so high that we could

scarcely reach ;
And, kneaiing down to get a driuk, dear Tom^

latartedao,
Vb im Imw aadly I am ehanged, since forty

Near by that apring, upon old elm, you know I

cut your name,
Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and

you did mine the same.
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark,

'twas dying sure but slow.
Just as $he died, whose name you cut, aome

forty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom, bat tears

came to my eyes;
I thought of her T loved so well, those early

broken ties.
I visited the old church-yard, and took some

flowers to strow
Upon the graves of those we loved, aome forty

years ago.
Some are in the church-yard laid, some! sleep

beneath the sea ;
But few are left of our old class, excepting you

and me ;
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we

aru called to go,
I hope they'll lay us where we played, just forty

years ago.

BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN.

" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath."

Has anger any place to-day

In heart and mind ?
Has malice prompted you to say

What was not kind?
See how the sun is shining bright

In heaven above ^
O let him not go down to-night

On aught but love I
Have you been wronged in any way,

And so are cross?
Has some one injured you to-day.

And caused you loss ?
The golden sun is sinking faat —

'T will soon be night I
Forgive, and let your wrath b« caat

Far oat of sight I
What ? some one else waa in the wrong,

And bis the debt?
Well, never mind ; show you are strong,

And can forget
hook you how quickly fades the light:

It will not wait I
Quick, ere the sun goea dowtt to-nigfatt

And 'til too late I

)ES DOWN.

ENCORES.
GOOD CHEER IN THE HOUSE,

>-■■•«-;

BT MRS. EMMA J. BABCOCK.

cheerfulness,"

OWER dwells with
says Emerson.

Widely as this may be applied to

le Mfn anA nr^-l. .i>

To promote cheer in the household, then
•8 a duty that no woman can evade To

«K>«ght cannot be held to be as a small
work, to be sure, it cannot be done on a

ing in a woman's life and work in M.« • 7 the 1p« ♦„ •. . ^T ^"^' ''"* '^ " "o""
world. If «h« .„ ?- „ '" ^'"* "'•'«°'- "'* '*'* *«"S''''« and important,

wnrU If u ""'»"■ uie inaoo

world. If she contemplates f„r a few mo-
ments the possibilities here ^nfolded, how
far-reaching she sees that they are !

Cheerfulness is the power that sends the

hildren happy and bright from the breakfast

table to the school-room, instead of sendi"

frowning l.ttle rebels that will invite warfa^f

with companions and teacher. It will heln

her to g„.de the machinery of the kitchen in

uch a way that very little friction is gener"

ated. Almost any wise housekeeper can

tell. If she will, of times when a word fl^;
poken, of hearty good will, to a domestic

haschangedthewholecurrentofherthoughts!
and has brightened toil, has helped to J ft
the round of duties that must be S, ,,.11
with (..bout ,,.ch home life isTm^^^^^^^^^^^^^
out of mere drudgery. Probably S^^re are
ew girls n our kitchens that^wouW no^
g IcUy exchange for uniform good cheerTn
the kitchen all those gifts of handkerchiefs

papej. of pi„«, and even calico dn^sses^^h
wh.ch she seeks to heal wounds cans d by
unreasonable and unjustifiable fault finding

An unsuspected mission of this power is
that of keeping the heart young, wd of
-king old faces lovely. If/werfrwrite
a novel, its heroine should be a womlnof

e.gl.tyyearsold,whose^rene spirit fed by

THE DAWN OF SPRING.

HILE the hedgerows and trees are bare.
From meadow and coppice and lana
Is wafted a fragrance rare

To gladden the earth again I
What is it? What is it?

What news does it bring?

'Tis the scent of the violet, .

The breath of the Spring!

When the dark and the daylight meet.

High up ,„ the vault of heaven
is heard a song more sweet

Than any to mortals given !

What is it? What is it?
What news does it bring?
ris the song of the skylark,
The voice of the Spring,
The dull, dark winter is past,
And over the waking land
A wonderful beauty is cast,

Ahat we cannot but understand i
What is it? What is it?

What news does it bring?
' Tis the grace of a maiden,

The face of the Spring!

George Weatherlt.

overthe1nfirmitiesof„ge,overim;rpain «J'"= «P'"* -"-'' -« -anifes. toward

"d over gnef itself, „nd shed a pure ligj^in ^^''7' "^^""'"y '«"d« to excite the samrsoWt

■e hou^oH, and atrected all t'lat llv^d in" Ch- ^'"^^ ^ege. kindnrS

B^igliborhoou or rliat home. n«rshness ruffle, the Kmper and .,.;.

T» l«"gl. .ill, „„r d,i,d„„ i. „,„,e.,„,„ rT'~"'- ^'° »«'" «'"Tl.r. 7Z

THE ORCHARD PATH.

1 I

So you're bound to go to the city 7 you're tired to

dcAth of the farm 1
•• Big enough to look after yourself,"— an' you're not

afraid of harm?
Ah, that's the way that you all go 1 The same old story

you tell.^
Sit down for a minute, daughter. Le's talk it all over

welL
Dear, don't you think 1 know it ?— I've lived it many

a year I
This starving of mind and spirit, this grinding of

farm work drear;
Wearing out of the muscle, an' rusting out of the

brain ;
Working your very heart out for a little hf ndful of

gain I
Daughter, I know the struggle, from first to last, the

whole ;
How it Amr/s to crucify longings, how it aches to

cramp the soul 1—
But we've got air and sunshine, the fields, an' thp

st«rs at night.
An* a shelf of books in the cupboard for the hour

when the lamp's a-light

Say you ^ to the city— what can you really do ?
A trifle of clumsy sewing; can scrub and bake and

stew.
You've not the learning for teaching. You could

may be, << stand in a store"
From dawn to dark, with an aching ^ack an' ankles

swollen an' sore.

That's all that there is before you ; unless, like your

uncle's Belle,
You ran away 'ith the circus (an* Atr end you know

right well !) .

After the raising I gave you you'd hardly go on the

stage;
You might serve hadi in a restyrant for a pitiful mite

of wage.

Drudging all day in the basement, and sleeping un
der the roof;

Pain and wrong at your elbow, but happiness keep-
ing aloof;

Deceit hid under fisir seeming, sin stalking free in
the street; —

Girl, if you goto the city, that's what you're bound to
meet.

By some one wiser than we are, remember, folks'

botmds are set.
Look into what lies right 'xwpA yoy, an' see what

good yon can g«t.
8M '

ALICE VriLLIAMS BROTHBHrON.

There in a crowded city, with its din and hurry and

strife.
They're just so busy 'ith livimg, they can't learn the

meaning of life I

Here, under the stars at milking-time, an' out on the

fresh green sod.
We "* to know more of life's meaning, and some'

seem closer to God.
You'd u..ai the air and the sunshine, and the orchard

trees a-flower ;
You'd miss the scent of the clover-fields and the hush

of the twilight hour.

Isn't that some one a-coming, out on the National Pike?
Hark to the cheery whistle I Surely that's Atherton's

Ike.
You've taken a spite against him because of his home.

ly name;
If it was Irving, or Austin, would it be just the same ?

Isaac meant " Laughter" in Hebrew. That's what

he's like to me.
With his tossing hair and twinkling eyes, and deep

voice full of glee.
No, he wouldn't look well in a pen-tailed coat an' a

white cravat ; his ban's
Are fitter for breaking unruly colts than twiddling

with ladies' fans.

But I know the stock that he comes from — not a mean

strain in the lot ;
And the love of an honest man, my girl, is the best

that life has got.
You quarreled with him a-Sunday. How do / know ?

Mothers guess.
Run to your room, — you've a minute to put on the

clean pink dress.

Shining and white and broad it runs, to the city, that

National Road.
Seems always like that one in Scripture, leading to

sin's aHode ;
And yoa little track through the briars, that runs to

the orchard gate.
Like the thorn-set narrow pathway at whose end the

angels wait
Ike's turned off into the orchard; closer the whistling

hies.
The glare of that dusty, sunny pike is like a pain to

my eyes.
Brief as the blaze of autumn leaves is ever a true

love's wrath !
Thank God! there's the pink through the briars; she

has taken— the orchard path.

— JMw JSngtand Magatint.

GRACIOUS WOMANHOOD.

din and hurry and
hey can't learn the

ime, an' out on the
leaning, and some'
le, and the orchard
-fields and the hush

t the National Pike?
ily that's Atherton's

lecauseofhishome.

it be just the same ?
)rew. That's what

ling eyes, and deep

en-tailed coat an' a

cits than twiddling

s from — not a mean
my girl, is the best
. How do /know?
inute to put on the

ms, tothe city, that
Scripture, leading to
! briars, that runs to
ly at whose end the

closer the whistling
ike is like a pain to
eaTCS is ever a true
lugh the briars ; she
gbiml MagtttiM,

So few very beautiful women consider it
worth their while- to be gracious. They rely
so entirely on their charms of person to attract
that they do not put themselves out or exert
themselves to please other than by their beauty
Tins IS a great mistake, for though they may
rule for a season by the power that feminine
loveliness always exerts, their court will soon
be narrowed to the very few who are willing
to serve out adulation with every sentence
with no hope of entertainment in return.

The spell of gracious womanhood, however
lasts as long as life remains, and the charm
depends not upon beauty of face or figure, but
upon a grace of mind that puts self in the
background and endeavors to bring out the
best and brightest in all those with whom it
comes in contact.

The woman who can become interested in
the hobby of whoever is in her society, or who
can make that other feel that his or her words
are important and worthy of regard will be
the one to whom her entire circle will »wear
allegiance. A regard for others' feelings and a
gentle though not fulsome flattery that stimu-
lates rather than inflates are the weapons which
when used by a clever, kindly woman, make
her a power among any set in which she chooses
to move, though never for one moment does
she give any evidence that she is aware of the
influences she wields through the all-conquering
sceptre of her own gracious womanhood.

HUNTERS.

BY XRNEST MCGAPRY.

A CRICKET fed on an insect

Too small for an eye to see,
A field-mouse captured the cricket

And hushed his minstrelsy.

A gray shrike pounced on the field-mouse

And hung him on a thorn.
And a hawk came down on the cruel shrike

From over the waving corn.

And a fox sprang out on the red-tailed hawk

From under a fallen tree.
For bird and beast, by flood and field.

Of every degree,

Prey one upon the other ;

'Twas thus ordained to be.
My rifle laid cM Reynard low.

And death— death looked at me.

A WOMAN'S RIGHT.

BY HARRlirr NEWELL SWANWICK.

Whether climbing life's hill by a stony path.

Or calmly treading the vale below,
With a cheerful content she will meet her lot,

If a true heart loves her and tells her so.

Vou may give her your houses, jour Unds. your
gold.

Failing the jewel of love to bestow,
She'll envy the poorest woman she knows,

Who has seme one to love her and tells her so.

Adown her life stream she may peacefully glide.
Or Hgaiiisi ihe winds be forced to row;

Whatevei befalls her -^ 'II fearlessly face
Beside one who lov^ -er and tells her to.

THE ELEVENTHHOUR LABORER.

MISS L. GRAY NOBLB.

Idlers all day about the market-place
They name us, and our dumb lips answer not,

Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace.
And our dark tasking whereof none may wot

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go !_
Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear.

But we who on the market-stones drop slow
Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Lord of the vinejrard, whose dear word declares
Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be.

What coin divine can make our wage as theirs
Who had the morning joy of work for Thee ?

rrTke Cen^ry.

"AFTER MANY DAYS."

MRS, M. A. HOLT.

I know not when, I know not how,

The good that we have done
Shall cast a crown upon our brow—

The crown that we have won.
It may be here— it may be there ;

Of this we cannot tell •
But well we know the deeds and prayer

Shall bear their fruitage well

292

ENCORES.

■ li

,1 ^

THE MODEL CHXJRCH.

Well, wife, I've found the model church t I worship-
ped there to-day ;

It made me think of good old times, before my hairs
were gray.

The meetin'-house was finer built than they were
years ago ;

But then I found, when I went in, it wasn't built for
show.

The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the door ;
He knew that Iwasoldanddeaf.aswellas old and poor.
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly

through
The long aisle of that pleasant church to find a pleas-
ant pew.
I wish you'd heard the lingin' — it had the old-time

rmg —
The preacher said with trumpet-voice, " Let all the

people sing ; "
The tune was " Coronation," and the music upwards

rolled
Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their

harps of gold.
My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit caught

the fire ;
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melo-
dious choir, '
And sang, as in my youthful days, " Let angels pros-
trate fall.
Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord

of all."
I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn

once more,
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse

of shore ;
I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten form
And anchorin the blessed port forever from the storm
The preachin' ! well, I can't just tell all that the

preacher said ;
I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't read ;
He hadn't time to read, for the lightnin' of his eye
Went passing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a

sinner by.
The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth.
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth;
'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed,
'Twas full of invitations to Christ — and not to creed.
The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;
He shot the golden sentences straight at the finest pews,
And, though 1 can't see very well, I saw a falling tear
That told me hell was some way off, and heaven

very near.
How swift the golden moments fled within that holy

place !
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every

happy face !
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall

meet with friend,
When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths

have no end.
I hope to meet that miaisief, the eongregatiOTt, too,
In the dear home beyond the skies, that shines from

heaven's blue,
1 doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray,
"The face of God's dear servant who preached His

MY MOTHER.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Tlie feast was o'er. Now brimming wiiu^
In lordly cup, was seen to shine

Before each eager guest ;
And silence filled the crowded hall
As deep as when the herald's call

Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host

And, smiling cried : " A toast I a toast I

To all our ladies fair ;
Here, before all, I pledge the name
Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame.

The Lady Gundamere."

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang
And joyous was the shout that rang

As Stanley gave the word ;
And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry

Till Stanley's voice was heard.

• Enough, enough," he, smiling, said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
" That all may have their due.
Now each, in turn, must play his part
And pledge the lady of his heart,
• Like a gallant knight and true."

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up
And drained in turn the brimming cup,

And named the loved one's name ;
And each, as hand on high he raised.
His lady's grace and beauty praised.

Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise :

On him are fixed these countless eyes ;

A gallant knight is he ;
Envied by some, admired by all.
Far famed in lady's bower and hall, —

The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye.
And held the sparkling cup on high,
" I drink to one," he said,
" Whose image never may depart.
Deep graven on this grateful heart
Till memory be dead;

To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have past.

So deep it is, and pure ;
Whose love hath loqger dwelt, I ween,
Than any yet that pledged hath been

By these brave knights before."

Each guest up started at the word
And laid a hand upon his sword

With fury-flashing eye ;
And Stanley said : "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame.

Whose love you count so high."

St. Ixon paused, as if he would

Not breathe her name in careless mood

Thus lightly to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,

And gently said^ <' My mother,"

MIRTH AND SELF-SATISFACTION.

293

Oom

WATCH, MOTHER.

ENCORES.

lOTHERl watch the lUtle feot
OlimbiDg o'er the garden wall,
Bounding th/ough the busy itreet,
Hanging cellar, ahed and hall,
Nerer count the moments lost,
Never count the time it costs;
Little feet will go astray;
Guide them, mother while you may.

Mother I watch the little hand
Picking berries by the way,
Making houaes in the sand,
Tossing up the fragrant hay,
NeTer dare the question ank,
* Why to me this weary task ? "
These aame little hands may prove
MeMengen of light and love.

Mother I watch the little tongue
Prattling, eloquent and wild,
What is said, and what is sung
By the happy, joyous child.
Catch the word while yet unspoken.
Stop the TOW before 'tis broken 5
This aame tongue may yet procbum
Blesaings in a Saviour's name.

Mother I watch the little heart
Beating aoft and warm for you ;
Wholesome lessons now impart ;
Keep, keep that young heart true,
Extracting every bitter weed,
Sowing good and precious seed ; '
Harvest rich you then may gee,
Bipeoing for eternity.

THE QUAKER WIDOW.
Bataro Tatlob.

IHEE finds me In the garden, Hannah-
come in I 'Tis kind of thee
To wait until the Friends were gone,

who came to comfort me,
The atill and quiet company a peace
^ may give indeed.
But biesaed is the single heart that
. comes to us at need.

Cone, ait thee down I Here is the hench where
BM|uain would ait
18

-i

On FInt-day afternoons in epiini; aad mrtall

the swallows flit;
He loved to smell the apronting box, and beer

the pleasant bees
Ck) humming round the lilacs and throngh the

apple trees.

I think he loved the spring • not that he eared

for flowers; most men
Think such things foolishnes»-bnt we were

first acquainted then.
One spring; the next he spoke his mind; the

thifi I was his wife.
And in the spring (it h&ppened so) oor ohildrea

entered life.

He was but seventy-five: I did not think to

lay him yet
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meet>

ing first we met
The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better

I should be
Picked out te bear the heavy qioas-«lon« in

age— than he.

We've lived together fifty years; itseema bat

one ]ong day.
One quiet Sabbath of the hearty till he waa

called away;
And as we bring from Meeting-time • sweet

contentment home.
So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the

days to come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it

was to know
If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I

should go;
For father had a deep concern apon his mind

that day,
Bat mother spoke for Benjamin— ehe knew

wliat best to say.

Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last

she spoke again,
"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and

"Thou shalt have him Jane I"
My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twaa not the

least of shocks,

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Ortho-
dox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when drnvhter

Ruth we lost:
Her husband's of the worid, and yet I eeoM

net se* '*"* «•««-- *

ENCORES.

WMn, UiM k-pnwt, the gayest gcwu, sh* [ For B«i\)«inin hu two in hMren, and two art

\> I

i'.:;

•V'

y I ^ 1 t i

. 1-

hean a hireling prieat-
Ab, <)«arl thecroaawMK'nra; her lifa'a a Uappy
uO«, at least.

#!lftiff ^M'U wear a plainer dresa when niM'a
liflAuI-

Would tlu» believe it, Hannah r once / felt

temptation nigh t
Mj wndding-gown was ashen silk, too aimple

for my taste i
X wanted lace around the necic, and a dbbon

at the waist

Sow strauge it seemed to tli with him upon

the women's side!
I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear

than pride,
Till, "in the i <-esence of the Lord," he said,

and then there came
A holy strength upon my heart, and I could

say the same.

I used to blush when he came near, but thei) I

showed no sign ;
With all the meeting looking on, I held bis

hand in mine.
It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was

his for life:
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too,

hast been a wife.

Ai home we rode, I saw no fields look half so

green as ours;
The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows

fiiU of flowers;
Th» iQighbors met us in the lane, and every

face was kind—
Tis strange how lively everything come4 back

upon my mind.

I see, ai j^ain as thee sits there, the wedding-
dinner spread ;

At our own table we were guests, with father
at the head,

And Dinah Passmore holped us both— 'twas
sL KooA up with me,

And Abbw \'i\f^ with Benjamin — and now
they' c ^.16, all <'*-t;el

It ii not il-^i-? I ; ••'vkh. ior death; *^ci Lord die-

pOO"..* fcii-sU
Rb Spirit C'?i»@3 \f> quiet hearts, and fits them

tat his rest;
Asd that Be halved oar little jtook was merci-

ftl,lseet

left with me.

EusobluH never cared to (krm— 'tw.is not bli

call in truth.
And I must rent the dear old place, and go to

daughter Ruth.
Tkee'll say her ways are not like mine— young

people now-a-days
Have fallen sadly off, I think, ftom all the good

old ways.

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps
the sim pie tongue,

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she
was young;

And it was brought upon my mind, remember-
ing her, of late.

That we on dress and outward things perhaps
lay too much weight

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, "a spirit clothed

with grace,
And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a

homely face,"
And dress may be of less account; the Lord

will look within:
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or

sin.

Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anx-
ious I should go,

And she will do her duty as a daughter should
I know.

'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must
be resigned,

The Lord looks down contentedly upon a will-
ing mind.

UNCLE PETE'S COTJNSEL TO TI'.K

My chil'ren, lub one anoder; b'ar wid one
anoder ; be faithful ter one anoder. You hab
started on a long journey; many rough places
am in de road ; many trubbles will spring up
by de wayside; but gwo on hand an' hand
togedder; lub one anoder, an' no matter what
come onter you, you will be happy — for lub
will sweeten ebery sorrer, lighten ebery load

tnan.€ ue sun suiuc iu cucO dc tjvij ClOUdicTv

wedder. I knows it will, my chil'ren, 'case I'se
been ober de groun'. Ole Aggy an' I hab trab-
Ued de road. Hand i||,})^d we hab gone ob«(

EN-COJilES,

.*■*•■">* I la d« h ot buralng «a 1 ;
■Mn out tog«dder In dt col. , ai' de rain, ua'
i* i^onn, tat nigh onter forty yar, but wo hab
•long to oncanoder; an' fru ebery ting n de
beiy darken daya, de nan ob joy an' peaci; hnb
broke frn de cloud-, an' aci* him brewed rnys
Inter our hearte. We etarted Jees like two
young Mplin'a you'e eead • growln' aide by lido
In de wooda. At Ai«t we aeemed 'way part fur
<«• bramblea, an' de tick bushes, an* de ugly
tome— [dea war our bnd wayij—war atween
M, but lab, Uke de inn. ahone down on us, an'
»• grow'd. We grow'd till our heads got
•boTt de bnahee; tiU dis little branch, an' dat
little bruieh-4em war our holy feelin'»-put
oat toward one anoder, an' we come closer an'
doMT togedder. An' dough we'm ole trees
BOW, an' aometime de wind blow, an' de atorm
ng* fro de topa, an' freaten tor tear off de limbs
•a' ter puU ap de bery root^ we'm growin'
closer aa' cloeer. an' nearer an' nearer togedder
•beiy day-an' eoon de ole tops will meet:
•oon de ole branches, all cohered ober wid de
gray nooi, will twine roun' one anoder; soon
de two ole trees will come togedder, an' grow
Inter em toreber— grow inter one up dar in de
•ky, whar df wind neber'U blow, whar de
jtor^ber'U beat; whar we shill blossom an' I
bar ftiUt to de glory ob de Lord, an' in Hia
'"^'''" *•'-"-» fcteberl Amen.

Edmu^td Euuca.

COMING AND GOING.

^DTBT Ward Bkbohsb.

INGE came to our fielda a pair of birds
that had never built • nest nor seen a
winter. Oh, how beautiful was every-
thing! The fields were full of flowers,
and the grass was growing taU, and the
beep were hum ni ing everywhere. Then
one of the birds fell to singing, and the
other bird aaid: "Who told you to
"Jigr and he answered: "The flowers told
ja^ and the beoe told me, and the winds and
Jeavei told ■«, and the blue sky told me, and
jj^sc-a mm iv sing.-^ men bis liute answered ;

«. fe!"* ?* * **" ^°" *° "■"«*" ^''^ »»« "-id :
«v«y tlBM yon brought in tender grass for

!~?"^*^ •▼«y lim« your soft wings fluU

Hwi off agBta fcr hilr and fcrtheis to Uno the

neat" Then hie mats laM "What m* yo«
•inging aboutf And he answered: "I am sing.
Ing about everything and nothing. It le b»
cause I am so haj>j»y that I sing."

By-and-by five iitiJe sp. klod efrgt were in
the n<«t, and his mate said: "Is there anything
in all the worl-l as pretty «8 my eggif Then
tlicy l)olh looked dow, on some people that
were piwHing by, and pitied them betau^e they
were not birds, and had no nests with egn it
Uu'.nl Then the father-bird sung a n.elanchoiv
song because ho pitied folka thst had no nesta.
but bad to live in houses.

In a week or two, one dsy, when the fkth. -
bird came home, the mother-bird said: "Oh
what do yon think h .< happenedT"— "Whatf"'
—"One of my egg« 1, « been peeping and mov-
iDgr Pretty *(,..„ a other egg moved under
her feathers, a.„l fh, , another, and another,
till five httle birds were bomi

Now the father-bird b, „g longer and louder
than ever. The moth, f.ird, too. wanted to
Bing, but she had no tin , and so she turned
her song Into work. 80 hungry were these
little birds that it kept boti parents busy feed-

!u* u^' .'^''"y ^"''^ """" ^'''^- The moment
the Uttle birds heard their winga flutterin*
again among the leaves, fivo yellow mouth'
flew open ao wide that nothi ig could be aeea
but five yellow mouths I

"Can anybody be happierf said the «.the^
bird to the mother-bird. "W. will live la this
tree always, for there is no sor ow here. It i.
a tree that always bears joy."

The very next day one of the birds dft>pped
out of Ae nest, and a cat ate it t in a minute^
and only four remained ; and th. parent-bird^
were very sad, r.nd there was no ong all that
day nor the next Soon the litt.a birds were
big enough to fly, and great was tteir parents'
joy to see them leave the nest and sit crumpled
up upon the branches. There was then a great
time I One would have thought the two old
birds were two French dancing-mast rs,— talk-
ing and chattering and scolding the 1 ttle birds
to make them go alone. The first .ira that
tried flew from one branch to another, a.iu the
parents praised him, and the other littre birda
wonderpil htm !.« as a ui t - ^ t .

, —••..•. .-.I au!i ao was ISO VHiu

of It that he tried again, and flew and flew, and
couldn't stop flying, till he fell plnmp down bv
the house-door; and then a little boy caught
him and carried him into the houae,-«nd onl*
throe birda weio 2«a, i^m ,^ g^ ^

^^^^^1

^^^1^1%

^HIbi

^fl

^■7 h

■^■'v

>,.'

298

ENCORES.

bought fhtt ibe ion wu not bright 8,8 it used
V be, and they did not sing as often.

In a little time the other birds had learned
to use their wingti, and they flew away and
away, and found their own food and njude
their own beda, and their parents never saw
them any morel

Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at
each other a long while.

At last the wife-bird said :

"Why don't you sing?"

And he answered:

** I can't sing— I can only think and think 1"

*• What are you thinking of ? "

"I am thinking how eveiything changes, —
the leaves are &lling down from off this tree,
and soon there will be no roof over our heads;
the flowen are all gone, or going; lost night
there was • frost; alinost all the birds are
flown aw»y, and I am very uneasy. Something
calls me^ and I feel restless as if I would fly
far away."

" Let 08 fly away together I"

Then they rose silently, and, lifting them-
selves tu Dp. in the air, they looked to the
north, — far away they saw the snow coming.
They looked to the south,— there they saw
green leaves I All day they flew, and all night
they flew and flew, till they found a land where
there was no winter— where there was summer
all the time; where flowers always bloasom,
and the birds always sing.

But the birds that stayed behind found the
days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather
eolder. Many of them died of cold; others
crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid.
Then it was plain that it was better to go than
toit^yl

PLANTATION SONG.
J. A. Haooh.

E night-time comin' an' de daylight scoo-

De jew^lraps fallin' an' do big owl hootin ;
Tou kin soon see de bright stars iailin'

an' a-shootin' ;
An' hear de old huntin'-hora blowin' an'

a-tootin' I

Oh I da Beben Stars gittin' up higher an' higher,
D« suppeMime comin' on nigher an' nigher;
Chrine to cote Miss Dinah by de hick'ry fire
4a' iwa* dea taten while I set^ dows br her.

De cat-bird happy when de cherries gittin' redder ■
De sheep mignty libely when he grazin' in d«

raedder;
But de nigger an' his little gal setUn' down to

gedder
Jes' happy as a cricket in de sunshiny wedderl

aGFBAur.— Hi 0, Miss Dinah,

Listen to de song I
Hi 0, Miss Dinah,

I's comin' straight erlongl
Hi 0, Miss Dinah,

Gwine to see you little later I —
Hi 0, Miss Dinah,

Gwine to help yon peel dat 'taterl

THAT SILVER MINE.

HxBK Twain.

HAD never seen him before. He
brought letters of introduction from
mutual friends in San Francisco, and
by invitation I breakfasted with him.
was almost religion, there in the
silver-mines, to precede such a meal
with whisky cocktails. Artemus, with
the true cosmopolitan instinct, always deferred
to the customs of the country he was in, and so
he ordered three of those abominations. Hing-
ston was present. I am a match for nearly
any beverage you can mention except a whis-
key cocktail, and therefore I said I would
rather not drink one. I said it would go right
to my head and confuse me so that I would be
in a helpless tangle in ten minutes. I did not
want to act like a lunatic before strangers, but
Artemus gently insisted, and I drank the trea-
sonable mixture under protest, and felt all the
time that I was doing a thing that I might be
sorry for. In a minute or two I began to
imagine that my ideas were clouded. I waited
in great anxiety for the conversation to open,
with a sort of vague hope that my understand*
ing would prove clear, after all, and my mis-
givings groundless.

Artemus dropped an unimportant remark oi
two, and then assumed a look of superhuman
earnestness, and made the following astound-
ing speech. He said: —

"Now, there is one thing I ought to ask you
about before I forget it. You have been here
in Silverland— here in Nevada— 4wo or three
years, and, of course, your position on the
daily preM IiM lOftdcit aeoeMaiy for you to gt

SNCORSS.

iowa In ih« mlnM and examine them carefblly
in detail, and tliereff^re you Icnow all about the
silver-mining businfcss. , Now, what I want to
get at is— is, well, the way the deposits of ore
are made, you know. For instance. Now, as
I understand it, the vein which contains the
silver is sandwiched in between castings of
granite, and runs along the ground, and sticks
up like a curbstone.

"Well, take a vein forty feet thick, for ex-
ample, or eighty, for that matter, or even a
hundred,— pay you go down on it with a shaft,
straight down, you know, or with what you
call the 'inclines,' maybe you go down five
hundred feet, or maybe you don't go dovn but
two hundred, any way you go down, and all
the time this vein grows narrower, when the
castings come nearer or approach each other,
you may say, that ia when they do approach'
which of course they do not always do, partic-
ularly in cases where the nature of the forma-
tion is such that they stand apart wider than
they otherwise would, and which geology has
failed to account for, although everything in
that science goes to prove that, all things being
equal, it would if it did not, or would not cer-
tainly if it did, and then of course they are.
Do not you think it is? "

I said to myself: "Now I just knew how it
would be,— that cussed whiskey cocktail has
done the business for me; I don't understand
any more than a clam." And then I said
aloud, "I— I— that is— if you don't mind,
would you— would you say that over again? I
ought—"
"0, certainly, certainly I You see I am very

209

unfamiliar with the subject, and perhaps I don't man could ask me."

hundred (It don't reaJljr matter), b«fore jo*
drift; and then you start your drifts, some o/
them across the ledge, and others along the
length of it, where the sulphurete— I believe
they call them sulphureta, though why they
should, considering that, so far as I can see,
the main dependence of a miner does not so
lie, as some suppose, but in which it cannot be
successfully maintained wherein the same
should not continue, while part and parcel of
the same ore not committed to either in the
sense referred to, whereas, under different cir-
cumstances, the most inexperienced among ui
could not detect it if it were, or might over-
look it if it did, or scorn the very idea of such
a thing, even though it were palpably demon-
strated as such. Am I not right?"

I said sorrowfully: "I feel ashamed of my-
self, Mr. Ward. I know I ought to understand
you perfectly well, but you see that infernal
whiskey cocktail has got into my head, and
now I cannot understand even the simplest
proposition, I told you how it would be."

"0, don't mind it, don't mind it; the fault
was my own, no doubt,— though I did think it
clear enough for—"

"Don't say a word. Clear I ^Vhy, you stated
it as clear as the sun to anybody but an abject
idiot, but it's that confounded cocktail that has
played the mischief."

"No, now don't say that. I'll begin it all
over again, and—"

"Don't now,— for goodness sake, don't do
anything of the kind, because I tell you my
head is in such a condition that I don't believe
I could understand the most trifling question a

present my case clearly, but I—"

"No, no— no, no— you state it plain enough,
but that vile «iocktail has muddled me a little.
Bat I will,— no, I do understand, for that mat-
ter; but I would get the hang of it all the bet-
ter if you went over it again,— and I'll pay
better attention this time."

He said, "Why, what I was after, was this."
[Here he became even more fearfully impres-
sive than ever, and emphasized each particular
point by checking it off on his finger ends.]

This vein, or Indn nr \iu\aa rtf nl.n«,...»_ ,,

call it, runs along between two layers of gran-
ite, just the same as if it were a sandwich.
Very well. Now, suppose you go down on
tMi uj a thousand feet^ or may^ twelve

"Now, don't you be afraid. I'll put it so
plain this time that you can't help but get tha
hang of it. We will begin at the very begin-
ning."^ [Leaning far across the table, with
determined impressiveness wrought upon his
every feature, and fingers prepared to keep
tally of each point as enumerated; and I,
leaning forward with painful interest, resolved'
to comprehend or perish.] "You know the
vein, the ledge, the thing that contains th«
metal, whereby it constitutes the medium be-
tweea all other forces, whether of present or
remote agencies, so brought to bear in favor of
the former against the latter, or the latter
against the former, or all, or both, or compro-
mising u possible tb« rektive 4iffer«ii««

soo

ENCOBSS.

•xistifig within tbe rtdios whenre culminate
the MTeral degrees of gimilarity to which — "

I said: "O, blame my wooden head, it ain't
any use, — it ain't any use to try, — I can't un-
derstand anything. The plainer you get it the
more I can't get the hang of it."

I heard a suspicious noise behind me, and
turned in time to see Kingston dodging behind
a newspaper, and quaking with a gentle ecstasy
of laughter. I looked at Ward again, and lie
had thrown off his dread solemnity and was
laughing also. Then I saw that I had been
sold, — ^that I had been made the victim of a
swindle in the way of a string of plausibly
worded sentences that didn't mean anything
under the sun.

Artemus Ward was one of the best fellows
in the world, and one of the most companion-
able. It has been said that he was not fluent
la conversation, but, with the above experi-
ence io my mind, I differ.

A SCRIPTURE STORY IN A
FORM.

NEW

FABO bill's first ATTEMPT AT FBEACHIK6
THE GOSPEL.

Leadville, Colorado, has experienced relig-
ion, and Faro Bill, one of its most distinguish-
«d citizens, preached the other day, in the ab-
sence of— as he expressed it — " the boss mouth-
piece of the heavenly mill," to a large and se-
lect audience, in the variety theatre of the
place, used on Sunday as a church. This is
the way the substitute began :

" Feller citizens, the preacher bein' absent,
it falls on me to take his hand and play it fur
all it is worth. You all know that I'm just
leamin' the game, an' of course I may be ex-
pected to make wild breaks, but I don't believe
there's a rooster in the camp mean enough to
take advantage o' my ignorance and cold deck
me right on the first deal. I'm sincere in this
new departure, an' I believe I've struck a game
that I can play clear through without copperin'
• bet, for when a man tackles such a lay out
■s this he plays every card to win, and if he
Mp^wvn 4^tiiif\t.fw|| iH'^ f^f*.iil &?, he orter do whon ho
lays down to die an' the last case is reddy to
jlide from the box he can call the turn every

about the Prodigal Son, and I W4st to t«ll jot
the story. The book don't give no dates, bat
it happened long, long ago. This Prodigal
Son had an old man that put up the coin every
time the kid struck him for a stake, an' never
kicked at the size of the pile, either. I recon
the old man was pretty well fixed, an' when he
died he intended to give all his wealth to this
kid an' his brother. Prod gave the old man a
little game o' talk one day, and induced him
to whack up in advance o' the death racket.
He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist than he
shook the old man an' struck out to take in
some o' the other camps. He had a way-up
time for awhile, and slung his cash to the front
like he owned the best playin' lead on earth ;
but hard luck hit him at last an' left him flat
The book don't state what he went broke on,
but I reckon he got steered up again some
brace game. But anyhow he got left without k
chip or a four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An
old granger then tuk him home an' set him t«
herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up wa!
hungry that he piped off the swine while they
were feedin,' and he stood in with them on a
shuck luncix. He soon weakened on such
plain provender, and says to himself, says he:
" Even the old man's hired hands are livin' on
square grub, while I'm worrin' along here on
com husks straight. I'll just take a grand
tumble to myself, an' chop on this racket at
once. I'll skip back to the governor and try to
fix things up, and call for a new deal.' So otf
he started."

The old man seed the kid a-comin,' and what
do you reckon he did? Did he pull his gun
and lay for him, intendln' to wipe him as soon
as he got into range ? Did he call the dogs to
chase him off the ranch? Did he hustle
round for a club and give him a stand off at
the front gate? Eh ? Not to any alarming ex-
tent he didn't ; no sir. The Scripture book
says he waltzed out to meet him, and froze to
him on the spot and kissed him and then
marched him off to a clothing store, and fitted
him out in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin.
Then the old gent invited all the neighbors,
and killed a fiit calf, and gave the biggest blow,
out the camp ever seen."

**I waa readin' in th* Bibl« io-daj that yam

The repentence which cuts off all moorings
to evil, demands something moss thao saliih
fear.— G>eorvs £IM»

THE STAMPEDE.
July 1849. Robert C. V. Myers.

EXCORES.

Oh, me I that awful day in hot July,
When man and beast were maddened by the
drought I

The emigrants from the dozen wagons there
Languidly ate the dinner that they must.
The glaring sun a pitiless enemy;
For many hours, of water not a drop.

The horses with wild eyes all blood-bespecked,
And man and woman panting, thirsting, drear,
More miles to go or yet a stream will ilow
Before enraptured vision ; meanwhile to eat.
The baked flesh for the little moisture there.

Quiet and still the palpitant hot air
'Most soUd in its press of crystal strength.

"Hush, hush, my child ! " a girlish mother sings

Unto the moaning babe upon her breast,

" ' Tis only five short hours, and water then."

"Yes, yes," say all « but five short hours more.
And then this torment will be past and gone."

Then silence comes again, mute languid woe,
Save for the mother singing to her child.

Suddenly a horse, erst jaded, listless, lifts
His head, and glaring fixedly to East,
Utters a neigh of shrill anxiety,
The men look up, no sign of ambush near,
No sign of foes about. They sit again.

"Hush, hush, my child," the girlish mother sings.

Another moment, and the horses pull

At straining lariaU with wild frightened cries.

" Hush, hush, my child ! » the girlish mother sings.

There is a sullen trembling of the earth,

A man, with foce blanched paler far fh.-in death

Or grim privation makes it, starts and shouts,

"A buffalo stampede I The animals

Are wild for water I To the wagons I— go I

To the wagons ! "

Women shriek, ihey scarce know why.
Men tremble in excess of ' wildered dread.

« Hush, hush, my child I " the girlish mother sings.

"To the wagons !-thert is time, bare Hme for
thatl"

jni

And it Is so- and she, the moUier jom^m,

W.1II sings a little, " Hush, Oh, hush, my child I ••

Then from the canvas covert look they forth
Their horses crazed with fear. And thi^ thty
see — '

A mighty wave on coming, hundreds, aye.
And thousands of the maddened buflfeloes,
A mighty living mass that sweeps and goes.
With blazing eyes and foam-beclothed mouths
That roar in anger for the water cool.
On, on it comes, the great vast, surging wave,
A wave full two miles long and near as wide,
Down m its might upon the little camp .
Where cries fly out up to a calm blue heaven.

Nearer, and nearer, yea, and nearer still.
Strait on the camp, irrevocable, dire.
Shrieks of the women, the faint cry of babes.
The scream tethered horses, the reports
Of rifles seeking what they fain would do,
A rush, a roar, a crash '—And far away
Rolls the great wave of black and awful life.

And where the camp, the Wagons, horses, aU

The many human souls of bravery ?

Aye, blotted out, evanished, not a sign

To tell of what there was, nought, nought bat

dust
And the red sun above, the palpitant heat,
The silence and the drought of mid July,
Save a wee babe that in the rolling dust
Feels the chiU creeping in its mother's bieast

SAND.

I OBSERVED a locomotive in the railroad yards om
day —

It was waiting in the round-house where the locomo-
tives stay ;

It was panting for the journey, it was coaled and Adk
manned,

And it had a box the fireman was filling foil of sand

It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip
On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the wheels are

apt to slip ;
And when they reach a slippery spot, their tactics

they command.
And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprinkle it with

sand.

It's about this way with travel along life's slippen
track, '

" '^"b^ " '**''" """"^ "** '"'"'" *^^'^ '"'^'"«

tjyaORBS.

to, U • co m mo n locomotive you completely under>

■tend,
Yoall supply yourself, in starting, with a good supply

ofssnd.

If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy

grade,
And if these who've gone before you have the rails

quite slippery made.
If you ever reach the summit of the upper tablelandi
Yott^ll find you'll have to do it with a liberal use of

sand.

If you strike some frigid weather and discover to

your cost
That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost
Then some prompt, decided action will be called

into demand.
You'll slip way to the bottc.n if you haven't any sand.

Yon can get to any sUtion that is on life's schedule

seen,
If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambition's strong

machine ;
And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate

of speed that's ^..-and.
If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of

PILKIN'S LANDLADY.

BY A. W. BKLLAW.

Hs sat upon the curbstone a-tearing of his hair.
Occasionally he would groan, occasionally swear ; —
" My friend," said I, " in deep distress you really

seem to be ;
Let np a little on your grief and tell the cause to me."

He drew a well-blown handkerchief and blew his

mournful nose.
Then throwing up a sigh or two, he said, " Well,

here it goes.
It's my landlady, so it is, as gives me all this pain,
And if you're not particular, I'll speak out pretty

plain.

She's crosser than her knives and forks when first her

table's set ;
She's sourer than her pickles are, and always on the

fret;
She's sharper than her carving-knife, and, like her

pies, reserved.
And fierier than her pepper-sauce, and quite high

strung and nerved.

She waits upon the /ci/t but not upon the guest
The moment that your week is up you get a quick re-
quest;

And if whene'er your weel^is out, you say that you' r«

out, too.
You get a slice of tongue, not cold and something of

a stew.

She has her dinners always late, but breakfast is too

soon;
There's nothing in her tea^ unless it is, perhaps, a

spoon;
She's colder than her coffee is, and crusty as her pies ;
She holds her head high as her terms— that's weekly

on the nse I

Her will is harder than her beds, and tougher than

her steaks ;
Her smile b scarcer than her tarts and sickly as her

cakes ;
She's distant like her best preserves of which we only

dream.
And she dispenses with remarks just as she does with

cream.

You'd no more touch her with appeal than you could

tourh her hash ;
The only thing she freely gives is your receipt for

cash."
He sobbed. Said I, " Why don't you leave ? " Said

he, " You must be drunk ;
Though weaker than her coffee is, tJUtt woman holdt

my trunk/"

-»>:-

UNROMANTIC.

They were sitting close together

In a pleasant, shady nook ;
They looked at one another

With a loving, longing look ;
Then Edwin broke the silence.

And with emotion shook.
As he softly, sofily whispered,

" Angelina, can you cook ? "

His anxious face grew tranquil,

Angelina whispered, " Yes ; "
His thoughts of well-cooked dinner*

No language could express.
His hand sought Angelina's

In a lingering caress ;
Then he said, " O, Angelina,

Did you make or iuy that dress ? "

Edwin's heart grew — oh, so joyful I

For she always made her frocks ;
And lightly strayed his fingers

Over Angelina's locks.
While they gazed upon the roses.

The pinks; and hollyhocks.
Then again he summoned courage,^

" Could you — darn a pair of socks ? *■
Poor Cupid near them hovered

And he listened in dismay—
" I see I am not needed —

I'm only in the^ay —
Cool, calculating Common-Sense

Holds undisputed sway."
Then he wept as Edwin whispendt

"Angelina, name the day.**

THE RAILROAD THROUGH THE FARM.

SAM WALTER FOS8.

There's thet black aboraeraation, that big locomr
live thtre.

Its smoke-uil like a pirut-flag. a-wavin' through the
air;

An' I mut' set, twelve times a day, an' never raise
my arm.

An' see thet gret black monster go a-snortin' through
my farm.

My fatL.f'. farm, my grandsir's farm,— I come of
Pilgrim stock,—

Mygreat-great-great-great-grandsir's farm, way back

to Plymouth Rock ;
'Way back in the sixteen hundreds it was in our

family name, I

An' no man daiel to trespass till that tootin' railroad
came.

I sez. « You can't go through this farm, you hear it
fl»t an' plain I "

Au' then they Ubbled about the right of « emiennt

domain."
"Who's Eminunt Domain ? " sez I. « I want you

folks to see

Thet on this limn there ain't no man as eminunt as
me."

ENCORES.

803

Ding-ding, toot-toot, yon bbusk ol' fiend, you'U find

Wen you come back,
An' or rail fence, without no bars, built straight

across the track.

An' then you stuck-up doods inside, you Pullman

upper crust.
Will know this codger'il hold his farm, an' let the

railroad bust.

You'll find this railroad all fenced in-'twont do no

good to talk—
If you want to git to Boston, w'y jest take yer lain

an' walk.

An' w'en their gangs begun to dig I went out with a
gun.

An' they rushed me off to prison till their wretched

work wuz done.
" If I can't purtect my farm," sez I, « w'y, then, it's

my idee,

You'd better shet off callin' this • the country of the
free.' " '

There, there, ye hear it toot again an' break the

peaceful calm.
I tell ye, you black monster, you've no business on

my farm !

An' men ride by 13 stovepipe haU, an' women loll in
silk.

An- lookin' in my barnyard, say, « See thet ol' codger
milk I " *

Git off my farm, you stuck-up doods, who set in
there an' grin.

I own thi« farm, railroad an' all, an' I will fence it
ini

ONCE UPON A TIME.
Margaret Vandegript.

Oh, yes, he's a decent young fellow ;

I've nothing against him, my dear;
And it's likely he thinks he u courting.

And it's wholesome, a bit of a fear.
But when I think back to my girihood.

And your grandfather, he was the boy !
If these days were those days, my darling,

By this I'd be wishing you joy.

He courted at fair and at frolic ;

He toasted me more than he ought.
And I don't like to think, to this day, dear.

How he looked the day after he fought,
'Twas all a mistake that he fought for ;

The other boy wasn't to blame •
Twas only a fancy of Talbot's

That Mike laughed in speaking my name.

And the ways Talbot asked me to have him !

He'd not even pass me the tea,
But he'd look in my eyes and then whisper

•• If I was that teacup, machree ! "
If I gave him my hand just in friendship,

He'd sigh to his boots or as deep.
And say in his beautiful accents,
'• Ah, when can I have it to keep?"

It seemed that I cc- "dn't well help it;

I just plagued him out of his life.
Though still to myself I kept saying

That I should some day be his wife.
And then eamc the day of the jaunt, dear:

"Twas to an old

ruin we went :

And he wandered me off with himself,
And I, for the once, was content

like.

1 I l\

i F »

801^

ENCORES.

I fiuciad « little blue 4owtr

That grew in the crack of the wall,
And he climbed like a goat till he'd pick it,

And some way he managed to fall.
I don't know to this day how I did it ;

He'd have slipped to bis death, at the last ;
But I caught his two feet in my hands, dear,

And held for his life safe and fast. '

And that boy, as he hung upside down there.

And groping about for his life,
Calls up : '< you've my fate in your hands, dear,

Let go if you'll not be my wife ! "
Co.;J<' T murder him ? No, that I couldn't t

I ' ' <.e him no answer at all,
I only held fast till he'd managed

To catch his two hands on the wall.

I stood there all laughing and crying.

And, well, you might fancy the rest
If you could ; but these days are so different,

And each thinks her own day the best.
There'll not be another like Talbot,

No matter the day or the year.
And your boy's nice, quiet, well-mannered ;

I hope you'll be happy, my dear I

-:o:-

FOLDED HANDS.

ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE.

Poor tired hands that toiled so hard for me,
At rest before me no-? I see them lying.

They toiled so hard, and yet we could not see
That she was dying.

Poor, rough, red hands that drudged the livelong
day.

Still busy when the midnight oil was burning ;
Oft toiling on until she saw the gray

Of day returning.

If I could sit and hold those tired hands.
And feel the warm life-blood within them beating,

And gaze with her across the twilight lands,
Some whispered words repeating,

I think to-night that I would love her so.
And I could tell my love to her so truly.

That, e'en though tired, she would not wish to go.
And leave me thus unduly.

Poor, tired heart that had so weary grown,
That death came all unheeded o'er it creeqing.

How still it is to sit here all alone,
While she is sleeping.

Dear, patient heart that deemed the heavy cart
Of drudging household toil its highest duty ;

That laid aside its precious yearnings there
Along with beauty.

Dear hern and hands, so pulseless, still, and cold
(How pv-acefully and dreamlessly, she's sleeping!)

The spotless shroud of rest about them fold.
And leave me weeping.

A FAIR ATTORNEY.

S. M. PECK.

Alas I the world has gone away.

Since Cousin Lillian entered college.
For she has grown so learned, I

Oft tremble at her wondrous kuowledge.
Whene'er I dare to woo her now,

She frowns that I should so annoy her.
And then proclaims, with lofty brow,

Her mission is to be a lawyer.

Life glides no more on golden wings,

A sunny waif from El Dorado ;
I've learned how true the poet sings.

That coming sorrow casts its shadow.
When tutti-frutti lost its spell,

I felt some hidden grief impended ;
When she declined a caramel

I knew my rosy dream had ended.

She paints no more on china plaques.

With tints that would have crazed Murillo,
Strange birds that never plumed their backs

When Father Noah braved the billow.
Her fancy limns, with brighter brush.

The splendid triumphs that await her.
When, in the court, a breathless hush

Gives homage to the queen debater.

'Tis sad to meet such crushing noes

Frona eyes as blue as Scottish heather ;
'Tis sad a maid with cheeks of rose

Should have her heart bound up in leather.
'Tis sad to keep one's passions pent.

Though Pallas's arms the fair environ ;
But worse to have her quoting Kent

When one is fondly breathing Byron.

When Lillian's licensed at the law

Her fame, be sure, will live forever ;
No barrister will pick a flaw

In logic so extremely clever.
The sheriff will forget his nap

To feast upon the lovely vision,
And e'en the Judge will set his cap

At her and dream of love Elysian.

— Argonaut,

THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS,

No«r r» got a notion in my head dat when you come

to die.
An- stand de 'lamination in de Cote-house in de sky.
You 11 be 'stonished at de quesUons dat d« angel's

gwine to ax "

When he gits you on de witness-stan' an' pins you

todefac's;
•Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout your doins

u> de night.
An' de water-million question's gwine to bodder

you a sight I

Den your eyes'll open wider dan dey eber done
befo'.

When he chats you 'bout a chickenscrape dat hap-

pened long ago!
Df angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky Way
Keeps a-watchin' what yerdribin' atan' hearin' what

you say :

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar
you's gwine,

Dey's mighty apt to find it out an' pass it 'long de
line ; *

An' of 'en at de meetin' when you make a fuss an
laff—

Why, dey send de newn a kitin' by de golden tel-
egraph;

Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a-settin' by de
gate, '

Jes' reads de message wid a look an' claps it on de
slate I

Den you better do your juty well an' keep your con-
science clear.

An' keep a-lookin' straight ahead an' watchin' whar
you steer;

.Cause arter while de time'll come to journey fumde
Ian', '

An' dey'll take you way up in de a'r an' put you on
de Stan' ;

Den you'll hab to listen to de clerk an' answer
mighty straight.

Ef you ebbef 'spec' to trabble f«» de alabaster
gate!

BNCOMSa.

The good mate said : « Now let us pray,
For lo ! the very stars are gone,

Speak, Admiral, what shall I say ? "
" Why, «ay : < Sail on ! s«il on ! and on ! • "

" My men grow mutinous day by day ;

My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray

Of salt wave washed hisswalhy cheek
•• What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? "
" ^'^y yo" shall say at break of day ;

• Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! '"

They sailed and sailed, as winds m.ght blow.

Until at last the blanched mate said :
" Why now not even God would know

Should I and dl my men fall dead ;
These very winds forget their way.

For God from these dreaded seas is gone
Now speak ; brave Admiral, .speak and say-"

He said : « Sail on ! sail on I and on ! "

They sailed they sailed, then spoke the mate ,

X his mad sea shows its teeth to-night.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite !
Brave Admiral, say but one good world ;

What shall we do when hope is gone ? "
The words leapt as a leaping sword ;

" Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on I ••

Then pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah that night
Ofalldarknighte! And then a speck-

Alight! Alight! A light I Alight!
" grew, a straight flag unfurled !

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world ; he gave that word

Its grandest lessons: "On .'and on!"

COLUMBUS.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

BitHmDhifl.!.y,hs gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules ;

before him not the gh9st of shoro^
Before him only shoreless seas.

' DRINK DEEP THE SPIRIT OF THE QUIET
HILLS."

Drink deep the spirit of the quiet hills !

Teaching they have for our too restless lives.
Could we but fix so fast our restless wills

That softest sun nor storm that maddest drives
Could move us from the nn«U»r.bJs right

We too might breath, some holy eventide.
Wah hearts wide open, that divine delight

To our inconstant longings now denied.

F.W.B.

I. ■ ij

■ '"■ft \m- J

lie ill

THE ENGLISH SPARROW.

SD. s. f::;ley.

You may talk about th' nightingale, th' thrush
'r inedder lark,

'R' any other singin' bird thet came from Noah's
ark ;

But of all feathered things thet fly, from turkey-
buzzard down.

Give me th' little sparrer. with his modest coat
o' brown.

I'll admit thet in th' springtime, when th' trees
're gettin' green,

When again th' robin red-breast 'nd th' blue-
bird first 're seen ;

When the bobolink 'nd blackbird from th'
southland reappear,

'Nd the crow comes back t' show us thet th'
spring is really here^

I'll admit thet in the springtime, when th' groves

with music ring,
Natur' handicaps th' sparrer; he was never

taught to sing ;
But he sounds th' Maker's praises in his meek

'nd lowly way ;
'Nd tho' other birds come back at times, Ae

never goes away.

There's a cert'in sort o' people thet, when th*
skies 're bright,

Will hang around 'nd talk about their friend-
ship day 'nd night ;

But if things cloudy up a bit 'nd fortune seems
t' frown.

They're sure t' be th' first t' kick a feller when
he's down.

So, when the summer skies 're bright it's easy

'nough t' sing ;
But when it's cold 'nd rains 'r snows it's quite a

difTrent thing.
In autumn, when th' nippin' frosts drive other

birds away,
Th' sparrer is th' only one with nerve enough

t* stay.

'Nd even in midwinter, .when th' trees 're

brown 'nd bare,
'Nd th' frosty flakes 'r« fallin' thro' th' bitter,

bitin' air,

3oe

Th' sparrer still is with us — t' cheer us when

we're glum,
Fer his presence is a prophecy of better days t'

come.

Th' sparrer's never idle, fer he has t' work his

way:
You'll always And him hustlin' long before th'

break o' day.
He's plucky, patient, 'heerful, 'nd he seems t'

say t' man,
" I know I'm very little, but I do th' best I can."

What more can you 'nd I do than t' always do

our best ?
Are we any more deservin' than th' "little

British pest"?
So, when you talk of "feathered kings" you'd

better save a crown
Fer the honest little sparrer, with his modest

coat o' brown.

GO IT ALONE.

There's a game much in fashion, I think it's
called euchre —

Tho' I never have played it for pleasure ov
lucre —

In which, when the cards are in certain condi-
tions.

The players are said to have changed their po-
sitions,

And one of them cries in a confident tone,

I think I may venture to go it alone.

While watching the game* 'tis a whim of the

bards,
A moral to draw from this skirmish of cards,
And to fancy he sees in this trivial strife
Some excellent hints for the battle of life
In which, be the prize a ribbon or throne.
The winner is he who can go it alone.

When Keppler, with intellect piercing afar.
Discovered the law of each planet and star ;
When doctors who ought to have lauded his fame
Derided his learning and blackened his name,
I can wait, he replied, till the truth you shall

own
For he felt in his heart he could go it alone.

I whim of the

When great Galileo proclaimed that the world
In a regular orbit was ceaselessly whirled
And got not a convert for all of his pains '
And only derision and prison and chains'
It moves for all that, was his eclioing tone
For he knew like the world, he could go it alone.
Alas, for the coward who idly depends
In the struggle of life, upon kindred or friends ;
Whatever the value of blessings like these.
They can never atone for inglorious ease
Nor comfort the laggard who finds with a'groan
That his crutches have left him to go it alone.
In pleasure or buiness, whatever the game
In law or in love, 'tis ever the same.

In the struggle for power or the scramble for
pelf.

Ut this be your motto : Rely on yourself.
And whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The wmner is he who can go it alone.
:o:

ENCORES.

PURELY PLATONIC.

MARY R. LOWTHER.

Yes, there was no doubt of it in her
mind. Had they not always been friends,
in the truest acceptation of that term ?

" Friends for time and eternity " was the
oath renewed between them only that after-
noon. And now he was going away !

"The beauty of a platonic friendship
shows strongly where absence and distance
obtrude themselves. Nothing affects the
course of that soul-union, that mutual
understanding, that sympathetic bond of fel-
lowship. Mere separation— it but strength-
ens the tie." So she argued. So she be-
lieved.

The shadows lengthened. The tall clock
tickmg vindictively in thecorner of the dark-
ening room suggested unpleasant thoughts.
"Time," it said, " is slipping away, slipping
away, slipping away. We are hurrying on,
hurrying on, hurrying on. Change, change,
change, and ever and again, change."

" No, it cannot be so with our friendship,"
she murmured. The usual ones terminate in
love. "Love for me?" and she instinct-
ively glanced at the mirror, which pictured

a face where care and sorrow had pencilled
heavy lines, and already had touched the
wavy chestnut hair with silver.

She turned away; her glance resting now
on the autumn view without. "The sea-
son's growing old-like me," she sighed.
" But in our friendship, change would be
yossiiU. O God, leave me that one
thing, only that. He is so true, so noble,
of finer metal than all others. To live with-
out him near me is nothing ; to live without
his friendship, everything."

"Can it be a tear," she questioned, as
something unmistakably like one ran over
the bridge of her nose, and down her cheek
"Now, this will never do," as another and
another, like a flock of foolish sheep, fol-
lowed the leader. " Of course it is but
natural I should feel-his going away. AH
partings are bitter, and he never left me be-
fore. Perhaps "

She broke off abruptly and started from
her seat, as the gravel on the walk crunched
beneath his heavy tread.

How it all happened she could not tell,
but, Platonic theories flung to the winds, she
was sobbing outright in his arms.

"I could not leave you so, dearest," he
pleaded. " I came back to tell you." She
interrupted him—
" It is best that you have come."

Short Stories,
o:-

WITH HEARTS ATTUNED.
I believe there is such a thing as taking
the pitch of Christian devotion in the morn-
ing, and keeping it all the day. J think we
might take some of the dullest, heaviest,
most disagreeable work of our life and set it
to the tune of Antioch and Mount Pisgah.
A violin, corded and strung, if something
accidently strikes it, makes music, and I
suppose there is such a thing as having our
hearts so attuned by divine grace that even
the rough collisions of life will make heavenly
vibration.-Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage. D. D

TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER.

■T T. 0. BARBACOK.

WAS a itylish congregation, that of Theo-

phnutus Brown,
And its organ was the fineit and the

biggest in the town,
And the chorua, all the papers favorablj

commented on iti
For 'twas said each female member had

a fortjr-dollar bonnet

Now in the "amen corner" of the charoh aat

Brother Eyer,
Who persisted ivery Sabbath-day in singing

with the choir ;
He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart

as snow was white,
And his old face beamed with sweetneu when

he sang with all hia might

His Toice was cracked and broken, age had
touched his vocal chords.

And nearly every Sunday he would mispro-
nounce the wtrds
'.[Of the hymns, and 'i was no wonder, he was old
and nearly blit\d.

And the choir rattling onward always left him
fitr behind.

The chorus stormed and blustered. Brother

Eyer sang too slow.
And then he osed the tunes in vogne a hundred

years ago;
At last the storm-cloud burst, and the chorch

was told, in fine.
That the brother must stop singing, or the choir

would resign.

Then the pastor called t(^ether in the lecture-

room one day
Seven influential members who subscribe more

than they pay,
And having asked God's guidance in a printed

prayer or two,
They put their heads together to determine

What to do.

' ^

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last

"dear Brother York,"
Who last winter made a million on a sudden

rise in pork,
Boae and moved that a committee wait at once

on Brother Eyer,
And proceed to rake him lively for " diaturbin'

of the choir."
808

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've bveatai

quite a pile,
And we'll sell it if we cannot wonhip inlha

latest style ;
Our Philadelphy tenor tells rae 'tis the hardest

thing
For tr. make God understand him when the

brother tries to sijg.

"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed

choir in town,
We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor. Brother

Brown}
But If we must humor ignorance because it's

blibd and old, —
If the choir '■ to be pestered, I will setk another

fold."

Of course the motion carried, and one day a

coach and fonr.
With the latest style of driver, rattled up to

Eyer's door ;
And the sleek, well-dressed committee. Brothers

Sharkey, Tor'/, and Lamb,
As they eroewed *ho humble portal took good

care to miss the jbnb.

They fbnnd the choir's great trouble sitting in

his old arm-chair.
And tho summer's golden sunbeams lay upon

his thin white hair {
He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice

both cracked and low,
But the angela understood him, 'twas allhe cared

to know.
Said York: " We 're hate, dear bwthar, with the

vestry's approbation,
To discuss a little matter that affects the congT»

gation ; "
« And the choir, too," srid Sharkey, giving Bro-
ther York a nndge,
" And the choir too ! " he echoed with the jrave-

ness of e judge.
"It was the nnderstandlng when we bargained

for the chorus
That it was to relieve ns, that is, do the singing

for us ;
If we rupture Uie agreement, it is very plain,

dear brother,
It will leave our congregation and be gobbled

byaiiadier-

''^* t^ r"* •■' ■•"^'^ ""•P* «»» what
wrrs boof ht I

Th. ^irnm «. «U th. »,• , »h. old on«
•una for naof ht t

Tt.oM mj. ,lo,l„.lrt H, j^

be did hemr,

And on his cheek the trio oeoght the glitter of .
tear J

Hie feeble hends podied Uek the locks white u

the allky enow,
lehe uswered the committee la « Toloe both

■weet and low : •

•«r». aong the paalm. of DaTid for nearly eighty
yean,

They'Te been my staff and comfort and calmed

life's many fears;
rm Sony I disturb the choir, perhapa Pm doinir

wrong; *

Bat when my heart Is filled with praise. I can't

keep back a song.

ElfCORBS.

ORANDMOTHER'S SERMON.

-I wonder If b^ond the tide that's bwaklnff at

my feet, *

In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master

lehallgreet,— ^^

Tee, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of

God np higher,
If the angel band will chuich me for dlstorbln*

heaven's choir." *

BT MXMT A. iu m mvt.

HE sapper la o'er, the hearth Is sweplk
And in the wood.flre's glow

The children olaster to hear a tale
Of that time so long ago,

^An^ f;«°«>=»'-l»i' wasgolden b«,wa.

And the warm blood came and went
O er the face that could scares have been
sweeter then

Than now In Its rich content.

The face Is wrinkled «.d careworn now.

And the golden hair Is gray ;
Bat the light that shone In the youn. £«'.

NoTer has gone awny. ♦ -^»»ne

And her needles catch thr fireUght

As In and oat they go.
With the clicking music that grandma l»v«.

Shaping the stocking toe^ '™»*»^

And the waiting children love It, too.

For they know the stocking song
Brings many a tale to gnmdma's mind

Which thqr shaU hare ere long.

AsOenceflUed thelittleroom; th. did man bowed

Ms bead;
Theearri.^ rattled on again, but Brother Eyer

wee dead I
res. deadi his hand had raised the tcU the

future hangs befon us.
And the Master dear had caUed hlmtotheerer

iMtlngchorufc ""erer.

The Choi, missed him fbr awhile, but h. was
«oon forgot, "was

A '•'^ «*"«*-goer» watched th. door; the old

DIM entered not.
^eway, his voice no loaimr «r.«i,«^ i,. .|-_,

iie heart's de8l«», " . "' »5ags

But It brings no stoiy of olden time
To grandma's heart to-night,—

Only a refrain, quaint and shor^
U Bung by the needles bright.

" Life Is a stocking." grandma mm.

" And yours is Just begun ;
But I am knitting the toe of mins^

And Toj work is almost dona.

" With meny hearts we begin to knit.

And the ribbing is almost pUy t
Some an gay-coloied, and some an wUtai

And some an ashen.gny. ^^

" But most an made of many hoes.
With many a stitch set wnng;

Ai^ many a row to be sadly ripped
En the whole Is fair and strong.

That in life an hard to bear ;
And many a weaiy tear is diopLi
As we ftshioo the ied with ctit,

ENCORES.

" Bat the uddut, happieit time !■ th«t
W« count »ud yet would ihun,
When our Ueftvenly Father breaks the thread,
And Mj» that our work ii doue."

The children came to nay good-night,
With teare in their bright young eyee,

But ia grandma't lap, with broken thread,
The Sniibed stocking lies.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ.

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climeB and Bnviah
ladies ;
It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of CaiMz.
A.lthough her eyes bo not of bitiB.

Nor fair her locks, like EogiLish
lasses,
How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses 1

Prometheus like, from heaven she stole
• The fire that through those silken

lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll.
From eyes that cannot hide their
flashes ;
And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses,
You'd swear each clustering lock
could feel,
And ourl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo.
And frigid even in possession ;

And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at love's confes-
sion :

But bom beneath a brighter sun.
For love ordain'd the Spanish maid

And who— when fondly, fairly won, —
'Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble.
And if she loves, or if she hate.

Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Iler heart can ne'er be bought or sold—

Howe'er it beats, it beat sincerely ;
And though it will not bend to gold,

'Twill love you long aud love you
dearly.

Tlio Spanish girl that nveets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock
denial,
For every thought is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.
When thronging foemen menace Spain,
She dares the deed and shares the
danger;
And should her lover press the plain,
She hurl's the sjjear, her love's
avenger.

And when, beneath the evening star,

She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or singe to her attuned guitar
Of Christian knight or Moorish
hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand
Beneath the twinkling rays of Hes-
per.
Or joins devotion's choral band,
To chant the sweet and hallow'd
vesper.

In each her charms the heart must
move
Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let no maids less fair reprove

Because her bosom is not colder : '
Through many a clime 'tis mine to
roam.
Where many, a soft and melting
maid is.

May match the dark-eyed girl of
Cadia. —•Lord Byron.

quette,
:remble,
I Late,
diuemblft
htorscld—
i sincerely ;
ind to gold,
d love you

In your love
h a mook

to prove
of trial,
enaco Spain,
[ shares the

18 the plain,
her love's

veniog star,

Bolero,

litar

or Moorish

fairy haod
rays of Hes-

band,

nd hallow'd

heart must

aehold her;
r reprove
ot colder: "
'tis mine to

and melting

»yed girl of
Lord Byron.

812

POUTING AND TEASING.

ONI.Y THE BRAKESMAN.

'ONSTANCE FENIIIOBE WOOLBOIT.

INLI the brakesman killed"— flay, was
' toat what they said 7

The brakesman was our Joe; so then
i —our Joe is dead I

I Dead ? Dead ? Dead ?-But I cannot
I think it's so ;

It was some other brakesman, it cannot be our
Joe.

Why, only this last evening I saw him riding past ;

The trains don't stop here often-go rushing by

as fast ° '

As lightning-but Joe saw me, and waved his

band; he sat
On the very last old coal-car; how do you 'count I

To meet me always at the gate, my bonnie Uttle
That he was kiUed alone and the others saved.

Fell on him ? But I don't beliere a wori.-r«

that's his chain,
And that's his poor old silver watch ; he bouchi

't-what's this stain ^

^" "''^ j*/^ Why, it is red 1-0 Joe. my boy,

Then it was you, and you are dead down in thai
tunnel. Go

And bring my boy backl He was all the son I

had ; the girls
Are very well, but not like Joe. Such pretty

golden curls

Joe had until I cut them off at fonpyean old; he
ran ' '

when he
Was last inside the tunnel? Come now. it

couldn't be.
It's some mjsteke, of course; 'twas the fireman.

you'll find : '

The engine struck the rook, and he was just
behind— ''

And the roof fell down on him, not on Joe, our

Joe. I saw
That train myself, the engine had work enough

to draw °

The coal-cars full of coal that rattled square and
black

By tens and twenties past our door along that
narrow track

On, into the dark mountains. I never see those

peaks
Thout hating them. For much they care whether

the water leaks
Down their sides to wet the stones that arch the

tunnels there
So long, so black, they all may go, and much the

mountams care 1

I'm sorry for that fireman I-What's that? I

don't pretend
To more than this. I saw that train, and Joe

Was at the srsd

't stand here

The very end, I tell you 1 Come don

What J It

and mock—

was the., Hght at thi..„d the tunnel They oZ

You don't remember him ? But then jouV.
only seen him when

He rides by on the coal-trains among the other
men,

All of them black and grimed with coal, and

circles round their eyes
Whizzing along by day and' night. -But yea

would feel surprised

To see how fair he is when clean on Sundays,
and I know ^^

You'd think him handsome then; 111 have-
God II forget I OJoc,

My boy I my boy J and are you dead? So
young,— but twenty.— Dead

Down in that awful tunnel, with the mountain
overhead I

They're bringing him? Oh, yes I I know; they'U

bring him and what's more,
They'll do it free, the companyl They'll leave

nim at my door

Just as he is, all grimed and black.-Jane, put
the irons on, '^

And wash h^ shirt, his Sunday-shirt; it's white;
ne did have one

White shirt for best, and proud he wore it Sunday
with a tie '

Of blue, a new one. O, my boy, how could th«
let you die

Crushed by those rweks! If VA k„„- .u «*

heaved

• I kn

Mved, the rock
19

. J .w^... uBvo uone It

I !•( /on die for oh—

lu (oem OB, 1 know

have done it if they'd tried. They

313

314

ENCORES.

* Only die brakesmaii i' and hii wage wm small.

The engineer
Must Srat be seen to there in front.— My God I it

stands as clear
Before my eyes as though I'd seen it all — the

dark — the crash —
The hissing steam — the wet stone sides — the arch

above — the flash

Of lanterns coming — and my boy, my poor' boy
lying there

Dying alone under the rocks ; only his golden
hair

To tell that it was Joe, — a mass all grimed, that
doesn't stir ;

But mother'il know you, dear, 'twill make no dif-
ference to her

How black with coal-dust you may be, your poor>

hard-working hands
All torn and crushed, perhaps ; yes, yes — but no

one understands
That even though he's better off, poor lad, where

he has gone,
I and the girls are lefl behind to stand it and

live on

As best we can without him I What? A wreath 7

A lady sent
Some flowers? Was passing through and heard,

felt sorry — well, 'twas meant
Kindly, no doubt ; but poor Joe'd been thd very

first to laugh
At white flowers round his blackened face. —

You'll write his epitaph—

What's that? His name and age? Poor boy I

poor Joe ! his name has done
Its work in this life; for his age, he was not

twenty-one,
Well grown but slender, far too young for such a

place, but then
H* wanted to ' help mother,' and to be among

the men.

For he was always trying to be old ; he carried
wood

And built the fires for me before he hardly under-
stood

What a fire was— my little boy, my darling baby
Joe—

Tkere's something snapped within my breast, I
tUnk i it hnrti me §•,

It must be something broken. What is that? I

felt the floor
Shake; there's some one on the step— Qo,

Jeannie, set the door
Wide open, for your brother Joe is coming home.

They said,
'Only the brakesman' — ^but it is my only son

that's dead 1"

TH2 VACANT CHAIR.

HEE need not close Ibe shutters yet;
and, David, if thee will,
I've something I would say to thee,

while all the house is etJll,
Thee Imows 'lis easier to talk in this
calm, quiet light,
Of things that in our busy days we hide away
from sight.

And home is wondrous sweet to me, this simple

home of ours,
As well I know it is to thee in all these twilight

hours;
But, since the shadow on it fell, does it appear to

thee
They are more sacred than of old, for so it serais

to mo?

And, David, since beside oar board has stood

Ruth's vacant chair,
I never yet have clasped my hands and bowed

my head in prayer
Bat I have felt the yearning strong to see the

vanished face,
And scarce, I fear, witb thankfulness have joined

the silent grace.

While oflen, at the evening meal, witb ai. our

children round,
I still have pictured to myself a low and silent

mound,
Bine with the early violela or white with winter

snow,
And felt a tender pity for the form there lying

low

Though morning may have cast a halo round ths

yacant chair,
The sunlight only threw for me a silent shadow

thtra.

ajB we hide away

And, T>a^d, I haVe watched the aUn when thee

has been asleep ;
For well thee knows I could not bear to have

thee see me weep.

And yet I never have rebelled,-thee knows I

speak the truth,—
Though some have said I grieve too much for our

sweet daughter Ruth.
But, with the strongest yearning, I can always

look above.
And feel the Father does not chide the changeless

human love.

ENCORES.

f cannot put it into words, I know I need not try ;
For thee has understood it all,-borne with me
patiently.

rhy cares and duties, it is true, are heavier than

mine.
But of their deeper feeliugs men make slight

outward sign.

And, David, thee has «omet;mj>b thought it

strange that I should care
To wreathe with flowers and evergreens our

daughter's vacant chair.
Yet I so long to keep her gentle memory gweij

and sweet
For all the children, though her name I seldom

now repeat

I cannot seem to speak it with a quiet, rest'ul

tone,
Though often, in their thoughtless way, they name

the abseit one ;
And yet this morn I tried to tell them in a gentle

way
n .. ,j , I -..O..DU auu warm.

Ruth would have counted eighteen years, had she And w.ll r v

been here to-day,- ^""^ ''«" ^ know one thought alone should mak.

— - me reconciled,

31 S

Her face was glad" a"^^orified, aa if the jov
heaven * i ^

An added charm to that sweet smile we loved
below had given.

I know 'twas but a passing fancy filled the vacant
chair,

For, when I turned, a ray of sunshine seemed to
linger there.

But, David in my heart I've kept that vision all

day long,
While it l,a« seemed to lift, me up and make mr

taith more sfrong.

For T have felt through all, in some mysterious
way,

Ruth's silent presence may have filled her vacant
chair to day.

And though I thought this early mom I never
more could know

^ *™'^betw'*'^"' ^'"'* ''°' *" ""^ ^''*''"«'' •>«"

Since in our home the vacant chair stood ever in

my sight.
Yet, David, that was wrong I know, I see it all

to-night

A«d I shall try to picture Ruth nmid the angeU
now, ^

Not lying in that silent mound beneath the rain
and snow.

As I perhaps too oft have done on winter nighta
of storm, °

When all the others gathered round the fire so
Hushed and warm.

been here to-day,^

This bright Thanksgiving day; and then, to me

all unaware.
The children placed beside our board our daugh-

ter's vacant chair.
And now ih^ sees it, twined with flowers, stand

in the moonlight clear ;
David, I could not draw it back, but left it

standing there.

And it was strange, but, as I bowed my head in

silent grace,
I iaw our daughter sitting in her old accustomed

pIftCS !

I did not start nor speak, bat only felt a glad

to Bee

turprise

wondrooa

ugvlgnlaa.

fair •ha wh in »Q her

«ngel child.

And, David, if thee will, I yet would twine the
vacant chair,

There comes a time when men feel that (her
are born .„r„ a new earth, under a new heaved

they behold the sublimity of dutv • ihpv f-ul
Beives neirs of iinmorlalit "

ihe earth better than it

lity ; tl.ey long to make

;eedmg great joy in the privile^,

workers
•M indeed

with God. Then th
born Mffain

IS ; t'ley rejoice with ex^
re of heinu c^

ipy can aay: Yes, w«

"gain.— JSfenry Bkmchard.

816

EffCORES.
THE DELINQUENT SUBSCRIBER.

MARGARET A. OLDHAM

Worn and weary, seedy and sad, an editor sat

him down
'Mid work and rubbish, paper and dust, with

many a wrinkled frown,
He sighed when he thought of his paper bills,

his rent, and board and wood.
And groaned when the copy fiend yelled out,

as he there in the doorway stood.

"What do people fancy," he said, "an editor

lives upon ?
Air and water, glory and debt, till his toilsome

life is done ?
I'll stop their papers, every one, till their honest

debts they pay.
And mark their names oiT the mailing book for

ever and ever aye.

<• Take this copy, double lead, and mark with a

pencil blue.
And send to all who are in arrears, from ten

years down to two."
And then to the copy-hungry boy he handed a

penciled scrawl
Of hieroglyphics, straggling, wild, all tangled,

and lean and tall.

When scarce a fortnight had dragged its length
of tired-out hours away.

There came to the heart of the editor a glad-
some joy one day ;

'Twas only a letter from Gordon's Mill, in a
hand both weak and old.

But out of it fell a treasured coin of solid beau-
tiful gold I

The letter claimed his interest then, and so he

slowly read
The scrawled, but simple and honest words, and

this is what they said :
I>ear Editor : I read the lines you marked and

sent to me,
So I send this piece of gold and ask if you will

agree

To send my paper right along, and forget the

debt I owed,
For I've took your paper for twenty year, and so

far as e'er I know'd,
I never owed no man a cent till about four years

ago,
When my pcv;.r wife died, and the crops was bad,

and the fever laid me low.

" And times hain't never been the same to little

Liz and me —
For we are all that's left behind — and since my

eyes can't see.
She always reads the paper, and it's been our

only cheer
And brought us all the news and fun we've had

for many a year.

"I'm gettin' old and feeble, now, and down

with the rheumatiz,
And there's the paper left to me ; just that and

little Liz.
We couldn't bear to lose it now, it's been with

us so long.
Till its very name is music, like an old time

happy song.

" This twenty -dollar piece of gold will pay for

all I owe.
And what is over and above, just keep, and

let it go
Toward paying for the paper till a brighter,

better day ;
And send to Liz, she'll need it then, when I

am called away."

Glad and thankful the editor was, as he knew

that there was one
Who loved and could appreciate the work

that he had d ne.
lie felt that life w^as not in vain, and smiled

through happy tears;
And then on the mailing book he wrote : " Paid

up for twenty years."

ENCORES,
LIFE AT THREESCORE AND TEN.

THEODORE L. CUYLER,

817

In the steeple of every human life hangs a
bell, which by-and-by will begin to toll a
solemn knell. That bell rings in the years
as they come to us from God. As I listen
to-day to this bell of time, and count its
strokes, it keeps striking on and on until it
reaches three-score years and ten /

There is nothing frightful in the sound
Nay, rather is it the sweet music of silvery
chimes. Listening to these chimes, I catch
the far-away tones of a dear mother's voice
in a Christian home, calling me to her knees
in prayer. I hear again the merry laugh of
a very happy childhood. I hear the distant
echoes of school and college bells that sum-
moned me to gird for the work and the
wrestle of after life. Then, in God's good
time, came the great voice out of heaven to
my Fcul, bidding me into the Gospel minis-
try. Then, by-and-by, followed the melodi-
ous notes of a marriage bell, that has made
sweet music in my home for almost nine and
thirty years. Mingled with all these chimes
I seem to hear the trumpets that sounded the
calls to duty, and the bugle notes of holy
joy over many a service wrought for Christ
and many a soul led to the Saviour.

All these varied tones, for seventy long
years, blend in the harmonious chimes that
break upon my ear like a 'sevenfold chorus
of harping symphonies.' Let the chimes
ring on ! They have in them the jubilant
strain of the one hundred and third Psalm
Truly may I devoutly thank God for three-
score and ten years of superlative happiness
and abounding joy. With all their many
faults and failures, and all their many sins
and sorrows, I would not to-day change
places with any millionaire amid his treas-
ures, or any monarch on his throne. To the
tender mercies of my loving Redeemer,
whose atoning blood can cleanse each spot
and blot and blemish, I humbly commit the
wevocabl* record of the past The worst

part of It IS all my own; the best of it is
due entirely to Him who can use a frail
earthen vessel as the channel of His grace

AH, WHAT?

FREDERICK LANGLEY.

The room was ablaze, and the music was dyine
In soft, Imgering strains at the end of the
dance.

When she lifted the flowers, half laughing, half
sighing.

And gave me right shyly a rose and a glance.

A tender blush rose like the heart of a cupid
A glance like the opening of flowers in May •

But the rose had a thorn, and my finger was
crimsoned
And in the rose-petals a little elf lay.

She saw the small wound with a sweet pertur-
bation ;
With eyes softly pleading and lips half apart
She gave me her kerchief to bind up my fin-
ger —

Ah, what will she give me to bind up my
heart? '

—Judge.

THE LOST PENNY.

CAROLINE EVANS.

In little Daisy's dimpled hand
Two bright, new pennies shone ;
One was for Rob (at school just then),
The other Daisy's own.
While waiting Rob's return she rolled
Both treasures round the floor.

When suddenly they disappeared,

-.nd one was seen no more.
" Poo"" Daisy. Is your penny lost ? "

Was asked in accents kind.
" Why. no. mine's here ! " she quickly said ;
" It's Rob's I cannot find."

St. Nicholas.

]''H^hm

' M

'J 1

I-" 1 1

318

ENCORES.

WHY I LEFT THE FARM.

"You've been a good boy, Jim, good as kin

be:
There's that speckled calf— do you see him ?
Well, he's a Christmas gift for you, Jim.
He's not been doin' well this fall ;
He's got so he won't come when 1 call —
But you may have him for a Christmas gift ;
Go fetch him in 'fore he goes on the lift."
Well, I took that calf and I brought him in,
Though he war little but bones and skin.
I shelled him corn and I warmed him milk,
And I ^ring I had him as fine as silk.
I turned him gut in the spring to grass.
And he'd always come when he'd see me pass.
I rubbed him and loved him, and he loved

me ;
Why, the way he showed it anybody could see.
He'd do anything I'd tell him to ;
He'd gee and haw — anything a calf could do.
And he grew— well you never saw the beat ;
Why, he got too fat to stand on his feet. '

Of course, he was mine— they all knew that ;
Mother said that was why he got so fat.
The neighbors knew it, and asked me : "Jim,
What are you going to do with him ? "
I didn't know, I loved him so ;
I thought'd kill me to see him go
To be killed for beef. But I didn't say
A word about it. At last one day
When I had been workin' a-sawin' logs.
And shuckin' corn for the fattenin' hogs.
When I came home and went to see
My big fat steer, where could he be?
His stall was empty, dear, oh, dear !
What has become of my big fat steer?
Says father, a-smiling' — I can see him yet.
That smile o' his'n I can never forget—
'< Well, Jimmie, if it ..'". be any relief,
An' put a stop to your foolish grief,
I sold him to-day for a Christmas beef.
Hat ha! You know he was a Christmas

gift.
And I tell you he gave me a right smart lift
On that piece o' land just over the way
That you know I bought last Christmas day.
I've spent the money I got for him.
But I'll give you a calf in the morning, Jim."
That was all he said. I went to bed.
But not to sleep, for through my head
Ran thoughts of how he had treated me,
And nothing better ahead could I see:

I rolled and tumbled the most of the night.

Got up, left home before it was light.

My heart was broke, which was worse tiian

your arm.
And that is the reason I left the farm.

-:o:

ASHES.

A bachelor's reverie.

Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown.
Alone I puff my briar brown
And watch the ashes settle down

In lambent flashes ;
While thro' the blue, thick, curling haze
I strive with feeble eyes to gaze
Upon the half-forgotten days

That left but ashes.

Again we wander through the lane.
Beneath the elms and out again,
Across the rippling fields of grain

Where softly plashes
A slender brook 'mid banks of fern.
At every sight my pulses burn.
At every thought I slowly turn

And find but ashes.

What made my fingers tremble so

As you wrapped skeins of worsted snow

Around them, now with movements slow

And now with dashes?
Maybe 'tis smoke that blinds my eyet,
Maybe a tear within them lies ;
But as 1 puff my pipe there flies

A cloud of ashes.

Perhaps you did not understand

How lightly flames of love were fanned.

Ah, every thought and wish I've planned

With something clashes !
And yet within my lonely den,
Over a pipe, away from men,
I love to throw aside my pen

And stir the ashes.

^•Judge.

ENCORES.

TOO PROGRESSIVE FOR HIM.

LURANA W. SHELDON.

819

I AM somethin' of a vet'ran, just a turnin'
eighty year —

A man that's hale an' hearty an' a stranger tew

all fear ;
But I've heard some i.ews this mornin' that has

made my old head spin.
An' I'm goin' tew ease my con«huns if I never

speak ag'in.

I've lived my four-score years of life, an'

never till tewday
Wuz I taken fer a jackass or an ig'rant kind o'

jay, I

Tew be stuffed with such darned nonsense

b .t them crawlin' bugs an' worms
That's killin' human bein's with their •• mikro-

skopic germs."

They say there's "mikrobes" all about a-

lookin' fer their prey ;
There's nothin' pure tew eat nor drink, an' no

safe place tew stay ;
There's "miasmy" in the dewfall an* "ma-

lary" in the sun ;
•Taint safe to be outdoors at noon or when the

day is done.

There's •• bactery " in the water an* •• trikeeny "

in the meat,
A " meeby " in the atmosphere. '• calory " in

the heat ;
There's "corpussels" an' "pigments" in a

human bein's blood.
An' every other kind o' thing existin' sence the

flood.

There's men that spends a lifetime huntin*

worms just like a goose.
An' lakin- Latin names to 'em an' lettin' on 'em

loose.

Now. I don't believe sech nonsense, an' I'm

not a-goin' tew try.
If things has come tew such a pass, I'm satis-

tied tew die ;
I'll go hang me in the sullar. fer I won't be

such a fool
As to wait until I'm pizened by a '• annymally.

Terbacker's full o' •• nickerteen." whatever

that may be ;
An' your mouth'U all get puckered with the

"tannin" in the tea;
The butter's •< olymargareen "-it never saw a

cow;
An' things is gittin' wus an' wusfrom what they

be just now.

Them bugs is all about us, just a-waitin' fer a
chance

Tew navigate our vitals an* tew 'naw us off like
plants.

THE UNEXPECTED.

Scene. A family sitting-room. Dramatis
personae-Young lady, brother, father
mother, parrot. '

Enter young lady with a sealed letter in
her hand.

" Here is a letter from Fred Blossom It
IS postmarked Omaha. I never expected to
hear from him again."

Mother. "He is persistent enough, if
that is all." ** '

Father. "You were a goose to refuse
him, Edith. Young, good-looking and with
plenty of money, he's a catch for any girl "

Brother. "Don't you do it, sis. He's
the biggest prig in fourteen counties. Tell
him to stop asking you to marry him."

Parrot. «« Rats ! "

Edith. " I've reused him twice."
Father. " There's luck in odd numbers.
I ve heard say."

Mother. "Read the letter."

Edith. "Oh, it's the same old tedious
story. I suppose I might as well say yes
He's bound to worry me into marrying

Parrot. ' « You 're another. ' '

Father. " He'll give you a fine home
•nd a carriage to ride in. Don't be silly,
Edith You'll never get such a chance
again."

890

ElfCOBES.

f I

Edith. " I-beUeve-I-could-lovCrhim-if-
t-married-him. Well, then, this time it
shall be yes. Dear Fred ! How happy it
will make him to hear me say yes, at last."

Brother. "Read your letter, sis."
* Edith. "Oh, yes, the letter." Breaks
the seal and reads slowly :

"Dear Miss Edith— You will be gratified to
know that I am at last cured of my foolish passion
for you, and am soon to be married to the sweetest
and prettiest girl in Omaha. We will expect your
congratulations. " Fred Blossom."

Tableau Vivant. Curtain falls to slow
music Detroit Free Press.

MAMMY'S CHURNING SONG.

EDWARD A. OLDHAM.

Set still, honey, let ole Mammy tellyer 'bout de
churn, i

Wid de cream en clabber dashin',
En de buttermilk er-splashin'.
Dis de chune hit am er.singin' 'fore hit 'gin ter
turn:

Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa gib ole nigger some.

(Jump down, honey, en fotch me dat rag
fum de table, fer ter wipe ofT dis hyah led.
Tole yer so, dat milk gwine ter splatter up
hyah 'reckly ! Dar now, dat's er good chile,
git back in mer lap.)

Now de cream, en milk, en clabber's churnin'
up so fas',
Hyah hit splatterin' en er-splutterin'.
En er-mixin', en er-mutterin'.
In de churn en roun' de dasher, singin' ter de
las';

Jiggery. jiggery. jiggery, jum,
Bum-biim-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa gib old nigger some.

(Uh-er! Tcck kysh, honey, keep dem fin-
gers way fum dar ! Butter mos' come now :
set still jis' er leetle w'ile longer. )

Sooe de lumps ob butter '11 be er-floatin' on de
top —

Now de ole churn 'sfa'rly hummin',
Tell yer wot, de butter comin' —
Done come ! Mammy's arm so ti-yerd, now
she's gwine ter stop.
Jiggery. jiggery, jiggery, juni,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Mammy '11 gib de baby some.

(Dar now ! [removing the top and giving the
dasher a circular motion] jis' peep in dar en
see de lumps ob yaller butter er-huddlin' ter-
gedder. Now run fotch yer leetle blue mug,
en Mammy '11 gib yer some nice sweet butter-
milk right outen dis hyah churn.)

The Century.

-:o:

THY WILL BE DONE.

JOHN HAY.

Not in dumb resignation

We lift our hands on high ;
Not like the nerveless fatalist

Content to trust and die.
Our faith springs like the eagle

Who soars to meet the sun,
And cries exulting unto Thee,

O Lord, Thy will be done 1

When tyrant feet are trampling

Upon the common weal.
Thou dost not bid us bend and writhe

Beneath the iron heel.
In Thy name we assert our right

By sword or tongue or pen.
And even the headsman's axe may flash

Thy message unto men.

Thy will I It bids the weak be strong ;

It bids the strong be just ;
No lip to fawn, no hand to beg,

No brow to seek the dust.
Wherever man oppresses man

Beneath Thy liberal sun,
O Lord, be there Thine arm made bare,
Thy righteous will be done !

Harper's.

be er-floatin' on de

in made bare,

Nell an' me by the front gate stood.

Lookin- 'way off at Spencer's wood ;

Moon was beamin' on the night,

Givin' a sorter trem'lous light,

-That seemed ter glance from the lilacs there,

rtn fall n a flood on Nelly's hair.

I felt 's I hadn't fer many a week,

That now was the fittin'st time ter speak ;

So " Nell," I said in a bashful way,
" I've loved you allers night and day—

I love you better'n you kin think ;
Your smiles is wine as I ken drink.
I love you, sweetheart, through an' through.
Hones', I swear it, Nell, I do."
I squeezed her hand in fervent bliss.
An' capsheafd all with a lovin' kiss.
Then Nell she hove a little sigh,
An* looked at me so sweet an' sly,
'S she sed, surprised-like, <• Sho ! ' Why, Joe
I want ter know ! "

ENCORES,
I W4NT TER KNOW.

-:o:

WAKIN' THE YOUNG UNS.

JOHN BOSS.
[The old man from the foot of the stairs_s A. M.]
Bee-uU! Bee-ull ! OBee-ull! my gracious!
Air you still sleepin' ?
Th' hour hand's creepin'
Nearder five.
(War now, ef this 'ere ain't vexatious!)
Don't ye hyar them cattle callin'?
An' th* ole red steer a-bawlin' ?
Come, look alive !
Git up ! Git up !

Mar'ann ! Mar'ann ! (Jist hyar her snorin !)
Mar'ann! it's behoovin'
Thet you be a-movin' !
Brisk, T say !
Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin' ?
The kittle's a-spilin'
To git hisse'f bilin*.
It's comin' day.

Git up ! Git up !

LINGER, O GENTLE TIME.

Linger. O gentle Time.
Linger, O radiant grace of bright to-day I

Let not the hours' chime
Call thee away.
But Unger near me still with fond delay.

Linger, for thou art mine !
What dearer treasure can the future hold ?

What sweeter flowers than thine
Can she unfold ?
What secrets tell my heart thou hast not told ?

Oh, Unger in thy flight !
For shadows gather round, and should we part.
A dreary, starless night
May fill my heart-
Then pause and linger yet ere thou depart.

•

Linger, I ask no more—
Thou art enough forever-thou alone ;

What future can restore.
When thou art flown.
All that I hold from thee and call my own ?

THE KNIGHTS PLEDGE.
" I DRINK to one," he said.
" Whose image never may depart.
Deep graven on a gratefnl heart'.

Till memory be dead ;
To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have passed.

So holy 'tis and true ;
To one whose love hath longer dwelt
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,'

Than any pledged by you I "

Each guest upstarted at the word.
And laid a hand upon his sword.

With fiery flashing eye ;
And Stanley said -'We crave the name.
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,

Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would

Not breathe her name in careless mood

Thus lightly to another ;
Then lowly bent his head, as though
To give that name the reverence due.

And gently said : •• My mother I "

-;o:-

How much trouble he avoids who do«s
not look to see what his neighbor says or does
or thinks, but only to what he does himself,
that It may be just and pure I

329

ENCORES.
CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON.

REV. WAYLAND HOYT.

Mr. Spurgeon was a man of the most sin-
gular ability of self-marshalling and self-con-
trol. In this respect he alwa)'s reminded
me of Mr. Beecher. He seemed to
be absolutely sure of himself for any
moment for any occasion. At once his
powers would gather themselves in exact
order, and he could call on this or that at
will, as it was needed. I once said to Mr.
Beecher, "It cannot be called a labor for
you to preach." " No," he said, " it is
only a kind of involuntary labor." That
same singular ability of powers at once in
hand was evident in Mr. Spurgeon. His
pulpit preparations were always just before
each service. He once said to me that if he
were appointed to preach on some great oq-
casion six months beforehand, he should not
think at all of preparation for the duty until
just as the time struck — he would occupy
himself about other things. This surprising
power of quick self-control and marshalling
of powers gave him a perpetual conscious-
ness of ease. He had never the fear that he
would not be equal to the time. He knew
that when the moment came he would be
ready; so, instead of being strained and
anxious, his mind was in a beautiful open-
ness for whatever might flow in upon it.
And yet, especially in his earlier years, after
his preparation had been made, and just as
he was about to confront the throngs he
knew were gathering to listen to him, he
used to have the most fearful nervous anx-
iety, almost convulsions. He told me once
that for years and years in his early ministry
he never preached but that he had had be-
forehand the most straining time of vomiting.
His stomach was able to retain absolutely
nothing. In later yeart he vanquished this
nervous tendency. Nothing was more de-
lightful about Mr. Spurgeon than this evi-
dent childlike faith. That God should do
great things for him, through him, seemed

to him to be as much expected as that a
mother should meet the necessities of her
child. He had been telling me once about
the amount of money he must disburse ir
order to sustain his various enterprises. We
stopped talking for a little, and I sat looking
at him. He was as unconcerned as is a lit-
tle child holding its mother's hand. There
were no lines upon his brow, there was no
shadow of anxiety upon his face, only the
large, good-natured English smile. I was
thinking of the orphans he' must feed, the
old Christian women he must care for, the
professors' salaries in his Pastors' College he
must pay, the students he must supply with
teaching, many of them with bread and
clothing, since they were too poor to buy
these for themselves. I said to him : " How
can you be so easy-minded ? Do not these
responsibilities come upon you sometimes
with a kind of crushing weight?" He
looked at me with a sort of holy amazement
and answered : " No, the Lord is a good
banker ; I trust him. He has never failed
me. Why should I be anxious? "

:o:-

LOVE'S COMING.

MARIE JANREAU.

Love came to me, with weary eyes,
And begged me let him stay

Within my heart a little space
To rest him on his way.

His little wings were drooping so

That, out of pity sore
For them and his sleep-burdened lids,

I opened wide the door.

Ah me ! I would I had refused,

Nor let him in my heart ;
For now my life is raked with woe

For fear he will depart.

ENCORES.
THE GAMINS OF ROME.

T. SOGARD.

When I, one day during my stay in Rome,
got into a dispute with a cabman because
he, in addition to the regular fare, demanded
buona mansia—A tip—a little fellow six or
seven years old came up and said in a pa-
ternal, assuring tone:

" Sixty centime is enough, sir. The ras-
cal is very impudent ; don't you give him
any more.'^

In the same breath he asked me for a soldo
for the service rendered. I handed him a
coin, laughing at his grand airs, and he re-
ceived it with a condescending gesture as he
patronizingly said :

"Grazie, signor! a revider" ("I will
see yoii later ").

Then he hastily made his departure; for
the driver reached for his whip and' was
going to pay him for his meddling.

I had walked only a short distance when
another boy was at my side.

"Si, signor, you are quite right; this is
the road to St. Pietro and the Vatican— give
me a soldo! "

What a logical argument ! I drove him
off, of course. But a few minutes later a
third one bounded forward.

" My lord ! you are going to lose your
handkerchief."
That was another soldo.
I succeeded in dismissing also this fellow,
but only to come from the frying pan into
the fire ; for a bootblack, scarcely more than
five years old, was already making for me,
swinging his brushes as he began :
" Your boots, sir ! your boots ! "
I am not so extravagant as some of the
native Romans, who have their boots pol-
ished several times in a day, and I tried to
Ignore him. Then lie appealed to my self-
respect.

"But, my lord, such boots!" he ex-
claimed reprovingly, as he trottsd along by
my side. '« O Dio mio I what nasty boots I

O Santo Madre di Dio! what boots! 1
really pity you, sir. Indeed I such boots I
In fato ! I am sorry for you ! "

All this was uttered in a tone of the most
profound moral conviction, the most disin-
terested fellow-feeling of regret and sympa-
thy, as if I were a friend whom he had met
on a forbidden way. But when this appeal
failed, he dropped behind a few steps and
changed his tactics to a noisy persecution.

"Just look at that American. One can
always tell an American by his dirty boots."
That was too much for me. I concluded
to let the little imp shine my boots rather
than to see the entire American people ex-
pelled from the family of well-polished na-
tions — Detroit Free Press.

-:o:.

OUR HARRY.

Only a careless, thoughtless lad,
Not very good, nor yet so bad.
Manhood and childhood just between.
This is our Harry— age fifteen.

Harry is merry and active and gay,
Ready for fun in a boy's own way ;
Fair of face and bright of mind.
Quick of temper, yet gently kind.

Only a careless, thoughtless lad,
Not very good, and not very bad,
Eager and restless and wide-awake—
What sort of man will our Harry make?

Will the gray eyes always as honest be,
And the clear bright face as fair to see.
And the innocent heart that beats within
Be always as free from guile and sin ?

Ah, me ! If Harry ever should stray
From right and honor's paths away,
The hearts that love him would surely break.
Our lives are his to mar or make !

Waverly Magazine.

ukkj^

niiir!ltjrtr3Ma«»maltK'hi,

DLALOOUXa.
RAIN CLOUDS.

A HONEYMOON EPISODE.
By W. R. Walkes.

CHARACTERS.

Dick ( W7w has recently married Gwendolen. )
Gwendolen {Recently married to Dick.)

Scene: Sitting-room in the vitlage-inn. The
room is furnished with the frugal simplicity
characteristic of such houses of entertainment.

(Gwendolen is discovered seated at a table ;
she takes up a book, glances at it hurriedly,
throws it down, looks at her watch, then rises
and paces up and down.) C. dear I Oh dear !
What can have become of him ? Ten o'clock !
and he went out at half-past nine ! I'm cer-
tain something has happened. The path up
the glen will be awfully slippery from the rain,
and thf- darling is so bold and reckless — and if
his foot should have slipped 1 Oh I — [covering
her face with her hands) I can't bear to think of
it! — he'd roll right down that nasty sloping
wood, and bruise his beautiful head — or some-
thing against a horrid tree— or something.
Suppose he should now be lying on his back,
•tunned and speechless, calling in vain upon
hisGwenny! I can't bear it any longer! No
matter what the weather, I must fly to him at
once. {Hushes towards door, then stops sud-
denly.) Stop! What's that? I do believe-
yes — here he is at last I

Dick. (Enters).

GwEN. (Flies to him). My darling.

Dick. (Embraces her). My pet.

GwEN. You are quite, quite safe ?

Dick. Quite !

Gv/EN. (IVith a sigh of relief ). Thank
heaven !

Dick. (Dryly). Yes. I managed to walk to
the top of the glen and back without danger to
life or limb.

GwEN. What a brave, clever darling ! But
1 was getting so frightened.

Dick. Frightened, my precious?

GwEN. Yes. Do you know how long you
have been away ? A whole half-hour.

Dick. Not more tian that? It seemed an
eternity.

GwEN. (Embraces him fondly). My dearest I

Dick. My sweetest!

Gwi'.N. Hubby will never lea?e little wifey
so long again, will he?

Dick. Never I

GwKN. Not while life shall last ? Promise 1

Dick. I swea — but stop

GwEN. (Draws away). You hesitate.

Dick. I was only thinking, my love, that
when our honeymoon is over and we return
home — to our home — I shall have to go to the
office occasionally.

GwEN. Office ! Oh I

Dick. But look here I— I'll tell you what I'll
do — telegraph every morning that I've arrived
jSafoly, and always come home to lunch.

GwEN. No, no ! (sadly). You are growing
tired of my society. I am no longer all in all
to you.

Dick. But, my dear Gwenny, you forget.
When a lawyer forsakes his cases, the cases
very soon forsake the lawyer.

GwEN. Casts, indeed ! You never had one!

Dick. But I may some day ; so I must go to
the office now and then.

GwEN. Then let me go with you — do I I
will sit quite quietly and hold yout hand while
you work. A\d if you ever had to make a
speech to a j'dge in Court, I'm si re you'd do
it much better if I were by youi side, squeezing
your hand, and looking lovingly into your
eyes.

Dick. But my darling, the Court might object.

•GwEN. (Indignantly). Object? Do you mean
tu tell me that any judge in the land would
dare to separate two loving hearts!

Dick. Rather! There's one that dares to
do it all day long.

GwEN. Who is he ?

Dick. The President of the Divorce Court.

GwEM. Oh, Dick ! How can you joke on
such a serious subject ?

Dick (Gloomily). Joke! I! In weather hke
this ? I feel about as full of jokes as a comic
paper. ( IValis to window). Jove I how it is
coming down 1

DIALOG VES.

t ? Promise I

GWEN. But you haven't told me. What
doe. « look like outside-from the top of the
glen ? "^

Dick. Worse than ever.
GviKu [Dismuye.i), Worse?

Dick. Yes, the same old watering-pot down-
pour.

GwEN. And it's been like this for three wiiole
days.

Dick. Three whole days! (mooMy).

GwEN. And there is no sign of change !

Dick. Not one. Every time I tap that beastly
old barometer it laughs in my face-and drops
an mch. '

GwEN {Cheerfully). Well, never mind, dar-
ling. Let's treat the weather with the contempt
It deserves. For my part, so long as I have
got my Dick. I can laugh at the rain.

Dick. And so can I. For all the sunlight I
require is the brightness that sparkles in my
Gwenny's eyes.

GwEN. Oh Dick !

Dick. Oh Gwenny ! ( They embrace).

GwEN. And now. what shall we do to pass
the morning?

Dick. Well. I suppose we can't have break-
fast all over again ?

GwEN. Of course not. you gur.l. boy.

Dick {Uoks at watr^ And it s four mortal
hours till lunch.

GwEN. But we uc forgetting. There's the
post to look forward to-three days' letters
Come now, let's guess who they'll be from !

Dick {Gloomily). We may guess, but we
shall never know.
GwEN. Why not ?

Dick. Because.- as the railway is flooded for
miles, our correspondence is probably reposing
at the bottom of the river, dissolving into pulp
and disagreeing with the fish.

GWEN. Oh Dick! not really? Our letters
all lost! It's positively awful! Dick. I can't
bear it any longer. Let us pack up at once
and go home.

Dick. Go home ! How can we. when the
railway's impassable?
Gwen. But is there no other way ?
Dick. None, except through the air, and the
village shop is out of balloons.

^-» . _

GWcN (y

Cin^ up and down). Oh. why did
»ve ever come to this horrid place ? If we had
only gone to Paris-dear, delightful Paris I J

Dick. That, my darli-.g. wai my lugge*.
tion. 'Twas you who insisted upon coming

GwiN, But you had no busineii to give in to
me.

Dick. Not when you declared that if I didn't
consent to a honeymoon in the country you'd
throw me over?

Gwen. Nonsense ! It was your duty, as my
future husband, to have compelled me to defer
to your superior judgment.
Dick. And risk losing you altogether?
Gwen. Not a bit of it ! As if any girl would
have put off her marriage when her wedding-
frock was ready-fitting like a glove and look-
ing hke a dream. {Severely). Really Dick!
such weakness on your part makes me tremble
for our future.

Dick {Nettled). You needn't tremble, that'll
be all right ; for I'll take the hint and act dif-
ferently in the future.
Gwen. What do you mean ?
Dick. That, as you seem to wish it, I'll al-
ways put my foot down— hard.

Gwen. What ! You tell me deliberately that
you intend to bully me? Only three weeks
married and it has come < > this ! ( Whimpers).
Oh, mamma ! mamma !

Dick ( With a shew of alarm). Oh, I say
Gwenny. leave mamma alone for the present!
She's happy enough at home.

Gwen. Not so far away. sir. but that my cry
of sorrow could reach her. One word from
me, and no matter what the weather, she'd fly
to me at once.

Dick {To himself). Fly? Yes. she might

manage it that way. and when she was tired of

I flying she could swim. {To Gwendolen). But

tiiere. my love, don't get upset! I didn't mean

to be unkind.

Gwen I Weeping). And you won't really bul-
bully poor little Gwenny?

Dick. Bully my little peach-blossom ! If I
ever caught myself doing such a thing. I'd
knock myself down. So let's kiss and make it
up. {Kisses her lightly and walks to window).
Gwen (Pouting). What a cold, distant kiss!
yiiCK{ImpatienUy). Cold \ Nonsense! All
your fancy ! Perhaps it was the damp-it gets
into everything.

Gwen. That's the second time to-day you've
joked on a serious subject. {Sadly). But there,

826

DTAL00UE8.

I expected it. I knew you were getting tired
of me. I noticed it last night at dinner;.

Dick. At dinner I What do you mean ?

GwEN. {Half-whimpering). You never kissed
me between the courses as you used to do, and
for the first time we drank out of separate
glasses ; and although you held my hand
thi -)ugh soup and fish, you dropped it at the
joint.

Dick. Because I wanted to use my knife. ,

GwEN. A poor excuse ! If you cared for me
as once you did, love would have found out a
way.

Dick. I doubt it ; love may be all-powerful
—rule the world and so forth — but it can't cut
up tough mutton. But come, come, Gwenny,
I'm awfully sorry, I am really ; and look here !
I tell you what I'll do to make up for it {places
his arm round her waist) ; we'll sit like this all
through lunch, and we have only one plate
and one fork and one piece of bread between
us.

GWEN. (Claps her hands with joy). Oh, how
nice ! And I'll feed you and you shall feed me.'
Won't it be delightful !

Dick. Yes : but lunch is a long way off yet.
{Looks at watch). If we'd only got something to
read ; but, hang it all, there isn't a book in the
place except these miserable specimens {takes
up each book in turn) ; a back number of the
Bicycle News and Foxe' s Book of Martyrs.

GWEN. Horrid things ! I've looked at them
— and such pictures ! Nothing but pneumatic
tyres and burning Christians.

Dick. Oh, Gwen, what can we do to pass
the time ?

Gwen. Dick! I've an ideal

Dick. You have ? What a treasure it is !
Well?

Gwen. We'll sit — ah — close together, and
you shall tell me how much you love me.

Dick. {Aghast.) For three hours and three-
quarters ?

Gwen. Yes, such a nice long time ! and
iwe'll begin again directly after lunch.
' Dick. But I did nothing else all day yester-
day and the day before.

Gwen. Oh, but Dick, you used to tell me
that your heart was so full' it would take years
io unload it.

Dick. So it would, of course ; I was only
afraid I might bore you.

Gwen. Bore me ? I could listen for ever.

{Smothers ayawn).

Dick. And you won't go to sleep, as you did
yesterday, just as I am coming to the tender
passages ?

Gwen. Oh, Dick, of course not. '

Dick. {Despondently). Very well then, com*
along — well make a start.

Gwen. I'll sit here, {sits oh a footstool i..) and
you get a chair and sit close by me.

Dick. {Goes up to get a chair, and glances out
of the window). Look at the rain ! I'll be
hanged if I know where all the water comes
from — and what irritates me so is that the na-
tives seem to revel in it. Look at that chap
walking away ! he must be wet through to the
skin — and yet he's whistling — positively whis-
tling — happy beggar! {Glances again). Why,
it's old Macfarlane — the apology for a postman.
Then, by Jove, Gwenny, our letters must have
come !

Gwen. {Jumps up). Letters! And they're
not lost after all ! Thank goodness ! Oh, Dick,
run and get them — quick !

Dick. Rather! {Runs out of the room
quickly).

Gwen. Oh, I'm so glad they've come, for we
were certainly getting a little tiffy ; but now
with plenty of letters we shall be as happy as
possible, and will snap our fingers at the weather.

Dick. (Appears at the door with a pile of let-
ters in his hands, and speaks to someone outside).
Thank you, Mrs. Fraser ! Only Monday's let-
ters, eh ? Well, they're better than nothing,
aren't they, Gwenny ?

Gwen. I should think so indeed.

Dick. {Sorting letters). '

Gwen. {Impatiently.) Come — quick, dear!
Give me mine !

Dick. {Hands letters to Gwen and moves
away with his own ; without noticing it, he
drops a letter on the floor). Now look here
Gwenny, we must be very economical— read
slowly, and make them last as long as possible.

Gwen, Yes, dear {she has moved away with
letters, and stands deep in thought for a moment ;
then returns to Dick.) Oh, Dick dear, I'm
afraid I've beeH nasty and cross this morning ;
it was all the horrid weather— and— and having
nothing to do.

Dick. Of course, my love.

Gwen. But we're all right now, aren't we?

listen for ever.

DIALOGUES.

i — quick, dear!

low, aren't we ?

{showing Utters) and we'll never quarrel agai;^
will we ? Never ! '

Dick. Never, never again ! ( They embrace,
mtdthen sit down to examine letters).

GwEN. Oh. such a lovely lot ! Let me see !
From Mary, dear old Mary ! Such a good
girl, Mary ! It will be full of advice-duties of
a married woman— responsibilities of life— I
know. Mary shall wait. Kitty's writing! Ah,
this will be fun; lots of gossip and scandal-
and such a fat one, too. I'll keep it till last.
!• rom mamma ! Dear mamma I It will be all
about symptoms and doctors. I don't think I
ought to read it yet ; I must wait until I feel
more sympathetic.

Dick. Mine are poor lot— scarcely anything
but circulars. What can a man in a country
mn want with Oriental screens? {.Tears ud
circulars).

GwEN. Oh. here's one from George [ofiens it).
What can he be writing about.? You remember
Cousin George, don't you, Dick ?

Dick. What, that-I mean Geoi^e Bailey ?
Oh. yes. I remember him. And do you mean
to say that he has had the impertinence to write
to you ?

GwEN. Impertinence? What do you mean?
Isn't he my cousin? But, of course, I forgot •
you were always jealous of George, weren't you ?

Dick. I jealous? My dear Gwendolen, what
a. preposterous idea I

GwEN. Now don't tell fibs. Don't you re-
member how angry you were at the Joplings'
dance when I g^/e him a waltz I had promised
to you ?

Dick. That was solely on your account.

GwEN. Mine?

Dick. Yes. he's such a shocking bad dancer
-romps round the room like an animated idol

GwEN. Possibly ; (pointedfy) clever men sel-
dom waltz well.

Dick. Clever! Why. he was dropped three
times at college.

GwEN. That was because his health was bad.

Dick. Yes, too many brandies and sodas

GwEN. He was Jed astray, poor fellow!
Open-hearted, genial men often drink more
than IS good for them.

Dick. But not at other people's expense.

GwEN. How can you say such a thing ' He is
the most generous of men. See what charming
presents he used to give me I

827

Dick (Savagely). Oh, did he ? Well. I hope
he paid for them.

GwEN. Of course he did. George is the very
soul of honor, you can see it in his face,

Dick. I beg your pardon ; I never saw any.
thmg there but red hair.

GwEN. Well. I do.j't care what you say, I'm
very fond of him.

Dick (Rather savagely). Oh. are you ?

GwEN. And as he's my cousin it's your duty
to like him too.

Dick (Ironically). Oh, very well, thfln, I'll
recant at once. I think George Bailey a chaitn-
'ng, delightful fellow ; dances divinely, and is
as sober as a judge ; has the complexion of a
Venus, and the learning of a Bacon. Only this
I «i!l say. that if I had to choose between his
friendship and that of a cannibal, I'd take my
chance of being fricasseed.

GwEN. ( Who has been reading her letter with
interest, and has only heard the last sentence)
Fricasseed? No, darling. Mrs. Fraser couldn't
manage it, so I said we'd have it cold for lunch
Dick (Annoyed). Oh !

GWEN. (Reading letter with great interest).
No ; how very strange— just fancy that— what
a curious coincidence ! Oh, Dick, whatever do
you think ?

Dick. ( Who has been fidgeting). Think I
That if you have any information to impart, I
should prefer w/to receive it in interjections.'

GwEN. (Still reading, and not noticing his rti.
mark). It's really most extraordinary !
Dick. Oh, is it? Well, that's all right f
GwEN. And in such dreadful weather, too.
Dick. Yes, that must be a drawback.
GwEN. And he loathes wet weather.
Dick. Sensible man, whoever he is !
GwEN. But I shall be very glad to see him.
Dick. Will you ? And who may " he " be?
GwEN. Why. Cousin Geoj^e.
Dick. George Bailey !

GwEN. Yes. (Uoks up). Oh. of course. I
haven't told you. He is on his way— here—
and he's going to look us up in passing
Dick. What!

GwEN. Won't it be pleasant ?

Dick. Pleasant ! Look here. Gwendolen. I

have no desire to appear unfriendly to any 'of

your highly respectable family, but if George

Bailey enters this house. I leave it.

GWEN. Really, Dick, such jealousy is quite

328

DIALOGUES.

!, i

unreasonable. I never cared for him a bit in
that way. >

Dick. I am not so sure of it. At any rate,
he was awfully gone on you— in his stupid,
asinine way.

GwEN. Nonsense, he cared for me only as a
cousin. Why, if it comes to that, I might just
as weii be annoyed about that. horrid Mrs.
Desborough, whom everybody thought once
you were going to marry. You know you were
fond of her.

Dick. Nothing of the kind. Fanny Desbor-
ough is a dear, sweet creature, and I have
the honor to regard myself as her intimate
friend.

GwEN. An honor shared by many of your
sex, and very few of mine.

Dick. Of course, the women are jealous of
her wit and beauty.

GWEN. (Couiemptuousfy). Wit! Beauty!
The one she borrows from the Sporting Times,
and the other she buys.

Dick. (Gravely.) And can you say such a
thing as that of my friend ? Gwendolen — you
— you shock me.

GwEN. No worse than what you said about
mine.

Dick, /only spoke the plain unvarnished
truth.

GwEN. So do I.

Dick. I know that George Bailey is over head
and ears in debt.

GwEN. And I know that Fanny Desborough
dyes her hair.

Dick.. Not a bit of it

GwEN. Of course you know. Is the lock
you carry about brown or golden — or a little
bit of both, like the hairwash advertise-
ments ?

Dick. My dear Gwendolen, you are talking
nonsense.

GwEN. Not at all. You were madly in love
with her.

Dick. Then why didn't I marry her ?

GwEN. She wouldn't have you, I suppose.
But no, that couldn't have been the reason.
She'dmarry anybody — andjump at the chance ;
she's a cruel, heartless flirt. See how she
treated poor George Bailey !

Dick. Pooh ! He only proposed to her out
of pique, because you wouldn't have him.

GwEN. Nonsense.

Dick. Well, (he didn't jump at him.

GwEN. No, because she hoped to catch you.

Dick. Nothing of the sort. Besides, I have
always regarded her as a sister.

GwEN. Sister indeed ! More like a mother,
I should say ; she's old enough. But there,
you c.in't deceive me (catches sight of letter on
the ground). What's this ! {Jiicks it up). Why
it's Fanny Desborough's handwriting ! So,
sir, you actually correspond with that woman
under my very nose. You love her still; I

knew it!— and (bursts into tears); oh,

mamma ! mamina ! Take me home, take me
home!

Dick. (Softening). Oh, I say, Gwenny, don's
take on like this ! How can I convince you
that ?

GwEN. (Suddenly). Will you tell me at once
the contents of that letter ?

Dick. Of course I will. (Opens the letter and
glances through it). By Jove ! What a sur-
prise ! Now this is remarkable !

GwEN. (Impatiently). Oh, don't go on in
that irritating way, but tell me at once.

Dick. (Not noticing her). I call it quite a
coincidence.

GwEN. (Angrily). What is? What is?

Dick. She's going for a driving tour with
some one — can't make out the name — and will
pass near this place. She's got our address
from your mother and is going to look us
up.

GwEN. (Astou.ided). Mrs. Desborough here ?

Dick. Yes, v/on't it be jolly! She's so
bright and amusing, you know. How she will
wake us-up!

GwEN. (Solemnly). She will never wake me

"P-

Dick. What do you mean ?

GwEN. That if you insist upon receiving that
woman here, I am determined (moves to win-
dow), directly the weather clears, to go away
for ever, and— and (dursts into tears) drown my-
self.

Dick. (Alarmed). Drown yourself? Oh,
my darling! (Tien as t/ suddenly struck wi/A
an idea). Ah! now I understand, now I see
through your subterfuge. Drown yourself?
Not a bit of it ! You are going to Bailey, of

r.f\ft.-e€t ViA*e »^An.. n* Kn*.^ ,..,.. 1_. ^.. . 1

— I ..^ „, ^i .inTivi jruu JtIIU\v WHCrC.

Great heavens ! only three weeks married and
it's come to this ! But don't go out— don't get

p at him.
ped to catch you.
Besides, I have
r.

re nice a mother,
igh. But there,
( sight of letter on
xksUup). Why
ndwriting ! So,
with that woman
love her still; I
nto tears); oh,
: home, take me

', Gwenny, don's
I convince you

u tell me at once

^ens the letter and
f! What a sur-

• !

don't go on in
at once.
I call it quite a

? What is?
riving tour with
! name— and will
got our address
Ding to look us

>esboroughhere?
jolly ! She's so
r. How she will

1 never wake me

on receiving that
d (moves to win-
ears, to go away
tears) drown my-

yourself? Oh,
rienfy struck with
and, now I see
)rown yourself?
ng to Bailey, of
u icnow wiicfc.
eks married and
o out — don't get

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330 INDIGNATION AND EXPLANATION.

your feet wet ! await his coming here, for by
that time I shall have gone— for ever.
GWEN. Gone? Where?
Dick, {midfy). Anywhere! Central Af-
rica, South America-any place where I can
kill something-- -'eg^Jly.

GwEN. (Alarmed). Oh, but Dick, you're
such a bad shot. You'll get killed yourself.

Dick. And a good thing too, for then I shall
at least make one living creature happy.
GwEN. Mrs. Desborough, I suppose?
Dick. No ; some healthy, hungry lion with a
large appetite. So farewell fc r ever (glances
out of the window)— ihsit is, as soon as this
beastly rain stops.

GWEN. (Weeping). Oh Dick! (Recovenher-
self). I mean, please yourself, sir— you can't
deceive me. I know your object, and all I say
IS that If you wish to go to your Mrs. Des-
borough, go ! (S/tort pause).

Dick. And so it has come to this already •
And the bond between us that not an hour ago
seemed strong as steel is to be shattered asun-
der by a simple change in the weather ; and the
first bit of blue sky that appears parts us for-
ever ; (glances out of window) and, by Jove '
there it is, as big as a lady's lace handkar-
chief.

GwEN. Really! (laois out). Yes. the rain
has stopped at last.

Dick. So now, I suppose, we must say-
good-bye ?
GwEN. Oh, Dick, how can you ?
Dick. ( mu a bant). I can't, there-and
what's more, I won't!
GwEN. (Lovingly). Nor I.
Dick. Oh, Gwenny !
GwEN. Oh. Dick! (Tltey embrace.)
Dick. That i?lue sky has saved us.
GwEN. Yes ; for it was all the horrid rain.
Dick. Of course, for we love each other as
much as ever.
GwEN. Mor«.

Dick. But how about George ?
GwEN. Oh, bother George. I hate him. If he
comes I won't see him— even if he's wet through.
I'll lend him an umbrella, and send him about
his business.

Dick. My darling ! And as for Fanny Des-

boiough— whom I am now learning to loathe—

it" she calls we'll be not at home— say we've

gone 'to a picnic, and won't be back for a

DIALOGUES.

831

week ; so put on your wraps and we'll clear out
at once.

^GwEN. Very well, dear. (Goes up stage to

Dick, (Clahces out of -window). Hullo!
(Here's old Macfarlane again I Must have
brotignt to-day's letters!

GwEN Get them at once, dear; (Dick goes
out) and we'll take them with us.

Dick. (Re-enters with letters). Here you are!
(Gives letters). Why, here's another from Fan-
ny !

GwEN. And another from Geoj^e. {Both

read). ^

Dick. By Jove!

GwEN. Cood gracious !

Dick. Fanny is actually married to Geonre
after all. *

GwEN. And George has positively married
Fanny.

Dick. (Reads). " Quiet wedding-keep it
dark-no fuss-gave you a hint." Oh,Gwenny |
how I have wronged you !

GwEN. Oh, Dick ! foi^ive my shameful sus.
picion! (Embrace). Then they're coming here
on their honeymoon.

Dick. Of course.

GwEN. Oh, I'm so glad, aren't you?

Dick. Awfully.

GwEN. Won't it be fun?

Dick. Rather! What a rare good time we
shall have !

GwEN. (Reads). "Expect to be with you at
half-past ten."

Dick. Then they'll be here Immediately.

GwEN. (Dances up to window). How excit-
ing ! And look, Dick, the sun is actually shin-
ing at last.

Dick. ( IVho has come to the window) And
see, there's a small phaeton turning the cor-
ner !

GwEN. And they're in it !

Dick. By Jove ! so they are !

Both. How are you ? How are you ? ( IVav.
ing handkerchiefs).

DiCK. Come along, Gwen ! Let's run down
and welcome them. ( They move to door). Good
old George !

Gwen, Dpar Fann" ' nn T\;i-u ••
clouds have cleared away just in time.

CURTAIN.

332

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■1

1 1

DIALOGUES.

A MEMORY LESSON.

LUKE SHARP.

(^Editoriai room. Editor working hard
with feet on the desk. Disreputable-look-
ing tramp — evidently a drunkard standing
in door •way.')

Traiip. Say, mister, you don't happen
to have ten cents you could spare ?

Editor. You have struck it the first
time. 1 don't.

Tramp. Say, mister, I haven't had any-
thing to eat for twenty-four hours.

Editor. Then why don't you go and
have dinner? There are some first-class
hotels in this town.

Tramp. Are they? Now, commercial
travellers have told me that they can't get a
decent meal in the city. I'll halve ,the
difference with you. Make it five cents,
boss.

Editor. I can't keep myself in lager,
and you expect me to supply with beer any
tramp that comes along.

Tramp. {Coming in and taking a seat.')
I see you are mistaken in my character. I
have never tasted a drop of liquor in my
life. I was at one time in one of the best
wholesale houses in this town, but was ruin-
ed by my desire for improvement. I was
often warned that I was taking the wrong
course, but, alas ! I did not see my error
until it was too late. Most of my comrades
used to take a glass of beer now and then
and go to the base-ball games and be out
nights, but I stuck to study, and you see
what I am. (^Editor looks bewildered.')
Yes, I am now an awful example of the
terrible folly of taking a wrong course. My
beer-drinking companions are pointed to as
model citizens, while I am practically a
tramp.

Editor. How did it happen ?

Tramp. Well, the finishing stroke was
the memory, lessons. I had naturally a good
memory, and my 'irm told me that if I

learned to speak French they would send me
to Paris as their agent there. I pitched into
French, and was advised to take memory
lessons, as that was a great help in acquiring
a language.

Editou. And was it ?

Tramp. In a way— yes. You know how
they strengthen the memory, I suppose ?

Editor. No. Never heard it could be
done.

Tramp. Well, the first thing they do

they make you swear an awful oath you will

never divulge any of the methods, and then

I you have to sign a bond to that efTect with a

heavy penalty attached.

Editor. Then if I were you I would not
tell anything about it. I don't care to know.
[ rRAMi*. Oh. that's all right. I can plead
I that I have forgotten all about the oath.
That is one of the benefits of the memory
system. You can forget anything so easily.
j Yes, sir. Now, if you lent me I5 I would
' very likely forget all about it before to-mor-
row.

Editor. You astonish me.

Tramp. It's quite true. In that way the
system is very valuable. Now to show you
how the thing works. My girl's name "

Editor. Oh, you have a girl, then ?

Tramp. Had, my dear fellow — had.

Editor. Excuse me if I have brought
up sad recollections.

Tramp. It don't matter in the least, I
assure you. You see, I can forget it right
away.

Editor. Well, about the system ?

Tramp. Oh, yes ; I forgot. What were
we talking about ?

Editor. You said your girl's name

TliAMP. Exactly. My girl's name was

" ( Wrinkling his brows and speaking

half audibly.) — Girl — dress — dressmaker—
! thread — spool — cotton — cotton mill— spin-

eard it could be

our girl's name

ner — bobbin— bob— Robert— Roberta
{Aioud). That's it. Her name was Ro
berta-nice girl, too. What was her last
name? Let me see. (^Faiiwg into an
audible brown study and murmuring)-.
Roberta —Robert —Bob— bobbin— cotton—
factory-mill— mills. That's it again. Mills
IS the name; Miss Mills. Let's see; what
did I say her first name was ? Girl— dress-
dressmaker " I

Editor. Never mind going over that
again. You said her name was Roberta. I

Tramp. You're right— Roberta Mills-
awfully nice girl, too. She lives in Wind-
sor, Know her?
Editor. No, I don't.
Tramp. Well, she's lost to m« fowver.
I don't know that it matters now. I have
rarely the money to pay the ferry fare, and
if I had I might spend it otherwise.

Editor. I don't doubt it. How did the
separation come about ?

Tramp. Ix-mory system did it. I sup-
pose you understand the system now ?
Editor. I can't say that I do.
Tramp. Well, you see, you corral any
word you want to remember.

Editor. I have heard of corralling an
animal, but

Tramp. Same thing, my boy-same
thing. You get a word up in a corner, so
that It can't escape you. That is where the
system comes in so good in learning French.
Now, for instance, supposing you want the
French for water. You corral the two words
together. Water makes you think of whis-
key, doesn't it ?

Editor. Natural combination.

Tramp. Of course it is. Now, whiskey
makes you think of drunk. A man who is
addicted to drink naturally neglects his busi-
ness and runs in debt.

Editor. Quite correct.
^Tramp. Then drunk recalls debt, see?
* J is i» debt owes everybody,

DIALOGUES.

833

doesn't he?

Editor. If they are foolish enough to
trust him— yes.

Tramp. Very well, then, there you have
It. Water-whiskey-drunk-debt-owe—
eau, French for water. Easy as rolling off a
log. Now, to put this system to use, sup-
pose your wife gave you a letter to post.
Editor. You may as well suppose some-
, thing probable while you're at it She
wouldn't do it. She knows I'd forget it
I Tramp. Well, I'm just supposing a case.
You remember that you have forgotten what
your wife told you to do. You say wife-
that reminds you of expense~ex<)ense recalls
cash-cash means money-time is money.
So you think of time-time makes you think
of a slugging match—
Editor. What's that ?
Tramp. Why, a fight where they call
'time.' The match sugges'.s betting. There
you are at 'bet.' Betting is against the law.
so you have 'law.' But betting is only
against the letter of the law, the statute is
not enforced, so you have ' letter,' and then
you go and post it.

Editor. Wonderful. Still, it seems to
me that it would be easier to remember the
letter itself than do all that.

Tramp. So it would if you were not a
victim of this system, but once that gets a
hold on you, you can't remember anything
unless you corral the words. That's how I
came to lose my situation.
Editor. Oh! How did that happen ?
Tramp. Well, a man by the name of-of
{murmuring a lot of words to himself, and
then brightening up), Smith-by the name
of Smith, telephoned me to tell my boss, as
soon as he came in, to call him up. There
's the telephone. That suggested 'ring,'
ring naturally brought to my mind, ' alder-
men ' —

Editor. How is that ? I don't see that.
TRAMr. Why, tile aldermen always form
■in.p ^^A »u_ ^^\\q^ ^j^q wants

thing has to pay the ring.

' get anjr-

334

DIALOGUES.

liM

Editor. Youdon't tell me?

Tramp. Fact. Well, ring shows that a
man is a fool who expects things to be other-
wise ; fool suggests idiot ; idiot suggests
asylum ; asylum, prison ; a prison is a work-
shop; a workshop must have a blacksmith
shop ; such a shop must have a smith, and
there you are. Well, when the boss came
in J went up to him working on the corral,
and said : ' Ring — alderman — fool — idiot '
— but before I got to ' prison ' I was kicked
into the street.

Editor. That was unfortunate. Why
didn't you go back and explain?

Tramp. I have often started out to do so,
but I always forgot it before I could get
there.

Editor. And I suppose that because you
lost your situation you lost your girl.

Tramp. Oh, no. I had forgotten about
that. Glad you reminded me. No, tjiat
was a case of a good corral going wrong.
It sometimes does that. I went over to see
her and was working the corral for all it was
worth. I ran it this way : ' Girl — dress —
dressmaker — sewing — thread — needle — pins
— pinafore — Josephine.

Editor. I don't see how you get that last
word.

Tramp. Why, Josephine is the principal
character in ' Pinafore,' you know. Well,
when I met her I said, ' Halloo, Josephine,'
and she thought I was thinking of another
girl, and then it was all day with me. You
see, I should have gone on ' spools ' from
'thread,' and instead I went on 'needles,'
and of course, when a man gets on needles
you can't tell at which girl you will bring up.

Editor. Well, I am sorry for you. I
have been very much interested in your case.
I never knew there were any memory systems
in existence. Here is half a dollar for your
trouble.

Tramp. I am very much obliged to you,
I assure you. Won't you come out and have
something ?

Editor. No, thank you. I never drink.
Tramp. Oh, that's so. Neither do I. I
had forgotten. You see I forget everything.
Editor. That's all right; good-by.
(^£xtt tramp. Goes into saloon on corner.)
Detroit Free Press.

-:o:-

A COMPARISON.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

I'd ruther lay out here among the trees,
With the singin' birds an' the bum'l'bees,
A-knotvin' thet I can do as I please,
Than to live what folks call a life of ease

Up thar ■ 1 the city.
Fer I really don't 'zactly understan'
Where the comfort is fer any man
In walking hot bricks an' usin' a fan,
An' enjoyin' himself as he says he can,

Up thar in the city.

It's kinder lonesome, mebbe you'll say,
A-livin' out here day after day
In this kinder easy, careless way ;
But a hour out here is better' n a day

Up thar in the city.
As fer that, jus' look at the flowers aroun',
A-peepin' their heads up all over the groun',
An' the fruit a-bendin' the trees 'way down.
You don't find such things as these in town,

Or ruther in the city.

As I said afore, such things as these,
The flowers, the birds, an' the bum'l'bees,
An' a-livin' out here among the trees
Where you can take your ease an' do as you
please.

Makes it better'n the city.
Now, all the talk don't mount to snuif,
' Bout this kinder life a-bein' rough.
An' I'm sure it's plenty good enough.
An' 'tween you an' me 'tain't half as tough

As livin' in the city.

(A pret y httle reception-room filled with tiny tables,
.pindle-legged chairs, wedding bric-i-brac and
varmus bits of fragile v,riu. Dressed in a gor-
geous confection of old rose, and reclining on a
couch of faded blue, is the new wife of a Young
Man of Talent. The servant shows i„_i„ pa,pa^
biy borrowed evening-dress-his Intimate Friend
from Bohemia.)

THE CALL OF DUTY.

DOROTHEA LUMMIS.

His Friend, {soto voce, taking in the en-
vironment) Regular china-shop.

His Wife, {with some disapproval) Mr
Tharp, I believe ?

His Friend. (/« deprecation) Even he
madam. I will make myself very inconspic-
uous in a corner and be extremely docile

His Wife, {eyeing him coldly) I am sure
I don t know what you mean. But I guess
you writing people are all alike. You make
queer speeches that haven't any beginning '
not much middle, and no sort of decent end'
and then look down on us, because we like
things plain and straight along

His Friend. Oh, I protest ! I assure you
we are really very simple.

His Wife, {laughing grimly) I can well
believe that, too_in a way. Why, Arthur
protests, too-that his tastes are so simple that
he can't even write in a room like this, and
wants to go off to a little hole of a room by
himself. After I had saved that place there
(pomttng to a crowded niche) especially for
his desk, and meant to sit right by him every
minute. '

His Friend, {eagerly) But he would be
sure to smash some of your-lovely things
you know ! ' e »

His Wife, {^calmly) Oh, no fear of that
I mean to watch him too well. I've fright-
ened liim almost to pieces already. He's
afraid to move or take a deep breath.
. H's Friend. I am glad you take such in-
-rc« m his work. It will be a great help
and incentive, naturally. j

KisWiPE. (without enthusiasm) Of course. I

But I II admit just to you, though, that «t
first I didn't think much of his profewion.
Papa didn't, either; he said literary men
were always poor, improvident fellows: but
when I found out what a nice big check he
could get just foralittlebitof writing, I
changed my mi„d_and then I changed
papa s. *

His Friend. I see. That's nice. What
do you like best of what he has done lately ?
{forgetttng himself) None of us can touch
him on

His Wife, {with a gay laugh) Oh I for
mercy s sake, don't ask me about his things :
I dont read them, I leave that for "the
boys," as he calls you.

His Friend, {soberly) Do you really mean

to tell me that you don't know anything

about that last article of his in the National,

hat made such a hit. That one on the

"Results of Applied Science to "

His Wife. The very name makes me shiver.
When we were first engaged I did try, but
he came in and found me sound asleep and
made me promise solemnly never to try
again. I was willing enough.
His Friend. Naturally.

His Wife. So now he just gives me the
money, and

His Friend. You find that more interest-
ing

His Wife. And a great deal easier
His Friend. He has done the best work
of his life, so far, lately.

His Wife, {consciously) ^t%,\x,^ttA\ He
said he felt as if his whole soul was at its
high-water mark. (Petulantly.) But since,
he has done nothing at all.
His Friend. Since what ?
His Wife. Since our return from our wed-
ding journey. Do you know he actually
wanted to leave me alone and go poking in-
to mills, and factories, and dirty machine
places when we happened to be near any.

886

DIALOOUES.

w
H-

His Fkiend. So you went, t(k>. Quite
right.

His Wife, {indignantly) And get all my
pretty dresses spoiled? No, indeed; 1
didn't go a single step, nor let him, either.
I cried, and said machine-siiops didn't be-
long in bridal trips, and he gave it up right
ofTand was lovely.'

His Friend, (with emphasis) He is an-
gelic. And so he is writing nothing now ?
I've scarcely seen him to ask.

His Wife. No, he just sits at his desk, with
the most dismal look, chewing the end of an
old pipe— I won't let him light it— with a
•heet of paper before him, and never writes
a word for hours. I think it very provoking,
and I hope papa won't catch him so idle.

His Friend, (musing) That is odd. He
used to say his ideas drove his fingers to
death.

His Wife. Once he really began, 'and
begged me to go out so as not to interrupt
him. Why, I hadn't said a thing for five
minutes.

His Friend. Very unreasonable when you
wished to talk, wasn't it ?

His Wife. I thought so; but I believe in
humoring him so far as possible. I have my
own ideas, and I mean to carry them out. I
manage papa wonderfully.

His Friend, {beseechingly) But literary
folks are different.

His Wife. Oh, they're just men.
His Friend, {speciously) I may be a hus-
band, too, some day. Won't you tell me
some of these ideas of yours? It may teach
me to be more manageable myself, and some
one of your sex owe you a fine debt of grati-
tude.

His Wife, {susptciensty) I don't trust you
very far; but I'd just as soon tell you.
Probably the woman you marry will be even
better at it than I. ,

His Friend, {impulsively) God forbid!
I beg your pardon, but^ —
His Wiee. Ob, you don't like the idea.

None of them do, but they all submit sooner
or later.

His Friend. I submit at once. Come,
tell me how it is to be done in Arthur's casi .
His Wife {corfidentially). Well, in tlie
first place, he is never to be left alone. {An
irrepressible groan bursts from his friend)
What's the matter, Mr. Tharp? Are you
ill?

His Friend. It's only vicarious. Pray
go on.

His Wife, {decidedly) A true wife will never
allow herself to be separated from her hus-
band, especially in his pleasures— and she
will share all her troubles with him, so tliat
he can't ignore them or act as if he were a
martyr.
His Friend. Admirably true.
His Wife, {ivith gusto) Whatever she
wants she ought to have ; and if she can't
get it by asking right out, she can bring up

every little while until she succeeds

His Friend. By virtue of his exasperation
and her importunity.

His Wife He shouldn't get exasperated.
What did he marry for, if not to do as she
thinks best ?

His Friend. Your methods seem to trifle
dangerous, though so perfect. They might
drive a man mad.

His Wife. No danger; they simply tire
him out. It's much better and nicer than
crying and getting one's nose red.

His Friend. You think all this a diplo-
matic necessity ?

His Wife. I know it is. Just see how
men lose those abominable, conquering airs,
and get sensible and quiet, after marriage.
They're ever so much nicer.
His Friend. And happier?
His Wife. Well, their wives are, and
that's what they promise to make them.

His Friend. But your husband is a man of
ar»a* taUnf, nprhnns of irenius. Are there
no concessions, no modifications m such a
case?

' '

DIALOOVES.

all submit sooner

vicarious.

His Wife, {with vivacity) That's why I
have my mind most made up. Oh, I've
heard people lalic, and read some of this stuff
about " the privileges of genius," and I
know what that Mr. Stevenson says about mar-
riage, and how it " withers allthewildingsof
her husband's heart." '« Wildings," indeed !
I should hope they would wither. {Snapping
her pretty be-ringed fingers softly. ) I don't
care that for them all. The only trouble is
that the wives get such a ridiculous idea of
men's superiority, and begin by being weak.
Then it is forever too late, and they get
snubbed and neglected all their lives— and
have to go about into society all alone, like
a lot of dreary old maids.

His Friend, you mean to go into " so-
ciety," then ?

His Wife, {staring at him) Why, what
else would we do, pray ?

His Friend. Arthur hates it so— and I be-
lieve a good deal of seclusion absolutely
necessary to his best work.

His Wife. Well, if he thinks so, I shall
make it my first duty to convince him other-
wise. I should die shut up here.

(A step is heard in the hall, and the Young Man of
Talent enters. His friend holds out a shaking
hand, as he feels an arm thrown round his shoul-
der. There is a slight contraction on the clear
brow of the wife.)

The Young Man of Talent, {to his/riend)
Dear old fellow. This is good. You're
friends with Lillian already, I see. You'll
stay to dinner, of course. {Hisfreind, who
had meant to go, hesitates. The line on the
forehead of the wife deepens into a frown.)

His Wife. Arthur, Mr. Tharp has an en-
gagement, I believe.

His Friend. Yes, yes ; I had forgotten.
{Grasps his friend's hand.) Good-bye. I
sympathize I mean, I congratulate
{Bows deeply to the wift.^ wring
hand, and goes.)

The Young Man of Talent, {as the door

hie f-.

'-••■• y~f erf;

you.

cljies iehind him)^You like him, don't you.

darling? ' '

His Wife, {slojvly, but firmly) I don't
think we want to see too much of that sort
of people, dear. They are so odd. Clever,
of course, but apt to be rather uncomforta!
ble-and not very well dressed. His boots
were awfully cheap.

Ihe Young Man of Talent, {very so-
berly) But he is one of my best and truest
friends, Lillian.

His Wife, {shrewdly) Well, he isn't
mine. Pulling her husband down beside her
on the sofa and slipping her arm through
his.) Besides, that was before you were mar-
ried. Now you won't need anybody but me
and ray friends I

A COQUETTE.

She rambled through the meadows wide.

So richly gemmed with dew ;
Her hair was bright as golden light.

Her eyes were azure blue.
And shyly, there, the farmer lad
Betrayed his love and woe ;
She passed him by,
With head held high,
And coolly answered •' No f "

She wandered to the woodland pool.

By wild-flowers all begirt ;
She saw her beauty in its depth,

And smiled— the pretty flirt !
And there the curate tcld his love,
Though hope was almost dead ;
But though she sighed.
She naught replied.
She only shook her head.

She lingered by the broad park gate,

The old lord lingered too ;
He sought the maiden for his bride.

And knew, too, how to woo.
And though he feigned love's sad despah,
Her answer he could guess ;
But could not spy
Her triumph high.
She smiled, and whispered " Yes,"

—Temple Bai^

\if',i

iij <'

kiM f'r

^r\ I

' i I ' 1

DIALOOUES.

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGOS.

Mr. SUward.
Mrs. Stnvard.
Miss Emily Htyward.
Mr. Lansing.
Mrs. Lansing.

CHARACTERS.

Mr. Semtrs.
yamts Stmtrs.
Harriet Somen.
Mr. Jackson.
John,— a Servant.

Scene I.

Mr. and Mrs. Steward are sitting by a table.
John, a servant, enters with the morning
mail. Mr. Steward opens one envelope
after another, and, after glancing at their
contents, throws them down in disgust.

bills ! ! bills ! ! !
Enough to drive

Mr. Steward. Bills !
Nothing but dunning letters !
any one to distraction 1 ,

Mrs. Steward. Well, who's to blame, I'd
like to know ? I'm sure I spend no more in
dress than other ladies do who pretend to be at
all fashionable. You always grumble when a
bill is sent in— (£«/*r Miss Emily Heyward,
a sister of Mrs. Steward who is spending a
few days with her. She seats herself quietly at
another table and takes up her fancy work.)

Mr. S. (/« a calmer tone.) All I mean to
say, Augusta, is that we must retrench in our
expenses. They have been enormous this year
— much greater than I can afford.

Mrs. S. ( With spirit.) I am perfectly will-
ing, only don't impute all this extravagance to
me, while you are giving dinners, belonging to
clubs, and betting on elections

Mr. S. Well, well, we'll not go over that
again ; but I repeat it, a change must be made
somewhere.

Mrs. S. Very well, let it be made every-
where and welcome, but don't talk of my
milliners' and dressmakers' bills while you

Mr. S. {Interrupting.) Well, I tell you 1
won't talk of them, that is, if you can be made
to talk of anything else. {Pettishly.) You
seem determined to harp on the same old string
forever.

Mrs. S. I am determined not to be found
fault with without reason. I'll not be
blamed

Mr. S. I do not wish to blame you, if you
will only listen to reason and hear what I have

to say

Mrs. S. Certainly, now that you have
changed your tone, I am willing to hear any-
thing ; but when you said just now

Mr. S. {Impatiently interrupting.) No mat-
ter what I said just now.

Mrs. S. Oh, yes, it is very easy to say " no
matter."

Mr. S. But listen lo what I '■ay now. We
must retrench, and that very decidedly, in our
expenses.

Mrs. S. And I again repeat that I am per-
fectly willing — I cheerfully acquiesce in any
changes you think necessary. We can do
without a carriage if you think so.
Mr. S. Let that go then.
Mrs. S. And the opera box — the season is
just up.

Mr. S. Very well.

Mrs. S. And I'll send back the new
epergne, for, of course, we shall have no fur-
ther use for it.

Mr. S. {Hesitating a few moments.) Well,
we need be in no hurry about that. I rather
doubt if Cox will take it back, and besides, the
Secretary of State dines with us next week, we
shall want it.

Mrs. S. Surely, you will not think of giving
that dinner!

Mr. S. It would be rather awkward to do
otherwise after having given the invitation.

Mrs. S. You told me that it was so doubt-
ful whether he remained in town until Thurs-
day, that he was unwilling to promise positively
for any time. Wait a day or two, and I'll
answer for it, he will be engaged to more din-
ners than he can attend. Easy enough to get
ofT when it is a great man you have asked. It
is only your small people, who have few or no
invitations, who pin you to the point.

Mr. S. Well. well, we'll see about it.
{Looking at his watch. ) It is time I was at the
counting-house. ( Takes his hat and leaves.)

Mrs. S. {After waiting a few moments.)
Men are so unreasonable ! You really would

DIALOGUES.

easy to say " no

I — the season is

>t think of giving

have iupposed. to hear Charles talk, that the
few hundreds I spend upon dress was going to
ruin him.

Mm Hevward. But he says he cannot
atford u, Augusta.

Mks. S. He can afford it as well as he can
afford other tilings.

Miss H. Perhaps so. but as I understood
hun, he thinks you are living altogether at an
unwarrantable rate.

Mbs. S. Then why should he begin on my
personal expenses? Oh. if I only had some-
thing of my own. or if Charif* ..in.'i make me
an allowance, as I have ask .a him .,;Mn and
agam. that I need not : e ttdijcct - such
humiliations! To be sc Jdt like a child
whenever a bill is handed \u ,- real!' more
than I can endure. \

Miss H. Come. come. Augusta, now it is'
you who are unjust, for certainly a more liberal
husband than yours I never saw. I am sure
you have carte blanche to get whatever you
want.

Mrs. S. That is. I have carte blanche to
run m debt, and when the account becomes
due. it is mere luck and chance whether he be-
comes angry or not. Sometimes he pays bills
three times as large as these without a word ;
at others, he goes on as he did this morning,'
and I will not put up with it any longer, for
there is neither justice nor reason in it.

Miss H. Probably it is more convenient for
him to spare the money at some times than at
others.

Mrs. S. I dare say it is, but that is not my
fault. How am I to know when it is conveni-
ent and when it is not? I know nothing about
his business.

Miss H. It would be infinitely better for you
both if there could be a --ifect understanding
between you in regard to business matters. He
could, at least, name the sum he would be will-
ing for you to spend, why not ?

Mrs. S. I'm sure I don't know. When I
have mentioned the subject, he only says,
'• Nonsense ! get what you want and send the
biUto me." How this bill is to be paid is more
than I know. Madame De Goni writes that she
wants her money, but 1 dare not speak to him
again about it. Oh my ! there's the bell. {Call-
ingfmn another room.) John, go to the door
and tell them that lam not at home.

John. {/:«/,« with a card.) Mrs. Lans-
ing's compliments ma'am, and if you are go-
ing to the opera to-night she will be much
obliged to you to call for h.i. (Leaves the
room.)

Mrs. S. No, I'm not going. ( Tossing the
card upon the table.) Thank fortune 1 have
escaped her for to-day I I declare, the thought
of that woman torments me more than all the
rest. If it were not for her. I should not mind
selling our carriage, for half the time I had
rather walk than riJe. Giving up the opera is
more of a sacrifice, for I n ally love music.

Miss H. Hut it docs not follow that vou
must give up the opera because you give'up
your box. Mr. Steward wishes a general re-
trenchment in your style of living, but I pre-
, sume that does not include an occasional opera
ticket or so. ^

Mrs. S. Oh. as to that, if I can't go as I
like. I would rather not go at all.
I Miss H. I am sure one part of the house is
as good as another, and most of tiie people we
know, sit down-stairs, and. for my part. 1 would
rather be there than in the private boxes.
I Mrs. S. I am not going to sit there, at any
, rate, while the Harringtons, and Lewises, and
Remingto.is, and all that set have their boxes
It IS well enough for a young girl like you-I
dare say. it is pleasanter. for the young men are
all down there- and if we had not started with
a box I should not have cared so much-but as
It IS, I shall say I'm tired of it. The prima
donna is no great thing, and it is a bore to
go every night in this way. To be sure. Mrs.
Lansing will be curious. I suppose, if she finds
we give up the box. and try to discover the true
cause, for she has wit enough not to believe that
I am tired of it all of a sudden-No matter if
she does. I'll criticise the last piece, and find
fault with the new singer, and as she does not
know soprano from contralto and is dreadfully
afraid of betraying her ignorance. I'll make her
ashamed, in ten minutes, of having been pleased
herself.

Miss H. And why should you care what
such a woman thinks ? Surely, her opinion can
. - .!i„.K . o. i.u mipunance. one way or the
other.

Mrs S. I hate to gratify her curiosity, for.
after all, say what I will, she will have a secret
feeling that economy is at the bottom of it. She

340

DIALOGUES.

). H

'," .*

kihek'Ls;>4k:'

it such a purse-proud creature that h^r first
idea always is that if you do not do anything it
is because you can't afford it.

Miss H. Then I should tell her plainly so,
in the beginning.

Mrs. S. Not I, indeed ! I would not gratify
her so much on any account. She gives her-
self airs enough now without that.

Miss H. Wei'., you know her best, I sup-
pose; but, really, it seems to me that she is
only a very over-dressed, commonplace, little
body.

Mrs. S. That isi just what she is, Emily, as
commonplace a woman as ever you knew, and
her taste in dress is outlandish. The idea of
her giving herself airs and trying to be any-
body is ridiculous.

Miss H. Droll enough ! She seems to me
as Uttle meant by nature or education for a fine
lady as any woman I have ever seen.

Mrs. S. (With animation.) I wish you
could have seen her when she first came to the
city — you were such a child that you do not
remember her then. Charles wanted me to call'
!^pon her and treat her with some attention, on
her husband's account, as they were so con-
nected in business. How humble and grateful
she was ! I had her at our house a great deal,
introduced her to my friends, and, in short,
gave her her first start in society. But by the
time she knew everybody, her husband fell
heir to quite an estate independent of his share
in the partnership. Then she really began to
fancy herself a person of importance ; and now
she seems very much disposed to patronize me.
I declare, I believe I'll cut her.

MissH. [Laughing.) What an idea.
Mrs. S. Well, don't laugh at me, Emily.
(Pettishly.) If she really suspected we were
obliged to economize, there would be no keep-
ing her down at all. I feel like going off by
myself and having a good, hearty cry. Thank
fortune, it is raining. Nobody can call to-day.
I am too much out of sorts to see company,
that's certain.

Scene II.

Mrs. Steward and Miss.Heyward are siiHng
at a lun.ch-tahle. Mr. Steward enters.

Mr. S. Rath-^r late, I see ! Business de-
tuned me longer than usual. SucW things

can't be helped sometimes. I hope I have not
kept you waiting.

Mrs. S. Oh no! (Indifferently.) I did not
know but you would take your lunch down
town to-day. Your home seems so distasteful
to you, of late.

Mr. S. Pshaw! Augusta, don't begin again.
Emily will think us not very sweet tempered, I
fear. A constant broil is not very pleasant, to
say the least. There goes the door bell !

Mrs. S. I've instructed John to say I'm not
at home. Oh, dear ! they are coming right in
here, I do believe. John is so heedless ! (Enter
Mr. and Mrs. Lansing. They exchange greet-^
ings and take seats.

Mr. Lansing. I have come in early to ask
if you are going to the opera to-night, for, if you
are, I would like to consign my wife to your
care, as I have an engagement that will pre-
vent my joining her until a late hour.

Mrs. S. No, (Languidly) the weather
seemed so unpleasant that I did not mean to go
to-night.

Mr. S. Oh, you had better go, it will do you
good, love.

Mrs. S. No— not to-night. In fact, I am
getting tired of this opera— the company is
nothing wonderful, and, in short, to go night
after night, as we have been doing, is something
of a bore. I rather think we shall give up our
box the next season.

Mr. L. (In surprise.) Why, what is the
meaning of this ? Are you really going to give
up your box ?

Mr. S. No, I don't feel the necessity that
seems to oppress my wife of going every night,
merely because we have a box. Come, Au-
gusta, you had better let me order the carriage.
(She makes no further objection. He rings the
bell and dispatches a servant for the carriage. )

Mrs. Lansing. (Turning toUK%. Steward.)
I called this morning for you to go shopping
with me, but found you already out. I was
down at Cunard's. Have you seen those new
shawls that he has just imported ?

Mrs. S. Yes, they are common looking
things, don't you think so?

Mrs. L. (Looks somewhat confused.) No,
I don't— I admire them very much. I pur-
chased one tsiis iTJGrriing.

Mrs. S. Ah, really I

Mrs. L. They are very expensive.

ope I have not

DIALOGUES.

0, it will do you

Mm. S. (CmnUssfy.) Are they?

Mrs. L. Yes. ( IVM a look of importance. )
I gave eighty dollars for mine.

Mrs. S. {With surprise.) Indeed! I
should say that was very low for a good shawl

Mrs. L. They are all the fashion for car-
riage wraps.

Mrs. S. Yes. I have seen some of them
worn.

Mr. L. [To Mr. Steward.) Do you dine
at Thornton's to-morrow.

Mr. S. At Thornton's ?— no, I do not.

Mr, L. ( With a look of gratification.) It is
but a small party, I believe, to meet the Secre-
tary of State.

Mr. S. Yes. I was sorry I was engaged.

Mr. L. {With an air of disappointment.)
You were asked then ?

Mr. S. Oh ! a week ago. By the way, I
was gomg to ask you to meet him here on
Thursday.

Mr. L. (Surprised.) Who? The Secre-
tary ? Do you know him ?

Mr. S. Very well, indeed ! I am indebted
for a good many hospitalities at his house, in
Washington, and I am very glad to have an
opportunity of seeing him in my own,

Mrs. L. The Remingtons and Lewises want
me to join in giving alternate soirees, at my
house, with them. They said they would speak
to you about it.

Mrs. S, Ah .' I suppose that is what they
called for this morning, I found their cards
upon my table. lamgladlwas out.

Mrs. L. {Anxiously.) Why? Win you not
join them ?

Mrs. S. No. These soirees are excessively
dull. Nobody values a party where their is
neither dancing nor supper. Here comes the
carriage. Emily and I must hurry on our
wraps. {They leave the stai^e, aud soon re-
appear ready for the opera. Their guests rise
and the curtain falls.)

341

Scene III.

Mr. a«//MRs. Steward and Miss Heyward
at the breakfast table.

Mr. Steward. {Laughing.) How ton-
lieavy a little attention makes some people"^!
Did you observe how elated Lansing was at
beinginvited to Thornton's? Here! {Tossing

some bank bills to his wife.) You wanted some
money for Madame DeGonrf,

Mrs. S. What did you mean to do about
the box ?

Mr. S. Oh. keep it. of course. It doesn't
cost much, and besides, it will not do to make
such a decided change in our style of living as
would attract remark-it would injure my
credit. There can be a general attention to
economy without doing anything so very
marked. {Looks at his watch.) It is so very
pleasar this morning you ladies had better
seize the opportunity for a drive about the city
Shall I order the carriage on my way to the
office ?

Mrs. S. If you like. dear. {He takes his
hat. bids them good-morniag and leaves the
stc, .) Well. I shall not make myself unhappy
another time for nothing, and think we are on
the verge of bankruptcy because Charles hap-
pens to be angry. He really frightened me
yesterday, and it seems, after all, that there was
no cause for it.

Miss H. {Smiling.) You seem rather
vexed that there is not. Upon the whole. I
should say. it is more agreeable to be fright-
ened without a cause than with one.

Mrs. S. Well. I hardly know. A man has
no right to talk so unless he means what he
says. I declare, I scarcely slept an hour last
night, and all, it seems, for nothing.

Miss H. Not quite for nothing. Augusta.
Mr. Steward still says that economy is nec-
essary.

Mrs. S. Yes, in that sort of vague and gen-
eral way, and what does it amount to? For
my part. I do not even know what he means,
and I doubt whether he does himself. How-
ever, here is the money for Madame De Gone
though she can't have the whole of it, for
Estella has just sent in her bill. 1 will divide it
between them, and that will cut down both
accounts and satisfy them for the present.

Miss H. {Gravely. )\ think that as your
husband gave you the money for Madame De
Gontf. Augusta, you had better settle your
account in full.

Mrs. S. And what, then, am I to do with

Estell.i ?

Miss H. Give her bill to Mr, Steward when
he comes in.

Mrs. S. Thank you!_as I have not quite

I i

i! 'i

I ,

S42

DIALOGUES.

forgotten yesterday morning's discussioir, I do
not feel prepared for another tliis evening. I
don't see, Emily, how you can think of such a
thing.

Miss H. I certainly think that perfect frank-
ness is the best course. If I were married

Mrs. S. If you were married, you would,
doubtless, make a model wife — all young girls
think so, but when you are married you will
find, just as other married women do, that you
must manage as you can. I admit that Charles
is as indulgent, kind-hearted, and affectionate
a husband as ever lived, but he is quick tem-
pered and often unreasonable. Though lovers
may seem always charming, husbands are
never perfect, and you must make the best of
them, and get along with their imperfections as
best you can. We will drive directly to Mad-
ame De Gong's, pay her bill and I wil' order a
new dress for Mrs. Talmadge's ball.

Miss H. Why do you buy another dress ?
You have so many now you can't wear them
all until they get out of fashion. Tiie season is
nearly over. You can retrench there and no
one be the wiser for it.

Mks. S. Nonsense ! Einily, Charles likes to
see me well dressed, and particularly when I
go among his own family. Mrs. Talmadge
will be gratified, and Fanny is pleased to see
me appear to advantage, and, in short, they all
like it. The kind of dress that becomes a young
girl is not at all suitable for a married woman.
A simple book-muslin with a few flounces are
as much as you require, but, ten years hence,
you will find that soft satins and fine laces must
shade and fill up the ravages of time, and,
moreover, my position, my husband's fortune,
all demand it— people will expect it of me.
Well, here comes the carriage

(Curtain falls.)

Scene IV.

/« Mr. Somers* Drawing-room. Mr. Jack-
son and Mr. Somers, two old gentlemen.
James Somers and his sister Harriet.

Mr. Jackson. So Steward and Lansing
have failed.

Mr. Somers. Ah ! T h.^d nnt hsrird of it.
but I am not at all surprised. Young men who
enter business with small capital and dash
ahead in that style must fail. I never believed

they were making money as people said they
were. I knew it could not be.

Mr. J. Nor I. It was not the way men did
business in our day, and fortunes are not made
any more rapidly now than then.

Mr. S. In those times, young merchants
did not set up to be fine gentlemen, and give
expensive dinners and run into every extrava-
gance that happened to be the fashion. But
now a young man begins with little or nothing,
and in a few years, his wife must drive her car-
riage, have an opera box and dress like Queen
Victoria. The pains-taking industry and patient
economy of our times, which made their fath-
ers' fortunes, is quite out of the fashion now ;
and here is the end of it.

Mr. J. And they do say that this is an un-
usually bad case. The books show nearly
double the amount of the whole receipts drawn
out for private expenses. If this is so, there
will be trouble yet, for creditors won't bear
such fraud without making it warm for them,
you may depend upon it.

Mr. S. Nor should they. [Indignantly.) It
is absolutely dishonest and disgraceful.

Harriet Somers. Ah, poor Mrs. Steward !
we shall miss her pleasant soirees .as winter.
I am sorry for her.

James Somers. And what is your particular
interest in Mrs. Steward ? All your sympathy
seems reserved for her ; did not Mrs. Lansing
give soirees too ?

H. S. I have no particular interest in her,
but she is a graceful, pretty woman nnd was an
ornament to society. Very diflferer uom Mrs.
Lansing. Besides, she was used to luxury.
Poor thing ! How hard it will be for her to give
up her carriage, and establishment, and all.

J. S. And learn the use of those dainty
little feet ! (Laughing.)

H. S. How can you be so unfeeling, James?

J. S. I don't see the want of feeling in
thinking that people who cannot afford to
keep carriages had better walk, nor do I see
the peculiar hardship in Mrs. Steward's case.
What is it, pray, that makes the difference be-
tween Mrs. Lansing and her ?

H. S. Oh ! Mrs. Lansing is a vulgar, purse-
rjroud little bod*'. It was nnthinc^ Hut hpr
money that gave her any consequence at all.
I never could see why people paid her so much
attention. However, all that is over now. She

pie said they

ib .'IS wintjr.

hir-.f hut her

rdr ^ *"" ""''' ""rted.'henceforth. I'm

All your sympath.es are bestowed upon Mrs
Steward because she is pretty and gracefu "
Now I thmk, if I had any extra con,pLion to

throw awav I <,I,«..1J _• _ .. .. *'"='='"" lO

DIALOGUES.

.'84S

Mrs. S. Yes. her native goodness cf heart
begins to assert itself. She is so tender anj
sympathetic in our n^utual misfortunes thatt
th.nk more of her thani ever supposed it pi

Miss H. Adversity has cleared away the

throw away, I should give it to Mrs TaTsh^ d ^^ ""^'"'"'y '^^^ ^'-^ed away th,

who in losing fortune'loses eve^y Lg Pe'r' LrnT. ""'J'^' '""^ P"^' ^°'^ "^ '-^ -t
sona,goodqualitiesalwayscommLdr%ect; :si„ar^ is nothing so attractive

and the wisest of us all. admire grace and to death mv ^'^ I^°"'' g^^ve yourself
beauty; but to be poor and plain dull and o ofd as T '''''''• y°" ^"-^ "^"'^^^ °f V""

str/'wr:"^' '^"^^'^'"^ °^-^^^' fora;srirVo?^^"P'"^"P^'-^ --dayL

sensitive woman

H. S. Oh Mrs. Lansinp 's a good-hearted
httle woman, but her head v .s turned by their
sudden prosperity. She was not used to U and
could not bear it. Now she will return to her
domestic duties, and, perhaps, be a much hap'
pier woman m her native obscurity than when
she was straining every nerve to shine in so-
ciety-a thing she co -Id never do.
J. S. You. women, are natural aristocrats

to se'tlinM '° " °'" ^'^ "^ «''' "-'^ '° it, seems
to settle a'.l your sympathies.

{Cufiain /a//s.)

Scene V,
Mrs. Steward and Miss Heyward a/o»e
Mrs. S. Well, the storm has come at last
and hard as the privations of poverty ar to
bear the bitterest dregs that I have to'swa low
are the sarcastic and cutting remarks which
come to me. from time to time, concerning my
extravagance. Every little fault has been held
up to view and so grossly magnified that I am

t'ortf T'^'- "^'^ '^ '' "^^^ ^-'P «em^
to most people, so sweet a morsel ?

MIS.S H. Charles was decidedly to blame

mnottemngyoufranklyjust how iL busies
stood. He was as extravagant in his way as
you were m yours. It is largely his own flu"
MRS. S No. no, Emily, it is as much or

iXd^of "'• '"k-''^- ' •"■^'^^ '-- -strained
nstead of urging h,m on. and it was my duty

wif;^^"*'^"°"•"P"*'"^t'-Powe f
a w. e s influence, and mine. I realize it now

abrov.r 1 ''°"''* "°' ""^^^ myself miser-
able over useless regrets. Mrs. Lansing does

Mrs. S If those days ever do come, Emilv

om 't, "' "^■°^"'^"' '" tbequietudTof'
home. There ,s nothing satisfying in the envy

purse and bram ,n ceaseless strife to keep ud
appearances. ^ P

A YEARN FOR GONE WOMANKIND
Oh. the^^beautiful woman, the woman of ancient

The ripe and the red. who are done and dead.
With never a word of praise ;

The rich round Sallies and Susans, the Follies
and Joans and Prues,
Who guard their fame and saw no shame

In walking in low-heeled shoes.

They never shrieked on a platform; they never de-
sired a vote ;
They sat in a row and liked things slow;

^'w^Lr"^^^^^«--»^°->y«i«bt

Onrar^rcrawet^""^"^^^'^^^--^

They never ventured in hansoms, nor climbed to the
topmost 'bus. ^

Nor talked with a twang in the latest slang-
Tney left these fashions to us
But ah . she was sweet and pleasant, though pos.
sibly not well read— ^

The excellent wife who cheered your life
, And vanished at lo to bed.

And it's^oh, the pity, the pity that time should ever

The wearers of skirts who mended shirts
And never thought nurseries dull;

For evervfKint.'« »«„.,. f„

K jj'7"'' ■ '•r^'Hurvy now, (he
bedded at lo.

not seem tn l=" :* *- u . - , *

„, . " '"■■ ■'■■="='"' as much as you do i u jj , " ' '■' '""•' ""*. me i

to L'^nir' T' '""'■^ ^^^^^^'''^ than she used While tte J "' '°'

to be before this affair happened. While the women sit up and smoke and sup

' ^" *« «J«b of the Chickless Hen.

<nen are

'If' :

> 'I

^' ii

i'iji i.i it 1.

! !

Si-; •

Ii!!

4 ■

il ■;

DIALOGUES.

THE ERRING SON RECLAIMED.

DRAMATIZED BY MISS A. O. BRIGGS.

Chakacters.

Mr. Lane,
Mrs. Lane,
Robert Lane,
Ella Lane,

An unrelenting father.

Ah Indulgent mother.

A wayward son.

An idolised daughUr

Scene i.

r\lRS. Lane sits in a nicely furnished room
reading a letter which she slips into her
pocket as she hears her daughters footsteps.
Ella Lane enters dressed for a party.

Ii f

Mrs. Lane. Really, Ella, you have been
very spry. I had no idea you could dress so

soon.

Ella Lane. Vou know, mamma, I never
spend much time before the glass. '

Mrs. L. I am proud to say my daughter is
not vain, for vanity is always the sign of a
weak mind. Your dress is very becoming, my

dear.
E. L. Then you think it will do to wear this

evening ?

Mrs. L. It is just the thing.

E. L. I do so wish you could go with me !
— why can't you, mamma ?

Mrs. L. I feel somewhat out of sorts, this
evening, and although I have always enjoyed
such little socials, I shall be obliged to send my
regrets this time. {Helps her daughter put on
her wraps.) The carriage is here, Ella.

E. L. Yes, Tm just in time. Good night,
mamma.

Mrs. L. Good night, my darling. (Exit
Ella.) Sweet, happy child,— how little she
knows the bitter anguish of my soul to-night !
Robert and his father have had some words,
and he, our only son, has been forbidden to en-
ter the house again. Ella looks on it as a
temporary disagreement which will soon be
reconciled, but alas! I fear it will prove a
much more serious matter. ( Tahes the letter
A^;- ktr pocket end reads.) " Do not go out
to-night, dear mother ; I must see you. Father
has gone to the city, the train will not be Hue
till ten. I will be with you as soon as possible
after Ella leaves, I wisU W bavc a talk with

you alone." (Puts letter back into her pocket.)
My poor, poor boy ! It may be wrong to de-
ceive my husband, but how can a mother re-
fuse to see her son ! (Listens.) Ah ! yes, I
hear his footsteps, ( The door opens and Rob-
ert enters, takes off his hat and, throw-
ing himself into a chair, near his mother,
buries his face in his hands.) Is it any new
trouble, Robert ? (Laying her hand gently on
his head.) Any mvi— guilt t Tell your motl.er,
Robert, tell her everything— she may help you
—she will— O. Robert! You know she will
love you and cling to you through it all.

Robert Lane. (Looking up sadly into her
face.) I shall break your heart, mother, and
poor little Ella's, too. Oh it is a dreadful thing
to murder those one loves the best ! I never
meant to do it— try to believe that, deat mother,
whatever comes.
Mrs. L. I do believe it, Robert.
R. L. Ah ! you know only a small part yet ;
but I could not go away without telling you. I
knew you would learn it from others ; 1 knew
you would love me through it all, but I wanted
to hear you say it.

Mrs. L. I will, Robert, I will ; but you.
surely, have nothing to tell me worse than 1
know already ? (Passing her hand soothingly
over his head.) Whatever it is, Robert, you
are not before a harsh judge now. Tell it to
your mother, my dear boy, she can assist, ad-
vise and sympathize —

R. L. O, mother, you must not speak so, or
I can never tell you. If you talk like this— if
you do not blame me, I shall almost wish I had
gone away without seeing you. Oh if I had
only listened to you six month:, ago ! I was
not conscious then of doing anything decidedly
wrong, but I know ♦'^at mv associates were not
such as you would appi ■'ve.

Mrs. L. I feared they would lead you into
their own evil paths.

R. L. And they have done so. They led
m? to the gambling dens. I won, at first, (a
game they always play to give tiieir victinib
courage) and then lost heavily. I asked my
father for the money to pay my gambling debts
aad he refused his aid. It seemed dishonora'

Id lead you into

We not to pay those debts and I told him so-
jrou know what followed,

Mrs. L Your father was angry, or he
would not have refused. You tried his patience.
Robert, and then. I fear, your language was
not what a wayward son should use in acfdress-
ing an exasperated father.

R. L. It was wrong, decidedly so, I will
admit, but his refusal drove me to deeper
crime-I was desperate-determined to have
the money, mother, and I got it.

Mrs. L. How. Robert?

W..')' ^°'^°"""y- '^^'^ryinghisfaceinhh

Mrs. L. My poor lost boy. how did you get
the money ? •' e»^'

R. L. By forgery. No matter for the par-
ticulars-! could not tell them now and you
could not hear. To-morrow all will be discov
ered and I must escape.

Mrs. L. O Robert, it must be some horrid
dream! I can't believe you guilty of such a
dreadful crime.

R. L. Would it were but a dream ! But I '
never meant it should come to this, mother be-
heve me. I never did. I meant to pay it before
now. and I thought I could. I have won some
mor.ey, but not enough ; so there is nothing
left but flight and disgrace. (Mrs. Lane ,i„l
back in her chair as though stunned by the blow
he takes her hand, rubs her forehead and tries to
arouse her.) Mother! mother! You do not
answer me. mother. I knew I should break

your heart. I knew

Mrs. L. {.Making a strong tffort murmurs)
To-morrow— to-morrow ! Oh! my poor
ruined boy ! " ' v

R. L. I know that nothing can compensate,
mother, but if a life of rectitude. M-ipanses
suddenly and starts to his feet.) I know that
step, mother.

Mrs. L. Hush ! my son. hush ! Mr. Lane
enters-his brow is clouded with rage as he sees
Robert. )

Mr. L. You here, sir? What business
brings you to the home you have desecrated ?

R. L. I came to see my mother, sir.

Mrs. L. No ; do not blame him. father
Let the fault be wholly mine. He is my own '
ciutd and I must see him_a little whlle-you '
cannot refuse to leave me a little while with my
own boy. '

DIALOG Vm

Mr. L. {sternly) It is the last tltli«, then.

in.,,): '^''*='«^ '•"'«' (/««/«'«/./ «^.<*.
tng bilternes

in^^' ^' »/''' '*'* '*'"*' {•wringing her hands
tn agony. Mr. Lane leaves the room. Mrs
LANE buries her face as though weeping )
i<. L. Oh. my poor, dear mother, what a

wretch I am! Oh ! if they had given me a cof!

fin for a cradle. I rhould not have brought on

us all such sname and sorrow, but it is too late

now. too late !

« 7/f ; \ (^"'""^ -*"• ^'ad and starting up

^tldly.) O.Robert, they will be here Every

moment is precious. You may not make your

I escape if you do not go now ; but oh ! promise

that. God helping, you will become a good and
useful man-promise me this and then go.
Your mother who has doted on you. entreats
forevl/ ''°"'' '"'" '^f*'y'°be gone from her

R. L. I cannot go, to-night, mother, I wait-
ed to see you until the last train has gone. I
shall go ,0 some of the landings, above, when

Ellen L. Has my mother retired ? Ohno-
she s up. waiting for me. And Robert! you'

with papa and have come back to be a good
boy and go with me when I want a nice
beau and all that? Well, it does look natural
to see you here. {Throwing of her wraps, she
seats herself beside her brother.) Now lell me
all about it-you must have had strange do-
ings this evening. *

R- L. Yes. Ella strange doings !

EL, What is it Robert? Has papa re-
fused to let you come back ? I will ask him-
he never tvfuses me anything. (Mrs. Lane sits
-weeptng) Don't cry. mamma, Mi ^o to his
room now and have it settlad. 1 .p^ cannot
say no to me, for I have on the very dress he
selected himself; and he said I should be "r-
resistible in it. I will remind him of that.

Mrs, L. Alas ! my poor Ella I This trouble is
too great for you to settle. Our Robert has
come home now for the last time-we part from
Dim to-night forever.
E. L. Forever I

'.i^i

848

R. L. Yes, fitrever 1 I will tell you ^11 about
it, Ella. You seem n-^* to know that it wab
something worse than a quarrel which drove
me from home. I had contracted debu\ — im-
properly, wickedly— and my father red =ed to
pay them. I obtained the mr wey for t! (s pur-
pose, and now, Ella, I must escape, or— oi —
E. L. How did you get the money, Robert?
R. L. Bv forgery.

E. L. You! ^.springirtg to her feet.) \'o\h
Robert Lane ? Is it so, mamma ? is my brotl ;:,
a villain, a forger, is he-
Mas. L. Hush, Ella, hush! It is for those
who hss ». hard hearts to con Jem ■ not for you.
my flriught-r. Th-.-ie wiH be in ults enough
heaped upon his poo> luad to-monow- let him,
at least, have love a»iJ aity h'.fe.

E. L. Pity! Whom did vi. love cr pity
when he deliberately—
Mrs. L. Ella. EU.ii (w>,a>.)
p.. L. O, roothci, dc r; ;« blame ElVa, I have
disgraced her name. She will deserve pity
when people point at her and say, " There goes
that ibiger's sister."

E. L, (AJfectionately.) Forgive me, Robert,
my own dear brother, I do pity you, I do love
you ; but, oh ! it is a disgraceful thing to be a
forger's sister. Horrible ! horrible !

R. L. It is horrible, Ella ; I never thought
tc bring it upon you, but—

E. L. Why are you here, Robert? Will
they not find you and drag you to— O
mamma, where shall we hide him— what can
we do?

Mrs. L. Don't get so excited, Ella, there is
no immediate danger— the papers are not due
until to-morrow.

E. L, The disgrace may be avoided, then.
Papa will, of course, shield his own name. I
will go to him at once.

Mrs. L. But the sin, my child, the conscious
degradation, what will you do with that, Ella ?
E. L. Poor Robert, he is sorry for what he
has done and^our kind Heavenly Father is
more ready to forgive than we. You will never
do such a thing again, dear Robert, will you ?

R. L. I will never agai; / led astray by
evil companions. I will kee '^ d c(*npany or
none. No one can tell the :_.;, the remorse,
the agony I suffer. It will do no good to entreat
him, Ella, our father has an iron will.
E. L. I «an l»Wt try, Robert, and if I fall I

DIALOOVES.

shall have the satisfaction of doiiig all I can for
you.

Scene ru

Mr. Lane sits in his lil-^cry
tiwught. As Ella enl-rs
menus to v:Alk the JU:0!'
troubled in hii mind.

^-emingly lost in
he ?jttt and com-
as tUough grtatl^

E. L C papa, I tai so wretched. Come
down in ^ e Robert, do ; — come and save hini.^
They will drag him to prison for forgery, Yia
will be the iithe? -A a condemned criminal and
1 shall be his si ter. Oh, do not lei him go
away from us stt, p. in — con.o down .'.nd i>ee
him, and you wili f/ity 1; m— yo cannot help it.
Mr. L. Forgery, Eila, he has not—
E. L. He hast and you must save him,
papa, for your own sake, for all our sakes.

Mr. L. Do you ; .low this, Ella? It is a
miserable excuse to get money from your
mother — money to sqaanuer as he has been do-
ing for the past six months. No, send him
back to the rowdies hu has chosen for his asso-
ciates.

E. L. That is not the way to make him
better, papa. You sent him back to them be-
fore. You shut the door on your only son, my
only brother.— He became desperate, went from
bad to worse, and now is about to become a
fugitive from justice — without home without
money — without friends to cheer or chide him.
If he goes, I will go with him.
Mr. L. Ella! Ella!

E. L. I know that one like you must feel re-
morse for what you have done ; and when you
reflect that poor Robert might have been saved
if you had only had more patience with him,
you can never sleep peacefully again.

Mr. L. Ella, my child, what has come over

you ? Who has set you up to talk in this way to

your father ? I suppose I am to be answerable

for this impertinence, too.

E. L. Forgive me i>apa. You know that

it is the anxiety I 1
has caused me to sp
forgive Robr-t and
the disgrace ot ,';

Mr. L. I
have the power,
if he goes on

•"or my brother which

plainly. You must

u must save him and us

csure.

voi t the disgrace while I

:■, but that will not be iong,

.ite. Do you know the

amount of money «c <" fc ?

liiig all I can for

-»!mingly fivt in
:a ;jti.t anr^ com-
IS triou^H ^natl)

reiched. Come
lie and save him. ^
a forgery, Yjh
ned criminal and
not Ics him go
>?. down t.nd tte

I -lannot help it.
las not —

must save him,

II our sakes.

s, Ella? It is a
oney from your
> he has been do-
No, send him
osen for his assO'

ay to make him
back to them be-
'our only son, my
iperate, went from
>out to become a
It home without
keer or chide him.

I you must feel re-
e ; and when you
t have been saved
jatience with him,
ly again.

hat has come over
talk in this way to
I to be ansvkerable

You know that
my brother which
lainly. You must
it save him and us

disgrace while I
It win not be lon^,
Do you know the

REPROOF AND SAUCINESS,

347

III

W^f

•j

■

i {

1 ,j

' i I

! • ' 1

■'4

' 1

III^H 1

1 I

• ■

' . 1

r 1

h 4 I

E. L. m asks none_I ask for him the sum
that you refused before.

Mr. L. Ah!
then. Welh tell him to enjoy his villainous
tnumphs. G.ve him that and say to him that,
.f he has any decency left, he wHl drop a name
which has never been stained except by him
and leave us to the little peace we may glean
foo7 "■^•"P'ed our best feelingn under

E. L. Thank you. papa; and may I not
tell hmi that you forgive him ?

Mr. L. No!

E. L. That you pity him ?

Mr. L. No!

E. L. May I not say that when he has re-
formed he may come back to us and be re-
ceived with open arms ?

Mr. L. Say nothing but what I bid you
and go 1 {Exit Ella. 77,. old ge,t,le,nan
v^nngs kii hands and groans in agony. Ella
hears it and returns to the library. )

E. L. Forgive me. dear papa, my first un-
kmd words. I was thinking only of poor
Robert, and did not know what I said. I am
sorry very sorry-cannot you forgive me
papa r '

MR.L Yes child, yes. Good-night, dar-
ling ! —there, go !

f..fhi; ^f^'^'^^'^nNo answer.) You will
feel better if you see him. papa.
Mr. L Go ! go !

DIALOGUES.

S40

You ought to go to him. Robert-go on bended

nim to eniov liie .,iiu: ..„ ," ,„ fiam.

Mrs. L. (i^/.n//,) Ella, you have too much
of your father's spirit-that is. too much for a
woman. Beware how you break 'the bruised

R. L. Ella is light, mother. (Hising.) I
w'li go to l„m-I will tell him how wretched I
have made myself-how I wish I could bear
the wo e load of wretchedness and relieve
those Hove. I will promise him to look out
some humble corner of the earth and hide my.
self in It. away from his sight forever. If he

plain-I have brought it all upon myself.

£• L. liut / will complain. Wherever you
go. I w.ll go with you. Poor, dear papa ! 1
w.l never stay here. Robert, while you are
without a home. Papa must-he wi/l forgive

'fL y. ' i""^^' ''^" ^" ""^ <^"d leads him
from the room. )

Mrs. L. God. grant that he may be for-
g.ven I [Buries her face in her handkerchief.)
{Curtain falls.) •' '

Scene iv.

Scene hi.

Ella ^/«m. to the parlor where her mother and
Robert are sitting. She hands her brother
a roll of bills.

Mr. Lane sits with his elbows on his table rest-
tng hts hMtd in his hands. Robert and
Ella enter. Robert hneels at his father's
Jeet-ELLA hisses her father's hand and
ptftces It upon -Ro^KKT's head. Mrs Lane
enters quietly and stands with her hand on
her husband's shoulder.)

E. L. Here is the money. Robert, and say
^o^^our^ather that you are sorry you made him'

R- L. He will turn me from the door. Ella.

*^- L. And do you not deserve it ?

Mrs. L. (Sternly) Ella !

R- L. I do; he will have no faith in my
promises. ^ He ..11 think I am not sincere-o!
tiia, I can t i^ce him again after he has bidden
me to depart forever.

E. L. Your manner and words will con-

ZT,.^^r^:^JZT" '" r."^- Y-|P^«yed for this day!
nave very r arly killed our poor father, Robert. {Curtain falls.)

R. L. O. father can you •, rgi-r me? I am
so sorry for all I have made ,ou suffer !_Can
you forgive if I will promise to do better ?

E. L. Dear. papa, he is your only son— he
will never act wickedly again-forgive my own
dear brother. Say yes. papa, and then we can'
all be happy again-just as we were before this
dreadful thing happened. ' '

Mr. L. Yes. yes. I will forgive him. Stay
with us. Robert, we can none of us live without
you.

Mrs. L. Thank God. we are once again an
unbroken family. How I have longed and

t...

350

DIALOGUES.

THE TONTO W A NEW SENSATION.

i^KAMA'fUBU BY H'SS A. O, BRIOOS.

a 'i!

!is^ t

CHARAcrCRS.

Uncle Lisha Arnold,

An old-fashioned farmer.
Aunt Dorcas Arnold, His wife-

Tilly, Their daughto-

Uncle Gideo •?, His brother.

Grace Arnold, )
Patty Arnoi d, \
John Reel, An admirer of Grace Arnold.

Joe Farley Tilly's beau.

Dr. Williams, A country doctor.

Nieces from the city.

Scene I.

A nicely furnished room. Grace Arnold
stands by a window looking out into the
street. Patty sil! by a table reading.

Grace. What a wild, dismal night ! The
wind moans and howls so piteously !— enough
to give any one the blues.

Patty. ( Looking u 4> from her paper. ) What
is the matter with you, Grace, and why are you
not dressing for the reception? I thought you
were going.

Grace. ( Turns from the vindow and throws
herself languidly into a chair fkar her sist<.r.)
Did you ? To tell the truth, 1 need the tonic
of a new sensation. Wher<? am l to find it,
Patty ?

Patty. {Laughing.) Thi.t is a conundrum,
dear. I have fancied that you seem unhappy
of late. You go around so li'^tl.T'y with that
far-away look in your eyes ! V ou do not
regret anything, Grace ? You are not sorry

Grace. {.Interrupting her impatiently.) No,
no ; But don't ask me : I do not know my-
self, and I told John Reed so when he a'. ^
me to be his wife. I am calle^' a woman, '.
I am nerely ' work of art— in unnatural < -
growth of this hothouse life of ours — of dress,
frtCiaion, idleness, and so-called culture. What
can such a being know of that natural, spon-
taneous impulse called love ?

Patty. I don't know. I have only been
out one season, and, of course, I don't feci so
—90 bored as you do. But I rather think I
could love, if only the right one should come
alcng. and I don't think it is an UnpossibiUty

with yuu ; but you may need the " tonic : " it
would do us both good. I'll tell you what 1
thought of while you were speaking; let us —
you and I — go up to Craney Hollow and niai<e
^ : "^ - a little visit.

GRACE. [Looks u-ghas/.) To Craney Hol-
low in the winter? You are surely crazy to
thii)k of such a thing.

Patty. (Earnestly.) No, I am perfectly
sane, I assure you. I should like it ever so
much.

Grace. What go from here, (Looking
around the warm, luxurious mom.) to tlie
plastered walls and cold horrors of the coun-
try in winter ? We should freeze to death,
child. (Shivering.)

Patty. Oh ! no, no. We need not stay
1 ng. Aunt Dorcas will be glad to see us, clear
old soul. Don't you remeril ■ ■ that week we
spent with her when we were children ?

Grace. Yes, I do. And I remember, the
mountains, and how strangely they in^ <• sed
me. I felt as though one would never dau' to
do wrong while they stood by, solemnly watch-
ing, as they alwd , seemed to be They must
look wonderfully grand now, covered with
snow. (D? ■amily.)

Patty, (/mpetuously.) Come, let's go and
them. I'on't you want to?

Grace. (Languidly.) Well, I b( ' eve 1
will, though I have no doubt we shall leave
our bones in some snow-drift for the bears to
f . k, or be frozen stark and stiff in our bed
some cold winter mornin"'

Pattv. Such a fate would be much more
he- lie, I am sure, than to ciie here of stagna-
tion {Laughing.) Let us g at once before
w ave time to retrac

ACE. I see nothng to hinder ou I starting
to-morrow. I dare sa we shall not need
many new costumes (uWA a shrug of the
shoulders.)

Patty. Oh ! no. Warm Hannel dresses
and stout boots and a few books — No, come
to t'liink of il, RO boo'iis and no needle-worr: -
we will find new resources and new employ-
ment in this undiscovered country. It shall bf
all frcsb and new to w»— a perfect change,

ir: !- I

at once before

DIALOGUES.

Grace. John Reed will be sure to call
early to know why we were not at the recep-
t«on. Well take the first train and avoid giv^
Ing an explanation.

( Curtain falU, )

151

Scene II.

A farmhouse kitchen,
at the window.

Aunt Dorcas stands

Aunt Dorcas, Wal sed ! if there isn't the
stage a stoppin' right in front of the house ' I
wonder if anything has broke clown. Massy

Tilly. {Answering from another room.\
Yis mar, I'll be down in a minit.

Aunt D. She's run off up chamber ter
si'ck up. I think -ts likely [Chuckling.) We
don t git but tew meals these ■ .ort days ; and
we ve Jest got the tea dishes washr ,m_ni
put on the teakettle and have you a nice, varm
sup^r as soon as I can git it ; for you mu.t be
Hungry ridm' so fur.

Patty. No, Auniie. we're not at all hungry.
\Vc took supper in the eating rooms at the de-
pot while we were waiting for the st.ige
Aunt D. Wal, I c u, git you a cup of tea

on me ! Two women folks a gittin' out iP,,), .nH ' *""' ^" ^"" * •="'

her apron over her head andgae, ,o the d2r\\ „," ''"" "," ''' '"""^ ^''''''^ ""^ '^""«'-»"'l aP"
Mylandsakes! I s'pose I knm- .hfyou be tl - ^-f^" ' ^'^ J"'/'''^'' ^^ ^'•"" ^-K'-uts
but I can't make it out jest now, ,. , suffer Do 1 1,!,;" °"' '° ' '^'''" «" y°" "^ ^ '""^'' ■" a

rniTW? r'tbht in »1ia K->>.l. . I

come right in the back way ; we hain't haH nn I n

path ter the front door 's„ce now tj""'^^^^ ^^e ate a hearty supper. Auntie, and

Lisha's kmder shiftless 'bout scch t' '"^ t^rr/'f ^ "°^^^^^^^^ «"""•'

( Grace and Patty enter. ) ^'^ '^^z ""'''" '" ''' '^' '"'''^ ^''' "«• (^-"f^''

Grace. Don't you know us Aunt Dorr.. I ^ '"^ "'^"y''^ '" " '<>»'S Irailinjr illy-fiuing /,..

-Grace and PattJ Arnold/ VorLl^ste, Z^ ) -"^''''^ ''''''^""^ "''' ^'^'^'^ ^^''^

cuse us for not sending you word- We made ' Aunt n th- .,

up our minds to come last night and started diat^ Lu r ' Tl "'' '"''' ^"^'^ ^^^e-

off . . the first train this morning fl '^ ' '"'^ ^""^ ' "'"^ '''" "'^ "^y

AUNT D. I wanter know. now. I wantcr tJ^TJ,^ T / "! ' ""'
know I (Shaking hands with them both.) Wal ' a hl^,: ifi r ^""'^''/^'^^'^'^ 'f>"n each
lu're welcome any time, but I'm sorrv^ r ! r "^ ^ ' "" '''^"' ^^^^ '" ^^^ you.

hain't t a fire in the front oom and thTn ' ^''"^'"/'^'-'« ^^^ C. ..in Pn.ty. I've heard
a littl e to rights. But n ve'mind oS' T\ "" '"" ^ ^"^^ "^'^^ «'-"' y-- ^o I

de.teU .. yer P^ and mar isradId^;oS J rtirXidi^-itr f^^^^ ^^n'.,..,....-
left orphms or what? Bless your hearts' Patty wtn
You're welcome anyway. ( Takes theirwral \ ' h„; i ''"' "^^ ^'^ somewhat tired,

AUNTD. W !, i.|,,„_ h.„ j„„ ever seen
these two young ladies fire?

the fire. It's sdnging cold out. You must be
chilled through and throug'a. [Takes their
things into another room and returns.')

Patty. We are dressed quite warmly and
so were very comfortable all the way.

Aunt D. Wal. how's all the folks ter hum ?

Uncle Lisha. IVr, t know as I ever have
least ways I don't remember—

Ai NT D. Don't you remember Grace and
Katty-your two neices who came out from

Grace. They're all well and sent vo To , I Rn • ^ "'"" ^''° "■"« °"' f'

of love. We thought it would be Z Te I ^%T, T r,:^r t""^ T """' ^'^" '

er par

''ss! You don't
Aunt D. D=« ,ell, „„... I ,ho„Bh, dw'Z'-A ,Z' Z:,'/'", """''" ' '^''"■'■•"'»«*

Ion,, .„ .«„. d„,f„, -r™,,, „, ,,\ c„,2|L„tl,r,t, „r" "" "" '

Uess you am't the delekit kind. You dew' Gk ^cp n„„ V \

look healthy that's a fact : an, I'm glad '^. I rem:,:b:iedt yU" ' ""'^' '"' '"''''' ^° '^

1 m sure. You don't ren mber your con.in I iJ.N-r.E L. 'Peeri

niiy I

s pose. {Goes to the door and

Tilly I Tilly! You can't guess who's here
Come rjyht 4owij.

calls) I out and see us

sence they've ben hi

ts to me th
sometime

ley might come

s a 1

ong while

Patty. They have often talked of

coming,

IP'

'A \

%ii

DIALOGUES.

but papa's business keeps him so clos«ly occu-
pied ihat he finds but little time for visiting.

Uncle L. Gettin" rich I 'spose ?

Pattv. Doing measurably well, I think.

Uncle L. Glad to hear it. Farmin" don't
pay over'n above well, but we it lage to make
a livin' joggin" along in the old lut.

Aunt D. I 'spose you got up pretty early
this mornin' to take the first train.

r.iucE. Yes, and lay awake half the nlgtit
for fear we should oversleep and miss it.

Aunt IJ. Thc's another day a comin' if
we all live ter sec it, so I reckon you'd best ter
go ter bed early so's to get rested.

Patty. Thanks, Auntie, 1 guess we will re-
tire. [They bid Uncle Lisha ami Tillie good
night. Curtain fails. )

Scene III.

Aunt Dorcas lights a tallow candle and escorts
them to the spare chamber.

Aunt D. I spose taller-dips seem kinder
funny to you, city folks, but we alus use 'em to
run 'round the house with, cause lamp chim-
bleys is so easy to crack in cold weather. We've
made up a good roarin' fire so's the stove-pipe
could warm the room, and I guess I've put on
bed clothes enough. If you need more yoti can
put on that comforter at the foot of the bed
there.

Patty. (Pointing to a vase on the mantel in
whiih are tivo dried sunflowers.') See, Grace,
our emblem has preceded us ! {Laughing.)

Aunt D. La now I them's some o' your
Cousin Tilly's doin's. Our summer boarders
put a good many silly notions into her head.
They used to set store by sunflowers ; said
how't they was the esthetic emblem, or suthin'
nuther. Tilly can tell you what they meant,
but I'll take 'em away. ( Takes up the vase.) •

Grace. {Staying her hand.) Oh, don't!
NVe like them, too.

Aunt D. Do you now? {Looking at her
curiously.) Oh, wal, all right then ! But they're
tew big and yaller to suit me. Never make no
count of 'em here 'cept ter feed the hens, — the
seeds you know. {She sets down the candle,
and bidding the girls -good night," leaves the
room. )

Grace. How sacrilegious to fee4 such beau-
tiful flowers to the bens 1

Patty. Well, what do you think of our
cousin Tilly?

Grace. I rather like her— great, green,
good-natured girl— but oh! her dress is too
outlandish for anything. If she was "slicked
up" to-night, what a torture to the eyes must
her ordinary apparel be !

Patty. If she could only be sentawayfrom
home to some good boarding-school for a year
or two, it would be the best thing in the world
for her.

Gracr. Uncle Lisha is so old-fashioned and
miserly he would never listen to such a thing.

Patty. I presume not. Well, she will
marry some country rustic and will, probably,
lead a more contented and happy life than most
young women with more refined natures and
lijgher aspirations.

Grace. You're right, sister, I sometimes al-
most envy such people.

Patty. {Surveying the room.) This is the
spare chamber. What a world of industry—
of patient, persevering toil is here unfolded to
our view 1 IJraided mats, pieced-up chair cush-
ions, worsted flowers, embroidered pin-cush-
ions, Creton wall pockets, and other little
trinkets too innumerable to mention.

Grace. {Looking behind some curtains.) Do
see this great white bed ! Now isn't it too im-
posing ! I wonder if there is a ladder anywhere
about, by means of which we can mount this
lofty structure ? ( Curtain falls.)

Scene IV.
Breakfast at the farmhouse.

So you hdd boarders from Boston
It must be very beautiful here in the

Grace.

last year,
summer.

Aunt D. Wal, I dunno, I think 'ts likely
the mountains is ruther uncommon ; but I
never think much about 'em. I've allers lived
right here, ye know. {Uncle Lisha fours his
tea into his saucer to cool. )

Uncle L. Our boarders belonged to them

»ther estheticks {He eyes the two girls sharply )

and I reckon whether or no you ain't the same

sort. They say there's lots on 'em in the cities

now !

AUMr D {Lm>kiHg teproachfusiy at T;::y.)
There's more here in the country than I wish
there was.

)U think of our

r, I sometiniei al*

UNCt. L.^. , hain-, no -pinion on 'em.
no way. I di.p^e the hull lo,_*sthe.ick.
sprntoohst, freelover, and all. One', as bad ai
t other cordin ter my way o" thinkin'

V^r^' ,^'Y.' P"" '^'■"°'''- «'"■' you ashamed ?
UNC..E L. 1 m jest speakin" a hit of my mind
—that s all.

Pattv. We came up here to get away from
every thing of that sort. Uncle Lisha

Uncle L. I'm glad youV. sensible enough

o want to g,t rid on 'em. Ue.us all what fools

folk, will make of themselves! Some o' them

there boarders of ourn hadn't brains enough

for a good sued muskeeler.

Pattv. They were just too utterly utter for
anythmg. weren't they, Uncle Li»l.a ?

Uncle L. I guess that's about it. I wouldn't ,

Mother, {ar/</ress,„irAn „-,» we're a layin' out
to go up onter the mountain to-day ter look
arter them traps: and I wish you'd put up a
good hefty lunch, and git my mittens and other
npsin out. And see here : I shouldn't won-
der .f we a I come back here ter supper, to-

JT. \ j^'^'"^''"^) Oh, yes. I -spose
80. But who s agom' ter git supper for a pack
men at a minute's warnin'. I should like ter
know ? How many will there be. anyway ?

Unce L Why. there's me. and brother
Gideon, and Joe Farley, and a young city chap
that jest come to their house day before yester-
day-come up ter hunt. That's all ; only four !

riLLY. Say. par. can I hitch up old Dobbin
and take the girls out sleigh-ridin' ?

Uncle L. Sakes alive ! Yes, if you want
to. But you must dri-. mighty keerful cause
-ts drifted quite bad in some places, and it
wouldn t be so funny to git tipped over in a
snow bank.

r.RACE. Is it drifted? Oh. nily. I shall be
afiaid to go.

-Jh"'' w "^'"". ^-"^'"^ '""^"'^ °" '^'^ -"ain
• ^.'1. We can git along all right.

Uncle L. Don't be afeerd. child, Tilly can
^.nve as well as any man-she's used to it •
only she inustn't go into the cross roads, 'cause
they re chuck full, dean „r. »-. .i.. ,._. .
there s a powerful sight of snow on the ground
ortlm. .eo'year. Wall, we must hustle if
I go this .ornin'. 'cause the boys'U be waitin' ,

DIALOG VES.

Aunt D. That', so. Lisha. time you was off.
Scene V.

^V«,V «/ M, /am,.Aouse. The girl, „tum
from their ride.

I'ATTV. O, Aunt Dorcas, we've had such a

ou!L"'ir*l "^'1 '"*''"" ""^ °^" •''» 8-"nrf
rflh'- '^■•''!«'"-« afraid sometime,
hat I.lly couldn't hold him ; but she proved
I'crself equal to the occasion.

of'lnn'ii '""'''•"' ''""^'"'^'''^"K'-eat ret
ofoldDobbm. He knows 'most as much as a
reason,,, be.n. Yo« couldn't make him run
a«ay« hen she handles the lines. I guess the
weather ,s a, noderatin' a little, ain't it?

Grace. Yes, it is ve,y much warmer than
,t was yesterday.

Pattv. ^my enters.) You don't mean to
say that you have unharnessed so soon ?

,In M ", ^'""°- J^^l'Beebee's come over to
o the chores to-night, 'cause par w^s afraid
c wouldn t g,t back in time. So Jack said

he d take ca,e of Dobbin for me.
Pattv. Whoisjack Beebee? Ah! Tilly I

behove he's your beau-isn't he. Aunt Dor-

Aunt D. Good land o' Goshen ! No. he's
one of the neighbors' l,oys that helps your
I Uncle L,sha sometimes.

Pattv. Then he isn't the one. Well, who

-. t. the,,? If rn, to have a new cousin before
long th,nk you might invite him in and give
tis a chance to get acquainted.

AuntD. You'll see him ter-night for he's
com.n home with yer Uncle Lisha to supper

Pattv Ah. ha I Tilly, what makeryou
blush so ? I guess there's something in it

AuntD. They're both on em kinder bnsh.
All. but land sakes! what's the use bein' so
shy afore your own folks? Joe Farley is a
good, stiddy feller, and his father is quite fore-
handed. Me and your Uncle Lisha likes hin,

Tilly. There now. mar. you've let .he mt
out 01 the bag. haint you ?
AUNT D. Might as well be let out fust ns

see the sheep s eyes he keep castin' at you. '

H .i:

f s:fe,

i iiii.i

-I

894

DIALOGUES.

Oh my ! where does

Patty. Sheep's eyes !
he get them ?

Aunt D. O, you little goslin'. You're green
'bout some things, if you t/o live in the city. I
wanter know if yer never hurd of sheep's eyes
afore ?

Patty. Never, Aunt Dorcas.

Aunt D. Wal, sheep's eyes I 'spose means,
kinder sly. sheepish looks— that's all.

Tilly. O, mar Arnold. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself? (Taies their wraps into
another room and returns. Aunt Dorcas is
stitring up something with a spoon.)

GiiACii. What are you n\aking now, Aunl
Dorcas? Poultices?

Tilly. Ha! ha! Miss City Greenhorn,
she's a makin' a sweetened Johnny cake. Par
and Joe is awful fond of 'em. so we're goin' to
have some for supper. [Goes to the window.)
Here they come now, and they're bringin a
bear along, too. girls.

Grace. A bear! Oh, me I is it— is it alive ?
( Trembling with fright. ) |

Patty. Now you're in for a sensation.

Grace.

Tilly. La. Grace, don't git scart before
you're hurt. Hunters don't go huntin' to
bring home Hve game, ycj goosey. (They ail
go to the window.)

Aunt D. A strange way to bring home a
bear ! See. its on a stretcher ; and they walk
as keerful as if it wp.s a human bein'.

Tilly. It is a man. and par and Uncle Gid
and Joe is carryin" him.

Patty. Wouldn't it be perfectly dreadful if
somebody has been killed ! I do believe he is
dead and they are coi)iing in with him — Who
can it be? [The three men enter, bearing a
wounded man upon a stretcher. They lift him
off carefully onto a lounge. He is unconscious )
Aunt D. Oh, massy me ! This is jest
awful ! Who is he ? How did it happen ?

Uncle Gideon. You see we had trapped a
bear and she had made off draggin' the trap
with her. We was all follerin" the trail and
this feller was the first to come upon her.
Jest then his foot slioped and he fell forard,
strikin' his head upoh a stun. That must uv
stunted him for he hasn't seemed to know
nothin' sense. Ef 1 hadn't ben clost behind
him he would have been killed in a jiffy, for
the bear was jest a goin' ter make a spring

when I popped her over, and she fell back
deader than a nit. (yoe disappears while Uncle
Gideon is talking. )

Tilly. Is he dead? Who is he, par?

Uncle Lisha. No. he is only stimted.
His heart beats. I guess he'll corpe tu afore
many minits. He's that chap from the city.—
Joe, knows him. I can't jest remember the
name.

Grace. From the city? Let me see if I
know him. {Steps near the lounge and looks at
him.) Oh! dear! what shall I do ? what shall
I do? It is John Reed and he is dead. {She
covers her face and moans piteously. )

Uncle G. Oh. bless you. no. child ; he's
only stunted. There! there! '-race, we'll
bring him tew in a little while ; he's only
stunted, as it were, ye know.

Patty. He is an old and dear friend of ours
and my sister is not strong.

Uncle L. Poor gal— poor gal! {^Looking
after Grace as Patty helps her into another
room.) Who'd a thought it now— who'd a
thought it ?

Aunt D. Lisha Arnold, {severely) be you
a goin' to stand there all night a makin' a fool
o' yourself, or be you a-goin' to act like a sensi-
ble bein' ? I should think it would be a good
idee for somebody to go for the doctor.

Uncle L. To be sure! To be sure!
[Looks around.) Where's Joe? Oh. he's had
sense enough to jump onto a horse and go for
the doctor while wc was so excited we didn't
have our wits about us, Joe's level headed, he
is! {Looks knowingly at Tilly who hangs her

head as though very bashful) If Gideon had

ben a minit later that b'ar would have finished

the poor feller, sartin. {Joe returns with the

doctor. )
Aunt D. Glad to see you. doctor. How'd

you happen to bring him so quick Joe?
Joe Farley. I met him comin' this way.

He was agoin' out to Jonses farm on beyond .

Their hired man is sick with the meascis.

Pooty sick. too. I reckon by what I've heerd.

['Yhe doctor examines his patient.)

Ur. Williams. A bad fall ! No bones are

broken, however, and I hope to bring him out

all right if he has sustained no internal injuries.

I will give him something to revive him, it

possible. I don't, at all, like this stupor. [Calls

for a glass of water and a teaspoon. Pours out

J, no, child ; he's
:re! ''race, we'll
; while ; he's only

dear friend of ours

>or gal! {Looki»i^

r her into another

it now — who'd a

some medicine into a tumbler and gives his Pa-
tient a spoonful.
Aunt D. Can he swaller. Doctor ?
Dr W. Yes. he <!wallowed that medicine
allnght. I must bandage his head. Will you
bnng me some old linen which I can tear up
for a bandage? [Addressing Tilly who goes out
and returns with the bandages which the doctor
binds about the head.) Ah ! he is coming to !
{The patient raises his head and opens his eyes in
bewilderment. )

John Reed. What's the matter ? Where am
I ? Oh ! how my temples throb !

Dr. VV. You are here among friends. You've
had a fall, but never mind, don't worry'
You'll be better in the morning. Keep just as
quiet as you can till then. ( To Aunt Dorcas)
He II need very careful nursing.

Grace. ( /inters leaning on Patty. ) V\\ take
care of him. Aunt Dorcas. I'll watch by his
beds.de night and day if we only can bring him
back to life again. There! {talking law to

DIALOGUES.

185

Scene VI.

The Patient sits in an easy chair, his head slili
bandaged. (Jhace brings in a tray of tempt-
tng food and places it on a stand bif ore him,
then sits down by him, pours his tea and
spreads /.is bread for him.

AuntD. (Aunt Dorcas enters.) Grace, have
you got everything you want foi his lunch?

Grace. Yes, I guess so. How is it John?

John Reed. Enough? I should think so
and more than I can dispose of. Grace forgets
that I am still an invalid.

Aunt D.
Mr. Reed?

How are you feelin* this mornin',

J. R. O jolly! Don't I Grrce? I believe
^e are the happ.est couple of young simpletons
you ever saw. Aunt Dorcas. I came out here
o wean myself from her society, she c.me out

Patty.) He's in a stupor again. Poor John ! , to get away from me. and'p;;;;;ie;'cVh.T "'
what a dreadful thing to happen to hi.n out 6' to throw us together And^w, I ..T
here m tiie dreary wilds of Vermnnf rest of ir r..o.» , ^ "'' ^^'^^ " ""^^

here in tiie dreary wilds of Vermont.

Dr. W. Since this young lady volunteers to
act as nurse, I will jot down for her a few di-
rections on paper. ( Ta/ies a pencil and writes,
then places t/te paper in her hands. Takes his
hat to go.) I think he will rest if everything is
kept qnet. I've a very sick patient, at the
next farm-house, to whom I must give imme-
diate attention. Will be in early in the morn-
ing. ( Bids them good night and leaves. )

Grace. He seems to be sleeping, for he
breathes natural. Don't you think he will get
well. Aunt Dorcas, if I take good care of him '

Aunt D. Yes, my dear. You can do bet-
tei in this case than any one else. I unde..
stand.

Grace. (Kissing her aunt.) You know how
anxious I feel— don't you !

AUNTD. Of course. Ido. We'll all go out
and leave you alone with him for a while, for
the men must have their supper-then I'll come
in while you go out and take yours.

nnHr^f ", I "u"'' ^^* ^ mouthful. Auntie.
until I feel chat he is out of danger.

Aunt D. You must eat somethin' nr vq,,

can t stand it, watchin' all night. So I shall

lest of it. Grace ?

Grace. There's no use in telling Auntie
any more She has sharp eyes, if s^.Les look
through glasses. (Enter Patty and Tillie arm in

Patty O. Grace, you didn't know your own
'.eart, did yon ? You needed "the tonic of a

new sensation," and it came in a manner you
east expected. Tilly and I know how the mat-
ter ctands and have come to tender you our
warmest congratulations.

J. R. And Tilly knows how it is herself-
Jloes she ? Joe told me that things are all settled
oetween you.

Patty. You must call her •• Cousin Tilly "
Jfjou please, John, after this, and me. .Si/te,

John and ■• Cousin John " hereafter? If. ,
poor rule that won't work both ways.

Patty. Certainly it is. Well, well, this
tor.i. of a new sensation works like a charm,
doesn t It. It has restored yo„ both to yo^

-ne in and you ™ust go to tL Ubie a„d7a | e^s^'ud \LT .

allyoucan. (Curtain falls.) | houre;oMl„:,?;.,r'r ''''""''' ''''''''''

806

•'' 1 ,' I '

DIALOGUES.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

DRAMATIZED BY HISS A. O. BRIGGS.

CHARACTERS.

Mr. Samuel Smith, A wealthy old gentleman.
John Paddington,

An applicant for the ste'wardship.
Edith, John's lady-lcrie.

Scene I.

Mr. Samuel Smith sits in his library, reading
a letter. John Paddington sits anxiously
watching until Mr. S. finishes reading and
looks up,

Mr. S. Smith. Yes, I like your appearance,
and your recommendations are excellent, ex-
cellent ; but my steward must be a married
man — a married man, sir. Here's a house for
him, you see, and everything comfortable and
proper for a nice little home ; but I cannot en*
gage a single man — I cannot do it.

John Paddington. [Smiling.) May I take
the liberty to ask why ?

Mr. S. Why, yes, certainly you may. I
am unfortunately, a widower and I have four
daughters. I am fond of having fine looking
people about me, therefore, I engaged a hand-
some young coachman ; the coi>sequer;ce was,
AmeHa, my eldest daughter, eloped with him.
Final result — I have settled a sum of money on
Amelia and they are living on it at Hacken-
sack. I had a very fine-looking gardener,
pious, well-er ucated, had a quotation from the
Bible for every occasion ; Salina, my second
girl, eloped with him. I settled something on
Salina; and her canny Scotsman has used it to
start a florist's establishment of his own. He
is getting on in life, and more pious than ever,
and because I happened to swear a bit over the
elopement, prays for me night and morning as
a misguided sinner.

Later, I employed a French cook with a
mustache as long as himself, I never dreamed
of danger tliere ; but Corinna, my third girl,
eloped with him. They have started a con-
fectioner's csta'Diisiinicnt on w'r.at i g.Tvc 'cm,
and he is always calling me his " beau pere "
and sending me some sort of flummery — a
frosted cake with a Cupid on it, or a mould of

jelly, and I don't know what. I can't quarrel
with any one, or Asown my girls. You see, I
was a great flirt myself in old times, and ran
off with poor Mrs. Smith from boarding school.
They inherit it from me. But it cannot happen
again. My youngest is still with me, and every
one about me must be married or very old and
ugly. My cook would frighten the crows, my
gardener has a humpback and a Xantippe for a
wife ; and you — well, I do want you, I do in-
deed ! I know you can manage my estate per-
fectly. I like you personally, and all that, but
I kicked your predecessor out for kissing his
hand to my daughter and have been seeing to
my own business ever since. By the way, he
made a very good thing of the case of assault
and battery he brought against me. I suppose
I shall have to get another deformity to attend
to the estate if I don't want another elopement.
( Walks up and down the room for awhile and
thin suddenly stops and enquires) Why
haven't you married before this ?

J. P. Well, sir, unfortunately, I have not
felt that my pecuniary condition Vi-as such that
I dared to marry. But if I secure this situation,
I will be in a position to take a wife.

Mr. S. You must be married before I en-
gage you.

J. P. Very well. If you will give ms the
promise of the stewardship, on these conditions,
I can show it to a young lady, who will, I think,
be very willing to marry me, at once ; and I
can come to you on Monday with a wife.

Mr. S. Good! Pretty girl?

J. P. Beautiful, and I am madly in love
with her.

Mr. S. Well, well, that will be satisfactory

all round. {Seats himself at his desk and writes

the contract. ) I will read you the contract and

see if it suits you.

{Reads.)

"1 hereby promise John Paddington that if

he fulfills his promise of marrying, at once, and

brings me a wife on or be''ore Monday next, I

•ivii; crigsgc him as stcw;i_i of my estate forii

period of five years from date

{signed,)

Sahubl Smith.

^VT'." *" ''^"''*' "'■• 'hank you.
( -^«*« M^ .j57^«»»/«/ aW leave, the sta^e. )

he 11 succeed ,„ securing his wife, for I need

iZ "f7r '' '^ '" "^"^Se my afTairs.
\turtmn falls.)

DIALOGUES.

357

Scene II.

Mr. Paddington meets Edith in the park.

J. P. Good morning. Edith. You are out
early and looking prettier than ever.

Edith. And you are naughtier than ever,
to commence flattering me the first thing, I've
a mmd to be angry John.

J. P. Psliaw! Edith, you must never get
angry at what I say. J am more in love tlfa'
ITl •. f " "f'"^ "^"^'"y- ' "n't help it.
want to have a little talk with you.

E. I can-t stop but a few minutes, fohn. for
I promised to meet cousin Nellie when the
tram comes in.

J. P. All right, ni not detain you long.
We have had quite a flirtation. I think t
know each other. , adore you and I want yo

"yeV'^o^T.t?''^"^''"^"^^^^-""'^^^'^

J;, h?,"?"'"-^-.^ "^'"^ '^ ^° unexpected,
John ! but I haven't the heart to .say •• No "

x\J:^. Then it is ...Yes.?" Thank fortune !
I am the happiest of men. I have delayed un-
til now because I had not the means of giving
you such a home as you deserve. For a ye.^
we have met each other constantly. I have
cared for no one else. I am sur/of my own
heart. Are you of yours .? ^

of tt. ^'f • ■ "''^ ^ """• ^ '^^^^ °f"^" vvondered
oflate. ,f. ,„ the end. you would not despise
me for having made acquaintance so easi y
I have been wrong. I know. ^

J. P. " • • ■

, "••/ "lie eise. It wou d

have been very wrong ; but, you see. ours was

case of ove at first sight. You never flirt
"'(!' any other fellow. I am sure.

E. Not since I knew you, John.

dear.^" ^ '"* ^°" '° '""^''"^ "^^ '"-"'O'row.

E. Oh ! to-morrow ? Hut whv surh h-.c- i

jonnj" - '■'- •

a contract for a salary for five years Yo«

will be very comfortable. Here is a paper the
oW gentleman signed promising all this to me,

E. Ha! ha! ha! What an odd idea »

stand ;^;^"':,''' ^^l "'' '''^°"^- ^ou under.
«and. the conditions ? He is a solid old gentle-
man. has a nice estate anH r '"ficm'e

„,„> J estate, and lives in a very ele-

gant residence. The cottage we are to havo is
a cosey little nest of a housf. furnished igTod
tyle throughout. O Edith, we shall be so
'^appym such a nice little home of cur own!

cii'v aH! " "'"!!"" """' "'' "''^ •^^" '^"^t be a
c.azy old crank to make such a request as

J- P. He is somewhat eccentric, it seems
but perfectly sane, I assure you. HehasTad
|..oubIe with his daughters, 'one ehp d 'i h
1..S coachman, another, with his French cook
and another, with his gardener. He has oni;

about ; an ,ha, is why we must many at once!
t. Ha! ha! How very ludicrous !
J. P. You take in the situation ! Will you

a-c. me .„ carrying out my part of the contract?
E, I suppose It would be very wrong, under
e circumstances, for me to refuse, 'ko Fl

thmkofit and let you know

JA *'■ .^•.^'^'"'' *e bave very little time for
deliberation Whv keen .r.» i '"^ lor

Dense? Will ^ ^ '°"&^'' '" sus-

pe^e? Will you marry me to-morrow? Say

you hive. J//e raises her hand to his lips.)
J. P. But of course I must ask your father's

consent. I don't want to be dishonorable A

you are of age

E. Twenty-two.

J- P. As you are of age. I shall marry vqu.

sr nn K.,f I ...:-L . , ' ' *"•»

If it had been any one else, it would whether ^MZ"^ "'T' I ''^'" "^^''^
n very wrong ; but, you see. ours was V <Z ?\ I ""'^^ '° ^^ respectful

UBL Smith.

I P. My position depends upon my bein^a ^Te"'"' ^^'^ '''°" "''' ^^^'''- '^«" "n take
-rried man. I shall h^ve a n!ce li^L houfe! | the ^Sdot' '"^ '''■ ''""^^ '"""^ ^^^ «<=«-

nana lff''/''^f'''^'"^'''^"f^.)' John, I know
papa be.ter than you do ; it would be of no
use. We win marry and tell him afLrwIrS^
and avoid a scene ; he generally submits to the
nevitable. We will take the cars out to Ed n!
V Me to-morrow, go to the parsonage .nd be

av^7" "•""'? '"•' ""= ^"""^^ "s--«nd thus
rli°"'P/.'^°';''. -"• ^<^--- Vou can take

^ i

358

DIALOGUES.

li !
1

L . i.

J. p. Bravo, Edith ! It takes a woman to
,;lan anything in the line of rcmance. Our
marriage will be a surprise to everyone.

E. Fs much the better !

J. P. Certainly, my dear, nothing could
please me more, I- am sure.

E. I will meet you at the cottage on Mon-
day, at whatever hour you may designate, and
later, we will tell papa.

J. P. I will go in the morning and have the
papers signed and meet you at our cottage. No.
115 Irving Avenue, at 2 p. m.

E. Oh, my ! it is nearly train time and I
must go th's very minute. Bye-bye till to-mor-
row morning, John. {Starts up in a hurry.)

J. P. Bye-bye, darling? (Kisses his haud
to her. She leaves the stage.) Well, this is a
Strange courtship anyhow. I wonder what sort
of a father Edith has and why she was so un-
wiUing for me to ask his consent. It may be
that her parents are very poor and she is
ashamed of them ; but I worship her and their
social position could make no difference with
me. It is a strange sort cf thing, to marry a
girl of wliose antecedents I know nothing. My
friends would call me mad if they should know
it. But why should I care? Edith is. an angel
and I love her for her own dear self alone.

{Cuttain falls.)

Scene III.

Mr. Samuel Smith is sitting in his library.
John Paddington enters, and after their
morning greeting, hands Mu. S. his marriage
certificate as a proof of his title to the stew-
ardship.
Mr. S. ( Very cordially.) Perfectly satisfac-
tory, Mr. Paddington. Well, I congratulate
you. Here are the p.ipevs which my attorney
made out for us on Saturday. (Mr. Smith
takes his pen and si^ns the contract, then ri.^es
and gives Mr. Paddington a seat at the desk
for him to do likewise. )

Mr. S. ( Holding out his hand to John.) The
more I see of you, Mr. Paddington, the betler
I like you. I've no doutjt your wife will be a
prudent little matron, who will set a good ex-
ample to my wild witch of a daughter and v ill
be good enough to watch over her a little.
(Edith enters behind them, unobserved.)

Now
I'm a very

I ^v.

affairs will prosper in your hands,
poor business man myself

E. And M\. Paddington is a good one.

J. P. ( Twms and sees k¥ wifi in horn* dress,

and is greatly shocked at her boldness. ) You for-
get that I have not introduced you to Mr. Smith,
my dear. This is Mrs. Paddington, sir.

Mr. S. Where? (Looking around with a
puzzled expression.) Mrs. Paddington ! I don't
see her. This is my daughter Miss Edith, sir.
Now, Edith, are your playing some joke— hid-
ing Mrs. Paddington somewhere?

J. P. (Regarding him with astonishment.)
This is kny wfife, Mr. Smith,

Mk. S. Sir, I tell you, this is my daughter,
Miss Edith Smith. Are you craiy, man.

E. Yes, papa, I am your daughter, but I am
his wife also. You ordered him to be married,
and he married me. He had no idea who I
really was, though we have known each other
for a year. Smith is such a common name, you
know. I thought I'd vary the program a little,
and not elope as my sisters did.

J. P. Good heavens ! (Sinking into a chair.)
You know, Edith, I have implored you to let
me ask your father's consent. I never once
surmised the true state of affairs. I believed
your father to be some worthless old man of
whom you were ashamed. I had no idea

Mr. S. (Holding out his hand.) Mr. Pad-
dington, I hold you guiltless. As for that little
good for nothing

E. Don't call me names, papa. You like
John very much. He won't want you to settle
money on him, and he '11 be a splendid stew-
ward. Say you forgive me, papa. I won't
ever do so again — I, surely won't.

Mr. S. (Laughs and holds out his hand,
which Edith grasps affectionately.) I always
was an old fool. That little witch will have her
ow n way, and I can't find it in my heart to lay
up anything against her, no matter how much
she may provoke me. You have ta'.cn a great
load of care from my shoulders, '.vir. Padding-
ton.

If, through her love for you she will cease
her wild pranks and settle down into anything
like a wonjan of good, sober common-sense I
shall be most thankful for the peculiar train of
circumstances which brought it about.

J. P. I feel greatly honored by your confi-
dence, Mr. Smith, and shall endeavor to prove
myself worthy of it. I married your daughter
for herself— for her sterling good qualities of
head and heart. I know that my love for her
is fully reciprocated.

E. Yes, papa, no one can help loving John.
I an; going to make him a model wife, and you,
a most dutiful daughter — just see if I don't !

M U.S. ( Taking them both by the hand. ) My
own dear children, you have my hearty forgi\f-
ness and warmest blessing. I shall lean on
you, my steward son-in-law, as the prop of my
declining years, and our little, watni-hearted,
iirvrji.iciirp F,d!t!^ v.'iil HfT ?h.ff E'-iiisblne ot niv old
age. Tills is .« streak of luck to us all, as wel-
come as it was unexpected ; and in this, as in
all other mysteries of our t: uly mysterious des-
tinies, we can but wonder bow it happened.

is my daughter,
aiy, man.
lighter, but I am
m to be married,
1 no idea who I
nown each other
nmon name, you
program a little.

papa. You like
'ant you to settle
a splendid stew-
papa. I won't
an't.

■/s out his hand,
liely.) I always
itch will have her
1 my heart to lay
natter how much
ive ta'-.cn a great
!rs, '.vir. Padding-

)u she will cease
(wn into anything
common-sense I
; peculiar train of
it about.

d by your confi-
ndeavor to prove
ed your daughter
good qualities of
t my love for her

help loving John.
Jelwife, and you,
see if I don't !
by the hand.) My
ny hearty forgi\e-
I shall lean on
(s the prop of my
le, warm-hearted,
!i*.shine of niv old
c to us all, as wel-
and in this, as in
y mysterious des-
' it happened.

1>TAL0GVES.
A LITTLE SURPRISE.

Adapted prom the French of Abraham Dreyfus Bv Constance Beerbohm.

890

characters :

&DY^F':n»."vr^/«T"''"''' ^''^''. ('^3). Mr. James Dugdale (23).
LADY Florence Beauchamp (39). kate Dugdale (18I

Porter, the Lady's-maid (30).

*«Sj/?^l;''''''Br.J'3^^^^^^ ^'■""'r- "^"""f, '".'" ^fl-^^r garden at the

J tnc i(u^ i.i,-n -^ igHt ana left. A sofa, ann-chatrs, smaller chairs, etc.

evflnt'J^ulfin'y '"^"'D^ '""S ^'"'^ "''" '^"'T?'^ "'"V «"M their backs to one another

At iength their iyes meet.
Jem.

studiously avoids nis glance.

Jem. («>.?. ) No ! I tell you I can't stand it I

Kitty. And why not ? I always went out
wifh the guns at home.

Jem. "At home " and your husband's house
are two very different places.

Kitty. So I find 1

And I have told you over and over

again I Hcfgcf t,. o«„ __.. ._,_

&- - — ^ =•'-<; aViy n'uinan--inorc espe-
cially a girl of eighteen, like yourself-tramp-
mg over the moors in gaiters, and a skirt by a
long way too short !
Kitty. Perhaps, with your old-maidish

860

DIALOGUES.

V '

ijp ; ,' '

i (

Ideas, you would like to see me taking my
walks abroad with a train as long as my Court
frock I

Jem. Perversity!

Kitty. I only know that papa, mamma,
and grandmamma always said

Jem. Ahl But your grandmother

Kitty. How dare you speak in that way of
dear grandmamma ?

Jem. I never said a word against her

Kitty. Hut you were going to 1

jEM. Nothing of the sort.

Kitty, [repeats.) I only know that papa,
mamma, and grandmamma always said

Je.M. Oh, Heavens! [He escapes.)

Kitty. Was ever anyone so wretched as I ?
Only three months married, and to find my
husband an obstinate, vindictive, strait-laced
country bumpkin ! Well, not a bumpkin per-
haps, after all, but almost as bad as that !
Why, oh ! why did I leave my happy home,
where I could do what I liked from morning
till night, and no one was ever disagreeable toi
me? And yet during my engagement what a
lovely time I had ! Jem seemed so kind and
gentle, and promised me he would never say a
cross word to me I He declared our married
life should be one long sunshiny summer day ;
whilst I promised to be his little ministering
angel ! I reminded him of that yesterday.
And what did he say? That he had never
thought a little ministering angel could be such
a little brute ! I can hardly believe he is the
same man I used to love so dearly 1 ( Exit in
tears. )
(After a moment. Porter, the lady's-maid, enters,

ushering in Lady Florence Beaitchamp.)

Lady Flo. Your mistress is not here, after
all. Porter?

Porter. No, milady ! Yet I heard her
voice only a few moments ago.
- Lady Flo. Well then, Porter, you must go
and tell her a lady wishes to speak with her in
the boudoir, and be sure not to say who the
"lady" is, however much she may ask. I
wish this visit to be a little surprise to her. Nor
must you mention that Sir William is here.
{Enter Kitty, with traces of, tears on her face.)

Laly Fi o. Kitty, darling. Kitty !

Kl"TY. Aunty! Can it be you? This is de-
lightful ! ( They embrace. )

Lady Flo. I'm glad you call it delightful!

I came here a^ a little surprise to you ; but I
daresay you will think me a great bore for tak-
ing you by storm, and interrupting your tlte-a
tite with Jem.

Kitty. Oh! far from it! I am only too,
too happy you've come !

Lady Flo. Is that the real truth ?

Kitty. Indeed, it is!

Lady Flo. I thought I should find you as
blooming as a rose in June ; but you are nof
quite so flourishing as I expected. Those pretty
eyes look as if— as if— well, as if you had a
cold in the head !

Kitty. They look ;is if I had been crying,
you mean ! And so I have. [Bursts into tears
afresh, and throws herself into Lady Flo's artns. )
[Enter Sir William anil Jem, thf former stand-
ing amazed. Kitty, leavi'-.g Lady Flo's arms,

throws herself into those of Sir William, with

renewed sot'. Sir William turns in surprise

to Jem. Lady Flo looks down in embarrass-
ment. )

Jem. Oh ! yes. Kitty ! This is all very
well. Why not tell them I'm a monster at
once?

Kitty. And so you are !

Jem. [aside) Have you no sense of decency ?

Lady Flo. [aside.) This is truly shocking.

^ikW. [aside.) Good Heavens !

Kitty. Is it my fault that my uncle and
aunt are witnesses of your ill-temper?
[Entet Porter.)

Porter. Your ladyship's trunks have just
arrived from the station.

Lady Flo. [hesitating.) Let them be taken
back again.

Sir W. We had intended staying but an
hour or two.

Jem. [to Sir W.) But I beg you to stay.

Kitty, {to Lady Flo.) Never were you so
much needed.

Jem. {to Porter.) Let her ladyship's trunks
be taken to the Blue Rooms.

Kitty. Not to the Blue Rooms. They are
quite damp. ( To Jem.) 1 may speak a word
in my own house, I suppose? [To Porter.)
Let the trunks be taken to the Turret Room.

Jem. The chimneys smoke there.

Kitty. Excuse me. They do not.

Jem. Excuse me. They do.

Sir W. They smoked once upon a time,
perhaps, but may not now.

ti;

Porter.

dy ship's trunks

e upon a time,

DIALOGUES.

Where may I say the luggage is 1 should wish to Wow my brains out.

361

to be carried f
Jem. Talce your orders from your mistress.
KiTtv. No ! From your master !
Jem. i^to Kitty.) Spare me at least before the
lady s-maid !

Kitty, {to Jem.) Oh I nobody knows better
how you behave than Porter. Our quarrels are
no secret from her.

Jem. That must be your fault. How can
she know of them but from you ?

Kitty. I tell her nothing. Rut your voice
would reach to the ends of the earth.

Jem. As for yours— why .

Kitty. Grandmamma always said my voice
was the most gentle she had ever heard,

Jem, But. then, your grandmother

Sir W, {to Lady Flo.) I really think we
had better leave, after all.

Lady Flo. {affectionately.) No ! dearest
Will ! I really think we had better stay.

Sir W. For my part I

Lady Flo. I tell you we must stay.
Sir W, Very well. Flo. as you
wish. You always know best.
{They exchange smiles.)

Lady Flo. {to Jem.) Kitty will
take me to my room. So I- leave
my better iialf in your good com-
pany, {Exit with Kitty. )

Sir V, I can't help regretting
I came here, old fellow. It was
your aunt's idea. I made objec-
tions. But she insisted that you'd
both be glad enough to have a little
interruption in your honeymoon.

Jem. She never said a truer
word.

Sir W. Then the honeymoon
is not so great a success, after all ?

Jem. To tell the truth, it's all
a ghastly failure !

Sir W. Poor boy ! Believe me,
I'm awfully sorry for you. {Puti
his hand on Jem's shoulder.)

Jem. I'm awfully glad you're
sorry.

Sir W. I pity you from my
heart.

JEM. Thanks very much.

Sir W, For my part, if I led a
cat-and-dog life with your aunt, I

advice you give me I

Jem. So that's the
{Moves toward door. )

Sir W. Oh! no! All I want is five min-
utes' chat with you. Anything that affects
Flo s niece naturally affects me.

Jem. Naturally. {Laughs.)

SirVV. Now come! Tell me! How did
your misunderstandings begin?

Jem. I really couldn't say.

Sir W. And yet quarrels always have a be-
ginnmg.

Jem. Of course, when women are so con-
foundedly selfish.

SirW. Kitty is selfish.

Jem. I don't want to make any complaints
about her. Yet I must admit that she takes
absolutely no interest in anything which inter-
ests me. You know my hobby— fishing

Sir W. And Kitty doesn't care for fishing?

Jem. Not she ! Though, finding myself
here, surrounded with trout streams, you may
unagine how I Was naturally anxious to spend

tniBBASONABU,"

if:

ffi^ltlW

362

DUIOOVES.

'I ■

II I

Si : i

i3(i

mmi

my days. KUty said fishing was a bore, and
after having come out with me once or twice,
she sternly refused to do so any more. And
why? Simply because she wanted to tramp
about with the shooters from Danby.

Sir W. All this is but a trifling dissimilarity
of taste, and insufficient to cause a real estrange-
ment.

Jem. a trifling dissimilarity ! Why, our
tastes differ in every essential point ! Kitty has
got it into her head that a woman should take
an interest in things " outside herself." A friend
of her mother's, who used to conduct her to
the British Museum, taught her to believe in
Culture— with a capital " C." To hear her
talk of Pompeiian marbles, Flaxman's designs,
and all that sort of thing— why, it's sickening \
Sir W. It strikes me you are unreasonable.
Jem. W. Oh, no ! I'm not ! A woman who
takes an interest in things outside herself be-
comes a nuisance.

Sir W. And yet I believe that with a little
X.f-,t, a httle gentleness, you would be able to
manage Kitty, just as I have managed your
aunt all these long years. There is no doubting
the dear girl's affection for you. Remember her
joy when her mother's scruples as to the length
of your engagement were overcome.

Jem. That's true enough. Kitty was very
fond of me three months ago. But it isn't only
fondness I require of a wife. She must be
bored when I'm bored, and keen when I'm
keen, and that sort of thing, you know.

Sir W. Yes! I see. In fact, lose her
identity, as your dear good aunt has lost hers!
Jem. (aside.) Or, rather, as you have lost
yours !

Sir W. Well, I'll try |nd view things in
your light, my good fellow. At the same time,
you must have great patience— very great pa-
tience, Jem, and then all may come right in the
end. It is true 1 never needed patience with
your aunt. But had there been the necessity. I
should have been equal to the demand. Now,
I daresay your little quarrels have been but
short hved ; and that after having caused Kitty
any vexation, you have always been ready to
come forward with kind words to make up your

Jem. Yes, ready ! But not too ready, as 1
feared too much indulgence might not lie nd-
visable. Now, one morning, ftft^r b^ving be?n

out early, I determined to give up fishing for
the rest of the day to please Kitty. On my way
home— remember, it was before eight o'clock—
I met her betaking herself to what she calls
"matins." Now, I hke a girl to be good and
strict, and all that sort of thing. B':- imagine
going to church at eight o'clooi. on a Monday
morning !

Sir W. a slight error in judgment : you
might easily forgive the dear child.

Jem. I didn't find it easy. I said so. And
Kitty refused her breakfast in consequence-
only to aggravate me.

Sir W. No ! No ! Perhaps she fasted only
to soften your heart !

Jem. Far from it. In fact, to sum up the
whole matter, we have no common sympathies.
Kitty has not even any ambition, for instance,
as to my future. You know I wish to stand for
Portborough one day ?
Sir W. You 1 1
Jem. Why not ?

Sir W. Oh, no ! Of course ! Why not, as
you say ?

Jem. Yet if I begin to discuss it all with her,
she begins to yawn ; and her yawning drives
me nearly mad, when I am talkmg on a matter
of vital interest.

Sir W. Dear ! Dear ! I begin to find all
this more serious than I thought. For it does
seem to me as if you differed on most subjects.
Jem. [moodily.) So we do.
Sir W. Ah ! I am afraid it may be pretty
serious ! And after listening to all your story I
can't help feeling, my dear fellow, that there is
not the chance of things bettering themselves,
as I had hoped in the first instance.
Jem. You feel that ?

Sir W. I do! I do! This divergence of
taste and sympathies is no laughing matter. It
rather alarms me when I think that the abyss
between you and your wife as time goes on may
only widen. {He indicates an imaginary abyss,
■which Jem s fares at dubiously.) Yes ! widen-
and widen !

Jem. (after a moment s pause of half surprise,
half pain.) What you say is not consoling.

Sir W. At first I thought differently ; but
now I hesitate to mislead you. and 1 admit my
heart sinks when I think of your future, after
hearing all you have to eay. Indeed, I hope 1
may be mistaken. I have, as you know, but

DIALOGUES.

dgment ; you

o sum up the
n sympathies.
, for instance,
>h to stand for

it all with her,
awning drives
ig on a matter

f half surprise,
: consoling,
ilifferently ; but
and I admit my
>ur future, after
ndeed, I hope 1
you know, but

•IRW.: " WOMEN ARC so INDISCRBST."

little experience in these matters. Your aunt
and I have lived in undisturbed harmony these
fifteen years. Never has an angry word been
heard within our walls.

Jem. Whilst Kitty and I squabbled as soon
as we had left the rice and slippers behind us !
And since then scarcely an hour has passed
without some sort of difference. I declare,
when I think over it, that it would be best for
us to plunge into the ice at once. A separation
is the only hope for us. But, hush ! I think I
hear Aunt Flo's and Kitty's footsteps ! {Lowers
his voice, speaking rapid/y) For Heaven's sake,
don't breathe a word of what I have said ! Fool
that I've been ! Worse than a fool— disloyal !
Not a word to my aunt !

Sir W. Oh! I promise you! {Mysteriously
^"'0 Je,n s ear) Women are so indiscreet. Now,
1 wouldn't tell your aunt for the wide world !
{Enter Lady Flo and Kitty, who have overheard
the last words. )
Lady Flo. {icily.) I beg pardon! We inter-
rupt J

Jem, Not at all I We were merely ^igcus. I

363

»lng the relationi
of man and wife I
Uncle Will has
been telling me
that a wife — you,
undet- the cir-
cumstances — has
everything m her
own hands.

Lady Flo. {flat-
tered.) Indeed!

Kitty. Indeed!
I must say that no
one could appre-
ciate Aunt Flo's
virtues more than
I, although at the
same time I am
certain she would
very soon have
lost her sweet tem-
per if her husband had been aggravating,
ignorant, domineering !
Jem. Why not call me a savage at once ?
KiTTV. A savage! Yes! A savage !
Lady Flo. Oh I Kitty! Kitty! Is this
the way to make friends ?

Jem. Come, Uncle Will. Let us go into
the smoking-room! I shall choke here!
{Exit.)

Sir W. There's but little hope for them !
Little hope! Little hope! {Exit, shaking hii
head.)

Kitty. Now, perhaps, you believe that I
have something to put up with ?

Lady Flo. {soothingly.) And yet there's no
doubt Jem is extremely fond of you.

Kitty. He has a strange way of showing it !
The other morning, after we had had one of
our little scenes, I went down to the stream to
find him when he was fishing. I would even
have been willing to try and bait {shudders) his
hook. But as I was starting off I met him com-
ing up the garden, and he stared at me like an
avenging god (or demon, I should say), and
asked if I wasn't on my way to matins? Natur-
ally, I did not contradict him.
Lady Flo. Dearest. You distress me !
iii^i^ s Rno,ner ^Xl^u^^ i can t en-
dure ! You know I took the pledge, so as to be
a good example to the village people here.
Well ! Jem is furiou9 every time \ refuse wjno

^^1

Ji^^B

^^^^1

£^H

864

DIALOGUES.

»t luncheon or dinner. He declares that I
foset Can you Imagine such nonsense ?

Lady Flo. Well, dear 1 I confess I sym-
pathize with Jem. I don't think any really nice
women ever take the pledge— do they ? I only
ask, you know.

Kitty. Why, yes! Of course they do,
aunty— when they want to be good examples.
Jem cannot understand this; and, far from tak-
ing the pledge himself, he revolts me day after
day by drinking— (a/^K/*r» mysteriously)—
Bass's pale ale 1

Lady Flo. Ah! That's bad! But, oh!
my dear, if you only knew the proper way to
manage a husband 1

Kitty. How could I? For Jem is asu. -
manageable as the Great Mogul.

Lady Flo. I see you don't realize how the
most violent men are those most easy to sub-
due. Now, there's your uncle

Kitty. I always thought him as mild as
Moses 1

Lady Flo. So he is now I But there was^
a time—

Kitty. Oh 1 Do te;' vjh- a U about it !
Lady Flo. Well. 1'-; '« was a time when
your uncle imagined hf; v\v;«iiit be allowed to
complain if dinner v.cfc 1 .te. One day he
actually dared to ask, in a voice of thunder,
"Is dinner ready? "
Kitty. Jem dares that every day.
Lady Flo. It happened to be the cook's

fault.

Kitty. Ah! That would make no difTer-

ence to Jem.

Lady Flo. [impatunt.) I wish, darling, you
would allow me to speak !

Kitty. Oh ! I beg pardon.
. \^K-D\YUi. (continuing, blandly.) Not at all!
Now, I replied : " The salmon has just fallen
into the fire, and cook has had to send for
another!"

Kitty. That was true ?

Lady Flo. Not in the least! 1 had
ordered red mullet. And Will ate his fish with-
out noticing the difference.

Kitty. Jem would not have made that mis-
take.

j^^0Y pj^. Oh, yes, he would, if you had

just glanced at him in the right manner.
Kitty, {eagerly.) Show me how to do it !
Ladv FfcO. (f'^y-) ^* requires the inspiration

of the moment. Ah 1 coul4 yon but see me

with Will !

Kitty. It is certain you are very happy to-
gether.

Lady Flo. So we are ; owing to my always
using sweetness, firmness, tnd indifference just
at the right moment. Bui all this, I confess,
requires intelligence.

" K- ty. Had I but the intelligence! It
must be splendid to br able to avert a coming
storm in this way.

Lady Flo. There never has been the ques-'
tion of a storm between Will and me 1
Kitty. Happy, happy people I
Lady Flo. And you, my very dear chil-
dren, must become happy, happy peopl too!
William would feel your sorrow as deeply as I.
We must do all in our power to restore peace
and comfort between you 1 I shall try my very
utmost to show you your little failings— here
and there— you know. And as for Will ' Why,
he'll talk Jem over in no time ! Before a we?k
is out we shall see you walking arm in arm
to matins— the happiest couple in all Yorkshire.
Kitty. Impossible 1

Lady Flo. Nay I We can but try. (Enter
Sir William.) Ah! Here comes your uncle.
Now, run away, dear, and leave us alone for a
discreet little talk. Who knows but what we
may hit upon a plan to help you! {Exit
Kitty.)

Lady Flo. Will, dearest ! We must talk
very seriously over our niece and nephew to-
gether.

Sir W. {aside.) It is high time !
Lady Flo. But, first of all, by the way, I
want to know what it was you were saying to
Jem, when I came into the room a few minutes
ago.

Sir W. {consciously.) To Jem ? Why, I was
saying nothing to Jem I

Lady Flo. Oh, yes, you were. Now try to
remember. Kitty and I heard you talking in
quite an excited manner as we came down-stairs.
Then as we came nearer the door you lowered
your voice.
Sir W. Indeed, no /
Lady Flo. Yes, yes, you did, dear!
Sir W. No, no, I didn't, dear !
Lady Flo. Don't tell fibs, dariing.
Sir W. You want to know too much, my
dear, good Flo.

ti but see me

/ery happy to-

to my alwayi
idiiTerence just
:hi9, I confess,

telligence ! It
ivert a coming

been the ques-'
1 me I
:I

ery dear chll-
)y peop! too!
as deeply as I.
o restore peace
lall try my very
5 failings — here
■or Will- Why.
Before a we?k
ng arm in arm
n all Yorkshire.

but try. (Enter
nes your uncle,
e us alone for a
ws but what we
p you ! (Exit

We must talk
and nephew to-
ne !

11, by the way, I
u were saying to
m a few minutes

m? Why, I was

ire. Now try to
i you talking in
ame down-stairs,
loor you lowered

did, dear!

lear !

darling.

nr too much, my

IMAGE EVALUATION
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■• !

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W^T

DIALOGUES.

Lady Flo. Too
Buch? Oh, nol
Tha» would be iin>
possible I How
ever, I know you
will tell me the
whole truth by-and«
by.

Sir W. First let
me know what you
have to say.

I,adyFlo. Well,
I'm in the deepest

distress about the two young peoplt.
They seei.i to be at terrible loggerheads.
Now, perhaps Jem confided the secret of Ms
unhappy married lire to you ?

Sir W. He never said a word about it I
{Bites Mi! up.)

Lady Flo. Nevertheless, I assure you they
lead a cat>and-dog existence.

Sir W. Oh, dear, dear ! It that so ?

Lady Flo. Why, of courie! You saw
them quarrelling yourself. But still I have
hopes we may be able to arrange matters a
little for them. Who knows but what we may
see them re-united before we leave this house ?

Sir W. We will do our best to help them,
poor young things i

Lady Flo. Yes I Poor young things !

Sir W. And I've no doubt wc shall suc-
ceed.

Lady FLa At the same time, it seems
to me as if the abyss between them may widen.

SIR W. That may be so. The abyss may
widen! {Indicates an imaginary abyss, at
which Lady Flo shakes her head. )

Lady Flo. If a man and woman aren't
made for one another

Sir W. Like you and me. I pointed that
out to Jem.

Ladit Flo. I'm afraid it didn't affect him as
it ought. (With a sentimental sigh.) The only
consolation we can derive from the misfortune
of our nephew and niece is that we are happier
than they !

Sir W. Clever little woman ! (Kisses her.)

Lady Flo. Dear old Will ! {^Kisses him.
Then with a sudden change of tone.) But now

I ntUtt h*a»- ii>ha» if «i.9fi I-~. .. -jSn- »-

-™.r -! — — _. .1 Tvis jcni TTOB snyinjj lo you
when I came into the room ! You answered
that " of course you wouldn't tell his aunt for

•m w.: "TMB AavM mat wiom I"

(IMOICATIS AN IMACIHAKV AIVH.)

That must have been a

the wide world."
fiifon defiarlert

Sir W. Of course ! of course I And you
shall know all about it as soon as I have asked
Jem's leave ! Meanwhile we must attend to
the fates of these unhappy young people. We
had better first try to show them their grevious
fault as gently as possible, and if gentleness does
not answer

Lady Flo. Oh, yes! Gentleness is al! very
well ! But I tell you quite candidly. Will, that
before we talk of gentleness I must insist on
knowing what it is you told Jem that you would
not let me hear.

Sir W. The fact is, my dear [Coughs.)

Lady Flo. Tell me what the fact is, and at
once, my dear !

Sir W. The facts are. dear child {Gmgki

again.)

Lady Flo. (irritated.) Don't cough 1

SirW. (continues coughing.) Well ! it's a
long story.

Lady Flo. Haven't yoa a lozenge?

SirW. Never mind the loxenge ! Thestor|V
I say, is a long one.

>^.,

t '

s :

888

DIALOGUES.

Ladt Flo. Long 6r short, I must hear It !

Sir W. I'll tell it you, later on.

Lady Flo. I begin to suspect you can't tell
me all about, simply— because you can' if

Sir W. Oh ! I can I I could 1

Lady Flo. Oh, no, you can't. You couldn't,
and you ought to be ashamed of yourself!

Sir W. You are going just a little bit too
far, Florence.

Lady Flo. Oh, no ; it was you who went
too far. Why. I knew it by the look on yo-ir
face the instant I came into the room !

Sir W. {aside.) She is going very much
too far. {a/ouii.) Nonsense!

Lady Flo. I beg pardon ?

Sir W. I repeat " Nonsense." And ridicu-
lous nonsense t

Lady Flo. When a man has reached youi
time of life and remains as great a fool

SirW. (furious.) A fool?

Lady Flo. Yes ! As great a fool and an
idiot as ever

Sir W. I was always aware you had the
very devil of a temper, Florence, and now, af-
ter fifteen years of married life. I make the dis-
covery that you can be excessively— ahem !—
unladylike.

Lady Flo. It's highly amusing to hear you
express an opinion on the subject of how a lady
should behive. When one remembers your sis-
ters, one is inclined to believe you were not,
perhaps, brought up in a school of the very
highest standard.

SirW. You insult rcy sisters! {Becomes

1 "WHAT r« THBHATrBBT"

Lady Flo. Then, how dare you ?

Sir W. You forget yourself strangely.

Lady Flo. Do not attempt to adopt your
nephew's manner to his wife toward me I

Sir W. It \syou, my love, who are unfortu-
nate in your choice of a manner this morning ;
and although pettishness in a young girl like
Kitty has a certain little charm of its own

Lady Flo. Yes !

Sir W. When a woman has reached yov
time of life

Lady Flo. {furious.) YesH!

Sir W. Petulence sits remarkably ill upon
her — upon _)»(»«, my dear

much excited and takes her by the arm, ) Repeat
that again 1

{Enter Jem. Stands in amazement. )

Jem. For Heaven's sake, what is the mat-
ter?

Sir W. Ask your Aunt Florence, my dear
boy.

Lady Flo. I feel positively ashamed that
you should come upon us— upon your uncle, I
mean — at a moment when he is behaving like a
raving madman !

Jem. a raving madman ! My uncle Will-
iam!

Lady Flo. Man-like, you side with a man 1

a fool and an

e arm.) Repeat

orence, my dear

DTALOaVES. 389

[f^t* incnasine agitation). I have always l SmW. (turning fo t.^ ^ a

known your uncle to be a weak nerveless Lu. i . \'"^"*g[oJem.) A man not ad-

{EnlerKitt,. Z..*, ...„ J v. l?"'''f ^7" T'"^'' '° '^^^ house! That's rau.er too

[Enter Kitty. Looks around, dumbfounded. )

Kitty. Dear aunty! Im frightened ! You
can't be well I What does this mean ?

Lady Flo. Only that your husband is incit-
ing mine to be abusive.

Kitty, Impossible !

Lady Flo. Woman-like, you side with a
man 1 Let me tell you that your poor uncle is
pitiable in his foolishness this morning.

Jjooci, isn't it, Jem ?

Ladv Flo. We shall see I ( Turns to Kitty).
Meanwhile. Kitty. I bid you good-bye.

Kitty. Oh ! Aunty ! You can't mean that I
Pray don't say good-bye !

Lady Flo. (dramatiai/ty.) Yes. I mean
•• Good-bye ' ' / ( Brushes furiously past Sir mil.
tarn, and exit. Kitty makes movement to follow
but returns to Sir William ami Jem. )

.".;^:^v«;[;rL°;„G'HrN^T*vvri'?y'"'~" ^° "«■•"<'•'•••

Sir W. Florence ! Once for all. I assert my
autnority. Be silent this moment, or I shall
feel obliged to ask you to return home.

Lady Flo. Without you ?

Sir W. If that pleases you !
^ Lady Flo. It would suit me remarkably

SiRW. In that case— " Go ! "

Lady Flo. I shall, instantly ; and when you
desire to come home. I shall give the servants
•rders not to admit you

Sir W. (bitterly.) Don't hold her back.
Kitty.

Jem. You are mad !

Sir W. Less mad than you, when an hour
ago you told me you found life intolerable with
Kitty.

^i-^^. {moved.) He s;iid that? Jem said

that to you ?
Jem. No, no! (Compunctions.)
Sir W. Oh ! It's an easy matter for two

young people to kiss again with tears. 'Twill be

tfO

DIALOGUES.

a different matter between your aunt aiwl me.
Florence will have no chance, however much
■he may with it. The time hai come for me to
put down my foot at Ia»«. {Exit, ta/king and
gtstkuMing angrily. )

{Ajltr the exit of Sir William, Jtm and Kitty
look up slffwty at one another. Their eyti meet.
They turn away. )
Jem. (much embarrassed.) Kilty!
Kitty. Jem!

Jem. This is painfull In fact, It't worse
than wicked— it's vulgar !

Kitty, (gently.) It's simply dreadful to see
two people behaving in such a way.
Jem. And at their time of life I
Kitty. That's the awful part of it !
Jem. I wonder how they can do it 1
Kitty, (archly, yet on the verge of Uan.) So
doll

(At the last words thty turn: theer eyes meet.
Kitty falters, fern falters. After a moment they
fall into ane another's arms.)

Enter Porter. Her ladyship has bidderi
me to put her trunks together, ma'am.

Kitty. Wait a minute, Porter. Perhaps I
can persuade her ladyship to suy. (Voices
from without. )

Lady Flo. I wish to go this insUnt, and
alone.

Sir W. By all means, and to-morrow my
lawyer shall wait on you.

Lady Flo. And mine on you. (After a
moment, they enter.)
Lady Flo. And it has come to this. William !
Sir W. By mutual consent. This is the
happiest day of my life. I breathe again. I
know now I never breathed until this moment
since the day I married you 1

Lady Flo. This is beyond everything!
( Violently excited.)

Jem. (whispers aside to Kitty, unobserved ; play
on both sides; then, after evidently ag^eing on
a plan, pretend to treat the matter as a joke ; ad-
vancing.) Bravo! Bravissimo! Capita/ 1 (Hoars
with forced laughter. )

Kitty. Splendid ! I never Law anything so
well done ! ( Joins her husband in laughter.)
Sir W. It's no laughing matter!
jE.il. Hat ha I I diiresay not.
KifTY. Irving and Ellen Terry are not in it !
[Con/inues laughing.)
(^APY Flo- What eon you m«an ?

Jem. Oh, don't pretend that you and my
uncle have not been getting up this little
comedy of a quarrel, merely to show Kitty and
me what fools we look when we are fight-
ing! Why! It was better than any play I
ever saw 1

Sir W. It's all been in sober earnest. I
assure you. , . - > ~

( Loj/y Jlo recovers slightly . Looks first at Jem,
then at Kitty, and lastly at Sir miliam.)

Lady Flo. (slowly^ You call- all— thi»-a
little comedy? (Recovers more, but very grad-
ually. )

Kitty. Why. yes? Don't attemps to say it
wasn't— (j//^)— especially after all you told me
this morning about how cleverly you manage
my uncle. Just let me see you gl.ince at him
in the way you said you could. (Whispering.)
( Lady Flo further recovers herself. Her expres-
sion softens. After a minute ot two she smiles
meaningly to het self.) . . ^ .. _.

Jem. Now, Uncle Will, do finish off by pre-
tending to make up the quarrel ! There's my
aunt waiting with her smile already !

SirW. (stupidly.) Pretend to make up the
quarrel? , , ,„.

Laly Flo. (Suddenly radiant.) Why, yes!

You silly old goose ! Don't you see the fun ?

Pretend to give me a kiss at once. ( They kiss.)

Jem and Kitty, (aside.) That's a comfort.

( ney walk up stage,)

Lady ¥uf. (asule'to Sir William.^ I can see
you are dying to make amends for all you have

just said ! .....

Sir W. I don't deny that I may be !

Lady Flo. Then tell me what it was you
were concocting with Jem! There's an old

Sir W. Since we are all good friends again I
don't mind telling you Jem was confiding his
little troubles to me.

Lady Flo. But you had already found them

Sir W. And also that there was a possibility
of a separation 1

Lady Flo. Silly children !

Sir W. Had you not at once flown into a
rage, I should have broken my promise to Jem,
and have told you all ! . , ,

Lady Flo. That was quite right of you.
(They walk up stage, amicably, arm-in-arm.
Jem and Kitty walk to center. )

Jem. You will find me ready dressed to start
for eight o'clock matins, to-morrow morning

Kitty ! .. u .

Kitty. Oh i That's very much too much to

ask of you ! , . • »

Jem. Not at all ! Providing you won t insist

on Roing out with the guns.

Kitty, 1 shall only wish what y<?» wish from

this day forward, dearest Jem !
Jem. That's all right ! (They kiss, ItatehtngJy,

as the curtain descends. Lady Flo and Sir Wtl-

limn look 9n tmiling.)

i I

DIALOOUBS.

tri

A HOT BOX.

ober earnest, I

Mn. Truxton,

A COMEDY FOR TWO, BY HELEN BOOTH.

Characters :

Captain Donnithorn,

SCENE : A plainly fumhhed apartment with
rail-way placards hanging on the walls. Enter
Mn. DruxtoH, in long traveling cloak, bonnet
ana veil.

Mrs. T.— What a predicament I The idea of
» hot-box disabling the engine on this particu-

where is my umbrella ? I am helpless without
my umbrella. ( Drops bag. and exit).

Mks. T. He leaves his luggage here. Then
he must be coming back. What a dreadful
creature is that porter's wife ; she takes my
money for the use of her room, and then admits
a gentleman. He appears annoyed also. His
name is on the portmanteau. I wonder if I am
inquis'tive in desiring to know the name of one
forcf d upon my society ? and yet he too may be
a -uest going to Althea's. and-(j/«,/,w. reads

- w o-"- «- ««sia pniiii.u- rt ;,UC

her affianced, Captain Donnhhorn. I knew
when I arose this morning that I should have
an unpropitious day— wasn't there a pin on the
floor with the point toward me ? I missed the
morning train the first thing, and coming in this
tram I knew I should barely reach the house at
ID o'clock to-night, yet I did not bai^ain for
this frightful detention. Let me see ! (consult-
ing her watch), it is 9:30; we are an hour's
travel from Althea's station ; I shall not enter
her drawing-room much before 1 1, and my dear
fnend will have imagined me murdered or
stolen. But oh! to arrive at Althea's at 11
o'clock at night I He will have gone perhaps
—for assemblies in the country recognize only
arcadian hours. He ! not Captain Donnithorn
but Captain Donnithorn's best man. Arthur
Gre/. the inimitable, about whom women rave.
as I heard over in Paris a month pgo. And to
think that I have never met him ! yet Althea
has almost created an intimacy between us by
means of my picture in her alh-im. An inti-
macy ? More than that, if Althea the dear little
matchmaker, has anything to do with it. But—
{maris voice heard). Dear me ! the porter's wife
promised that I should have her parlor to my-
self; and here she is admitting some one else.
Is it possible »— a man ! {Pidh down veil and

poes bark „f ,tn^. s? , WlV « i Hr"H"smon. i—j shall insist upon your re-

f«.:vtil:S.«f' ^ ''''""'' '"'"'"''"' r "'"« -'"\ ^- -• - • ^^^^^ --myself

I discover myself to him?-shall I not rather
endeavor to find out the kind of person he is,
and-ah ! here he comes ! {withdraws to bach.
Enter Captain Donnithorn who slams his um-
brella on table.)

Capt. D. I'll prosecute the company I 111
claim heavy damages ! such a shivering set of
passengers outside, and no shelter for them ex-
cept the stuffy cars. Hot boxes and freezing
passengers! I pay five dollars to the porter's
wife for the use of this room ; why not invite the
passengers in? I will {loudly) go and call them
all m ! {going to door. Mrs. T. opposes him),
Mrs. T. Pray, do not I
Capt. D. A lady !

Mrs. T. I overheard your reckless remark
Do not admit all the other passengers to this
room ; I have purchased the privacy of this
room.
Capt. D. Why so have I.
Mrs. T. The porter's wife promised that
my privacy should not be intruded upon.

Capt. D. For which intrusion, blame the
porter's wife. I'll boycott the comgany and all
Its attaches. Madame, your servant ! {Leav-
'■«?■)■

Mrs. T. Oh, sir. I could not entertain such
a proposition. I_I shall insist upon your re-

carryingport-mnnUau ) .

Capt. D. Of all the misfortunes in the
worid ! and wild to meet Althea my fiancee.
The train will not move for a half hour, and all
becftute of a miserable hot-box. Bah! But

of unwarranted rudeness.

Capt. D. You rented the room before I did,
and your lease has not expired.

Mrs. T. You can sublet the apartment.

Caft. D. From its present tenant, good!

t 1, > 1

5!i:

DIALOGUES.

Madame. I thank you, and become your guest.
But blame the porter's wife.
Mrs. T. 1 shall if any blame were necei-

Capt. D. Madame, you are too good, and
will you pardon me when I ask the privilege of
contributing to your comfort in some wise 1 Is
there nothing 1 can do to lessen the unpleasant-
ness of your present position ?

Mrs. T. Nothing, except to mention it no
further. And. again, nothing unless you can
start the train at once ; I am in haste to reach
my destination.

Capt. T. And I to reach mine. And there is
no telling when we shall go on.

Mrs. T. Do not the train men promise to
start in a half hour ?

Capt. D. Tliey promise ; but where is the
fulfilment ? A reader of the future might solve
the problem.

Mrs. T. {Asitie) A reader of the future!
good ! He gives me my cue ! (a/oud) A reader
of the future, do you say ! Ah (wi/A nffccte^d
hesitation) suppose I should avow my ability to
clarify the mists of the lime yet to be ?

Capt. D. {adiit) A fortune-teller ! and I fan-
cied she was a lady ! {^aloua) Do I understand
you to say, Madame, that you profess the gift
of foresight ?
Mrs. T. To a certain extent.
Capt. D. But your paraphernalia ?
Mrs. T. I require none ; I am not a charla-
un : I am simply gifted. For instance, I may
read ^wr future.

Capt. D. Mine! Why— By the way, do
ladies of your cult always wear their veils down
like orientals ?

Mrs. T. [aside) He is treating me as a com-
mon clairvoyant. {AloucC) Sir, I pass over the
lack of courtesy.
Capt. D. Your pardon ! I presumed !
Mrs. T. A woman so pronounced as I
should expect no more than a man of the world
is willing to grant. I am acting in a most un-
conventional manner, I know,
Capi. D. But, Madame —
Mrs. T. You are pardoned.
Capt. D. For ^\\\z\\— [bowing).
Mrs. T. Yet have I your permission to im-
part to you some of your future movements?

Capt. D. Would you attempt impossibili-
ties?

Mrs. T. Women rarely attempt impoMibiU-
'.ies ; they do not go beyond the improbable.
And— well, suppose I should say that to-night
you are hastening to meet a lady ?

Capt. D. The ordinary accusation of the
modern witches of Endor,

Mrs. T. [Aiide) I will find out if he is at
anxious to meet me as Althca fancies he is.
(Aioud). This lady is of considerable interest to
you. . '

Capt. D. Of course.

Mrs. T. She is something to you.

Capt. D. Ah. indeed?

Mrs. T. She—sht—[agitatedfy),

Capt. D. Your method is hackeyed,

Madame.

Mrs. T. (Excitediy) But your feeling for
her has received a check.

Capt. D. What is that ?

Mrs. T. (Aside) Ha! he is touched!
[Aloud), You falsely express yourself when
you would infer that you are dying to meet

her.

Capt. D. Madame, this approaches impu-
dence.

Mrs. T. Impudence is the stock-in-trade of
a reader of the future, [turning aside).

Capt. D. [Aside) What does she mean ! I
nevercredited any of this mind-reading clap-trap,
yet suppose there is something in it ! Here are
more things than are dreamed of in our philoso-
phy, as the Bard has it. Suppose this woman can
reveal my dear girl's self tome, ^nA— [aloud)
Ma(*.ame, were I to subscribe to the legitimacy
of your claims should you endeavor to tell me
anything of the lady you mention?
Mrs. T. .Everything.
Capt. D. A sweeping answer. Can you in-
form me as to the state of her affections ?
Mrs. T. I— I can.

Caft. D. Of course it is all nonsense and—
ah, tell me, if you can, what thinks this lady of
the man who is hastening to meet her on hot
boxes and half hour delays ?

Mrs. T. [Aside) Ah, my heart! But then
he shall never know who I am— I am fascinated
bv him ; and suppose he should be apprized of
my identity! [Aloud) Sir, a lady is not prone
to avow so much to a man.

Cai-t. D. She is not avowing anything ; yo»
are inierpeting her.
Mrs. T. (Asidt) Nearly exposed myself.

DIALOGUES.

your feeling for

ipproaches iinpu*

you can de

{AU$td) She has many admirer.. »he may care
for feme of them.

Capt. D. What! And-ah
•cribe these admireri?

Mm. T. One of them.

Capt. D. Well?

cJiS^).'^' ^^^'^'''e ''''^"'f'^nd laughing

Caw. D. {Aside) Heaven and earth! she
describes Arthur Grey. Althea always liked
Arthur. This woman is a witch. Yet Arthur
and I are of one hei^'l.t, have the same colored
hair and eyes. Here! Ill take a further step
Into this nonsense. ^Aloud) I would test your
powers. Is it possible for you to give me any
definite description of this gentleman? that you
have given may apply to many men of his
height and complexion.
Mrs. T. I can give you the initials of his

name.
Capt. D.
Mrs. T.
Capt. D.

{Boldly) What are they ?
{As boldly) A. G.

, «„. ^' ^— '^"''"•' Grey. Who are
you ? What are you ?

Mrs. T. Only a foolish woman I

Capt. D. The universal description of your
sex. And ah ! the woman I thought so anxious
to see me to-night !

Mrs. T. Uo not doubt her.

Capt. D. Eh ! Did I speak aloud ?

Mrs. T. Do not doubt that woman. She
thinks more of you every minute. Hers is a
susceptible heart,—

Capt. D. Susceptible! I should say so.
Here I am rushing to her.

Mrs. T. Is she not rushing to you ?

Capt. D. What do you mean?

Mrs. T. {Aside.) I shall disclose myself
yet. {Aloud.) You can scarcely be said to be
rushing to her. Remember the hot-box out-
side.

Capt. D. (/« reverie.) And the man she
cares for is so unworthy !

Mrs. T. A. G.. do you mean ?

Capt. D. {Savagely.) You are a reader of
the future ; you ought to know.

• '^ l!;.^* ^°* •'"'"y '^'"&' ™y i'ft h«s lim-
its. What of this man ?

Capt. D. Why should I talk of the- mat-
ters to you ?

Mrs. T. Because you cannot help yourself.
Vou are a disappointed man in the presence of

a vroman; discretion flie's when indignation
crawls in. This man?

Capt. D. I tell you he cares nothing for (he
woman.

Mrs. T. Sir! When you have just said—
Capt. D. He it over head and ears in love

with some one else.
Mrs. T. {Aside.) And I am in his presence

too? Oh. AUhea. Ill box your ears for this!

A hot box too. {Aloud.) Sir. a short time ago

you said—

Cakt. D. I insist that A. G. has been trav
chng all this day in order to meet a lady.

Mrs. T. Not the one who cares for him ?

Capt. D. Decidedly not. But one who has
been represented to him as a paragon of virtues.

MRS.T. {Aside.) That's Althea. the minx I
{Aloud.) Sir. who is this lady ?

Capt. D. I really cannot tell why I am up.
on such familiar terms with you. Madame. I
own that I am exceedingly indignant, that I am
giving utterance to many thoughts and shall be
sorry for it in the future.

Mrs. T. {Impatiently.) The future ! who
cares for the future ! This lady, sir-pray de-
scribe her. I may not be quite the vulgar for-
tune-teller you take me to be. This lady— it
she blonde? brunette?

Capt. D. {GloomUy describing henel fin tm-
eraltermi.)

Mrs. T. {Aside.) Althea Herbert to a T !
He describes her lovingly !_he has come be-
tween Tfptain Donnithorn and Althea! oh,
that w. y-zA girl ! and she is said to have hair
and eyes h e mine ! I'll get a wig to-morrow !
I'll wear goggles! Blue ones too. I shall turn
around and go home and never speak to her
again. Poor Captain Donnithorn! Hateful
Arthur Grey I

Capt. D. You are muttering to yourself, are
you not ?

MRS.T. {With an effort.) I am invoking
famihar spirits. Let me give you a further
proof of my |)ower. You are on the way to see
Althea Herbert whom you hope to wed.

Capt. D. {Falling back.) Thu strange

revelation !

Mrs. T.

Capt. D.
you are.

Mrs. T.

Tell me— I am correct !

I insist upon your telling me whom

You need never know. Go to
Althea Herbert, the false, cruel creature ; she

DTAIOOUES.

deiervet not the man who is better than you
and who lovei her fondly.

Cajt. D. (Asiil*.) ArthurGrey I (^/(M«y.)
I intitt upon knowing whom you are. You are
«peaking with authority, and of the dearest girl
in the world.

Mas. T. (AsiJt.) Shamelew Arthur Grey !
( 4i(mJ.) My knowledge is my authority. For
1 too have been deceived ; I believed in the
fi'uth of a man, and to-night I am undeceived ;
he is as false as Althea Herbert.

Caft. D. And he is i

Mrs. T. Arthur Grey.

Caft. D. Madame, you appear to know
him.

Mrs. T. And despise him. From his own
lips have I listened to his condemnation.

Capt. D. He has acknowledged.

Mrs. T. That he loves Althea Herbert, the
fiancee of Captain Guy Donnithorn.

Capt. D. How dare you !

MRS. T. That is right ! say " dare " to your
fortune-teller, and then go to her you love with
vows of tenderness, she and I are both women.

Capt. D. And you are more than you say
that you are. Who told you that Arthur Grey
loves Althea Herbert ? that she loves him ? Tell
me!

Mrs. T. Are you insane ? Did you not tell
me as much ?

Capt. D. I tell you I

Mrs. T. You did— you know you did,
Arthur Grey.

Capt. D. Arthur Grey I what do you mean ?
I am not Arthur Grey.

Mrs. T. Sir, this denial is simply preposter-
ous. You possibly imagine me to be a more
important personage than I really am. You
fear that you have disclosed too much to a
stranger. Rut rest assured I shall noc publish
to the world the story of your broken fealty to
a friend. I shall leave you now ; I refuse to re-
main in the room with you.

Capt. D. Allow me to go— 1 am but your
guest, you know. But first (Jiickinjr up portman-
teau and umbrella) allow me to reiterate my c'e-
nial — I decline to be confounded with Arthur
Grey though I have been confounded by him,

aiid CCrifuuRu hiili ! tO vCvj n€art3 ^tCSpRITi •

am nat Arthur Grey.

Mrs. T. Cease, pray.
in*h you as you are with me. I am indeed other

And let me be free

than I api^eur. When you left this room to go
in search of your umbrella I read your name
on your portmanteau.

Capt. L>. This portmanteau ? This belongs
to Arthur Grey, the man who has deeply
wronged me, according to your assertions, which
1 shall proceed to investigate at AUhea's.

Mks. T. What do you say? — Arthur Grey
wronged you?

Capt. D. So you say. Besides you appear
to know him ; you described very accurately
his personal appearance.
Mrs. T. I described /oMr person.
Capt. D. My person ! I am —
Mrs. T. Arthur Grey.
Capt. D. Pardon me ! I am in possession
of Mr. Grey's portmanteau simply because in
his haste to get to Miss Herbert's house he left
in this morning's train and by mistake took my
luggage instead of his own ; a business telegram
delivered at the station prevented my departure
before this evening, and I am carrying his port-
manteau to him. I cannot credit all that you
have said relative to Althea and him — Arthur
who was wild to get to Althea's that he might
meet a lady over whose picture in Althea's al-
bum he has long spooned, a lady whom he loves
even before he has seen her in the life — the fair
widow, Emily Truxton.

Mrs. T. (Family.) Support me! (Capt.
D. rum to her.) No, no, do not touch me— I
am a terrible creature. (On her knees.) Oh,
Captain Donnithorn, I sec It all. my miserable
mistake. (Capt. D. drops bag and Uiabrtlla.)
The portmanteau deceived me; I described
your personal appearance and you Imagined I
meant Mr. Grey ; I asserted that Mr. Grey was
anxious to meet a certain lady, but I never
meant Althea Herbert — Althea who loves you
as few men were ever before loved. And yet
your description brought her plainly before me,
and you said that she loved Arthur Grey.

Capt. D. I described her friend Mrs. Trux-
ton, whom I am yet to meet — described her as
the photographer's art has presented her to me.
Mrs. T. {Thnming off bonnet and cloak.)
Behold her!

Capt. D. My Althea's friend I Arise, Ma-
HisTafi £inss \

Mrs. T. Not before you promise me that no
one shall hear, of what has occurred in this
room.

DIALOGUES.

end I Arise, Ma<

Capt. D.

M»». T.
Capt. D.
may know ?
Mrs. T.
Capt. D.
Mrs. T.
Cait. I).

Surely I may tell Althea ?
After you are married ; not before.
But Arthur Grey, my beit-man,

Never.
Never.*
At least— not now.
Hut after he is married ? ( IVktsNe
and Ml heanl.)

M RS. T. ( Rising coHfusedly and hurrying oh
bonnet and cloak.) The train is ready ! Take
me to Althea.

Capt. U. (Smiling ) The hot-box has oe-
come refrigerated. The train will now carry us
to—

Mrs. T. Althea. Remember your promise !

Cait. D. That Arthur Grey ihall know
nothing of your powcri of fortune-telling until
after you are married, Madame ?

Mrs. T. Until after ke is married.

Capt. I). Certainly. He shall not know of
it until after you or he is married, or until after
you and he—

Mrs. T. Pray escort me to the train, I de-
sire to be out of this room, which has proven a
veritable—

Capt. D. Hot- Box.

( Whistle and bell sounding as arm and arm
they go to the door.)

[Curtain.)

JENNIE.

JiNNiB toiling in the mill,
Small of form and more th»n pale,

Smiled and made her ihuitle trill
Through the warp. " Ah, never fail,"

Were the words she always said,

" For ligljt'i ahead ! "

We were ma.ny, we were poor.

Often sad with poverty.
The wolf not seldom at the door.

His gleaming eye-balls fierce to see.
But Jennie, poor as any, said,
» Light's ahead ! "

Tom was down with fever ; Jen
Went and helped to nurse. " Cheer up,"

She said, " that's ' " 'he battle." Then
Made hot Tom c..-<>Iing cup.

"That's prime," he gasped. »0f course,"
she said,

" Ain't light ahead ? "

Margery lost her little child,

Jennie went and made it fair.
Looked upon it long, and smiled,

And laid a flower near its hair.
" For this dear babe," she softly said,
•• Light's ahead."

She helped us all ; we did not know
How much she did till all was done;

Ne'er complaining, she would show
A face that shone as in the sun

When things were darkest, " chums," she said,

" Light's ahead."

All the mill looked up to her,

She not knowing that 'twas io|
All the men and women were

Better made by her, you know.
Or by her two words, cheerful said,
" Light's ahead ! "

We did not know hew weak she grew,

Sne was so pale at best of days ;
But one day she camp not— we knew

Some thing must be up. The ways
We talked, and missed the words she
" Light's ahead I "

At night when work was done we went
To her house. We found her there.

Faint and frail and nearly spent
" Clad to see you," smiled she ; « wheie

Is woman blest as I," she said,

•• Light's ahead ! "

" Lads and lasses, all is done.

What I've suffered you know not.
For surely, friends, most every one

Has pain and sorrow in his lot ;
So why m.ike ours the most," she saM,
"Ain't light ahead?"

Next eve we went. We all were there s
Jennie scarce could speak. She lay

Panting. Then, " Good bye ! and fare
Vou well," she smiled. '« 'Twill soon be day;

And lay me where ther's sun," she said:

"Light's ahead I"

ilM

S7A

DIALOG UES.

■il

Then tht grew quit« Mill. Each Um
Bagtn to cry— ayt, ktU tlld loo.

MVa guc'l tt Jtnnie— wre, tniall m«M
Of wonun wm »he— •nd then through

The room iome woman wer|jing Mid,

-Ugbt'tabeMlt"

Well, khe It gone, (h« mill Memt dull,
The work loo h«rd, our anger tltrred.

Yel when we growl there comet • luU

When lome one Ihinlw of Jcii'i bright wOfd-.

We hear her cheery voice that m^

"Llght't ahead!"

THE OLD MAN'S VIGIL.

Bv the bed the old man, waiting, tat In vigil, tad

and lender,
Where hit aged wife lay dying ; and the twilight

thadowt, brown.
Slowly from the wall and window, chated the tun-

tet't golden iplendor I

Going down.
"lo it night?" the whUi>ered, waking, (for her

tpirit teemed to hover
Lett between the next world't sunrite and the bed-
time caret of thit).
And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling at he

bent above her,

Antwered"Yet." '

•• Are the children in ? " the atVed him. Could he
tell her ? All the treaiuret
Of their household lay in tilence many yeart be-
neath the tnow ;

But her heart wat with theu living, back among her
toilt and pleasures
Long ago.

And again she called at dew-fall, in the tweet, old.

tuminer weathnr.
"Where is little Charley, father? Frank and

Robert, have they come ? "
"They are tafe." the old man faltered.— all the

children are together.

Safe at home."

Then he murmured gentle toothings, but his grief

grew strong and stronger,
Till it chQk>;d and stilled him as he held and kissed

her wrinkled hand.
For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fondest

words no longer

Understand.

Still the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies and
brokrn verses,
Nursery prattle— all the language of a mother's
loving hfsds,

While the midnight 'nitind the mounieF, left to sor-
row's bitter mercies.
Wrapped iu weeds.

There wat itillneu on the pillow— and the old man
littened, lonely—
Till they led him from the chamber with the bur-
den on hit breast.

For the faithful wife and mother, his early love and
only.
Lay at rest.

" Fare— you— well," he tobbed, my Sarah ; you will

meet the babet before me ;
•Til a little while, for neither can the parting lun|;

abide.
And you toon will come and call me, and kind

heaven will then retlore m«

To your tide."

It wat even to. .The tpring time, in the ttept of

winter treading.
Scarcely shed its orchard blottomt ere the old man

doted his eyes ;
And they buried him by Sarah — and they had thcii

" diamond wedding "

In the skies.

BROKEN ENGLISH.

I TRIES to trich my wife to tpik tit fonny English

tongue.
And talks to much, and Ulkt to long, I hurts me in

te lung.

She is te brightest demoiselle, at effer the could be,
But still the nevaire learn to tpik se English veil as
me.

She always say " I VM content " ven " happy " she

do mean.
And tumbles effery time the tries, right plump in it

tureen.

I like to have lat wife of mine le Englith language

know.
But still her speaking nevaire it, or can be eomme il

fault,

I am disgust, I try so hard, and sometimes get vcr'

mad.
For, ze diabel ! ven I teach, vy do she spik so bad!

But vat care I to zis or xat— the undenUnds my

luff—
And ten for womeuit ati vacua kuows iM. one tongue

is enough. '

_> TXtf Son F^antUco Watf.

— and they had tbeii

FOR THE LITTLE FOLKS.

Selections Adapted to Children of from Five to

Fifteen Years.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHEa.

The woman wat old and ngg«d and

And beat with the ohiU of the winter's

The etreet was wet with a recent enow,
And the woman's feet were aged and

■low.
She stood at the crossing and waited

long-
Alone, unoared fur, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious

ejre.
Down the street, with laughter and

shout —
Olad in the freedom of " school let

out,"
Came the bojs, like a flock of sheep,
Hailins the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman, so old and gray.
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor otTered a helping hand to her,
Bo meek, so timid, alraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses'

feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery

street.
At last came one of the merry troop —
The gayest laddie of sll the group ;
He paused beside her, and whispered

low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to

go."
Hor aged hand on his strong young

arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or

harm.
He guided the trembling feet along.
Proud that his own were firm and

strong.
Then bMsk again to his friends he went
His young heart happy and well con-
tent.
" She's somebody's mother, boys, you

know.
For aU she's aged, and poor, and slow;
ABd I &op« auuie fellow will lend a

To help my mother, you andersUnd,
IT ever iihv's poor, and old, and ^ray.
When her own dear l>oy is far away, '♦
And '• somebody's mother " bowed low

her head
lu her homo that night, and the prayet

"he said '

Was I " Ood be kind to the noble boy'
Who is somebody's son, and pride.

and Joy I" *^ '

MRS. RABBIT'S SCHOOL.

Mrs. Rabbit hod a school

Of little bunnies, five;
Said she : " I think each one's a fooL

As sure as I ra alive.

" I've tried to teach them numbeia,
I've tried to wake tliem sing,

And now the term ia almost out,
They haven t learned a thing.*

Committee came, one day, to see

If they were doing well
She told him how, of all the five,

Not one could read or spell.

Said he : "My friend, I do believ*

Of time it is a waste
To try and teach a rabbit.

And not consult bis taste. **

So, he took away their ♦♦ Primer*,"

And in each little paw
Heplaced-now whsit doyousuppoMf

A good-sized turnip, raw.

How they got on, T cannot tell.

But this, I know, ia true :
When school was out, they knew M
much

.0.3 other rabbits do.

— " Treasurt JVwK."

878

JUVENILE

litag^

WIIOH. WBIOH.

** Jump on the scale," the batcher said

Unto a miss one day^
"I'm used to weighing, and," said he,

" I'll tell you what you weigh."

^A h, yes," came quick the sweet reply
From lips seemed made to kiss ;

"I'm sure, sir, that it would not be
First time you've weighed amiss."

The butcher blushed ; he hung his head

And knew not what to say ;
He merely wished to weigh the girl —

Himself was given away.

« ^ >

SIX YEARS OLD.

O, Sun I so far up in tho blue sky,
O, clover I so white and so sweet,

0, little brook I shining like silver,
And running so fast past my feet, —

You dont know what strange things
have happened ,

Since sunset and starlight last night;
Since the four-o'clocks closed their red
petals,
To wake up so early and bright.

Say I what will you think when I tell
you
What my dear mamma whispered to
me.
When she kissed me on each cheek
twice over ?
You dont know what a man yoa
may see.

O, yes I I am big and I'm heavy ;
I have grown, since last night,
very old,
And I'm stretched out as tall as a
ladder ;
Mamma says I*m too large to hold.

Sweet clover, stand still ; do not blow
so :
I shall whisper Vay down In your
ear,
I was six years old early this mom*
ing.
Woiud you think so to see me, my
dear?

Do you Botice my pants and two
pockets?

I'm to old I must dreM like ft nutt ;
I must learn to read bookt and writs
letters.
And 111 write one to you when \
can.
My pretty geld butterflies flying,

Little bird and my busy brown bee,
I suall never be too old to love you,
And I hope youll always love om.

FROWNS OR SMILES

Where do they go, I wonder

The clouds on a cloudy day,
When the shining sun comes peeping

out
And scatters them all away ?
I kaowl They keep and cut them down
For cross little girls who want a

frown.
Frowns and wrinkles and pouts — oh I

my.
How many 'twould make — one cloudy

sky I

I think I should like it better,

A sunshiny day to take,
And cut it down for dimples and
smiles—
What beautiM ones twould make I
Enough for all the dear little girls,
With pretty bright eyes and waving

curls.
To drive the scowls and frowns away,
Just like the sun on a cloudy day.
Stdnkt Datbb.

ONE THINO AT A TIME.

Work while you work,
Play while you play,

That is the way to be
Gheerfid and gay.

All that you do,
Do with your might;

Things done by halves
Are never done righti

One thing each time.
And t^t done well.

Is a very good rule,
As many oan tell.

Moments are useless,
Trifled awav,

_ ^ — --■■-■('J

So work while you work, ,
And play while you plaj.

JUVENILE.

379

DON'T.

I believe, if there is one word that
^own-up folks are more fond of using
to us little folks, than any other word
in the big dictionary, it is the word
D-o n-t.

It is all the time "Don't do this "
and "Don't do that," and Don't do the
other," until I am sometimes afraid
•ihere w:il be nothing left that we can do.
Why, for years and years and years,
aver since I was a tiny little tot. this
word " Don't " has been my torment.
It's " Lizzie, don't make a noise, you
disturb me," and " Lizzie, don't eat so
much candy, it will make you sick,"
and •* Lizzie, don't be so idle," and
" Don't talk so much." and "don't soil
your clothes," and " Don't everything
else." One day I thought I'd count how
many times I was told n o do things!
Just think I I nounteu «wentythree
" don'ts,'' and I think I missed two or
three little ones besides.

But now it is my turn. I have got
a chance to talk, and I'm going to tell
some of the big people when to Don't I
That is what my piece is about. First,

I shall tell the papas and mammas

Don't scold the children, just because
you have been at a party the night be-
fore, and BO feel cross and tired.
Second, Don't fret and make wrinkles
in your faces, over things that cannot
be helped. I think fretting spoils big
folks just as much as it does us little
people. Third, Don't forget where you
put your scissors, and then say you
s'pose the children have taken them.
Oh! I could tell you ever so many
" donts," but I think I'll only say one
more, and that is— Don't think I mean
to be saucy, because all these don'ts
are in my piece, and I had to say them,

E. C. Rook.

WHICH LOVED BEST.

*m^ ^°^® y""' ™otlier,'' said little Ben,
Tb-^n forgetting his work, his cap went
on.

And left her the water and wood to
fcring.

* I lore you, mother," laid rosy NeU—
"I love you better than tongue oaa

Then she teased and pouted full half
the day.

Till her mother rejpiced when she went
to play.

" I love you, mother," said little Fan,
" To-day I'll help you all I can;
How glad I am school doesn't keep;"
So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep..

Then, stepping softly, she fetched the
broom,

And swept the floor and tidied the

room;
Busy an(J happy all day was she.
Helpful and happy as child could be
"I love you, mother," again they said
Three little children going to bed ;
How do you think that mother guessed
Which of them really loved her best ?

PITCHER OR JUG.

They toiled together side by side,
In the field where the corn was grow

They paused awhile to quench their
thirst.
Grown weary with the hoeing.

"I ff ar, my friend," I said to one,

That you will ne'er be richer ;
You drink, I see, from the little brown

Whilst your friend drinks from the
pitcher.

"One is filled with alcohol,
The fiery drink from the still ;

The other with water clear and cool
From the spring at the foot of th*
hill.

"In all of life's best gifts, my friend,
I fear you will ne'er be richer.

Unless you leave the little brown jug»
And drink, like your friend, from th«
pitcher."

My words have proved a prophecy.

For years have passed away ;
How do yoa think have fared our
friends.

That toiled in the fields that dayf

880

JUVENILE.

One Is • reeling, dninken sot,
Grown poorer instead of richer ;

The other has won both wealth and
fame.
And he always drank from the

'''^'"^ -M. P. Chick

THE RXrXDJlOP'S RIDE.

Some little drops of water,
Whose home was in the sea,

To go upon a jounrey.
Once happened to agree.

A cloud they had foi carriage;
Tliey drove a playful l)reeze ;
And. over town and country,
" They rode along at ease.

But oh. there were so many I
At last, the carriage broki!.

And to the ground came tun;bling
These frightened little folk.

And through the moss and grasses
They were compelled to roam,

Until a brooklet found them
And carried them all home.

— Anonymous.

WHAT BECAME OF A LIE.

First, somebody told it,

Then the room wouldn't hold it,

So the busy tongues rolled it

Till they got it outsivie ;
When the crowd came across it.
And never once lost it,
But tossed it and tossed it

Till it grew long and wide.

From a very small lie. Sir,
It grew deep and high, Sir,
Till it reached t'» the sky, S!»,

And frightened iLe moon ;
For she hid her sweet liicu, Sir.
In a veil of cloud-lace. 6ir.
At the dreadftd disgrace, Si",

That happened at noon.

This lie brought forth other-*,
Dark sisters and brotht-rs,
And fathers and motheis —
A terrible crew j

And while Headlong thev hurrlad.
The people they flurried,
And troubled and worried,
As lies always do.

And so, evil-bodied,

This monstrous Lie goaded,

Till at last it explodetl

In smoke and in shame ;
When from mud and from mirt
The pieces flew higher,
And hit the sad liar,

And killed his good name I

Mrs. M. A. Kidder,

THE SAND-MAN.

Oht how does the sand-man come.
And how does the sand-man gor
Does he drop from the sky like a cloud

at night,
Does he walk through the streets in
broad daylight.
To visit the high and the low?

Oh! what does the sand-man do.
And why is the sand-man here?
Does he carry a sack on his little round

back,
While he scatters the sand with a lavish
hand
To tell us that sleepy time's here?

Ah 1 my dear children, nobody knows

How the sand-man comes and the sand-
man goes ;

For though we may wish very spuch
for the sight,

When the sand-man comes we shut oM
eyes tight.

— Harper*s Young FeopU.

FOR A SMALL GIRL.

The other girls and boys in school,

All said 1 was too young
To stand up here, like them, and use

My hands, and feet, and tongue.

But now I guess they'll own that I

F>*r all my speech ia not as long
As some the rest may say.

with a lavish
time's here?

r«B OAT'S BATH.

A " LITTM TOI,K8» " BOKQ.

A« pussy sat washing her face by the
gate, •'

\ A nice little dog came to hare a
good chat;
And after some talk about matt-rs of
state,

*Mra^C?t * ^^^ ^^' "^^ ^"^^
I really do hope youll not think I am
rude ;

I am curious, 1 know, and that you
may say— •'

Perhaps you'll be angrj?-_but no.

you re too good— '

Pray why do you wash in that very

odd wayr *'

Now I every day rush away to the lake.

And m the clear water I dive and

1 swim ;

I dry my wet fur with a run and a
shake,

And am fresh as a rose and neat as
• pm.
But you any day in the sun may be seen.
Just rubbing yourself with your red
little tongue ;
I admire the grace with which it is
done —
But really, now, are you sure you
get yourself clean f
The cat, who sat swelling with raee
and surprise °

At this, could no longer her furv
contain, "^

For she had always supposed herself
rather precise.
And of her sleek neatness had been
somewhat vain ;
So "he flew at poor doggy and boxed
both hts ears.
Scratched his nose and his eyes, and
spit in his face,
And sent him off yelping; from which
it appears
Those who ask prying questions may
meet with disgrace.

JUVENILE.

SSI

THE QUEBR LITTLE HOUSE.

There*8 a queer little house,

And it stands in the sun.

When the good mother caUa,

The children all nm.
While under her roof

And bluster and storm.

In the daytime, this queer

Little house moves away.
And the children run after it.

Happy and gay;
But It cornea back at night.

And the children are fed!
And tucked up to sleep

in a soft feather-bed.

This queer little house

ThP rnnf .^'"^o''« nor door.-
Ihe roof has no shingles.

The rooms have no floors—
JMo flre-places, chimneys,

Nor stoves can you see,
xet the children are cozy
And warm as can be

The story of this

Funny house is all true,
1 have «een it myself.

And I think you have, too,
I ou can see it to-day.

If you watch the old hen.
When her downy wings cover

Her chickens again.

BABY'S LOGIC.
EuzABiTH W. Bellamy.

She was ironing her dolly's new gown
Maid Marian, four years old

With her brows puckered down

In a painstaking frown
Under her tresses of gold.

Twas Sunday, and nurse coming ia
Exclaimed in a tone of surprise :

"Dont you know it's a sin

Any work to begin
On the day that the Lord sanotifleer

Then, lifting her face like a rose,
Thus answered this wise little tot :

*'1V/Mir AnnH w.^,,

, ,,?.,, ujruu auppysB

The good Lord he knows
This little iron ain't hot f "

— WiiU Awakt.

\mi

Mi. i'

1 •

':i

siw

8891

JUVENILE

WORDS OP WELCOME.

Kind friends and parents, we welcome

jou here
To our nice pleasant school-room, and

teacher so dear ;
We wish but to show you how much

we have learned,
And how to our lessons our hearts have

been turned.
But hope youll remember we all are

quite young, .

And when we have spoken, recited ana

sung,
T '1 will pardon our blunders, which,

as all are aware,
May even extend to the President a

chair.
Our life is a school time, and till that

shall end,
With our Fatker in heaven for teacher

and friend. .

let us perform well each task that is

Till our time of probation is ended in
heaven.

M»-

OEANDPATHER'S BARN.

Oh, don't you remember our grand-
father's bam.
Where our cousins and we met to
play ;
How we climbed on the beams and the
scaffolds so high.
Or tumbled at will on the hay r
How we sat in a row on the bundles of

And riddles and witch stories told,
While the sunshine c»me in through
the cracks of the South,
And turned the dust into gold f
How we played hide and seek in each
cranny and nook.
Wherever a child could be stowed r
Then we made ns a coach of a hogs-
head of rye,
And on it to " Boston " we rode ;
And then we kept store and sold barley
and oats, , . , ^,

And corn by the bushel or blnj
And straw for our Bisters to braid into
h»ts, ^ .

And flax for our mothers to spin.

-Q to
a pick

ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAlf.

Remember, my son, you ha
work. Whether you handle a ^
or a pen, a wheelbarrow or a set of
books, digging ditches or editing a
paper, ringing an auction bell- or
wnting funny things, you mudt work.
If you look around, you will see the
men who are the most able to live the)
rest of their days without work are th^
men who work the hardest. Don't be
afraid of killing yourself with over-
work. It is beyond your power to do
that on the sunny side of thirty. They
die sometimes, but it is because they
quit work at six P. M., and don't get
home until two A. M. It's the interval
that kills, my son. The work gives
you an appetite for your meals; it
lends solidity to your slumbers; it
gives you a prfect and grateful appre-
ciation of a holiday.
' There are young men who do not
work, but the world is not proud of
them. It does not know their names,
even; it simplv speaks of them as
« old So-and-so's boys." Nobody likes
them; the great, busy world doesn't
know that they are there. So find
out what you want to be and do, and
take otf vour coat and make a dust in
the world. The busier you are, the
less harm you will be apt to get into,
the sweeter will be your sleep, the
brighter and happier your holiday^
and the better patisfied will the world
be with you. R. J. BURDBTTB.

« ^ »

DO SOMETHING.

If the world seems cold to yoti.
Kindle fires to warm it I

Let their comfort hide from you
Winters that deform it.

Hearts as frozen as your own
To that radiance gather :

You will soon forget to moian,
«♦ Ah I the cheerless weath*."

70 MAIf.

>u h8~e to
adle a pick
or a set of
r editing a
3n bell, or
miut work.
will see the
3 to live the!
ivork are th^
;. Don't be

with over-
power to do
dirty. They
)ecau8e they
id don't get
the interval

work gives
X meals; it
lumbers; it
ateful appre-

who do not
not proud of
their names,
of them as
J^'obody likes
rorld doesn't
sre. So find
) and do, and
ake a dust in
you are, the
)t to get into,
cir sleep, the
our holidays,
ill the world

BURDETTB.

[NG.

Id to you,

nitl

> from you

mit.

)ur own
ither;
to moan,
9 weath«r

ADIEU.

If the world's a vale of team,
Smile till rainbows span it;

Breathe the love that life endears—
Clear from clouds to fan it.

Of our gladness lend a gleam

Unto souls that shiver;
Show them how dark sorrow's
stream

Blends with hope's bright river 1

JUVENILE.

BABY'S SOLILOQUY.

~.ITr^*J*'"°'''"* »elecHon can be made verv humor
tWyof.'Si'^y.f"'' *" appropriate pUcesi^'ita^e."

I am here. And if this is what thev
call the world, I don't think much of
It. Its a very flannel^ world, and
smells of paregoric awfully. Jt's a
dreadful light world, too, and makes
me bunk, I tell you. And I don't
know what to do with my hands. I
think I'll dig my fists in my eyes.
No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner
ot my blanket and chew it up, and
rm"i 11" ^°' ^n ^^l^at«ver happens,
111 holler. And the more paregoric
they give me, the louder 111 yell.
Ihat old nurse puts the spoon iu the
comer of my mouth, sidewise like, and
keeos tasting my milk herself all the
while, bba spilt snuff in it last night,
and when I hollered, slie trotted me!
lHat comes of being a two-days-old
baby. Nevermind; when I'm a man,
1 11 pay her back good. There's a piti
sticking in me now, and if I say a word
about It, I'll be trotted orfe(r; and I
would rather have catnip-tea. I'll tell
7°"y^oIam. I found out to-day. I
heard fo kg say, "flush! don't wake
up Emehne'a baby ; and I suppose
that prettv, white faced woman over
on the pillow IS Emehne.
. No, fwaa mistaken ; for a chap was
't? i^^i. J."^* ^°^ a»d wanted to see
Bobs baby; and looked at me and

fSiJ ^^^ ?./"""y Jittle toad, and
looked juBt like Bob. He smelt of
wgara. I wonder who else I belong

885

to I Yes, there's another ono— that'a
"Gamma." "It was Gamma's baby,
so It was." I declare, I do not know
who I belong to; but I'll holler, and
maybe I'll find out. There cornea
snuffy with catnip-tea. I'm going to
Bleep I wonder why my h ands won't
go where I want them to I

BOYS WANTED.

Boys of spirit, boys of will,
Boys of muscle, brain and powac

Fit to cope with anything.
These are wanted every hour.

Not the weak and whining drones,
Who all troubles magnify;

Not the watchword of •' I can't,"
Bat the nobler one, " I'll try."

Do whate'er you have to do
With a true and earnest zeal;

Bend your sinews to the task,
" Put your shoulder to the wheel."

Though your duty may be hard,

Look not on it as an ill ;
If it be an honest task,

Do it with an honest will.

. In the workshop, on the farm,
^ At the desk, where'er you be,
From your future efforts, boys.
Comes a nation's destiny.

THE BAGGEDY MAN.

JAMES WHITCOMBE RILEY.

Oh, the Raggedy Manl He worke

for Pa ;
An' he's the goodest man ever yon

saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses an' feeds 'em

hay;
An' he opens the shed— an' wc all ist

lauga

When he drives out our little old
wobble-ly c4lf I

JUVENILE

M f 1
I

An' nen, ef our hired girl says he can,

H« milks the cow for 'Lizaoath Ann.

Aint't he a' awful good Kaggedy

Man?

Kaggedy I Eaggedyl Raggedy

W'yi *1^« Raggedy Man — he's ist so

good
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the

wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't

do.
He clumbed clean up in our big tree,
An' shook a' apple down fer me I
An' 'nolher 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann I
An' 'nother 'n', too, for the Raggedy

Man!

Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy
Man?
Baggedy! Raggedy 1 Raggedy
Manl

An the Raggedy Man he knows most
rhymes,

An' tells 'em, ef 1 be good, some-
times —

Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Grifiuns, an'
Elves,

An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swal-
lers theirselves 1

An' wite by the pump in our pasture-
lot,

He showed me the hole 'at the Wimks
is got

'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an'
can

Turn into me— er 'Lizabuth Ann I
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy
Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy I Raggedy
Man!

The Raggedy Man — one time, when

he
Was mftkin' a little bow-'n'-arry fer

me^^
Says, " when you're big, like your pa

... Vh

Air yoa go' to keep » fine store like
ms,

An' be a nch merchunt, an' wear fine

clothes ?
Er what air you go' to be, goodness

knows !
An' nen he laughed at 'Jjizabuth Ann,
An' I says, " 'm go' to bo a Raggedy
Man —

I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy
Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy
Man! — Century Magazine.

A GREVIOUS COMPLAINT.

EUDOKA 8. BUMSTEAD.

"It's hard on a fellow, I do declare i"

Said Tommy one day, with a pout;
" In every one of the suits 1 wear

The pockets are 'most worn out.
They're 'bout as big as the ear of a
mole,

And I never have more than three ;
And there's always coming a mean
Tittle hole

That loses my knife for me.

" I can't make 'em hold but a few lit-
tle things —
Some cookies, an apple or two,
A knife and pencil and bunch of
strings,
Some nails and maybe a screw.
And marbles, of course, and a top and

ball, ^ ^

And shells and peljbles and such.
And some odds and ends— yes honest

that's all!
You can see for yourself 't isnt

much.

"I'd like a suit of some natent kind.
With pockets made wide and long ;

Above and below and before and be-
hind.
Sewed extra heavy and strong.

I'd want about a dozen or so,
All easy and quick to get at ;

And I should be perfectly happy -

With » h»ndy rig Uke that."

oureelf 't is'nt

JUVENILE
1'HE FARMER.

(For SarenI Boya.)

187

Plows Ilia piece of ground,
That from the little seeds he sows
A large crop may abound.

This is the way he sows the seed, (2)
Droppmg with careful hand, ^ '

In all the furrows well prepared
Upon the fertile land.

''' WK^ ^^L^A^ ^® °"*« *^« grain (3)
A T?u° ^°1'°^ ^^»^^ it« weight;
And thus he bundles it in shelves (4)
Working long and late. ' ^ '

And then the grain he threshes thus. (5)

And stores away to keep ;
And thus he stands contentedly (Q\

And views the plenteous heap.

plow."^™ Mfnded torwarfM though holding .

*»»e?o',S2' *'"""«'"^-'""«"«-^ Strike wUh
j^ Kwc» position..™, folded. or hand, on the

OPENING ADDRESS.
I am a tiny tot,

And have not much to say •
^'J*J«'H5'»nake, I'm told,

The " Welcome Speech " to-day.

Dear friends, we're glad you've come

To hear us speak and sing.
We 11 do our very best

To please in every thing.

Our speeches we have learned •
And if you'll hear us through.

rou 11 see what tiny tots—
If they but try— can do.

OCTOBER'S PARTY.

October gave a party ;

^The leaves by hundreds came^
Aiio Ashes, uaks, and Maples. '

And iMVes of every nam«/

The sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand ;

Miss Weather led the dancini
rrotessor Wind, the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow

rhe Oaks in crimson dresswi
1 he lovely Misses Maple

In purple looked their best
All balanced to their partners.

And gayly fluttered by;
1 he sight was hke a rainbow

New-fallen from the sky.

Then in the rusty hollows
At hide-and-seek tijey playe/

The party closed at sundowi
iiut everybody stayed.

Professor Wind played louder-

Ihey flew along the ground, '

And then the partv ended
In jolly "hands'all round."

FOR A SMALL BOY.

Boy as I am ; these things I see-^
J or instance ; men who dress quite fine.
They smoke cigars and drink rich
wine;

And others still down lager beer,
I'll! on the street they scarce can

And yet, when they go home, they
swear, ' •'

rnl^^^M^"'* 8^* * «ent to .spare;
Their children need both bread akd
meat.

And shoes to cover naked feet;
Their wives don't have a copper cent

Because they sew to pay the rent
Now these are things I^ally see.

And, as I said, they puzzle me.

ONLY A BOY.

Only a boy with his noise and fun.

The veriest mystery under the sun;
As bnmfiil of mischief and wit and

glee,

f ^ ev^ ft human flrame could be^

JUVEKILB.

-J 'h

III

'm S

And as liard to manase — whati ah me!
'Tis hard to toll,
Yet we love him well.

Only a boy with hi a fearful troad,
WHo cannot be driven, must be led 1
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and

cats.
And tears more clothes and spoils more

hats,
Loses more kites and tops and bats
Than would tstock a store
For a week or more.

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways*
With his idle hours or his busy days.
With liis queer remarks and his odd

replies,
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise,
Often brilliant for one of his size,
As a meteor hurled
From the planet world.

• ,

VALEDICTORY.

A. F. SHOALS.

The golden glow of a summer's day

Bests over the verdant hills,
And the sunlight falls with mellow ray

On fields and laughing rills ;
But ere its last beam fades away

Beyond the mountain high.
Our fips must bravely, sadly say

The parting words, "Good-bye."

Kind friends and parents gathered here,

Our gratitude is yours
For all your care and sympathy,

Which changelessly endures.
We'll try to use the present hours

So they will bring no sigh,
When to our happy days of school

We say our last " Good- bye."

Dear teacher, we shall ne'er forget

The lessons you have taught :
We trust the future may perfect

The work your hands have wrought;
And may they bring good gifts to you,

'P(}Qae voars that swiftly flv?
And may you kindly think of those

Who bid you mom •' Godd-lyo."

" Qood-b>e! " it shall not be farewell. -

We hope again to meet;
But happy hours are ever short.

And oays of youth are fleet.
Tiiere's much to learn and much to do.

Oh, may our aims be high, .
And ever lead toward that bright land,

Where none shall say " Good-bye."

SONG OF THE ALL-WOOL SHIRT,

My father bought an undershirt

Of bright and flaming red —
"All-wool, I'm ready to assert.

Fleece-dyed," the merchant said.
" Your size is thirty-eight, I think;

A forty you should get.
Since all-wool goods are bound to
shrink

A trifle when they're wet."

That shirt two weeks my father wor*—

Two washings, that was all —
From forty down to thirty-four

It shrank like leaf in fall.
I wore it then a day or two.

But when 'twas washed again.
My wife said " Now 'twill only do

For little brother Ben."

A fortnight Ben sc^ueczed into it,

At last he said it hurt.
We put it on our babe — the fit

Was good as any shirt.
We ne,er will wash it more while yet

We see its flickering light.
For if again that shirt is wet,

'Twill vanish from our sight.

Chicago Netoa,

MAMMA'S KISSES.

A kiss when I wake in the morning,
A kiss when I go to bed,

A kiss when I bum my fingers,
A kiss when I bump my held.

A kiss when my bath is ovw,
A kiss when my bath begins,

My mamma is fuU of kise^
As full as a surte Is of pina.

JUVENILE.

^OOLSHIET.

!?T'^^*° ^ ^^* ^*' trouble,
A kisa when I cive her joy ;

There's nothino; hke mamma'-* kisaes.
1 o her own Tittle babj boy.

WINTER JEWELS.

A million little diamonds

Twinkled in the trees ;
And all the little maidens said

"Aiewel, ifyoupleasel" '
Bat while they held their hands out-
stretched

To catch the diamonds gay,
A million little sunbeams came

And stole them all away.

A RECIPE FOR A DAY.

Take a little dash of water cold
And a little leaven of prayer

And a little bit of morning gold
Dissolved in the morning air.

Add to your meal some merriment
A AX. * *^°"«^t ^or kith and kin,
And then, as vour prime ingredient
A plenty of work thrown in.

But spice it all with the essence of
love
And a little whiff of play,
I«t a wise old book and a glance
above
Complete the well made day.
I ^ »

HATTIE'S VIEWS ON HOUSE.
CLEANING.

Our folks have been cleaning house
—and, oh I it is just dreadful, I think I
Why, a httle girl might just as well
• ave no mamma as to have a mamma
\vl;o 38 cleaning house. She does not
I «ve any time to tend to me at all
bl,e ties l.er head up in an old apron
and wearj an ugly old dress^ancf she
aon„ looit a bit pretty. Then she
pulls everything out of its place, and
the house look&-oh I so bad. We

do not have t^tij good dinners, either,

cause there s no time to stop to get

them ready. And I cannot find my

dear Margaret that was broken a little

and the saw-dust ran out of her'

Mamma said she made so much dirt

that she must be burnt up, and oh I

y" /''■aid that is where she has gone

And ever so many of my playthings

are lost-lost in the house-cfeaning.

Wliat if they were old and broken! I

ioyed them. So is it any wonder I

think house-cleaning is a dreadful
thing?

When I grow up to be a big
woman I mean never to clean house
at all, but be just as dirty and happy
as I can. ^ ^^^

MR. TONGUE.

My friend, Mr. Tongue,

He lives in my mouth,
He's red as a rose.

And as warm as the South.
He has not a foot,

But how quickly he goes.
My little friend Tongue^

As red as a rose.

THE CHICKENS.

Said the first little chicken,
With a queer little squirm.
" I wish I could find
A fat little worm."

Said the next little chicken
With an odd little shrue '

" I wish I could find
A iat little slug."

Said the third little chicken
With a sharp little squeal,

" I wish I could find
Some nice yellow meal."

Said the fourth litfU r\^\..\.

With a small sigh of crie£

"Iwishlcouldfild ^ ^
A little green Iea£"

JUVENILE.

r"ifi

■■• " '■ .

S«id the fifth little chicken,
With a faint little moan,

"I wish I cv. .Id find
A wee gravel stone."

"Now, see here,'' said the
mother.

From the green ganlen tiatch,
" If you want any breaictast,

Just come here and scratch."

LITTLE LIZETTB.

KATHERINB S. ALCORN.

Ab little Lizette was out walking one

Attired with great splendor in festal

array,
She met little Gretchen, in sober-hued

gown, '

With a basket of eggs, trudging off to

the town.

«« Good-morning ! Good morning 1 "

cried little Lizette,
•• You haven't been over to visit me

yet.
Come over and live with me always;

pray do;
For I have no sisters ; how many nave
you?"

" Nein," answered wee Gretchen. Liz-
ette cried, "Ah, me 1

I have to pretend I have sisters, you
see.

But try as I will, I can't make it seem
true.

And I have no brothers. How mahy
have you? "

N'tin," answered wee Gretchen.

'' ''^"me ! " echoed Lizette.
*" \\ r, yov ire the luckiest girl I

!.Civi vnetl
.hn-x n vt youa babv .t home, tell me

no'.V"
" Nein," answered wee Gretchen, and

made a droll bow.

Then lingered Lizette by th« roadzide

that day.
To watch the wee mai dm go trudging

•way- . ,

" Nine brothers, nine sisters, nine ba^

bies toj-ct I

Oh, I wish I was Gretchen I" sighed

little Lizette.

-^St. Niehola*.

TALE OF A DOG AND A J^EE.

Great big dog.

Head upon bis toes ;
Tiny little bee

Settles on his nose.

Great big dog

Thinks it is a fly,
Never says a word.

Winks mighty sly.

Tiny little bee

Tickles dog's nose —
Thinks like as not

'Tis a blooming rose.

Dog smiles a smile,
Winks his other eye,

Chuckles to himself
How he'll catch a fly.

Then he makes a snap,
Mirhty quick and spry,

Gci,. ^'-''ittle bug,

Bv.t ■»'-^'i''. catch thf %.

Tiny little bee.

Alive and looking well,
Great big dog,

Mostly gone to swell.

VOBAL.

Dear friends and brothers, all,

1-k .. 1^ V ' A-^^ A...4 t%v%A t..AA

And when you catch a fly
Be Bore it ain't a bee.

JUVEtriLE.

A.l>rD A iiEK.

THB BUSY BRB AND MTTLB.

How doth the lii in busy beo
Improve each Hhininx hour,

And gather utoroa of hoiu»v by,
to «»( in winter's hourH '

How dotb the little busy mule

Toil patiently all day,
And swituh his Uil. and elevate

His lofty ears, and bray f

How lotli his eye, with drowsy
gleam,

Let naught e8oa|>e his ken.
But whf n he flevates bis heels,

Where is the driver then ?

THE LITTLE TEACHER

ftl

WHO WAS SHEf

I was going down the walk,
So pleasant, cool and shady ;

Right in the middle of the path
1 met a little lady.

I made to her my sweetest bow ;

She only walked on faster.
I smiled, and said, " Good-mominir.
ma'am I " *

The moment that I passed her.

She never noticed me at all , .

I really felt quite slighted;
I thought, -I'll follow you— I will—

Altho' I'm not invited."

Perhaps you think me very rude,
But then, she looked so funny

From head to foot all dressed in fur
This summer day so sunny.

She didn't mind the heat at all,
But wrapped the fur around 'her,

And hurried on, as if to say,
" I'll 'tend to my own gown, sir! "

f allowed her the whole way home.
Her home was In my garden.

Beneath my choicest vine— and yet
She never asked my pardon.

I never heard her apeak a word :

Cominsi down the idewalk, say
"There goes Miss Caterpillar'l "

(LUtIa Mary HddrraMut bar M\, wliiak is
M'aiud III a oliair.)

Weli, iMtle >nrl, you wish to come
to Bohool, do you'/ I l,o|.e you *t »
very good girl, and will not give m«
auy trouble What is your nainei'
Lucy, ifl ill' Well, Luov, do you
know your letters? Can you read
and spoil and wnfe? Vou don't know
anything, eh? How shocking I Wdl.
then, I will try to teaoh y^m how t
sjHjll your name tlio first i\\na be
cause every little girl, when he is as
big as you, ought to know how to
apell her name. Lucy— that's an easy
name to npell. Now say "L"— you
can reraenber that if you'll just tHnk
of'AuutKl;" tl.en''a"-u,remem.
ber,^not mi;-that'8 L-U. Next conies
O — that -i what you do with your
eves you uow-"C." L-U-C, and
the last is "Y," that's easy--" Y."
Why, of course! And now you have
It all I— L (for Aunt E1.).U (not rnel-C
(with your eye8)-and Y (why of
course) — Lucy "'

That is very ^rood. You'll soon be
a good scholar, see I Now you may
take a recess. .

THE GUNNEIt AND THE BIKD.

A little bird sat i a cherry tree.
Singing its song o chink, chink, chee;
A man came by w th a dog and gun
And shot the binli just for fun • '
At least that's all 1 had to say, *
When on the groun t the birdie lay,
With a broken wing and a hole in it*

side;
It fluttered and squeaked, and then it

died.
And sister and I just .tood and cried.

I'd rather be a dog or i cat.

Or the meanest kind o; a big gray rat.

Than an ugly man with a dog and

gun,
Who shot a birdie just for fun.

JUVEITILB.

\:c-

iLMOim THE ANIMALS.

One rainj morning,

Juat for a lark,
I jumped and stamped

On my new Noah's ark.

I crushed an elephant,

Smashed a gnu,
And snapped a camel

Clean in two.

I finished the wolf

Without half trying,
Then the wild hyena

And roaring lion.

I knocked down Ham

And Japhet too,
And cracked the legs

Of the kangaroo.

I finished, besides,
Two pigs and a donkey,

A polar bear,
Opossum, and monkey.

Also the lions,

Tigers, and cats.
And dromedaries,

And tiny rats.

There wasn't a thing

That didn't feel,
Sooner or later.

The weight of my heel.

I felt as grand

As grand could be —
But, ohi the whipping

My mamma gave me I

GOOD COMPANY.

"Ill try "is a soldier,

"I will" is a king:
Be sure they are near

When the school bells ring.

When school days are over,

And boys are men,
« T ™;ii ♦,.» » an<l " T will "

Are good friends then.

—■Harper's Young People.

DO YOUR BEST.

Do your best, your very best,

And do it every day.
Little boys and little girls,

That is the wisest way.

Whatever work comes to yonr
hand,

At home or at your school,
Do your best with right good will •

It is a golden rale.

For he who always does his best,
Hia best will better grow ;

But he who shirks or slights his
task,
Lets ail the better go.

What if your lessons should be
hard?

You need not yield to sorrow.
For he who bravely works to-day,

His task grows bright to-morrow,

A BOY'S OPINION.

The girls may have their dolhes,
Made of china or of wax ;

I prefer a little hammer.
And a paper full of tacks.

There's such comfort in a chisel I
And such music in a file!

I wish that little pocket-saws
Would get to be the style 1

My kite may fly up in the tree ;

My sled be stuck in mud ;
And all my hopes of digging wellf

Be nipped off in the bud.

But with a little box of nails,

A gimlet and a screw,
I'm happier than any king ;

I've work enough to do.

JIOK AND THB RABBIT.

A gay little rabbit,
Of frolicsome habit,
Went out for a cool midnight stroll ;
And a strange fixture meeting,
Though it set his heart beating,
" Dear mo I " said the rabbit, " how
droll I" '

He stopped for a minute,

To see what was in it,

And nibbled a bit at the bait ;

Very tempting he found it,

He walkt'd all around it.

And then he went in at the gate.

But quicker than winking,

And quicker than thinking,

Master Babbit was swung on high,

And not a bit tardy,

Game little Jack Hardy

Prom where he'd been hiding close by.

The old moon was crying.

The pine-trees were sighing.

And I think that the stars were in

tears.
As into his casket,
Jack's snug, covered basket.
Poor Bunny was dropped by the ears.

Then Jack fled the gateway,
In order that straightway
Some other good game he might trap.
When Bunny kicked oyer
The basket and cover.
And scampered off to his home and his
wife I

JVfYENILE.

A LITTLE SONG.

Sing a songof summer time

Corainff by and by,
Four-and-twenty blackbirds

Sailing through the sky ;
When the season opens

They'll all begin to sing,
And make the finest concert

Ever heard upon the wing.
Blackbirds, yellowbirds,

Sobins and the wrens,
All coming home again

When the winter ends.

Smg a song of summer-time,

Coming very soon,
With the beauty of the May,

The glory of the June.
Now the busy farmer toils.

Intent on crops and money,
Now the velvet bees are out

Hunting alter honey.
Well thev know the flowery nooks

Bathed in snnshine mellow,
Where the morning-glories are,

And roses pink and yellow, '

YoxtiKt Companion.

A NEW YEAR'S TALK.

" Here I am." said the New Year,
popping his head in at the door.

" Oh 1 there you are eh ?" replied
the Old Year. «' Come in and let me
have a look at you, and shut the door
after you, please 1"

The New Year stepped lightly in,
and closed the door carefully.

"Frosty night," he said. "Fine
and clear, though. I have had a de-
lightful journey."

" Humph ! " said the old year. " I
don't expect to find it delightful, with
this rheumatism racking my bones.
A long, cold drive, I call it ; but to be
sure, I thought it pleasant when I was
your age, youngster. Is the sleigh
waiting ? "

"Yes," replied the other. "But
there is no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell
me how matters are in these parts."

"So, sol" the Old Year answered,
shaking his head. " They might b«
better, and yet I suppose they might
be worse, too. They were worse be-
fore I came ; much worse, too. I bay*
done a great deal. Now I expect yon,

t'f

JUVENILE

my boy, to foUowr my example, and be
a good year all the v^ay through."

"I shall do my best," said the Now
Year, " depend upon it I And now tell
me a little what there is to do."

"In the first place," replied tuo oth-
er, " you have the weather to attend
to. To be sure, you have a clerk to
help you in that, but he is not always
to be depended upon ; there is a great
deal ot work in the department. The
seasons have a way of running into
each other, and getting mixed, if you
don't keep a sharp lookout on them ;
and the months are a troublesome,
unruly set. Then you must be care-
ful how to turn on wet and dry weath-
er ; your reputation depends in a jjreat
measure on that. But you must not
expect to satisfy everybody, for that
is impossible. If you try to please
the farmers the city people will com-
plain ; and if you devote yourself to
the cities, the country people will call
you all manner of names. I had rath-
er devote myself to apples and that
sort of a thing ; everybody speaks of
me as ' a great apple year ;' ' a glorious
year for grapes I ' and so on. That is
very gratifying to me. And one thing
I want you to do very carefully ; that
is, to watch the leaves that are turned."
"I thought Autumn attended to
that sort of thing," said his companion.
" I don't mean leaves of trees," said
the Old Year. " But at the beginning
of a year, half the people in the world
say, 'I am going to turn over a new
leafl' meanin,' they intend to behave
themselves better in yarious respects.
As a rule leaves do not stay turned
over. I know a great many little boys
who promised me to turn over a new

leaf in regard to tearing their clothes,
and losing their jack-knives, and bring-
ing mud into the house on their boots,
and little girls who were going to keep
their bureau drawers tidy and their
boot buttons sewed on. But I haven't
seen much improvement in most of
them. Indeed, what can you expect
of the children, when the parents set
them the example? Why, there is a
man in this neighborhood who has
turned over a new leaf in the matter
of smoking every year since 1868, and
after the first week of each New Year,
he smokes like a chimney all the rest

of the year."

" What is his name ?" inquired L392,
taking out his note- book.

" Bus name is Smith —.John Smith,"
said the Old Year. "There are a
great many of them, and all the rest
are probably as bad as the particular
one I ment?on, so you need not be too
particular."

«' I'll attend to it," said the New
Year. " Any other suggestions ? "

'' Weil," said the Old Year, smihng,
" I have never found that young peo-
ple, or young years, were very apt to
profit by good advice. You must go
your own way after all. Don't start
any new inventions — there have been
quite enough lately. Above all, take
care of the children, aud give them
all the good weather you can consci-
entiously. And now," he added, ris-
ing slowly and stiffly from his seat by
the fire, " the horses are getting impa-
tient, and my time is nearly up, so I
start on my long drive. You will
find everything in pretty good shape
I think, though, of course, you will
think me an old fogy as perhaps I am.
Well! Weill good-bye, my boy! Good
luck to you 1 And whenever you hear

rf" v.n.v»f« »»»4»nti"T!'»d trv in 'nnt. in a

lixy iiatitv iiive**-**.'**^^-, —^ -— X- — — -■

good word for old 1891.

Laura E. Biohabd.

JUVENILE.

895

E.B1GHABO.

TWO KINDS OP PUN.
For Twc Boys.

CHARACTERS.

Jack.

TOK.

Enter Jack (i?.), Tom (Z.), meet (C).
Both wear hats. Jack carries a
aling-shot.

Tom. — "Well, Jack, where have jou
beea this long hot day ? {Removes his
hat, unjoes his forehead with his hand-
kerchief, and retains his hat in his
hand, fanning himself with it.)

Jack. — Oh, I've been off in the
vroods, where it was cool. Had lots
of fun, too.

ron».— What doing?
Jack. — Shooting birds with this.
[Holds up slingshot.} I tell you it's
lota of fun.

Tom. — What did you shoot them
for? Don't you like birds?

JcKk. — Why, yes, I like them well
enough. I like to shoot them, too.

Tom. — Well, I know how I can
have some fun. I am coming down
to your house early to- morrow morn-
ing with a sling-shot, and I'm going
to shoot all the lovely flowers in your
front yard.

Jack (angrily). — Well, I guess you
won't. My mother'd have you ar-
rested in a minute.

Tom. — But it would be lots of fun-
Just think what a splendid mark those
large red roses would be 1 I just be-
lieve I could hit one every time and
knock it all to pieces.

Jack {thnateningly). — Well, I'll j ust
tell you, you hadn't better try it.

Tom. — Why not, I'd like to know?
Don't I tell you it would be fun ?

Jack.~l don't care if it is fun.
You've no right to shoot the flowers.
They don't belong to you. They be-
long to my mother.

Tom.—Cih, pshaw! what of that?
A fellow's got to have some fun.

Jack. — You can have all the fun you
want, if you don't meddle with things
that don't belong to you.

Tom. — Do the beautiful birds in the
wood belong to you, I'd like to know?
Jack. — W-e-1-1, no, but that's dif-
ferent.

Tom. — I don't see why jt is. The
birds belong to God. He made them,
just as He did so many other lovely
things, to help make the earth beauti-
ful, and I cannot see why you have
any more right to steal them away
from the earth than I have to take
your mother's flowers,

Jcuk (thoughtfully). — Well, maybe
you are right. I am sure I never
thought about it in that way before.

Tom. — Well, think about it now,
and just suppose for a momb.it that
every bov in the city should go out in
the wood.s and kill just one bird.

Jaxik. — Oh, my I that would be aw-
ful. There wouldn't be many birds
left, I'm thinking. I'll tell you what
it is, Tom, I'll never shoot another
bird. Here, do you want my sling-
shot? (Offers it.)

Tom. — No, thank you, Jack ; that's
something my mother will not allow
me to own; and if I were you, I
wouldn't give it to any one, I'd take
it home and put it in the fire.
Jack. — I believe I will.
Tbm.— ^And let us get all the other
boys who have them to burn them up.
Jack. — Yes, and let usform a "Club,"
like the big fellows do, and let us call
it the "Anti-biing-biiot Club," and get
all the boys to join it.
Tom. — ^That would be fiin.

'^1

m i

''ill I

1 ' f

'••1 .

i.j£.

390

JUVENILE.

Jack, — Tea, and fun for tho birds,
too, wouldn't it ?

Tom. — Yes, indeed. You see there
are two kinds of fun, don't you — the
real and the make-believe? And if
we can get the boys all waked up
about it, so that they'll start the clubs
all over the city, the woods around
here will soon be full of birds.

Jach — Well, lot's be off and find
some of the boys. Getting up these
clubs will bo the very thing for the
vacation. But first we must go to
my house, so that I can bum my sling-
shot.

Tom. — All right, come on. You've
had one kind of fun to-day — now we'll
have the other kind. {Exeunt. Tom
hading)

FOUR CELEBRATED GHARAC-
TERS.

▲ simple one act drama for four little girU.
CHABACTERS.

OiNDKKBLLA. SlKKPINO BKA.TJTY.

(iOLD SFINMBB.

LiTTLK Rkd Riding Hood.— The child who
penonaiea this part t-boiild be gmaller than the
others .

COSTUMES.

GiMDEHKLLA. — A rag^pd calico dress, feet
bare, hrtir fluwin^ but smooth and tidy.

Rkd Kidino Hood— Ling sosirlet cloalc,
with hood.

Slbbfiiiq Bbauty.— a handsome costume
of white, made with train; hair flowing; a
garden hut on her hea'l.

OoLD Spinnbr. — White dress, with train;
hair done high on the head, in womanish style ;
wears a hat.

{Enter Red Riding Hood {R.\ Cinder-
ella {L.), meet in centre.

Cinderella. — Why, Red Riding
Hood, is that really you? I thought
you were dead long ago.

Red Riding Hood. — Dead ? N< ), in-
deed. What would become of all the
children if I were to die? Who else
could amuse them so well as little
Bed Biding Hood?

might take

Cinderella. — They migut take up
with me, I suppose. But, indeed, I
cannot understand how you can be
alive. I am sure the old wolf ate you
up.

Red Riding Hood. — Yes, but you
forget the rest of ttie story, — how the
hunter chanced to come along and cut
the wolf open, so that both my grand-
mother and I were set free. But
where are you going ?

Cinderella. — They have sent for me
to come up to the palace and try on a
glass slipper.

Red Riding Hood. — A glass slipper ?

Cinderella. — Yes, and I don't mind
telhngyou a secret — because you look
as if you could keep one. I know the
slipper will fit me, because it is mine,
and I have the mate to it in my
pocket.

Red Riding Hood. — But aren't you
afraid some ouo will get there before
you do, and put on the slipper, and so
claim it.

Cinderella. — No, indeed Do you
suppose there is another foot like that
in all the kingdom? [Holding out her
foot.]

Red Riding Hood. — It certainly is a
pretty foot, but are you going to the
palace in tliat ragged dress, and bare-
foot, too ?

Cinderella. — Of course Have you
never heard my story ? I am Cinder-
ella.

Red Riding Hood {reflecting).. — It
seems as if I have, yet I do not remem-
ber any of it now. You know I don't
hear much of what is going on in the
world. I just go back and forth to
my grandmother's every day.

Cinderella. — Well, my bad step
mother will not give me any decent
clothes t<i wear. So when I wantecl^to
go to the ball at the palace, my god-
mother dressed me up very fine in-
deed; but, as I cannot wear those
clothes except at night, in the daytime
I go as you now see me.

{JEnter Sleeping Beauty {R.).

^ Cinderella.— Why, that is the Sleep-
ing Beauty. '^
Sleeping Beauty. —Qood morr-ng. I
am so glad to meet some one. I have
come a long way alone.

Cinderella. — But when did vou
awake? •'

Sleeping Beauty.— Only yeaterd&y
Cinderella —But since you are
awake, there must be a Prince. Where
IS he?

Sleeping Beauty.— Oh, he has gone
huntmg, and I was tired of staying in
the palace alone, so I come out for a
walk. But who are you ? [pointing to
Uinderella], and you? [pointing to Red
Riding Hood.']

Red Riding Hood. — I am Red
Kiding Hood, a very celebrated char-
acter.

Cinderella.— knd I am Cinderella.

Sleeping Beauty —I never heard of
either of you before.

Red Riding ^oorf.— That's because
you have been sleeping so long.

Sleeping Beauty — Well, I shall
surely go to sleep again if my Prince
does not return pretty soon. I'd rather
be asleep than be lonesome. But who
is that coming ?

{Enter Goldspinner {R.).

Cinderella.— Oh, that is Gold Spin-
ner. Surely you have heard of her.

Sleeping Beauty.— No, I never have.

Red Riding Hood— Well, I'm glad
I haven't been asleep so long. That's
worse than going back and forth to my

grandmother's, because I do hear a
ttle news now and then.
Cinderella— And I would rather
wear rags all my life than to sleep so
many years.

Gold Spinner (sharply).— But why
do you stand here, Cinderella, idly
ehatting ? Don't you know you have
been sent for? 'But if there isn't
Seeping BeauW I Good morning to
you. I am glad to see you awake.

JUVENIL3.

Sleeping Beautu.—l thank you, but
why are you hurrying Cinderella
away? Surely, nobody wants her,
unless It 13 to clean the pots and ket-
ties.

Gold Spinner — Indeed, there you
make a very great mistake. My eldest
son, who you remember, is the one

that the bad Lumberleg

Sleeping Beauty— Why no, what is
It about Lumberleg? I never heard
ot him before.

Red Riding Hood— Oh, she doesn't
know anything hardly. She hadn't
even heard of me I

Gold Spinner— We]], I declare, are
you there. Little Bed Riding Hood?
lou do beat all the children I ever
saw lor getting out of tight places.
Uf course, Sleeping Beauty can't be
expected to know all about these stir-
ring events, since she has been asleep
so long. But come, Cinderella, why
dont you hurry along? You knoi
the Pnnce will marry you, if the slip,
per fits you, and a prince like him is
not to be found every day.

Red Riding Hood— Oh, poor Cin-
derella, I don't believe that I should
want to marry even a prince. That's
worse than being eaten by a wolf be-
cause when you're in, you can't set
out, ^

Sleeping Beauty {sighing). -No, in-
deed, I wouldn't advise any one to
marry a Prince.

Cinderella.— Bni my Prince is dif.
ferent from all the others— so lovely
so charming. ^'

{Exit {R.) running^

Sleeping Beauty.— B\x% what in th«
world can he want with that little rair.
a-muifin? ^

Gola Spinner.— Oh, Cinderella ii
very lovely in spite of her old clothes,
and my son is wise enough to know
-u en, .^ut it was a happy day for
me when I found out old Li; ' "
name.

bumberleg'a

891

JUVENILE.

supping Beauty Do tell me about

old Lumberieg. Maybe it will drive
away my lonesomeness.

(fold Spinner. — Well, come with
me, and I will tell you all about him.
Good-bye, Little Red Riding Hood.

Sleeping Beauty. — Oh, yes, I almost
forgot you. Good-bye. Come up to
the palace some day and see me.

(Exit {R.). Sleeping Beauty and Gold
Spinner, arm in arm.y

Bed Biding Hood (calling after
them) good-bye (facing the audience). —
And now I must Lurry along. I've
Btood here so long, I'm afraid grand-
mother's soup is cold. I hope I shan't
meet any wolves to-day.

(Exit (L.).)

TABLEAUX.

YOU CANT FIND MB.

A chair with a large shawl careless-
ly arranged over it. A child's smiling
face peeping out from behind the dra-
pery, while its body is hidden. One
hand holds the drapery aside from the
face.

THE MATCH-BOY.

A small boy in ragged jacket, and
old hat pmshed back from his forehead,
holding a large package under his arm,
and some boxes of matches in his ex-
tended hand. A 1 ittle girl handsomely
dressed, with open pocket-book in
hand and a pitying look on her face is
holding a coin ready to give to the boy,

dolly's doctor
A little girl seated with a doll on
her lap. A doll's baby-coach or cra-
dle stands beside her. A boy with
high silk hat and long coat touching
the floor, with watch in one hand, is
holdinff the wrist of the doll as if feel-
ing its" pulse. A caba Stands on the
floor beside hiOi

BAISB THB «ATXS.

Two small girls with hands joined
and raised as in the game. A still
smaller child is about passing under
the "gates." His hands are clasped
behind him, and one foot is raised on
tip-toe. His back is toward the audi-
ence, and his head stretched a little
forward.

TIRED OUT.

A child asleep in a large chair. One
arm thrown over the arm of the chair ;
the other in his lap, having just loos-
ened his hold of a picture-book, which
lies open on his knee. His mouth is
a little open, and his head drooped
carelessly forward.

PUTTING THE CHILDREN TO BED.

A toy bedstead in which are placed
two or three dolls. A little girl bend-
' ing ever the bed, with her hand in po-
sition for tucking in the bed-clothes.

SUNSHINE OR SHOWER.

Three little girls with laughing fac-
es are huddled closely together under
a large dilapidated umbrella. The
umbrella, held open behind them, forma
the back-ground of the picture.

DRESSED FOR THE PARTY.

Little girl in party dress, with ian
partly open in her nand, is looking
backward over her shoulder. Little
boy, also in party dress, is holding a
bouquet toward the girl.

THE YOUNG ARTIST.

A small boy holding a large slate,
on which is partly drawn witli chalk
a ludicrous outlme of a httle girl.
Standing near the boy is a little girl
with the solemn look of importance
on her face befitting the occasion of
having her portrait made. The boy
holds his crayon on the unfinished
picture, and he is looking iuteatly a*
the girl as if studying hia sulyect.

na.

hands joined
ime. A still
)a8sing under
) are clasped
t is raised on
'aid the audi-
ched a little

;e cliair. One
, of the chair ;
ng just loos-
5-book, which
B.i3 mouth ia
lead drooped

!N TO BED.

ch are placed
ttle girl bend-
jr hand in po-
bed-clothes.

OWER.

laughing fac-
ogetner under
ibrella. The
id them, forms
picture.

PARTY.

dress, with Ian
id, ia looking
)ulder. Little
, is holding a

ITIST.

a large slate,
n with chalk
a little girl,
is a little girl
of importance
le occasion of
*de. The boy
he unfinished
ug intently at
lia 8ul](ject.

AND

399

The following series of sixteen pictures suggests a framework about j
jvhich the fancy may weave a romance, and tLe student of expression
may see an emotion carried from its incipience by a logical sequence
to its extreme. * It also shows clearly the changes of expression, ges-
ture and pose necessary in passing from the portrayal of each emotion
to the next of the series. We may imagine a woman of deep, pas-
sionate nature awaiting the coming of one beloved. Anticipation
deepens into Expectation and that into supreme Joy as she becomes
conscious of his approach. Then follows the Greeting and the Bless-
ing; after which she Invites him to remain with her, and he Hesitates.
Love is strong, and she Entreats^ while he Rejects. Stung by his
manner, she Commands obedience only to be met by his Defiance.
Upon this she angrily Accuses him, and his Guilt being < lear, in rage
she threatens him with Vengeance., while he, in Fear., slinks away.
Left alone, her first emotion is Contempt for so vile a wretch, which is
quickly followed by Horror at her discovery. Slowly it dawns upon
her that all her hopes are crushed and she is bowed with Griefs which,
deepened and intensified into Mourning., quickly leads to Despair.
Then the cords of the heart snap, the mind gives way — and Madness
ends the tragedy.

(400)

ework about |
F expression
cal sequence
ression, ges-
;ach emotion
)f deep, pas-
Anticipaiion
ihe becomes
id the Bless-
be Hesitates.
;ung by his
lis Defiance.
lear, in rage
ilinks away.
;ch, which is
dawns upon
^rief^ which,
to Despair.
md Madness

ANTICIPATION

^•

»i ii

'^1

^Bb .Lt«

H^^H^BI

IHK '

HnBf

^Hg'wff

^P-. ! 1

[ R;!^

^'-^

HIM

■HkW

"a ? " o^^^H

^Shae -'*'

'' ^^1

■WKiiil

'la'< ^' B

Hlr^

iMi'H

Ullm:

^Ifl

^tii^^flm

■HH

2:1

INVITATION AND HESITATION.

<\L 1

u
P

Q
2

ACCUSATION AND GUILT

409

3"i 4 '4
r hi

i,
'1,

:Si*;,

j«j""t 1 ail

b} \ >

Vi' ' i

410

VENGEANCE AND FEAR.

,( '

? I

■mf

■^

414

MOURNING.

&\AS

It
H<

Dc
H«

Bvi
Sea

Ne^
Ah
Qk

Vou

Jol?9 piou^I?ma9'5 Pietures,

PLAIN TALK FOR PLAIN PEOPLE

By c. h. spurgeon.

Many of th. foll<™,„g "piai. Talks," by Rev. C H. Sp„rR«m, tho™*

th.l«s appropnate for recitation at entertainments, as well
as being very interesting reading at any time.

CONTENTS.

If the cap flte. wear it

Burn a candle at both ends, and'lt will *8oi>n

be fone

Hunchback sees not his own hump, but he

sees bis neighbor's

It Is hard for an empty sack to stanlupright .
He who would please all will lose his donkey

and be laughed at for his pains

AH are not hunters that blow the horn . .
A hand-saw is a good thing, but not to shave"

with

Dont cut off your nose to spite your face . .
He has a hole under his nose, and his money

runs into it

Every man should sweep before his own door"
Scant feeding of man or horse is small profit

and sure loss

Never stop the plough to catch a mouse ,
A looking-glass is of no use to a blind mail
Great cry and little wool, as the man said who"

clipped the sow ....
He has got the fiddle, but not the stick ] ' '
you may bend the a.pling. but. not the tree .'
A asar. .„s y love hii house, ifaougU he ride not
on the ridge

PAOK

403

404
■♦OS

407
408

409
4"

41a
4»4

41S
417
418

419
430
431

?A<M

Two dogs fight for a bone, and a third runs

away with it

Great drinkers think themselvei ^r^at men ." !!J
He wou:d put his finger in the pie. so he burnt

his nail off, .

He lives under the sign of the cat's foot." '. ' !«,
You can't catch the wind in a net , . . LZ

Beware of the dog ' ' ^^

A black hen lays a white CM. '. ^

Like cat like kit • • • • • 4H

A horse which carries a halti!r'is'soi)n cim^'l ' S
An old fox is shy of a trap 7 ^

He looks one way and pulls the other! * iH

Stick to it and do it • • • 437

Dont put the cart before thehors^!.' .'!."' 1^
A leaking tap is a great waiter ....
Fools set stools for wise men to stumble ow
A man in a passion rides a hone that nun

away with him

Where the plough shall &il to go. thm die

weed* will surely gn>w ....
All is lost that is poured into a cnicked dish ."
Scatter and increau .

441
443

443

Every bird likes iu

4aa

own nest

445
44»

417

Orasp aU and lose all ....'!!!'''' ^

Ill

JOHN PLOUOHMAim PICTURSS.

1^1

ir !
Ha

J.I

I' i •

lf , 1

1
j

iffe

IF THE CAP FITS. WEAR IT.

Friendly Readers,

Last time I made a book I trod on some peo-
ple's corns and bunions, and they wrote me
angry letters, asking, "Did you mean me?"
rhis time, to save them the expense of a half-
penny card, I will begin my book by saying —

WliPthPf I please or whether I tease,

I'll Kive you my honest mtnd ;
It the cap shoiilil lit, pray wear It a bit,

I'll Kive you my honest mtnd ;
t the cap .Hlioiilil lit, pray '
If not, you cim h'ave It behind.

No offence is meant ; but if anything in these
pages should come home to a man, let him not
send it next door, but get a coop for his own
chickens. What is the use of reading or hear-
ing for other people ? We do not eat and
drink for them ; why should we lend them our
ears and not our mouths? Please then, good
frietid, if you find a hoe >n these premises,
weed your own garden with it.

I was speaking with Will Shepherd the other
day about our master's old donkey, and I said,
" He is so old and stubborn, he really is not
worth his keep." "No," said Will, "and
wor^ still, he is so vicious, that I feel sure he'll
do somebody a mischief one of these days."
You know they say that walls have ears ; we
were talking rather loud, but we did not know
that there were ears to haystacks. We stared,
I tell you, when we saw Joe Scroggs come from
behind the stack, looking as red as a turkev-
tock, and raving hke mad. He burst out
sweKTJng .-.t Wi"; and nic, like a cat tpittiiig it
a dog. His monkey was up and no mistake.
He'd let us ►. now that he was as good a man as
lither of us, ot the two put togeti er, for the

matter of that. Talking about him ii. thu
way ; he'd do — I don't know what. I toLl ol-'
Joe we had never thought of him, nor sa d i»
word about him, and he might jubtas well save
his breath to cool his porridge, for robed)
meant him any harm. This only made him
call me a liar, and roar the louder. My fiicnd.
Will, was walking away, holding his sides, hut
when he saw that Scroggs was still in a fume,
he laughed outright, and turned round on him
and said, "Why, Joe, we were talking about
master's old donkey, and not about you ; but,
upon my word, I shall never see tlu»t donkey
again without thinking of Joe Scroggs." Joe
puffed and blowed, but perhaps he thought it
an awkward job, for he hacked out of it, and
Will and I went off to our work in rather a
merry cue, for old Joe had blundered on the
truth about himself for once in his life.

The aforesaid Will Shepherd has sometimes
come down rather heavy upon. me in his re-
marks, but it has done me good. It is partly
through his home thrusts that I have come to
write this new book, for he thought I was idle ;
perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not. Will for-
gets that I have other fish to fry and tails to but-
ter ; and he does not recollect that a plough-
man's mind wants to lie fallow alittle, and can't
give a cropevery year. It is hard to make rope
wlien your hemp is all used up, or pancakes
without batter, or rook pie without the birds ;
and so I found it hard to write more when 1
had said just about all I knew. Giving much
to the poor doth increase a man's store, but it
is not the same with writing ; at least, I am
such a poor scribe that I don't find it come be-
cause I pull. If your thoughts only flow by
drops, you can't pour them out in bucketfuls.

However, Will has ferreted me out, and I am
obliged to him so far. I told him the other
day, what the winkle said to the pin : " Thank
you for drawing me out, but you are rather
sharp about it." Still, Master Will is not far
from the mark ; after three hundred thousand
people had bought my book it certainly wa»
time to write another; so, though I am not
a hatter, I will again turn cap-maker, and those
who have heads may try on my wares ; thos«
who have none won't tovi-- fhem.
So, friends,
I am. Yours, rough and ready,
John Plouchuan.

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

BURN A CANDLE AT HOTH ENDS
AND IT WILL SOON HE GONE. '

Well may he scratch his head who burns
his candle at both ends ; but. do what he may.
his hght will soon be gone, and he will be all
In the dark. Young Jack Careless squandered
his property, and now he is without a shoe to
his foot, lliii was a case of "easy come, easy
go; soon gotten, soon spent." He that earns
an estate will keep it better than he that in-
herits it. As the Scotchman says, •• He that
gets gear before he gets wit is but a short time
master of it." and so it was with Jack. His
money burnt holes in his pocket. He could
not get rid of it fast enough himself, and so he
got a pretty set to help him. which they did by
helping themselves. His fortune went like a
pound of meat in a kennel of hounds. He was
everybody's friend, and now he is everybody's
fool. '

He came in to old Alderman Greedy's money.
for he was his nephew ; but. as the old saying
IS, the fork followed the rake, the spender was
heir to the hoarder. God has been very mer-
ciful to some of us in never letting money come
rolling in upon us, for most men are carried off
their legs if they meet with a great wave of
fortune. Many of us would have beenbigger
sinners if we had been trusted with larger

J. r.„., jntk n:ui plenty 01 pence, but

little sense. Money is easier made than made
use of. What is hard to gather is easy to scat-
ter. The old gentleman had lir rd his nest well,
but Jack mad", the fvathert 5v ''ke flakei of J

snow in winter-time. He got rid of his mom y Ly
shovelfuls and then by cartloads. After -.i ciul-
ing the interest, he began swallouing ti.e capi.
tal, and so killed the goose that laid t'.e goltlen
eggs. He squandered hi* Mlvcr an«l gold, in
ways which must never bvi told. It would not
go fast enough, and so he bought race-hnrvcs to
rnn away with it. He got into the hands of
blacklegs, .-md fell into company of which we
shall say but little ; only when such madams
smde, men's purses weep: these are a well
without a bottom, and the more a fool throws
in. the more lie may. The greatest beiuty of-
ten causes the greatest ruin. I'lav, women,
and wine are enough to make a prince a
pauper.

Always taking out and never putting back
soon empties the biggest sack, and so Jack
found It ; but he took no notice till his last
shilling bade him good-bye, and then he said
he had been robbed ; like siP Tom who put
his finger in the fire and said it was his bad
luck.

His niotipy once fl,-\shP(J like dew In tha •■m .
When bill'* bec.,.,« due, „( t^The l!!!.! m",k

" Drink and let drink " was his motto ; every
day was a holiday and every holiday was a
feast. The best of wines and the dearest of
dainties suited his tooth, for he meant to lead a
pig's life, which they say is short and sweet
Truly, he went the whole hog. The old saying
is, "a glutton yoimg. a beggar old." and he
seemed set upon proving it true. A fat kitchen
makes a lean will; but he can make his will
on his finger-nail, and leave room for a dozen
co'li'ils. In fact, he never will want a will at
all, for he will leave nothing behind him but old
scores. Of all his estate there is not enough
left to bury him with. What he threw away in
his prosperity would have kept a coat on hit
back :'nd a dumpling in his pot to his life's end ;
but he never looked beyond his nose, and could
not see to the end of that. He laughed at pru-
dence, and now prudence frowns at him. Pun-
ishment is lame, but it comes at last. He pays
the cost of his folly in body and in soul, in purse
and in person, and yet he is still a fool, and
would dance to the same tune again if he had
another chance. His light purse brings him a
heavy heart, but he couldn't have his cake and
eat it too. As he that is drunk at night is dry in
th" morning, so he that lavished money when he

m-\

420

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

had it feels the want of it all the more wh^n it
is gone. His old friends have <)uite dropped
him ; they have squeezed the orange, and now
they throw away the peel. As well look for
milk from a pigeon as help from a fellow who
loved you for your beer. Pot friends will let you
go 10 pot, and kick you when you are down.

Jack has worse wants than the want of money,
for liis character is gone, and he is like a rotten,
nut, not worth the cracking : the neighbors say
he is a ne'er-do-well, not worth calling out of a
cabbage garden. Nobody will employ him, for
he would not earn his salt, and so he goes from
pillar to post, and has not a place to lay his
head in. A good name isbetterthanagirdleof
. gold, and when that is gone, what has a man
left ? •

What has he left? Nothing upon earth!
Yet the prodigal son has still a Father in
Heaven. Let him arise and go to him, ragged
as he is. He may smell of the swine-trough,
and yet he may run straight home, and he shall
not find the door locked. The great Father
will joyfully meet him, and kiss him, and
cleanse him, and clothe him, and give him to
begin a new and better life. When a sinner is
at his worst he is not too bad for the Saviour, if
he will but turn from his wickedness and cry
unto God for mercy. It's a long lane that has
no turning, but the best of all turns is to turn
unto the Lord with all your heart. This the
great Father will help the penitent prodigal to
do. If the candle has been burned all away,
the Sun in the heavens is still alight. Look, poor
profligate ; look to Jesus, and live. His salva-
tion is without money and without price.
Though you may not have a penny to bless
yourself with, the Lord Jesus will bless you
freely. The depths of your misery are not so
deep as the depth of God's mercy. If you are
faithful and just in confessing the sins you
would have forgiven, God will be faithful and
just in forgiving the sins which you confess.

But, pray, do not go on another day as you
are, for this very day may ,be your last. If you
will not heed a plain word from John Plough-
man, which he means for your good, yet recol-
lect this old-fashioned rhyme,, which was copied
from a errave-stone :

The 1ms of sold Is great,
The loss of health Is more,

But the loss uf Christ Is such a Vm
As DO man can restore.

HUNCHBACK SEES NOT HIS OWN
HUMP, BUT HE SEES HIS NEIGHBOR'S.

He points at the man in front of him, but he
is a good deal more of a guy himself. He
should not laugh at the crooked until he is
straight himself, and not then. I hate to hear
a raven croak at a crow for being black. A
blind man should not blame his brother for
squinting, and he who has lost his legs should
not sneer at the lame. Yet so it is, the rotten-
est bough cracks f.rst, and he who should be
the last to speak is the first to rail. Bespattered
hogs bespatter others, and he who is full of
fault finds fault. They are most apt to speak
ill of others who do most ill themselves.

" We're very keen our neighbors hump to see.
We're blind to that upon our buck alone ;

E'en though the lump far greater be,
It still remains to us unknown."

It does us much hurt to judge our neighbors,
because it flatters our conceit, and our pride
grows quite fast enough without our feeding.
We accuse others to excuse ourselves. We are
such fools as to dream that we are better be-
cause others are worse, and we talk as if we
could get up by pulling others down. What is
the good of spying holes in people's coats when
we can't mend them ? Talk of my debts if you
mean to pay them ; if not, keep your red rag
behind your ivory ridge. A friend's faults
should not be advertised, and even a stranger's
should not be published. He who brays at an
ass is an ass himself, and he who makes a fooi
e£another is a fool himself. Don t get into the

JOBN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

421

liabit of laughing at people, for the old saying
IS, " Hanging's stretching and mocking's catch-
ing."

Spmemust have their Joke whoever they DOke-
For the sake of fim mischief Isdone.
And to air their wit full many they Kit.

Jesting is too apt to turn into jeering, and
what was meant to ticitle makes a wound. It
is a pity when my mirth is another man's
misery. Before a man cracks a joke he should
consider how he would like it himself, for many
who give rough blows have very thin skins.
Give only what you would be willing to take :
some men throw salt on others, but they smart
if a pinch of it falls on their own raw places.
When they get a Roland for their Oliver, or a
tit for their tat, they don't like it ; yet nothing
IS more just. Biters deserve to be bitten.

We may chide a friend, and so prove our
friendship, but it must be done very daintily, or
we may lose our friend for our pains. Before
we rebuke another we must consider, and take
heed that we are not guilty of the same thing,
for he who cleanses a blot with inky fingers
makes it worse. To despise others is a worse
fault than any we are likely to see in them, and
to make merry over their weaknesses shows our
own weakness and our own malice, too. Wit
should be a shield for defence, and not a sword
for offence. A mocking word cuts worse than a
scythe, and the wound is harder to heal, A
blow is much sooner forgotten than a jeer
Mocking is shocking. Our minister says "to
laugh at infirmity or deformity is an enormity."
He is a man who ought to know a thing or two,
and he puts a matter as pat as bi-tter.

often as not they leave off being upright, and
tumble over one way or another. He that has
but four and spends five ^^ill soon need no
purse, but he wil! most likely begin to use his

a.^fMt,'.""'*' ^'* neighbor's fiallty
8«olTs at his own In more or less Aeerefi •
Much wiser he who others' lets alonef '
And tiles his hardest to correct his own."

IT IS HARD FOR AN EMPTY SACK TO
STAND UPRIGHT,

Sam may try a fine while before he will make
•ne of his empty sacks stand upright. If he
were not half daft he would have left off that
\ob before he began it, and not have been an
Irishman either. He will come to his wit's end
before he sets the sack on its end. The old
proverb, printed at the top, was made by a
man who had burnt his fingers with debtors,
and it just means that when folks have no
money and are over head and ears in debt, as

wits to keep himself afloat, and take to all sorts
of dodges to manage it.

Nine times out often they begin by making
promises to pay on a certain day when it is cer.
tarn they have nothing to pay with. They are
as bold at fixing the time as if they had my
lords income; the day comes round as
sure as Christmas, and then they haven't a
penny.piece in the worid, and so they make all
sorts of excuses and begin to promise again.
Those who are quick to promise are generally
slow to perform. They promise mountains and
perform mole-hills. He who gives you fair words
and nothing more feeds you with an empty
spoon, and hungry creditors soon grow tired of
that game. Promises don't fill the belly.
Promising men are not great favorites if ihey
are not performing men. When such a fellow
IS ca:;ed a liar he thinks he is hardly done by •
and yet he is so, as sure as eggs are eggs, and
there s no denying it, as the boy said when the
gardener caught him up the cherry-tree. Peo-
pie don't think much of a man's piety when
his promises are like pie-crust, made to be
broken ; they generally turn crusty themselves
and give him a bit of their mind. Like old
Tusser, who said of such an one :

hS'" P^Jin'se to trust to is sllniMry as Ice

His credit much like to the chance of the aice."

Creditors have better memories than debtor*
»nd when they have been taken in moi« thioi

J'1->

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

once iliey think it is time that the fox went to
the furrier, and they !iad their sliare of his skin.
Waiting for your money does not sweeten a
man's temper, and a few hes on the top of it
turn tlie milk of human kindness into sour stuff.
Here is an old-fashioned saying which a bad
pa; er may put in his pipe, and smoke or not, as
he hkes :

" He that uroinUeth till no man will trust him.
He that Kelli till no man will believe Iilni.
He that borroweMi till no man will lend him.
Let liim go where no man knoweth him."

Hungry dogs will eat dirty puddings, and peo-
ple who are hard up very often do dirty actions.
Blessed be God, there is some cloth still made
which will not shrink in the wetting, and some
honesty which holds on under misfortune ; but
too often debt is the worst kind of poverty, be-
cause it breeds deceit. Men do not like to face
their circumstances, and so they turn their backs
on the truth. They try all sorts of schemes to
get out of their difficulties, and like the Banbury
tinker, they make three holes in the saucepan
to mend one. They are like Pedley, who burnt
a penny candle in looking for a farthing. They
borrow of Peter to pay Paul, and then Peter is
let in for it. To avoid a brook they leap into a
river, for they borrow at ruinous interest to pay
off those who squeeze them tight. By ordering
goods which they cannot pay for, and selling
them for whatever they can get, they may put
off one evil day, but they only bring on another.
One trick needs another trick to back it up, and
thus they go on over shoes and then over boots.
Hoping that something will turn up, they go on
raking for the moon in a ditch, and all the luck
that conies to them is like Johnny Toy's, who
lost a shilling and found a two-penny loaf. Any
short cut tempts them out of the high road of
honesty, and they find after awhile that they
have gone miles out of their way. At last peo-
ple fight shy of them, and say that they are as
honest as a cat when the meat is out of reach,
and they murmur that plain dealing is dead,
and died without issue. Who wonders? Peo-
ple who are bitten once are in no hurry to put
their fingers into the same mouth again. You
don't trust a horse's heels ^fter it has kicked
you, nor lean on a staff which has once broken.
Too much cunning overdoes its work, and in
the long run there is no craft which is so wise
as simple honesty.
I would not be hard on a ooor fellow, nor

pour water on a drowned mouse : If through
misfortune the man can't pay, why he can't
pay, and let him say so, and do the honest
thing with what httle he has, and kind hearts
will feel for him. A wise man does at first what
a fool does at last. The worst of it is, that
debtors will hold on long after it is honest to do
so, and they try to persuade themselves that
their ship will come home, or their cats will
grow into cows. It is hard to sail over the sea
in an egg-shell, and it is not much easier to pay
your way when your capital is all gone. Out
of nothing comes nothing, and you may turn
your nothing over a long time before it will
grow into a ten-pound note. The way to Baby-
lon will never bring you to Jerusalem, and bor-
rowing and diving deeper into debt, will never
get a man out of difificulties.

The world is a ladder for some to go up and
some to go down, but there is no need to lose
your character because you lose your money.
Some people jump out of the frying-pan into the
fire ; for fear of being paupers they become
rogues. You find them slippery customers ;
you can't bind them to anything: you think you,
have got them, but you can't hold them any
longer than you can keep a cat in a wheelbar-
row. Tliey can jump over nine hedges, and
nine more after that. They always deceive you
and then plead the badness of the times, or the
sickness of their family. You cannot help them,
for there's no telling where they are. It is al-
ways best to let them come to the end of their
tether, for when they are cleaned out of their
old rubbish they may perhaps begin in a better
fashion. Ycu cannot get out of a sack what is
not in it, and when a man's purse is as bare as
the back of your hand, the longer you patch
him up the barer he will become, like Bill
Bones, who cut up his coat to patch his waist-
coat, and then used his trousers to mend his
coat, and at last had to lie in bed for want of a
rag to cover him.

Let the poor, unfortunate tradesman hold to
his honesty as he would to his life. The straight
road is the shortest cut. Better break stones on
the road than break the law of God. Faith in
God'should save a Christian man from anything
like a dirty action ; let him not even think of
playing a trick, for you cannot touch pitch with-
out bein^ defiled therewith. . Christ and a crust
is riches, but a broken character is the worst of
bankruptcy. All is not lost while uprightness

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

423

remains ; but still it is hard to makt an empty
tack stand upright. !

There are other ways of using the old saying. :
Ft is hard for a hypocrite to keep up his profcs-
sion. Empty sacks can't stand upright in a i
church any better than a granary. Prating does I
not make saints, or tliere would be plenty of
them. Some talkatives have not religion enough
to flavor soup for a sick grasshopper, and they
have to be mighty cunning to keep the game
going. Long prayers and loud professions only
deceive the si.T.ple. ;.i)d those who see further
than the surface soon spy out the wolf under the
sheepskin.

All hope of salvation by our own good works
is a foolish attempt to make an empty sack stand
uprigi.,. We are undeserving, ill-deserving,
hell-deserving sinners at the best. The law of
God must be kept without a single failure if we
hope to be accepted by ..; but there is not
:M\t among us who has lived a day without
fia. No, we are a lot of empty sacks, and un-
less the merits of Christ are put into us to fill
up, we cannot stand in the sight of God. The
law condemns us already., and to hope for sal-
vation by it is to run to the gallows to prolong
our lives. There is a full Christ for empty sin-
ners, but those who hope to fill themselves will
find their hopes fail them.

HE WHO WOULD PLEASE ALL

WILL LOSE HIS DONKEY AND BE

LAUGHED AT FOR HIS PAINS.

Here's a queer picture, and this is the story
which goes with it ; you shall have it just as I

found it in an old book. " An old man and his
young son were driving an ass before them to
the next market to sell. • Why have you no
more wit,' says one to the man upon the way,
' than you and your son to trudge it a-foot, and
let the ass go light ?' So the old man set his
son upon the ass, and footed it himself. ' Why,
sirrah,' says another after this, to the boy, • ye
lazy rogue, you, must you ride, and let your old
father go a-foot ? ' The old man upon this took
down his son, and got up himself. • Do you see,'
says a third, ' how the lazy old knave rides him-
self, and the poor young fellow has much ado
to creep after him? ' The father, upon this, took
up his son behind him. The next they met
asked the old man whether the ass was his own
or no? He said. 'Yes.' 'Troth, there's little
sign on't,* says the other, • by your loading him
thus.' 'Well,' says the old man to himself,
'and what am I to do now ? for I'm laughed at
if either the ass be empty, or if one of us rides,
or both ; ' and so he came to the conclusion to
bind the ass's legs together with a cord, and
they tried to carry him to market with a pole
upon their shoulders, betwixt them. This was
sport to everybody that saw it, inasmuch that the
old man in great wrath threw down the assinto,
the river, and so went his way home again. The
good man, in fine, was willing to please every-
body, but had the ill-fortune to please nobody,
and lost his ass into the bargain."

He who will not go to bed till he pleases
everybody will have to sit up a great, maoy
nights. Many men, many minds ; many
women, many whims ; and so if we please one.
we are sure to set another grumbling. We had
better wait till they are all of one mind before
we mind them, or we shall be like the man who >
hunted many hares at once and caught none.
Besides, the fancies of men alter, and folly is
never long pleased with the same thing, but
changes its palate, and grows sick of what it
doted on. Will Shepherd says he on:e tried to
serve two masters, but. sp.ys he, " I soon had.
enough of it, and I declare that, if I was par-
doned this once, the next time they caught me
at it they might pickle me in salt and souse me
in boiling vinegar."

" He who would goncral favor win
And nnt himself offend,
T(MJay the task he may begin,
He'll never, never end."

If we dance to every fiddle we shall sooc U

424

JOBN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURBS.

lame in both legs. Good nature may be a great
misfortune if we do not mix prudence with it.

He that all men would ilease
Hlmll never Hnd ease.'

It is right tc be obliging, but we are not obliged
to be ever man's lackey. Put your hand
quickly to ;, our hat, for that is courtesy ; but
don't bow your head at every man's bidding,
for that is slavery. He who hopes to please all
should first fit the moon with a suit of clothes,,
or fill a bottomless barrel with buckets
with their hoops off. To live upon the praises
of others is to feed on the air ; for what is
praise but the breath of men's nostrils? That's
poor stuff to make a dinner of. To sel traps
for claps, and to faint if you don't get them, is
a childish thing ; and to change your coat to
please new company is as mean as dirt. Change
for the better as often as you like, but mind it
is better before you change. Tom of Bedlam
never did a madder thing than he who tried to
to please a thousand masters at once ; one is
quite enough. If a man pleases God he may
let the world wag its own way, and frown or
flatter, as the maggot bites. What is there,
after all, to frighten a man in a fool's grin, or in
the frown of a poor mortal like yourself? If
it mattered at all what the world says of us,
it would be some comfort that when a good man
is buried people say, •• He was not a bad fel-
low after all." When the cow is dead we hear
how much milk she gave. When the man's
gone to heaven folks know their loss, and won-
der how it was they did not treat him better.

ALT. ARE NOT HUN1£RS THAT BLOW
THE HORN.

He does not look much like a hunter ! Nim-
rod would never own him. But how he blows !
Goodness, gracious, what a row ! as the linnet
said when he heard a donkey singing his even-
ing hymn. There's more goes to ploughing than
knowing how to whistle, and hunting is not all
tally-ho and horn-blowing. Appearances are
deceitfuL Outward show is not everything.
All are not butchers that carry a steel, and all
are not bishops that wear aprons. You must
not buy goods by the label ; for I have heard
that the finer the trade-mark the worse the
-. article. Never have we seen more horn or less

7:u.!!"'Ju! _? ;-!"J?_T*'M' J^ard, but blessed j hunter than in our picture. Blow away, my

are they who please God. He is not a free man
who is afraid to think for himself, for if bis
thoughts are in bonds the man is not free. A
man of God is a manly man. A true man does
what he thinks to be right, whether the pigs
grunt or the dogs howl. Are you afraid to fol-
low out your conscience because Tom, Jack, and
Harry, or Mary Ann and Betsy, would laugh
at you? Then you are not the seventy-fifth
cousin to John Ploughman, who goes on his way
whistling merrily, though many find fault with
himself, and his plough, and his horses, and his
harness, and his boots, and his coat, and his
waistcoat, and his hat, ai\d his head, and
every hair on it. John says it amuses them
and doesn t hurt him ; but depend on it you
will never catch John or his boys carrying the
4Mkty.

hearty, till your toes look out of your boots ;
there's no fear of your killing either fox or
stag!

Now, the more people blow, the more they
may, but he is a fool who believes all they say.
As a rule, the smallest boy carries the biggest
fiddle, and he who makes most boast has least
roast. He who has least wisdom has most
vanity. John Lackland is wonderfully fond of
being called i;.squire, and there's none so
pleased at being dubbed a doctor as the man
who least deserves it. Many a D.D. is fiddle-
dee-dee. I have heard say, '< Always talk big
and somebody will think you great," but my
old friend Will Shepherd says, "Save your
wind for running up a hill, and don't give us
big words off a weak stomach. Look," said
. Jhe once to me. •• There's Solomon Braj^gshold-

JOHN PLQUGHMAUrs PICTURES.

42S

RS THAT BLOW

ce a hunter ! Nim-
But how he blows !
row ! as the linnet
y singing his even-
5 to ploughing than
i hunting is not all
Appearances are
s not everything,
rry a steel, and all
iprons. You must
; for I have heard
irk the worse the
1 more horn or less
Blow away, my
>ut of your boots ;
ling either fox or

ow, the more they
lieves all they say.
carries the biggest
}st boast has least
wisdom has most
onderfuliy fond of
I there's none so
doctor as the man
f aD.D. isfiddle-
" Always talk big
u great," but my
ays, "Save your
and don't give us
ich. Look," said
men Bra{;gs hold-

ing up his head like a hen drinking water, but
there's nothing in it. With him it's much din
and little do.ie."

" TiL"." "pepiilatloiis the market holds forth,
file |)i-sf. hat I know for a h)ver of pelf.
Were to buy up this Braggs at the price he Is

And sell lilm-«t that which he sets on himself."

Before honor is humility, but a prating fool
shall fall, and when he falls very few will be in
a hurry to pick him up.

A long tongue generally goes with a
short hand. We are niost of us better at saying
than doing. We can all tattle away from the
battle, but many fly when the battle is nigh, j
Some are all sound and fury, and when they !
have bragged their brag, all is over, and amen. |
The fat Dutchman was the wisest pilot in |
Flushing, only he never went to sea ; and the '
Irishman was the finest rider in Connaught, |
only he would never trust himself on a horse,
because, as he said, " he generally fell off be-
fore he got on." A bachelor's wife is always
well managed, and old maids always bring tip
their children in fine style. We tiiink we can
do what we are not called to, and if by chance
the thing falls to our lot we do worse than those
we blamed. Hence it is wise to be slow in fore-
telling what we will do, for—

" J.'IH* "?'*'' "•« proverb of the wise.
Who boasteth least tells fewest lies.' "

There is another old rhyme which is as full
of reason as a pod is full of peas,

" Little money is soonest suended :
Fewest words are soonest mended."

Of course, every potter praises his own pot,
and we can all toot a little on our own trumpet,
but some blow as if nobody ever had a horn
but themselves. "After me the flood," says
the mighty big man, and whether it be so or no
we have floods enough while he lives. I mean
floods of words, words, words, enough to drown
all your senses. O that the man had a mouth
big enough to say all he has to say at one go,
and have done with it : but then one had need
get to the other end of the world till his talk
h.<jd run itSvJf dry. O for a quiet hay-loft, or a
saw pit, or a dungeon, where the sound of the
jawbone would no more be heard. They say
a brain is worth little if you have not a tongue :

but what is a tongue worth without a brain?
Bellowing is all very well, but the cow for me
is that which fills the pail. A braying ass eats
little hay, and that's a saving in fodder ; but a
; barking dog catches no game, and that's a loss
to the owner. Noise is no profit, and talk
hinders work.

When a man's song is in his praise, let the
hymn be short metre, and let the tune be in the
minor key. He who talks for ever about
himself has a foolish subject, and is likely to
j worry and weary all around him. Good
I wine needs no bush, and a man who can do
well seldom boasts about it. The emptiest tub
makes the loudest noise. Those who give
themselves out to be fine shots kill very few
birds, and many a crack ploughman does a
shorter day's work than plain John, though he
is nothing off" the common ; and so, on the
whole, it is pretty clear that the best huntsmen
are not those who are for everlastingly blowing
the horn.

A HANDSAW IS A GOOD THING, BUT
NOT TO SHAVE WITH.

Our friend will cut more than he will eat,
and shave off something more than hair, and
then he will blame the saw. His brains don't
lie in his beard, nor yet in the skull above it, or
he would see that his saw will only make sores,
riiere's sense in choosing your tools, for a pig's
tail will never make a good arrow, nor willhis
ear make a silk purse. You can't catch rabbits
with drums, nor pigeons vith pluDis. A good

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

imi''

titing is not good out of its place. It is much
tiie same with lads and girls ; you can't put all
boys to one trade, nor send all girls to the same
service. One chap will make a London clerk,
and another will do better to plough, and sow,
and reap, and mow, and be a farmer's boy. It's
no use forcing them ; a snail will never run a
a race, nor a mouse drive a wagon.

" Send a boy to the well asuinsthis will.
The pitcher will break and the water spill."

With unwilling hounds it is hard to hunt hares.
To go against nature and .nclination is to row
against wind and tide. They say yci may praise
a fool till you make him useful : I don't know
so much about that, but I do know that if I get
a bad knife I generally cut my finger, and a
blunt axe is more trouble than profit. No, let
me shave with a razor if I shave at all, and do
my work with the best tools I can get.

Never set a man to work he is not fit for, for
he will never do it well. They say that if pigs
fly they always go with their tails forward, and
awkward workmen are much the same. Nobody
expects cows to catch crows, or hens to wear
bats. There's reason in roasting eggs, and there
should be reason in choosing servants. Don't
put a round peg into asquare hole, nor wind up
your watch with a corkscrew, nor set a tender-
hearted man to whip wife-beaters, nor a bear
to be a relieving-officer.nor a publican to judge
of the licensing laws. Get the right man in the
right place, and then all goes as smooth as
skates on ice ; but the wrong man puts all awry
as the sow did when she folded the hnen.

It is a temptation to many to trust ihem with
money : don't put them to take care of it if you
ever wish to see it again. Never set a cat to
watch cream, nor a pig to gather peaches, for
if the cream and the peaches go a-missing you
will have yourself to thank for it. It is a sin to
put people where they are likely to sin. If you
believe the old saying, that when you set a beg-
gar on horseback he will ride to the devil, don't
let him have a horse of yours.

If you want a thing well done do it yourself,
»nd pick your tools. It is true that a man must
row with such oars as he has, but he should not
use the boat-hook for a paddle. Take not the
tongs td poke the fire, nor the poker to put on
the coals. A newspaper on Sunday is as much
out of place as a warming-pan on the first of

August, or a fan on a snowy day : the Bible suits
the Sabbath a deal better.

He who tries to make money by betting uses
a wrong tool, and is sure to cut his fingers. As
well hope to grow golden pippins on the bottom
of the sea as to make gain among gamblers il
you are an honest man. Hard work and thrifty
habits are the right razor, gambling is a hand-
saw.

Seme things want doing gently, and telling a
man of his faults is one of them. You would
not fetch a hatchet to break open an egg, nor
kill a fly on your boy's forehead with a sledge-
hammer, and so you must not try to mend your
neighbor's little fault by blowing him up sky-
high. Never fire off a musket to kill a midge,
and don't raise a hue and cry about the half of
nothing. ^

Do not throw away a saw because it is not a
razor, for it will serve your turn another day,
and cut your ham-bone if it wont shave off'y our
stubble. A whetstone, though it cannot cut,
may sharpen a knife that will. A match giv-!s
little light itself, but it may light a candle to
brighten uf the room. Use each thing and
each man according to common sense and you
will be uncommonly sensible. You don't milk
horses nor ride cows, and by the same rule you
must make of every man what he is meant for,
and the farm will be as right as a trivet.

Everything has its use, but no one thing is
good for all purposes. The baby said, "The
cat crew and the cock rocked the cradle,"
but old folks knew better: the cat is best at
mousing and the cock at rousing. That's for
that, as salt is for herrings, and sugar for goose-
berries, and Nan for Nicholas. Don't choose
your tools by their looks, for that's best which
does best, A silver trowel lays very few bricks.
You cannot curry a horse with a tortoise-shell
comb, or fell oaks with a pen-knife, or open
oysters with a gold tooth-pick. Fine is not so
good as fit when work is to be done. A good
workman will get on pretty well with a poor
tool, and a brave soldier never lacks a weapon :
still, the best is good enough for me, and John
Ploughman does not care to use a clumsy tool
because it looks pretty. Better ride on an ass
that carries you than on a steed which throws
you ; it is far better to work with an old-fash-
ioned spade which suits your hand than with a
new-fangled invention you don't understand.

t.r

day : the Bible suits

ley by betting uses
cut his fingers. As
ppins on the bottom
among gamblers it
ltd work and thrifty
;ambling is a hand-

ently. and teUing a
them. You would
k open an egg, nor
head with a sledge-
lot try to mend your
lowing him up sky-
iket to kill a midge,
ry about the half of

iT because it is not a
turn another day,
wont shave offyour
jugh it cannot cut,
ill. A match giv-^s
Y light a candle to
se each thing and
imon sense and you
ie. You don't milk
y the same rule you
hat he is meant for,
it as a trivet.
3Ut no one thing is
le baby said, "The
jcked the cradle,"
: the cat is best at
rousing. That's for
ind sugar for goose-
ilas. Don't choose
for that's best which
lays very few bricks,
with a tortoise-shell
pen-knife, or open
ick. J^t'ne is not so
o be done. A good
ty well with a poor
ver lacks a weapon :
gh for me, and John
to use a clumsy tool
Jetter ride on an ass
L steed which throws
>rk with an old-fash-
ur hand than with a
don't understand.

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

427

In trying to do good to your fellow-men the
gospel is out of sight the best instrument to
work with. The new doctrine which they call
"modern thought" is nothing better than a
handsaw, and it won't work a bit. This fine
new nothing of a gospel would not save a
mouse, nor move the soul of a tom-tit ; but the
glorious gospel of Jesus Christ is suited to
man's need, and by God's grace does its work
famously. Let every preacher and teacher
keep to it. for they will never find abetter.
Try to win men with its loving words and
precious promises, and there's no fear of labor
in vain. Some praise the balm of Gilead,-or
man's morality ; many try the Roman salve, or
the oil of Babylon ; and others use a cunning
ointment mixed by learned philosophers ; but
for his own soul's wounds, and for the hurts of
others. John Ploughman knows but one cure,
and that is given gratis by the good Physician
to all who ask for it. A humble faith in Clirist
Jesus will soon b ing you tliis sovereign remedy.
Use no other, foi no other is of use.

DON'T CUT OFF YOUR NOSE TO SPITE
YOUR FACE.

Anger is a short madness. The less we do
when we go mad the better for everybody, and
the less we go mad the better for ourselves. He
is far gone who hurts himself to wreak his
vengeance on others. The old saying is
' Don't cut off your head because it ach'es,"
.- nd another say-. - Set not your house on fire
t' spite the moon." If tWngs go awry, it is a

i poor way of mending to make them wcise. as

the man did who took to drinking beciuibe he

could not marry the girl he liked. He must be

a fool who cuts off his nose to spite .lis face.

and yet this is what Dick did when he hac'

vexed his old master, and because he w as cliit

must needs give up his place, throw himself

out of work, and starve his wife and family.

Jane had been idle, and she knew it, but

sooner than let her mistress speak to her. she

gave warning, and lost as good a service as a

maid could wish for. Old Griggs «as wrong

and could not deny it, and yet because the

parson's sermon fitted him ratherclose, he took

the sulks and vowed he would never he.-.r the

good man again. It was his own loss, but he

wouldn't listen to reason, but was as wilful as a

P'g-

Do nothing when you are out of temper, and
then you will have tlie liss to undo. Let a
hasty man's passion be a warning to you ; if he
scalds you. take heed tl.r.t you do not let your
own pot boil over. Many a man has given
himself a box on the ear in his blind rage, ay,
and ended his own Hfe out of spite. He who
cannot curb his temper carries gunpowder
in his bosom, and he is neither safe for himself
nor his neighbors. When passion comes in at
the door, what little sense there is indoors flies
out at the window. By-and-by a hasty man
cools and comes to himself, like MacGibbon's
gruel when he put it out of the window, but if
his nose is off in the meantime, who is to put it
on again ? He will only be ^orry once and
that will be all the rest of his life Anger does
a man more hurt than that which made him
angry. It opens his mouth and shuts his eyes,
and fires his heart, and drowns his sense, and
makes his wisdom folly. Old Tompkins told
me that he was sorry that he lost his temper,
and I could not help thinking that the pity was
that he ever found it again, forit waslike anold
shoe with the sole gone and the upper leathers
worn out, only fit for a dunghill. A hot tem-
pered man would be all the better for a new
heart, and a right spirit. Anger is a fire which
tooks no victuals, and comforts no household :
it cuts and curses and kills, and no one knows
••ihat it niay lead to ; therefore, good reader,
don't let it lodge in your bosom, and if it ever
comes there, pass the vagrant on to the next
pkvish.

428

JOHN PLOUOIJMAN'S PICTURES.

.■\ h

^^H' ^

^^^^^H '1^

■■an

^^■iM

^WtjK? '?^T'.* " ■ i "(^IJ

^^^^H iHi

9^ Eti. 1'^ Ms'

guntly, ijently. little pot,

Why HO Rasty to be hot T

Over yoii will Huwily boll, \

And 1 know not what you'll spoil.

The old gent in our picture has a fine nose
of his own. and though he will be a fool to
cut it off, he would be wise to cut off the sup-
plies which have made it such a size. That
glass and jug on the table are the paint-pots
that he colors his nose with, and everybody
knows, whether he knows it or knows it not, that
his nose is the outward and visible sign of a
good deal of inward and spirituous drink, and
the sooner he drops his drops the better. So
here we will cut off, not our nose, but tht
present subject.

HE HAS A HOLE UNDER HIS NOSE
AND HIS MONEY RUNS INTO IT.

This is the man who is always dry, because
he takes so much heavy wet. He is a loose
fellow who is foi of getting tight. He is no
sooner up than his nose is in the cup, and his
money begins to run down the hole which is
just under his nose. He is not a blacksmith,
but he has a spark in his throat, and all the
publican's barrels can't put it out. If a pot
of beer is a yard of land, he must have swal-
lowed more acres than a ploughman could get
over for many a day, and still he goes on
swallowing until he takes to wallowing. All i
goes down Gutter Lane. Like the snipe, he i
lives by suction. If you ask him how he is, he
says he would be quite right if he could moisten
his mouth. His purse is a bottle, bis bank is

the publican's till, and his casket is a cask :
pewter is his precious metal, and his pearl • is
a mixture of gin and beer. The dew of his
youth comes from Ben Nevis, and the comfort
of his soul is cordial gin. He is a walking bar-
rel, a living drain-pipe, a moving swiil-tub.
They say " loth to drink and loth to leave off,"
but he never needs persuading to begin, and
as to ending— that is out of the question while
he can borrow two-pence. This is the gentle-,
man who sings —

J'e that buys land buys many stones,
He that buys meat bnys many bones,
He that buys eggs buys many shells.
He that buys good ale buys nothing else.

He will never be hanged for leaving his drink
behind him. He drinks in season and cut of
season : in summer because he is hot, and
in winter because he is cold. A drop
of beer nev- r comes too soon, and he would
get up in the middle of the night for more,
only he goes to bed too tipsy. He has heard
that if you get wet-footed a glass of whisky in
yoKir boots will keep you from catching cold,
and he argues that the best way to get one
glass of the spirit into each boot is to put two
dos(°s where it will run into your legs. He is
never long without an excuse for another pot,
or if perchance he does not make one, another
lushington helps him.

Some drink when friends step in,
And some when they step out:
Soine drink because they^re thk.
And some because they're stout.

Some drink because 'tis wet.
And some because 'tis dry;
Some drink another glass
To wet the other eye.

Water is thisgentleman's abhorrence, whether
used inside or out, but most of all he dreads it
taken inwardly, except with spirits, and then
the less the better. He says that the pump
would kill him. but he never gives it a chance.
He laps his liquor, and licks his chaps, but he
will never die through the badness of the water
from the well. It is a pity that he does not
run the risk. Drinking cold water neither
makes a man sick, nor in debt, nor his wife a
widow, but this mighty fine ale of his will do all
this for hiiu, make him worse than a beast
while he lives, and wash him away to his grave

• PurL

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

before hiB time. The old Scotchman said.
•• Death and drink-draining are near neigh-
bors, and he spoke the truth. They say that
drunkenness makes some men fools, some
beasts, and some devils, but according to my
mmd It makes all men fools whatever else it
does. Yet when a man is as drunk as a rat he
sets up to be a judge, and mocks at sober peo-
ple. Certain neighbors of mine laugh at me
for being a teetotaller, and I might well laugh
at them for being drunk, only I feel more in-
clmed to cry that they should be such fools.
O that we could get them sober, and then per-
haps we might make men of them. You can-
not do much with these fellows, unless you can
enhst them in the Coldstream guards.

429

He that any good would win
At Ills mouth must first beglu.

As long as drink drowns conscience and rea-
son, you might as well talk to the hogs The
rascals will promise fair and take the pledge
and ..len take their coats to pledge to get more
beer. We smile at a tipsy man. for he is a
ndiculous creature, but when we see how he is
ruined body and soul i^ is no joking matter.
How solemn is the .ruth that "No drunkard
shall inherit eternal i.fe."

There's nothing too bad for a man to say or
do when he is half-seas over. It is a pity that
any decent body should go near such a com-
mon sewer. If he does not fall into the worst
of crimes it certainly is not his fault, for he has
made himself ready for anything the devil likes
to put into his mind. He does least hurt when
he begins to be topheavy. and to reel about •
then he becomes a blind man with good eyes
m his head, and a cripple with legs on. He
sees two moons, and two doors to the public-
house, and tries to find his way through both
the doors at once. Over he goes, and there he
must he unless somebody will wheel him home
m a barrow or carry him to the police-station.

Solomon says the glutton and the drunkard
shall come to poverty, and that the drinker
does in no time. He gets more and more down
at the heel, and as his nose gets redder and his
body is more swollen he gets to be more of a
ihack and more of a shsrk. His trade is gone,
and his credit has run out. but he still manages
to get his beer. He treats an old friend to a
pot, and then finds that he has left his purse at

home, and of course the old friend must |.ay
the shot. He borrows till no one will lend him
a groat, unless it is to get off lending a shilling
Shame has long since left him. though all who
know him are ashamed of him. His talk runs
hke the tap, and is full of stale dregs : he is
very kind over his beer, and swears he loves
yon, and would like to drink your health, .nd
ove you again. Poor sot. much good will his
blessing do to any one who gets it ; his poor
wife and family have had too much of it al-
ready, and quake at the very sound of his
voice.

Now. if we try to do anything to shut up a
booEing-house. or shorten the hours for gu.zling
we are called all sorts of bad names, and the
w.ndup of it all is-.. IVhat ! Nob a poor man
of his becrf" The fact is that they rob the
poor man by his beer. The ale-jug robs the
cupboard and the table, starves the wife and
strips the children ; it is a great thief, house-
breaker, and heartbreaker. and the best possi-
ble thing is to break it to pieces, or keep if on
the shelf bottom upwards. In a newspaper
which was lent me the other dav 1 saw some
verses by John Barleycorn, jun.,'and as tney
tickled my fancy I copied them out, and here
they are.

i Sy '■"'' ?.l>o"r man of Ins ijeer.
Or at least you are soft In the head.

What! rob a poor man of his mue.

wi? irF.n'if ''"" » ''""SB of his OWl J
With kitchen and parlor sosiiukI
Tl8 enough to draw tears from a stone.

''^Ji^V/"'' .*!'."<"■ "">" o' Ills glasK.

And teach him to read and to write I
What! siiye him from beinit ;im ass'

'TIS nothing but malice and spite.

What! rob a poor man of his ale.
And prevent :ilm from beatlne hfs wifa.

^Prom being locked up in jail. * *"••
with penal employment for life I

What I rob a poor man of his beer,
it^,!,"**^'' •'l'" f«'""' s'arviiip his child!
And I'll thank you to draw it more ralld.

Having given you a song. I now hand you a
handbill to stick up in the " Rose and Crow- "
window, if the landlord wants an advertise-
ment. It was written many years ago. but it is
quite as good as new. Any beer-seller may
print It who thinks it likely to help his trade.

480 JOHN PLOUOHMAN'S PICTURES.

DRUNKARDS. READ THIS I

DRUNKENNESS

EXPELS REASON,
DISTEMPERS THE BODY.

DIMINISHES STRENGTH,
INFLAMES THE BLOOD,

flNTBRNAL 1

CAUSES 4 ^VkTaI'' f WOUNDS;

LlNCUlU 'JLBJ

A WITCH TO THE SENSES,

A DEMON TO THE SOUL,

A THIEF TO THE PURSE,

A GUIDE TO BEGGABY, LECHERY, A VILLAINY.

IT IS

THE WIFE'S WOE. and

THE CHILDREN'S SORROW.

MAKES A MAN

WALLOW WORSE THAN A BEAST, AND
ACT LIKE A FOOL.

n't J

HE IS

A SELF-MURDERER ;

WHO DRINKS TO ANOTHER'S GOOD HEALTH.

AND

ROBS HIMSELF OF HIS OWN.

EVERY MAN SHOULD SWEEP IJEFORE
HIS OWN DOOR.

He is a wise man who has wit enough for his
own affairs. It is a common thing for people
to mind Number One, but not so common to
see people mend it. When it comes to spend-
ing money on labor or improvements, they
think that repairs should begin at Number 3,
and Number 3, and go on till all the houses
up to Number 50 are touched up before any
hint should be given to Number One. Now,
this is very stupid, for if charity should begin
at home, certainly reformation should begin
there too. It is a waste of time to go far away
to make aclearance, there's nothing like sweep-
ing the snow from your own door. Let every
dog carry his own tail. Mind your own busi-
ness, and mend your own manners, and if
every man does the same all will be minded
and mended, as the old song says :

" Should every man dpfend Ills house,
Then all would be defended ;
If every man would mend a man,
Then all mankind weie niemled."

A man who does not look well to his own con-
cerns is not fit to be trusted with other people's.
Lots of folks are so busy abroad that they have
no time to look at home. They say the cob-
bler's wife goes barefoot, and the baker's child
gets no buns, and the sweep's house has sooty
chimneys. This comes of a man's thinking
that he is everybody except himself. .^1! the
wit in the world is not in one head, and there-
fore the wisest man living is not bound to look
afur all his neighbors' matters. There "^

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

wonderful people about whose wisdom would
beat Solomon into fits ; and yet they have not
sense enough to keep their own kettle from
boihng over. They could manage the nation,
•nd yet cant keep their boys out of the
farmers orchard; they could teach the parson,
but they can't learn the.niselves. They poke
ilxir noses into other people s concerns, where
tliev are as welcome as water in one's shoes,
but as for setting tlicir own house to rights.'
tliey like the job about as m-rh as a pig hkes
having a ring put in his now:. The meddle-
some man will not begin to darn his own stock-
ings because he lias left his needle sticking in
his cousin's socks : he will be as grey as gran-
num's cat before he improves, and yet he struts
hke a crow in a gutter, and thinks himself cock
of the walk.

A man's own selfishness and conceit ought
to make him see to his own ways if nothinjr
else does.

411

" ^v''.".rMnr»IlH"I», **'?'?• »"«' *•«««»» them out
Hm gam to 1,1. c.ma.M t.^mrS in'^Xiit-.

TJiere s but one wise man in the world.
.-.^".^ .W'o <J ye think It t)eT *

TIs tills man, that man, t'other man.
Every man thinks 'tis he. '

Now. if this be so. why does not this wise man
do the wise thing and set his own wise self in
the way of growing wiser ? Every cat cleans
Its own fur, and licks its own kittens : when
will men and women mind their own minds,
and busy themselves with their own business.'
Boil your own potatoes, and let me roast mine
if I like; I won't do it with your firing.
"Every man to his tent" was the old cry in
Israel, and it's not a bad one for England, only
Nelson gave us a better-- England expects I
every man to do his duty."

SCANT FEEDING OF MAN OR HORSE
IS SMALL PROFIT AND SURE LOSS.

What is saved out of the food of cattle is a
dead loss, for a horse can't work if he is not
fed.^ If an animal won't pay for keeping he
won't pay for starving. Even the land yields
little if it is not nourished, and it is just the same
with the poor beast. You might as well try to
run a steam-engine without coals, or drive a
-iter-miii without waicr, as work a horse with-
out putting corn into him. Thomas Tusser.
WHO wrote a book upon " Husbandry" in the
olden time, said.

Poor dumb animals cannot speak for them-
selves, and therefore every one who has his
speech should plead for them. To keep them
short of victuals is a crying shame. The one
in our picture seems to be thoroughly broken
in : look at his knees ! His owner ought to be
flogged at the cart tail. I hate cruelty, and
above all things the cruelty which starves the
laboring beast.

A rlKht RiifMl man M good to all.
And stints not table, rack or stall j

But kindly thinks of cat and dog.

Is not a man better than a beast ? Then, de-
pend upon it. what is good for the ploughing
horse is good for the ploughing boy : a belly
full of plain food is a wonderful help to a labor-
ing man. A starving workman is a dear serv.
ant. If you don't pay your men. they pay
themselves, or else they shirk their work. He
who labors well should be fed well, especially
a ploughman.

" If t such have enow
lUat follow the plough."

There would be no bread if it were not for the
ploughman : would you starve the man who is
the very bottom and beginning of everything .'
John never brags, but he thinks well of his
calling, and thinks well of those who "..-.v -j^^W
as for th.se who grind the faces of 'the poor,
the more John thinks of them the less he thinks
of them. A man may live upon little, but
Famwr Gripper thinks we can live upon notb.

JOnUr PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURBa.

«, 1

■i:

Mi, winch U a horse of another color. I can't
make out why the land cannot afford to Veep
those who work on it, for it used to do so.
'lorn Tusier wrote three hundred years ago,

0(«m| plouKhmen look weekly, of ouatnm aiuI right,
V»v loam inenton Hiutilays mil TliurHdHyt at iilulit.
I liitH uoliiK and k<;e|)lnK xucli imtoiii aiKl uiilNe
liii-y cull llu-e |{(MMl liUHWlte, liicj love you likewise."

Thil is what he writes to the farmer's wife
about the ploughmen who hved at the farm
house, but he has a bit to say for the other fel-
lows and their privileges. About the harvest
supper he says,

iii

" i? h»,7ert time, harvest folk, servanU, and all.
WioiiM make altogether good cheer In the hall."

I wish they would, but then they are so apt to
drink. Could we not have a feast without the
beer and the headaches? This is old Tom's
writing about the harvest supper, and so on,—

' JEVi''.*'.' "■'* ""^'^ feasting, yet art thou not loose.
Tit plouKliiiian thou givest hU harveNi home goose.
Tliougli goose go III stubble, 1 paHs not foi- that.
Lei Olles have a goose, l>« she lean, be sliu fat.''

I fancy I see old Gripper giving Giles a
goose : he would think Giles a green goose if
he were to hint at it. Gripper is a close
shaver ; where he grazes no goose could pick
up a living after him. He does not know what
his lean laborers say of him, but he might
guess, for a hungry man is an angry man, and
an empty belly makes no compliments. As for
lazy fellows who will eat till they sweat and
work till they freeze, I don't mind what short
commons they get ; but a real hard-working
man ought to be able to get for a day's work
enough to keep himself and family from hun-
ger. If this cannot be done, something is
wrong somewhere, as the man said when he
sat down on a setting of eggs. I am not going
to blame the farmers, or the landlords, or the
Parliament men, or anybody ; but the land is
good, and yields plenty for man and beast, and
neither horse nor man should be starved.

There is no gain in being niggardly to your
cattle. I have known men buy old screws of
horses and feed them badly, and yet pay more
in the long run for ploughing than the owner
of a good team who gave out a fair allowance.
Tiic poor things can't work if they don't eat.
As I said before, I speak up for the horses
because they can't speak for themselves. All,

they can say, however, goes to prove what I
have written : ask them if they can plough well
when they get bad corn, and little of it, and
they answer with a neigh.

As for the men, I wish they were, all round,
a more deserving set, but I am obliged to own
that a many are better at grubbing than
ploughing. I would say to them, •• Do good
work, aad then ask for good wages. " I am
afraid that many are not worth more than they
get. Our old muter used to say to Crawley
Jones —

" You feed so fast, and walk so very slow—
Kat with your leg-*, and with your grinders go "

But then, if Jones was a slow man, he certainly
had slow pay. V did not see the fun of work-
ing to the tune oi twenty shillings when he had
only ten. If he had done more master would
have given him more, but Jones couldn't see
that, and so he mouched about, doing next to
nothing, and got next to nothing for it. He
very seldom got a bit of meat, and there was
no bone or muscle in the man. He seemed to
be fed on turnip-tops, and was as dull as a
dormouse in winter time, and unless you had
emptied a skip of bees over him you couldn't
have woke him up. They say that Johnny
Raw is a stupid ; he would not be half so
stupid if he had more raw to put in his pot.

Though Iubt>ers might loiter with belly too full.
We're not In that. case, but our belts we must pull;
Could we inaiiHge to get a lit lie more meat,
We could do twice as niuub, and think It no feat.

They call a ploughman Chaw-bacon, do they ?
Wouldn't he like a bit more bacon to chaw?
Hundreds and thousands of hard-working men
down in the shires hardly get enough fat to
grease the wheels of life, and the more's the
pity. As to the poor women and children, it is
often short-cake with them: bread, and pull it,
and little of that.

One thing, however, is as plain as a pike-
staff: the laborer cannot affovd to keep a pub-
lic house going while he has so little for his own
private house. He has not a penny to spare,
I'm sure, but had need to take all home to the
missus that he can make by hook or by crooK.
Misi Hannah More wrote two verses which
every ploughman should read, and niarlc, and
learn.

8 '

"We »ay the time* tre grlevoiii h>rrf
AlKf liHHl ||,..y ,,n Vu I Zt"*™'
But. ilrliikeis, to your Ul JpI^ . i k k
■ri..yr.. Imrder umVb'y you ' "•**••

Mk« Bvery oIImi ,.im7 '"'P'**'.

'''"'"'""ItoK-tlierccwt
Nut halt (u inucli lu glu."

Well, if after all our being sober and thrifty
we cannot get along without pinching, let u'»

blessings than we can count even now If
msters happen to be close-fisted. God is open-

S of H "' °'''''"' '°°^ be.cant.'^he
bread of heaven is plcr,ift,i. Cheer uo
brother ploughman, i- ,.,, , ^^o
There ,s a cty where .-the ve.v streets are

paved with gold exce.. din. clear, rL"-
Th.s should make u, .-rl 'ke «!,, ng alllhe

SoU-'"''"'"'""-^'-^^^^-:';!^

JOJfy PLOUOffMAN'S PICTUHKS.

•11 their wits, and they leave it to «. abbte
over some pretty nothing, not worth a fig old
master Tom would say to them—

No more tittle tattle, go o,i with your eattU).

He could not bear for a farmer to let hi, horset
o.-t for carting even, because it to„k their work

-ay from the farm, and so I am stuc he would
be "a great stew if he saw farmers wasting
»he.r tunc at matc'hes, and hunts, and the lik..
Me says —

"Who stncket ti htfi tlllairp n onrf.r f^ k-

''^^ste^er«!;sa,r«-b.fj.Y..

'^hi?^^fTJ^^^^crl\

NEVER STOP THE PLOUGH TO CATCH
A MUUSE.

There's not much profit in this game
Thmk of a man and a boy and four horses all
3tandmg st.ll for the sake of a mouse ! What
-uld old friend Tusser say to that? I think
he would rhyme in this fashion-

A plouahman i1n<«rvA»;. . «..> _• ,j. . .

It r... uiiB pretence helitVhe'hours sUp!''

Heaps of people act like the man in our picture.
Ihey have a great work in hand which wants

The main chance must be mmded. and the Ht-
le thmgs must be borne with. Nobodv would

burn lus house down to kill the blockbeetles.
and .t would never answer to kill the bullocki
to reed the cats. If our baker left off maJ^nL
bread for a week while he cracked the codj
oaches what should we all do for breakfast ?

i i II J^ T^i" '°''* "" """^^ •""' till he had
! kdled all the blo« -flies, we should be ^any a
. day wtthout mutton. If the water companL
never gave the Londoners a drink till they had
fished every gudgeon out of the Thames' how
would the old lad.es make their lea } Tlier^^

sea^weed. nor your ruling because of the du-t
; ^^ Now, our minister said to me the other day,"
■ John, .f you were on the committees of some
:of our societies you would see this mou^-
I huntmg done to perfection. Not only com-
,nuttees. but whole bodies of Christian peopr.
j go mouse-hunting." Well, said I. m nister'

book, ,t will be beef to my horse-radish. HerTv
his writing: —

"A society of good Christian people will spllr
into pieces over a petty quarrel, or mere mat^e'
o opmion. while all around them the masse.

erab^",- m"^ ' "'"' °' '''' ^"^P''- ^ mis-
erable l.tle mouse, which no cat would ever

hunt, takes them" off from their Lord's work

'tYn^r'n?'"^""""" '''" ^f«"d ""o^ths of
t rne and heaps of money in inventing and pub-
1. hing „,ere speculations, while thegrcat Lid

c rl noTh r ""P'°"g'-^- They seem to
care nothing how many may perish so long as

I TLr " "'"■'■ '°'''"- '" "'her matter,
I « lUtle common sense is allowed to rule, but in

434

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

i I i

'!'

H'i! :

the weightiest matters foolishness is sadly con-
spicuous. As for you and me, John, let, us
kill a mouse when it nibbles our bread, but'let
us not spend our lives over it. What can be
done by a mousetrap or a cat should not
occupy all our thoughts.

Tlie paltry trifles of this world are much of
the same sort. Let us give our chief attention
to the chief things,— the glory of God, the win-
ning of souls for Jesus, and our own salvation.
Tiiere are fools enough in the world, and there
can be no need that Christian men should swell
tlie number. Go on with your ploughing,
John, and I will go on with my preaching, and
in due season we shall reap if we faint not."

A LOOKING GLASS IS OF NO USE TO A
BLIND MAN.

He who will not see is much the same as if he
had no eyes ; indeed, in some things, the man
without eyes has the advantage, for he is in the
dark and knows it. A lantern is of no use to
a bat, and good teaching is lost on the man
who will not learn. Reason is folly with the
unreasonable. One man can leuJ a horse to
the water, but a hundred cannot make him
drink : it is easy work to tell a man the truth,
but if he will not be convinced your labor is
lost. We pity tht ,)oor blind, we cannot do so
much as that for those who shut their eyes
against the light.

A man who is • ' ,nd to his own faults is blind
to his own interests. He wh6 thinks that he
never was a fool is a fool n^w. He who never
owns that he is wron^ will never get right

He'll mend, as the saying is, when he grows
better, like sour beer in summer. How can a
man take the smuts off his fuce if he will not
look in the glass, nor believe that they are there
when he is told of them .>*

Prejudice shuts up many eyes in total dark-
ness. The man knows already: he is positive
and can swear to it, and it's no use your argu-
ing. He has made up his mind, and it did not
take him long, for there's very little of it, but
when he has said a thing he sticks to it like '
cobbler's wax. He is wiser than .seven men
that can render a reason. He is as positive as
if he had been on the other side the curtain and
looked into the back yard of the universe. He
talks as if he carried all knowledge in his waist-
coat pocket, like a peppermint lozenge, 'i'hose
who like may try to teach him, but I don't care
to hold up a mirror to a mole.

Some men are blinded by their worldly busi-
ness, and could not see heaven itself if the
windows were open over their heads. Look at
farmer Grab, he is like Nebuchadnezzar, for his
conversation is all among beasts, and if he does
not eat grass it is because he never could
stomach salads. His dinner is his best devo-
tion, he is a terrible fastener on a piece of beef,
and sweats at it more than at his labor. As old
Master Earle says, " His religion is a part of
his copyhold, which he takes from his landlord,
and refers wholly to his lordship's discretion.
If he gives him leave, he goes to church in his
best clothes, and sits there with his neighbors,
but never prays more than two prayers — for rain
and for fair weather, as the case may be. He
is a niggard all the week, except on market
days, where, if his corn sell well, he thinks he
may be drunk with a good conscience. He is
sensible of no calamity but the burning of a
stack of corn, or the overflowing of a meadow,
and he thinks Noah's flood the greatest plague
that ever was, not because it drowned the
world, but spoiled the grass. For death he is
never troubled, and if he gets in his harvest be>
fore it happens, it may come when it will, he
cares not." He is as stubborn as he is stupid, and
to get a new thought into his head you would
need to bore a hole in his skull with a centre-
bit. The game would not be worth the candle.
We must leave him alone, for he is too old in
the tooth, and too blind to be made tc see.

Other people hurt their eyes by using glasses

du^

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

which are not spectacles. I have tried to con-
vince Joe Scroggj that it would be a fine thing
for h.m to join the teetotalers, and he has noth-
ing to say against it only " he does not see it."

" S? "I* ?"<« '<'I<I mo to my face,
The chimney corner should be his olace
And tliere lie'd sit and dye Ills face * '
And Uriiilt nil all is blue."

All is blue with him now. for his furniture is
nearly all sold, and his wife and children have
not a shoe to their foot, and yet he laughs about
"a yard of pump water," and tells me to go
ana drink my cocoa. Poor soul ! Poor soul !

In tippling I, his sole dPilght,

Each sign-post bars his wiiy;
He spends in muddy ale at nighc

The wages of the day.

Can nothing be done for such poor fools.
Why not shorten the hours for dealing out the
drink ? Why not shut up the public-houses on
Sundays? If these people have not got sense
enough tc take care of themselves the law should
protect them. Will Shepherd says he has to
tetch his sheep out of a field when hey are
likely to get blown through eating too much
green meat, and there ought to be power to
fetch sots out of a beer-shop when they are
worse than blowed through drink. How I wish
1 could make poor Scroggs see as I do, but
there, if a fellow has no eyes he can't see the
sun, though his nose is being scorched off in
the glare of .it

Of all dust the worst for the eyes is gold dust.
A bribe blinds, the judgment, and riches darken
the mind. As smoke to the eyes, so also is flat-
tery to the soul, and prejudice turns the light of
thfe sun into a darkness that may be felt. We
are all blind by nature, and till the good Phy-
sician opens our eyes we grope, even in gospel
light. All the preaching in the world cannot
make a man see the truth so long as his eyes
are blinded. There is a heavenly eye-salve
which is a sovereign cure, but the worst of the
matter is that the blind in heart think they see
already, and so they are likely to die in dark-
ness. Let us pray for those who never pray for
themselves : God's power can do for them what

435

''rfii,fK:?o';tt''w"aV''"-<''

Perhaus he stands to hear the sound
But CllMd he still remains, '

Noiiieaning in the word is found
To cause hini Joys or pains.

O Lord, tliy holy power dlsnlav.

For tl.oii tlie (lelp must liiid •
Pimr In the light of gospel day.

Illuminate tlie blind.

^^'J."'''' .''"'^' ""concerned they dwell

£VTJ '.".';"' «"r prayer desp s
But give these bifiid nien sight,

"GREAT CRY AND LITTLE WOOL,"

AS THE MAN SAID WHO CLIPPED THE

SOW.

i» far beyond our power.

■A dark and bllniled thlna Is man,
_ Yet full of fancied light I
»ut »II Ills penetration can
Obtain nu goiptl Ught. '

Our friend Hodge does not seem to bt mak-
I mg much of an out at shearing. It will take
h.m all his time to get wool enough for a
blanket, and his neiglibors are telling him so.
but he does not heed them, for a man never
listens to reason when he has made up his mind
to act unreasonably. Hodge gets plenty of
music of a sort ; Hullah's system is nothing to
It. and even Nebuchadnezzar's flutes, harps
sackbuts.ind dulcimers could not make more
dm. He gets •< cry " enough to stock a Baby-
lon of babies, but not wool enough to stop his
ears with.

Now. is not this very like the world with its
notions of pleasure ? There is noise enough ■
laughter and shouting, and boasting; but
when. iR the comfort which can warm the heart

1 1

'1!

I t'f^ ' '-t 't^

mtwim-s^g

w m

436

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICIURES.

and give peace to the spirit ? Generally there's
plenty of smoke and very little fire in what is
called pleasure. It promises a nag and gives
an egg. Gaiety is a sort of flash in the pan, a
fifth of November squib, all fizz and bang and
done for. The devil's meal is all bran, and
the world's wine turns to vinegar. It is always
making a great noise over nutshells. Thou-
sands have had to weep over their blunder in
looking for their heaven on earth ; but they
follow each other like sheep through a gap, not
a bit the wiser for the experience of genera-
tions. It seems that every man must have 9
clip at his own particular pig, and cannot be
made to believe that like all the rest it will
yield him nothing but bristles. Men are not
all of one mind as to what is best for them ;
they no more agree than the clocks in our vil-
lage, but they all hang together in following
after vanity, for to the core of their hearts they
are vain.

One shears the publican's hog, which is so
fond of the swill tub, and he reckons upon
bringing home a wonderful lot of wool ; but
everybody knows that he who goes to the
" Woolpack " for wool will come home shorn :
the" BlueBoar" is an uncommonly ugly animal
to shear, and so is the " Red Lion." Better
sheer off as fast as you can ; it will be sheer folly
to stop. You may loaf about the tap of the
" Half-moon " till you get the full moon in your
noddle, and need a keeper : it is the place for
men whose wits go woolgathering, but wool
there is none.

Another is covetous, and hopes to escape
misery by being a miser : his greedy mind can
never be more filled than a lawyer's purse : he
never has enough, and so he never has a feast.
He makes money with his teeth, by keeping
them idle. That is a very lean hog to clip at,
for poverty vvants some i ngs, luxury many
things, but covetousness wants all things. If
we could hoard up all the money in the world,
what would it be to us at last ? To-day at good
cheer, to-morrow on the bier: in K\\$ midst of
life we are in death.

Some, like old Mrs. Too-good, go in for self-
righteousness, and their own mouths dub them
saints. They are the pink of perfection, the
cream of creation, the gems of their generation,
and yet a sensible man would not live in the
tame house with them for all the money you

could count. They are saints abroad, but ask
their maids what they are at home. Great cry
and little wool is common enough in religion :
you will find that those who crack themselves
up are generally cracked, and those who de'
spise their neighbors come to be despised them^
selves.

Many try wickedness, and run into bad com-
pany, and rake the kennels of vice. I warrant
you they may shear the whole styful of filthy
creatures and never find a morsel of wool on
the whole lot of them. Loose characters, silly
imusements, gambling, wantonness, and such
like, are swine that none but a fool will try his
shears upon. I don't deny that there's plenty
of swinish music — who ever expected that there
would be silence in a piggery ? But tiien noise
cannot fill t' e heart, nor laughter lighten the
soul.

John Ploughman has tried for himself, and
he knows by experience that all the world is
nothing but a hog that is not worth the shear-
ing: "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." But
yet t^ere is wool to be had ; there are real joys
to be got for the asking if we ask aright. Be-
low, all things deceive us, but above us there
is a true Friend. " Wherefore do ye spend
your money for that which is not bread, and
your labor for that which satisfitih not? This
is John Ploughman's verdict, which he wishes
all his readers to take note of —

" Faith In Jesus Clivlst will give
Sweetest pleasures while we live;
Faith In Jesus must supply
Solid comfort when we die."

HE HAS GOT THE FIDDLE, BUT NOT
THE STICK.

It often comes to pass that a man steps into
another's shoes, and yet cannot walk in them.
A poor tool of a parson gets into a good man's
pulpit, and takes the same texts, but the sermons
are chalk, and not cheese. A half-baked young
swell inherits his father s money but not his
generosity, his barns but not his brains, his title
but not his sense — he has the fiddle without the
stick, and the more's the pity.

Some people imagine that they have only to
get hold of the plough-handles, and they would
soon beat John Plniigh.man. !f they had his
fiddle they arc sure they could play on it. J.
P. presents his cpmpliments, and wishes he may
be there when it is done.

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

437

LE, BUT NOT

" That Tf.tfn would oee,
QuutU blind OeoigB of Hollowee."

However, between you and me and the bedpost,
there is one secret which John does not mind
lettmg out. John's fiddle is poor enough, but
the stick is a right good one. too good to be

' teach, for children begin early to sin. Catch
them young and you may hope to keep them.

S'o yo'if t>f y ha" reached to sevon,
Teijci, iijin well the way lo lieavei •
fni"!""" '.he w„ik will thrive^'
If he leai lis before he's live.

What is learned young is learned for life
What we hear at the first we remember to tiie
last. The bent twig grows up a crooked tree.
Horse-breakers say

Will whilst he contiiiueth iievei be lackliig."

When a boy is rebellious, conquer him, and do
It well the first time, that there may be no need
to do it again. A child's first lesson should be

called a fiddle-stick. Do you want to see the
stick with which John plays his fiddle ? Here
It is-l ooking to God for help, John always tries
to do his best, whatever he has to do, and he
has found this to be the very best way to play
all kinds of tunes. What little music there is
in John's poor old fiddle comes out of it in that
way. Listen to a scrape or two.

^i^yV^ * cobbler, I'd make It mv nrlrtn
The best of all cobbleiSto be ; '^ ^ ^

If I were a tinker, no tinker beside
Should luend au old kettle like me.

And iMdnR a plouuhman, I plough with the bent
No furrow runs stialithter than mine- '

I waste not a moment, and stay not to rp<it
Though Idlers to tempt me coi.rbine? '

Yet I wish not to boast, for trust I have none

In aught 1 can do or can be ;
I i«8t in my Saviour, and what he has done

To ransom poor slnnera like me.

YOU MAY BEND THE SAPLING. BUT
NOT THE TREE.

Ladder, and pole, and cord will be of no
use to straighten the bent tree ; it should have
been looked after much earlier. Train trees
when they are saolincrs and ynun" bd= b-'or--

the down comes on their chins. If you wlnt I \ for the m"o"sT ';::rZ\:::^Zu^TT'
bullfinch to pipe, whistle to him while he is I Children are what lev .1 7 , ''^•

you.g: he will scarcely catch the tune after he that so m^/J :^t^d "^f = ^»-.P''y «
has learnt the wild bird'. „a.e. Begin_early toj A child ma/ ^%S\oo hL ■ jrirTay

obedience, and after that you may teach it
what you please : yet the young mind must
not be laced too tight, or you may hurt its
growth and hinder its strength. They say a
daft nurse makes a wise child, but I do not be-
lieve It : nobody needs so much common sense
as a mother or a governess. It does not do to
be always thwarting ; and yet remember if you
give a child his will and a whelp his fill, both
will surely turn out ill. A child's back must
be made to bend, but it must not be broken.
He must be ruled, but not with ?. rod of iron
His^ spirit must be conquered, but not crushed."
Nature does sometimes overcome nurture, but

488

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

\,\l

■J\\

fooil him either by too much cuffing or too
much kissing. I knew two boys who had a'.
Christian UKUiier, but slie always let them have
their own way. Tiie consequence was that
when they grew up tliey took to drinking and
low company and soon spent the fortune their
father left them. No one controlled them and
they had no control over themselves, and so
they just rattled along the broad road like
butcher boys with runaway hoises, and there
was no stopping them. A birch or two worn
out upon them when they were little would
have been a good use of timber.

Still, a child can be treated too hardly, and
especially he can be shut up too many hours in
school, when a good run and a game of play
would do him more good, Cows don't give
any the more milk for being often milked, nor
do children learn any more because of very
long hours in a hot room.

A boy can be driven to learn till he loses
half his wits : forced fruits have little flavor ;
a man at five is a fool at fifteen. If you make
veal of the calf he will never turn to beef. Yet
learning may be left so long that the little dunce
is always behindhand.

There's a medium in everything and he is a
good father who hits upon it, so that he governs
his family with love, and his family loves to be
governed by him. Some are hke Eli, who let his
sons sin and only chided them a little ; these
will turn out to be cruel parents in the long
run: others are too strict, and make home mis-
erable, and so drive the youngsters to the wrong
road in another way. Tight clothes are very
apt to tear, and hard laws are often broken :
but loose garments tear too, and where there
are no laws at all, things are sure to go amiss.
So you see it. is easy to err on either side, and
hard to dance the tight-rope of wisdom. De-
pend on it, he who has a wife and bairns will
never be short of care to carry. See what we
get when we come to marry, yet many there
are who will not tarry..

In these days children have a deal too much
of their own way, and often make their moth-
ers and fathers their slaves. It has come to a
fine pass when the goslings teach the geese,
and the kittens rule the cat: it is, the upsetting
of everything, and no parent ought to put up
with it. It is as bad for the boys and girls as
It is for the grown folk, and it brings out the

worst side of their chancMn. I would sooner
be a cat on hot bricks, or a load under a haf
row, than let my own children be my masters.
No, the head must be the head, or it will hurt
the whole body.

"^ For children out of place
Are a futlier'8 disgrace,
If you rule not you'll rue.
Fur they'll quickly rule you.

A MAN MAY LOVE HIS HOUSE, THOUGH
HE RIDE NOT ON THE RIDGE.

You can love your house and not ride on the
ridge ; there's a medium in everything. You
can be fond of your wife without being
her drudge, and you can love your children
dearly, and yet not give them their own way in
everything. Some men are of so strange a
kidney that they set no bounds to their non-
sense. If they are fond of roast beef they
must needs suck the spit ; they cannot rest with
eating the pudding, they must swallow the bag.
If they dislike a thing, the very smell of it sets
them grumbling, and if they like it they must
have it everywhere and always, for nothing else
is hah sc sweet. When they do go in for eat-
ing rabbits, they have

Riibbits youni^ and rabblt« old,
Kabbits not and rabbits cold,
Habbitii tender, rabbits tough:
Kever can they !iave enoiigli.

Whatever they take up takes them up, and for
a season they cannot seize on anything else.
At election times the barber cannct trim his
customer's poll because of the polling, and the
draper cannot serve you with calico because he

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

is canvassing. The nation would go to the!
dogi altogether if the cat's-meat man did not j
secure the election by sticking his mark on the I
ballot paper. It is supposed that the globe
would leave off turning round if our Joe
Scroggs did not go down to the " Dun Cow,"
and read the paper, and have his say upon pol-
itics, in the presence of house of commons
assembled in the taproom. I do not quite
think so, but I know this, that when the Whigs
and the Tories and ti.e Radicals are about,
Scroggs is good for notliing all day long. What
party he belongs to I don't know, but I believe
nis leading principle will be seen in the follow-
ing verse : —

439

If eentlemen propose a class
He never .siiys them nay :

whlf=8'?'.''*y* *"'"!'* " ''Blit to drink
While other people pay.

You can make a. good thing become a nui-
sance by harping on that one string fiom dawn
to dusk. A hen with one chick makes no end
of scratching and clucking, and so does a fel-
low of one idea. He has a bee in his bonnet,
and he tries to put a wasp in yours. He duns
you, and if yoq do not agree with him he
counts you his enemy. When you meet with
him you are unfortunate, and when you leave
hmi you will batter yourself go where you may ;
"there's small sorrow at our parting," as the
old mare said to the broken cart. You may
try to humor him, but he will have all the more
humors if you do. for the man knows no mod-
eration, and if you let him ride on the roof he
will soon sit on the chimney-pot.

One man of my acquaintance used to take
Morrison's pills every day of his life, and when I
called in to see him I had not been there ten
mmutes before he wanted me to take a dose,
but I could not swallow what he told me nor
the pills either, so I told him I dare sav they
were very good for him. but they did not suit
my constitution : however, he kept on with his
subject till I was fain to be oflT. Another man
never catches sight of me but he talks ?bout
vaccination and goes on against it till he froths
at the mouth, and I am half afraid he will inoc-
ulate me. My master had a capital horse,
wor.n a gone r.ea! of money, only he always
shied at a stone-heap on the road, and if there
were fifty of them he always bolted oflf the
read every time. He had got heaps on his
brain, poor creature, and though he was fit for,

a nobleman's carriage he had to put ta
plough. Some men have got stone-heaps in
their poor noddles and this spoils them for life
and m: ;s it dangerous for all who have to
deal wai them. What queer fish there are
in our pond ! 1 am afraid that most of us
have a crack somewhere, but we don't all
show it quite so much as some. We ought
to have a good deal of patience, and then
we shall find amusement where else we
should be bothered to death. One of my
mates says the world is not round, and so I
always drop into his notion and tell him this is
a flat worid and he is a flat too.

What a trial it is to be shut up for an hour
with a man or a woman with a hobby ; riding
in a horse-box with a bear with a sore head is
nothing to it. The man is so fond of bacon
that he wants you to kiss his pig, and all the
while you hope you will never again see either
the man or his pork as long as you live. No
matter what the whole hog may be, the man
who goes it is terrible.

Rocking horse for boy,
Hobby liorse for man;
Each one rides his toy
Whenever he can.

The boy Is iIrIU gl«d
Though he liUeth alone,
His father's own fad
By the world must be knows.

Of the two hobby rides.
The boy s Is the best ;
For the man often chides.
And gives you no rest.

It is a good thing for a man to be fond of his
own trade and his own place, but still there is
reason in everything, even in roasting eggs.
When a man thinks that his place is below him
he will pretty soon be below his place, and
therefore a good opinion of your own calling is
by no means an evil ; yet nobody is everybody,
and no trade is to crow over the rest. Th<! cob-
bler has his awl but he is not all, and the hatter
wears a crown but he is not king A man may
come to market without buying ».iy onions, and
ploughing can be done with c.i.^-r horses than
mine, though Dapper and Violet are something
to brag of. The farming interest is n.: l ubt
first, and so is the saddler's, and so is tht tink-
er's, and so is the grocer's, and so is the drap-
er's, and so it the parson's, and so is the parish
beadle's, and so is every other interest accord-

ing to each man's ulk.

440

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

i ■

Your tri>> .i.i a, ti'Hde, Is nil very well,
But otiiui ';,<(i>l folk liHve their cheeses to sell ;
Vou iiiiist iiiit i'X|c'c't all thu worlit to bow down,
And nisu to one (h- 'tiller the sceptre and crown.

It is astonishing how much mei; will cry up
■!i)all matters. They are very busy, but it is
'v'th catching Hies. Tiiey t:ik about a mush-
rorm till you would think it tvas the only thing
at the Lord Mayor's dinner, and the beef and
the turkeys went for nothing. They say nothing
about the leg of mutton, for they are so much
in love with the trimmings. They can't i iep
titiags in their places, but make moie of a
horse's tail than they do of his whole body.
Like the cock on the dunghill, they consider a
jpooi l/arlcy-rort-i to be worth r.sore than a dia-
fjKiiid. A ihin^, '\: , (f.-ns to suit, their taste and
so there is nothu , 'ike i'; n the whole of Eng-
land ; no, nor in aii Aaei a or Ausualia. A
ducJc will not always ih^bM*. i's ;he same gutter,
but they will ; for, bie«s v< ur hearf. they don't
think it a gutter, but i fiver, if not an ocean.
They must rtde the ridge of the roof, or else
burn the house down. A good many people
love their dogs, but these folks take them to bed
with them. Other farmers fat the calf, but they
fall down aad worship it, and what is worse
they quarrel with everybody who does not think
as much of their idol as they do.

It will be a long while before all men become
wise, but it will help on the time if we begin to
be wise ourselves. Don't let us make too much
of this world and the things of it. We are to
use it but not to abuse it; to hve»«itbut not /or
it ; to love our house but not to ride on the ridge.
Our daily bread and daily work are to be
minded, and yet we must not mind earthly
things. We must not let the body send the
soul to grass, rather must we make the limbs
servants to the soul. The world must not rule
us, we must reign as kings though we are only
ploughmen ; and stand upright even if the world
should be turned upside down.

rWO DOGS FIGHT FOR A RONE. AND
A THIRD RUNS AWAY WITH IT.

We have all heard of the two men who quar-
relled over an oyster, and d in a judge to
settle the question : he ate ' jyster himself,
and gave them a shell each. 1 his reminds me
of the story of the cow which two farmers could
not a^ree »bout, and so the lawyers stepped iti.

and milked the cow for them, and chrrged then*,
for their trouble in drinkinff the milk. Little is
got by law, but much is losi by it. A s sit in law
may last longer than auy suit ,■(, tailor :;iri m.iko
you, and you may yci.JseU .le worn out belare
it comes to an end. It is .dter fai to ni ke
matters up and keep om of covir:, for '.'' you )«?
caught there jou are cruglu in tbo brambl -i,
and won't getout without!' magf. John Plough-
man fesls a cold sweat at the thought of getting
into ! 'lands of lawyers. He does not mind
goin^^ h! Jericho, but he drc ; ds the gentlemen
on the road, f r they seldom leav« a fo Uher
upon auy goo e which they pick up.

However, if men will fight they must not
blame the lawyers ; if law were cheaper, quar-
relsome people would have more of it, and
quite as much would be spent in the long run.
Sometimes, however, we get dragged into court
willy nilly, and then one had need be wise as
a serpent and as harmless as a dove. Happy
is he who finds an honest lawyer, and does not
try to be his own client. A good lawyer always
tries to keep people out of law ; but some clients
are like moths with the candle, they must and
will burn themselves. He who is so wise that
he cannot be taugh; v ill have lo pay for his
pride.

liet doofs dellt < : bark and bite,

Ah' ISO tv , la rrow bone ;
Letbea!". . ■ ?■ -vis grow! and flght,

I'll I- ■'<.; ; I dtoue.

To suffer » .■ 1^; Is surely sad,
Butlav - i,'i. iijpln vain;

Tothrovi 9.ii')d iv^'iiy after tw4
WUl but, u»c«- as .<.7 palB.

JOHN PLOUGUMAS'S PJVTUIiES.

441

GREAT DRINKERS THINK THEM-
SELVES GREAT MEN.

Wonderful men and white rats ai\ not so
scarce as most people tliink. Folks may talk
as they like about Mr. Gladstone and Lord
JSeaconsfield, and that sharp gentleman, His-
marck, but Jack, and Tom, and Harry,
and scores more that I know of, could
manage their business for them a fine sight bet-
ter; at least, they think so, and are quite ready
to try. Great men are as plentiful as mice in
an old wheat-stack down our way. Every par-
ish has one or two wonderful men ; indeed, most
public-houses could show one at least, and gen-
erally two: and I have heard that on Saturday
nights, when our ■• Blue Dragon " is full, there
may be seen as many as twenty of the greatest

men in all the world in the taproom, all making
themselves greater by the help of pots of beer.
When the jug has been filled and emptied a
good many times, the blacksmith feels he ought
to be prime minister ; Styles, the carter, sees
the way to take off all the taxes, and Old Hob,
the rat-catcher, roars out

" They're all a pack of fools,
AnngtKMl-foi-iiotlilliK tools ;
If tliey'd only send lor me,
You d see how things would be."

If you have a fancy to listen to these great
men when they are talking you need not go into
the bar, for you can hear them outside the
house : they generally speak four or five at a
time, and every one in a Mitcham whisper,
which is very like a shout. What a fine flow j
of words they have ! There's no end to it, and
it's a pity there was ever any beginning, for

there's generally a mix up of foul talk with their
politics, and this sets them all roaring with
laughter. A few evenings in such company
would poison the mind of the best lad in the
parish. I am happy to say that these great
men have to be turned out at ten o'clock, for
then our public-house closes; and none too
soon, I'm sure.

A precious little is enough to make a man

famous in certain companies; one fellow

knocked a man's eye out at a prizt-fight ;

another stowed away twice as much pudding as

four pigs could have disposed of ; another stood

on his head and drank a glass of beer ; and

another won a prize by grinning through a

horse-collar ; and for such things as these the

sots of the village think mightily of them. Little

[tlungs please Httle minds, and nasty things

please dirty minds. If I were one of these

wonderful fellows I would ask the nearest way

to a place where nobody would kno« me.

Now I am at it, I will notice a few other won-
derful bodies who sometimes condescend to look
down on a ploughman ; but before I make
them angry I would give them a verse from one
of my old uncle's songs, which I have shaped a
bit.

" FrllPR®!??."? )*''." ^^. ""femled with me for wrltlnir this,
u v„..'^,",io'. '.""'.".'*''?, '<"■ »»>' tiling amiss " ^

Fn? whT^'H*''' ''''""y '"y 'eixarCs y..n will allow,
tlTe plough ?' •" ^'"'*"' ''"'" one 'whose hand is'on

I used to feel quite staggered when I heard
of an amazing clever man, but I've got used to
It, as the rook did to the scarecrow when he
found out that it was a stuffed nothing. Like
the picture which looked best at a very longdis-
tance off, so do most clever fellows. They are
swans a mile off, but geese when you get near
them. Some men are too knowing to be wise,
their boiler bursts because they have more
steam than they can use. They know too much,
and having gone over the top of the laddei
they have gone down on the other side. Peo'
pie who are really wise never think themselve*
so: one of them said to me the other day,—

" 4" «lil'iKS I thotight I knew; butitow confess
The more I know I know I know the less."

Simple Simon is in a sad plight in such a
world as this, but on the whole he gets on bet-
ter than a fellow who is too clever by half.
Every mouse had fieed have its eyes open now-
adays, for the cats are very many and uncom-

ill

fi!; i

It;

442

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTUABS.

I tr.

|l .'

!l^

moniy sharp; aild yet, you mark my word,
most of the mice that are caught are the know^
ing ones. Somehow or other, in an ordinary
sort of a world hke this, it does not answer to
be so over and above clever. Those who
are up to so many dodges, find the dodges
come down on them before long.
My neighbor Hinks was much too wise
a man to follow the plow, like poor shal-
low-pated John Ploughmap, and so he took to
scheming, and has sciiemed himself into one
of the largest mansions in the country, where
he will be provided with oakum to pick and a
crank to turn during the next six calendar
months. He had better have been a fool, for
his cleverness has cost him his character.

When a man is too clever to tell the truth he
will bring himself into no end of trouble before
long. When he is too clever to stick to his
trade, he is like the dog that let the meat fall
into the water through trying to catch at its
shadow. Clever Jack can do everything and can
do nothing. He intends to be rich all at once,
and despises small gains, and therefore is likely
to die a beggar. When puffing is trusted and
honest trading is scoffed at, time will not take
long to wind up the concern. Work is as need-
ful now as ever it was if a man would thrive ;
catching birds by putting salt on their tails
would be all very well, but the creatures will
not hold their tails still, and so we bad better
catch them in the usual way. The greatest trick
for getting on in business is to work hard and
to live hard. There's no making bread without
flour, nor building houses without labor. I
know the old saying is —

" No more mortar, no more brick,
A cunning knave lias a cunning trick ; "

but for all that things go on much the same as
ever, and bricks and mortar are still wanted.

I see in the papers, every now and then,
that some of the clever gentlemen who blow
up bubble companies are pulled up before the
courts. Serve them right! May they go where
my neighbor Hinks is, every one of them. How
many a poor tradesman is over head and ears
in difficulty through them ! I hope in future
all men will fight shy of these fine companies,
and swell managers, and very' clever men.
Men are neither suddenly rich nor suddenly
food. It is all a bag of moonshine when a
man would persuade you that he knows a way

of earning money by winkin^r your eye. We
have all heard of the scheme for making deal
boards out of saw dust, and getting butter out
of mud, but we mean to go on with the saw-miil,
and keep on milking the cows ; for between you
and me and the blind mare, we have a notion
that the plans of idiots and very clever mcp
are as like as two peas in a shell.

The worst sort of clever men are those who
knqw better than the Bible and are so learned
that they believe the world had no Maker, and
that men are only monkeys with their tails
rubbed off. Dear, dear me, this is the sort of
talk we used to expect from Tom of Bedlam,
but now we get it from clever men. If things
go on in this fashion a poor ploughman will
not be able to tell which is the lunatic and
which is the philosopher. As for me,the oldBook
seems to be a deal easier to believe than the new
notions, and I mean to keep to it. Many a
drop of good broth is made in an old pot,
and many a sweet comfort comes out of the
old doctrine. Many a dog has died since I
first opened my eyes, and every one of these
dogs has had his day, but in all the days put
together they have never hunted out a real
fault in the Bible, nor started anything better
in its place. They may be very clever, but the/
will not find a surer truth than that which God
teaches, nor a better salvation than that which
Jesus brings, and so finding my very life in the
gospel I mean to live in it, and so ends this
chapter.

HE WOULD PUT HIS FINGER IN THE PIE,
AND SO HE BURNT HIS NAIL OFF.

Some men must have a finger in every pie,
or, as the proverb hath it, " their oar must be
in every man's boat." They seem to have
no business except to poke their noses into
other people's business : they ought to have
snub noses, for they are pretty sure to be
snubbed. Prying and spying, peddhng and
mcddhng, these folks are in everybody's way,
like the old toll-gate. They come without be-
ing sent for, stop without being asked, and can-
not be got rid of, unless you take them bv the
left leg and throw them down stairs, and if you
do that they will hmp up again, and hope they
don't intrude. No one pays them, and yet
they give advice more often than any lawyer;
and though no one ever thanks tiiem, yet there

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

448

they are, peeping through keyholes and listen-
ing under the eaves. They are as great at
asking questions as if they wanted you to say
the catcciiism, and as eager to give their opin-

ion as if you had gone down on your knees to
ask it.

These folks are like dogs that fetch and
carry; they run all over the place like starlings
when they are feeding their young. They
make much ado, but never do much, unless it
is mischief, and at this they are as apt as jack-
daws. If any man has such people for his
acquaintances, he may well say, "save me
from my friends."

I know your assistance you'll lenU.
Whtdi I wunt it I'll speedily send ;
» oil need not be m.iklne such stir.
But mind your own business, good sir.

It is of no more use than if we spoke to the
pigs, for here is Paul Pry again. Paul and his
cousins are most offensive people, but you can-
not offend them if you try. i

Well do I remember the words of a wise old
Quaker :— " John," said he. ■• be not concerned
with that which concerns not thee." This
taught me a lesson, and I made up my mind
not to scrub other people's pigs for fear I should
soon want scrubbing myself. There is a
woman in tur village who. finds fault with all,
and ail i.rd fault with her; they say her teeth
are ali ^ose through her tongue rubbing ag.iinst
them; if she could but hold her tongue she
would be happy enough, but that's the diffi-
culty —

Will Shepherd was sitting very quiet while
others were running down their neighbors. At
last a loose fellow sung out " Look at old Will,
he is as silent as a stock-fish ; is it because lic
is wise or because he is a fool?" "Well,'
said Will." you may settle that question liow
you hke, but I have been told that a fool can-
not be silent." Will is set down as very odd,
but he is generally even with them before he
has done. One thing is sure, he cares very
httle what they do say so long as they don't
worry his sheep. He luinimed in my ear an
old-fashioned verse or tw o the other evening,
something like this —

"Since folks will Judg« nie every day.
Le'every man Ins Jmlgiiieiii say:
I will tuke it ill! lis ehiltliun's iilay.
For I am us 1 uui, Mlioever .say nay,

"Many there bo that take dellijlit
To Judge a man's ways in t iivy and suite-
But whether they ju.lge me wrong or right,
I am as I am, and so do 1 write. ' ""S""'

"How the truth is 1 leave to you :
Jiulge as ye list, whetlier false or true.
Ye know no more than before ye knew
For 1 am as I am whatever ensue." '

If folks will meddle ith our business it is
best to take no notice of them ; there's no
putting them out like letting tlu -n stop where
they are ; they are never sot.i- 1 .ierf as when
people neither offend them nor t;.ke offence
at them. You might as soon stop all the
frogs from croaking as quiet idle gossips when
they once get on the chat. Stuff your ear
with wool and let them jabber till their tongue
lies still, because they have worn all the skin
off of it. "Where no wood is the fire goeth
out," and if you don't answer them they can't
make a blaze for want of fuel. Treat them
kindly, but don't give them the treat of quar-
relling with them. FoVk-^v ;)c.'.ce with all men,
even if you cannot ovevtake it.

HE LIVES UNDER THE SIGN OF THE
CATS FOOT.

'Whr

wh-IT" JimMr.' '^ ••»?''""? take heed to the nest.
WMu ralM lall a whisperuig farewell t* thy rett."

The question was once asked, When should
a man marry ? and the merry answer was. that for
young men it is too soon and for old men it is
too late. This is all very fine, but it will not
wash. Both the wisdom and the folly of men
seem banded together to make a mock of this
doctrine. Men are such fools that they must
and will marry even if they marry fools. It
is wise to marry when we can marry wisely,
J and then the sooner the better. How many

. ?■■

444

JOIfN PLOUOUMAN'S PICTURES.

vt,l

E' I!

N't

!
I

show their sense in choosing a partner it is
not for me Ic say, but I lear that in many
cases love is blind, and irn'' Mind

clioice. 1 don't suppose .Sa' i." j-copie
would ever get marrie . t all tf U.k had it-s
wits about it. It is a mystery how certain par-
ties ever found partn*;-; truly there's no ac-
counting for tastes. However, as they make
their bed they must lie on it, and as they tie the

knot they must be tied by it. If a man catches
a tartar, or lets a tartar catch him, he must
take his dose of tartaric acid, and make as few
ugly faces as he can. If a three-legged tool
come flying through the air. he must l^ thank-
ful for such a plain token of love from the wo-
man of his choice, and th ■ best tinng he can
do is to sit down on it, ai wait Joi the next
little article.

When it is said of a man, " He lives under
the sign of the cat' •"cot," ' - j .ist try and
please his pussy that she may r^^t scratch him
more than such cats generally do. A good
husband will generally have a good wife, or
make a bad wife better. Bad Jack makesagf^at
noise .t bout bad Jill, but there's generally tv
of one where there's a score of' le other. 'C
say a bu -den ( ' one's own choosing is never
to be heav) , but I don't know, some men are
loaded with mischief as soon as they have a wife
to carry. Yet

A good woman Is woitli, if slm wptp sold,
The fairest crown that's made of (sold.

She is a pleasure, a treasure, and a joy without
measure. A good wife and health are a man's

best wealth : and he who is in such a case
should envy no man's place. Even when a
woman is a little tart il is better than if she
had no spirit, and made her house into a dirt
pie. A shrew is better than a slut, though
one can be quite miserable enough with either
If she is a good housewife, and looks well afttr
the children, one may put up with a Caudle
lecture now and then, though a cordial lecture
would K» a deal better. A husband is in a
lie:;;, 'noied if he gc*s tied up to a regular
scold ; and might as well be skinned and set
up to his neck in a tub of brine. Did you
ever hear the scold's song ? Read it, you young
folks who think of committing inatrimony, and
think twice before you get married once.

When In the morn I ope mine eyes

Toentoitalii tlio day,
Before my husl)aiiil e'en can rise,

I sculd him— then I pray.

Whon I at table take my place,

Wlialf vei \w tlie meat,
I flrHt do Hci>ld— and then say Rrace,

If so disponed to eat.

„ Too fat, too lean, too hot, *<rt cold,
I always du complii n.
Too raw, too roost, to<i v.aiiiK, too old-
Faults I win find or feign.

Let It l)e flesh, or fowl, or fish,

It never shall be siild,
But I'll find fault with meat or dish.

With master, or with maid.

But whf 11 T Ko to bed at night

I heaiulv ijii weep.
That I must part with my dellglit—

I cannot scold and sleep.

However, this doth mitigate

And nmcli abate my sorrow,
That tlioiight tonight It be too late,

IT early scold to-morrow.

When the husband is not a man it is not to
bp wondered at if the wife wears the top-boots;
t' mare may well be t!:e best norse when the
oilier hovse is a donkev Well nay woman
feci ?'i.)t she is lord and mas<tr whi r she has
to ■• -in the living for the faniiiv, as is aonietimes
the .ise. She ought not to le the h' d, but
if : has all the bi ns, what is she to do?
\ i poor dawdles iriany men would be with-
out iieir wives! As po-ir softy Siijpkins says,
if Bill's wife becomes a ,. ,dow who will cut the
pudding up for him, and wu; there be a pud-
ding at all ? It is grand when she wife knows
her place, and keeps it, and they both pull to-
gether in everything. Then she is a helpmeet
indeed and makes the house a home. Old
friend Tusser says.

in such a case

Even when a

tter tlian it s)ie

fiouse into a dirt

a slut, though

ujjh with eitiicr

J looks well after

with a Caudle

I cordial lecture
uisband is in a
up to a regular
kinneJ and set
rine. IJid you
id it, you young

matrimony, and
rricd once.

lie eyes

II rise,

ace,
%y mace,

o cold,
li, too old—

sh,

t or auu,
i.

lit

ellglit—

too late.

man it is not to
5 the top-boots;
norse when the
nay woman
1- when she has
as is sometimes
i the h' d, but
t is she to do?
wouK' he with-
Sitjpkins says,
ho will cut the
here be a pud-
thp wife knows
;y both pull to-
! is a helpmeet
a home. Old

JO /IN PLouoma'Airs pictures.

448

" Wh*n husbftnd U aNent let hoimewiffi 1k< chief
Ami I.M.I, t.. tli..|r lalHM- who llv." fr.« . tlu^l.^^Xnf
The liouYWir*- s s., iiuiiiM.l f„r hIh- kc,'i)..|| tli.' i , 'iiie
Ajid must teiiil on Lit piollt lu c:it .ma iiiimse." '

He is very pat upon it that much of household
affairs must rest on the wife, and he writes,—

"Both out, not.illow.
Keep home, hoiiNi'Mife thou."

Like the old man and woman in the toy which

shows the weath.-r, one must be sure to be in

if the other goes out. When the king is

abroad the queen must leign at home, and

when he leturns to his throne he is bound to

look upon her as his crown, and prize her

above gold and jewels. He should feel "if

there's only ops good wife in the whole world,

I've got her." John FlonMiman has long

thought just that of his . ,, wife, and after

five-and-twenty years he is more sure of it than

ever. He never bets, but he would not mind

wagering a farthing cake th -t there is not a

better woman on the surface of the globe than

his own, very own beloved. Happy is the

man who is happy in his wife. Let him love

her as he loves himself, and a little better, for

she is his better half.

Thank O.ul that hath m blesaed thee.
And sit down, .li.hu, aii.l rest tlice.

There is one case in which I don't wonder if

thf wife does put her mate under the cat's foot,

that is when he slinks off to the public, and

I. >s his wages. Even then love and gentle-

prised if the poor wife bristles up 9n<\ gives her
lord and master a taste of tongue. Nothing
tries married love more than the pot-house.
Wages wasted, wife neglected, children in
i.«i;s : if she gives it him hot and strong who
can blame her? Pitch ,mi . him, j;ood woman,
and make him ashamed of himRcf. if you can
No wonder that you had a cat air I dog life
while he is such a sony dog.

! Still, yoM may as well ^o home and set him
a better e.vainple. for two blacks will never
m.-ike a white, and if you put hiin in hot watci

he s sure to get some spirits to mix with it.

ness is the best way of getunghim home; but,
really, some topers have no feeling, and laugh
at kindness, and therefore nobody can be sur-

YOU CANT CATCIi THE WIND IN A
NET.

Some people get windmills in their heads,
and go in for all sorts of silly things. They
talk of niling the nation as if men were to be
driven I sheep, and they prate of refoi s
and systems as f ,\ey could cut out a world
in brown pap , • th a pair of scissors. .Such
-I body thinks himself very deep, but he is as
shallow as a milk-pan. You can soon know
him as well as if you had gone through him
wii 1 a lighted candle, an! yet yoi- will not
know a great deal after !!. He has a great
head, and very litle in it. He can talk by the
dozen, or the gross, and say noth ng. When
he is fussing and boasting of his tine doings
ou 5-:-on discovrr that .".c mikes i long nar
vest of very little corn. His tongue is like a
pig's tail, going all day long and nothing done.
This is the man who can pay oflT the
National Debt, and yet, in his little shop, he

■4

JOHN PLOVORJUAN'S PICTURES.

r:,i

wlU two apples in three days: he has the M-
cret of high farming, and loses more at it than
any man in tlie county. The more he studies
the more he misses the mark ; he reminds me
of a blind man on a blind horse, who rode out
in the middle of a dark night, and the more he
tried to keep out of ditches the n )re he fell in.
When they catch live red la ings on New-
market heath he will bring out a good thing,
and line his pockets with gold ; up till now, he
says, he has been unlucky, and he believes
that if he were to make a man a coffin he
would be sure not to die. He is going to be
rich next year, and you will then see what
you shall see : just now he would be glad of
half-a-crown on account, for which he will
givp you a share in his invention for growing
wheat without ploughing or sowing;.

It is odd to see this wise man at times when
his wits are all up in the moon ; he is just like
Chang, the Chinaman, who said : "Here's my
umbrella, and here's my bundle, h\x\. where am
It " He cannot find his spectacles, though he
is looking through them; and when he is out
riding on his own ass, he pulls up and says.
"Wherever is that donkey?"

I have heard of one learned man who boiled
his watch and stood looking at the egg. and
another who forgot that he was to be married
that day, and would have lost his lady if his
friend had not fetched him out of his study.
Think of that, my boy. and don't fret yourself
because you are not so overdone with learning
as to have forgotten your common sense.

The regular wind-catcher is soft as silk and
as green as grass, and yet he thinks himself
very long-headed ; and so indeed he would be
if his ears were taken into the measurement.
He is going to do— well— there's no telling
what. He is full of wishes but short of will,
and so his buds never come to flowers or fruit.
He is like a hen that lays eggs, and never sits
on them long enough to hatch a single chick.

Moonshine is the article our friend deals in,
jand it is wonderful what he can see by it. He
cries up his schemes, and itis said that he draws
on his imagination for his facts. When he is
in full swing with one of his notions, he does
not stick at a trtAc. VViii Shepherd heard one
of these gentry the other day. telling how his
company would lead all the shareholders on
to Tom Tiddler's ground to pick up gold and

silver ; and when all the talk was over, WM
said to me, " That's a lie. with a lid on. and a
brass handle to take hold if it. " ' Rather sharp
this of Will, for I dobelirv e the man was caught
on his own hook and believed in his own
dreams ; yet I did not like him, for he wanted
us poor fellows to put our little savings into hi*
hands, as if we could afford to fly kites with,
laborer's wages.

What a many good people thire are who
have religious craxes! They do nothing, but
they li ive wonderful plans for doing everything
in a jiffy. So many thousand people are to
give half-a-crown each, and so many more a
crown, and so many more a sovereign, and the
meeting-house is to be built juot so, and no
how else. The mischief is that the thousands
of people do not rush forward with their money,
and the minister and a few hard-working friends
have to get it together little by little in the old-
fashioned style, while your wonderful schemer
slinks out of the way and gives nothing. I
have long ago found out that pretty things on
paper had better be kept there. Our master's
eldest son had a plan for growing plum-trees
in our hedges as they do in Kent, but he never
looked to see whether the soil would suit, and
so he lost the trees which he put in. and there
was an end of his damsons.

" circumstances alter case* ;
Different ways suit different places.

New brooms sweep clean, but they most'y
sweep up dirt. Plough with what you pleamj, I
stick to the old horses which have served u-e
so well. Fine schemes come to nothing ; it is
hard work that does it, whether it be in t»—
world or in the church.

" In the laborious husbandman you see
What all true Christians are or ought to be.'

BEWARE OF THE DOG.

John Ploughman did not in his first book
weary his friends by preaching, but in this one
he makes bold to try his hand at a sermon, and
hopes he will be excused if it should prove to
be only a ploughman's preachment.

If this were a regular sermon preached from
;i pulpit of course I ?hr.i;)d mr.ke it long and
dismal, IWc a winter's night, for fear people
should en ne eccentric. As it is only meant
to be read ^t home, I will make it short, though

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES,

44'.

ki over, Wni
lid on, and a
Rather sharp
in was caught
I in his own
ur he wanted
tvingsinto his
fly kites with

UTC are who
nothing, but
ng everything
people are to
many more a
leign, and the
: so, and no
:he thousands
J their money,
orking friends
:tle in the old-
lerful schemer
;s nothing. I
etty things on
Our master's
ng plum-trees
, but he never
ould suit, and
in. and thrre

[)l8ces."

lit they most'y
It you pleaiie, I
ive served u,e
I nothing ; it is
r it be in t»—

m nee
tuiilit to IM."

DOG.

1 his first book
but in this one
: a sermon, and
should prove to
lent.

preached from
nke it long and
for fear people
it is only meant
it short, though

It will not be sweet for I have not a sweet sub-
ject. The text is one which has a great deal
of meaning in it. and is to be read on many a
wall. " Heware of the Doo." You know

what dogs are, and you know how you beware
of them when a bull-dog flies at you to the full
length of his chain ; so the words don't want
any clearing up.

It is very odd that the Bible never says a
good word for dogs : I suppose the breed must
have been bad in those eastern parts, or else,
as our minister tells me, they were nearly wild,
had no m.ister in particular, and were left to
prowl about half starved. No doubt a dog is
very like a tnan, and becomes a sad dog when
he has himself for a master. We are all the
better for having somebody to look up to ; and
those who say they care for nobody and no-
body cares for them are dogs of the worst breed,
and, for a certain reason, are never likely to be
drowned.

Dear friends, I shall have heads and tails
like other parsons, and 1 am sure I have a
right to them, for they are found in the subjects
before us.

Firstly, let us beware of a dirty dog— or as
the grand old Book calls tnem, " evil workers "
— those who love filth and roll in it. Dirty
dogs will spoil your clothes, and make you as
foul as themselves. A man is known by his
company ; if you go with loose fellows your
character will be tarred with the same brush
as theirs. People can't be very nice in their
distinctions ; if they see a bird always flying
with the crow*, and feeding and nesting with

them, they call it a crow, and ninty-ninc time*
out of a hundred they are right. If you are
fond of the kennel, and like to lun with the
hounds, you will never make the world believe
that you are a pet lamb. Besides, bad company
docs a man real harm, for, as the old proverb
has it, if you lie down with dogs you vsiil get
up wit!) fleas.

You cannot keep lOO far off a man with the
fever and a man of wicked life. If a lady in a
! fine dress sees a big dog come out of a horse-
pond, and run about shaking himself dry, she
is very particular to keep out of his way. and
from thiH we may learn a lesson,— when we see
a man half gone in liquor, sprinkling his dirty
talk all around him, our best place is half-a-
mile off at the least.

Secondly , beware of ai/ snarling dogs. Iliere
are plenty of these about ; they are generally
very small creatures, but they more than make
up for their size by their noise. They yap and
snap without end. Dr. Watts said —

"l«t doM dellKlit to bark and Lite,
For Qod has mude tlieni so."

But I cannot make such an excuse for the two-
legged dogs I am writing about, for their own
vile tempers, and the devil together, have made
them what they are. They find fault with any-
thing and everything. When they dare they
howl, and when they cannot do that they lie
down and growl inwardly. Beware of these
creatures. Make no friends with an angry
man : as well make a bed of stinging nettles or
wear a viper for a necklace. Perhaps the fel-
low is just now very fond of you, but beware
of him, for he who barks at others to-day with-
out a cause will one day howl at you for noth-
ing. Don't offer him a kennel dow n your yard
unless he will let you chain hiin up. When
you see that a man has a bitter spirit, and gives
nobody a good word, quietly walk away and
keep out of his track if you can. Loaded guns
and quick tempered people are dangerous
pieces of furniture ; they don't mean any hurt,
but they are apt to go off and do mischief be-
fore you dream of it. Tetter go a mile out of
your way than get into a fight ; better sit down
on a dozen tin-tacks with their points up than
dispute with an angry neighbor.

Thirdly, beware of fawning digs. They
jump up upon you and leave the marks of their
dirty paws. How they will lick your hand and

% :

!■ ;

448

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

l\\

t i

'. I ' If?!

fondle you as long as there are bones to be got :
like the lover who said to the cook, " Leave you,
dear girl? Never, while you have a shilling."
Too much sugar in the talk should lead us to
suspect that there is very little in the heart.
The moment a man praises you to your face,
mark him, for he is the very gentleman to rail
at you behind your back, if a fellow takes the
trouble to flatter he expects to be paid for it,
and he calculates that he will get his wages
out of the soft brains of those he tickles. When
people stoop down it generally is to pick some-
thing up, and men don't stoop to flatter you
unless they reckon upon getting something out
of you. When you see too much politeness
you may generally smell a rat if you give a
good sniff. Young people need to be on the
watch against crafty flatterers. Young women
with pretty faces and a little money should es-
pecially beware of puppies I

Fourthly, beware of a greedy dog, or a man
who never has enough. Grumbling is catch-
ing ; one discontented man sets others com-
plaining, and this is a bad state of mind to fall
into. Folks who are greedy are not always
honest, and if they see a chance they will put
their spoon into their neighbor's porridge ; why
not into yours? See how cleverly they skin a
flint ; before long you will find them skinning
you, and as you are not qu<te so used to it as
the eels are, you had better give Mr. Skinner
a wide berth. When a man boasts that he
never gives anything away, you may read it as
a caution — "beware of the dog." A liberal,
kind-hearted friend helps you to keep down
your selfishness, but a greedy grasper tempts
you to put an extra button on your pocket. Hun-
gry dogs will wolf down any quantity of meat,
and then look out for more, and so will greedy
men swallow farms and houses, and then smell
around for something else. I am sick of the
animals ; I mean both the dogs and the men.
Talking of nothing but gold, and how to make
money, and how to save it — why one had better
live with the hounds at once, and howl over
your share of f'.ead horse. The mischief a mi-
serly wretch nay do to a man's heart no tongue
can tell ; one might as •.veil be bitten by a mad
dog, fur giccuiiicss :3 S3 bad a riiadriess as a
mortal can be tormented w'th. Keep out of the
company of screw-drivers, tight-fists, hold-fasts,
and blood-suckers: " beware of dogs."

Fifthly, beware of a yelping dog. Those
who talk much tell a great many lies, and if
yx)u love truth you had better not love them.
Those who talk much are likely enough to speak
ill of their neighbors, and of yourself among the
rest ; and therefore, if you do not want to be
town-talk, you will be wise to find other friends.
Mr. Prate-apace will weary you out one day,
and you will be wise to break off his acquaint-
ance before it is made. Do not lodge in Clack
Street, nor next door to the Gossip's Head. A
lion's jaw is nothing compared to a tale-bear-
er's. If you have a dog which is always bark'
ing, and should chance to losehim, don't spend
a penny in advertising for him. Few are the
blessings which are poured upon dogs which
howl all night and wake up honest household-
ers, but even these can be better pi \ up with
than those incessant chatterers who never let
a man's character rest either day or night.

Sixthly, beware of a dog that worries the
sheep. Such get into our churches, and cause
a world of misery. Some have new doctrines
as rotten as they are new; others 'have new
plans, whims, and crotchets, and nothing will
go right till these are tried ; and there is a third
sort, which are out of love with everybody and
everything, and only come into the churches to
see if they can make a row. Mark these, and
keep clear of them. There are plenty of hum-
ble Christians who only want leave to be quiet
and mind their own business, and these troiv-
blers are their plague. To hear the gospel, and
to be helped to do good, is all that the most of
our members want, but these worries come in
with their " ologies " and puzzlements, and hard
sp)eeches, and cause sorrow upon sorrow. A
good shepherd will soon fetch these dogs a crack
of the head ; but they will be at their work again
if they see half a chance. What pleasure can
they find in it ? Surely they must have a touch
ofthe wolf in their nature. At any rate, beware
of the dog.

Seventhly, beware of dogs who have re-
turned to their vomit. An apostate is like a
leper. As a rule none are more bitter enemies
of the cross than those who once professed to
be followers of Jesus. He who can turn away
ifoifi Christ "13 ijut a ut eoiTipariion for any
honest man. There are many abroad nowadays
who have thrown off religion as easily as a
ploughman puts off his jacket. It will be a Xtf

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

449

rible day for them when the heavens are on fire
above them, and the world is ablaze under
their feet. If a man calls himself my friend,
and leaves the ways of God, then his way and
mine are different ; he who is no friend to the
good cause is no friend of mine.

Lastly, finally, and to finish up, beware
of a (log that has no master. If a fellow
makes free with the Bible, and the laws of his
country, and common decency, it is time to
make free to tell him we had rather have his
roor. than his company. A certain set of won-
dert.illy wise men are talking very big things,
and putting their smutty fingers upon every-
thing which their fathers thought to be goad
and holy. Poor fools, they are not half as
clever as they think they are. Like hogs in a
flower-garden, they are for rooting up every-
thing; and some people are so friglitened that
they stand as if tliey were stuck, and hold up
their hands in horror at the creatures. When
the hogs have been in my master'sgarden, and
I have had the big whip handy, I warrant you
I have made.a clearance, and I only wish I was
a scholar, for I would lay about me among
these free-thinking gentry, and make them
squeal to a long metre tune. As John Plough-
man has other fish to fry, and other tails to
butter, he must leave these mischievous
creatures, and finish his rough ramshackle
sermon.

'• Beware of the dog." Beware of all who
will do you harm. Good company is to be
had, why seek bad .? it is said of heaven,
"without are dogs." Let ui; make friends of
those who can go inside of heaven, for there we
hope to go ourselves. We shall go to our own
company when we die ; let it be such that we
shall be glad to go to it.

of the old oaks. God sends us letters of love
in envelopes with black borders. Many a
time have I plucked sweet fruit from bramble
bushes, and taken lovely roses from among

A BLACK HEN LAYS A WHITE EGG.

The egg is white enough though the hen is
black as a coal. This is a very simple thing,
but it has pleased the simple mind of John
Ploughman, and made hin cheer up when
things have gone hard with him. Out of evil
comes good, through the great goodness of God.
From threatening clouds we get refreshing
showers ; in dark mines men find bright jewels :
and so from our worst troubles come our best
blessings. The bitter cold sweetens the
ground, and the rough winds fasten the roots
27

prickly thorns. Trouble is to believing men
and women like the sweetbriar in our hedges,
and where it grows there is a delicious smell
all around if the dew do but fall upon it from
above.

Cheer up, mates, all will come out right in
the end. The darkest night will turn to a fair
morning in due time. Only let us trust in God,
and keep our heads above the waves of fear!
When our hearts are right with God everything
is right. Let us look for the silver which lines
every cloud, and when we do not see it let us
believe that it is there. We are all at school,
and our great Teacher writes many a bright
lesson on the black-board of afilicfion. Scant
fare teaches us to live on heavenly bread, sick-
ness bids us send off for the good Physician,
loss of friends makes Jesus more precious, and
even the sinking of our spirits brings us to live
more entirely upon God. All things are work-
ing together for the good of those who love
God, and even death itself wiil bring them their
highest gain. Thus the black hen lays a white
egg-

' S.'.'""!.?!' ")*' ' ""eet shall wo-k for my cood.
Tie bitter s sweet, the medlcli.e Is "(wcH
ThouKh painfiil at present 'twill ceivse before lonit.
And then, oh how pleasant the conqueror's TOngp'

LIKE CAT LIKE KIT.

Most men are what their mothers made
them. The father is away from home all day,-
and has not half the influence over the cliildren

I!,;

4S0

JOJSry PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

that the mother has. The cow has most to do
with the calf. If a ragged colt grows into a
good horse, we know who it is that combed
him. A mother is therefore a very responsible

woman, even though she may be the poorest in
the land, for the bad or the good of her boys
and girls very much depends upon her. As is
the gardener such is the garden, as is the wife
such is the family. Samuel's mother made
him a little coat every year, but she had done a
deal for him before that: Samuel would not
have been Samuel if Hannah had not been
Hannah. We shall never see a bettt r set of
men till the mothers are better, We must have
Sarahs and Rebekahs before we shall see Isaacs
and Jacobs. Grace does not run in the blood,
but we generally find that the Timothies have
mothers of a godly sort.

Little children give their mother the headache,
but if she lets them have their own way, when
they grow up to be great children they will give
her the heartache. Foolish fondness spoils
many, and letting faults alone spoils more.
Gardens that are never weeded will grow very
little worth gathering ; all watering and no hoe-
ing will make a bad crop. A child may have
too much of its mother's love, and in the long
run it may turn out that it had too little. Soft-
hearted mothers rear soft-headed children;
they hurt them for iifc because ihey are afiiiid
of hurting them when they are young. Coddle
your children, and they will turn out noodles.
Y«u may sugar a child till everybody is sick of

it. Boys' jackets need a little dusting evcrv
now and then, and girls'dresses are all tlie bat-
tel' for occasional trimming. Children witlu 1 1
chastisement are fields without ploughing, lie
very best colts want breakmg in. Not tliat \»c
Hke severity ; cruel mothers are not mothers;,
and those who are always flogging and fault-
finding ought to be flogged themselves. There
is reason in all things, as the madman said
when he cut off his nose.

Good. mothers are very dear to their children.
There's no mother in the world like our ow n
mother. My friend Sanders, from Glasgow,
says, "The mither's breath is aye sweet."
Every woman is a handsome wornantoherown
son. That man is not worth hanging wjiodoes
not love his mother. When good women lead
their little ones to the Saviour, the Lord Jesus
blesses not only the children, but their mothers
as well. Happy are tiiey among women who
see their sons and their daughters walking in
the truth.

He who thinks it easy to bring up a family
never had one of his own. A motlier who
trains her children aright had need be wiser
than Solomon, for his son turned out a fool.
Some children are perverse from their infancy ;
none are born perfect, but some have a double
share of imperfections. Do what you will with
some children, they don't improve. Wash a
dog", comb a dog, still a dog is but a dog :
trouble seems thrown away on some children.
Such cases are meant to drive us to God, for he
can turn blackamoors white, and cleanse out
the leopard's spots. It is clear that whatever
faults our children have, we are their parents,
and we cannot ^nd fault with the stock they
came of. Wild geese do not lay tame eggs.
That which is born of a hen will be sure to
scratch in the dust. The child of a cat will
hunt after mice. Every creature follows its
kind. If we are black, we cannot blame our
offspring if they are dark too. Let us do our
best with them, and pray the Mighty Lord to
put his hand to the work. Children of prayer
will grow up to be children of praise ; mothers
who have wept before God for their sons, will
one day sing » new song over them. Some
coits oitcn break the halter, and yet beeonis
quiet in harness. God can make those new
whom we cannot mend, thr "fore let mothers
never despair of their children as long as tlicy

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

451

dusting everv
re all the bet-
Idien v\itln ii
aughing. 'lie
Not that \»c
not mothers,
ing and fnult-
slves. There
madman said

their children,
like our own
■oni Glasgow,
aye sweet."
lantoher own
ging who does
d women lead
he Lord Jesus
their mothers
g women who
rs walking in

ig up a family
L motlier wiio
need be wiser
ed out a fool,
their infancy ;
have a double
t you will with
)ve. Wash a
is but a dog :
some children,
to God, for he
id cleanse out
that whatever

their parents,
he stock they
ay tame eggs,
will be sure to
d of a cat will
ire follows its
not blame our

Let us do our
/lighty Lord to
dren of prayer
raise ; mothers
their sons, will
• them. Some
id yei become
ike those new
ire let mothers
u long as tb«y

live. Are they away from you acvoss the sea? ,
Remember, the Lord is there as well as here.
Prodigals may wander, but they are never out ;
of sight of the Great Father, even though they
may be '< a great way off."

Let mothers labor to make home the happiest
place in the world. If they are always nagging
and grumbling they will lose their hold of their
children, and the boys will be tempted to spend
their evenings away from honif. Home is the
best place for boys and men, and a good
mother is the soul of home. The smile of a
mother's face has enticed many into the right
path, and the fear of bringing a tear into her
eye has called off many a man from evil ways.
The boy may have a heart of iron, but his
mother can hold him like a magnet. The devil
never reckons a man to be lost so long as he
has a good mother alive. O woman, great is
thy power! See to it that it be used for him
who thought of his mother even in the agonies
ofdeatli.

habit. There's nothing like coming out fair
and square, and standing free as the air. Plenty
will saddle you if they can catch you; don't
give them the ghost of a chance. A bird has
not got away as long as there is even a thread
tied to its leg.

"I've taken the pledge and I will not falter:
I m out in tlie tlelii aiid 1 oai ly no lialtor

1 III a lively nag that likes pleiitv of looiii.
bo I 111 not going down to the ' Horse ami G

Groom.' '

A HORSE WHICH CARRIES A HALTER
IS SOON CAUGHT.

With a few oats in a sieve the nag is tempted,
and the groom soon catches him if he has his
halter on; but tlie other horse, who has no rope
dangling from his head, gives master Bob a
sight of his heels, and away he scampers. To
my mind, a man who drinks a glass or two, and
goes now and then to the tap-room, is a horse
with his bridle on, and stands a fair chance of
being locked up in Sir Johsi Barleycorn's stables,
and made to carry Madame Drink and her

In other concerns it is much the same: you
can't get out of a bad way without leaving it
altogether, bag and baggage. Half-way will
never pay. One thing or the other: be and
out-and-outer, or else keep in altogetlier. Shut
up the shop and quit the trade if it is a bad one:
to close the front shutters and -ierve customers
at the back door is a silly attempt to cheat tlie
devil, and it will never answer. Such hide-and-
seek behavior shows that your conscience has
just enough light for you to read your own con-
demnation by it. Mind what you are at, don't
dodge like a rat,

1 am always afraid of the tail end of a habit.
A man who is always in debt will never be
cured till he has paid the last sixpence. When
a clock says "tick" once, it will say the same
again unless it is quite stopped. Harry Hig-
gins says he only owes for one week at the
grocer's, and I am as sure as quarter-day that
he will be over head and ears in debt before
long. I tell him to clean off the old score and
have done with it altogether. He says the
tradespeople like lo have him on their books,
but I am quite sure no man in his senses dishkes
ready monsy. I want him to give up the credit
system, for if he does not he will need to out-
run the constable.

Bad companions are to be left at once.
There's no use in shilly-shallying ; tliey must
be told that we would sooner have their room
than their company, and if they call again we
must start them off with a flea in each ear.
Somehow I can't get young fellows to come
right out from the black lot ; they tl.ink tliey
can play with fire and not be burned. Scrip-
ture says, " Ve fools, when will ye be wise ? '

.,,ir.. .R.. ,,,,1 -. u<u^, !:i;tiit ti :!y rur.T, -ili K WV.Qsi.
A day for belnjr, ami for making, fools ;
But, piay, wliat i-'ustoiii, or wlial rule, <iiii|iiks
A day for making, or for being, wise? "

J Nobody wants to keep a little measles ot u.

i %
I'

452

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES,

slight degree of fever. We all want to b^ quite
quit of disease ; and so let us try to be rid of
every evil habit. What wrong would it be right
for us to stick to? Don't let us tempt the devil
to tempt us. If we give Satan an inch, he will
take a mile. As long as we carry his halter he
counts us among his na<js. Off with the halter!
May the grace of God set us wholly free. Does
not Scripture say, " Come oUt from among
them, and be ye separate, and touch not the
unclean thing " ?

AN OLD FOX IS SHY OF A TRAP.

The old fox knows the trap of old. You
don't catch him so easily as you would a cub.
He looks sharp at the sharp teeth, and seems
to say,

" Hollo, my old chap,
I spy out your tra|>.
To-dav. will you fetch me?
Or wait till you catcli me?"

The cat asked the mice to supper, but only
the young ones would come to the feast, and
they never went home again. " Will you walk
into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly, and
the silly creature did walk in, and was soon as
dead as a door-nail.

What a many traps have been set for some
of us. Man-traps and woman-traps ; traps to
catch us by the eye, by the ear, by the throat,
and by the nose ; traps for the head and traps
for the iicart ; day traps, and night traps, and
traps for any time you like. The baits are of
all sorts, alive and dead, male and female, com-
mon and particular. We had newl be wiser

than foxes, or we shall soon hear the snap «i
the man-trap and feel its teeth.

Beware of begmnings : he who does not take
the first wrong step will not take the second.
Beware of drops, for the fellows who drink take
nothing but a " drop of beer," or " a drop toa
much." Drop your drop of grog. Beware of
him who says " Is it not a Httle one?" Little
sins are the eggs of great sorrows'. Beware of
lips smeared with honey: see how mmy flies
are caught with sweets. Beware of evil ques-
tions which raise needless doubts, and make it
hard for a man to trust his Maker. Beware of
a bad rich man who is very liberal to you ; he
will buy you first and sell you afterwards. Be-
ware of a dressy young woman, without a mind
or a heart ; you may be in a net before you can
say Jack Robinson.

" Pretty fools are no ways rare:
Wise meu will ol such beware."

Beware of the stone which you stumbled ovei
the last time you went that way. Beware of
the man who never bewares, and beware of the
man whonvGod has marked. Beware of writ
ing your name on the back of a bill, even
though your friend tells you ten times- over " it
is only a matter of form, you know." It is a
form which you had better " formally decline,"
as our schoolmaster says. If you want to be
chopped up, put your hand to a bill ; but if you
want to be secure never stand as security for
any living man, woman, child, youth, maiden,
cousin, brother, uncle, or mother-in-la.*. Be-
ware of trusting all your secrets with anybody
but your wife. Beware of a man w^o will lie,
a woman who tells tales out of school, a shop-
keeper who sends in his bill twice, and a gentle-
man who will make your fortune if you will find
him a few pounds. Beware of a mule's hind
foot, a dog's tooth, and a woman's tongue. Last
of all, beware of no man more than of yourself,
and take heed in this matter many ways, es-
pecially as to your talk. Five words cost
Zacharias forty weeks' silence. Many are sorry
they spoke, but few ever mourn that they held
their tongue.

" Who looks may leap, and save his shins from knockSi
Who tries may trust, or foulest treacliery llnd :

Hr S;t-.-rs iu3 nk-fu v.hu r.rcps :ii:ii isr.ticr itickr, ;
Who speaks wlili heed may Doldly speak his iiiliid.

" But lie wlioRP foiiKuo before Ills w!t doth run,
Oft sjioaUs too soon .ind grieves when he lias dona.
Full oft loose speech luitli \k\mm\ men faut in uaia<
Bewara ol taking from Uiy iiouj{u« the rein."

sar the snap vt

10 does not take
ike tlie second,
> who drink take
or "a drop to«
og. Beware of
; one?" Little
A's. Beware of
how ininy flies
re of evil ques-
ts, and make it
:er. Beware of
eral to you ; he
fierwards. Be-
, without a mind
t before you can

rare:
jwure."

Li stumbled ovei
y. Beware of
d beware of the
Beware of writ,
of a bill, even
1 times- over "it
mow." It is a
mally decline,"
you want to be

bill ; but if you
, as security for

youth, maiden,
ler-in-la-.*. Be-
s with anybody
an w^o will lie,

school, a shop-
:e, and a gentle-
eif you will find
f a mule's hind
n's tongue. Last
;han of yourself,
nany ways, es-
ve words cost

Many are sorry
[1 that they held

ilnHfrom knocks,
leliery find ;
Linticr i<ic:;r> :
speak his iniud.

dotli nil),
en he lias dona,
en taut in (iaUi,
.oe rein."

JOff.V PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

453

HE LOOKS ONE WAY. AND PULLS THE
OTHER.

He faces the shore, but he is pulling for the
ship : this is the way of those who row in boats,
and also of a great many who never trust them-
selves on the water. The boatman is all right,
but the hypocrite is all wrong, whatever rites
he may practise. I cannot endure Mr. Facing-
both-ways, yet he has swaims of cousins.

It is ill to be a saint without and a devil
within, to be a servant of Christ before the
world in order to serve the ends of self and the
devil, while inwardly the heart hates all good
things. There are good and bad of all classes,
and hypocrites can be found among plough-
men as well as among parsons. It used to be
so in the olden times, for I remember an old
verse which draws out just such a character :
die man says, —

•* I'll liave a religion all of my own,
Wlietlier Papist or Protestant shall not be known :
Ana If It proves troublesome 1 will liave none."

In our Lord's day many followed him, but it
was only for the loaves and fishes : they do say j
that some in our i^.il, .-;on't go quite so'
straight as the Jf vr di. , for they go to the!
cluuch for the loa.cs, r. !(/ then go over to the '
Baptist c'lape! for h j n- ! es. I don't want to
judge, but I certa,.iiv do know some who, if ,

thou t\f\ nnf r jm -iiii/^K fr»«. r^i^U n^u- ..1...... e-y

. — ..^... ..i„ ...^ r,j^ atrrajs lui-

lowing after charity.

Better die t!;an sell your soul to the highest
bidder. Btttcr be shut up in the workhouse
than fatten upon hypocrisy. Whauver else

we barter, let us never try to turn a penny by
religion, for hypocrisy is the meanest vice a
man can come to.

It is a base thing to call yourself Christ's
horse and yet carry the devil's saddle. The
worst kind of wolf is tliat which wears a siieep's
skin. Jezebel was never so ugly as when she
had finished painting her face. Above all
things, then, brother laborers, let us be straight
as an arrow, and true as a die, and never let
us be time-servers, or turn-coats. Never let
us carry two faces under one hat, nor blow hot
and cold with the same breath.

STICK TO IT AND DO IT.

Set a stout heart to a stiff hill, and the
wagon will get to the top of it. There's noth-
ing so hard but a harder thing will get through
it ; a strong job can be managed by a strong
resolution. Have at it and have it. Stick to
it and succeed. Till a thing is done men won-
der that you think it can be done, and when
you have done it they wonder it was never
done before.

In my picture the wagon is drawn by two
horses; but I would have evpiy man who
wants to make his way in life pull as if all de-
pended on himself. Very little is done right
when it is left to other people. The more
hands to do work the less there is done. One
man will carry two pails of water for himself;
two men will only carry one pail between them,
and tluee will come home with never a drop at
all. A child with several mothers will die be-

4fi4

JOmWLOUOHMAN^S PICTURBS.

;■ 'IS

fere it runs alone. Know your business «tnd
give your mind to it, and you will find a but-
tered loaf where a sluggard loses his last crust.
In these times it's no use being a farmer if
you don't mean work. T'le days are gone by
for gentlemen to make a fortune off of a farm
by going out shooting half their time. If for-
eign wheats keep on coming in, farmers will
soon learn that —

" He wlio by the plough would thrive,
UiniseK muse either hold ur drive."

Going to Australia is of no use to a man if he
carries a set of lazy bones with him. There's
a living to be got in old England at almost any
trade if a fellow will give his mind to it. A
man who works hard and has his health and
strength is a great deal happier than my lord
Tom Noddy, who does nothing and is always
ailing. Do you know the old song of "The
Nobleman' s ge nerous kindness ' ' ? You should
hear our Will sing it. I recollect some of the
verses. The first one gives a picture of the
hard-working laborer with a large family —

" Thus careful .-ind eoiistant, each morning he went,
Unto his day labor with joy iiiiil content;
So Jouiiiar and Juiiy lieM whistle and sing,
As blithe and as biUli us the birds in the spring."

The other lines are the ploughman's own story
of hov.' he spent his life, and I wish that all
countrymen could say the same.

"I reap and I mow, I hariow and I sow,
Sometimes a hedging and dilchlng 1 go;
No wurlE comes amiss, for I tiirivsn and I plough,
Thus my bread I do earn by liie sweat of my brow

"My wife she is wiilint? to pull in a yoke,
We live 111(0 two lambs nor cacli oilier provoke;
Wrt both of us strive, like the laboring ant.
And do our endeavois to keep us from want.

" And when I coma home from my labor at night,
To my wife and my children in wliom I drllght,
I see tlieni come lotiul me with prattling noise.
Mow tiiese are the i icbes a poor man enjoys.

"Thougii I am as weary as weary may be,
Tl»« yoniiKPst I commonly dance on my knee;
I llnd ill coiiluiit a cuiiliiiual toast.
And never repine at my lot in tiie least."

So, you see, the poor laborer may work hard
iud be happy all the same ; and surely those
who are in higher stations may do the like if
they liice.

He is a sorry dog who wants game and will
not hunt for it : let us never lie down in idle
despair, but follow on till we succeed.

Rome was not built in a day, nor much else,
tinleu it be a dog-kennel. Things which cost

no pains are slender gains. Where there hai
be^n little sweat there will be little sweet.
Jonah's gourd came up in a night, but then i*
perished in a night. Light come, light go:
that which flies in at one window will be likely
to fly out at another. It's a very lean haie
that hounds catch without running for it, and a
sheep that is no trouble to shear has very little
wool. For this reason a man who cannot push
on agajnst wind and weather stands a pooi
chance in this world.

Perseverance is the main thing in life. To
hold on, and hold out to the end, is the chief
matter. If the race co-ild be won by a spurt,
thousands would wear the blue ribbon ; but
they are short-winded, and pull up after the
first gallop. They begin with flying, and end
in crawling backwards. When i! comes to col-
lar work, inany horses turn to jibbing. If the
apples do not fall at the first shake of the tree
your hasty folks aie too lazy to fetch a ladder,
and in too much of a hurry to wait till the fruit
IS ripe enough to fall of itself. The hasty man
is as hot as fire at the outset, and as cold as ice
at the end. He is like the Irishman's saucepan,
which had many good points about it, but it
had no bottom. He who cannot bear the bur^
den and heat of the day is not worth his salt,
much less his potatoes. *

Before you begin a t'-.ing, make sure it is th%
right thing to do: ask Mr. Conscience about it.
Do not try to do what is impossible : ask Com-
mon Sense. It is of no use to blow against a
hurricane, or to fish for whales in a washing
tub. Better give up a foolish plan than go on
and burn your fingers with it : better bend your
neck than knock your forehead. But when you
have once made up your mind to go a certain
road, don't let every molehill turn you out of
the path. One stroke fells not an oak. Chop
away, axe, you'll down with the tree at last !
A bit of iron does not soften the moment you
put it into the fire. Blow, smith ! Put on
more coals ! Get it red-hot and hit hard with
the hammer, and you will make a ploughshare
yet. Steady does it. Hold on and you have
it. Brag is a fine fellow at crying "Tally-ho!"
but Perseverance brings home the brush.

V'e ought not to be put out of heart by diffi-
culties : they are sent on purpose to try the
stufif we are made of ; and depend upon it they
do us a world of good. There's a sound rea

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

455

ten why there are bones in our meat and stones
in our land. A world where everything was
easy would be a nursery for babies, but not at
all a fit place for men. Celery is not sweet till
it has felt a frost, and men don't come to their
perfection till disappointment has dropped a
half-hundred weight or two on their toes. Who
would know good horses if there were no heavy
loads.? If the clay was not stiff, my old Dap-
per and Violet would be thought no more of
than Tonikins' donkey. Besides, to work hard
for success makes us fit to bear it : we enjoy
the bacon all the more because we have got an
appetite by earning it. When prosperity
pounces on a man like an eagle, it often
throws him down. If we overtake the cart, it
is a fine thing to get up and ride ; but when it
comes behind us at a tearing rate, it is very apt
to knock us down and run over us, and when
we are lifted into it we find our kg is broken,
or our arm out of joint, and we cannot enjoy the
ride. Work is always healthier for us than idle-
ness; it is always better to wear out shoes than
sheets. I sometimes think, when I put on my
considering cap, that success in life is some-
thing like getting married : there's a very great
deal of pleasure in the courting, and it is not a
bad thing when it is a moderate time on the
road. Therefore, young man, learn to wait,
and work on. Don't throw away your rod, the
fish will bite some time or other. The cat
watches long at the hole, but catches the mouse
at last. The spider mends her broken web,
and the flies are taken before long. Stick to
your calling, plod on, and be content; for, make
sure, if you can undergo you shall overcome.

"nn.'il.l'J!' ''»"'■ Hjospeet'' tlon't sit sMll and cry,
But Jump up, and say to yourself, "I will tbv!"

Miracles will never cease ! My neighbor, Simon
Gripper, was taken generous about three
months ago. The story is well worth telling.
He saw a poor blind man, led by a little girl, i
playing on a fiddle. His heart was touched, for '
a wonder. He said to me, " Ploughman, lend
me a penny, there's a good fellow." I j
fumbled in my pocket, and found two halfpence, I
and handed tliem to him. More fool I, for he ■

will never nav mp acrain H» .>o../> »l,^ ui: I I

- ~n- "- i,— -' •••• t^!ii;vi ■

ftddler one of those halfpence, and kept the
other, and I have not seen either Gripper or my
penny since, nor shall I get the money back
till the gate-post outside my garden grows Rib-

stone pippins. There's generosity for you!
The old saying which is put at tlie top of this
bit of my talk brought \\.m in to my mind, for
he sticks to it most ceruinly ; he lives as badly
as a church mouse, and works as hard as if lie
was paid by the piece, and had twenty ciuldren
to keep ; but I would no more h(;ld him up for
an example than I would show a to- i as a
specimen of a pretty bird. While I «; ,k to you
young people about getting on, I djn't want
you to think that hoarding up money is real
success ; nor do I wish you to rise an inch
above an honest ploughman's lot, if it cannot
be done without b'ing mean or wicked. The
workhouse, prison as it is, is a world better
I than a mansion built by roguery and greed.
If you cannot get on honestly, be satisfied not
td get on. The blessing of God is riches
enough for a wise man, and all the world is not
enough for a fool. Old Gripper's notion of
how to prosper has, I dare say, a good deal of
truth in it. and the more's the pity. The Lord
deliver us from such a prospering. I say. that
old sinner has often hummed these lines into
my ears when we have got into an argument,
and very pretty lines they are not, certainly :_

"To will jiie prize In tlie world's great
A inaii sliould have a brazen face ■
All ion arm fo jilve a stroke,
And » liean as sturdy as an oak :
Eyes .Ikp a <af. good in llie dark,
And teotli as pierclnu as a shark ;
tills to hear the Kent lest sound,
A L'' '".'.'•'''' "!"* *»"••<>» In the uionnd;
A moulh as close iis patent lo<fs.
And stoniacli stronger than an ox :
II s tongue should tie a razoi-blade.
H s consileiice Indla-rrbber made :
H s blood as cold as polar Ice.
H s hand as grasping as a vice.
His shcuildi^rs sliould be adequate
To boar a couple thousand weight-
His legs, like pillars, flini ands^tro ib.
To move tic great machine along: "'
With siipjilp knees to cringe and crawl.
And cloven feet placed under all "

It amounts to this: be a devil in order to be
happy. Sell yourself outright to the old dragon,
and he will give you the world and the glory
thereof. But remember the question of tlie
Old Book, "What shall it profit a man. if he
gam the whole world, and lose his own soul?"
There is another road to success besides this
crooked, dirty, cut-throat lane. It is the King's
highway, of which the same I'ook says;
"Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his
righteousness ; and all these things shall be
added unto you." John Ploughman prays that
all his readers may choose this way, and keep
to it ; yet even in that way we muac use dili-

■•

' '^m4

456

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

gence. -for the kingdom of heaven suffereth
violence, and the violent take it by force."

DON'T PUT THE CART BEFORE THE
HORSE.

Nobody will ever take that fellow to be a
Solomon. He has no more sense than a suck-
ing turkey ; his wit will never kill him, but he
may die for want of it. One would think that
he does not know which side of himself goes
first, or which end should be uppermost, for he is
putting the cart before the horse. However, he
is not the only fool in the world, for nowadays
you can't shake your coat out of a window
without dusting an idiot. You have to ask
yourself what will be the next new piece of
foolery.

Amusing blunders will happen. Down at
our chapel we only have evening meetings on
moonlight nights, for some of our friends would
never find their way home down our Surrey
lanes of a dark night. It is a long lane that
has no turning, but ours have plenty of turn-
ings, and are quite as long as one likes them
when it is pitch dark, for the trees meet over
your head and won't let a star peep through.
What did our old clerk do the other Sunday
but give notice that there would be no moon
next Wednesday night in consequence of there
being no- service. He put the cart before the
htH^e that time. So it was with the young nar-
son. of very fine ideas, who tried to make us
paar. clod-hoppers see the wisdom of Provi-
dence in making the great rivers run near the
large towns, while our village had a small

brock to suit the size of it. We had a quiet
laugh at the good man as we walked home
through the corn, and we wondered why it
never occurred to him that the Tiiames was in
its bed long before London was up, and our
tiny stream ran through its winding ways long
before a cottager dipped his pail into it.

Dick Widgeon had a married daughter who
brought her husband as pretty a baby as one
might wish to see. When it was born, a neigh-
bor asked the old man whether it was a boy or
a girl. "Dear, dear," said Dick, •■ here's a
a kettle of fish ! I'm either a grandfather or a
grandmother, and I'm sure I don't know
which." Dick says his mother was an Irish-
man, but I do not believe it.

All this is fun, but some of this blundering
leads to mischief. Lazy fellows ruin their
trade, and then say that bad trade ruined
them.

Some fellows talk at random, as if they lived
in a world turned upside down, for they always
put things the wrong side up. A serving-man
lost his situation through his drunken ways ;
and. as he could get ^o character, he charged
his old master with being his ruin.

" Robert complained the other day
His master took his character away:
v,>*t*f*! y^*}'' C'afacter,' said he, 'no fear,
Not for a thousand pounds a year.'"

The man was his own downfall, and now he
blames those who speak the truth about him.
"He mistakes the effect for the cause." as our
old school-master says, and blames the bucket
for the faults of the well.

The other day a fellow said to me, " Don't
you think Jones is a lucky chap?" "No."
said I, " I think he is a hard-working man, arid
gets on because he deserves it." "Ah." was
the man's answer, " don't tell me; he has got
a good trade, and a capital shop, and a fair
capital, and I don't wonder that he makes
money." Bless the man's heart ; Jones bega«
with nothing, in a little, poking shop, and all he
has was scraped together by hard labor and
careful saving. The sliop would never have
kept him if he had not kept the shop, and he
would have had no trade if he had not been a

(rood trnHpQman • K,»* ,K^...> :*»_ . ,, .

j some people will never allow that thrift and
I temperance lead to thriving and comfort, for
j this would condemn themselves. So to quiet

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

theii consciences they put the cart before the
horse.

457

can have gone. This is the fashion in whit!.
A very bad case of puttii. ,l,e ci.t h.f„ - TV^ '''''°"!'^ '"^" ''"' '"'»'' P"°'= "'^y '^""'t
the horse is when a drink^^^ d .," ' lU T'" °' '"' ^'"'^'' ^"^ ^° ^''^^ ''-» "«

■f la- ha.l been kept out of tit ^''"tr' T""^' '° 1^"' '" »''« ^ank. You cannot fii.
beer, though thaH tl tL ^ w tl ' i ^ '''"^^^^^^^^ '*'> not catch , he

people totlfeir last hlc t C ^r^" a J his ^ '"'""'^ '"'^' ^"'^ ^ ^""""^ '"-'
a strong constitution, and so 1 L c^n standi! ' t^l ''"''^n" ""'^^'^ ^'^'"' ''' "" '" ^^^" «"
effect, of drink bet cr thTn noT T-u^ h V" ''" ^'^^ ^"" ^^^'^ in .he k.tchen.

^o..ss.,,wasthedrin;t;;;cnL:rS C:Z.;t^ ^' '"^ ^"^"-

constuul.on. When an old soldier comes alive : no more If ,. ^ '""" ''^" '° """^

out ot battle, do we think that the ,\ZTJi 1 i - ""^'^ ''^''" '°°' "'^''^ »^«= '*o

shell saved his life? VvL„ t L ^itu ^' dr f '" " ^""'- «°'»^""- the woman

man who is so strong tha 1 L can be a ^ e.! ' t-, " '" t' '""'^ ''"'^ «^'^ '" ''^•'^' '« ">«

drinker and still seen^itt.te worse we ^u ^^i^'^^^^^^^ 'w, ' '', ^'" ^"" '^ ^'^ '«''« ^o

not say that he owes his stren.,h ,„ ,uT i ^ ''^" *''^ e^*^'^ ''''"'^^ ^'^ ^ecp as

oxen. 1,. ""'c. men iney talk about savmg.

putting the chimney pots where the foundation
should be. We do not save ourselves and then
trust the Saviour; but when the Saviour has
worked salvation in us, then we work it out
with fear and trembling. Be sure, good reader
that you put faith first, and works afterwards'

— — ... v..v;r Eti near
the bottom. It is well to follow the good old
rule : —

" Spend so as you may
Speiia for nmuy a day."

tnat you put faith first, and works afterwards; He who eats all the loaf at breakfast m;,v
for .f not. you will put the cart before the l^'.istle for his dinner, and get a dlTotm^^^^^^

If we do not save while we have it. we cer-
tamly shall not save after all is gone. There is
no grace in waste. Economy is a duty • ex-
travagance is a sin. The old Book s'aith.
" He that hasteth to be rich shall not be inno-
cent, and. depend upon it. he that hasteth to
be poor is in much the same box. Stretch
your legs according to the length of your
blanket, and never spend all that you have :

"Put a little by;
Tilings may go awry."

It will help to keep you from anxious care.—
which IS sinful, if you take honest care.— whick
IS commendable. Lay up when young, and
you shall find when old ; but do not this greed-
ily or selfishly, or God may send a curse o.
your store. Money is not a comfort by itselt
for they said in the olden time—

"Tlipy wlio Iiave ninnpv are t-"" h'i-1 aKi^.f it
And II,., ,,l,„ ta,e nii'.n-iSJwM'l'itt, It -

A LEAKING TAP IS A GRFAT WA^-rpo

III

458

J6HM PIOVOMMaN'S PlCWRSS.

up a bone which he does not want, and it
IS said of wolves that they gnaw not the
bones till the morrow ; but many of our work-
mg men are without thrift or forethouj^ht, and.
like chiltlrcn, they will eat all the cake at once if
they can. When a frost comes they are poor
frozen-out gardeners, and ask for charity, when
they ought to have laid up for a snowy day.
I wonder they are not ashamed of themselves.
Those are three capital lines :—

" Earn all viui cin.
Save all vim can,
Olve all you can."

But our neighbor Scroggs acts on quite a
a different rule-of-three, and tries three other
cans:

"Eat all you can.
Drink all you can.
Spend all you can."

He can do more of all these than is canny;
it would be a good thing if !ie and the beer-can
were a good deal further apart.

I don't want any person to become a screw,

>'■•

'ney, but I do
!i)ake better use
•Kough, I know;
•vjuandering it.
i woman who

or a hoarder, or a lover
wish our working men \
of what they get. It h
but some make it !< : l-
Solomon commends tho
"considereth a field and buyeth it: with the
fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard;"
'le also tells the sluggard to go to the ant,
and see how she stores for the winter. I am
told that ants of this sort do not live in Eng-
land, and I am afraid they don't; but my mas-
ter says he has seen them in France, and 1
think it would be a good idea to bring over
the breed. My old friend Tusser says,—

"III liushunilry drinkoth
Himself out of llooi ;
iimn\ hu.sl"ui''<'y tainketh
Of friend auu o( poor."

The more of such ^ood husbandry the merrier
for old England. Yo-j cannot burn your fag-
gots in autum.i and tlien stack them for the win-
ter; if you \\\nt du calf to become a cow, you
must not Ue in a hurry to eat neats' feet.
Monev once s^ient is like shot fired from a
gun, you can never call it back. No matter
how soi-.y >ou may be, the goldfinches, are out
of the- cjye, and they will not fly back for all
your crying. If a fellow gets into debt, it is
worse still, for that is a ditch in which many
•nd mud, but none catch fish. When all his

sugar is gone, a man's friends ire not often
I very sweet upon him. People who have noth-
ing are very apt to be thought worth nothing :
I mind, / don't say so, but a good many do.
Wrinkled purses make wrinkled faces, h has
been said that thc> laugh m< A who have least to
lose, and it may be so ; but I .lUi afraid that some
of them laugh on the wrong side of their faces.
Foolisl. spending buys a pennyworth of merry-
making, but it costs many a pound of sorrow.
The profligate sells his cow to buy a canary,
and boils down a bullock to get haJf-a-pint of
bad soup, and that he throws away as soon as
he has t.isted it. I should not care to spend
all my living to buy a mouldy repentance, yet
this is what many a prodigal has done, and
many more will do.

My friend, keep money in thy purse : •■ It
is one of Solomon's proverbs," said one; an-
other answered that it « as not there. " T'en,"
said Kit Lancaster, <• It might have been, and
if Solomon had ever known tlie miss of a shil-
ling he would have said it seven times over."
I think that he does say as much as this in
substance, if not in so many words, e j)ecially
when he talks about the ant ; bu; be that how
it may, be sure of this, that a pound in the
pocket is as good as a friend at court, and
rather better; and if ever you live to want
what you once wasted, it will fill you with woe
enough to last you to your grave. He who put
a pound of butter on a gridiron, not only lost
his butter, but made such a blaze as he won't
soon forget: foolish lavishness leads to dread-
ful wickedness, so John Ploughman begs
all His mates to fight shy of it, and post off to
the Post Office Savings' Bank.

" For age and want, save while you may :
No morning's sun iMts all the day^"

Money is not the chief thing, it is as far be-
low the Grace of God and faith in Christ as a
ploughed field is below the stars ; kut still, god-
liness hath the promise of the life that now is
as well as of that which is to come, and he
who is wise enough to seek first the kingdom
of God and his righteousness, should also be
wise enough to use aright the other things
which God is pleased to add unto him.

Somewhere or other I met with a set of mot-
toes about gold, which I copied out, and here
they are : I don't know who first pricked d^em
down, but like a great many of the things which

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PIC URBS.

459

ri'nds ire not often
i-ple who have notli-

ight worth nothing :
t a good many do.
nkled faces. U has
« ■>\ who have least to

am afraiil tliat some
J side of their faces,
nnyworth of merry-

a pound of sorrow,
w to buy a ciiiary,
to get hal^-a-pint of
)ws away av soon as
1 not care to spend
ildy repcntancr. yet
igal has done, and

in tli_\ purse ; " It
bs," said one; an-
ot there. "T'en,"
ight liave been, and
1 tlie miss of a shil-
seven times over."
as much as this in
y words, e ,)ecially
It ; bu; be that how
at a pound in the
iend at court, and
you live to want
ill fill you with woe
rave. He who put
diron, not only lost
I blaze as he won't
ess leads to dread-
Ploughman begs
F it, and post off to
k.

rhileyoumay;
,11 the day^"

ling, it is as far be-
faith in Christ as a
tars; but still, god-
he life that now is

to come, and he
c first the kingdom
is, should also be

the other things
unto him.
with a set of mot-
sied out, and here
first pricked ihem
}f the things which

are stuck togeli.crinmy books. I found them here
and there, and they are none of muie: at least,
I ' uinot . laim the freehold, but have them on
copyhold, which is a fair tenure. If the own-
eis of these odds and ends will call for them at
the house vhere thi. book is published they
may have thnn on paying a shilling for the
paj r they are done up in.

MOTTOES ABOUr GOLD.

A viilii niairs motto Is "\v|n gold and woar It "

A Ki:iifioii>i iiiiili M motto Is.. .•• will Kold am si,; « it "
A misoily mans motto |h . ■• win uol, h ! e t ••

A JMoniMte mans mott-,, l8....'' W li^^ U um ui ,, d t""

Abtti.koismotols "Win gold a lend It"

A Kamblei-!. m at.. Is •• win gold I we it ■•

A wise man s molto Is " \vi„ J, ml wp It

I crooked. He it the greatest fool of all who
pretends to explain everything, .md ihvs he
I will not believe what ho cannot understand.
There are bones in the nieat, but am 1 logo
hungry fill I can eat them? Must I nevercnjoy a
cherry nil I find one without a stone i" John
Ploughman is not of that mind, lie is under
no call to doubt, for he is not a doctor, wlien
people try to puzzle him he tells them that
those who made the lock had better make the
kc ' those who put the cow in the pound

'i cr get her out. Then they get cross,

;ii in only says— You need not be crusty,

foi J uu are none too much baked.

After all, what do we know jf all our know-
ing was put together? It would all go in a
thimble, and the girl's finger, too. A very
small book would hold most mens learning,
and evciy line would have a mistake in it.
Why, then, should we spend our lues in per-
plexity, tumbling about like pigs in a sack, and
wondering how we shall ever get out again ?
John knows enough to know that he does not
know enough to explain all that he knows, and
so he leaves the stools to the schools and the
other — ools.

FOOLS SET STOOLS FOR WISE MEN
TO STUMBLE OVER.

This is what they call " a lark." Fools set
set stools for wise men to stumble over. To
ask questions is as easy as kissing your hand ;
to answer them is hard as fattening a grey-
hound. Any fool can throw a stone into a deep
well, and the cleverest man in the parish may
never be able to get it up again. Folly grows
irj all countries, and fools are all the world
over, as he aid who shod the goose. Silly
people are pleased with their own nonsense,
and think it rare fun to quiz their betters! To
catch a wise man tripping is as good as bowl-
ing a fellow out at a cricket-match.

"m."">' '" wise In hfii' own eyes,
Therefoie she tries Wit to surprise."

"There are difficulties in everything except in
eating pancakes, and nobody ought to be ex-
pected to untie all the knots in a net, or to
make that straight which God has made

A MAN IN A PASSION RIDES A HORSE
THAT RUNS AWAY WITH HIM.
When passion has run away with a man,
who knows where it will carry him ? Once
let a rider lose power over his horse, and he
may go over hedge and ditch, and end with
a tumble into the stone-quarry and a broken
neck. No one can tell in cold blood what he
may do when he gets angry ; therefore it is
best to run no risks. Those who feel %\uax

ii II

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480

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

V t

I *

tii -1 s

temper rising will be wise If they rise them-
selves ami walk off to the pump. Let them
till their mouths with cold water, hold it there
ten minutes at the least, and then go indoors,
.ind keep there till they feel cool as a cucum-
ber. If you carry loose gunpowder in your
pocket, you had better not go where sparks
are flying ; and if you are bothered with an ir-
ritable nature, you should move off when folks
begin teasing you. belter keep out of a quar-
rel than fight your way through it.

Nothing IS improved by anger unless it be the
«rch of a cats back. A man with his back up
is spoiling his figure. People look none the
handsomer for being red in the face. It takes
a great deal out of a man to get into a towering
rage; it is almost as unhealthy as having a fit,
and time has been when men have actually
choked themselves with passion, and died on
the spot. Whatever wrong I suffer, it cannot
do me half so much hurt as being angry about
it ; for passion shortens life and poisons peace.
When once we give way to temper, temper
will claim a right of way. and come in easier
every time. He that will be in a pet for any
httle tiling will soon be out at elbows about noth-
ing at all. A thunder-storm curdles the milk,
and so does a passion sour the heart and spoil
the character.

He who is in a tantrum shuts his eyes and
opens his mouth, and very soon says what he
will be sorry for. Better bite your hps now
than smart for life. It is easier to keep a bull
out of a china shop than it is to get him out
again ; and, besides, there's no end of a bill to
pay for damages.

A man burning with anger carries amurderer
inside his waistcoat ; the sooner he can cool
down the better for himself and all around him.
He will have to give an account for his feelings
as well as for his words and actions, and that
account will cost him many tears. It is a cruel
thing to tease quick-tempered people, for,
though it may be sport to you, it is death to
them , at least, it is death to their peace, and
maybe something worse. We know who said,
"Woe to that man by whom the offence cometh. "
Shun a furious man as you would a mad dog,
but do it kindly, or you may make him worse

mischief. A surly soul is sure to quarrel ; be

says the cat will break his heart, and the

coal scuttle will be the death of him.

"A man In a ntge
Needs a Kreat Iron cage.
He'll te;iraii(t he'll Ua.sh
Till he conic8 to a sinasli ;
So let's out of hl<i way
As quick as we nmy.'*

As we quietly move off let us pray for thean-
; gry person ; for a man in a thorough passion is
I as sad a sight as to see a neighbor's house on
I fire and no water handy to put out the flames.
; Let us wish the fellow on the runaway horse
a soft ditch to tumble in, and sense enough
never to get on the creature's back again.

J — .!>. ..!.,!,», „,;. i^uii I pill a man out wnen
you know he is out with himself. When his
moake/ is up be very careful, for Ixe means

WHERE THE PLOUGH SHALL

FAIL TO GO, THERE THE WEEDS WILL

SURELY GROW.

In my young days farmers used to leave
j broad headlands; and, as there were plenty of
good-for-nothing hedges and ditches, they
raised a prime crop of weeds, and these used to
sow the farm, and give a heap of trouble. Then
Farmer Numskull " never could make out no-
how where all they there weeds could 'a come
from." In those good old times, as stupids
called them, old Tusser said;

" 9.',"*'* "**«•■ thy weedliiR for dear or for chean
The corn shall reward it when harveS ye re,&."

He liked to see weeding done just after rain,
no bad judge either. He said, ,

" X!!?" »"«"• »hf>wer, to wpedlnga finatPh
lis more easy than the root to^Mpatch.''

j Weedmg is wanted now, for ill weeds grow

apace, and the hoe must always go ; but stili

I Unds are a ^- sight cleaner than tney usmI

JOKN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES.

to be. for now fanners go a deal closer to I
work. .i„ci grub up the hedges, and make large
fields, to save every bit o. land. Quite right.

for°us an" '" *^''*'* """ '"°''* """* "

It would be well to do the same thing in
other concerns. Depend upon it. weeds will
come wherever you give them half a chance.
When children have no school to go to ♦hey
will pretty soon be up to mischief; and if they
are not taught the gospol. the old enemy will
soon teach them to thieve, and lie. and swear.
You can tell with your eyes shut where there's
a school and where there's none : only use your
eare and hear the young ones talk.

So far goes the plough and where that
leaves off the docks and the thistles begin, as
sure as d.rt comes where there's no wasbipff.
and m.ce where there are no cats. They tell
me that in London and other big towns vice and
cnme are sure to spread where there are
no ragged schools and Sunday schools ;
and 1 don t wonder. I hope the day will
never come when good people will give
up teachmg the boys and girls. Keep That
pough going say 1. till you have cut up

for the devil to sow his tares in. In my young
time few people m our parish could either read
or write, and what were they to do but gossip,
and dnnk and fight, and play old gooseberry ?
Now hat teachmg is to be had, people will ali
be scholars, and. as they can buy a Testament
tor a penny. I hope they will search the Script-
ures, and may God bless the word tothecleans-
mg of thcr souls. When the schoclmaster
gets to his work in downright earnest. I hope
and trust there will be a wonderful clearance
ot the weeus.

The best plough in all the world is the preach-

Chnst crucified, and it soon becomes a great

bramble ; but when sound and sensible preach-
ing comes, it tears all up like a steam plouL-h
and the change in sojnethine to sin. .u^,^.
^he desert shall rejoice and blossom as the

Inside a man's heart there is uecd of a thor-

461

ough ploughing by God's grace, for if any part
of our nature i, left to itself, the weeds o.' sin
will smother the soul. Every day we have need
to bf looked after, for follies grow in no time,
and come to a great head before you can count
twenty. God speed the plough.

ALL IS LOST THAT IS POURED INTO A
CRACKED DISH.
Cook is wasting her precious liquor, for ft
runs out almost as fast as it runs in. The
sooner she stops that game the better. This
makes me think of u good deal of preaching ;
It is labor in vain, because it does not stay in
the minds of the hearers, but goes in at one ear
and out at the other. When men go to market
they are all alive to do a trade, but in a place
of worship they are not more than half awake,
and do not seem to care whether they profit
or not by what they hear. I once >ieard a
preacher say, •■ Half of you are asleep, half

are inattentive, and the rest ." He never

finished that sentence, for the people began to
smile, and here and there one burst out laugh-
ing. Certainly, many only go to meeting f
stare about. *

" *T f !!f' ''*"■"■ cli'irch. thp pamon cries.

iDcl uioli each fall omh Koes-
The old ones ro to olosp th.Hr eves.
The young to eye thoir clothes"

You might as well preach to tlie stone images

•n the old church as to the people who are

asleep. Some old fellows come into our meet-

•ng. pitch into their corner, and settle them-

.7"7= ""'^^ ''^^r ^ quiet snooze as knowingly as

If t he pew was a sleeping-car on the railway.

Mill, all the sleeping at service is not the fault

of the poor people, for some parsons put a lot

Jit

462

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PIOTURBS.

of sleeping stuff into their sermons. Will Stiep-
herd says they mesmefite x\\t people. (I think
that is the right word, but I'm not sure.) I
saw a verse in a real live book by Mr. Cheales,
the vicar of Brockham, a place which is handy
to my home. I'll give it you :

"The ladles pralm our ourittu's eyea.
I never <ee their llfflit tllvtiie,
For when he prayx he cliMtfi them,
And when he preaches closes mine."

JVell, if curates are heavy in style, the people
will soon be heavy in sleep. Even when hearers
are awake many of them are forgetful. It is
like pouring a jug of ale between the bars of a
gridiron, to try and teach them good doctrine.
Water on a duck's back does have some effect,
but sermons by the hundred are as much lost
upon many men's hearts as if tliey had been
s^iuken to a kennel of hounds. Preaching to
some fellows is like whipping the water or lash-
ing the air. As well talk to a turnip, or whis-
tle to a dead donkey, as preach to these dull
ears. A year's sennons will not produce an
hour's repentance till the grace of God comes
in.

We have a good many hangers on who think
that their duty to God consists in hearing ser-
mons, and that the best fruit of their hearing is
to talk of what they have heard. How they
do lay the law down when they get argifying
about doctrines ! Their religion all runs to ear
and tongue : neither their heart nor their hand
is a scrap the better. This is poor work, and
will never pay the piper. The sermon which
only gets as far as the ear is like a dinner eaten
in a dream. It is ill to lie soaking in the gos-
pel like a bit of coal in a milk-pan. never the
whiter for it all.

What can be the good of being hearers
only ? It disappoints the poor preacher, and it
brings no blessing to the man himself. Look-
ing at a plum won't sweeten your mouth, star-
ing at a coat won't cover your back, and lying
on the bank won't catch the fish in the river.
The cracked dish is never the better fok- all
that is poured into it: if is like our forgetful
heart, it wants to be taken away, and a new
one put instead of it.

SCATTER AND INCREASE.

People will not believe it, and yet it is true
at the gospel, that giving liiAi to tliriving.
lehn Bunyan said.

'There was a man, and some did eouni him nuML
The more he gave away, the more he had."

He had an old saying to back Inm, one which

is as old as the hills, and as good as gold

<*• Give and «i)end
AiidUodwIllHend."

If a man cannot pay his debts he must not
think of giving, for he has notiiing of his own,
and it is thieving to give away other people's
property. Be just before you are generous.
Don't give to Peter what is due to Paul. They
used to say that "Give " is dead, and " Re-
store" is buried, but I do not believe if any
more than I do another saying, "There nre
only two good men, one is dead, and the other
is not born." No, no: there are many (ree
hearts yet about, and John Ploughman '.:.-.d\vs
a goodish few of them— people who don't cry,
"Go next door," but who say, " Here's a little
help, and we wish we could make it ten times
as much." God has often a great share in a
small house, and many a Httle man has a large
heart.

Now, you will find that liberal people are
happy people, and get nsore enjoyment out of
what they have than folks of a churiish mind.
Misers never rest till they are put to bed with
a shovel : they often get so wretched that they
would hang themselves, only they grudge the
expense of a rope. Generous souls are
made happy by the happiness of others : the
money they give to the poor buys them more
pleasure than any oth^r that thev lav n;;*,

I have seen men of means give coppers, and
they have been coppery in everything. They
carried on a tin-pot business, lived like be^.

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PIOTURBS.

gars, and died like dogs I have seen others
give to the poor and to the cause of God by
shovcKuls and they have had it back by bar-
row-loads. They made good use of their stew-
ardship. and tlic great Lord has trusted them
with more, while the bells in their hearts have
rung out merry peals when fliey h ive thought
of widows who blessed tl.em. and orphan
children who smiled into iheir faces. Ah me
tliat there should be cr.-aturcs in the shape of
men whose souls are of no use except as salt
iokecp their bodies from rotting! Please k-t
us forget them, for it makes me feci right down
sick to think of their nasty ways. Let us see
what we can do to scatter joy all around us.
just as the ^un throws his light on hill and dale,
m that gives God his heart will not deny him
his money. He will take a pleasure in giving,
but he will not wish to be seen, nor will he ex-
pect to have a pound of honor for sixpence.
He will look out for worthy objects; for giving
to lazy, drunken ^•Jendthrifts is wasteful and
wicked : you might as well sugar a brickbat
and thmk to turn it into a pudding. A wise
man will go to work in a sensible way. and
will so give his money to the poor that he will
be lending it to the Lord. No security can
be better and no interest can be surer The
Bank is open at all hours. It is the best Sav-
ings' Uank in the nation. There is an office
open at the Boys' and Girls' Orphanage. Stock-
Will. London. Draw your cheques or send
your orders to C. H. Spurgeon. There will
soon be five hundred mouths lo fill and backs
to cover. Take shares in this company. John
Ploughman wishes he could do more for it

468

are the gillyflowers in the front garden ; bur
best of all is tlve good wife within, who keep
all as neat as a new pin. Frenchmen may live
in their coffee-houses, but an Englishman's best
life is seen at home.

EVERY BIRD LIKES ITS OWN NEST.

It pleases me to see how fond the birds are
of their little homes. No doubt each one thinks
hi. own nest is the very best ; and so it is for
him, just as my home is ihe best palace forme
even for me King John, tl e king of the Cottage
of Content. I will ask no more if providence
only continues to give me—

A Iltfl.' house well ftiied.
Ami ii litiio wife well willed."

An Englishman's hn«^ is his castlc, and the
^ue Bnton is always fond of the old roof-tree
Green grows the house-leek on the thatch, and
sweet 13 the honey-sMckJ* at the porch, and dear

' J'^P'*'? house, thouKh small.
Is the best house of Sll," '

When boys get tired of eating tarts, and maids

have done with winning hearts, and lawyers

cease to take their fees, and leaves leave ofT to

grow on trees, then will John Ploughman cease

to love his own dear home. John likes to hear

scie sweet voice sing—

"»I?i'?«^'f^"'".?* 'I!? palaces though we may rnam
* Jk **«' /o humble, theieN no ulftoe like 1inm«™'
A.Ef»f>n '«•«"" the sky seems to IiXwuh there '
« hich. wherever we'rove, Is not met with els^*wherfc

"5,*""*.' Home I sweet, sweet home I
There's no place like home! "

People who take no pleasure in their own homes
are queer folks, and no better than they should
be. Every dog is a lion at his own door, and a
man should make most of those who make
r-iost of him. Women should be house-keepen
and keep in the house. That man is to be pitied
who has married one of the Miss Gadabouts,
Mrs. Cackle and her friend Mrs. Dressemout
are enough to drive their husbands into the
county jail for shelter: there can be no peace
where such a piece of goods as either of them
>8 to be found. Old Tusser said—

"Illhiiswlferynrlcketh
Hftrseirun with nri<i.>-

OtMoi huBwifery tricketh
Her house at a brl4«,

* u,'..'ll"'*''<"7 movefh
WthBORslntosMndi
Qp<Ml hiwwifery loveth
Ber lioui<«Uotd to t9»4 "

1 '

r ^11

¥ 11

464

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PIOTURBS.

'I'he woman whose husband wastes his even-
ings with low fellows at the beerrshop is as bsdly
nil as a slave ; and when the Act of Parliament
shuts up most of thesr ruin-houses, it will be an
Act of Emancipation for her. Good husbands
cannot have too much of their homes, and if
their wives make their homes comfortable they
will soon grow proud of them. When good
fathers get among their children they are as
merry as mice in malt. Our Joe Scroggs says
he's tired of his house, and the house certainly
looks tired of him, for it is all out of windows,
fc. nd would get out of doors if it knew how. He
will never be weary in well doing, for he never
began. Whn' a different fellow he would be if
he could believe that the best side of the world
is a man's own fireside. I know it is so, and so
do many more.

" Seek home for rest.
Fur liaine Is beat."

What can it be that so deludes lots of people
who ought to know better ? They have sweet
wives, and nice families, and comfortable
houses, and they are several cuts above us poor
country bumpkins, and yet they must be out of
an evening. What is it for ? Surely itcan't be
the company; for the society of the woman you
love, who is the mothc of your children, is
worth all the companies that ever met together.
I fear they are away soaking their clay, and
washing all their wits away. If so, it is a great
shame, and those who are guilty of it ought to
be trounced. O that drink ! that drink !

Dear, dear, what stuff people will pour into
their insides ! Even if I had to be poisoned I
should like to know what I was swallowing. A
cup of tea at home does people a sight more
good than all the mixtures you get abroad.
There's nothing like the best home-brewed, and
there's no better mash-tub for making it in than
the old-fasiiioned earthenware teapot. Our little
children sing. •• Please, father, come home,"
and John Ploughman joins with thousands of
little children in that simple prayer which every
man who is a man sh6uld be glad to answer.
I like to see husband and wife longing to see
each other.

" An ear that waits to oatch,

A step tliat hastens its sweet rest to win:
A wnrlil of care witliout,
A world of strife ..tint out.

A nOria 01 luVo silUl ill."

Fellow workmen, try to let it be so with you
and your wives* Come home, and bring your

wages with you, and make yourselves happy by
making everyone happy around you.

My printer jogs my elbow, and says, " That
wid do ; I can't get any more in." Then, Mr.
Passmore, I must pass over many things, but I
cannot leave oflf without praising God for his
goodness to me and mine, and all my brother
ploughmen, for it is of his great mercy that he
lets us live in this dear eld country and loadsus
with so many benefits.

This bit of poetry shall be my finish : I mean
every word of it. Let us sing it together.

"What pleasant erovea, what goodly neldsl

What frtiltfulliills and vali-t liavJ wel
How sweit an air our climate yields!

How Ijifst with floclts and herds we be I
Bow milk and honey doth oeillow!

How dear and wholesome are our siinnnt
How safe from ravenous b«»asts wh ko!

And, oh, how free fioni poisonous things I

"''or thwe, and for our Rrass. our corn s
For all that spiinRS from blade or bough ;
For all those blessings that adorn,

Both wood and held, this kingdom through;
For all of these, thy praise we sing; "'™"»"«
_An<J humbly, Lord, entreat thee too,
TImt fruitlto thee we forth may bring.
As unto us thy creatures do.*'

GRASP ALL AND LOSE ALL.

While so many poor neighbors are around
us it is a sin to hoard. If we do we shall be
losers, for rats eat corn, rust cankers metal,
and the curse of God spoils riches. A tight
fist is apt to get the rheumatism, an open
hand bears the pa!m. It is good to give a
part to sweeten the rest. A great stack of hay
is apt to heat and take fire ; cut a piece out
and let the air in, and the rest will be safe.
What say you, Mr. Reader, to cut h few pounds
out of your heap, and send them to help feed
the orphans?

selves happy by

RULES OF ORDER

FOR

LYCEUMS, LITERARY SOCIETIES,

AND

VILLAGE ASSEMBLIES.

A^«o.o ,0H SPEAKER'S COMPLETE PEOGBAM ., ,.«. ,. ^,^ , .

ORGANIZATION.

rises and «»y. .. I „ove that Mr. or Mrs.

-act as Chairman."

Some one else rises and says. •• I «cond the

motion

The mover then says. "All in favor of the
«no.,o„. say. Aye.- Ayes are counted.

The mover then .ay,. ..^,1 oppo«d «iy.
No. The noes are counted.

Mi^'^M*'^" ''*''* * "^j^'^y- *'•* ™«^" says.

I call for the nomination of some one else '•
And so he continues to call and to put
mofons tUl a majority agrees upon some on.*!

and « 'ir*™'"*' *•* "y'' "**'•• "^ Mrs. so
ta'e:j;£.^.?^"°"'*-<*"P<'")>^"' Please

The penson selected will take the chair, n^y a
brief word as to the honor conferred, and the I
o^ec of the assembly, and then Conclude
zi i '"■^" '° ^"'^" "'"P'«'« 'he organi' '
Secre" «y!"°'°" " *" °'***' '°' *»'•' «•*«-" "^ »

m,„nr f "*'''* '"'°''«"»' e««P' those of

onded/trcH "* "°* "^'^ *« "^ P"' »"• «c.
Z 11 *'""'" *'" "y- ■' *" in favor of

the mofon say, aye." He wiil count the ayes.
Then he w.ll say. "All opposed say. „o."
He will count the noes.

..Mr^'"^^"''"^ '"*^°'' '•'' "'°"°"' he will say.
Mr. or Mrs has Iv^n .w.-^ o ^'

He.^or she will p,ea«, uke the ^creta^;.
28

^at their favorite be elected Secretary. lut

moHo T °^"'* *=''»'' toentertainill,^"
mouons. tUl «ti.fied that they are at an end

If «rri"edT' '' '• *'" P"' "" «« ™o"o"-
If no? ^" V"'^' ^* """er motion, fail.

SXl:!"'"'™" ''"''"«''»--•« that

Sefreurv'rr"'' "''*""''''• " Chairman and
^cretary . or Secretaries, are all that is required.
But for an OTiani«tion that is expecteJ to ^
pe manen. for a season, or for years'^.nd wtre

Thlre^l 1 r X'cVaf "" "^ "^""*''-
a collector - . V'"-Chairman or president,
a collector, a treasurer, a door-keeper Ac

S* dowl .^ T "^ "'^°'*" '" 'he manner
tary But it would be best to postpone their

or W t °^'^' '"^ character of the society

work of permanent organiwiion. If ,he bv-
laws have been passed and prescribe .he ele -
Tw! iTT"*"' """"^ •'y hallot. it would

And even if it be desirable to go on with
permanent organization before the c'onstLIn

SesttoetT^H * '^" *'*'P''*'' "-""'d be
best to elect the permanent offir^r, K :..:_^

nominauon. and using the ballot. "'But «Z

When the tempor^y or popular meeting

4«»

># r

m i

RULES OF ORDER.

hM been oixaniied. u above, by the election
of a Chairman and Secretary, or Secretaries,
( Political meetings generally announce a long
lift of Vice-Preiidentf and lecretaries as hon-
orary selections ) the Chairman should say { a
Chairman should always rise when he makes a
proposition or motion ) " What is the further
pleasure of this meeting ? "

Here it is proper for some one to rise and say,
" Mr. Chairman I move that a Committee of
three (or five— the number is arbitrary, but
should not be too large) be appointed by the
Chair to draft resolutions expressive of the
sense of this meeting.

It must be understood that Resoluliom aiXt
the usual means of making known the wishes
of an assembly, or of effecting a temporary gov-
ernment, where such assembly is a public and
popular one, as the political meeting, the indig-
nation meeting, the meeting in honor of some
distinguished person, or of condolence over a
death, the meeting looking to a permanent or-
ganisation for a special object, &c.

The resolutions, in such cases, have gener-
ally been prepared beforehand by those who
have consulted together and have called the
meeting, and they have been entrusted to the
keeping of the one who, by previous under-
standing, would make the above motion.

The Chairman should rise, recognize the
Mover, by mentioning his name, hear the
motion, see that it is seconded, repeat it to the
assembly, and then say, "Are you ready for
the question ? "

If there is no discussion, he puts the ques-
tion in the usual way, by saying, "All in favor
of the motion say aye." " Contrary, No 1 "

If carried, the Chairman appoints the Com-
mittee, naming the mover of the motion as the
first one on the Committee, who thus becomes
its Chairman.

The oldest and best parliamentary usage re-
quires that the mover of a motion to appoint a
Committee shall be the first on the Committee,
and that the first appointed on a Committee
shall be its Chairman.

If the above motion has been lost, the Ciiair-
man shall announce it as lost, and ask, •• what
is the further pleasure of the meeting ? " This
will brine up another line of procedure,
- Jt is usual for the above Committee to retire
for a few moments to read over and adopt the

resolutions, if they are already prepared, or to
prepare resolutions, if not previously done.
While they are gone, the Chairman may an-
nounce the business of the assembly as sus-
pended till the Committee is ready to report,
but it is better for him, in order to hold the as-
sembly together, to say that the interval affords
an opportunity for a general expression of views,
and to call upon some one, whom he knows to
be in sympathy with the object of the meeting,
to entertain it. But if there is any regular busi-
ness that can go on during the absence of the
Committee, it should be attended to.

When the Committee is ready to report, its
Chairman announces the fact to the Chairman
of the Assembly, by saying. •• Mr. Chairman,
your Committee have agreed upon a series of
resolutions and beg leave to report them." So
saying, he passes the resolutions to the Chair-
man or Secretary.

The Chairman of the Assembly asks the Sec-
retary to read them, which he does. If the
handwriting is unfamiliar to the Secretary, the
Chairman should relieve him, by calling on the
writer of the resolutions to read them, for much
depends on a good reading of resolutions.

After the reading, the Chairman says, •• You
have heard the resolutions, what is your pleas-
ure respecting them, " or " what action will the
assembly take upon them ? "

Then some one rises and says, " Mr. Chair-
man I move the resolutions (or the report of the
Committee) be adopted." When the motion
has been seconded, the Chairman says, •• Is
the meeting (or assembly ; or are you) ready
for the question ? "

Debate would now be in order. And at this
point the object of the meeting is best met by a
full expression of views, whicb the chairman
should solicit, and give opportunity for.

When debate has been had upon the resolu-
tions, and has ended, the Chairman puts the
question in the usual way. If carried, the reso-
lutions become the voice of the Assembly, and
the Committee stands discharged.

The resolutions may have been modified by
amendments, or referred back to the Commit-
tee for change, all of which changes or modi-
fications, if made by amendments in open as-

„.., in«3i Dc rc-s.-ogniica ana stated by the

Chairman, in the final motion to pass them.
If the object of the Assembly has now been

met. some on« moves to adjourn. The Chair-
man p„„ ,he motion in the u.u.I form aTd
then declare, the meeting adjourned

But a .peedier way to handle resolutious in
popular awemblie.. where .uch resolution, hi.
--'n prepared beforehand, ,„d where the *

tlu5 meeting. ,. for ,he one who ha. ehem in
charge ,„ .^ , ..^ ., ^^ chairma.,. I mo e

tin -"h T °^ •'' '""°"'"« "solution..- He
ther^read^them. or hand, them to the Secretary

After reading, they are open to debate, a,

ohSofT "'*'": 8'^"»""y accompli,he. the
Object of the meeting.

Jtt/LSS OF ORDSn.

467

PERMANENT SOCIETIES.

cielJ^!r h** '*''■''?' " '° ^"'^ * Permanent So.
ciety for busme... hterary entertainment scien-
ffic pursuit or plea,ure-in which rank fall Ly
ceums .ocial dub., institute,, and all a Lm
bhe. designed tc perpetuate them«Ive J!^^?e
prehmmary .tep. are the same as already «!
forth v.... a con.ultation among friend, of t^e
dSeV'^'Ir^ ""'"' that enemies e
a me^.n<; \",^ J"" ""^ ""^"^ °^ organization,
a meetmg at which a Chairman and Secretary
»h.II be elected the fir.t thing, and in the waj
.Jready.et forth. Thi. puts th'e meeHn^ under

wl,?\^^*'""*" *•"" ""» "Pon »ome one
whom he know, to be mo.t interested in "he
movement, or best qualified to it set forth to
•tate the object of the meeting. If the Ch^ir

tTliVn 'r ""°" "* •'"' '^^ <=»"<>d upon
to preside, he state, the object of the meeting

v?ews" bu? ^ ^ru"- °PP°«""''y '<> «ate thdr
V ews. but the Chairman should control the
::me and insist on brevity.

But it is best for the one making the state-
'"cn to conclude hi, remarks with a resJlutfon

of 'thin,?"' V ^*'»'^«^- ^hat it is the .en«

if Al. /T * ""** * ^'*"'*'>' "'''» b« formed
« thi. (cty. town or village) for the purpose of

(«ate the object) which staaU be known a. the
«ate the name), (but the name can be left to
^ the Committee on Constitution ) ' '

This resolution should be open to the widest
.debate, after it ha, has be«, «,conded.

It should then be voted upon and. if carried

he Chan-man appoint a Committee of three

better) to draft a Constitution and by-laws for
«uch a society as ha, been agreed u^n Tn . 1

report at the next meeting (or at an adjourned

man orat 'he present session) of this assembly -
This motion is debatable. If it pas«s. ihe

Cha,r shou d appoint the Committee, pllci g
^e mover first. A motion to adjourn will no5
be in order, unless the Committee's report i^
expected. Such motion should be mTwith

shoud include the time and place of next
"•eet-ng. A. such it i, debatable. But if ""J

cTjf trch°" '° '''^■°""' °' •" adjourn at I
Tlu. rh ^'''"™*"' ''^bate i, not in order.

At tL/„lr°''*'' °' "'^ ""«'°" toadjourn
At the next meeting, the officer, of the former
one are in chat^e. till .uperceded by p^r
nentones. ' P**^ '

ani''* 5^*'*j™»" ""» the meeting to order
and asks the Secretary to read the minutes
The Chairman then says, " You haveheard the

I,- u , " i"^" ' "no one rises to object

stand approved as corrected "

in "^rde??!'?.'" ?'" "^'' " '^^' "«' business
'n order is the hearing of the .report of the

Comm,„ee on Constitution and by-laws "
The Chairman of said Committee rises, and

it th^W«T'""K' ■■"'* »'-«Port (or hands
It the Secretary to be read)

say?";"?^' ?* ?='*™^" °^ '»"= -""ting
says. You have heard the report of the Com!

mittee, what is your oleasun. „. :„_ =. > ?.

Some one may rise and say.'.Vr^Jove the
adoption of the Constitution and bylaw, «

may entertain thu motion, and put in. If k j.

•I 'i

f' III

nULES OF ORPS/t.

carried, the Constitution and by-laws become
the organic law of the Society.

But a much more satisfactory way is for some
one to move tiiat the Constitution and by-laws
be adopted seriatim. If this motion is carried,
the Chairman rises, reads the first article,«or
has the Secretary read it, and says, " Are
there any amendments to this article?"

If there are amenmnents, he must entertain
motions to that effect. But if, after a pause,
no amendments are made, he may say, " There
being no amendments, I pass to the reading of
the second article."

He then reads the second article, and asks
the same question. He continues reading till
through. He then says, "You have passed
upon the Constitution and by-laws, uriatim
(or by sections), shall we adopt it (or them)
as a whole? "

This is necessary, because opportunity to
amend should never be cut off before the adop-
tion of an instrument as a whole.

If no amendments are offered, at this stage,
to the instrument as a whole, the Chairman may
say. " There being no amendments, all who are
in favor of the adoption of the Constitution and
by-laws, as read (or as amended, if the sec-
tions have been amended) and as a whole, will
say aye," He should count the ayes carefully.
Then he should say, •• All opposed will say.
No." He should announce the result dis-
tinctly.

The Society has now an organic law and
guide. Sometimes it is preferable to take
separate action on the Constitution and by
laws ; even to have them referred to separate
Committees, and acted upon at different times.
But whether this be so or not, as soon as
the Constitution is adopted, it is proper for the
Chairman to request of those present, who
desire to become members, to come forward,
pay their initiation fee, if one is required, and
sign the Constitution. A recess should be
declared for this purpose.

If the by-laws have not been passed with
the Constitution, action on them w.ould now
be ill order, and said action would be the
the same as that upon the Constitution.

After the adoption of both, separately or
together, the Chairman should say, "The
next business in order is the election of offi-
cers in accordance with our Constitution."

If the Constitution provides ih«t a Con*
mittee shall be appointed which shall nomi-
nate officers, a motion should be made for
the appointment of such Committee. The
adoption of their report is the election.

But if the election is left to the Society,
the Chairman should say, " Nominations for
president (or whatever the presiding officer's
title may be) are now in order." If no more
than one nomination be made, the Chairman
may say. " There being only one nomination

for president. I declare Mr. elected" ;

and, unless there is a provision to the con-
trary, or for formal installation, he may
vacate his seat and ask the newly elected
president to take it.

The new official then goes on with the elec-
tion, announcing the respective officers to be
voted for, calling for nominations, declaring
elections where only one oandidate is nomin-
ated, asking for a ballot where two or more
candidates are in the field.

Generally speaking, it is best to begin an
election by the appointment of tellers, so that
they may be ready to act where there are
two or more nominations. Tellers should
occupy some central, conspicuous place, and
may use a hat as a ballot box. The voters
should write the name of their favorite on a
piece of paper, and deposit it in the hat,
and the tellers should announce their count
to the Chairman.

As each officer is elected he, or she, should
take the seat appointed to him or her, dis-
placing the temporary officers. When all are
thus elected and seated the permanent or-
ganization is effected.

When a Society e:«pecto to own real estate,
it should get a charter, or become incorpora-
ted according to the laws of its State.

CONSTITUTIONS AND BY-LAWS.

A committee appointed to draft a Constitu>
tion and by-laws for a permanent society,

should bear in mind the following :

(i) A Constitution may be very full, thus

necessitating few by-laws, or none at all.
(2) By-laws may be very full, thus necessi-

VI I2VI17 at

tating a very brief Constitution,
all.
(3) A Constitution idiould be brief. Itouglit

D BY-LAWS.

itUiion, v" none &t

be brief. Itoqght

** d«J«re only the fund«m«.ul features of the
Mciety. at—

(a) The name of the Society.

(b) The object of the Society.

(d) The oflScem of the Society, the manner
of their elections, and their duties and
terms.

(e) The times and place, of meetings, in
brief, leaving details to by-laws.

(0 How to amend the Constitution ; and this
should be made difficult. Nothing but
ample notice and a two third vote sliould
be allowed to disturb it,

(4) The Committee should consult the Con-
•titution and by-laws of kindred organiza-
tions and select what is best fitted for its
own.

(5) By-Uw. should be full, and should cover
«n the details of official conduct and govern-
ment Among the principal questions they
•hould settle are :■_

(a) Whai khall constitute a quorum.

(b) Time and place of meeting, if'not fixed
m toe Constitution.

(d) Duties of members, their rights, and
methods of admission.

(e) Punishment of members.
(0 Method of making and putting motions.
U; The parliamentary manual that shall

govern deliberations.

(h) Fees or dues of members.

(i) Manner of amendment.

Lastly. RULES of order, which may run as
follows, and which should be followed by the
Presidmg officer, unless a motion is carried to
reverse them, for convenience sake, or unless,
in a plain emergency the Chairman assumes to
reverse them.

(a) Calling of Society to order.

(b) Calling roU of officers.

(d) Admission of new members.

(e) Communications, notices, and bills.
;0 Payment of dues.

(g) Reports of Standing Committees.

(hi Rennrte nf <:r.««.:.i n !..

:..' ' "t-"-"'" •-"itiimitccs,

(•) Unfinished business.

(j) New business.

(k) Debltt*. esiayijwadiiiga, or wbatever ap-

Jtl/L£S OF ORDBlt,

P^lns to the general entertainment and

(1) Transfer and announcement of receipu
by financial official. *

(m) Adjournment.
(6) By-law, should be more easily amendable
than a Constitution. A majority vote ought
to be sufficient, though a motion to amend
ought to lay over till next meeting.

OFFICERS.

A Chairman or President call, the Society to
order at the proper time, announces the busi-
ness according to the order laid down, states
and puts all questions, preserves quiet, decides
all questions of order (subject to appeal) 1„

TtaM"' AT"'""' *'■'* 'P"'''"^' "* should
hlh Y'"^" *"«"»»>«•• rises and addresses
him he should recognize him by saying. •< Mr
-- : or If two address him at the same time,
he should say. •• Mr. has the floor." He

.tr H T '"''""^' ' speaker when in order,
should be non-partisan, affable, yet firr-. and
should exercise his right to address the society

to take the chair, unless the question be one of
order, when be need not leave the chair

The Secretary should keep an accurate ac-
count of the proceedings, in a permanent book.
Of course this does not mean that he shall re-
port s' -ches, essays, etc.. and inconsequen-
tial n. .( ;-s. But he should take down every
nr.ot.on. or. better still, insist that the mover
shall lay ,t on his table in writing. He should
avoid all criticism, and record things done
rather than those said. He is the custodian of
all papers of the society, not specially entrusted
to other officers, is the correspondent, and
should see that the Constitution and by-laws
are properly engrossed, preserved, and ren-
dered accessible. Sometimes, he is the collector
of dues, and is otherwise financially interested.
In all such cases, he should be prompt and ac-
curate in his reports. In nearly every Society
the Secretary is the most important official.

The Treasurer is the final recipient of the
funds of the society. He disDens*s th^m ,i«5
but upon orders drawn by other officials, usu-'
ally the Chairman and Secretary. He should
be careful in accounting for what he receives
and expends, should give and take receipts, or

4T0

MULES OF ORDER

voucher*, should make his reports regularly,
■nd should insist upon an audit of his accounts
In accordance with the laws of the Society.

A Vice PRBSkURNr performs the duties of
President, when that official is absent.

There may be other officials, dependent on
the character of the Society, but their duties are
usually fully specified in the Constitution or by-
I.1WS. The above are the main officials of the
ordinary Society, and upon them the success
of most organizations falls.

COMMITTEES.

Every organization, transient or permanent,
popular or deliberate, should understand the
value of Committee work. When a new sub-
ject is broached, it ought to be referred to a
Committee, if it is at all important or intricate.
The Committee should be given plenty of time
to consider it and to report. The reports of
Committees which have deliberated in secret,
in quiet, and with time, are seldom rejected by
assemblies ; whereas, if the same subject were
left to popular discussion, there would be no
end to debate and no prospect of a conclusion.
Regular business would be interfered with, tu-
mult would ensue, and perhaps disorganization
would follow.

Committees, in ordinary assemblies, should
be small. Three members are enough. Said
an old parliamentarian, "the best working Com-
mittee is one of three members, two of whom
are absent."

When a matter is of sufficient importance
to be referred to a Committee, a member
should rise and say, •• Mr. Chairman I move
that the matter be referred to a Committee of
three, to be appointed by the Chair," or " I
move that a Committee of three b< appointed
by the chair to (state what the Committee
is expected to do.)"

It is always best to mention in the motion
the number of the Committee and that the
Chair shall appoint. This will save the Chair-
man the trouble of asking, " Of how many
shall the Cvmniittee consist and by whom
shall it be appointed ? "

The first named on a Committee is its
Chairman, He shall call the Ccmmittse to^
gether and preside at its deliberations. But
in his absence, a majority of Uw Conunittce

may meet and transact business, a majority
of a Committee being always m quorum.
Committee business ought to be transacted
just like that of the Society itself, it being but
a miniature Society.

A Committee Report may begin, "The
Committee to which was referred the (state the
subject) beg leave to submit the following re-
port " (follow with the report).

The Report may conclude with, "All of
which is respectfully submitted," (followed by
signatures of Committeemen)."

Sometimes two reports are made, one by a
majority and one by a minority of the Com-
mittee. The former should begin with " A
majority of the Committee to which was re-
ferred the (state subject) beg leave to report
&c." The latter should begin with " A
minority of the Committee to which was &c."
Uoth reports are entitled to reading, but the
minority re^rt is not entitled to considera-
tion except upon a motion to substitute it for
the majority report.

When the report of a Committee is accepted,
the Committee stands discharged without
motion. A motion to refer back a report, or
to recommit to the same Committee, revives
the Committee.

MOTIONS IN GENERAL.

A motion is the usual form of bringing busi-
ness before a society or assembly.

As a rule motions, if important, involved
or lengthy, should be reduced to writing.
They may be read by the mover and then
handed to the Chairman or Secretary, or the
Secretary may, by request, do the reading.
Where the motion is simple, it need not be
reduced to writing, unless the by-laws require
it ; but in such case time should be given the
Secretary to make an accurate record of it.

When the motion is verbal, the member
rises and says, " Mr. Chairman, (the Chair-
man recognizes him by name) I move that
a Committee of three be appointed etc., etc.,"
or "I move that" (stating the motion in
briLj).

When the motion is written it takes the
form of a resolution ; thus :—

'= Resolved, that »he thanks of the Society
be extended etc." or. " Resolved that a Com-
mmee of five be appointed etc., etc."

RULES OF ORDER.

it takes the

If Iht war U eletr for the Ch«lr to enter-
Uin the motion, that is, if there is no other
business before the Society to interfere with
it. or If the subject of the resolution fails
under the head of business in hand, the mem-
ber rises and says '<M-. Chairman." (the
Chair recognized him by name) I move the
adoption of the following resolution."' He
reads it and passes it to the Chairman.

Or. having first passed it to the Secretary,
he says. " Mr. Chairman. I move the adoption
of the resolution, which the Secretary will
please read."

When the motion has been read and
•econded. the Chairman rises and says:—
" It has been moved and seconded that the
following resolution (which he reads) be
adopted;" or, "It has been moved and
seconded that the resolution you just heard
read (or which the Secretary will now read) be
adopted."

It is any members right to call for a re-read-
ing of the resolution ; and it is the business of
the Chair to see that it is fully understood
by the members before putting the motion.

In large assemblies the motion in writing
should be signed by the mover.

The Chairman may continue. " Tht ques-
tion is on the adoption of the resolution just
read."

A pause is in order to give opportunity for
a debate, and full debate is desirable upon
motions involving new or important business.
Such debates are usually opened by the
mover, who is expected to explain and sustain
his motion. If there is hesitation about debate,
and the Chairman thinks the matter worthy of
discussion, he may urge the importance of dis-
cussion.

It cannot be too often repeated, nor too fully
borne in mind, that no member of any as-
sembly has a right to the floor and to speak
till recognized by the Chair. A Chairman who
does not rigidly enforce this rule will find him-
self helpless in the midst of clamor. The Chair-
man does not lose control of a speaker whom
he has recognized, but may call him to order,
when he is out of order, as for instance when he

«n

live „«aker to order, by rising to a point of
order.

If no one has risen to speak, or when the d».
bate Is closed, either by consent or by motion,
the Chairman rises and says:— "Are you
ready for the question ? "

If there is nothing to the cr, ntrary . the Chair,
man says: "The question is on the adoption
Of the resolution you have heard read (or
heard read and debated); as many as are in
favor of its adoption, say aye" (counts the
ayes). "As many as are opposed, say no. "
(counts the noes).

He then announces the result, saying. » The
motion is carried " (or lost) ; or. the " Resolu-
tion stands adopted " (or is lost).

A majority of votes, in ordinary assemblies.
IS sufficient to carry a motion, if the motion be
not one of an excepted kind, or if there be no
by-law to the contrary.

is straying from the question or talking vul^i^r"-
or abusively. So the Chairman must protect
a speaker against interruption from other mem-
bers ; any member has a right to 9a)) mi pfifcn-

THE ORDINARY MOTIONS CLASSIFIED.
There is hardly any more interesting and
useful study than the subject of motions. The
object of most societies is to bring about a
knowledge of them among members, in other
words, to get acquainteu with parliamentary
science. A good parliamentarian is a most
useful man in any community, and most of our
greatest parliamentarians have laid the founda-
tion of their future usefulness in the country
Lyceum or village debating school.

When a member has drafted and presented
his resolution it is the property of the society.
It may not be desirable to adopt it then and
there, or in the shape presented. The hand-
hng of It, therefore, opens the way to a series
or class, of motions whose meaning and effect
ought to be fully understood, not only by the
Chairman but by the members.

This class of motions is peculiar in the re-
spect that they are allowable while the resolu-
tion is under consideration, and have the effect
of superceding it. though no member can move
any of such motions except that which calls
for the •• Orders of ifu Day." or the "Regular
Order of Bushtess." while another member has
the floor. {See Motion to Reconsider, further
on.)

But before studying these motions further
and settling the destiny of our resolution in tk*
Sccitty, let us get a goM idea of the

47t

XULSS OF ORDER,

•tout OP »MCBDBNCB

of the modona in lue in ftn ordinary sMcmUy
or Society, for these arc the motions that ai«
going to seal the fate of our resolution in ite
way through the society.

This order of precedence, or the rank, and
power, of these ordinary motions, appears
thus :

No.

(I ) MoUon to fix a time to adjourn.

list, we will start with the object the mover hM
in view. He may have in view

OBJECT I. TO MODIFY OR AMEND.

(a) To amend, [b) To commit.

(a) " to adjourn (when unqualified).

(3) " for the orderi of the day.

(4) " to lay on the Ubie.

(5) " for the previous question.

(6) " to postpone to a certain time.

(7) " to commit.

(8) " to amend.

(9) " to postpone indefinitely.
The above order ought to be committed to

memory. Any of the motions contained in the
hst except No. 8 (the motion to amend) can be
made while one below it in the list U pending,
but none can be made, except a motion to
amend, while one above it is pending. Thus
No. I, or "• amotiontoadjoumto a fixed time.-
can be made while No. s is pending, but No.
S cannot be made while No. i is pending. So
3 can supersede No. 9. but No. 9 cannot su- '
persede No. 3. Any higher motion, except that
to amend, can supersede a lower, but no lower
motion, except that to amend, can supersede
a higher.

As to what motions are debatable and amend-
able, and what not. and as to the more general
efiect of motions, we shall see further on.

It may as well be stated hera that a •• motion
to reconsider " is always a privileged motion as
to the making of it, but cannot be acted upon
until the business then before the society is di»-
poeed of. When called up it takes precedence
o. every other motion except one to fix a time
to adjourn, and one to adjourn, or Nos. i and
2 of the above list.

Now we go back to our resolution as intro.
duced into the society and see what mrtions
may constitute its fate, provided it is not desir-
aWe to adopt or reject it directly. Remember-
ing what has already been said of the class of
: -rr isiaj Bc saxiHgnt to &earupon

It, «*i4 also the ra«k, power, or order of pre-
cedence ci BWtioiu. m riiiiini j. iL,

A motion to amend is the proper one where
it is desired to modify the resolution before the
society.

A motion to amend may be to add certain
words or clauses ; to strike out certain words
or clauses absolutely, or to strike out and Insert
others ; to substitute a different motion on the
same subject (the chairman must be careful to
see that the subject matter is not changed) ; or
to divide the resolution into separate parts, so
as to get a vote on each part.

Friends of a resolution may earnestly desire
to amend it in one or all of the above ways ;
but It ougrt to be borne in mind that enemies
of the resolution find in amendments, and es-
pecially in motions to divide, a favorite means
of distracting its friends, and defeating the
motion entirely.

When an amendment is moved the Chair-
man should state it distinctly, and should read
in connection the clause affected. He should
mention the words to be struck out, or the
words to be inserted, and then should read the
clause as it would read if amended. The
amendment, if seconded, has precedence of the
original motion and is open to debate, but the
Chairman should see that all remarks are con-
fined to the merits of the amendment alone.
The mam question should not be considered in
debate except in so far as is necessary to ex-
plain and ascertain the merits of the amend-
ment.

In putting the motion to amend, the Chair-
man should ask. .. are you ready for the ques-
tion? and should count ayes and noes, and
decide, just as if it were the main question.

An amendment of an amendment should be
J«ated in the same way. It is a separate, in*
dependent question, and takes precedence of
the amendment. But the Chairman and all
member, should be on their guard lest it be not

germane, for the further vou a«i* »»«.. € .u.

main question the greater danger there is of
losing sight of the main question.

Thew esB b« M motioa to amend u uiiciid<

the mover hu

ment of an amendment. It would betoofo^ey
Motions which are undebatable are, for the

Z! Tm "? ^'nendable. But we shall see
more of this hereafter.

If the original question is novel, confused
or unclanfied by amendments, it is i whole-
some proceeding to move to refer it to a Com-
mittee for further consideration. This if car
ned. takes it out of the hands of the Society for
the time, allays excitement and leads to a better
form of presentation. Boh friends and ene-
mies can use such a motion to advantage,
buch a motion is known as a •• Motion to Com-
mit. ora..Morionofrefercnce." A-Motion
to commit can be made while an amendment
» ^pending (since 7 precedes 8 in the foregoing

A "Motion to Commit" is debatable, and
.t opens the merits ofthe whole question, or res-
olution, to debate. A -Motion to Commit"
IS amendable, but only as to the number ofthe
Committee, how it shall be appointed, where it

ll!!'-'' I" " '*'*" ''P"'^ *«=• Amend-
ments designed to defeat the main object ofthe
motion are not germane, and the Chairman
should so declare them.

RULES OF ORDER.

478

I proper to lay it aside temporarily, till some other
business is concluded, but in such away as to
not lose sight of it. or lose the privilege of tak-
mg It up again. The only way to do this is to
move that the question •• lie on the table."

This Motion is not debatable nor subject to
amendment. The Chairman puts it promptly
and announces the result It is an heroic
motion, and is often used by the enemies of a
measure to suppress it. It lays the matter in
hand aside till some one moves "to take i»
from the table," which motion is not debatable
and is not privileged.

OBJECT III. TO SUPPRESS DEBATE
(«) thtp..jioHi question, (b) chiing debate.

OBJECT II. TO DEFER ACTION.

(«) to postpone (*) He on the tabU.

It may be that the introduction of the question
■s premature, and that another time for its con-
sideration would be preferable. If so. the proper

TZ -' x.™"''* *° "postpone to a certain
time. The time may be to a later hour in the
session, or to another order of business, or to
the next, or another session. If it pass over to
a ne:t. or another, session, it should be called
up under the head of "unfinished business."

This " Motion to postpone to another time."
•s debatable, but only in a limited sense.
Debate must be confined strictly to the pro-
priety of postponement to the time specified
It 15 amendable, but only in respect to the
t me. and this amendment has the same limita-
tions as to debate.

TWs " Motion to postpone to a certain time."
••^f.ic.. 55 No. 6. of the foregoing list, can be
made while Nos. 7. 8. and 9 are pending.

If It IS not desired to postpone the question to
a certain time, perhaps it mAy bet deemed

Free debate, however desirable, often be-
comes a weapon in the hands of a minority. It
maybe used tr prolong sessions indefinitely, and
to shove off a vote on important resolutions. It
IS therefore necessary to limit it to proper
bounds. This may be done in two way7:
^trst.— By a Call for the "previous question."
by any member who chooses to make the Call
This Call must be Seconded like a motion. It
js not debatable nor subject to amendment,
ifte Chairman instantly rises and says, •• Shall
the main question now be put?" If this is
carried, all debate is cut off instantly, except
where the measure has been reported by a
Committee, when the member reporting it is
entitled to the courtesy of a closing speech,
usually brief. ^ '

It must be borne in mind that this motion to
" put the main question " is exceptional in the
respect that it requires or should require, a two
thirds vote to sustain it. This relieves it of the
odium of an attempt to gag the minority.

If the "main question" is carried by the
requisite majority, the Chairman immediately
begins to clear off all the motions that are
pending, and which are below the motion for
the "main, or previous, question." on the fore-
going hst. He puts the motion " to Commit "
If one IS pending, which, if carried, sends the

matter back to thf rnn,~:..-« .r i_-. .

"'"t^e. ii io3t. he puts

the motion to amend, if one is pending. If
earned, he puts the motion on the original res.
olution as amended ; or if the amendment ha.
been lost. Iw jrm Um auMiM <m the orifiMU

Mil

i it

474

nULES OF ORDER.

resolution. Thus the object in calling the '< pre-
vious question " has been accomplished.

The "previous question" call and motion,
applies to an amendment, a motion to post-
pone, a motion to reconsider or an appeal.
In all these instances it affects only the sub-
ject or motion to which it applies, and de-
bate on the main question is still open.

But it may not be desirable to cut off de-
bate entirely, by ordering the "previous
question." It may be desirable to limit it
only. In such case a motion may be made
to "limit debate." This motion may limit
the speeches to five (or other) minutes'; may
limit them to twro (or other number) on each
side ; may fix an hour or minute for closing
the debate. Motions to limit debate come up
very often in the shape of amendments. Like
the " previous question." " motions to limit "
should have a two-thirds majority, especially
in societies where debate is an object and
harmony desirable.

Much more effective is the motion that •• the
question lie on the table." This is not de-
batable nor amendable. The Chairman may
put it at once, and when carried the matter is
disposed of for the session, or, at least, till a
majority choose to call it up.

OBJECT V. TO RECONSIDER.

OBJECT IV. TO SUPPRESS THE QUES-
TION.

(«) Objections to Consideration, {b) Indefinite
Postponements, (c) To lie on the table.

If the resolution is worthless and unfit for
consideration, the best way to dispose of it is
for a member to «• object to its consideration."
This need not be seconded, and it enables
the Chairman to say immediately, " Will the
Assembly or Society, consider the question? "
If two thirds decide against it, the question
IS dismissed for the session. But when one
feels called upon to "object to the Considr na-
tion" of a measure, he should rise immediately
after it is imroduced. for his objection cannot
be entertained when another member has the
floor, nor after the measure has become the
subject of debate.

If debate has set in, and it appears desirable
to suppress the question, the proper moHpn is
••to postpone indefinitely." This motion can-
not be made when any other motion, except
the main question, is pending, as it is the
least privileged of all motions, as may be
seen from its low place on the foregoing list.
It opens the main question to debate and is a
•Igw ipcani of l^c«;om|»liahiBg iu object.

To adopt, reject or suppress a measure is
to finally dispose of it for the session, unless,
some one chooses to revive it by a "motion
to Reconsider." This is the only means of
bringing a passed measure before the Society,
This motion can be made only by one who
voted with the majority before, and it must
be made on the day or at the session the for-
mer vote was taken. It can be made in the
midst of debate and when another member
has the flooi^ (this only for the purpose of get-
ting it on the minutes) but it cannot be con-
sidered while any other measure is pending.
When, however, it is called up for considera-
tion, it takes and keeps precedence of every
other question, except a motion to adjourn, or
to fix a time or for adjournment. If the orig-
inal question was debatable, the " Motion to
Reconsider" is debatable, and debate extends
to the entire merits of the original question-
But if the original question was undebatable,
the "motion to Reconsider " is undebatable.
If the "motion to reconsider" is carried, the
original question is again fully before the
society.

A motion to reconsider need not be acted
upon on the day, or at the session, it is made.
It may be entered on the minutes, and called
up on the next day or session, either by the
mover or by some one for him. But if a day
or session, within a month, intervene, the
motion dies. Time defeats its object.

A "motion to adjourn" cannot be recon-
sidered. But. being a privileged motion, it can
be renewed, as often as desirable, if it has been
previously lost.

OBJECT VI. ORDER AND RULES.

{a) Rules of Order. (b)Special Order, {c) Sus-
pension 0/ Rules, (d) The Oueiiinn«f»^J^^
(*) Appeal.

As has been seen, every Society should have
an •• Order of Bmlnen." "OnlerjoftbcDfty,"

which the Chairman is expected to adhere to.
If debate on any question has grown tedious.
or precious time is being wasted in dispute, or
IL'nT '''''r f " '"''J"' °f '«* importance
Ind . ,? 1^ u ^"''""*' ^ "«'"''«'• "^^y arise
and call for the " Regular Order of Business,
or the ..Orders of the Day." This call need
not be seconded, but the Chairman may at
once anse and say. « Will the Society proceed
with the regular order of business?" He
may put the question without waiting for a
.notion, and. if carried, the matter unSer con-
sideration IS laid aside, and the chair proceeds
with the regular order of business. If the
inotion fails, a call for the « regular order of ;
business cannot be renewed, till the matter in I
hand is disposed of. )

When a matter is of sufficient importance to '

be worthyof special consideration,amotionisin
order to make it a "special order." This takes
It out of the .' regular order of business " and
m '! r^"*. "nsideration. Such a motion
is debatable and amendable, and since it works
a suspension of the rules of order, it requires, a
two-thirds vote to pass it, though it can be post-
poned by a majority vote.

Analogous to the above motion is one to sus-
pend the .. Rules of Order, or Business "

c„fHT'°"u*° ."Suspend the Rules", should
conclude with, .'m order to consider" (naming
the object). Such a motion is not debatable
nor amendable, and requires a two-thirds vote
If passed, the subject, on whose account the
rules were suspended, can be taken up and
considered. ^

When the propriety of suspending the rules
» apparent, the Chairman mav say. '- Unless
there be objection I declare the Rules sus-
pended m order to Consider, etc.. etc "

When there is a breach of order, any mem-
ber may rise to a .'point of order", and say.
"Mr. Chairman. I rise to a point of order "
This may be done, and is mostly done when one
IS speaking. It is the business of the Chair-
man to entertain the point of order, and to di-
rect the speaker to take his seat, till the point
of order is heard and disposed of. If the
Chair sustains the "point of order." he warns
ine sp«,-..„?r to avoid a second breach of order
and permits him to go on. But if a member
objects to his conrinuing. after he has committed
a breach of decorum, he cannot go oa till the

XUL£S OF ORDER.

475

society has voted to grarit him permission.

Instead of "rising to a point of order", a
member may simply rise and say. " I call the
gentleman to ord-.-r. " The Chair will pass on
the question of order as before. This step is
common where a speaker is using vulgar and
disorderly language, or making personal at-
tacks.

The decisions of the Chair respecting all
questions of order, interpretation of rules, order
of business, etc.. etc.. are the subject of ap-
peal, and any member may enter an appeal to
the society or assembly. An appeal is debat-
able but not amendable. It must be seconded
Ike any other motion. After being seconded,
the Chair states his decision and the fact of ap-
I peal and says. .- Shall the decision of the Chair
stand as the judgment of the Society or As-
sembly?" Before he puts the question, he
may give the reasons for his decision. All the
other members may speak on the question, but
debate IS limited to one'speech each. After
the vote IS taken the Chair announces the re-
sult, as after other motions.

In some instances "appeals" are not debat-
able, as where the decision is upon priority of
business indecorous conduct, breach of niles
of speaking, or when the previous question is

OBJECT VII. PRIVILEGE AND ADJOURN.
MENT.

When a member who has made a motion

wishes to withdraw it, he cannot do so, if anj

one objects, except upon a motion carried, to

grant him permission.
When a speaker desires to read a paper out

of he usual order, he must get permissVon by

motion earned, if any one objecte
When the rights of the society or any of its

members have been interfered with, a member
may nse to a <• question of privilege." If the
Chair decides it to be a question of privilege

an appeal from his decision is allowable) it
takes precedence of other business, and is of
course, debatable. Debate can b^ cut off b -
movine the Dr*.vini.« q..— *;— — •» -
„/».,- "t -J ■ M"^'""", or It can De post-

pojv^.. laid on the table, or referred to a ^.
ned, the other absolute. ^

476

RVLES OF ORi>Ek.

The first may ran at follows : " Moved, or
Resolved, that when this society adjourns, it
adjourns to meet at (both time and place, if
necessary). " Such a motion ought to be intro-
duced and passed early in a session. It is sub-
ject to amendment, as to time or place, and is
always in order except when a member has the
floor, being No. i on the foregoing list ; but if
made when another motion is pending, it is
not debatable, nor is an amendment to it.

The simple, or unqualified, " Motion to ad-
journ , ' • admits of no debate nor ame i. ment. It
may be introduced at any time, except when a
member is speaking, and even then, if he will
yield for the purpose. The Chairman puts the
motion as soon as moved and seconded and
announces the result. If carried he says •• this
Society stands adjourned." If the adjourn-
ment is final, he adds the words " sine die."

GENERAL RULES.

A speaker should address all his remarks to
the Chairman.

He should strive to be brief and pointed.
He should confine his remarks to the subject
under consideration, avoid personalities, and
reflections upon an opponent's motives. Every
Society or assembly ought to provide in its by-
laws for the length of time and the number of
times its members ma^ be permitted to speak
on a question, except with the consent of a
majority.

If the assembly be very" large, provision
should be made for a •• Committee of the
Whole," in which speech is without limit.

When a motion has httn made the Chairman
should repeat it, in deliberate, clear tone.

In general, the Chairman should insist that a
motion be seconded. But if it be evident that
many are in favor of it, or if it be a mere rou-
tine motion, he may put it without its being
seconded.

Motions calling for the regular order of busi-
ness, or raising questions of order, or interpos-
ing, objections to the consideration of a ques-
tion do not need to be seconded.

A common form of putting a question is,
" It js moved and seconded that (stale ihe
motion)."
If a resolution, it is jfrn^K t9 9^^- " TIw

question is oh the adoption of the letolntiM
just read.'*

In cases of appeal from his decision, the
Chair should give his reasons for the decision,
and should take care that the decision is fully
understood.

In matters of amendment, all words struck
out, or inserted, should ht plainly read and
understood, and the motion as amended should
be repeated before being put.

The manner of voting is generally provided
for in the hy-laws. But if not, the Chairman

may say :

"As many as are in favor of the Motion will
say, aye ; those opposed, no."

Or he may say :_•• All who favor the motion
will hold up their right hands ; those opposed
will give the same sign."

When tile vote is close, or great confusion
exists, the Chairman may say, «• All who favor
the motion will stand up to be counted ; those
opposed will rise to be counted."

When two members rise to speak at the same
time, the Chairman must decide whc is entitled
to the floor. In making this decision, prefer-
ence must be given to the member who made
the motion or brought the matter before the
Society, to a Committeeman who made the re-
port, to a member who has not previously
spoken, to the one who is opposed to the last
speaker, rather than to the one who favors him.
A speaker cannot be interrupted by calls or
motions, except a motion to reconsider, a call to
order, an objection to consideration, call for
regular order of business, or question of priv-
ilege.

A mover of a motion can recall it or
modify it before it has been stated by the Chair-
man, but not afterwards, except with the con-
sent of the society.

When a mover modifies his motion, the
seconder can withdraw his second.

Routine motions need not be seconded. A
Chairman may even dispa»'-h routine work
without a motion; thus :— •« xou have heard
the minutes read ; if no objections are ofTcred
they will stand appro, ed. (pause) There be-
mg no objections, I declare the minutes ap-
proved as read.

Leading motions, amendments and Com-
mittee instructions should be in writing
Members shoiiM be m\mt to fferV«'iii offictt

XULES Of ORDER.

he resolutibik

and on Comnmteea. Holding other office or I
serving on two or more other Committees is
a good excuse for declination of new service
Acceptance of a Committee's report does not
discharge the Committc. where it has cortracted
debts. A Committee should see that its debts
are paid.

In case of a tie vote, the Ch^Jrman has the
castmg vote.

DICTIONARY OF ALL THE MOTIONS

477

While the ordinary motions already discussed
may embrace all that the every day parliamen-
tarian will find necessary in conducting the
smaller assembly or carrying on the usual
Lyceunj or Society, they by no means ex-
haust the list of motions which find a place in
parliamentary science.

It is now our purpose to present an alpha-
betical list of the motions as found in the
"Rules of Order" governing deliberative
assemblies, and as approved and used in
Congress. Legislatures and other important
organizations.

This alphabetical arrangement will enable
the reader to turn to the motion he wishes
to study. He will find it treated as a word
m a dictionary, the explanation of its quality
and effect being, as it were, its definition.

Adjourn : —A motion to adjourn is.in order
except when a speaker has the floor, unless
he yields for the purpose ; requires a second •
requires only a majority vote ; cannot be'
reconsidered, but can be renewed ; cannot be
amended ; does not open main question to
debate ; is not debatable.

Adjourn to a fixed time: -A motion to
adjourn to a fixed time is in order, except
when a speaker has the floor ; requires to be
seconded ; requires only a majority vote ; can
be reconsidered ; can be amended, as to time
and place ; does not open the main question
to debate ; debatable as a rule, but not de-
batable if made when another question is
pending.

Amend:— A motion to amend is not in
order when a speaker has the floor ; must be
seconded ; requires only a majority vote ; can
be reconsidered : can be amended ; doss not
open main question to debate ; is debatable.

Amend an amendment :— A motion to amend
•n amendment ip not in ordpr when a fpeaker

has the floor ; must be Seconded ; requires only
a majority vote ; can be reconsidered ; cannot
be amended ; does not open main question to
debate ; is debauble.

Amend the Rules : -A motion to amend

he Rules is not in order when a speaker has

he floor, must be seconded ; requires a two

third vote; can be reconsidered; can be

amended ; does not open the main question

to debate ; is debatable.

frnfM'"'"/"™ °^''*"'"" "TC'-An appeal
froni the decision of the chair on questions
of decorum is in order when another has
the floor; requires to be seconded ; requires
only a majority vote ; can be reconsidered ;
cannot be amended ; undebatable. as a rule
but permission may be given to debate, and
then no member is allowed to speak more than
once : a tie vote sustains the chair.

Appeal, all other kinds :— Appeals (ex-
cept as before) are in order when another has
the floor; must be seconded ; require only a
majority vote: can be reconsidered ; cannot
be amended ; do not open the main question to
debate ; are debatable.

Call TO order:- a call to order can be
made while another has the floor ; does not re-
quire a second ; requires only a majority vote •
can be reconsidered ; cannot be amended ;'
does not open the main question to debate ; is
undebatable.

Close Debate:- A motion to close debate
is not m order when another has the floor ; it
must be seconded ; requires a two third vote •
can be reconsidered ; can. be amended ; does
not open the main question to debate; is unde-
batable.

Commit :- A motion to commit, or refer, to
a Committee, is not in order when another
has the floor; must be seconded ; requires
only a majority vote ; can be reconsidered-
can be amended ; opens the main question to
debate ; is debatable.

Extend :_ A motion to extend the limits of
debate is not in order when a speaker has the
floor ; requires to be seconded ; requires only a
majonty vote; can be reconsidered ; can be
amended ; does not opens the main question to
debate ; js undebatable.

Fix THE T1»E TO WHICH TO ioiOURl. :_

478

RULES OF ORDER.

Leave to continue S'eakino —This mo-
tion bears directly on "Appeal relaUng to in-
decorum," which is undebatable, except with
leave. See that motion. It is not in order
when another has the floor ; requires to be sec-
onded ; requires only a majority vo»e ; can be
reconsidered ; cannot be amended ; does not
open the main question to debate ; is undebat-
able.

Lie on the Table:— A motion that a reso-
lution lie on the table, or to lay a resolution on
the table, cannot be made while another has
the floor ; must be seconded ; requires only a
majority vote ; cannot be reconsidered if car-
ried, but can be reconsidered if lost ; cannot
be amended ; does not open consideration of
the main question ; is undebatable.

Limit to debate:— A motion to limit de-
bate is not in order when another is speaking ;
must be seconded ; requires a two third vote ;
can be reconsidered ; can be amended ; does
not open the main question to debate ; is unde-
batable.

Objections to consideration :— A mo-
tion to object to the consideration of a question,
usually to the /wr^Arr consideration of a ques-
tion, is in order when another has the floor ;
does not require to be seconded ; requires a
two third vote ; can be reconsidered ; cannot
be amended ; does not open the main question
to debate ; is undebatable. This motion to
object to consideration can only be made when
the question is first introduced for debate.

Order of the day :- A call or motion for
the Orders of the day, or regular order of busi-
ness, can be made when another has the floor ;
it does not require to be seconded ; it requires
only a majority vote ; can be reconsidered ;
cannot be amended ; does not open the main
question to debate ; is undebatable.

Postpone to a ertain time :— A motion
to postpone to a certain, or fixed, time cannot
be made when another has the floor ; must be
seconded ; requires only a majority vote ; can
be reconsidered ; can be amended ; does not
open the main question to debate : allows of
only limited debate on the question of post-
ponement only.

Postpone indefinitely :— A motion to
postpone indefinitely cannot be made when
another has the floor ; must be seconded ;
requircf only a majority vote ; can be recon-

sidered ; cannot be amended ; opens the main
question to debate ; is debatable.

Previous question :— A call or motion for
the previous question cannot be made while
another has the floor ; must bs seconded ; re-
quires a two third vote ; car Se reconsidered :
cannot be amended ; does .,en the main

question to debate ; is undebatau.c ; if adopted.
It cuts off debate, and brings the assembly to
face the pending motions, as the motion to
commit, the motion to amend, &c., which must
be cleared away «o as to get at the main ques-
tion. which is, under the previous question,
undebatable. •

Privilege:- All questions, or motions, of
privilege are undebatable ; do not open the
main question ; are amendable ; can be recon-
sidered ; require only a majority vote ; must
be seconded ; are not in order when another
has the floor. )

Reading Papers :— Courtesy largely con-
trols the introduction and reading of papers,
but where motion is required, it cannot be in-
! troduced when another has the floor ; must be
seconded ; requires only a majority vote ; can
be reconsidered ; cannot be amended ; does
not open the main question to debate ; is unde-
batable.

REcoNsirER.-A motion to reconsider has
two phases.

It may be a motion to reconsider a debatable
question, or a motion to reconsider an unde-
batable question. If a motion to, reconsider an
undebatable question, it can be moved when
another has the floor, but only for the purpose
of entering it on the minutes ; such motion can-
not be allowed to further interrupt business ;
must be made on the day, or at the session on
which the original vote was taken ; must be
moved by one who voted on the prevailing side ;
consideration must be had not later thin the
next day or session ; must be seconded ; re-
quires only a majority vote ; cannot be recon-
sJdered ; cannot be amended ; opens main
question to debate ; is debatable.

But if a motion to Reconsider a debatable
question, then all of the above holds good ex-
cept, that the motion becomes debatable, and
"MlT*'°" **•*' "°* **P*" **" ™«'n question
Refer -.—See " Commit".
Rise:— This is the motion to adjourn ant-

ting of a Committee. It is precisely like the
motion to adjourn, which &/.

Shall THE Question be Discussed ? Iden-
whid?l«"' *"'' " ''^•'''""' '" ''"""^ration "
S.*ciAL Order :_A motion to make a ques-
tion or matter the subject of •• special order "
cannot be moved when another has the floor •
must be seconded ; requires a two-third vote •
can be reconsidered ; can be amended . does
batabT" "'''" question to debate ; is de-

Substitute .-Same as to « Amend"
Suspend the Rules :-A motion to suspend

In! V '* "°' '" "''«'• ^»'e" a member is
speakmg ; must be seconded ; requires a two-
third vote : cannot be reconsidered ; cannot

to debate ; is undebatable.

from'Jh ';'*°:'^"= Table :_A motion to take
from the table a subject which lies there, can-
not be made when another has the fie .r ; must
be seconded ; requires only a majority vote :
cannot be reconsidered if the vote is in the af"
firmative. but may be reconsidered if the vote
IS in the negative ; cannot be amended ; does
Itatawl" ^^" "">'" 'i""'''"' to <lebate ; is unde-
Taki Up Question out of Proper Order .- 1

nt/LES OP ORDER.

479

-A motion to this effect is the same as one to
•• Suspend the Rules", except that it may be
reconsidered. See '• Suspend the Rules"

Withdrawal :-A motion to withdraw a
motion cannot be made when another is speak-
ing. or has the floor ; must be seconded ; re-
quires only a majority vote ; can be reconsid-
ered ; cannot be amended ; does not open the
main question to debate ; is undebatable

Be it understood, in closing, that every So-
ciety or Association has a right to make its own
•'Rules of Order" or Parliamentary Code-
but since this would render its Constitution and
by-laws very prolix and confused, it is customary
to sanction, in them, the use of some recoe-
nized authority on parliamentary aF^iirs

What is here presented, embraces the gist of
all parliamentary codes that have found sane
tion m the highest deliberative bodies. It is not
so full as Cushing or Roberts, to whom we are
mdebted for facts and forms, but it is as exact
as far as it goes, and it is to be hoped that ii
will be found adequate to the wants of the popu-
lar assembly, as well as to the needs of ihe
tens of thousands of permanent societies which
dot our land in the shape of Lyceums, literary
societies, debating schools, clubs, and oigani'
zations for business, sociability and mental
progreta. ' ^

■ f

1 1

THE HEART BOW'D DOWN.

LaiyhtOo OmlabS*

MkLWU.

^^^^^^MM

The heart,bow'ddownby weight of woe.
The mind, will, i,, it. uoret despaK

To weakest hopes will
DtiU pon.der o'er the

^^^^^^^^^^

cling;
past,

To thought and im . pulse while they flow. That

mo-me«tg of de . light, that Mere Too

^^^^^^^^

•- •IX -

■X •

=^:^

^r#^=^

nOent.

&.rr.:.-»- - 1?^' s.5:j"L;.,r

T- T"* ^P^ -f^ S? ~ •#•■* -p^ * — j^

^^ •«-<' .-• ,__/ ■••

'* f"-"-?-

•Aum

=ff:

rest hopes will
der o'er the

ere

That
Too

••fl*

• •

com - fort
, too beautiful to

TH« HlAirr BOWD BOWK.

^^^^^^^

liu

OUWPMUlu

DUBLIN BAY.

-F-^T^v^r^N^^ fc^^^^^

[*Smi^tr*^-.M f K'^'-'*'*'^"'^ Roy Ne^nd bin fair young bride; Theyhmi
«. Three day. they«ul'dwheua.torm«o8e,Andthelightning8weptthedeepj When tU

■turM all in ♦».«♦ 1.T:_ j: ._,. rr.. . , .- ^^ ^ F -*-*

Ten-tur'd all in that bounding ark, Thatdano'donthe sU^v'rytlde' Ro7

thunder crash broke the short repose Of the wea , - ry sea-boy^s skej. ^l

'f=^

^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^

real heclasp'dhisweeDinffbri*!^ An,lKoi,;=»M*u-i ' ' — ^^^^

Ned heclasp'dhisweepingbride,Andheki8s'dthetears a - way,
Ked hecIa8p'dhi8weepingbride,Andheki88'dthetear8 a - wi

the tears a -way.

And he
«0

^^^^^^

^^^^^j;j=ii=i:tiuu.^

w*toh'd the shore re

ZlXl r'^Vt. fromsight Of his own sweet « Dub-lin Sy^

loye,twasa fear- ful hour." he cried,"When we left sweet 'Dub-lln n!^«

re-cede fromsiirht OfliU n^r^o *t€rd ,, J I^

sweet *Dub-lin Bay.'

^ I ' .n ' .n I ji 1 1 1 m I II

• f'^^

^" " ' h ^" r . ^-% zJJ

witm SAV.

ide; Theyh»d
epi Whentb*

^J 1 -^

Roj
A07

And he
"0

-Co. •-VUe.a.e.cHed.Int.eW.oa.e.wUdd.I^T^

•hip went down with that fair young bride,That sail',

cr ir.

dfrom "Dublin Bay. »»

,x'

414

ENOCH.
^Uegrttto.

THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI.

1. When the .jcartiu goM-en

2. When I bear the Alji-Iwrn

a -■ ■. -^ -^ i«ew.

fan-cies, To the sway of happiest dreams BacktoBOcnesof beau-ly
rin> °'ag, '^hcnMontBlano foretells the day ; And the breeze of morning

Sva. t

glan-ces, Lit by mem - ry's brightest beams : Then I , see that vale of

bring-ing Mountain ch J r- o and mountain lay ! Then once more, with rapture

8va. " * f :

^^,mm^ Fp l ^"tn ri^^

f ount-ains, Where the Alp-flv ; . V » 5C . ■> j gale, Under all the snow crown'd

^glow-ing, Allthatmounifti,,:la,iJ} hail, But my heart with joy o'er-

atomt

gol«I-en
Ali>-Iiom

* beau-lj
f morning

> >

b vale of
ith rapture

r\r ^

MK.

nowcrown'd
rith joy o'er-

tm VALLfT or cmamoumt.

^^^^^^^^^^^m

mountan.,, Shining o'er .. that beauu-ou.s vale. Oh I Cha;;;;;;;;^
flow..„g, Lin-gor, in... that beauteous vale. Oh Chr""'

BWCt't

^" I Chanjouni, sweet

prwF^ff^^rt^

ChamounL m. «i i_ ^ 1

Chamouni,

Oh, the vale . .

Hfcf

^i=

^ ^^^i^ ^E

ofChamou - nil . . . oh I
8va

416

JAMIE.

. ad lib.

1 . .1 !k « im 1 ^ f T • * . t -w .

a tempo. •"»«•">»•

} ^^ ^- ^ -:S! ^'tZJ'Z:^,

f 1" ^ J ■- M I i JL^l ■ I"— ~i- — H— ^- — B- i — . -

^^^

'--^-S-

^^^^ ^^^

home?Long and lone I'm
gain; Surel'm on - ly

I ^^^"^ Fed. ""^ A

^P^

^^^^^^^^^^m

dreaming,and

cching.and my heart is wond'rine Why uo^n the hill «« u*^ « . x .

^- I ■ I ■ I I . r ._j ,

Hg'=tp

agiii

i'"T >'i ^ jL ''"

Ja.^e.Ah- -.he fear i. on" iiS. }^'^yi:^:l'^i'"tX''^'^^ilM''X

tr 1;^ I

MOLLOT.

you hear me
R^ere nev - er.

ne and lone I'm
ei'm on - ly

"dam. Ja*mie!
rain. Ja-miel

it@:^

id at home?
h dull pain;

/Aims.

g=L-g;S!si'°-ffii:: roSL.^:

mie!
home.

>ng, comingdownthe hill- side; Well I know his

^^^^^

voice, my bonnie lad;

r-r-

iAHim.

( i ll I J I i|iii .ilHHii^.|. , | r.^ lr7^^

Now I hewhimring-ing to the cat- Ue bUth-ly, And the lit- tie .heep-Mb

^^^^^^^^^

^ dnlnit^^ ^

K=^

±=^

=5:

tinkli^glad. Jamie! Jamie I Ah I the joy is on me, And my heart is go- ing,

tie sheep-bells

18 go- mg,

g-p-^

some to yon,

^m
^m

♦

LULLABY.

a 8UN0 IN "fritz."

489

BMMET.

. na my darling, While I sing your lul-la-
ingmydarling,Ven youopeyoureyis;

^^^^*

^^^^m

J^y ;Fear thou no danger, Le.na.Move nnf ^^»- t

^^^^^^^B

* or your brooder xirntnhna «;„!, „^.. t ^ . ! "• ■*

J or your brooder watches nigh you,Le-na dear An Zil '^ Z
Bl«. ■u.dclo udles.betbe 4 L te-u^ff bW." Sg' S* bn^S

I>'5.

LULLABT.

'Mf-f-f-f-l

Le-nadear,my dar - ling,Noth-ing e - vil can come near; Briirhtes* flow- era
songs for thee,my dar - ling, Full of Bweetest mel - o - dy. J^gels

ev-er

'^^ ^^^ ^^m

Hiz

Ttf&~

jSL

-&-

by, oh, by.

.Go to Bleep, Le - na, sleep.

iBtHow-en
els ev - er

to sleep,iu]r

by.

leep.

za=

FADING. STILL FADING.

fOBTDOUESE MEUOT,

K\- Mil., learwheawe call, . °5' . HfiJo'rfe,

X-wr„'i5'^.>^rsr/".M^-

*7and in

We and faint - ing

no-cence
we

% with the light, Temn-ta ^JZ ^ " 1 4= Ij #-*^

night; From the fall
Ijght; Let us sleep

£« wJilltss • z-^'

492

fcH=

FAOIMQi BULL FADAIO.

l l r I I l i r I

Shield me from dan • ger, and save me from crime. Fa • ther, have mer - cy,
And wake in Thy arms when mom-ing re •turns. Fa • ther, have mer - 07,

£E

^J-tJ-^

^^^^S

rr~r r ir ^

?s:

Z3I

Fa - ther. have mer - cy, Fa - ther, have mer - cy thro' Je - bus Christ our Lo'd.

j t r~ j u J i-t-i^^J u ''^ . ^ i

f ^ r r J

"S ^

2SI

r If o'-^'j^u

Fa - ther, have mer - cy. Fa - ther, have mer - oy thro* Je - sua Christ our Lord.

CONSIDER THE LILIES.

TOPUFI..

Con..id . er .he li . ,ie, „, .he field, how. h,y gr„,, .hey.„„

-^^

-^ dojh ey .pi„, they ^oU ^ „,,tt,, do^Tytr

And yet I

^^^^

494

CONBIOSlt THr LXUia.

J-I|^Wth eygg, c,...id ■ er.l.eUlie,,h, „theyg,ow, AeytoU noMhey

toil not, neith - er do they spin, yet, I say

un • to

* " r ■ "^

a§^=

you.

^^^^^ I '' i i i,| I

Solomonhi dl hU glo . ,3, ,„ „„„^y^

Pl ^ p g^^P i p^P^^

J-. "i=^ . i f j. ^

ft£

fc^^^^s

was not arrayed like one of these,

ley toil not, they

Ped.

un • to

>t arrayed,

»?s /^

• • • •

OOMSXSni THX rn.T^ ,

^^^^^^^^^^

likoone Of these, and yet, I say un - to you.

Sol>o-monin all hia

-r

«a

^^^^S

fefe^ ^fe^ h'l H J_1iJ

glo - Tj """o.arrayed.WMnotarrayed.wa.notwrayedlikeoDe

^^^^^^^fc

these, like one of these, like

one of these.

I 1

SANA.

FLEE AS A BIRD.

1. Flee as a bird to yon moun • tain, Thou who art wea-ry of

2. lie will protect thcefor-ev - - cr, Wipe ev-'ry fall - ing
Moderaio ttpreuivo.

S g^^= ^ •

Bin ; . .
tear;

Go to the clear flowing foun - tain, Where you may wash and be clean.
He will forsaks thee,Onev - er. Sheltered so ten-der>ly there.

zs:

^m.

-ci

SJL ^J Z |glr JJ UJ JJ^-i^^ ^^ lj JJ J Ji S l

Fly, f orth*avenger is near thee ; Call and the Saviour will hear thee ; He on Ilis bosom will
Ha8te,then,thchour8 are flying;Spend not the momentsinBighing,Cea8e from yoursorrowand

NeaHr-lfflf^^^^aW

7SZ

Tsr

zai

■s>-

17n />oco ritentdo.

j=3^;^3^^ ^^ fe^f^^?t5^ i

hear thee, Thou who art wea-ry of sin, O thou who art weary of sin.
cry - ing. The Saviour will wipe ev'-ry tear, The Saviour will wipe ev'ry tear.

jj^ jrrmr^ ^gffi

-g^g-|. .9^9-j, :^-:jj- ^jjj^^. -^

g< — g

p^^ - — '

lUMA.

>u whoartwea-ry of
pe ev-'ry fall - ing

^^m

^^^

y wash and be clean,
en-der-ly there.

■JtZ±Z

He on His bosom will
e from yoursorrowand

^^m

■a?-

weary of sin.
wipe ev'ry tear.

m-^