frock she goes to church in, and Gus put it on, and Mary's bonnet, too, and went in the hall, and we tumbled down and tored Mary's frock, and made my nose bleed, and Gus said, "Oh, there's a earthquake," 'cause we couldn't stand up, and you should see how the house did go up and down, awful; and Gus and me laid down on the carpet, and the housekeeper picked me up and tooked me to my mother, and my mother said, "Oh my, whatever have you been doing?" and I said, "Oh my, I drinked champagne out of Gus Rogers' mother's bottle in the glass Mary brushes her teeth in," and the housekeeper says, "Oh my goodness gracious! that child's as tight as bricks," and I said, "You bet, bully for you," and then I was awful sick, and I have forgotten what else.

THE BALLAD OF A BUTCHER AND THE DEAR LITTLE CHILDREN.

It was a gruesome butcher,

With countenance saturnine;

He stood at the door of his little shop,
It was the hour of nine.

The children going by to school

Looked in at the open door;

They loved to see the sausage machine,
And hear its awful roar.

The butcher he looked out and in

Then horribly he swore,

Next yawned, then, smiling, he licked his chops;
Quoth he: "Life's a awful bore!

"Now here's all these dear little children,

Some on 'em might live to be sixty;

Why shouldn't I save 'em the trouble to wunst

An' chop 'em up slipperty licksty?"

So he winked to the children and beckoned them in:
"Oh, don't ye's want some candy?

But ye see ye'll have to come in to the shop,
For out here it isn't handy!"

He 'ticed them into the little shop,

The machine went round and round;

And when those poor babes came out again,
They fetched ten cents a pound.

UP-HILL.-CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin?
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

THE LETTER OF MARQUE.—CAROLINE F. ORNE.

We had sailed out a Letter of Marque,
Fourteen guns and forty men;

And a costly freight our gallant barque

Was bearing home again.

We had ranged the seas the whole summer-tide,
Crossed the main, and returned once more;
Our sails were spread, and from the mast-head
The lookout saw the distant shore.

"A sail! a sail on the weather bow!

Hand over hand, ten knots an hour!"

Now God defend it ever should end

That we should fall in the foeman's power!"

"Twas an English frigate came bearing down,
Bearing down before the gale,

Riding the waves that sent their spray
Dashing madly o'er mast and sail.

Every stitch of our canvas set,

Like a frightened bird our good barque flew;

The wild waves lashed and the foam crests dashed, As we threaded the billows through.

The night came down on the waters wide,-"By Heaven's help we'll see home once more,"

Our captain cried, "for nor-nor-west

Lies Cape Cod Light, and the good old shore." A sudden flash, and a sullen roar

Booming over the stormy sea,

Showed the frigate close on our track,-
How could we hope her grasp to flee?
Our angry gunner the stern-chaser fired;
I hardly think they heard the sound,
The billows so wildly roared and raged,
As we forward plunged with furious bound.
"All our prizes safely in,

Shall we fall a prize to-night?

The Shoal of George's lies sou-south-east,
Bearing away from Cape Cod Light."
Our captain's face grew dark and stern,
Deadly white his closed lips were.
The men looked in each other's eyes,-
Not a look that spoke of fear.
"Hard up!"

Hard up the helm was jammed.
The wary steersman spoke no word.
In the roar of the breakers on either side
Murmurs of wonder died unheard.
Loud and clear rose the captain's voice,-
A bronzed old sea-dog, calm and cool,
He had been in sea-fights oft,

Trained eye and hand in danger's school. "Heave the lead!"

The lead was hove; Sharp and short the quick reply; Steady rose the captain's voice,

Dark fire glowed his swarthy eye; Right on the Shoal of George's steered, Urged with wild, impetuous force, Lost, if on either side we veered

But a hand's breadth from our course. On and on our good barque drove, Leaping like mad from wave to wave, Hissing and roaring 'round her bow, Hounding her on to a yawning grave.

God! 'twas a desperate game we played!

White as the combing wave grew each cheek;

Our hearts in that moment dumbly prayed,

For never a word might our blenched lips speak.

On and on the frigate drove,

Right in our track, close bearing down;

Our captain's face was still and stern,

Every muscle too rigid to frown.

On and on the frigate drove,

Swooping down in her glorious pride;
Lord of heaven! what a shriek was that
Ringing over the waters wide!
Striking swift on the sunken rocks,
Down went the frigate beneath the wave;
All her crew in an instant sunk,

Gulfed in the closing grave!

We were alone on the rolling sea;

Man looked to man with a silent pain,
Sternly our captain turned away;

Our helmsman bore on our course again.
Into the harbor we safely sailed

When the red morn glowed o'er the bay;
The sinking ship, and the wild death-cry,
We shall see and hear, to our dying day.

A TEXAS STORY.-J. W. DONOVAN.

In the summer of the year 1860, one hot night in July, a herdsman was moving his cattle to a new ranche further north, near Helena, Texas. As he passed down the banks of a stream his herd became mixed with other cattle that were grazing in the valley, and some of them failed to be separated. The next day about noon a band of a dozen mounted Texan Rangers overtook the herdsman, and demanded their cattle, which they said were stolen. It was before the introduction of laws and court-houses in Texas, and one had better kill five men than steal a mule worth five dollars-and this herdsman knew it. He tried to explain, but they told him to cut his story short. He offered to turn over all the cattle not his own, but they laughed at his proposition, and hinted that they usually confiscated the whole herd in such cases, and that they usually left the thief hanging on a tree as a warning to others in like cases. The poor fellow was completely overcome.

They consulted apart a few moments and then told him. if he had any explanations to make or business to de, they would allow him ten minutes to do it, and to defend himself.

He turned to the rough faces, and commenced : How many of you men have wives?" Two or three nodded.

"How many of you men have children?" They nodded again. “Then I know who I am talking to, and you'll hear me," said the frightened herdsman, who continued: “I never stole your cattle; I have lived in these parts over three years; I came from New Hampshire; I failed there in the fall of '57, during the panic; I have been saving; I have lived on hard fare; I have slept out on the ground; I have no home here. My family remain East, while I go from place to place. These clothes I wear are rough, and I am a hard-looking customer, but this is a hard country. Days seem like months to me, and months like years; and, but for the letters from home (here he pulled out a handful of well-worn envelopes and letters from his wife) I should get discouraged. I have paid part of my debts. Here are the receipts, and he unfolded the letters of acknowledgment. I expected to sell out, and go home in November. Here is the Testament my good old mother gave me; here is my little girl's picture," and he kissed it tenderly. 'Now, men, if you have decided to kill me for doing what I am innocent of, send these home, and send as much as you can from the cattle, when I am dead. Can't you send half their value? My family will need it."

"Hold on, now; stop right thar!" said a rough Ranger. "Now, I say boys," he continued; "I say, let him go; he's no thief. That kind of men don't steal. We'll take our cattle, and let him go. Give us your hand, old boy;—that picture and them letters did the business. You can go free; but you're lucky, mind ye." "We'll do more'n that," said a man with a big heart, in Texan garb, and carrying the customary brace of pistols in his belt, "let's buy his herd, and let him go home now."

They did, and when the money was paid over, and the man about to start, he was too weak to stand. The long strain of hopes and fears, being away from home under such trying circumstances, and the sudden deliverance from death, had combined to render him as helpless as a child. An hour later, however, he left on horseback for the nearest stage route; and, as they shook hands when bidding him goodby, they looked the happiest band of men I ever beheld. So says an eye-witness.