"The house has fallen now"-that cannot be; You've made a stumble, that is not a fall; That brings a story freshly up to me,

We queer old fellows will such things recall. I'll tell you all about it, if you will,

There's something in it you will much admire; You're bound to hear the story, so keep stillIt's something chilly-let me stir the fire.

'Twas fifty years ago, one day, a lad

Orphaned and friendless-one of those you see
Hanging about the street; some good, some bad-
Walked in a counting-room as bold and free
As if he owned it; 'twas your father's; there
He stood and waited. When your sire that day
Saw him, he asked with a repellant air,

"What do you want?"

The answer "Work and pay."

The merchant stared. "Boy, I've no place for you"-
Your father's manner, not his heart, was cold-
"And if I took you here what could you do?"
And the boy answered, “Do as I am told."
Your father liked prompt speech, and so inquired
More of the boy-he rather liked his face-
And on the following day the lad was hired
To run on errands and to sweep the place.

You were a baby then, sir; but you came,
As you grew up to boyhood, rambling through
The great storehouses. You recall the name
Of Byng, the letter-clerk. I see you do.
He was the errand-boy, that bit by bit
Had risen in the house till he had won

The confidence of one who had more wit

In choosing servants than has shown his son.

One day a letter from Calcutta came,

From a great firm there-Belden and Carstairs-
Begging your father that some clerk he'd name
Acquainted with American affairs,

Trusty and shrewd, and send him out to them;
The kind of man they sought they thought he knew.
You know your father's way.

He said

"Ahem!

"Trusty and shrewd'-Byng, there's a chance for you.

"Belden is dead; Carstairs has kept the name

Of the old firm-he was its life's blood too

Immensely rich, and if you play the game

You've played from boyhood, and be just and trus

And diligent, and make his interest yours

As you have mine so long, you'll surely rise;

I hate to part with you, but this secures

A certain fortune. Take it if you're wise."

Byng took the advice; and then your father said, "You'll need some money, Byng, and here's a draft; Take it; a man can always hold his head

Higher with cash in hand." And then he laughed. No thanks! "Tis bread upon the waters thrown, And may come back. If ever you be rich

Pay it to me or mine, or give some one

Who needs it sorely-'tis no matter which."

I'll cut the story short. Byng made his way
There at Calcutta; all seemed cut and dried;
First, general manager; in a little day,

The junior partner; when his senior died,
Became both his successor and his heir;
And recently, the lord of lac on lac
Of good rupees, selling his business there
For a round sum, came to his country back.
Here when he landed, judge of his surprise
To find his benefactor dead, the name
Of the old firm made loathly in men's eyes;
Its olden reputation brought to shame.
Well, sir, he bought its notes, and there they are;
I am John Byng-to save your house's fame

I bought them cent per cent-paid them at par!
There, sir, your fire's improved-they're in the flame.
What, crying like a child! Let go my hand;
I'm rich beyond compute. I only do
What I can well afford. Keep self-command;
Ruin has passed-a friend shall stand by you.
The house of Erbenstone and Son is saved;'

The bread your father on the waters cast
Comes after many years; the hour I've craved
When I could pay my debt, is here at last.

THE GIVER'S REWARD.

Who gives and hides the giving hand
Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise,
Shall find his smallest gift outweighs
The burden of the sea and land.

Who gives to whom hath nought been given,
His gift in need, though small indeed
As is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed,
Is large as earth and rich as heaven.

JESSIE CAMERON.-CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

"Jessie, Jessie Cameron,

Hear me but this once," quoth he.
"Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
But I'm no mate for you," quoth she.
Day was verging toward the night

There beside the moaning sea,
Dimness overtook the light

There where the breakers be.

"O Jessie, Jessie Cameron,

I have loved you long and true."

"Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
But I'm no mate for you."

She was a careless, fearless girl,
And made her answer plain;
Outspoken she to earl or churl,
Kind-hearted in the main,

But somewhat heedless with her tongue,
And apt at causing pain;

A mirthful maiden she, and young,
Most fair for bliss or bane.

"Oh! long ago I told you so,

I tell you so to-day:

Go you your way, and let me go
Just my own free way."

The sea swept in with moan and foam
Quickening the stretch of sand;
They stood almost in sight of home;
He strove to take her hand.

"Oh, can't you take your answer then,
And won't you understand?

For me you're not the man of men,
I've other plans are planned.
You're good for Madge, or good for Cis,
Or good for Kate, may be:

But what's to me the good of this
While you're not good for me?"

They stood together on the beach,
They two alone,

And louder waxed his urgent speech,

His patience almost gone:

"Oh, say but one kind word to me,

Jessie, Jessie Cameron."

"I'd be too proud to beg,” quoth she,

And pride was in her tone.

And pride was in her lifted head,

And in her angry eye,

And in her foot, which might have fled,
But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood,
That in his heart was guile:

Yet he had gone through fire and flood
Only to win her smile.

Some say his grandam was a witch,

A black witch from beyond the Nile, Who kept an image in a niche

And talked with it the while.

And by her hut far down the lane
Some say they would not pass at night,
Lest they should hear an unked strain
Or see an unked sight.

Alas, for Jessie Cameron !

The spa crept moaning, moaning nigher: She should have hastened to be gone,— The sea swept higher, breaking by her: She should have hastened to her home While yet the west was flushed with fire, But now her feet are in the foam,

The sea-foam, sweeping higher.

O mother, linger at your door,

And light your lamp to make it plain;-
But Jessie she comes home no more.
No more again.

But none know where the bodies be:

Sea-winds that shiver,

Sea-birds that breast the blast,

Sea-waves swelling,

Keep the secret first and last

Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round

With its pitiless flow,

That when they would have gone they found
No way to go;

Whether she scorned him to the last

With words flung to and fro,

Or clung to him when hope was past,
None will ever know:

Whether he helped or hindered her,
Threw up his life or lost it well,
The troubled sea, for all its stir,
Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying

Have thought they heard one pray,
Wordless, urgent; and replying,
One seem to say him nay:

And watchers by the dead have heard
A windy swell from miles away,
With sobs and screams, but not a word
Distinct for them to say:

And watchers out at sea have caught
Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there,
Come and gone as quick as thought,
Which might be hand or hair.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE.

A cross-eyed man in a long linen ulster and a tall hat rang the bell, and when the woman of the house opened the door, she was satisfied he had an eye to the spoons (the straight eye), so she snapped:

"Well, what do you want?"

46

Madam, be calm," said the cross-eyed man, in a smooth

voice.

"What for?" she queried, suspiciously.

“Madam,” said the cross-eyed man, “have you a child?" "Yes, I have," replied the woman; "what of it?"