'Oh, about two years,' said my father. 'Well,' said the landlord, 'you see we are getting on here very well,' and they chatted together for some time. By and by he asked my father to have something to drink. Oh, but I have got a little temperance bitters here,' said the landlord, ' that temperance men use, and they acknowledge that it is purifying to the blood, especially in warm weather. Just try a little.' And he poured out a glass and offered it. I stepped up and said: 'Don't give my father that.' To which he replied: 'Well, boys arn't boys hardly nowadays; they are got to be men amazing early. If I had a boy like you I think I should take him down a little. What do you think, Mr. Meyers? Do you bring that boy to take care of you? Do you want a guardian?' That stirred the old man's pride, and he told me to go and look after the horses. He sat and drank till ten o'clock; and every time the landlord gave him a drink, I said: 'Don't give it to him.' At last my father rose up against me--he was drunk. When he got up on the wagon, I drove. My heart was very heavy, and I thought of my mother. Oh, how will she feel this? When we got about two miles from home, my father said: 'I will drive.' 'No,' said I, 'let me drive.' He snatched the reins from me, fell from the wagon, and before I could check the horses the forward wheel crushed his head in the road. I was till midnight getting his dead body on the wagon. I carried him to my mother, and she never smiled from that day to the day of her death. Four months after that she died, and we buried her. Now," said the man, after he had finished his story, "that man killed my father-he was my father's murderer." There is not a publican but can take your brother, your father, your son, into his dram-shop to-night and make him drunk in spite of your entreaties and prayers, and kick him out at midnight, and you may find his dead body in the gutter. All you have to do is to take the body and bury it and say nothing about it; for you have no redress, no protection. Now, protection is what we want. Come and help us. Hurrah for prohibition! MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.-BRET HARTE. "My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please; And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise her never to tease, Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense; for how would you know What she told me to say, if I didn't? truly think so? Don't you really and “And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know just where to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit: We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw. Suppose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you're afraid they would think it was mean! Well, then, there's the album: that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean. For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross. There's her picture. You know it? "This is ME. It's like her; but she Now, tell me, you'd That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought; For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat,— That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that. What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this. There's all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me! Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee, "Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night, Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say. Pa says you're poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are they? "Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there! I must go: sister's coming! But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way she used to kiss Lee." THE FARMER'S WIFE. The farmer came in from the field one day; His beaded brow, his sinewy hand, All showed his work for the good of his land: For he hoes, hoes, hoes, And he mows, mows, mows, By the kitchen fire stood his patient wife, And she must broil, broil, broil, All for the good of the home. The bright sun shines when the farmer goes out, While he works so bravely for the good of the men: For he mows, mows, mows, All for the good of the land. How briskly the wife steps about within, The fire goes out, the flies buzz about; For the dear ones at home her heart is kept stout. All for the sake of the home. When the day is o'er and evening has come, And he mows, mows, mows, He rests from the work of the land. But the faithful wife from sun to sun, For the good of her house she must work away; For to knit the sock, sock, sock, When autumn is here with its chilling blast, And it snows, snows, snows, He rests from the work of the land. But the willing wife, till life's closing day, For after the test, test, test, Comes the rest, rest, rest, HIDDEN BRIGHTNESS. There's not a hearth, however rude, To brighten up its solitude, THE STREET MUSICIANS.-GEORGE L. CATLIN. One day, through a narrow and noisome street, 'Twas a mellow and bright October day, On rich and poor in that crowded town; Shop-men stood in their doors and talked; But hark! through that narrow and crowded street, Strangely contrasting with all around; To attic, and cellar, and crazy stair, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moors, and blow, While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps." 'Twas a strolling minstrel band of four Who, standing before a groggery door, With puffed out cheeks and beating feet Their garb was ragged, the trumpets cracked, |