Methodis' Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sunday-school. Says he, 'No Irish need apply!' And they didn't. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard! He could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tangle-foot whisky without spilling it, than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard!—it'll please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother."

"Never shook his mother?"

"That's it-any of the boys will tell you so." "Well, but why should he shake her?"

"That's what I say-but some people does." "Not people of any repute?"

"Well, some that averages pretty so so."

"In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to his own mother, ought to—"

"Cheese it, pard! you've banked your ball clean outside the string. What I was a drivin' at, was, that he never throwed off on his mother-don't you see? No indeedy. He gave her a house to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox I'm d―d if he didn't set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a gentleman, pard, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse! Put it there!" [Another fraternal handshake-and exit.]

The obsequies were all that "the boys" could desire. Such a marvel of funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The plumed hearse, the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags drooping at half mast, the long, plodding procession of uniformed secret societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines, carriages of officials, and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in Virginia was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral.

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

THE most attractive vein of folk-lore ever worked in the United States was that which Joel Chandler Harris disclosed by the publication of his "Uncle Remus" sketches. These tales, all brought from Africa by the progenitors of our colored population, had passed down through generations by word-ofmouth only; scarcely one of them had appeared in print until the appearance of "Uncle Remus." They might have been printed in such manner as to be as uninteresting as some volumes of folk-lore that have been issued by learned societies, only to gather dust on book-shelves; but who ever saw, outside of a bookstore, a volume of “Uncle Remus” that did not show sign of many readings? The difference is due less to the matter than to the manner of telling; the old negro who relates the tales is, despite his rags, his rheumatism, and his fondness for stimulants, an engaging personality. The author was born at Eatonton, Georgia, in 1848, and has been chiefly engaged in journalism. It is not alone through Uncle Remus, however, that the author has interested the reading world; he has written some realistic sketches of life in modern Georgia,-sketches full of unusual incidents and characters, all of which he handles with genuine dramatic sense. All his literary work has been done in moments stolen from exacting journalistic duties.

WHY THE MOON'S FACE IS SMUTTY.

(This chapter from "Uncle Remus" is used by special permission of, and special arrangement with the authorized publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.)

"HIT's money, honey, de worl' over," replied Uncle Remus, after a somewhat prolonged silence. "Go whar you will, en go when you may, en stay ez long ez mought be, en you'll fin' folks huntin' atter money-mornin' en evenin', day en night.

"Look at um! Why, dars de Moon,"-something in the attitude or the countenance of the child caused Uncle Remus to stop suddenly and laugh.

"The Moon, Uncle Remus?" exclaimed the youngster. "What about the Moon?”

"Well, you know how folks talk 'bout de Moon. You'll hear um say she's on her fus' quarter, den on 'er las' quarter; en dat des 'zackly de way dey talk 'bout money. I hear tell dat one time dey wuz a man gwine 'long en de woods, en he hear a mighty jinglin' en rattlin'. He look 'roun', en see it wuz de Moon er changin'. Seem like she lacked a quarter, en de man pulled out his money-purse en flung de quarter in, en den she change all right.

"But dat ain't no tale; hit des a rig," Uncle Remus continued, not waiting to see the effect of this venerable joke. "De tale dat I been hearin' 'bout de moon ain't got no money in it, en dat mighty funny, too, kaze it look like money is mix up wid mos' eve'ything.

"In dem days, way back yander, de Moon use ter come down en get behime a big poplar log, when she wanter make a change. She ain't want nobody to see 'er. She'd rise later en later eve'y night, des like she do now, en den to'rds de las' she'd drap down on de fur een er de lan', over dat away, en slip behime de poplar log en change all she want er.

"But one time dey wuz a man gwine 'long thoo de woods totin' a bag er charcoal, what he been burnin'. He been watchin' de coal kil' since midnight de night befo', en he uz so tired out en broke down, dat stidder singin' er whistlin', like folks does when dey go thoo de woods, he uz des gwine 'bout his business widout making any fuss. He was axin hisse'f if dey'd be any hot ashcake waitin' for 'im, en whedder de ole 'oman 'd save 'im any pot liquor fum dinner.

"He was gwine 'long dis way when de fus' news he know, he come right 'pon de Moon whiles she was changin.' Man, suh! Dey wuz de bigges' flutterment den en dar dat dey 's ever been befo' er since. Folks 'way off thought dey could hear thunder, dough dey wan't nothin' in de roun' worl' but de Moon tryin' fer ter git out de way er de man.

"De man, he drapt de bag er charcoal en run like ole Scratch wuz atter 'im. He des tored thoo de woods like a harrycane was blowin' 'im 'long. He 'uz gwine one way en de Moon anudder, but de Moon she tripped en fell right

topper de bag er charcoal, en you kin see de signs un it down ter dis day. Look at 'er when you will, en you'll see dat she look like she been hit 'cross de face wid a sut-bag. Don't take my word fer it. Des look fer yo'se'f! Der't is! Ever sence dat day de Moon done got so she do 'er changin' up in de elements."

After a while the little boy asked what became of the man that had the bag of charcoal.

"What dat got ter do wid de tale?" said Uncle Remus, sharply. "Long ez de Moon is up dar all safe en soun', 'ceppin' de smut, it don't make no diffunce 'bout no man."

WALT WHITMAN.

WALT WHITMAN was born at West Hills, Long Island, on May 31, 1819. He was first a printer, then a teacher in country schools, and subsequently learned the carpenter's trade. He also contributed to newspapers and magazines and was at intervals connected with various papers in an editorial capacity. In 1849 he traveled through the western States, and afterwards took up his residence in New York City, where he frequented the society of newspaper men and litterateurs. In 1855 he published his notable work "Leaves of Grass," in which he preaches the gospel of democracy and the natural man. It is a series of poems without rhyme or metrical form, dealing with moral, social and political problems. It was a new departure in literature, an unwonted method of conveying frank and untrammeled utterances. The book at first attracted but little attention, though it at once found some staunch admirers. Ralph Waldo Emerson said of it: "I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." This book Walt Whitman elaborated and added to for thirty years, and several editions have been published. It has excited bitter denunciation and warm approval. Original and forceful,

Whitman cannot be judged by ordinary literary standards. His scornful trampling upon all metrical rules, and his freedom in treating of matters usually passed in silence, have so far been a decided barrier to the approval of his work.

During the war, Whitman became an hospital nurse at Washington. His experiences were wrought into a volume called "Drum Taps," since embodied with "Leaves of Grass." After the war he was for some years in the Government employ at Washington. He moved to Camden, New Jersey, in 1873. Besides adding to "Leaves of Grass," he published "Specimen Days and Collects" in 1883, "November Boughs " 1885, "Sands at Seventy" 1888, "Goodbye, my Fancy!" 1890.

Whitman died on March 26, 1892. His ambition was to be something more than a mere singer; a prophet and seer to his country and time. He has not yet been accepted by the people at large. He has won the approbation of some great minds, but so far he has not won the hearts of the people, to whom he dedicated his labors.

IN ALL, MYSELF.

I AM the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are

with me;

The first I graft upon myself, the latter I translate into a new

tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,

We have had ducking and deprecation about enough,

I show that size is only development.

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there everyone, and still pass on.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,

I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night.