Cur

They'll lay your boy in his grave
For nearly betraying the country
He would give his life to save.
And, father, I tell you truly,
With almost my latest breath,
That your boy is not a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.
"You remember Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain.
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again.

I carried all of his luggage,
With mine, on the march that day;
I gave him my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry;
But I took his place, and I-
Father, I fell asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die.

The Colonel is kind and generous, He has done the best he can,

And they will not bind or blind me

I shall meet death like a man. Kiss little Blossom; but, father, Need you tell her how I fall?" A sob from the shadowed corner,Yes, Blossom had heard it all! As she kissed the precious letter She said with faltering breath, "Our Fred is never a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death."

And a little sun-brown maiden,
In a shabby time-worn dress,
Took her seat a half-hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story

As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the tear drop

From the blue eyes brimming o'er, And guarded her footsteps safely Till she reached the White House door.

The President sat at his writing;
But the eyes were kind and mild
That turned with a look of wonder
On the little shy-faced child.
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.

"'Tis a brave young life," he murmured,
"And his country needs him yet.
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-by;
If that brave young life is needed,
He shall die as heroes die."

DRUNKARD.

I have mixed my drinks well,- rum, beer, and

champagne:

Strong drink in the stomach is death to the brain,
And death to affection. Deny it, who can ?
A drunkard has only the semblance of man,
The form of his Maker, degraded, accursed,
The vilest of all living things, and the worst.
-Drinking Annie's Tears.

AGE.

Within its portals stood a man

Like some grim shadow on Time's shore, Gray as the walls about him, and

Like them a memory, nothing more,— A page from out the deathless past!

-Remember The Alamo.

G

GEORGE HINES GORMAN.

EORGE HINES GORMAN is the second son of Alexander M. Gorman, and Mary Edmonds Jordan, and was born in Raleigh, North Carolina, on the 29th of July, 1861. Both of his parents were persons of culture and literary distinction, and from them the son has inherited his love of literature. His father followed the profession of letters, and owned, and ably edited the Spirit of the Age, up to the time of his death in 1865. In addition to the literary work of his own publication, he was a contributor to other periodicals. Mr. Gorman's mother, who is still living, is a writer of merit. Young Gorman received his early education entirely at the hands of his mother, and, indeed, could be induced to receive instruction from no other source; and the devoted love for her which was thus early manifested in his life, has but grown the stronger with the passing years. During his school life he belonged to several literary and debating societies, and on two public occasions had awarded to him gold medals for oratory and eloquence. He was a student at the Raleigh Military Academy, and Washington and Lee University, in Lexington, Virginia. He was graduated from the university with distinction, in June, 1884, bringing from thence, as evidences of his ability, the University Orator's Medal, and a prize essay medal — the highest honors which the university could bestow on a student. After graduating, Mr. Gorman located in Norfolk, Virginia, and practiced his profession, the law. Family influence, the young man's own worth, and his undoubted talents, soon brought him a large and varied practice, into which he entered with all the ardor of youth and ambition. He remained in Norfolk two years, but at the end of that time was obliged to seek a more healthy climate. He removed to St. Paul, Minn., where he now resides. M. E. W.

CLING TO THE LORD.

WHEN thy life is bright

With joyous sweet light

That shines like the glorious sun,

And the path you tread With pleasure is spread, Remember the All-Giving One.

When praises resound And efforts are crowned With success, and fortune is won; Forget not to raise

Thy voice in thy praise And thanks to the Bountiful One.

Throughout all the while

That fortune shall smile,

Then still cling to the Changeless One; Nothing else is true

Or constant to you,

So cling to the Most Holy One.

In moments of grief,

Still cling for relief

To the One of Mercies above:

And cling in thy pain,

For He will sustain

And bless with abundance of love.

In sorrow and woe
That burdens thee so,

O! cling to the Beautiful One;
For He gives relief

And anguish will cease
At the touch of the Healing One.

When burdened with care,
Wellnigh to despair,

Then cling to the Crucified One;
For clouds disappear

And skies become clear
With the smiles of the Purified One.

When poor or in wealth,
In sickness or health,

Still cling to the Comforting One;
And constantly pray,
By night and by day,

For blessings from Father and Son.

On land or at sea,
Where'er you may be,

Still cling to the Merciful One;
If pleasures caress

Or sorrows distress, Still cling to the All Holy One.

GRIEF.

Common griefs are the strongest chains
That friendship e'er employs;
And they bind our hearts far closer
Than do our common joys.

-Poetic Aphorisms.

CHEERFULNESS.

Is there a sweeter thing on earth Than pleasant thoughts, I wonder, Or a happier man than he

Who has the greatest number?

-Ibid.

THE EDITOR AND THE POETS.

SONG OF THE PRINTING-PRESS.

I AM silent to-night in the basement dim,
And the shadows around me are vague and grim;
But my nerves they reach out where the home-

groups are,

Where the home-lights are flickering near and far;
And I feel a glad thrill in my iron heart
For the gladness and cheer that I there impart;
For although I am only a dumb machine,

I can move with a wonderful power, I ween!
There are beautiful stories that I can tell,
And that fall on the ear like a magic spell;
And I whisper them sweetly to one and all-
So sweetly that even the tear-drops fall-
To the maiden who sits in the cottage low,
To the lover who longeth her heart to know,
To the poet who dreams, and the child who waits
For the Princess to open the fairy gates.

I am King, and my subjects are scattered wide,
But, wherever they be, they are leal and tried;
And though other kings fall and their kingdoms

wane,

Forever and aye must my own remain.
It is one to grow greater with lapse of time,
And to tower through ages to heights sublime;
While the cry of my subjects for aye shall be:
"Vive la PRESS! for our King is he!"

"Vive la PRESS!" a prophetic cry,
For it tells that the glorious By and By

Shall be nearer each other by the rule it owns.

And that all of mankind, on the earth's broad zones,

Shall the Gospel of Liberty plainly hear;
And that darkness and error shall disappear;
That the poor and the lowly, the weak, oppressed,
Uplifted shall be, and supremely blest!

Though I'm silent and lone in my basement dim,
I am singing a sweeter and grander hymn
Than was ever breathed forth by an earthly choir,
And it thrills like the thrill of a living fire!
Aye, it rings up the vales, and across the plains,
And it bears a bright hope on its sweet refrains;
For the beautiful theme of my thrilling song
Is that Right shall be victor at last o'er Wrong!

There are monarchs who quake at the power I hold,

And who fear that the years of their reign are told,