You see that stripling in the meadows mowingWell-knit for eighteen years, and strong and lithe; 'Longside the foremost in the row a-going;
Steady as clock-work moves his sweeping scythe. Well, that's my boy, and something like me, rather In face than mind-in habits not, they say; The son is far more careful than the father Earns much, spends little-he'll be rich one day. Old Towser one time saved that boy from dying, Twelve years ago-round bere the story's known; You'd scarcely think, as you behold him lying, He fought a wolf, and mastered him alone.. Even if the service we don't care to measure,
The feat's not one that every dog can doThat's right, old Towser! raise your ears with pleas
And wag your tail-you know I speak of you.
Since then the true old dog has stood is sentry
Over our household camp by night and day;
Nor rogue nor robber ever made an entry
With Towser's vigilance to stop the way.
Nor locks, nor bolts, nor bars were ever needed;
We slept serenely while he stood on guard;
Each sound suspicious by his quick ears heeded--
His fangs intruders from our slumbers barred.
Faithful to us, distrustful to a stranger,
Obedient to a sign expressing will;
True to his master, fearless of all danger,
Ill-fed at times; but fond and grateful still-
No sleek and pampered dog of finest breeding,
Reared in a pulace and with dainties fed,
Has ever shown high qualities excceding
Those of this brute, base-born and underbred.
Only a cur, indeed! If such you name him,
Where be your dogs of honor and degree?
Since none with duties left undone can blame him,
What brute ranks higher in its kind than ae?
If human-kind would do as well its duty,
The world were spared one-half its woe and pain, Worth would seem better in our eyes than beauty, And deeds, not looks, our admiration gain. -Thomas Dunn English, in N. Y. Ledger.
""Tis the last time, darling," he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shown in his eyes of brown,
"My own is the prettiest girl in town;
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king
So truly blest, on his royal throne,
As I shall be when I claim my own?"
'Twas a fond farewell; 'twas a sweet good-bye,
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh,
So, into the basket, that swayed and swung
O'er the yawning abyss he lightly sprung,
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe
As they lowered him down in the depths below.
Her sweet, young face, with its tresses brown,
Was the fairest face in the mining town.
Lo! the morning came; but the marriage bell,
High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell
For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone
Far down in the heart of the mine--alone.
A sorrowful peal, on their wedding day,
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay.
And the face that looked from her tresses brown
Was the saddest face in the mining town.
Thus time rolled along on its weary way,
Until fifty years with their shadows gray
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow,
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.
O! never a kiss from a husband's lips,
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger tips,
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown
From the saddest heart in the mining town.
Far down in the depths of the mine, one day,
In the loosened earth they were digging away,
They discovered a face, so young, so fair;
From the smiling lip to the bright, brown hair,
Untouched by the finger of Time's decay.
When they drew him up to the light of day,
The wondering people gathered 'round
To gaze at the man thus strangely found.
Then a woman came from among the crowd,
With her long, white hair and her slight form bowed.
She silently knelt by the form of clay,
And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.
Then, the sad, old face with its snowy hair
On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there.
He had found her at last, his waiting bride,
And the people buried them side by side.
-Rose Hartwick Thorpe, in Detroit Free Press.
Letting the Old Cat Die.
Not long ago I wandered near
A play-ground in the wood,
And there heard words from a youngster's lips That I never quite understood.
"Now, let the old cat die," he laughed;
I saw him give a push,
Then gravely scamper away as he spied
My face peep over the bush.
But what he pushed, or where he went,
I could not well make out,
On account of the thicket of bending bough
That bordered the place about.
"The little villain had stoned a cat,
Or hung it upon a limb,
And left it to die all alone," I said,
"But I'll play the mischief with him."
I forced my way between the boughs,
The poor old cat to seek,
And what did I find but a swinging child,
With her bright hair brushing her cheek
Her bright hair floated to and fro.
Her little red dress flashed by,
But the loveliest thing of all, I thought,
Was the gleam of her laughing eye.
Swinging and swaying back and forth,
With the rosy light in her face,
She seemed like a bird and flower in ons,
And the forest her native place.
"Steady! I'll send you up, my child,"
But she stopped me with a cry:
"Go'way! go 'way! don't touch me, please,
I'm letting the old cat die!"
"You letting him die!" I cried, aghast,
"Why, where's the cat my dear?"
And lo! the laughter that filled the woods
Was the thing for the birds to hear.
'Why, don't you know," said the little maid,
The flitting, beautiful elf,
"That we call it letting the old cat die,'
When the swing stops all of itself ?”
Then swinging and swinging, and looking back,
With the merriest look in her eye,
She bade me "Good-day," and I left her alone,
A-letting the old cat die.
"No Smoking Allowed."
"No smoking allow'd," met the eye of the crowd, That sidl'd and bow'd with the swing of the car; Conspicuously hung, it brilliantly flung
Its warning to smokers of pipe and cigar.
A gentleman who was apparel'd in blue
Walked leisurely tnro', took a seat in the rear ;
From pockets capacious he drew an atrocious
Collection of articles vari'd and queer.
A flaming bandanna, as huge as a banner,
A flagrant Havana; O, noble cigar!
An odd match or so, a tie and a bow,
And a bottle of something marked "Cordial of Tar."
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