BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY.

MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.

"Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars, to where the engine was standing, and swinging himself up into the cab, said to the engineer:

"Frank, I want you to come back to the first passenger car, and see a little girl that I hardly know what to make of."

The engineer nodded, and without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt hat—taking these "dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something stowed away for all emergencies—and went back to the car as requested.

He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the kind-hearted conductor sat talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet.

Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but seemed to be neither timid nor confused.

"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached.

She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched little face, and said:

"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm in Montana. He is dead, and my mamina is dead. She died first, before Willie and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to his old home in Vermont. And he said if the conductors wouldn't let me ride 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I

must ask for the engineer and tell him that I am James Kendrick's little girl, and that he used to run on the M. & G. road."

The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry after the manner of children in general.

Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he brushed the tears from his own eyes, said:

"Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a merciful Providence guided you on board this train.” Then turning around to the group of passengers, he went

on:

"I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the time, so that I could not work and I got home-sick and discouraged. Could not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I didn't much care whether I lived or died. One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their monthly pay, there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an hour for the last month. I felt so blue that I sat down on a pile of railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands, and cried like a boy, out of sheer home-sickness and discouragement. Pretty soon some one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys were all good to me in their way: 'You've been having a rough time of it, and you must let me help you out.' I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it out to me. I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a hard time of it himself to pull through, from month to month, so I said, half ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed, I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.' 'Indeed you will take it, man,' said Jim, ‘you will be all right in a few days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see the babies. It will do you good.' I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that

went to his house frequently, until he moved away, and I gradually lost sight of him. I had returned the loan, but it was impossible to repay the good that little act of kindness did me, and I guess Jim Kendrick's little girl here won't want for anything if I can prevent it."

Then turning again to the child, whose bright eyes were wide open now, the engineer said to her:

"I'll take you home with me when we get up to Wayne. My wife will fix you up, and we'll find out whether these Vermont folks want you or not. If they do, Mary or I shall go with you. But if they don't care much about having you, you shall stay with us and be our girl, for we have none of our own. You look very much like your father, God bless him."

Just then the eastern train whistled. "All aboard!" was shouted. Engineer Frank vanished out of the car door and went forward to the engine, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve, while the conductor and passengers could not suppress the tears this little episode evoked during the twenty minutes' stop at Allen's Junction.

STREET CRIES.-EDWARD EGGLESTON.

LAMENT OF A DISTRACTED CITIZEN.

The Englishman 's waked by the lark,
A-singing far up in the sky;

But a damsel with wheel-baritone,

Pitched fearfully high,

Like a lark in the sky,
Wakes me with a screech

Of" Horse Red-dee-ee-eech!"

The milkman, he crows in the morn,

And then the street cackle begins:

Junk-man with cow-bells, and fish-man with horn,
And venders of brushes and pins,

And menders of tubs and of tins.
"Wash-tubs to mend! Tin-ware to mend!"

Oh! who will deliverance send?

Hark! that girl is beginning her screech,-
"Horse-" ""-tubs"

66

Ripe peach-"

Then there's "O-ranges," "Glass toputin,"
And bagpipes, and peddlers, and shams;
The hand-organizer is mixing his din

With "Strawber-" "Nice sof' clams!"
"Wash-tubs to mend,” “Tin-ware to mend !"
Oh! heaven deliverance send!

I'd swear, if it wasn't a sin,

By "-any woo-ood?" "Glass toputin !"
"Ice-cream!" I'm sure that you do!

And madly the whole town is screaming.
"Pie-apples!" "Shedders!" " Oysters!" and "Blue-
Berries!" with "Hot corn all steaming!"
"Umbrell's to mend !"-My head to mend!
How swiftly I'd like to send
To-somewhere-this rackety crew,
That keep such a cry and a hue

Of "Hot-" "Wash-tubs!" and "Pop-
Corn-balls!"-Oh! corn-bawler stop!

From morning till night the street 's full of hawkers
Of" North River shad!" and "Ba-nan-i-yoes!"
Of men and women and little girl squawkers-
"Ole hats and boots! Ole clo'es!"
"Times, Tribune, and Worruld!"
"Here's yer Morning Hurrold!"
What a confounded din

Of" Horse red-" "-to put in!"

"Ripe-" "Oysters," and "Potatoes-""to mend!" Till the watchman's late whistle comes in at the end.

-Scribner's Monthly.

LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR.-WILL CARLETON.

Little Golden-hair was watching, in the window broad and high,

For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to

fight:

He had left her in the morning, and had told her not to cry
But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night.

She had wandered, all the day,
In her simple childish way,
And had asked, as time went on,
Where her father could have gone:

She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one,

Till the number grew so many that it was too great a load; Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shot or gun, And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord road.

Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week before, While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin

lid;

And she loved her father better for the loss that then she

bore,

And thought of him, and yearned for him, whatever else she did.

So she wondered all the day

What could make her father stay,
And she cried a little too,

As he told her not to do;

And the sun sank slowly downward and went grandly out of 'sight,

And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be bestowed; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew

to night,

And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road.

Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon rose full and round,

In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild; Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound,

And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child.

Long and sadly did she wait,

Listening at the cottage gate;
Then she felt a quick alarm,

Lest he might have come to harm.

With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, And no guide except the moonbeams that the pathway dimly showed,

With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, And alone she bravely started down the dusty Concord road.

And for many a mile she struggled, full of weariness and pain, Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not