Reduced? I should say so! Stand a treat-
I'm shaky, you see, and dead for a drink-
And then, if you 've time, I 'll tell you, complete,
A tale that 'll quicken your blood, as I think.

I was a countryman born, brought up on a farm
(It fell to my share when the old man died),
Got married at twenty, and little of harm

Was prophesied then of me and my bride.

Things ran along smooth, and money came in,
And my acres increased as the years went by,
And nothing of sorrow, or care, or sin,

Came thither to trouble my wife and I.

We'd been married, I guess, a dozen of years,
When our only child, a girl, was born.
A husband yourself? You'll pardon my tears,
For the birth at night there was death at morn.

The girl grew up was the village queen,
Reigning by right of her violet eyes,

Of her cheek's rich bloom, and marvellous sheen
Of the goldenest ringlets under the skies.

Poetical? Ay; but she was a saint,

And her pure, pale brow forever appears
When I tell the tale; and the old-time plaint
Stirs itself to a language of tears.

What gold could buy she had only to ask;
She was all I had, and should I be mean?
To humor her whims was an envious task;
I'd have sold my soul for my golden-haired queen.
The love I lavished she paid tenfold;

I was all to her as she all to me;

No angel in heaven of gentler mould,
Or tenderer, lovinger heart than she.

But

your pardon again - her girlhood's prime – Well, the child had no mother, knew nought of sin This bunch in my throat! - please spare me a dime To wash it down with a tumbler of gin.

In her beautiful prime the tempter came;
Through such as he the angels fell;

He had wealth of words, and mien, and a name -
Ah, he bore the title of "Gentleman" well!

He made long prayers, to be seen of men;
Sinners he urged from the wrath to come:

He met my innocent girl- and then-
Let's mix that gin with a trifle of rum!

You know it all? Yes, the tale is old,

And worn to shreds by poets and priests;
But it's little you know of the heart I hold -
Of its bitter, blasted, Dead Sea feasts.

Did she die? Of course! To fall was death;
Could she live dishonored, forsaken, hetrayed?
He? Somewhere, I suppose, his scerted breath
Lifts eloquent prayers to Him who inade.

Remorse? Ay, ay; to the utmost stret-l!
Repentance? Don't pray, sir, trifle with me;
I could curse whoever would plead for a wretch
So lost to honor and manhood as he !

And so, as you see, I took to drink;

Can you stand another? I'm in your dept:
A pitiful tale? I should rather think!
And true as God's own gospel, you bet.

THEC F HAVENS.

RETRIBUTION.

HERE, you, policeman, just step inside;
See this young woman here -

Only just died.

Facts in the case look to be
Somewhat peculiar ;

Cause of death as you see,

Stabbed in the side.

Me and Maud Myrtle was standing right here,
Takin' a drink;

In come a loafer, chock full o' beer,

Leading a little child sweet as a pink;
Not more 'n three years old, pretty and bright,
Such little chaps as him 's good for the sight.
First thing we knowed the villain was rarin',
An' cursin', and swearin',

To make the child drink.

Maud was the nearest by,
Sprung at him with a cry,
Dashed the glass down!
Glared the brute's evil eye,
Wicked his frown.
Quick as the lightning's gleam
Flashed out the villain's knife;
Maud gave one gurgling scream
As the steel reached her life-
Tore through her tender side.
So the girl died!

Policeman - there she lies,

Resting at last!

Trouble was twins with her;
That is all past!

Her life was hard enough,
Bore on her rather rough;

But to see that peaceful face,
Pale and sweet beneath the light,
Goes to argue that the place
Where she's travelled to to-night,
Whatso sort of world it is,
Can't be worse for her than this.

The murderer? Yes!

Yonder he lies;

Dead in the dirt,

Like a dog he dies.

Some says its doubtful if hanging 's played out,

It don't suit me to admit of a doubt.

Think I'm wanted! Do you, though?
Well, let's go.

Daily Graphic.

DAVID L. Proudfit.

(Peleg Arkwright.)

ONLY JOE.

THIS grave were ye meanin', stranger? Oh, there's nobody much lies here;

It's only poor Joe, a dazed lad been dead now better 'n a year. He was nobody's child, this Joe, sir - orphaned the hour of his

birth,

And simple and dazed all his life, yet the harmlessest cretur on earth.

Some say that he died broken-hearted; but that is all nonsense, you know,

For a body could never do that as were simple and dazed like Joe.

But I'll tell you the story, stranger, an' then you can readily see How easy for some folks to fancy a thing that never could be.

Do you see that grave over yonder? Well, the minister's daughter lies there;

She were a regular beauty, an' as good as she were fair.
She'd a nod an' a kind word for Joe, sir, whenever she passed

him by ;

But bless ye, that were nothin' — she could n't hurt even a fly.

It wern't very often, I reckon, that people a kind word would

say,

For Joe was simple an' stupid, an' allus in somebody's way; So I s'pose he kind o' loved her; but then that were nothin', you know,

For there was n't a soul in the village but loved her better'n Joe.

An' when Milly took down with consumption, or some such weakness as that,

Joe took on kind o' foolish - there was nothin' for him to cry at; An' he'd range the woods over for hours for flowers to place

by her bed,

An' Milly, somehow or other, kind o' liked his dazed ways, they said.

But when winter was come, she died, sir, an' I well remember the day

When we carried the little coffin to the old churchyard away; It were so bitter cold, we were glad when the grave were made, An' when we were done an' went home, I suppose poor Joe

must have stayed;

They found him here the next mornin', lyin' close to the grave, they said,

An' a looking like he was asleep; but then, of course, he were

dead.

I suppose he got chilled and sleepy— an' how could a body know How dangerous that kind o' sleep is, as never knowed nothin',

like Joe?

So they say that he died broken-hearted; but that only shows, do you see,

How easy for some folks to fancy a thing that never could be ; For now you have heard the story, you'll agree with me, stranger, I know,

That a body could never do that, as were simple and dazed, like Joe!

San Francisco, 1874.

JAMES ROANN Reed.

THE OUTCAST'S DREAM.

FROM morn till noon the golden glow
Of bright September sunlight falls
On dewy glades, where fall flowers hide
Behind the dull, dark lichen walls.
From noon till night the slanting rays
Creep through the tangled winter vine,
Where berries fringe the bending sprays,
Like crimson drops of rare old wine.

From morn till noon, from noon till night, O'erspreads the earth with jewelled robes, And fire-flies light the purplish dusk

With countless golden glowing globes; A woman stalks through dust and heat, Until the fleece-like mists of night Enfold her thin and ill-clad form

In trailing robes of bridal white.

Her feet are bruised with jagged stones,
Her tender feet that years ago
Her mother's hands had fondly wrapped
In infant robes of downy snow;
Her pallid brow, that mother's lips

Had kissed with mother's kisses pure,
Is racked with pain that only they

Who homeless roam the world endure.

The clear, rich notes of wild birds break
The slumberous calm like Sabbath bells,
And from the brakes the thrush's song
In sad, pathetic sweetness swells.
The cool night-air is fragrant with

The scents that rise from dewy flowers,
As by the new moon's waning light
She counts the twilight's fleeting hours.

Her wild, sad eyes with wistful glare
Count all the landmarks, one by one,
Until she stands beyond the ridge

Where blossoms catch the morning sun;
And where the plover builds her nest
In meadow grasses lush and long,
And where in girlhood's happy years
She raked the hay, with mirthful song.
The old white stone beside the spring
Is there, as white and smooth as when
She filled her pail and mocked the caw
Of blackbirds in the reedy glen.
And when the gates of morn unfold,

She knows the sunbeams drifting down Will steal through casements quaint and old, And snow-white locks with glory crown.

She wanders on to where the spring
Is lost in countless silvery rills,
Then drops asleep, her silvery head
On pillows fringed with daffodils;

While in her dream her mother comes

And strokes her brow with soothing palms

That wash away the marks of shame,
And fill her soul with restful calms.