Money? Guess not, sir. Why, he had n't enough
To pay for this hole in the sod, of the stuff.

Friends, did you ask? Oh, yes! Sometime or other
Reckon, of course, the boy once had a mother.

Rather rough on him, pard; but where's it to end,
When you're panned out of cash and can't count on a friend?

Down to the calaboose- that's where they took him;
Good enough place, when a man's money 's forsook him!

Funeral? Just you see that express at the coroner's!
County can't pay for no hearse, nor no mourners.

Well, stranger, you've got me! Can pray if you will —
Rather late in the day, when a man's dead and still.

Strikes me, it don't count, to this, under my spade;
And as for the rest of him-stranger, that's played.

No offence, sir; beg pardon, but strikes me as fair,
And a pretty sure way to get answer to prayer,

Better give a poor devil a lift while he's here,
Than wait till he's passed in his checks over there!
A. L. BALLOU.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

SHE stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,

In feature too old for a child.
For a look so worn and pathetic

Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering

Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her

46

With kindly look, yet keen,

Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."

"And your age?" "I am turned fifteen."

"Well, Mary—" And then from a paper

He slowly and gravely read,

"You are charged here- I am sorry to say it

With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply;
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir;
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry, and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,

But somehow the times were hard, sir, And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold;
The young ones cried and shivered
(Little Johnnie's but four years old).
So what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn ;
I took-oh, was it stealing?—
The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room-
Graybeard and thoughtless youth
Knew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spake the truth. Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw,

As he cleared his throat and murmured
Something about the law.

For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,

He seemed on a simple question
Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him, or wondered,
When at last these words they heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is for the present deferred."
And no one blamed him, or wondered,
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.

SCANDAL-MONGERS.

Do you hear the scandal-mongers
Passing by,

Breathing poison in a whisper,
In a sigh?

Moving cautiously and slow,
Smiling sweetly as they go,

Never noisy-gliding smoothly as a snake,
Supping here and sliding there

Through the meadows fresh and fair,
Leaving subtle slime and poison in their wake.

Saw you not the scandal-monger

As she sat

Beaming brightly 'neath the roses
On her hat?

In her dainty gloves and dress
Angel-like, and nothing less,

Seemed she-casting smiles and pleasing words about.
Once she shrugged and shook her head,

Raised her eyes and nothing said,

When you spoke of friends, and yet it left a doubt.

Did you watch the scandal-monger

At the ball?

Through the music, rhythm, beauty,
Light, and all,

Moving here and moving there,

With a whisper light as air,

Casting shadows on a sister woman's fame

Just a whispered word or glance

As she floated through the dance,

And a doubt forever hangs upon a name.

Yet their tongues drip foulest slime,

And they spend their leisure time

Casting mud on those who climb by work and worth!

Shun them, shun them as you go

Shun them, whether high or low;

They are but the cursed serpents of the earth.

St. Nicholas.

THE CHURNING SONG.

APRON on and dash in hand,
O'er the old churn here I stand, -

Cachug!

How the thick cream spurts and flies,
Now on shoes and now in eyes!

Cachug! Cachug!

See the golden specks appear!
And the churn rings sharp and clear,-
Cachink!

Arms, that have to flag begun,
Work on, you will soon be done,
Cachink! Cachink!

Rich flakes cling to lid and dash;
Hear the thin milk's watery splash ! —
Calink!

Sweetest music to the ear,

For it says the butter's here!

Calink! Calink!

SILAS DINSMORE

TURNED OUT FOR RENT.

OUT, out in the night, in the chill wintry air,

Turned out on the pave with its stones cold and bare;
Shut out from her home with its sad dearth of bread,

Alone with her God and the stars overhead!

Cast out with her babe still asleep on her breast,
Asleep to the sorrow that mars not his rest;
Asleep to the new pearls bedecking his hair,
Bright gems from the sea of his mother's despair.
Out, out like her Lord," with no place for her head,"
All friendless, and houseless, and starving for bread;
Thus brought face to face with her life's direst woe,
And yet 't is unfelt 'neath a bitterer blow;
For this is the wail, voiceless, deep in her heart,
"Cast out like a thief, put to shame, set apart!
But what hath she done, with her wild startled eyes,
And what with her tremulous, short, gasping sighs?

Ah, what, with her weary and faltering feet,

Now dragging like lead through the fast darkening street?
What! Is one so weak found a dangerous thing,
Concealing 'mid softness a treacherous sting,
That ye to expel her have borrowed a need
Of two brawny knights of the star and the reed;
This, this is her crime - O ye winds, whisper low!
Nor give to the echoes her sad tale of woe,

Lest they tell the hills, and the beasts cry, "For shame!"
Gaunt poverty fills all her measure of blame.

M. L. S. BURKE

AT THE COURT-HOUSE DOOR.

No! no! I don't defend him

You need n't, sir, be afraid!

Of course he's bad, and he 's broke the laws,
And they've got to be obeyed;

But I can't help kind of thinking

I beg your pardon, squire !—

If we had had a start like him

We might n't got much higher.

"So poor?" "T wan't that! 't wan't that, sir!

A home may be awful bare,

And keep some kind of quiet

And show of comfort there;

But when it's all dirt and disorder

I never saw such a place! —

And you see folks said 't would always be,

Because it was in the race;

And it had been so - that's true, sir;

His father was very bad;

And the poor boy looked some like him-
And 't was all against the lad;

Folks would n't allow that anything good

Could come of such a stock

Kind folks they were, too, in everything else,
But here as set as a rock.

They wouldn't employ him to labor-
They did n't want him around;

There were plenty of nice young fellows,
That needed work, to be found.

And his mother-she was a drunkard;
And that was against him, too!

And so, no home, no comfort,
And nothing to get to do.