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.

She feels warm, quivering kisses on her face
(The dews that heaven kindly sends),
And hears again the dear, brave voice
That gently censures or commends.
The vesper hymns they sang at eve,
The Sabbath chants of humble praise,

Float through her dreams, sweet memories from
The deathless bliss of childhood's days.

Ah! once again she 's young and pure;
Ah! once again her sinless brow
Is bound with roses rich and red,

Whose hearts with crimson beauty glow;
She hears again the subtle voice

That taught her love's most bitter pain.
On cheek and lips and wrinkled brow
His kisses fall like summer rain.

She cries aloud, her yearning hands
Outstretched to meet each fond caress,
Then sinks in shame to hide her face
In dripping clumps of watercress.
For what has life for such as her
But tortured thought, undying pain;

And what are dreams but stray chords from
Some old home song or old love strain?

Pittsburgh, 1874.

OLIVE BELL

FISHERMAN JOB.

WELL, young 'un, you 're mighty smooth spoken, an' it all may

be as you say,

That God never interferes with us, but lets each one go on his

own way;

But when heaven has silvered your locks with the snows of

some eighty odd year

As it has mine, an' always in marcy-you'll regret this wild fancy, I fear.

Just let me spin ye a yarn, sir, as happened a long time agone To me, an' if such is all luck, why, I hope it 'll always hold on; It's now nearly threescore summers since this incident happened

to me,

Just after I'd married my wife, an' settled down here by the sea. For I was a fisherman born, sir, lovin' always the wild waves to ride;

They're the type of my life, an' I'm thinkin' that it's now near the ebb o' the tide.

There were three of us then as were partners in the trimmest

an' snug little boat

As ever was true to her colors, just a bright little "Sunbeam"

afloat.

We had had a long run o'good luck, sir; wi' the weather as fair as could be,

An' the morrow were goin' again, when the gray light first dawned on the sea.

But before I was fairly turned out, it seemed as I heard something say,

"There's breakers ahead o' ye, Job; don't go on the sea, lad, to-day!"

At first I felt kind o' scared like, but I thought 't was all fancy,

you see,

So I took a good look at the sky; 't was as clear and as bright as could be.

But it still seemed to whisper, "Beware!" an' the breeze crept by soughin' an' slow,

An' a voice, like a wail for the dead, with each gust seemed to murmur, Don't go !"

66

Then I got kind o' nettled to think that my narves should sarve me that way;

An' I says to myself, "You're an ass, Job, but you'll go for all that, lad, this day!"

So I kissed wife a hasty good-by, an' set off a-hummin' a song, Till the path took a turn by that cliff at whose foot the sand stretches along.

Then what happened I never could tell; but the first I remember, I know,

The cliff were a frownin' above me, an' I, stunned and bruised, down below,

An' my wife kneelin' there by my side, an' lookin' as frightened as if

I were dead. Says she, “Job, were ye crazy? Ye walked right straight off of the cliff!"

I did n't say much; an', of course, my partners went that day

alone;

An' I lay on my bed kind o' happy to find, after all, I'd not gone.

But the strangest of all is yet comin'; for that mornin', as fair as could be,

Was followed ere noon by a storm as was fairly terrific to see.

We waited in agony, knowin' such a sea the boat could not outride;

An' were thankful when even the bodies were laid at our feet by the tide.

It's no use in askin' my fate, if that mornin' I only had gone; An' if such things all happen by luck, why, I hope it'll always

hold on.

JAMES ROANN Reed.

340

POOR LITTLE JOE.

PROP yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin' great.
Apples? No, but something better!
Don't you take no int'rest? Wait!
Flowers, Joe,-I knowed you'd like 'em -
Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high?
Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?
There-poor little Joe! - don't cry.

I was skippin' past a winder
Where a bang-up lady sot
All amongst a lot of bushes,
Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it
Pretty? Mebbe! Oh, no!
Wish you could a seen 'em growin',
It was sich a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,

And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you,

How I bringed yer up, poor Joe!

(Lackin' women-folks to do it)

Such a' imp you was, you know, —

Till yer got that awful tumble,
Just as I had broke yer in
(Hard work too) to earn your livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you could n't hyper much,

Joe, it hurted when I seen you

Fur the first time with yer crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day."
Joe, she up and went to cuttin',
That's the how of this bokay.

Say, it seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yourself to-night;

Kind o'chirk; it's been a fortnight
Since yer eyes has been so bright.