Zekel crep' up quite unbeknown A fireplace filled the room's one side There war n't no stoves (tell comfort died) The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, The old queen's-arm thet gran' ther Young The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'; 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look He was six foot o' man, A 1, He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spelis,- But long o' her his veins 'ould run The side she breshed felt full o' sun She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 66 Wall.... no.... I come designin'"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals act so or so, Or don't 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Says he, "I'd better call agin ;" Says she "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'.... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips For she was jes' the quiet kind Like streams that keep a summer mind The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Tell mother see how metters stood, Then her red come back like the tide An' all I know is, they was cried J. R. Lowell. KING WILLIAM THANKS HIS GOD. THE Sombre pall of night had spread The field was thickly strewn with dead, And heaps of rigid, gory men, Lay pillowed on the sod; For this, by telegram and pen, King William thanks his God! The trumpet's clarion voice was hushed, As from a heap of slain and crushed "My helpless babes and wife-O Lord, Have mercy-spare the rod." Electric flashes pass the word, "King William thanks his God!" Two thousand peasants' homes, by fire, Nor let the helpless weak retire, Great God! shall king's ambition slay Thy creatures, legions, day by day, And then by lightning have it hurl'd If these are Thine annointed, Lord, And would prefer, though little worth, Than telegraph, throughout the earth, DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL. FLOY," ," said Paul, "what is that?" "Where, dearest?" "There! at the bottom of the bed." "There's nothing there except Papa!" The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, "My own boy, don't you know me?" Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this his father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and, before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering, heart; but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed, I am quite happy!" His father coming, and bending down to him-which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside-Paul held him round the neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him again in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, "Don't be so sorry for me; indeed, I am quite happy." This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so. How many times the golden water danced upon the wall-how many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him-Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no-the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. "Floy, did I ever see mamma?" "No, darling: why?" "Did I ever see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. "Oh, yes, dear." "Whose, Floy?" "Your old nurse's, often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?" * * * * * There was a hurry in the room for an instant-longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more-then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please." "She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow" "Thank you, Floy." "And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes! No other stranger would have shed those. tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a |