Part 6

No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one! Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun. Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks; But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee; I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me. Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear, Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister--she died a year ago, An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you, I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!

A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE.

BY JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,--the heart that weeps and trembles."

It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness,--through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God.

Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.

Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal, upright--rested, rose--at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.

Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below,--below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming--were nearing--were at hand.

Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."

And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!"

KEENAN'S CHARGE.

BY GEORGE P. LATHROP.

(_Chancellorsville, May, 1863._)

The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet; Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through, with angry tusk.

"They've trapped us, boys!"-- Rose from our flank a voice. With a rush of steel and smoke On came the Rebels straight, Eager as love and wild as hate: And our line reeled and broke; Broke and fled. No one staid--but the dead! With curses, shrieks and cries, Horses and wagons and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies.

There's one hope, still,-- Those batteries parked on the hill! "Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar) "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more.

The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rode a form Calmly in front of the human storm, With a stern, commanding shout:

"Align those guns!" (We knew it was Pleasonton's) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will, at his word: And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard. But ah, the dread delay!

"To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes' time!" The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone-- Less shaken than the ground.

"Major, your men?" "Are soldiers, General." "Then, Charge, Major! Do your best: Hold the enemy back, at all cost, Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!"

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath, Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; Rode in and sabered and shot--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung Round his head like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line, ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death-salute From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!

Over them now,--year following year, Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

USEFUL PRECEPTS FOR GIRLS.

First catch your lover.

Hold him when you have him.

Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along.

Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life.

Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to support you.

Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for one either.

Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until after marriage.

If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother, say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid of you to oblige her, as he thinks best.

If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter.

If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't.

Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a stylish suit for better or worse.

If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own washing.

Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back.

If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would know your sentiments were borrowed.

Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery.

In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man comes along you may see him.

When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual.

If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially, conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford to--

Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him!

WIDDER BUDD.

I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair, An' I feel just ez young as a girl. When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declare It sets me all into a whirl. Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"-- An' my! How supprised he did look: Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after my _cash_-- I see through his plans like a book.

Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad; There was Deacon Philander Breezee; I'd a sartin sed _Yes_, when he wanted a kiss, Ef he hadn't so flustrated me. It took me so quick that it felt like a kick-- I flew all to pieces at once; Sez I, "You kin go--I'm not wanting a beau;" I acted, I know, like a dunce.

Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose." I stopped him afore he began: Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow-- _I won't be tied down to a man_." "Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' me Kin strike up a bargain, I know; An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree, I guess that I hed better go."

He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat, An' solemnly started away. Sez I, with a look that I'm _sure_ he mistook, "You're perfectly welcome to stay." My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed-- I thought for the land I should melt. Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one," I _wish_ he'd a known how I felt.

To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers, Whose face is ez ugly ez sin, Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers, An' tickled the mole on my chin. Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit; You can't come your sawder on me. You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave, Your manners is ruther too free."

When dear David died (sniff--sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff--sniff); He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff--sniff); He squeezed it awhile (sniff--sniff), an' he sez with a smile (sniff--sniff), "You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff--sniff--sniff), An' when I am gone (sniff--sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff--sniff) Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff--sniff). Look out for your tin (sniff--sniff) if you marry agin (sniff--sniff), Nor throw your affections away (sniff--sniff--sniff)."

My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own-- They're doin' ez well ez they can (_wipes her eyes and nose_): An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone-- I wouldn't mind havin' a man. Fur David hez gone to the mansion above-- His body is cold in the ground, Ef you know of a man who would marry for love, Jest find him an' send him around.

HIS LAST COURT.

Old Judge Grepson, a justice of the peace, was never known to smile. He came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters, he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of "electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him.

One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a court much longer."

"I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let me add, quickest of your ability."

Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to reverence him.

"Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?"

"I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me," and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he did not raise them when the woman continued:

"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past life."

She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he said that I must never again come to his home,--my home, the home of my youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was 'I don't know you!' My husband died--yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here."

Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!"

The woman was his daughter.

THE DEAD DOLL.

BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead! There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head; It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day, And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue, As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you? You might make her look all mended--but what do I care for looks? Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf. Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?

I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead! And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard-- She said to me most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse; And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see-- This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word! I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

AT THE STAMP WINDOW.

Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf.

"Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?" she began.

"Oh, yes."

"Do you send mail there?"

"Yes."

"Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent."

"Takes two cents," said the clerk, after weighing it. "If there is writing inside it will be twelve cents."

"Mercy on me, but how you do charge!"

Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots of time.

"Then it will be two cents, eh?"

"If there is no writing inside."

"Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to plant 'm."

"Two threes!" called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the window.

"Hurry up!" cried another.

"There ought to be a separate window here for women," growled a third.

"Then it will take twelve cents?" she calmly queried, as she fumbled around for her purse.

"Yes."

"Well, I'd better pay it, I guess."

From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the box, and said:

"Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any difference, will it?"

THE NAMELESS GUEST.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

I wonder if ever the Angel of Death Comes down from the great Unknown, And soars away, on the wings of night, Unburdened and alone! I wonder if ever the angels' eyes, Are filled with pitying tears, As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight, A few more weary years!

For it seems, at times, when the world is still, And the soft night winds are whist, As though some spirit were hovering near, In folds of dream-like mist, And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near, That I am not quite alone, And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death, My heart grows cold as stone.

But whether 'tis death that hovers near, And knocks at the door of my heart, Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come To be of my life a part, I cannot tell, and I long in vain, The secret strange to know, While the moments of mirth and grief and pain, Move on in their ceaseless flow.

And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power And ask His tender care, One yearning cry of a wayward life Is the burden of my prayer, That I may bend, with willing lips, To kiss the chastening rod, And learn the way, through the golden gate, To the great white throne of God.

OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER.

This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear, defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long pause after each question: