Thirty minutes and round the bend

Flashed his horse, like a streak of gray. Now for a straight course to the end.

Hold the pace, and life wins the day!
Foain on the flank, and foam on the lip;
Nostrils crimsoned with oozing blood;
Heaving girth, and a trembling hip-

Yea-but think of the racing flood!
Down they swept by the sandstone bluff.
Dim grew the rocky trail and rough.
Still they thundered along the pass,
Like storm-wind bowing the summer grass.
Forty minutes-the bridge in sight,
Spanning the gorge with a web of light!
Rails agleam in the slanting sun,
Rods and cables like silver spun.

Out of the saddle sprang Reckless Dan,
Just where the network of steel began.
Not a moment he paused to think,
But ventured out from the dizzy brink,
Step by step, on the narrow ties,
Scanning the river with eager eyes.
Suddenly, stooping, with trembling haste
He fastened the lariat round his waist,
Tied it fast to an iron beam,

And swung out over the rushing stream.
Up the river, had flashed in sight

A bit of flotsam all gleaming white!

Ere it should pass, there was life and hope;—
Down he slipped on his swaying rope.

Saved! but they drew them up half dead,

Man and child, from the whirlpool's grasp,Close to Dan's bosom, the golden head

Strained in his tight, convulsive clasp.

Saved! and the cañon rang again

With the joyful shouts of the rough-garbed men. "Hooray!" they cried, "for Reckless Dan!

His heart's big enough for any man!"

Aye, big enough and warm enough,

Like many another in the rough.
God sets a child in the midst and lo!
Man's inhumanity melts like snow.

THE STORY OF A LITTLE RED HEN.

S. E. EASTMAN.

HIS is the story my grandmother told,

TH

One day when the wind and the weather were cold. You have read it before, perhaps dozens of times. Will you hear it again in the simplest of rhymes? Who'll sift the flour?" cried the little red hen; 'We need some more bread."

66

"I w-o-n'-t, I w-o-n'-t," all the rest of the ten Quite lazily said.

"Well, then, I will!" To the pantry she went
That very same hour,

And merrily sang, on her task still intent,
Till she sifted the flour.

"Who'll stir in the yeast?" cried the little red hen, "And who'll knead the bread?"

"I won't, I won't," all the rest of the ten

66

Rather angrily said.

'Well, then, I will," and she worked so fast

That the loaf looked light,

When placed in its shining pan at last,

To rise through the night.

"Who will kindle the fire?" cried the little red hen; 66 'Who'll bake the bread?"

"I won't, I won't," all the rest of the ten Quite sullenly said.

"Well, then, I will," and she wiped the dust
Till the oven was clean;

And the loaf, when baked, had the nicest crust
That ever was seen.

"Now the work is donę,” cried the little red hen, Who'll eat the bread?

66

"I will, I will," all the rest of the ten

Very eagerly said.

'No, indeed, you won't, as you've said before; I'll eat it myself,"

And she left the loaf, after locking the door,

On the closet shelf.

Then the nine who'd been lazy and sullen and cross Went up to the attic and wept o'er their loss.

FIVE LITTLE BROTHERS.

IVE little brothers set out together

FIVE

To journey the livelong day.

In a curious carriage all made of leather They hurried away, away!

One big brother and three quite small,

And one wee fellow no size at all.

The carriage was dark and none too roomy,
And they could not move about;

The five little brothers grew very gloomy,
And the wee one began to pout,

Till the biggest one whispered: "What do you say?
Let's leave the carriage and run away."

So out they scampered, the five together,

And off and away they sped!

When somebody found that carriage of leather,
Oh, my! how she shook her head.

'Twas her little boy's shoe, as everyone knows,
And the five little brothers were five little toes.

MAN is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate~
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows, that walk by us still.

A

THE BANQUET.

MARY AGNES TINCKER.

(From "Aurora," by permission of the author.]

A Study in Word-Painting.

BANQUET-HALL in a palace; drapery between open columns, with glimpses of a garden, fountains and birds; a faint breeze; a marble floor and marble walls that reflect like mirrors; a great arch leading out to an open court and stair; a table spread with wines and with fruits, and glittering with plate.

Is all ready? All is ready. Is there a speck on fruit, a mote in wine, a grain of dust, or a rose-leaf even fallen on the damask cloth? The fruit has been guarded from the flower, every sunbeam tempered to its needs, and no wind allowed to touch it but a nursing, rocking breeze. The wine is strained, tiil it is clearer than the jewels of the East; and a snowflake on the damask were a stain.

Does the music wait their coming? Every player holds his breath above the string or the key, and the leader listens with his bâton raised. At the first advancing murmur, the rustle and the laughter, all the perfumed air will turn into a song.

But what darkens on the glistening marble floor? What shadow grows within the mirrored arch? A vision of a man with outstretched hand,-quivering, dim, gigantic, clothed in rags. Motionless, yet quivering, he stands, with the keen, voracious quiver of a flame.

O Lazarus, thou Samson of to-day! Round the pillars of my joy let not thy despairing prayers clasp their strength and bring down judgment on my head. O awful poverty! Poison of all ills, extracted and condensed, charity and faith corroding, till even hope becomes a leper, and love's heart strikes, with every beat a thorn! O thou shadow of the beggar at my gate! 'Tis the hell that man has made makes thee quiver on the wall as its gnawing flame devours thee flesh and soul.

But one steadfast rav I see in the tremor and the dark. 'Tis the steadfast eyes of Christ looking through thine at me!

OBLIGING HIS LANDLADY.

CHARACTER:

CHARLES D. HICKMAN.

A Monologue for a Man.
FRANK GAMMON.

SCENE: An apartment; small mirror, slippers, shaving utensils handy; assistant behind scenes, with squeaker, to imitate cry of baby. Enter FRANK GAMMON, with hat, bag, and umbrella, speaking off as he enters.

With pleasure, Mrs. Grunter; you may depend upon me. [Putting down bag, etc.; taking off boots, and putting on slippers.] One must oblige one's landlady sometimes, especially when one is not in the habit of taking down one's rent on the "exact date when due. Mrs. Grunter has generally to come up for my rent or for her rent, as she says, though I am constantly explaining to her that nothing is one's own, till one gets it. Its invariably nothing she gets, when she ascends for the rent. Had I a receipt for each occasion on which I have paid her nothing but there, some day she shall be paid in full. Taking everything into consideration, it may prove to my advantage to carry out her instructions to the best of my ability-as all persons of no ability invariably observe when undertaking a commission. Having to go out for half-an-hour, my landlady has left everything in the house to my care, including a baby, at present peacefully slumbering in the next room. I had misgivings as to my infant-minding powers, but Mrs. Grunter assured me, on her word of honor as a gentlemen-I mean— well, she assured me, the baby would not disturb me, if I did not disturb the baby. A most remarkable infant, according to the mother's testimony, and a mother's testimony as to her child's worth should be believed-though it very often isn't. My mother used to tell everyone I was a little angel; but nobody personally acquainted with me believed it. On the contrary, everyone said I was a noisy little brat. The only relative who never seemed to mind being present at my head-splitting, ear-drumming, constitution-destroying, but otherwise artistic performances on the tea-tray, was old Aunt Susan. True, she was deaf and dumb, poor old soul, but still-anyhow, Mrs. Grunter says her child always sleeps soundly, and never wakes