So old Sprague allowed how as Ike wuz no good,
He wouldn't fetch water, he couldn't split wood;
He'd hide in the barn an' be readin' a book-
You could find all the others whenever you'd look,
'Ceptin' Ike.

Mother Sprague she would scold, an' old Sprague he would cuss,

An' swear Ike must work, or must go and do wuss,
For he warn't goin' to harbor a book-readin' drone,
An' they all had to work to help keep up the home,
'Ceptin' Ike.

So Ike packed his budget, an' bid 'em good-bye!
An' he started fer town with a tear in his eye-
An' old Sprague allowed of the city he'd tire;
An' all of the gals an' boys sot round the fire,
'Ceptin' Ike.

Well, 'twas more'n five years after Ike had lit out,
No one had e'er hearn of what he wuz about.
Some 'lowed he wuz dead, some believed him in jail;
An' no one once doubted in all things he'd fail,
'Ceptin' Ike.

The gals they all married, the boys settled down,
Some on 'em kept farmin', an' some moved to town;
Old Sprague an' his wife they wuz left all alone;
Each one of their children had moved to their home,
'Ceptin' Ike.

One day Sprague was readin' about a big ball
To welcome a senator at the town-hall;

His name it wuz Sprague-S-P-R-A-G-U-E;
An' he thought of all men of that name that could be
'Ceptin' Ike.

But he made up his mind if it cost him a leg

That he'd see that great man that the papers called

Sprague.

So he harnessed old Bess, into town he wuz whirled, A-thinkin' of all of the Spragues in the world—

'Ceptin' Ike.

An' when he walked into the door of the hall,
An' saw all the big-bugs dressed up for the ball,
He crowded along this great statesman to see,
An' then Sprague nigh fainted, fur who should it be,
'Ceptin' Ike?

"My boy! my poor Ike!" old Sprague hollered out loud. The senator elbowed his way through the crowd, An' he hugged the ole man just the minit he spoke, An' all the fine folks thought the thing was a joke, 'Ceptin' Ike.

That night Ike tole his ole mother an' dad
Of all of the ups an' the downs he had had.

How he'd work and buy books, how he'd study and read,
An' no one once thought he would ever succeed,
'Ceptin' Ike.

Ike's got just as fur as he ever kin climb,
He sits up in the senate an' draws his per diem;
All the rest of Sprague's boys an' his gals jog along,
But none of 'em's mentioned, in story or song,
'Ceptin' Ike.

AFORE YO' DADDY COMES.

LALIA MITCHELL.

OME hea an' put dis apron on

C An' let me fix yo' hai';

Yo's lookin' laik a gipsy chile,
John Henry, I declai'.

Jes' see de syrup on yo' mouf,

From eatin' sugah plums,

Now wash yo' face an' git it clean
Afore yo' daddy comes.

Whatebba makes yo' act so bad
Is mo' dan I can see.

Doan' use dat napkin fo' a towel!
John Henry, come to me.

I 'clar' I's got to git a rope
An' tie yo' by de thumbs,
Or else yo'll be all dirt ag'in,
Afore yo' daddy comes.

Dar now, yo' am a han'som' chile.
Jes' stay indoors an' play.
I's boun' to lick yo' aftah all—
John Henry, mind, I say!
An' hea's de pan an' rollin'-pin-
Dar ain't no better drums.
Now laugh, my bressed nigga' boy,
Fo' hea' yo' daddy comes.

THE

AN APPARITION.

'HE burglar entered. He carefully reconnoitred, then rose and walked lightly but boldly to the bed. The gas was burning dimly, revealing in the lace-draped couch a four-year-old child. Her fleecy curls were tossed round her flushed face, and the restless movements, the frown of pain on the white forehead, showed plainly that she was not sleeping the sleep of perfect health.

66

Kid looks bad," commented Brickey, looking down a moment on the pretty picture. "Nurse skipped to make a night of it and locked the kid in to get along all by herself alone. Blamed, if she ain't put the child to bed with that cold, shiny necklace a-chokin' her. She shan't be choked,-no, she shan't!" Stooping, the benevolent visitor loosened the slender coral chain deftly from the dimpled neck.

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Brickey-brac! brickey-brac!" he muttered, disparagingly. "Too much! Piles of money spent on trash that ain't worth carryin' off, an' the town full of sufferin' burglars. It's a shame-Hello!"

He turned round quickly at a queer sound from the bed, and put his hand on the ugly looking weapon at his side.

The strange, choking sound had come from her. The dimpled arms were tossed over her head, and the face drawn and crimson in an effort to breathe. One brassy cough told the story.

"The deuce! The young one's got the croup! She'll choke in a jiffy! I'd like to have that nurse by the back of the neck just a minute,-goin' off an' leavin' that sick kid with a burglar. Burglars ain't no trained nurses."

The child seemed to breathe easier just then.

That's the ticket! Mabbe she'll pull through. But it's gettin' early. What's this?"

A fine old oil-painting hung at the opposite end of the room. It was a very precise, very stiff, very aristocratic old lady in a coal-scuttle bonnet, and everything about her suggestive of rigid respectability. On the corner of the picture-frame hung that same bonnet, yellow with age.

"Family relic," said Brickey, giving way to his humor and, detaching the bonnet from its peg, he put it on his own head. If the boys could see me now!"

66

Another brassy, ringing cough from the bed drew Brickey's attention from millinery.

66

Something ought to be done," Brickey muttered, anxiously. "Somebody ought to be called. The kid's chokin' to death!" It is probable that the child would have perished, “unaided by the physicians," but for a sudden idea that visited Brickey's fertile brain just then and which caused him to double up with laughter.

Across the bed was a dainty coverlet of fairy white lace. With the bonnet still on his head, Brickey draped this round his greasy clothes, from neck to heels.

Passing softly into the passage, he looked round a minute, then tried a door on the opposite side.

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Locked tight and right acrost from the darlint! This is the parent's room, I'll bet," was Brickey's reflection, as his skeleton key opened the lock.

The dim light from a dying fire revealed on the bed a middleaged woman with much the same severely respectable features as the picture in the child's room. A gentle snore arose from her thin and correct nose, as the ghostly figure glided across the room. Brickey took a brief look at the dressing-table,

made a mysterious pass over a heavy jewel-case; then turned toward the bed.

But let Mrs. Hopkins tell the rest, just as she has told it scores of times since to wondering friends:

"I was awakened by the distinct impression of a cold hand in contact with my brow. I started and opened my eyes. Before me, distinctly visible in the evanescent light of the expiring embers, stood my deceased mother, Belvidere Prosperina Dowdall, in her habit as she lived, the same bonnet, even, in which her picture was taken over fifty years ago" — here the bonnet was invariably produced, handed round and viewed with awe. "A misty aureole seemed to surround her form. I sprang upright! She seemed to recede. I was speechless! She looked down at me sadly, warningly, and waved her hand. Go to your child!' she said. Go to your child!' Then she seemed to fade away through the open door, which I positively recalled having locked when I retired. I seemed impelled to follow. I was irresistibly drawn toward my daughter's room. There I found the reason of this extraordinary manifestation. The nurse had surreptitiously slipped away, to spend the night in the servants' hall. My child was writhing in the convulsions of croup. It was only by the most strenuous exertions that we saved her life. Just think: But for my dearest mother's timely appearance she would have died.”

A PERFECT DAY.

CLYDE FITCH.

[From "The Smart Set," by permission of Herbert S. Stone & Co., publishers.]

A

A Monologue for a Lady.

CHARMING, delightful day! Marie brought me my coffee at nine, as usual, with a perfect mail. No nasty business letters from America, but only most desirable invitations, notes full of gossip, and regrets from the Thompsons for the expensive dinner I felt obliged to give them at Armenonville, so I won't have to give it. One's old friends in America are really rather a bother, coming to Paris in the