"You're so stupid! I'm quite hoarse Talking to you!” “What goes off?

Why, the rabbit does, of course.”




OBIN, holding his mother's hand,
Says “good night” to the big folks all,

Throws some kisses from rosy lips,
Laughs with glee through the lighted hall.
Then in his own crib, warm and deep,
Rob is tucked for a long night's sleep.
Gentle mother with fond caress

Slips her hand through his soft brown hair;
Thinks of his fortune all unknown,

Speaks aloud in an earnest prayer:
"Holy angels, keep watch and ward!
God's good angels, my baby guard!”
· Mamma, what is an angel like?”

Asked the boy, in a wondering tone.
“How will they look if they come here,

Watching me while I'm all alone?”
Half with shrinking and fear spoke he,
Answered the mother tenderly:
“Prettiest faces ever were known,

Kindliest voices and sweetest eyes.”
Robin, waiting for nothing more,

Cried and looked with a pleased surprise,
Love and trust in his eyes of blue,
I know, mamma! They're just like you."

The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling,

Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine to itself, and make closely its own.




N. P. BABCOCK. THOUGHT you had given up betting on the horse-races,” said Mrs. De Tompkins, to her lord and master the other

afternoon. “I trust you haven't wavered in the belief,” said Mr. De Tompkins.

Ignoring the remark, the wife quietly asked: “How much did you win on Ben Brush?”

Look here, madam,” said her husband, angrily, “ if you've been spying on my actions or hiring anybody to dog my steps, all I have to say is, you might be more profitably employed.'

“Don't get excited, Frederick. I have neither the money nor the inclination to employ detectives. It isn't necessary. I have merely used the method which you ridicule. You know you have called the Sherlock Holmes stories absurd.” “So they are; what's that got to do with it?”

Everything, my dear. You got off the street-car before it fairly stopped. I saw you from the window. That meant that you were feeling well and in good spirits. You spoke cheerily to Julia on the block and even patted little Mary's head. Instead of setting your cane down in the rack with a thump, you let it fall gingerly into its place. I observe even now, as you are washing your hands, that there are four cigars cropping out of your vest pocket. Now look at your coat, there is chalk on the sleeve. And what is this on the back? The plain mark of four fingers and a thumb. Do you deny that it is the brand of that good-for-nothing Major Sportley's hand, or that he struck you a hearty blow on the back in the billiard-room when the news that Ben Brush had won came in over the ticker?

“Goodness!” said Mr. De Tompkins, "you're a wonder. “But,” suddenly, "why do you think it was Ben Brush?"

“Ah, Freddie dear,” said Mrs. De Tompkins, sweetly,“ when you leave your morning newspaper by your chair at the breakfast table, with the sporting page turned outside, you shouldn't make a hole with your toothpick through the name of the horse you fancy most. Now, Freddie, how much was it, and how much do I get?"




ATRICK O'MARS, a private in the Ninth Regulars, went

to the colonel of his regiment, and asked for a two weeks'

leave of absence. The colonel was a severe disciplinarian, who did not believe in extending too many privileges to his men, and did not hesitate to use a subterfuge in evading the granting of one.

'Well,” said the colonel, “ what do you want a two weeks' furlough for?”

Patrick answered: “ Me wife is sick and the children are not well, and if ye didn't moind she would like to have me home for a few weeks to give her a bit of assistance.” The colonel eyed him for a few minutes, and said:

Patrick, I might grant your request, but I got a letter from your wife this morning saying that she didn't want you home; that you were a nuisance and raised a rumpus whenever you were there. She hopes I won't let you have any more furloughs.”

That settles it. I suppose I can't get the furlough, then?” said Pat.

“No, I'm afraid not, Patrick. It wouldn't be well for me to do so under the circumstances.

It was Pat's turn now to eye the colonel, as he started for the door. Stopping suddenly he said:

Colonel, can I say something to ye?” "Certainly, Patrick, what is it?" “You won't get mad, colonel, if I say it?" "Certainly not, Patrick; what is it?'

I want to say there are two splendid liars in this room, and I'm one of them. I was niver married in me loife.”

INTO the house he came running,

And begged me to cut off his curls,
Over his head richly clustered,

As bright and as fair as a girl's.
'Why would you lose them, my darling ?”

“Because our old hen,” pouted he,
Screams, when we meet, Get-your-hair-cut!
Get-your-hair-cut!'-I know she means me!"

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(From "Songs of War and Peace,” by permission of Messrs. Lee and

Shepard, publishers.]
E'S smart-our boarder's smart, they say,

Say he's almighty smart.

An’ what's he do? Wall, what d'ye think?
A lecturer on art.
A lecturer on art! Good grief!

An' what the deuce is art?
A mess of good-for-nothin' gush-

But our girls thinks he's smart.
“What's art?” I says to him one day,

'Tain't bread, nor cheese, nor meat; 'Tain't pie, nor puddin', nor corn'-beef,

Nor nuthin' fit to eat:”.
An' he caved in, and owned right up

'Twarn't nothin' fit to eat.

My girls take everything he says

Without a gasp or guli —
'Bout skulpin' marble images,

An' fools who love to skulp.
I want no skulpin's in my house,

No images for me.
You can't eat images," I says.

“ Then what is their idee?"
“ They express the ideel sense,” says he.

But they ain't corn, nor wheat,
Nor flapjacks, succotash, nor pork,

Nor nuthin' fit to eat."
I squelched him, an' he owned right up

That they warn't fit to eat.

He showed a picture t'other day

That made a monstrous hit,A picture of a durned ol' cow

They said was exquisite.

How much milk does your picture give?”

Says I to him one day,
An' you'd ought to seen him wiggle,

For he didn't know what to say.
"My cows give milk and make good steak

That's mighty hard to beat; But that air painted cow of yourn,

Is she good steak to eat?”
He hemmed and hawed and squirmed, an' owned

That she warn't fit to eat.
Git out with art, stone images,

An' picture filagree!
O vittles, vittles is the stuff

That suits the likes of me.
Humph! art or vittles? what's your choice?

Stone images or pie?
Pictures of cows, or cows themselves ?-

“The cows themselves," says I.
"Yet Turner's pictures," said the fool,
“Are very hard to beat.”

"Are they best baked or b'iled ?" said I, An' are they fit to eat?” An' then the fool he owned right up

That they warn't fit to eat.



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[By permission of the author.) UT of the deep, O Lord,

Thy Spirit moves and passes and none knows

The Sovereign Will directing where it goes Save only Thou, O Lord ! Thy ways are mystery. Oft, while Thou dost sit With folded hands and deep eyes brooding o’er The wrong and anguish of this world of sin, We count Thee blind, and, vaunting our own wit, Build the frail loom wherewith we think to spin

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