The emperor stopped and beckoned to the man:

“Who is't thou bearest to the grave?” he said. "Only a soldier, sire," the short reply,

"Only a soldier dead.'

“Only a soldier," musing, said the czar;

Only a Russian who was poor and brave. Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not

Unhonored to his grave.”

He bent his head, and silent raised his cap,

The czar of all the Russias—pacing slow,
Following the coffin as again it went

Slowly across the snow.
The passers of the street, all wondering,

Looked on that sight, then followed silently,-
Peasant and prince and artisan and clerk,

All in one company.
Still, as they went, the crowd grew ever more,

Till thousands stood around the friendless grave, Led by that princely heart, who, royal, true,

Honored the poor and brave.



E was black as the ace of spades, you see,

And scarcely as high as a tall man's knee;

He wore a hat that was minus a brim, But that, of course, mattered nothing to him. His jacket-or what there was left of itScorned his little black shoulders to fit; And as for stockings and shoes-dear me! Nothing about such things knew he. He sat on the curbstone, one pleasant day, Placidly passing the hours away. His hands in the holes, which for pockets were meant His thoughts on the clouds overhead were intent; When down the street suddenly marching along

With a

Came soldiers and horses, and such a great throng
Of boys and of men, as they crowded the street;

hip, hip, hurrah!" the lad sprang to his feet,
And joined the procession, his face in a grin,
For here was a good time “ dat dis chile was in.”
How he stretched out his legs to the beat of the drum,
Thinking surely at last 'twas the jubilee come.
Then suddenly wondering what 'twas about,
The soldiers and music and all with a shout
He hailed a small comrade: 'Hi, Cæsar! You know
What all dis perceshun's a-marchin' fur so?”
“Go ’long, you George Washington!” Cæsar replied,

In dis yere great kentry you ain't got no pride.
Dis is Washington's birfday-you ought to know dat,
Wid yer head growed so big, bu'st de brim off yer hat!”
For a moment George Washington stood in surprise,
While plainer to view grew the whites of his eyes;
Then swift to the front of the ranks scampered he,
This mite of a chap, scarce as high as your knee.
The soldiers looked stern, and an officer said,
As he rapped with his sword on the black, woolly head :
"Come, boy, clear the road! What a figure you are!”
Came the ready reply: “ I'se Gawge Washington, sah!
But I didn't know nothin' about my birfday
Till a feller just told me-oh, golly, it's gay!”
Just then a policeman-of course, it was mean-
Removed young George Washington far from the scene.



E had to wait for half an hour between Charleston and

Savannah for the Waycross train, and during this time

a black man came up to me and inquired: Say, boss, doan' you lib up Norf?”

“ Yes."

“Dat's what I reckoned on. Kin I ax a few questions?”

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* You can.”

Wall, sah, does ebery culld man up dar own a brick house wid a cupolo on top?

Oh, no.” “ Does he walk aroun' wid a bag of gold in one han' an'a bag of silver in de odder ?


never saw any of them taking such a walk.” “Do dey all own hosses an' kerridges?"

No.” Do dey all have di'monds an' pearls an' velvets?” "No."

“Say, boss, my name's Jones, an' I lib ober beyant dat pine woods. My ole woman am all de time stirrin' me up to go Norf, an' she really believes dat if we once git up dar we kin go out befo' breakfast, an' pick up a pailful of di’monds. Now, sah, tell me de solemn truf 'bout it! Could we do it?”

Could we pick up a peck?

“ No.”
“Fo' quarts?”

No.' “Two quarts?”

“ No.”

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“Dat's nuff, boss—dat settles me! I reckon if I axed you about one quart you'd say yes, but if anybody 'spects l’ze gwine to fool aroun' wid any sich small taters as dat dey am sadly tooken in. l’ze kept house long ’nuff to know dat a quart of di'munds a day wouldn't keep a fam'ly in co'n cake and bacon half de time. "Bleeged to ye, boss. Mebbe I'll git up dat way

', arter awhile; but I shan't 'spect to own no brick houses wid a cupolo on top till I've bin dar a whole week or longer."

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ELINDA was a cautious little maid,

Whose motto was the single word, “ Beware!"

She never lost a chance to be afraid,
And spent a deal of time in "taking care;"

Yet all the while her natural timidity
She hid beneath a mask of intrepidity.

Obliged one day, upon a railway train,

To sit beside a grave, sedate young man, A sudden terror filled Belinda's brain:

“He'll surely pick my pocket if he can. 'Tis true he looks respectable; but then The worst of sharpers pose as gentlemen.”


They reached a tunnel in another minute.

Belinda, with her customary care, To guard her pocket, slipped her hand within it;

But found another hand already there! To show her fortitude and hide her fright, She grasped the villain's fist and held it tight,

Until they reached the open track again;

And as the train into the daylight rushed As if it fain would break its record, then

No wonder that the modest maiden blushed, No wonder that the villain smiled a smile: Her hand was in his pocket all the while.




'HE silent and deserted street

Reechoed to no passing feet,

Except of those who braved the fear
That chills all hearts when death is near,
And constantly with measured tread
Bore on to sepulture the dead
Of unknown ages, nations, names,
Crowded on rudely-fashioned frames;
And as each dwelling they passed by,
They raised an awful, piercing cry:

Bring out your dead!”

And in that time of fear and death,
When waiting women held their breath,
And strong men battled with that grim
And ghastly foe, o'ercome by him
When he who cursed and he who knelt
The same o'ershadowing terror felt,
And, dying or living, as time sped,
Heard the same cry: Bring out your dead!”

With breath hard drawn and glaring eye
One woman heard that ringing cry.
In agony she bent her ear
The last faint, parting sigh to hear.
At bay, like wild beast in its lair,
She heard their steps upon the stair,
Then swiftly, fiercely turned her head,
And cried: “Go back! he is not dead!"

The bearers gone, she turned toward him;
She chafed each limp, cold, deathly limb;
Unlocked the teeth so firmly set,
The brow and lips with cordials wet;
Then prayed and wept; yet in her woe
Her hands passed swiftly to and fro
Above the cold, unconscious form
That would not stir, that would not warm.
She knew not how time hurried by,
Until once more she heard the cry,
And saw how vain the hope she fed
With brief delays: Bring out your dead!"

Then, as that warning cleft the air,
She heard their steps; they came to bear
Away the last frail hope from her.
They gain the room; she does not stir;
They cross the floor; they reach the bed.
Then, then she shrieks: He is not dead!”
She kneels, she raves, she rends the air
With cry on cry of wild despair.
Woman, the city's peril grows


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