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LAST TOKEN.

W. A. EATON.

[The Publishers of this book have issued "Last Token" arranged as a musical

recitation, in sheet music form. Priee $1.)

A HOLUR AY in Rome–the azure-sky was all unflecked by

HOLIDAY in Rome—the azure.

clouds as if the eye Of the Eternal look'd from Heaven's high dome on the great city,

proud, Imperial Rome! The Coliseum was crowded, row on row; a sea of human faces

all aglow With mad excitement for the day would be a rare occasion of

wild revelry, For there were gladiator fights and shows of manly strength; and,

as a fitting close To the diversions of that joyous time, a band of Christians, whose

most heinous crime Was preaching a new doctrine, were to be thrown to the lions that

all the crowd might see How little the strange God, to whom they prayed, cared if His

followers were stoned or flayed. The sports are over and the setting sun is hurrying towards the

west as if to shun the sickening sight. A sudden hush upon the people fell, and then uprose a fierce and

savage yell. See where they come, that faithful little band, chanting a hymn

about their Fatherland: The Heaven of which they speak with so much joy, that home of

happiness without alloy! See yonder maiden with the saint-like face and form of beauty,

full of fire and grace; She lifts her head as if she were a queen. No trace of fear in her Now come the lions growling mad with rage, hungry and glad to

actions seen.

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leave their tight-barred cage. See yonder royal beast with flowing mane lashing his side and

roaring with disdain, Gazing around upon the yelling crowd, answering their shouts by

growlings long and loud. The maiden stands as statue-like as death, the crowd in terror

gaze with bated breath. While as she stands, there falls just by her feet a lovely rose, still

filled with perfume sweet. Upward she gazes with wide open eyes, ah, well she knows who

flung the dainty prize. 'Tis he, her lover, who had vainly tried to win her from the faith

for which she died. He worshipped Venus, Bacchus, and the train of heathen gods

who do their votaries chain To sinful pleasures, making virtue naught. She was a Christian,

and had often sought To stir his heart with love of Him who died, but he had laughed

at her most earnest prayer, And toss'd a goblet in the sunny air and said, “We live and die,

then take our fill Of pleasure now, and let them groan that will. Why should we

waste our youth in solemn fast, If we are buried just like dogs at last. Nay, drive this Christian

nonsense from your head And be my own, and then when we are wed we will worship Venus

and the god of Love. Give me your hand, say yes, my gentle dove." And as she told

him she must confess Her faith in Christ through martyrdom no less was the reward of

all who worshipped Him, Of all who dared to chant their holy hymn, and now she was to

prove her faith by death. The lions were close, she almost felt their breath upon her cheek.

She stood with anguish dumb, and strained her eyes to see if he

had come to watch her die. The rose had fallen there, she stoop'd and placed it in her raven

hair Then looked again and saw her lover's face, and arms held down as

if he would embrace Her even now. A moment, and she turned from her set purpose.

Then new ardor burned Within her breast and she stood proud and calm, as if she knew

the lions could do no harm. And then uprose the Christians' holy hymn. The sickening sight

now makes the senses swim. And we will draw a veil o'er the sad scene. Night in the Coliseum

-the crowd has goneOne being wanders in that scene forlorn. He stands upon the

place where she had died, And breathes the name of Christ the crucified. And stooping

down, among the martyred dead, He finds a rose now dyed a deeper red. Some fragments of a

dress he knew was hers He places in his breast and new life stirs within his heart, and as

he leaves the place With head bowed low, with slow and solemn pace, he softly mur

murs as he homeward goes : “Jesus, be Thou my guide till life shall close.” But was he coward? Did he hide away? Not many weeks, on a great festal day,

another band of Christians stood to die, Lifting their glorious hymn of triumph high. Where she had stood

he boldly takes his stand, A withered rose clasped in his strong right hand.

Doctor farguing with lawyer friend about a client's peculiarities]. It's no use; you can't make an angel out of a man.

LAWYER. Nc, that's so, I can't. We have to leave that for

you doctors.

COMMON SORT OF A FELLOW.

I

AIN'T got no taste fur glory,

Ner no hank'rin after fame; Don't keer ef the gin'ral public

Never gits to know my name. I don't give a continental

'Bout the turn o politics; Ain't a-runnin' fur no office,

Ner a-tryin' on no tricks.
Course I want my regʻlar rations,

Want my three square meals a day; 'Nough to do to keep me busy,

'Cept what time I want fur play. I don't want to be the wheel's hub,

I'll jest be among the spokes; An' I don't want no more honor

'N the other common folks.

Tell you what I like—it's restin'

At the close o' winter days; When the backlog's gittin' seasoned

An' the hick’ry's in a blaze. Hitch

my

cheer a little nearer, Stretch my arms an' legs, an’ gap Tell my spectacles an' paper

Goes a-tumblin' from my lap. Git some cider from the cellar,

Git scme apples from the bin; Then to have a couple neighbors

Come a-droppin' handy in— 'Thout no style er no pertendin'

Jest all nat'ral-like, you see, Ever'body seemin' homelike,

That jest suits me to a T.

Settin'roun' a roarin' fire,

Tellin' tales an' crackin' jokes;
Not a swell ner dood amongst us

Jest us common sort o' folks.

Now,

I take

my common idees
Into all I do an' say.
I've a common way o'singin'

An' a common way to pray.
Them that knows me best, I reckon

'Ll be willin' to agree
When it comes to bein' rev’rent

Th' ain't none rev’renter 'n me.
But I sometimes have to wonder

When I'm settin' in a church,
An' the folks look skeert to touch me,

Feared I give their clothes a smirch
Yes, it kinder makes me wonder,

When they draw aside their cloaks,
Ef in heaven there's a special

Corner fur us common folks.

SWALLOWING AN OYSTER ALIVE.

JOHN S. ROBB.

A

T a late hour the other night, the door of an oyster-house

was thrust open, and in stalked a fellow six feet high, with a hungry, anxious countenance, and his hands pushed clear down to the bottom of his trousers' pockets. Going to the counter, he indulged in a long stare at the man opening the bivalves, and slowly ejaculated, "Isters?”

“Yes, sir," responded the operator, "and fine ones, too."

"Well, I've heard of isters afore, but this is the fust time I've seed 'em, and perhaps I'll know what thar made of afore I git out of town.”

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