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But de night dey hol' de meetin' she tuk herse'f ter town.
Dey sont de bo’d ob deacons, de pahstor at de head,
“Ter wait upon de sistah an' pray wid her," dey said.
But Susan mighty stubbo’n, an’ wen dey lif’ ur pra'r
She up an' tell de deacons she des wa'n't gwine ter cyar.
An' wen de reb'ren pa'son prayed about ur "sheep was los',"
An' 'bout "de po' bac'slidah," she gin her head ur toss!
I seed de debbil raisin' in de white ob Susan's eyes-
Fyear she blow dat deacon-bo'd ter “mansions in de skies.”
I des tuk down my bawnjer an' den I 'gins an' plays:
"Come, dy fount ob ebbery blessin', chune my h'a't ter sing

dy praise.”
De pa'son an' de deacons, dey jined me pooty soon;
Lawd! Dat bawnjer shuk itse'f ur-playin' ob de chune!
An' wen dey mos' wus shoutin', I tightened up ur string,
Drapped right inter “Money Musk” an' gin de chune full swing.
De “Debbil's Dream” come arter-de debbil wus ter pay,
Dem niggahs fell ter pattin'- I larf mos' ebbery day!
Deacon Jones got on his feet, de pa’son pulled him down;
I played ur little fastah, an', sho's my name am Brown,
De pa’son an' de deacons jined han's right on dis flo',
Su’cled right an' su’cled lef'—it sutny wus ur show.
Dey ’naded up an' down de flo' an’ wen hit come ter swing,
De pa’son gin hisse’f a flirt an'cut de pidgin-wing!
An' wen urfo de meetin' dat ʼmittee med its 'po't
'Bout Sistah Susan's dawncin', dey cut it sho't.
De chuyhsman, Mr. Pa’son, said in tones so mil' an' sweet,
Sistah Brown wa’n’t guilty, caze—she neber crossed her feet!

DOG IS MINE.

EMMA C. DowD.

In a country there is a State, and in the State a town,
In the town is a little house-a wee little house of brown;
In the house there is a room, in the room a box of pine,
In the box is a dear, little dog—and that little dog is mine!

HER BEAU'S POETRY.

SAY

CHARACTERS: Miss MYRTLE, speaker present; SALESLADY, cus

tomer, etc., supposed to be present. SCENE: Department Store. Miss MYRTLE is behind counter

talking to another Saleslady. Customer supposed to be seated

near counter. AY, I got something to tell you. We've made up. Wouldn't

that supprise you? An' all through a piece of poetry that he wrote hisself. I never'd of thought he could have did it, butno’m, we can't match that shade. They don't make shades like that now. They're not up to date. Oh, well, of course, if you're satisfied with such a match as that. How much ?

You know how mad he got because I lost him in the shuffle at Coney, an' how he wouldn't speak to me the next time I saw him, an' how I just smiled at the floor-walker in the third aisle, an' how he didn't like that, but pretended he didn't care, and how I didn't care a bit whether he cared or not. Welli

I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn't hear you. No, we ain't got no 'sash-ribbons like that. You'll probably get them at some of the cheap stores. I don't suppose you care to pay our prices. Very well—well, as I was tellin' you, yesterday morning, when I come in, the cash-girl—the little, fresh, freckle-faced one, you know-come runnin' up an' says: “Miss Myrtle, here's a letter for you, an' I guess you know who it's from.” Wasn't she the fresh kid? I jerked it out of her hands an' told her not to giggle at her intellectual superiors. I don't know how it is I always think of them words at just exactly the right time, but I do, an’ it crushed the kid so she just sneaked off without ever lookin' back.

I was a little late, an' there was some early customers at the counter, with nobody but that new red-haired girl to wait on 'em, an’ she don't know enough to last her over night; but I pretended I had forgot to give in my time, an’ went over to the elevator to read the letter

I can't help it, ma'am, if you are in a hurry. I couldn't come till I did. No, we ain't got no baby-ribbon like that. Oh, day after to-morrow, I guess. You might try the store acrost the street. They always has them cheap goods

Well, that letter was all poetry, an' pretty fine poetry, too. don't suppose these customers 'll let me alone long enough for me to read it all to you, but here's the way it starts off:

"When love grows old, the heart grows cold,
Until, behold! love 'gain grows bold,
And so, though proud, my heart was bowed
But still with endless love endowed
It pleads to you, the lady who
It's overflowing love once knew,
To just forgive and let it live,
For now 'tis so with sorrow riv'
'En that 'twill break for your sweet sake

Unless you'll pardon its mistake.'
Ain't that just dandy? An' he wrote it every bit hisself!

He told me about it when I saw him this morning, for, of course, after gettin' a letter like that I couldn't possibly find i in my heart to be cold to him any longer, an', besides, he's a loc better lookin' than that floor-walker, an' the floor-walker's gor. another girl he likes about as well as he does me

I don't think we have no apple-green. Oh, if you think that is apple-green, there is plenty of it; but it ain't apple-green at all. Oh, certainly, I can sell you some. I was just endeavoring to correct an erroneous impression on your part-I'll bet it'll take her a while to study that out. That's one of Mr. Herkimer's favorite expressions, an' it always goes, I can tell you. Here it is, ma’am--well, of course I looked at him an' blushes, an' he blushes back, an' then I says:

"The, poetry was real sweet. It must have been some great poet that wrote that. It was awful pat, wasn't it?”

“Well, it ought to be pat,” he says, "for I wrote it myself.”

“Why, did you ?" I says. “It sounded just like real poetry. But, anyway, it's all right between us." An' then I told him how it happened I got lost, an' you could see the happiness beamin'

cut of his big brown eyes, an' he said a lot of things that was beautiful till the floor-walker came up an' set him to work.

He wrote that poetry, he says, in his head, an' laid awake all one night doin' it, an' I think it's got a lot of these famous poets beat to death.

Well, we're going to the Third Avenue together in a couple of evenings, an’ I guess he'll come under the wire with a proposal, an', you know, I've about half made up my mind to accept him, although I had set my heart on meetin' a foreign nobleman accidental when he come to the ribbon-counter to buy some trifle for a Newport belle. But that's so uncertain, I guess I'll take Mr. Herkimer, an' I'm pretty sure he means business. My! you ought to see him gaze at me with that dark-brown look in his eyes. So long! Tell you some more next time I see you.

CHRISTMAS DINNER ON THE WING.

MARY A. DICKERSON.

T was not at all a typical Christmas Day, for perfect torrents

of rain beat and dashed against the windows. "I call it a shame," exclaimed Tommy, "to promise us a bangup Christmas dinner, and then send it to us in such a state of perfect nature.”

"He might at least have killed it, but I suppose he didn't think,” said MacRae apologetically, while Dexter muttered, “Ye gods, think of the feathers !” and the whole trio groaned in unison as they gazed dolefully at a wet and muddy box near by, from whose slatted top stuck the rakish and defiant head of a big turkeygobbler.

MacRae, who was kneeling beside another box, slowly pried off the cover. “Celery, and cranberries—also in the raw.

Think you can make 'em jell, Tommy? Mince meat, done up in a can instead of a crust. Turnips, carrots, cabbage, onions: Jove, never a thing we know how to cook! I say, boys, let's go out to a 'table doty' and buy our dinner.”

“Go on, do," moaned Tommy. "You're rich, you are. Do you know that I've got just fifty cents to carry me over to the first of the month, and that Dexter's been out of cash for days ?”

“Well,” said MacRae, "you know very well that I've only got two dollars."

“There's the rent money,” said Dexter; but the others shook their heads decisively, and even the unwelcome turkey gave a protesting gobble.

Tommy gazed at the bird long and steadily. “I've got it, boys," he cried, joyously. “You know those girls downstairs ?”

“No; wish we did," muttered Dexter, and they all smiled as they thought of the four bright bachelor-maids they passed so often on the stairs.

“Well, I heard them talking to-day—through the air-shaftand it seems only one of 'em has gone away for Christmas, and the others meant to go out somewhere, and now it's pouring so they don't want to. They seemed awful blue about it-didn't have much Christmas stuff in the house, and kind of down-hearted anyway---you know. Well, we've got the dinner and no cook, they the cook and no dinner. Now, I propose to make a grand combination of labor and capital.”

“But, as I remarked before, we don't know them," protested Dexter.

“There are no 'buts' in this case. Do what I tell you and you'll be happy. Mac, you sneak down to their door, and let me know when you hear them all in the parlor. Dex, you take out that fowl. Careful, now !"

*

Meanwhile, in the flat below, gloom hung heavy.

"Isn't it just too mean?" wailed Nan. "Who ever heard of a thunderstorm on Christmas ? Mary, if you don't stop pounding that piano, I'll eat you.”

"Well, then, I'll go right on, I don't know how else you will

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