which I was capable. I was fearful unhappy, and growin' more so every day. The man's whole nature rasped on mine so that I was sometimes afraid of myself when I saw him coming. And yet he was an upright, honest man. I have nothing to say against his character. He must have had his trials with me. Luckily for him, he had a thick skin."

Mrs. Rankin paused, and seemed to be looking into the past. After a moment she resumed:

"But, lor, 'tain't no use whining. Jonas Rankin's jest what he is, 'n' I'm jest what I be. I had made a firm resolution that them slippers, even if he wore 'em's long's I lived, shouldn't be the last straw. But I told him fair and square that the very next thing would be. I'd got to the end of my rope. He laughed. I guess that laugh of his has made me as mad's I ever wanter be. I used to pray over things. My health wa'n't first-rate, and I've noticed prayer seems to do more good when you're kind of sound bodily. No, don't give me no more lemonade. Wall, what do you think that man did next?"

Randy waited for us to guess, but, naturally, we did not fully know the capabilities of Mr. Jonas Rankin, and so could make no guess at all.

"The Tree of Death was the next thing," she said, with such an intensity of utterance that we stopped the laugh that rose to our lips, and waited with what patience we might.

"Yes," she went on. "It belonged to his first wife, she that was a Lincoln, and he said they used to have it in their parlor. This he told me when we were first married. He gave it to his son, who lives under the first cliff on the shore, you know. One day Mr. Rankin come in with a large flat parcel under his arm. He took off the wrappings, and said he guessed we'd have that in the sitting-room now. Then he hung up the thing in a place where you'd see it, and nothing else, if you were

anywhere in the room. I begged him not to have it there. There was nothing in the world I hated so much. Did you ever see one?"

No, we never had seen one.

"It's a tall, black, dead-looking tree, with a horrible picture of the devil tramping about the roots with a watering-pot, from which great streams of water are running. The devil has cloven feet, horns, and a tail with a prong to it. He is grinning because the tree is so flourishing. For fruit there are great black balls, and in each ball is printed the name of some sin, such as Lying, Theft, Lust, Covetousness, and other sins which I need not mention. This picture was in a frame of wood painted a light blue, with gilt sprigs on it. What do you think? That man was bound to have the picture hung there. He said the sight of it was wholesome for frivolous souls. I told him that if we had ever been frivolous, it had all been taken out of us long ago. He said he guessed it had better hang there. And I knew it was settled. I found out afterward that John's little girl-John is Mr. Rankin's son-had had fits just from looking at the Tree of Death. I could believe that well enough, for the child was a nervous, fanciful thing. She was frightened almost out of her senses. She couldn't keep away from the picture, either, and used to steal into the room where it was and stand and look at it. Finally her mother found it out. Lily threw herself into her mother's arms one day, and said that the devil was watering the sins in her heart, and soon they would be as big as those black balls. Then she had a kind of convulsion. That picture came down double quick. The doctor said that child would be crazy if she were left to have such notions.

"Do you think I was goin' ter hev that blarsted thing there for me ter stare at? No; that was the last straw. I told Mr. Rankin it was the last straw. I wa'n't a-goin' ter keep house

for him no more. He tried ter argue the point. I told him he might save his breath. The house happened ter be mine. I told him he might take his traps and go.

"He had jest about enough int'rest money to git his victuals and clothes, if he lived by himself. 'Jest keep yer int'rest,' says I. 'You jest row your own boat, and I'll row mine.' I guess there wa'n't no love lost atween us. He took his things, or ruther his fust wife's things, 'n' went an' bought an old schoolhouse that the town ain't had no use for this dozen years. He paid fifty dollars for it. He's lived there ever sence; be seven years next spring. I do some washin' and some slop-work, and pick some huckleberries. I git 'long. I ain't got no Tree of Death in my house, nor nobody that wears slippers that click on the oilcloth. I do Mr. Rankin's washing and mending, but I don't charge him nothin' for it. I send the clothes back by the baker every fortnit, and the grocery man brings 'em. I don't see Mr. Rankin from year's end to year's end, and I don't want to. His son and I are on good terms. John is a good fellow. I like him; and naturally there's great sympathy between his family and me on the subject of that picture. John's wife has been so far as to say that she didn't blame no woman for not livin' with no man who wanted to put the Tree of Death under her nose all the time. Of course I'm lonesome once in a while. I often think, if my son had lived, 'twould have been different."

Mrs. Rankin became silent. Her deep-set eyes seemed to look more sunken than ever. She roused herself.

"Oh, yes," she said, "I git 'long."

-"Tenting at Stony Beach."

James Jeffrey Roche

The V-a-s-e

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell, from sight alone,
In which had Culture ripest grown-

The Gotham Million, fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo-

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who, blushing, said, "What a lovely vase!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, ""Tis indeed a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph, when
The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit prægelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

Copyright by Life Publishing Company.

A Boston Lullaby

BABY's brain is tired of thinking

On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.