look of wonder, took Kickums' head and led him in. Into the old farm-house I tottered, like a weanling child, with mother in her common clothes, helping me along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look at me.

"I have killed him," was all I said, "even as he killed Lorna. Now let me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead."

"You cannot see her now, dear John," said Ruth Huckaback, coming forward, since no one else had the courage. "Annie is with her now, John."

"What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead one, and pray to die."

All the women fell away and whispered, and looked at me with side glances, and some sobbing, for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her eyes, and trembled. Then one little hand of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on my tattered coat; yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she whispered gently:

"John, she is not your dead one. She may even be your living one yet-your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now." "Is there any chance for her? For me, I mean; I mean ?"

for

me,

"God in heaven knows, dear John. But the sight of you, and in this sad plight, would be certain death to her. Now come first, and be healed yourself."

I obeyed her like a child, whispering only as I went, for none but myself knew her goodness"Almighty God will bless you, darling, for the good you are doing now."

Ten-fold, ay, and a thousand-fold, I prayed and I believed it, when I came to know the truth. If it had not been for this little maid, Lorna must have died at once, as in my arms she lay for dead, from the dastard and murderous cruelty. But the moment I left her Ruth came forward, and took the command of every one, in right of her firmness and readiness.

And whether it were the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature, or the freedom from anxietyfor she knew not of my hurt-or, as some people said, her birthright among wounds and violence-I leave that doctor to determine who pronounced her dead. But anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as the stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long ere I did. R. D. BLACKMORE.

MAMMY GETS THE BOY TO SLEEP.

NOME erlong, you blessed baby,

COME

Mammy'll tell you story, maybe;

Dat's right; cla'm up in my lap

Lak er man, an' tak er nap.
Wuk so hard he almos' dead;
Mammy's arm will res' his head.
Pore chile oughter bin in bed
An hour ago.

Tell you 'bout de possum, honey?
De mammy possum got er funny
Leetle pouch, er bag o' skin
Lak' you totes yore marbles in-

All along her underside,

Whar de baby possums hide

When dey's skeered, er wants ter ride-
Quit wigglin' so!

Some time dat mammy-pore old critter-
Has sixteen babies at one litter;
Wide-mouf, long-nose, squirmin' things,
Wid tails dat twist lak fiddle strings,
Sixteen lak you ter mek er fuss,

Ter tote, an' feed, an' rock, an' nuss-
Keep still! Hit's no 'sprise ter us
Possum's hair's gray!

Honey, when de houn' dawgs ketch 'im
Dere nose an' paw ain't more'n tech 'im
Tell drop, dat possum he done dead;
No sign er life from foot ter head;
Wid eyes shet tight, he lay and smile,
An' fool dem houn' dawgs all de while.
Play lak you's er possum, chile-
Yes, dat's de way.

Possum in de oven roastin',

Slice sweet taters roun' 'im toastin',
Taste so good when he git done!
Mammy'll give her baby some.
Eyes-shet-tight-yes, dat's de way—
Houn' dawgs goin', goin' er way—

Bless de boy, no possum play

In dat sleep!

GERTRUDE MANLY JONES.

CITY MAN'S DREAM OF THE COUNTRY.

WOULD flee from the city's rule and law,

From its fashion and form cut loose,

And go where the strawberry grows on its straw,
And the gooseberry grows on its goose;
Where the catnip tree is climbed by the cat
As she crouches for her prey-

The guileless and unsuspecting rat

On the rattan bush at play.

I will watch at ease the saffron cow,

And her cowlet in their glee,

As they leap in joy from bough to bough
On the top of the cowslip tree;

Where the musical partridge drums on his drum,
And the woodchuck chucks his wood,

And the dog devours the dogwood plum
In the primitive solitude.

Oh, let me drink from the moss-grown pump
That was hewn from the pumpkin tree,
Eat mush and milk from a rural stump,
From form and fashion free.

New-gathered mush from the mushroom vine,
And milk from the milkweed sweet,
With luscious pineapple from the pine-
Such food as the gods might eat!

And then to the whitewashed dairy I'll turn,
Where the dairymaid hastening hies,

Her ruddy and golden red butter to churn,
From the milk of her butterflies!

And I'll rise at morn with the early bird,
To the fragrant farmyard pass,

When the farmer turns his beautiful herd
Of grasshoppers out to grass.

S. W. Foss.

EZRA AND ME AND THE BOARDS.

Permission of the New York Observer.

WE'RE plain old-fashioned folks, my husband

and me, and we're getting along into years. Ezra is past seventy, and I'm so near it there ain't any fun in it but we're considerable smart and independent yet, and so we live in our snug little home instead of breaking up and going to live with the children as some folks would. The children are all married and settled, making a fight for a living just as we used to, and they're all steady go-to-meeting folks, I'm thankful to say, and prosperous enough, I guess. Once I was going to have the boys all presidents and the girls riding in coaches, but now I'm just thankful to have them good, plain, honest folks. There's nothing like seventy years to take the nonsense out of a body!

Yes, we're fixed so that we don't need to worry if we're keerful and don't go into no extravagances, like keeping two fires or having a fit of sickness, but we always pay our pew rent and help support the