tounded hostlers he said: "Bind that man and give him to the sheriff! It's old Jim, the road agent! His pard's at the bottom of the gulch in the Pass; and I reckon this one will stretch hemp when the officers get him. I've driven my last run from Gallatin! There's too much risk about the business for me." And Jake kept his word.

THE PARTING LOVERS.-MARY E. DAY. Good-night, sweetheart! It can't be ten, I know; That clock had better "go a little slow!"

I do not see how it can have the face

To take "new deals" at such a rapid pace.

Full well I know ten minutes have not flown
Since it struck nine! Good-night, my love, my own!
'Good-night, Charlie!"

66

Oh, yes; last night, while going down Broadway,
Whom do you think I met? Dick Gray!

Just home from Europe! You should hear him talk!
"Twould make a mummy laugh to see him walk!

He struts around with such a killing air.

Ha! ha! Good-night, my love, my jewel rare! "Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh, Katie! Wait, dear! I forgot to tell

You something. Let me think! That's funny! Well, It's gone, and in a moment so am I.

My darling, how I hate to say good-by!

Some fellows would much later stay, I know;

But "Ten," your mother says; so I must go. "Good-night, Charlie!"

Some time, bewitching Kate,-ah! some time, sweet,― "Good-by" shall we consider obsolete,

No more will clocks strike terror to my heart,

And in exultant tones bid me depart.

Ah! now, like Cinderella at the ball,
I fly from happiness! Good-night, my all!
"Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh, Katie dear, is't too much trouble, think,
To get a match? I could not sleep a wink

Without my smoke. It is a lovely night,
So clear and sweet, and it is just as bright
As day. Well, I must tear myself away.
Thanks, dear! Good-night, once more I'll say!
'Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh, dear! How stupid of me!

I must come back and get it!

There's my cane-
Should it rain

To-morrow eve, will come and let you know
About the party; if not, we'll go.

Hark! Catch me ere I fall! Oh! what a shock!
It strikes again! Good-night! Confound that clock!
"Good-night, Charlie!"

JUST OVER THE WAY.

There's a church-tower gray
Just over the way,

All ivied and moss-grown, fast crumbling away;
The old cracked bell stands still where 'tis hung,
Each passing breeze swings the rusty old tongue,
But 'tis many a long weary year since it rung
The funeral knell,

The gay wedding bell,

As it used in days gone by,

When the gray-haired sexton was sprightly and young.
Beneath the shade of the church-tower gray,
There's a silent city just over the way;

A low, peaceful home,

Whose inhabitants roam,

Not here, but in some distant clime far away.
The streets are grass-grown, and no footsteps fall
On the pathway under the sycamores tall;
The dead autumn leaves grow sear, and decay,
In the streets of the city just over the way.
The inhabitants sleep

One long, dreamless sleep,

With no watchman his nightly vigils to keep;
The doors of the houses are all bolted fast,

The door-plates are covered with mildew and rust,
The names blotted out with the years that have passed,
And on each door is written these words, "Dust to dust!"

The green willows bend,

And their long branches blend

With the dry, untrimmed grasses that wave in the wind;
The flowers that were planted there long, long ago,
With hot tear-drops watered from hearts full of woe,
Have blossomed and faded, through sunshine and snow;
But now Time's sharp sickle has cut them all down,
Their beauty is gone and their leaflets are brown.
Wild violets lift upward their blue starry eyes,

And drink the bright dew-drops that fall from the skies;
And rank, graceful ferns grow thick all around
The streets of this city, which echo no sound,
Save the feeble step of the sexton old,

Who has passed the allotted time for men,

And who mutters forever," Yes, threescore and ten,
I'm wearing away, and my heart has grown cold,—
I never shall toll the old church bell again."

And all is so still,

So thrillingly still,

In this silent city just over the way,
That I love to look at it day by day,

And hear the old gray-haired sexton say,

"My heart has grown cold, and, I'm wearing away." And the crumbling church-tower, ivied and gray, Seems like some giant sentinel,

To guard the city just over the way,

And the hurried march of Time to tell;

And when the red sun sinks low in the west,

And its long shadow creeps almost up to my door,

I feel in my soul a part of the rest

That belongs to those sleepers who waken no more; And many a lesson I learn day by day

From the church-tower gray,
And the silent city just over the way.

PETIT JEAN.-MARY A. BARR.

[At the battle of the Pyramids : July 21, 1798.]
Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents,
O'er Egypt's pyramids and sands,
O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes,

And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands;

The palms stood still in the hot air,
The sad and silent Sphinx looked on,
While over all the Afric sun

In burning, blinding splendor shone.
The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds,
Their cimeters all bright and bare;
The French stood grimly watching them,
Napoleon in the centre square.

He pointed to the Pyramids:

"Comrades, from those grand heights, I say, The brave of forty centuries

Will watch you draw your swords to-day!"

They answered him with ringing shouts,
And ere the echoes died away,
The van, like a tornado, charged,

Led by the brave and bold Desaix.
Then while the trusty "Forty-third"
Stood waiting for the word to charge,
They saw their little drummer-boy
Come from the column of Dufarge.

With tottering steps and bleeding breast,
But bravely beating still his drum,
He said with sad and tearful face,
"Oh, Forty-third, to you I've come;
I've come to you, my regiment,

For nothing but a child am I;
I've come to you, my comrades brave,
That you may teach me how to die!
"I'll never shame you, Forty-third;
I want to be as brave and true;
I want to die as brave men die;

So tell a poor child what to do."
Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard,
And Joubert turned his head away:

The lad had been the pet of all,

And now they knew not what to say.

Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke:
"Our Petit Jean, I see 'tis plain
Your place is with the Forty-third;
So beat us now the charge again,
Then follow, and we'll show you how
Death comes unto the soldier brave.

Comrades salute the nine-year-old
Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!"

The men's hearts glowed like living coals,
And Regnier cried, " Why do we stay?"
And to the roll of the little drum

They rode upon their vengeful way;
But each one as he passed the child
His sword with earnest purpose drew,
And cried in brave or tender tones,

"Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!"
"I come, my regiment, I come!"
But never Petit Jean again
His drum beat for the Forty-third :
They found him lying with the slain.
They put the medal on his breast,
Together clasped his childish hands,
And dug, with many a bitter tear,

A grave for him in Egypt's sands.
'Tis near a century ago

But still his memory is green;
The Regiment has not a name

So dear as that of Petit Jean;
And many a weary soldier has

To brave and noble deeds been stirred
By the tale of the little nine-year-old
Who died among the Forty-third.

TILGHMAN'S RIDE FROM YORKTOWN TO PHILADELPHIA. OCTOBER 19. 1781.-HOWARD PYLE.

ABRIDGED FOR PUBLIC READING.

From day to day came a heavy roar,

Like the boom of the surf on a distant shore,

Or the rumble of thunder far away,

An ominous sound, from day to day,

To the south, where York and Gloucester lay;
And from night to night

Hung a lurid light,

Now smouldering deep, now glowing bright,
Staining the black sky off to the south

With a smear of red, like a belch from the mouth
Of the pit; while the rumble and roar came clear
Through the hush of the night to the listening ear,