pur and look sweet at you, but if you rub 'em the wrong way, they'll claw you. S'long as you let a girl have her own way she's nice and sweet; but just cross her, and she'll spit at you worse nor a cat. Girls is also like mules, they're headstrong. If a girl don't want to believe anything, you can't make her. If she knows it's so she won't say so. Girls is little women, if they're good; and if they ain't good then nor when they get big, they're vixens, that's what father said mamma was once, when she chased him around the kitchen with a red hot poker, 'cause she was mad at him. Brother Joe says he don't like big girls, but he does like little ones, and when I saw him kissing Jennie Jones, last Sunday, and told him what he'd said, he said he was biting her, 'cause he didn't like her. I think he hurt her, for she hollered and run, and there was a big red spot over both of her cheeks. This is all I know about girls, and father says the less I know about 'em the better off I am.

ONLY A DRUNKARD.-C. J. CLINGAN.

"Only a drunken man," they said,
Passing by with a scornful tread,
Some in wonder, and many in fear;
Seldom a sigh, or a pitying tear,
Much less an offer to help him to rise;
So there, unaided, unpitied, he lies.
Foul lips scorched by the fiercest of fire,
Low in the gutter, mid filth and mire,
Ruined by Alcohol's flattering taste-
Only a drunkard, low and debased,
Only somebody's darling.
Somebody's darling! there was a time
When he was pure and free from crime;
A mother's pride, and hope, and joy,
Lay centred all in her darling boy.
He stood so firm with an air of truth,
Only as yet a "promising youth,"
And the mother's tones came soft and low,
"My boy will be great and good, I know,

For he has such will, and is yet so kind;
He's the very best son you ever can find."
And she pushed the curls from his noble brow;
Ah, with a mother's fond prophecy, how
In the years of the future she saw afar
A glorious fame, like a rising star.

And the years rolled on; the days were bright;
The earth was filled with a promising light,
For his hopes made bright life's journey along;
His head was clear, and his hands were strong
And the star of which the mother dreamed
Almost over their pathway beamed.

And then a change! it wasn't the thing
To be always tied to her apron string.

He would go and see the world's wild strife,
And then come home to a peaceful life;

There were "jolly good fellows," suppers and wine;
The latter was weak, and withal quite fine,
And-need I tell it, what happened then?
It is written over and over again

In history, biography, more and more,
From the days of Noah, to eighty-four;
How he awoke to the fact one day

That the fiery demon had gained the sway;
How he arose, and fell, and arose,
Trying to conquer his deadly foes;
Trying, I say, but the fight was vain,
He fell and never arose again.

Never rose more, I say, as a man,

With respect for himself and a proud “I can."
So there he lies now, with whisky rife,
Foulest and lowest of animal life!

Fingers point at him in shame as they pass,
"Only a drunkard!" Alas! alas!

And the mother's hopes and dreams so gay,
Her prayers and tears, oh, where are they?
Only the eye that sees all things,
And hidden light from darkness brings,
Knows fully the anguish without respite
She feels for her boy by day and by night.
His dauntless will, so manly a dower,
Is easily bent by Alcohol's power.

Ay, this is the language of one and all:
"I am so strong that I never shall fall,
I am so firm that I need no prop,
I can go as far as I will, and stop."
Here is a warning--oh heed it well!
What has rum done? I cannot tell.
Only for him, it has blighted his youth,
Blasted his manhood, honor and truth.
Only a past, that once was bright;
Only a future, as dark as night;

Only a wreck of mind within;

Only one heart that was broken for him,-
Broken for "Somebody's darling."

THE OLD SOLDIER TRAMP.-JOAQUIN Miller.

Yes, bread! I want bread! You heard what I said;
Yet you stand and you stare,

As if never before came a tramp to your door
With such insolent air.

Would I work? Never learned.-My home it was burned;
And I haven't yet found

Any heart to plough lands and build homes for red hands That burned mine to the ground.

No bread! you have said?-Then my curse on your head! And what shall sting worse,

On that wife at your side, on those babes in their pride, Fall my seven-fold curse!

Good-bye! I must l'arn to creep into your barn;

Suck your eggs; hide away;

Sneak around like a hound, light a match in your hay,

Limp away through the gray!

Yes, I limp-curse these stones! And then my old bones, They were riddled with ball

Down at Shiloh. What you? You war wounded thar too? Wall, you beat us-that's all.

Yet even my heart with its stout pride will start

As I tramp. For you see,

No matter which won, it was gallantly done,

And a glorious American victory.

What, kind words and bread? God's smiles on your head?
On your wife, on your babes!-and please, sir, I pray
You'll pardon me, sir; but that fight trenched me here,
Deep-deeper than sword-cut, that day.

Nay, I'll go. Sir, adieu! Tu Tityre *
Have Augustus for friend,

*

*

You

While I-yes, read and speak both Latin and Greek;
And talk slang without end.

Hey? Oxford. But, then, when the wild cry for men
Rang out through the gathering night,

As a mother that cries for her children, and dies,

We two hurried home for the fight.

How noble, my brother! how brave-and- but there-
This tramping about somehow weakens my eyes.
At Shiloh! We stood 'neath that hill by the wood-
It's a graveyard to-day, I surmise.

Yes, we stood to the last! And when the strife passed
I sank down in blood at his side,

On his brow, on his breast-what need tell the rest?
I but knew that my brother had died.

What! wounds on your breast? Your brow tell the rest?
You fought at my side and you fell?

You the brave boy that stood at my side in that wood,
On that blazing red border of hell?

My brother! My own! Never king on his throne
Knew a joy like this brought to me,

God bless you, my life; bless your brave Northern wife
And your beautiful babes, two and three.

AS THE PIGEON FLIES.-C. B. LEWIS.

Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z! A monster of iron, steel and brass, standing on the slim iron rails which shoot away from the station for half a mile and then lose themselves in a green forest.

Puff-puff! The driving wheels slowly turn, the monster breathes great clouds of steam and seems anxious for the race.

A grizzly-haired engineer looks down from the cab

window, while his fireman pulls back the iron door and heaves in more wood,-more breath and muscle for the grim giant of the track.

The fire roars and crackles-the steam hisses and growls; every breath is drawn as fiercely as if the giant was burning to revenge an insult.

Up-up-up! The pointer on the steam-gauge moves faster than the minute-hand on a clock. The breathing becomes louder the hiss rises to a scream-the iron rails tremble and quiver.

"Climb up!"

It is going to be a race against time and the telegraph. S-s-s-sh!

The engineer rose up, looked ahead, glanced at the dial, and as his fingers clasped the throttle he asked the station-agent:

66

Are you sure that the track is clear?"

"All clear!" was the answer.

The throttle feels the pull, the giant utters a fierce scream, and we are off, I on the fireman's seat, the fireman on the wood. The rails slide under us slowly--faster, and the giant screams again and dashes into the forest.

This isn't fast. The telegraph poles dance past as if not over thirty feet apart, and the board fence seems to rise from the ground, but it's only thirty-five miles an hour.

"Wood!"

The engineer takes his eyes off the track and turns just long enough to speak the word to his fireman. The iron door swings back, and there is an awful rush and roar of flame. The fire-box appears full, but stick after stick is dropped into the roaring pit until a quarter of a cord has disappeared.

"This is forty miles an hour!" shouts the fireman in my ear as he rubs the moisture from his heated face.

Yes, this is faster. The fence posts seem to leap from the ground as we dash along, and the telegraph poles bend and nod to us. A house-a field-a farm-we