She'd be gone for a spell, for the parly didn't come back till eight,

And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be

extra late.

So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key

For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me.

He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good

He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should.

It was noon when the missus started,-her train went by my box;

She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks.

I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland.

But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid;

For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie

In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die.

The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed,

Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed.

For a time the box had vanished-I'd worked like a mere machine

My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard

nor seen.

With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek,

Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to

speak;

There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my

startled sight

That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white.

It was all in one awful moment-I saw that the boy was

lost:

He had gone for a toy, 1 fancied, some child from a train had tossed;

The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear.

I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath,

And right on the centre metals stood my boy in the jaws of death;

On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the centre line, And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine!

"Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?

Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew— "What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear

On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear.

Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick.

"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick;

The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, I turned the mail to the centre, and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees'in horror, and hid my ashen face— I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's

grace.

Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail

To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes.

How can I look-his father-on that which there mangled lies?

That voice!-O merciful Heaven!-'tis the child's, and he calls my name!

I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; The place reeled round, and I fainted,-swooned with the sudden joy.

But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bel

With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head,

That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about

the lad,

And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad

She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view,

And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound;

The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found

With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white:

I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night.

Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the

wind?

Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind?

If I hadn't a'done my duty-had I ventured to disobey— My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

SCHNEIDER'S TOMATOES.-CHAS. F. ADAMS.

Schneider is very fond of tomatoes. Schneider has a friend in the country who raises "garden sass and sich." Schneider had an invitation to visit his friend last summer, and regale himself on his favorite vegetable. His friend Pfeiffer being busy negotiating with a city produce dealer, on his arrival, Schneider thought he would take a stroll in the garden, and see some of his favorites in their pristine beauty. We will let him tell the rest of his story in his own language.

"Vell, I valks shust a liddle vhile roundt, when I sees some off dose dermarters vot vas so red und nice as I nefer dit see any more, und I dinks I vill put mineself outside about a gouple-a-tozen, shust to geef me a liddle abbedite vor dinner. So I bulls off von ov der reddest

und pest looking of dose dermarters, und dakes a pooty goot pite out ov dot, und vos chewing it oup pooty quick, ven-by chiminy!-I dort I had a peese ov red-hot coals in mine mout, or vas chewing oup dwo or dree bapers ov needles; und I velt so pad, already, dot mine eyes vas vool ov dears, und I mate vor an ‘olt oken bucket' vot I seen hanging in der vell, as I vas gooming along.

"Shust den mine vriend Pfeiffer game oup und ask me vot mate me veel so padt, und if any ov mine vamily vas dead. I dold him dot I vas der only von ov der vamily dot vas pooty sick; und den I ask him vot kind ov dermarters dose vas vot I had shust peen bicking; und, mine cracious, how dot landsman laughft, und said dot dose vas red beppers dot he vas raising vor bepper-sauce. You pet my life I vas mat. I radder you gif me feefty tollars as to eat some more ov dose bepper-sauce dermarters."

A LEGEND.

I read a legend of a monk who painted,
In an old convent cell in days bygone,
Pictures of martys and of virgins sainted,

And the sweet Christ-face with the crown of thorn.
Poor daubs! not fit to be a chapel's treasure!
Full many a taunting word upon them fell,
But the good abbot let him, for his pleasure,
Adorn with them his solitary cell.

One night the poor monk mused: "Could I but render
Honor to Christ as other painters do,

Were but my skill as great as is the tender
Love that inspires me when his cross I view!
"But no-'tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow;
What man so scorns still less can he admire,
My life's work is all valueless-to-morrow

I'll cast my ill-wrought pictures on the fire.”
He raised his eyes, within his cell-Oh wonder!
There stood a visitor, thorn-crowned was he,
And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder-

"I scorn no work that's done for love of me."

And round the walls the paintings shone resplendent With lights and colors to this world unknown,

A perfect beauty, and a hue transcendent,

That never yet on mortal canvas shone.

There is a meaning in the strange old story

Let none dare judge his brother's worth or meed;

The pure intent gives to the act its glory,

The noblest purpose makes the grandest deed.

THE HEART'S CHARITY.-ELIZA Cook.

A rich man walked abroad one day,
And a poor man walked the self-same way,
When a pale and starving face came by,
With a pallid lip and a hopeless eye;
And that starving face presumed to stand
And ask for bread from the rich man's hand!
But the rich man sullenly looked askance,
With a gathering frown and a doubtful glance:
"I have nothing," said he, "to give to you,
Nor any such rogue of a canting crew;"
And he fastened his pocket, and on he went,

With his soul untouched and his conscience content.

Now this great owner of golden store Had built a church not long before;

As noble a fane as man could raise,

And the world had given him thanks and praise,

And all who beheld it lavished fame

On his Christian gift and godly name.

The poor man passed, and the white lips dared To ask of him if a mite could be spared; He stood for a moment, but not to pause On the truth of the tale, or the parish laws; He was seeking to give-though it was but small. For a penny, a single penny was all,

But he gave it with a kindly word,

While the warmest pulse in his heart was stirred. 'Twas a tiny seed his charity shed,

But the white lips got a taste of bread,

And the beggar's blessing hallowed the crust
That came like a spring in the desert dust.