But further information or statistics he had

none

Uv the man who 'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."

We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss,

When we get played for suckers, why, that's

a horse on us!

But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff

To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff

A man who 's "worked with Dana," 'nd then we fellers wink

And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think.

It seems like Dana could n't be as smart as

people say,

If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get

away;

And, as for us, in future we 'll be very apt

to shun

The man who "worked with Dana on the

Noo York Sun."

But bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years,

To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears;

An' may I live a thousan', too, a thousan'

less a day,

For I should n't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away.

And when it comes your time to go you 'll need no Latin chaff

Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know

The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe;

You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run

That best ❜nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."

SICILIAN LULLABY

HUSH, little one, and fold your hands;

The sun hath set, the moon is high;

The sea is singing to the sands,

And wakeful posies are beguiled

By many a fairy lullaby:

Hush, little child, my little child!

Dream, little one, and in your dreams Float upward from this lowly place, Float out on mellow, misty streams

To lands where bideth Mary mild,

And let her kiss thy little face,

You little child, my little child!

Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,
With angels bending over thee,-
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast

Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled;
But stay not there,— come back to me,
O little child, my little child!

HORACE TO PYRRHA

WH

'HAT perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
With smiles for diet,

Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
On the quiet?

For whom do you bind up your tresses,
As spun-gold yellow,-

Meshes that go, with your caresses,
To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
And curse you duly!

Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,
You perfect, truly!

Pyrrha, your love 's a treacherous ocean;
He'll soon fall in there!

Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
For I have been there!

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

MY

[Y Shepherd is the Lord my God,— There is no want I know;

His flock He leads in verdant meads, Where tranquil waters flow.

He doth restore my fainting soul
With His divine caress,

And, when I stray, He points the way
To paths of righteousness.

Yea, though I walk the vale of death,
What evil shall I fear?

Thy staff and rod are mine, O God,
And Thou, my Shepherd, near!

Mine enemies behold the feast
Which my dear Lord hath spread;
And, lo! my cup He filleth up,
With oil anoints my head!