Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,

"We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!" Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging,

Facing the death that encircled them round;
Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,
Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.
Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,-
Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull;
shall swear that the cup of his glory
Needed but that death to render it full.

And ages

THE NEWSBOY.-E. T. CORBETT.

Want any papers, Mister?

Wish you'd buy 'em of me

Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,

An' bizness dull, you see.

Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat,
None on 'em earning money—

What do you think of that?

Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,

He's workin' for Gov'ment now-
They give him his board for nothin',
All along of a drunken row.

An' Mam? well, she's in the poorhouse,
Been there a year or so;

So I'm taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.

Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss,
She's a kitten, a real Maltee;
I picked her up last summer-
Some boys was a drownin' of she;
Throw'd her inter a hogshead;
But a p'liceman came along,
So I jest grabbed up the kitten
And put for home, right strong.
And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby
Hain't never quarreled yet--
They sleeps in my bed in winter
An' keeps me warm-you bet!
Mam's cat sleeps in the corner,
With a piller made of her paw-
Can't she growl like a tiger

If any one comes to our straw!

Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister,
What's a feller to do?

Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,
Seems as if each on 'em knew-
They'll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say:

Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,
An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,

(An' a lecturin' chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I'd do,
I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby
A dinner-an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's,

But a good square meal for all three;
If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,
That shows you don't know me.

So 'ere's your papers--come take one,
Gimme a lift if you can-

For now you've heard my story,

You see I'm a fam❜ly man!

CONFESSION OF A DRUNKARD.

I had position high and holy. The demon tore from around me the robes of my sacred office, and sent me forth churchless and godless, a very hissing and byword among inen. Afterward my voice was heard in the courts. But the dust gathered on my open books, and no foot fall crossed the threshold of the drunkard's office. I had money ample for all necessities, but it went to feed the coffers of the devils which possessed me. I had a home adorned with all that wealth and the most exquisite taste could suggest. The devil crossed its threshold and the light faded from its chambers. And thus I stand, a clergyman without a church, a barrister without a brief, a man with scarcely a friend, a soul without hope-all swallowed up in the maelstrom of drink.

SPELLING DOWN.--WILL GIFFORD.

Well, Jane, I stayed in town last night,
(I know I hadn't oughter),
And went to see the spellin' match,
With cousin Philip's daughter.

I told her I was most too old;

She said I wasn't nutherA likely gal is Susan Jane; The image of her mother.

I begged and plead with might and main,
And tried my best to shake her,
But blame the gal, she stuck and hung,
Until I had to take her.

I ain't much used to city ways,

Or city men and women,

And what I see, and what I heard,
Just sot my head a swimmin'.

The hall was filled with stylish folks,
In broadcloth, silks, and laces,
Who, when the time had come to spell,
Stood up and took their places;
And Mayor Jones, in thunder tones,
And waistcoat bright and yeller,
Gave out the words to one and all,
From a new-fangled speller.

The people looked so bright and smart,
Thinks I it's no use foolin'

They've got the spellin'-book by heart,
With all their city schoolin';
fill Orvil Kent, the Circuit Judge,
Got stuck on Pennsylvania,

And Simon Swift, the merchant clerk,
Went down on Kleptomania.

Then Caleb Dun, the broker's son,
He put two n's in money,

And Susan Jane, she smirked and smiled,
And left one out in funny.

And Leonard Rand, the Harvard chap,

With features like a lady,

Spelled lots o' French and Latin words,
And caved on rutabaga.

And as I sot there quiet like,
A winkin' and a blinkin',

The gaslight glarin' in my eyes,

I couldn't help a thinkin'

How things were changed since you and I,
In other winter weather,

Drove o'er the snow-bound Eaton pikes
To spellin' school together.

Again the bleak New England hills
Re-echoed to the singing

Of Yankee girls, with hair in curls,
Who set the welkin ringing;
They wan't afraid to sing when asked,
And never would refuse to;

Somehow the singing now-days, Jane,
Don't sound much as it used to.

Twelve couple then a sleigh load made,
Packed close to keep from freezin';
Lor' bless the black eyed, rosy girls,
They didn't mind the squeezin';
Your sweetheart never would complain
Because you chanced to crowd her,
They'd more of flesh and blood them days,
And less of paint and powder.

Down past the Quaker meetin' house,

And through the tamarack holler, 'Mid mirth and song we sped along With other loads to foller,

Until (the gaslight dimmer grew,—
I surely wa'n't a dreamin',)
Upon the distant hill I see

The school-house lights a gleamin'.

The pedagogue gave out the words,
His steel-bowed specs adjustin',
To linsey girls, with hair in curls,
And boys in jeans and fustian;
The letters rang out sharp and clear,
Each syllable pronouncin',

For he who broke the master's rule
Was certain of a trouncin'.

Brave hearts went down amid the strife;
The words came thicker, faster,

Like body-guard of veterans scared,
The boys closed round the master--
All down but two! Fair Lucy's locks
Swept over Rufus' shoulder,

The room is still, the air grows chill,
The winds blow fiercer, colder.

CCCC

"P-h-t-h-y-s-i-c,"

Lisped Lucy in a flurry; "P-h-t-h-i-s-i-c."

Cried Rufus in a hurry.

No laurel wreath adorned his brow,
Twined by a blood-stained Nero;
Yet in his homespun suit of blue,
Young Rufus stood a hero.

The master sleeps beneath the hill,
The voice of Rufus Bennet,

Who snapped the word from Lucy Bird,
Was heard within the Senate.

And countless millions bless the name
Of him who set in motion

The tidal wave which freed the slave
From ocean unto ocean.

The girls who charmed us with their songs
'Mid heavenly choirs are singin';
Their feet have pressed the shining street,
Where golden harps are ringin'.
We've both grown old and feeble, Jane,
Our views may not be true ones;
Yet somehow all the old ways seem
Much better than the new ones.

THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.

RUTHVEN JENKYNS.

First published in the Greenwich Magazine for Mariners in 1701 1702
Sweet heart, good-bye! that flutt'ring sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee,
And soon before the favoring gale
My ship shall bound upon the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm-

Though lost to sight, to memory dear.

Sweet heart, good-bye! one last embrace;
O, cruel fate, two souls to sever!

Yet in this heart's most sacred place
Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever;

And still shall recollections trace

In fancy's mirror, ever near,

Each smile, each tear,-that form, that face-
Though lost to sight, to memory dear.