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Just two days later, as I sat,
Half dozing, in my office chair,
In my brusque fashion, “Who is there ?"
The same Scotch face, the same blue eyes And stood, half doubtful, at the door,
Abashed at my forbidding guise. "Sir, if you please, my brother Jim
The one you give the bill, you knowHe couldn't bring the money, Sir,
Because his back was hurted so. “He didn't mean to keep the 'change;'
He got runned over up the street: One wheel went right across his back,
And t'other fore-wheel mashed his feet. “They stopped the horses just in time,
And then they took him up for dead, And all that day and yesterday
He wasn't rightly in his head. "They took him to the hospital
One of the newsboys knew 'twas JimAnd I went too, because, you see,
We two are brothers, I and him * He had that money in his hand,
And never saw it any more. Indeed, he didn't mean to steal!
He never lost a cent before!
He meant to keep it, any way;
pay. "He made me fetch his jacket here;
It's torn and dirtied pretty bad; It's only fit to sell for rags,
But then, you know, it's all be had! " When he gets well-it won't be long
If you will call the money lent, He says he'll work his fingers off
But what he'll pay you every cent.” And then he cast a rueful glance
At the soiled jacket where it lay. "No, no, my boy! Take back the coat. Your brother's badly hurt, you say?
"Where did they take him? Just run out
And hail a cab, then wait for me.
And pounds, for such a boy as he!”
Together in the crowded wards,
That fell too loudly on the boards.
And scarce believed her when she said,
From brow and cheek, “ The boy is dead.”
One streak of sunshine on his hair.
No need of "change" and jackets there!
Made it so hard for me to speak,
Lying upon his sunburned cheek.
TAKING UP CARPETS.
The annual ceremony of taking up and whipping and putting down carpets is upon us. It is one of the evils which flesh is heir to, and cannot be avoided. You go home some pleasant spring day, at peace with the world, and find the baby with a clean face, and get your favorite pudding for dinner. Then your wife tells you how much younger you are looking, and says she really hopes she can turn that walking-dress she wore last fall and save the expense of a new suit, and then she asks you if you can't just help her about taking up the carpet.
Then she gets a saucer for the tacks and stands and holds it, and you get the claw and go down on your knees and begin to help her. You feel quite economical about the first three tacks, and take them out carefully and put them in the saucer. Your wife is good about holding the saucer, and beguiles you with an interesting story about how your neighbor's little boy is not expected to live till morning.
Then you come to the tack with a crooked head, and you get the claw under, and the head comes off, and the leather comes off, and the carpet comes off, and as it won't do to leave the tack in the floor, because it will tear the carpet when it is put down, you go to work and skin your knuckle, and get a sliver under the thumb nail, and tell your wife to shut up about that everlasting boy, and make up your mind that it does not make any difference about that tack; and so you begin on the corner where the carpet is doubled two or three times and has been nailed down with a shingle nail.
You don't care a continental about saving the nail, because you find that it is not a good time for the practice of economy; but you do feel a little hurt when both claws break off from the claw, and the nail does not budge a peg. Then your manhood asserts itself, and you arise in your might and throw the carpet claw at the dog, and get hold of the carpet with both hands, and the air is full of dust and flying tacks, and there is a fringe of carpet yarn all along by the mop board, and the baby cries, and the cat goes any. where-anywhere out of the world, and your wife says you ought to be ashanied of yourself to talk so,-but that carpet comes up.
Then you lift one side of the stove, and your wife tries to get the carpet from under it, but can't because you are standing on it. So you try a new hold; and just after your back breaks the carpet is clear. You are not through yet. Your wife don't tell you any more little stories, but she gets your old coat and hangs it on you, and smothers you with the carpet, and opens the back door and shoves you out, and intimates that the carpet needs whipping.
When you hang the tormenting thing across the clothesline the wrong way, and get it righted, and have it slide off into the mud, and hang it up again, and get half a pint of dust and three broken tacks snapped out of the northwest corner into your mouth by the wind, you make some observation which you neglected to mention while in the house.
hunt up a stick and go for that carpet. The first blow hides the sun and all the fair face of nature behind a cloud with the wind square in your face, no matter how you stand. You wield that cudgel until both hands are blistered, and the milk of human kindness curdles in your bosom.
You can whip the carpet a longer or shorter period, according to the size of your mad; it don't make any difference to the carpet; it is just as dusty and as fuzzy, and generally disagreeable after you have whipped it two hours as it was when you commenced. Then you bundle it up, with one corner dragging, and stumble into the house, and have more trouble with the stove, and fail to find any way of using the carpet stretcher while you stand on the carpet, and fail to find any place to stand off from the carpet, and you get on your knees once more, while your wife holds the saucer, and with blind confidence hands you broken tacks, crooked tacks, tacks with no points, tacks with no heads, tacks with no leathers, tacks with the biggest end at the point.
Finally the carpet is down, and the baby comes back, and the cat comes back, and the dog comes back, and your wife smiles sweetly, and says she is glad the job is off her hands.
BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN, 1800.—THOMAS CAMPBELL
On Linden, when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Far flashed the red artillery.
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
While furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
UNCLE REMUS'S REVIVAL HYMN.
No use fer to wait 'twell to-morrer ?
O Lord ! fetch the mo'ners up higher !
You better come now ef you comin'
Oh, come along sinner, ef you comin.'
No use ter be stoppin'an' a lookin',
Ef you keep on a stoppin' an'a lookin'.
No use fer ter wait 'twell to-morrer--
- Atlanta Constitution.