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Belshazzar Smith had a very bad and very dangerous habit of walking in his sleep. His family feared that, luring some one of his somnambulistic saunterings, he would charge out of the window and kill himself; so they persuaded him to sleep with his little brother William, and tie one end of a rope around his body and the other around the wrist of little William. The very first night after this arrangement was made, Belshazzar dreamed that a burglar was pursuing him with a dagger. So he crept over to William's side of the bed, stepped over William's slumbering form, jumped out on the floor, and slid under the bed. He stayed there awhile fast asleep, and then, his nightmare having changed, he emerged upon the other side of the bed, and got under the covers in his old place. The rope, it will be observed, was beneath the bed, and it was pulled taut, too. Early in the morning, Belshazzar, about half awake, scrouged over against William. To his surprise the movement jerked William clear out of bed. Belshazzar leaped out to ascertain the cause of this phenomenon, and at the same time his brother disappeared under the bed. Belshazzar, hardly yet awake, was scared, and he dived beneath his bedstead; as he did so, he heard William skirmishing across the blankets above his head. Once more he rushed out, just in time to perceive William glide over the other side. Belshazzar just then became sufficiently conscious to feel the rope pulling him. He comprehended the situation at once, and disengaged himself. And perhaps little William was not mad. He was in the hospital undergoing repairs for about three weeks, and when he came out had a strange desire to sleep alone. Bel. shazzar anchors himself now to an anvil.

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His heart against his waistcoat throbbod,

His feelings had a tussle,
Which nearly conquered him despite

Six feet of bone and muscle.
The candle in the window shone

With a most doleful glimmer, And Sam he felt his courage ooze,

And through his fingers simmer. Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,

Take courage, shaking doubter, Go on, and pop the question right,

For you can't live without ber.”
But still, as he drew near the house,

His knees got in a tremble,
The beating of his heart ne'er beat

His efforts to dissemble.
Says h?

Now, Sam, don't be a goose,
And let the female wimmin
Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so,

And set your heart a-swimmin'.”
So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,

His courage also raising,
And in a moment he sat inside,

Cid Jones' crops a-praising:
He tried awhile to talk the farm

In words half dull, half witty,
Not knowing that old Jones well knew

His only thought was-Kitty.
At last the old folks went to bed

The Joneses were but human; Old Jones was something of a man,

And Mrs. Jones—a woman. And Kitty she the pitcher took,

And started for the cellar; It wasn't often that she had

So promising a feller. And somehow when she came up stairs,

And Sam had drank his cider, There seemed a difference in the chairs,

And Sam was close beside her; His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,

Her head dropped on his shoulder, And Sam-well, he had changed his tune

And grown a trifle bolder.
But this, if you live long enough,

You surely will discover,

There's nothing in this world of ours

Except the loved and lover.
The morning sky was growing gray

As Sam the farm was leaving,
His face was surely not the face

Of one half grieved, or grieving.
And Kitty she walked smiling back,

With blushing face, and slowly;
There 's something in the humblest love

That makes it pure and holy.
And did he marry her you ask ;

She stands there with the ladle
A-skimming of the morning's milk-

That's Sam who rocks the cradle.


Faded and fair, in an old arm-chair,
Sunset gilding her thin white hair,
Silently knitting, sits Grandmother Gray:
While I on my elbows beside her lean,
And tell what wonderful things I mean
To have, and to do, if I can, some day;
You can talk so to Grandmother Gray-
She doesn't laugh, nor send you away.
I see as I look from the window seat,
A house over vonder, across the street,

With a fine French roof and a frescoed hall;
The deep bay windows are full of flowers;
They've a clock of bronze that chimes the hours,

And a fountain-I hear it tinkle and fall When the doors are open:

I mean," I say, “To live in a house like that some day.” Money will buy it,” says Grandmother Gray, “There's a low barouche, all green and gold,

And a pair of horses as black as jet, I've seen drive by-and before I'm old

A turnout like that I hope to get.
llow they prance and shine in their harness gay!
What fun 't would be if they ran away!"
"Money will buy it,” says Grandmother Gray.
“ To-morrow, I know, a great ship sails

Out of port and across the sea ;
Oh, to feel in my face the ocean gales,

And the salt waves dancing under me!

In the old far lands of legend and lay
I long to roam-and I shall, some day."

Money will do it,” says Grandmother Gray.
" And when you are old, like me,” says she,

“And getting and going are done with, dear,
What then do you think the one thing will be

You will wish and need to content you here?”
Oh, when in my chair I have to stay,
Love, you see, will content me," I say.

That money won't buy,” says Grandmother Gray.
“And, sure enough, if there's nothing worth

All your care, when the years are past,
But love in heaven, and love on earth,

Why not begin where you'll end at last ?
Begin to lay up treasure to-day,–
Treasure that nothing can take away,-
Bless the Lord !” says Grandmother Gray.


I heard a young man in a railway carriage tell his own story, while conversing on the Maine Law. Said he: "My father was a drunkard for years; my mother was a strongminded, energetic woman; and with the help of the boys, she managed to keep the farm free from debt. When my father signed the pledge, that which pleased her most, next to him having signed it, was that she could tell him there was not a debt nor a mortgage on the farm. My father used to drive into the city, about eight miles distant, twice a week; and I recollect my mother saying to me: 'I wish you would try and persuade your father not to go any more. We don't need that which he earns; and George, I am afraid of temptations and old associates.' 'Oh,' said I,‘don't think of it; father's all right.' One evening we had a heavy load, and were going toward home, when my father stopped at one of his old places of resort, and gave me the whip and the reins. I hitched the horses, tied up the reins, and went in afterward. The landlord said: 'I am glad to see you; how do you do? You are quite a stranger. How long is it since the temperance whim got hold of you? "Oh, about two years,' said my father. 'Well,' said the landlord, ' you see we are getting on here very well,' and they chatted together for some time. By and by he asked my father to have something to drink. 'Oh, but I have got a little temperance bi rs here,' said the landlord, 'that temperance men use, and they acknowledge that it is purifying to the blood, especially in warm weather. Just try a little.' And he poured out a glass and offered it. I stepped up and said : ‘Don't give my father that.' To which he replied: "Well, boys arn't boys hardly nowadays; they are got to be men amazing early. If I had a boy like you I think I should take him down a little. What do you think, Mr. Meyers? Do you bring that boy to take care of you? Do you want a guardian ? That stirred the old man's pride, and ho told me to go and look after the horses. He sat and drank till ten o'clock; and every time the landlord gave him a drink, I said: 'Don't give it to him.' At last my father rose up against me-

e--he was drunk. When he got up on the wagon, I drove. My heart was very heavy, and I thought of my mother. Oh, how will she feel this? When we got about two miles from home, my father said: 'I will drive.' “No,' said I,‘let me drive.' He snatched the reins from me, fell from the wagon, and before I could check the horses the forward wheel crushed his head in the road. I was till midnight getting his dead body on the wagon. I carried him to my mother, and she never smiled from that day to the day of her death. Four months after that she died, and we buried her. Now,” said the man, after he had finished his story, “that man killed my father-he was my father's murderer.”

There is not a publican but can take your brother, your father, your son, into his dram-shop to-night and make him drunk in spite of your entreaties and prayers, and kick him out at midnight, and you may find his dead body in the gutter. All you have to do is to take the body and bury it and say nothing about it; for you have no redress, no protection. Now, protection is what we want. Come and help us. Hurrah for prohibition'

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