My boots were of the neatest fit,
As fine as boots could be;
For him I gave away my boots,
And then he booted me.

My eyes were of the deepest blue,
Nor lustre did they lack;

But now you see they both are red,
And one is also black!

My nose was never beautiful,
But still was not amiss;

Old Alcohol, he touched it up,

And what d' ye think of this?

He promised I should courage have
For all the ills of life;

The bravest thing he made me do
Was beat my little wife.

He promised he would give me wit,
And I should ne'er be sad;
Instead of which he took away
The little sense I had.

The health and wealth he promised me
He never, never gave;
But when he'd taken all I had,

I found myself a slave.

So now I'll fight for him no more,
For woe is all his pay;
He's cheated me and lied to me-
I'll join the "Sons" to-day!

THE NIGHT THAT BABY DIED.-NICHOLAS NILE

No black-plumed hearse goes slowly sweeping by,
No suits of woe nor masks of misery,

No long procession winding to the tomb
Its serpent length of simulated gloom;
Only one carriage and two mourners there,
Who on the other seat a burden bear-

A little pine-wood coffin, rudely stained
To imitate a fabric finer grained.

Who would suppose that that small box contained
The hopes, the fears, the joys, the exultant pride
Which in the dark were crucified

The night that Baby died?

Poor Baby! what a gleam of glory lit

Yon wretched hovel when he brightened it
With his sweet presence, of a winter morn!
Say not that he to poverty was born,

For from the first his blue, contented eyes
Reflected visions of serener skies.

He saw, beyond the world that round us lies,
That far-off shore whose outline seems so dim,
He found companions in the seraphim,

And all the wealth of Heaven belonged to him;—
Its pearly portals angels opened wide,
The night that Baby died.

He was not poor, but very poor were they

To whom he came-brief sunshine of their day—
The only sunshine that was ever lent

To light the gloom of their dark tenement.

And when he fell into the final sleep

Their hearts were torn by agony so deep

That, bending over him, they could not weep,
But gazed upon him in their dumb despair,—
Upon the little face supremely fair,

The aureole glory of his yellow hair,

Then hugged the grief to which tears were denied,
The night that Baby died.

Dear Lord! who art the poor man's friend and shield
Be with that carriage in the Potter's Field;
Command the white wings of the Holy Ghost
To cover them, who need thy healing most.
And when upon the little coffin lid

The dull earth falls-the poor pine box is hid-
Though no priest pray, and never prayer is said,
Be thou with them to sanctify their dead.

And though their lives through tortuous paths be led
Teach them to know, whatever is denied,
They gained the love of Him, the crucified,
The night that Baby died.

RECIPE FOR A MODERN NOVEL

Stir in a fool to make us laugh;
Two heavy villains and a half;'
A heroine with sheeny hair,
And half a dozen beaux to spare;
A mystery upon the shore;

Some bloody foot-prints on a floor;
A shrewd detective chap, who mates
Those foot-prints with the hero's eights,
And makes it squally for that gent-
Till he is proven innocent;

A brown stone front; a dingle dell;
Spice it with scandal; stir it well;
Serve it up hot;-and the book will sell,

A LITERARY NIGHTMARE.-MARK TWAIN.

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following verses, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?

"Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

CHORUS:

Punch, brothers! punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before-a thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen; but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined-I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step, and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight, frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!" By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings: "Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

EEEEF

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfill an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr. to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions We started. Mr. talked, talked, talked-as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile, Mr. said;

66

Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do?" Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch, brothers! punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!" My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said: "I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet-maybe it was the way you said the words-I never heard anything that sounded so pathetic. What is "

But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless, heart-breaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr. laid his hand on my

shoulder and shouted:

"Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at the Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at it! look at it! Feast your eyes on it! You have traveled; you have seen boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this?"

I sighed wearily, and murmured:

"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare." Rev. Mr. stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and looked long at me; then he said:

"Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in the-how is it they go?"

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines. My friend's face lighted with interest. He said:

“Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."

"I said them over. Then Mr. said them. He made one little mistake, which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent-up talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I said:

“Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"

The Rev. Mr.

turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

"Punch, brothers! punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow! he has got it now."

I did not see Mr. for two or three days after that. Then, on Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence, and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my face and said:

Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call by telegraph, and took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued old friend, who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon. I took my seat in the car's and set my.