And, as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea,-— A prayer at home for me. WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME AGAIN? AN EPISODE OF THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR. In his wind-shaken tent the soldier sits, Whose dim light glooms and flickers on the sheet And heart, intent, he reads. Now with a smile A smile that in the smiling breeds a pain Within his yearning heart; the gentle hand That those sweet loving words hath traced, will he Enfold it? Who can tell! He can but kiss, With wild intensity, the page that hand Hath touched. Each line, each word read and re-read, At last there is no more. With swimming eyes He looks, and drinks her name into his soul. "Loved Papa, When will you come home again? My own dear Papa!" As he reads this the tent to him grows darker, “Loved Papa, when will you come home again? And now his head is bowed into his hands, His brave heart for a moment seems to climb Half-dreaming, clutch their swords, and gasping wake;- Strikes cold as ice, though soldier there's none braver, That pleading child-voice sweetly calls: "Loved Papa, when will you come home again? Across a rough hillside the light of dawn Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they lie thickest, Some childish writing by his life-blood stained. What are the words? One scarce can read them now: "Loved Papa, when will you come home again? My own dear Papa!" SIC VITA.-HENRY KING. Like to the falling of a star, THE DEAD STUDENT.-WILL CARLETON. It doesn't seem-now does it, Jack?-as if poor Brown were dead; 'Twas only yesterday at noon he had to take his bed. The day before he played first base, and ran M'Farland down; To hear a whoop, and see the man go rushing past here now. We haven't spoken back and forth for something like a year. We didn't pull together square a single night or day; nose. In fact, I came at last to feel-and own it with dismay— That life would be worth living for, if Brown were out the way. But when I heard that he was dead, my feelings tacked; and then I would have given half my life to get his back again. I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago. A sweet bouquet of girlish flowers smiled in the face of Death. Straight through the open window came the morning's fragrant breath. Close-caged, a small canary-bird, with glossy, yellow throat, Skipped drearily from perch to perch and never sung a note. With hair unusually combed, sat poor M'Farland near, And seemed to be a-whispering their titles to my view. Gleamed jauntily the boating-cup he won last year from me. I lifted up the solemn sheet. That honest, earnest face Showed signs of culture and of toil that death could not erase. As western skies at twilight mark where late the sun has been, Brown's face revealed the mind and soul that once had burned within. He looked so grandly helpless there, upon that lonely bed! Oh, Jack! these manly foes are foes no more when they are dead! "Old boy," I sobbed, " 'twas half my fault. This heart makes late amends." I took the white cold hands in mine,-and Brown and I were friends. THE WRONG MAN. The Hon. Demshire Hornet had a very unpleasant experience lately. Mark Twain was advertised to lecture in but for some reason failed to get around. In the emergency the lecture committee decided to employ Mr. Hornet to deliver his celebrated lecture on temperance, but so late in the day was this arrangement made that no bills announcing it could be circulated, and the audience assembled, expecting the celebrated Innocent. Nobody in the town knew Mark, or had even heard him lecture, but they had got the notion that he was funny, and went there prepared to laugh. Even those on the platform, except the chairman, did not know Mr. Hornet from Mark Twain, and so when he was introduced thought nothing of the name, as they knew Mark Twain was a nom de plume, and supposed his real name was Hornet. The denouement is thus told Mr. Hornet first remarked: "Intemperance is the curse of the country." The audience burst into a laugh. He knew it could not be at his remark, and thought his clothes must be awry, and he asked the chairman in a whisper if he was all right, and got “yes” for an answer. Then he said: "Rum slays more than disease!"-a louder laugh. He couldn't understand it, but went on: It breaks up happy homes!"— still louder mirth. "It is carrying young men down to death and hell!"-a perfect roar, and applause. Mr. Hornet began to get excited. He thought they were guying, but he proceeded: "We must crush the serpent!"-a tremendous howl of laughter. The men on the platform, except the chairman, squirmed as they laughed. Hornet couldn't stand it. "What I'm saying is gospel truth!" he cried. The audience fairly bellowed with mirth. Hornet turned to a man on the stage and said: "Do you see anything very ridiculous in my remarks or behavior?" "Yes, ha, ha-it's intensely funny-ha, ha, ha! Go on!" replied the roaring man. "This is an insult!" cried Hornet, wildly dancing about. More laughter, and cries of "Go on, Twain !" And then the chairman got the idea of the thing, and rose and explained the situation, and the men on the stage suddenly quit laughing, and the audience looked at each other in a mighty sheepish way, and they quit laughing, too. And then Mr. Hornet, being thoroughly mad, told them he had never before got into a town so entirely populated by fools and idiots, and having said that he left the hall. And the assemblage then voted to censure Twain and the chairman, and dispersed amidst deep gloom. HUMAN LIFE.-MRS. J. M. WINTON. After a while-a busy brain Will rest from all its care and pain. After a while-a vanished face- After a while-a man forgot A crumbled headstone-unknown spot. |