THE BALD-HEADED MAN.

The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a care-worn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs.

"Ma," said the boy,“that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them. "Hush!"

After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head ?"

"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."

"What's bald?"

"His head hasn't got any hair on it."

"Did it come off?"

"I guess so."

"Will mine come off?"

"Some time, maybe."

"Then I'll be bald, won't I?”

"Yes."

"Will you care?"

"Don't ask so many questions."

After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly on that man's head."

"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home." “Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"

"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around," what's the matter with that young hyena?” The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair.

"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.

"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you off the train."

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying.

"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"

"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."

“Mister,” said the boy, after a short silence, “does it hurt to be bald-headed?"

"Youngster," said the man,“ if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."

The boy promised, and the money was paid over.

The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. "This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. 'When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. -Little Rock Gazette.

OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT.

Old Master Brown brought his ferule down,
And his face looked angry and red.
"Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair,
Along with the girls," he said.

Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air,
With his head down on his breast.

Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet

That he loved, of all, the best.

And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering there,

But the rogue only made believe:

For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls.
And ogled them over his sleeve.

THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.-T. B. ALDRICH,

Mabel, little Mabel,

With face against the pane,
Looks out across the night
And sees the Beacon Light
A-trembling in the rain.
She hears the sea-birds screech,
And the breakers on the beach

Making moan, making moan.
And the wind about the eaves
Of the cottage sobs and grieves;
And the willow-tree is blown
To and fro, to and fro,

Till it seems like some old crone
Standing out there all alone,
With her woe,
Wringing, as she stands,
Her gaunt and palsied hands!
While Mabel, timid Mabel,

With face against the pane,
Looks out across the night,
And sees the Beacon Light
A-trembling in the rain.

Set the table, maiden Mabel,
And make the cabin warm;
Your little fisher-lover

Is out there in the storm,
And your father-you are weeping!
O Mabel, timid Mabel,

Go, spread the supper-table,

And set the tea a-steeping.

Your lover's heart is brave,

His boat is staunch and tight;

And your father knows the perilous reef
That makes the water white.

-But Mabel, darling Mabel,

With face against the pane,

Looks out across the night

At the Beacon in the rain.

The heavens are veined with fire!

And the thunder, how it rolls!

In the lullings of the storm

The solemn church-bell tolls
For lost souls!

But no sexton sounds the knell
In that belfry old and high;
Unseen fingers sway the bell
As the wind goes tearing by!
How it tolls for the souls

Of the sailors on the sea!
God pity them, God pity them,
Wherever they may be!
God pity wives and sweethearts
Who wait and wait in vain!
And pity little Mabel,

With face against the pane.
A boom!--the Lighthouse gun!
(How its echo rolls and rolls!)
'Tis to warn the home-bound ships
Off the shoals!

See! a rocket cleaves the sky

From the Fort,- -a shaft of light! See! it fades, and, fading, leaves Golden furrows on the night! What made Mabel's cheek so pale? What made Mabel's lips so white?

Did she see the helpless sail
That, tossing here and there,
Like a feather in the air,
Went down and out of sight?
Down, down, and out of sight!
Oh, watch no more, no more,
With face against the pane;
You cannot see the men that drown
By the Beacon in the rain!
From a shoal of richest rubies

Breaks the morning clear and cold; And the angel on the village spire, Frost-touched, is bright as gold. Four ancient fishermen,

In the pleasant autumn air,
Come toiling up the sands,

With something in their hands,—
Two bodies stark and white,

Ah, so ghastly in the light,

With sea-weed in their hair!

O ancient fishermen,

Go up to yonder cot!
You'll find a little child,

With face against the pane,
Who looks toward the beach.
And, looking, sees it not.
She will never watch again!
Never watch and weep at night!
For those pretty, saintly eyes
Look beyond the stormy skies,

And they see the Beacon Light.

CONNOR.

To the memory of Patrick Connor, this simple stone was erected by his feltow workingmen.

These words you may read any day upon a white slab in a cemetery not many miles from New York; but you might read them a hundred times without guessing at the little tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor humble man.

In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he was scarcely an attractive object as he walked into Mr. Bawne's great tin and hardware shop one day and presented himself at the counter with an

"I've been tould ye advertised for hands, yer honor."

"Fully supplied, man," said Mr. Bawne, not lifting his head from his account book.

"I'd work faithfully, sir, and take low wages, till I could do better, and I'd learn,-I would that."

It was an Irish brogue, and Mr. Bawne always declared that he never would employ an incompetent hand.

Yet the tone attracted him. He turned briskly, and, with his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only one of fifty who had answered his advertisement for four workmen that morning:

"What makes you expect to learn faster than other folks, are you any smarter?"

"I'll not say that ;" said the man; “but I'd be wishing to; and that would make it aisier."

"Are you used to the work?"