SMALL THINGS.-R. M. MILNES.

A sense of an earnest will

To help the lowly living,
And a terrible heart-thrill,

If you have no power of giving;

An arm of aid to the weak,

A friendly hand to the friendless;
Kind words, so short to speak,

But whose echo is endless:

The world is wide,--these things are small,
They may be nothing-but they may be all.

SURLY TIM'S TROUBLE.-FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

This pathetic reading, in the Lancashire dialect, is an abridgment of a beautiful story from the charming pen of MRS. BURNETT, which may be found in a book of hers, entitled "SURLY TIM AND OTHER STORIES," published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

[Surly Tim is represented to have been an operative in one of the large manufactories in the north of England. He had gained the name of "Surly Tim" through his strange demeanor toward his companions, often refusing to answer their questions or perform any of the ordinary civilities, on account of which his fellow workmen had given him the cold shoulder and dubbed him "Surly Tim." But one of the partners of the firm took a great deal of interest in Tim, thinking there must be something beneath the rough exterior, and so endeavored from time to time to draw him out, but without success, until one night, as he was going home, he chanced to pass the village churchyard, and heard a noise as of a man in distress just over the fence. Getting over to speak to him, he discovered that the man was none other than Surly Tim, sitting by two graves, one the longer and the other a shorter. Shortly, being grateful for the sympathy thus extended him, "Surly Tim" begins to tell his story, and why it is that he conducts himself as he does. It seems that some years before he had been married to a very lovely woman; but that she had previously been married to a soldier, one Phil Brent, who had beaten and abused her and finally deserted her and gone into the army, and whom she had heard by letter was killed at the Crimea. Supposing herself free again, of course, she had married Tim. He, after describing the courtship up to a little time before their marriage, says of her in his broad, north-of-England dialect:]

Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked home together o' nights, an' talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I were a bit down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So

once goin' home wi' her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle,-as gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss the Good Book.

"'Sanna," I says, "bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo' be afeard to try a second? Could yo' trust a mon again? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?"

"I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim," she answers back soft an' gentle after a manner. "I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time."

I kisses her hand again, gentler still.

God bless thee, lass," I says.

"Does that mean yes?" She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way.

"Aye, lad," she answers. "It means yes, an' I'll bide by it." "An' tha shalt never rue it, lass," said I. "Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure an' true."

So we wur axed i' th' church th' next Sunday, an' a month fra' then we were wed; an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, when we come out o' church together-me an' Rosanna-an' went to our bit o' a home to begin life again. I couldna tell thee, Mester,-theer bean't no words to tell how happy an' peaceful we lived fur two years after that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessin' every day, an' every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about summat 'at's worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot-as if He couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work out theirsens? Yo' see, Mester, and we aw see sometime, He thinks on us, an' gi's us a lift; but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short and axed thysen, "Wheer's God-a'-moighty, 'at he disna straighten things out a bit? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n' his seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost again." I've talked to my lass about it sometime, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough-an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft and sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer.

"Tim," she'd say, "this is on'y th' skoo', an' we're the scholars, an' He's teachin' us His way. The Teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if the scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allers think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' sayin', The Lord-a'-moighty, he knows.'"

At th' eend o' th' year th' child wur born, th' little lad here, [touching the turf with his hand,] "Wee Wattie" his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin'-an' cryin' too, sometime.

Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat wur toddlin' round, holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. Happen we set too much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us His way, but hows'ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell.

"Tim," said she, "th' Lord ha' sent us trouble; but we can bear it together, canna we, dear lad?"

That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th' poor little lamb had been well enough when I kissed him last.

I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows, strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw wur over. An' in half an hour, just as the sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls, th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw

at once.

"Daddy!" he crows out. "Sithee Dad-" an' he lifts hissen up, catches at th' floatin' sunshine, laughs at it, and fa's back-dead, Mester.

I've allers thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what he wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' Adam i' the Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wur nowt but a poor chap as couldna do for hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' the woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'n clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed.

But the day comn when we could bear to talk about him, an' moind things he'd said an' tried to say i' his broken,

babby way. An' so we were creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for welly six month, when summat fresh comn. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet it happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door, and left her standin' theer when I went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moonlight neet, just such a neet as this, an' the lass had followed me out to see th' moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear; an' just before I starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft and thoughtful: "Tim, I wonder if the little chap sees us ?"

“I'd loike to know, dear lass,” I answers back. An' then she speaks again :

"Tim, I wonder if he'd know he wur ours if he could see, or if he'd ha' forgot. He wur such a little fellow."

Them wur th' last peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up to th' village an' getten what she sent me fur, an' then I comn back.

She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a leet about th' house, but I heerd voices, so I walked straight in, into th' entry an' into th' kitchen, an' theer she wur, Mester, my poor wench, crouching down by th' table, hidin' her face i' her hands, and close beside her wur a mon-a mon i' red sojer clothes.

My heart leaped into my throat, an' fur a minnit I hadna a word, fur I saw summat wur up, though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last my voice comn back.

"Good evenin', Mester," I says to him; "I hope yo' ha' not broughten ill news? What ails thee, dear lass?"

She stirs a little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' child; an' then she lifts up her wan, broken-hearted face, an' stretches out both her hands to me.

"Tim," she says, "dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead long sin'. I thowt 'at th' Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. I never wur. He never deed, Tim, an' theer he is-the mon as I wur wed to an' left by. God forgi' him, an' oh, God forgi' me!"

Theer, Mester, theer's a story fur thee. My poor lass wasna my wife at aw-th' little chap's mother wasna his feyther's wife, an' never had been. That theer worthless fellow as beat an' starved her an' left her to fight th' world

alone, had comn back alive an' well. He could tak' her away fro' me any hour i' th' day, an' I couldna say a word to bar him. Th' law said my wife-th' little dead lad's mother -belonged to him, body an' soul. Theer was no law to help us-it wur aw on his side.

"Tha canna want me now, Phil," she said. “Tha canna care fur me. Tha must know I'm more this mon's wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee to gi' me to him, because I know that wouldna be reet; I on'y ax thee to let me aloan. I'll go fur enough off an' never see him more."

But the villain held to her. If she didna comn wi' him, he said, he'd ha' me up before th' court for bigamy. I could ha' done murder then, Mester, an' I would ha' done, if it hadna been for the poor lass runnin' in betwixt us an' pleadin' wi' aw her moight. If we'n been rich foak theer might ha' been some help fur her; at least th' law moight ha' been browt to mak' him leave her be, but bein' poor workin' foak theer wur on'y one thing: th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husband stood-a scoundrel, cursing, wi' his black heart on his tongue.

"Well," says th' lass at last, fair wearied out wi' grief, “I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'll do my best to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th' mon as has been true to me, an' ha' stood betwixt me an' th' world."

Then she turned round to me.

"Tim," she says, "surely he wunnot refuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave-fur th' last time." She didna speak to him but to me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wur too heart-broke to be wild. Her face wur as white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as any other woman would ha' done. "Come, Tim," she said, "he canna say no to that."

An' so out we went, an' we didna say a word until we come to this very place, Mester.

We stood here for a minnit silent, an' then I sees her be gin to shake, an' she throws hersen down on th' grass wi' ner arms flung o'er th' grave, an' she cries out as ef her death-wound had been give to her.

"Little lad," she says, "little lad, dost ta see thee mother? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee? Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead!"