an' Mr. Sniggers, he paid 'im, a-sayin' how graceful I'd be, an' I had sich a nate little fut, an' the loike o' that,— a-makin' a big fool o' me, I 'oun't deny it.

Well, av it was, thin, the two av thim histed me outer the little bitteen av a sate, an' I stharted. It wor jogglin' that orful I didn't know fwhat I'd do, but the ould thing wint down the hill an' out the gate like a harrycane, wid mesilf arn the top av it. A perlice wid a cock hat arn 'im, wor a-standin' there, an' he rushed at me, a-thryin' ter sthop the masheen. Niver a sthop, at arl, at arl. I got schkart, an' I threw up me two arrums, an' I gin that perlice a backhander as sint 'im a sprawlin' in the mud, an' me not manin' it aither. But on I goes.

O-r-r! the Sacre-ees that perlice feller shwore at me whin he'd got 'is brith-it wud make yer blude rin cowld, so it wud, an' he rin afther me, but the flossy pade wor too marny fer 'im; he moight as will chase the wind. On I goes, like a stame ingin, right over a little yeller dorg, an' the way that purp ky-y-ed wor jist orful. He wor a dorg belongin' ter wan o' thim quality folks, a-ridin' by in a big kerridge; an' wid arl her sthyle, an' the most illigint clo'es arn her, the ould haythin begin bullyraggin' me loike a fish-wife. An' who cud blame me? I cudn't sthop the ould thing. But I cudn't stay fer her sass, so on I wint over an ould 'oman's fut nixt, that wor swapin' the road, an' she let dhrive at me wid her broom, an' a-schramin' tin thousan' murdthers, an' ivery wan on the strate sthopped ter look at me, an' arl the paple rin ter the winders ter say me a-passin'. An' worrn't that a foine schrape fer an innersint gurrul as wor brought oop dacint?

I hild arn, though, an' arn I goes, fer I cudn't sthop. I shot me two eyes, an' I gin mesilf up for a goner, an' indade I wor near it, for I wint smash up agin a three loike an arthquake, an' it knocked over the flossy pade, an' arl the brith out er me, an' I wor pitched right aginst a big fat man, an' I knocked 'im through a gate he

wor a-lanin' aginst, an' the two av us wint over a baby cart, an' the baby rowled out, an' mesilf, an' the cart, an' the baby, an' the fat man, wor arl sprawled in the mud tegither; an' the baby a-yellin', an' the fat man a-groanin' an a-shwearin' tegither, an' that perlice kim up, wuss than before, an,' an'-me new Frinch bunnit arl squshed in the mud, wid that fat man a-settin' arn it. O-r-r-r! worn't that throuble? An' be the bones o' St. Patrick, whin I got pitched over, didn't the belt o' me hoop-skirt bust, an' aff it kim around me futs, before arl thim paple, an' oh, the roarin' an' laffin' they sot up, an' be that toime Mr. Sniggers wor there, an' I thort I'd die wid the shame, an' shure, I wur mad, too, but I med wan lape an' got away from thim hoops, an' Mr. Sniggers pit me in a kerridge an' we got home at last, wid 'im a-snickerin' an' a-laffin arl the way, bad look ter ’im, but a-thryin' ter kape a sober face arn 'im, an' a pertindin' ter pity me.

I wor black an' blue arl over from it, an' I didn't git arn a flossypade since.

BEYOND.-ROSE TERRY COOKE.

The stranger wandering in the Switzer's land,
Before its awful mountain-tops afraid-
Who yet, with patient toil, has gained his stand
On the bare summit where all life is stayed-
Sees far, far down beneath his blood-dimmed eyes,
Another country, golden to the shore,
Where a new passion and new hopes arise,
Where southern blooms unfold forevermore.

And I, lone sitting by the twilight blaze,
Think of another wanderer in the snows,
And on more perilous mountain-tops I gaze
Than ever frowned above the vine and rose.

Yet courage, soul! nor hold thy strength in vain,
In hope o'ercome the steeps God set for thee,
For past the Alpine summits of great pain
Lieth thine Italy.

BROTHER BEN.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.

Written Expressly for this Collection.

There are so many things, I think, we do not understand, And never shall this side of heaven, where all things will

be plain,

As why, from out life's stormy sea so very few reach land, And why, for every happiness, there corresponds a pain; And why we talk of love, and faith, and Christ, and kneel to

Him,

Yet let our brother stumble on through all the doubting

dark;

And why we prate of Noah and the guiding seraphim,
Yet quite forget each helpful act is something of an ark.
I was twelve when Ben was born. I recollect the day;
Father'd had one of his flitting spells, and went away
from us,

And the landlord stood at mother's side-the rent was due, they say

And told her just to pack and go, he would not stand more loss.

I doubled up my scrawny fist, and shook it in his face-
"You're all alike; it's in the blood," he said; "you out-
law girl,

You'll be just as the others here, a crying, raw disgrace;
That little baby on the bed will naturally twirl

The card and dice-box, drink and thieve. It's in the blood," he said.

Then he was gone, and Ben-1 named him-seemed to look at me,

As some one took me by the arm and led me to the bed Where mother lay so very white, and still as she could be! Soon they covered up her face and put the baby in my lap. A strange, strange feeling came to me! What did the

landlord say?—

'Twas in the blood? These wee soft hands would on the dice-box rap!

These little lips would learn to swear the dear Lord's

name away!

These bright blue eyes would blur and bloat with whiskey and gin-fizz!

These dimpled wrists would hand-cuffs wear like father one day wore!

"Oh, no!" I said, "oh, no; oh, no! he was not born for this; Oh, no, it is not in the blood-or it shall be no more!" Then I was crying-so was Ben; a neighbor slapped me then

"Why did you wake the baby? isn't there trouble enough?"

Yet I kept saying under my breath, "Not in your blood, little Ben;

It shall not be, it dare not!" The neighbor gave me a cuff.

Shall I tell you what I did that night? You see, the minister That preached around at the Mission came in and said a word,

And smoothed my curls: "One of our fold." I didn't so much as stir,

For another strange thing had come to me, and I was say

ing, "Lord,

I hope you will excuse me, but it is not in the blood.

Yet if it is, and you don't mind, just wash it out, Lord, dear, For I love my baby brother so, and I have understood That even a little helpless child may be thy minister." When it was very, very late, I took up little Ben;

I laid his cheek to mother's,-his rosy, hers so white,And carried him to that minister's door, and laid him down. And when

I'd rung the bell, I hid, and saw that Ben was safe, that

night.

Well, I kept around that sheltering house; I never doubted

a day

That they would care for the baby. Maybe my faith was

strong

And kept the child where I hoped they'd want to keep and love him alway

The only place I knew of where he need not turn out

wrong.

And one day, watching around, I saw the minister's family

move.

I followed a furniture-car to find where Ben's new home

might be;

They were going a bit in the country, that all poor children love,

And I was glad for the sweet, green sights the little baby'd

see.

Now as the nurse-girl walked with Ben, she slipped down in the road;

I had my darling in my arms, unscratched-he hardly fell;

But the girl was hurt; they led her off, while I and my dear load

Went on to the new house. Then, oh, then, the happiness to tell!

They said I might take the nurse-girl's place till she was well again.

I wonder they didn't see my joy, for I couldn't quite keep in!

I stayed there two short weeks and took good care of little Ben.

Then one day in the garden, cruel and fierce with sin, Father was hid-he'd made to rob the house that night, I

fear.

I threw down little Ben; I hurried father away; and yet We'd both been seen together; the police knew father's

career,

And so he was apprehended, and I with him. Oh, let Me hurry that over. For twenty-one years I never saw Ben, just think!

For seeing father hid in the green and whispering to me there,

They took him-they said they'd waited for just some connecting link

In a great big chain of misdoing. They took me along.

Somewhere

Was a court where they called us both guilty. I didn't so very much mind,

I knew that I was innocent, and Ben was safe and sound, And better without than with me; for father was sometimes

kind,

And when that way he often felt he'd like to have me

around.

Thus, where I was he'd be sure to be, and that would be bad for Ben,

For if it was in the blood, you know, father might bring

it out;

While now he thought the baby'd died the very same day

when

Mother had ended her sorrow. In ten years I was about The world once more. I hunted father the day he was set

free.

We wandered a little from cities; father was ailing,-so Sick and worn and miserable. I'd learned to sew, you see, And thus I could quite support him when he was old and low.